Sandra Hill - Viking II 03 - The Last Viking

by The Last Viking(lit)

  But compassionate man that he was, he nodded, and she released a sigh of relief. Later, she would pay for testing him so.

  "Mom, where do you want this luggage?" Thea asked, huffing into the room, overloaded with leather boxes of all sizes named for the biblical hero Samson.

  Jillian raised a questioning brow at Merry-Death, who said, "Upstairs. You can sleep with Thea. I'll use the sofa. "

  Jillian's eagle eyes then swerved to him in speculation.

  "Rolf prefers to sleep outdoors under the stars," Merry-Death answered for him.

  Geirolf made a soft snorting sound of contradiction as he passed Merry-Death on his way to relieving Thea of her burdens. She put a halting hand on his arm and whispered, "Will you help me, really? Will you resume work on the project tomorrow?"

  "Yea."

  She tilted her head in surprise at his swift compliance.

  "All you had to do was ask, sweetling. Not order."

  "Sweetling? How quaint!" Jillian observed.

  "Oh, you are the most exasperating man!" Merry-Death said.

  He grinned at her and couldn't resist leaning forward to steal a quick kiss from her parted lips.

  "Not lovers, huh?" Jillian hooted.

  He jerked back. Merry-Death had a way of making him forget where he was. And how could it be that his lips tingled from that mere touch? Amazing. How much more intense would the tingling be if some other parts of their anatomies connected?

  "Lordy, lordy, you two throw off more sparks than a bonfire."

  A rush of pink flooded Merry-Death's cheeks.

  He winked at her, envisioning a hundred different things he could do to make her blush even more. He could scarce wait.

  Meny-Death jutted out her mulish chin, not her most attractive feature. As she stormed past him, leading the way to the stairs, he remarked to Jillian, "Your sister needs a lesson in the womanly arts... how to be more biddable."

  Meny-Death stumbled but didn't look back.

  Jillian chortled with laughter.

  Thea was walking up the stairs, backwards, in front of them all, grinning from ear to ear.

  "You see, Merry-Death gleans all her learning from books, whereas her real-life education is sadly lacking."

  "How interesting!" Jillian opined.

  Merry-Death snickered and muttered something about Vikings who were full of themselves.

  "You see, men in this land have a perfect hero to emulate—"

  "Oh, no!" Merry-Death exclaimed, scowling at him from the upper corridor.

  "Tim the Toolman Taylor!" Thea whooped.

  Jillian joined Merry-Death in the hallway, her mouth forming a little circle of astonishment.

  "Your hero is Tim Allen, the actor on Home Improvement?" Jillian asked incredulously, and then burst into another fit of laughter, throwing an arm over her daughter's, shaking shoulders. Even Merry-Death put a hand over her mouth to stifle a smile.

  Why did these thick-headed women not understand the heroic qualities of the much-maligned Tim?

  When Julian's laughter finally subsided into mere giggles, she slapped her thigh with delight. "And who, pray tell, Mr. Viking, would be the heroic equivalent for women? Who should we emulate to become more—what did you call it?—biddable?"

  He did not much relish their laughter at his expense.

  And, really, females were all half-brained, chirping for explanations about every bloody thing. Well, he would enlighten them, good and proper. "Martha Stewart."

  "Martha Stewart!" all three women chirped in unison.

  "Yea. I watched her on the picture box this morn whilst breaking fast. By all the gods, she is a wonder. In less than an hour, she baked twelve loaves of bread, poured concrete for a rock garden, pruned an apple tree, and crocheted a tablecloth. And not once did she badger a man to come to her aid."

  "Is this guy for real?" Jillian asked Merry-Death.

  "I'm not sure."

  "You women could learn much from Martha. In truth, 'tis what I told Sharon Stone yestermorn when she complained about her busy schedule."

  "What did you just say?" Merry-Death shrieked.

  Really, if he were not so smitten with the wench, he would have to tell her that her voice made his eyes water betimes.

  "You talked to Sharon Stone?"

  "Did I not just say so?"

  She put a hand to her forehead in that eternal female pose of "My lot in life is suffering and woe... and men are the root of all evil." It was a good sign, in his opinion. She was weakening. "Aaarrgh... how did you talk to Sharon Stone?"

  "On the telephone. What a marvel that black box is! "

  "Why did you call Sharon Stone? And how in God's name were you able to get her number?"

  "Hah! 'Twas not easy, I will tell you." He put the travel cases on the floor and leaned into the corridor wall. "You know that Mike yearns for this woman, though I cannot see her appeal. Too coarse, if you ask me. And I must confess, Merry-Death, I do not believe she was born with blond hair. My sister-by-marriage, Gilda, looks just like Sharon, except—"

  "Aaarrgh!" Meredith shrieked, again, causing his eyeballs to flinch. Next would come the watering.

  "Will you get on with your explanation."

  He cast her a disapproving scowl, and continued.

  "Mike wants the woman, and I was showing him how a Viking would handle the snaring."

  "Snaring? Snaring? Are you talking about snaring a woman?" Merry-Death sputtered.

  "Exactly how is this snaring done?" Jillian was not quite so appalled at the notion of men snaring women.

  "Straightforward. No muddling about with milksop pleas or sweet virginal dalliances. Just tell the woman, 'I want you.' " He thought for a moment. "Or else just take her. That is, of course, another method. Some women don't want to be asked. Yea, that is my usual strategy. 'Twas my mistake with you, Merry-Death. Too much muddling."

  "God, I'm glad I decided to come," Jillian chortled. "You are going to be so-o-o good for my sister."

  "Well said!" Geirolf commented enthusiastically. Then he went back to their previous discussion. "Sharon cannot come to Maine, unfortunately. She is acting out a story for the TV box. But she invited Mike to come visit her in Holly-Forest."

  "Tell them who else you called, Rolf. Tell them," Thea urged, jumping up and down with glee.

  He brightened. "Oh, did I forget to inform you, Merry-Death? Tim and AI are coming here to help with your longship project. They will bring a picture box crew with them, too, to make a flummery, a pretend story, about Tim building a longship in the courtyard of his keep."

  Merry-Death went speechless, her lips trembling with words that would not come out. In truth, she resembled his Great-uncle Biolf when about to have a fit. No doubt she was overcome with awe at his ability to adapt so well to her country. He puffed out his chest, continuing, "And Tim's overlord will pay you. So there! You may thank me later for adding to the sorely depleted coffers of your project."

  "Tim and Al?" she squeaked out. Leastways, she did not shriek this time.

  "Tsk-tsk. You are not paying attention. Tim Taylor and Al Borlund."

  "You've been making all these long-distance calls on my phone?" she inquired weakly.

  "Yea. And believe me, I had to make dozens of them afore I got the correct numbers. Agents. Picture Guilds. Ted Turner. Tart-tongued upper-ate-oars."

  Merry-Death put her face in her hands. 'Twas a favored gesture of hers when talking with him. "I want an aspirin. "

  "Ass-burn? Now? Well, well, well, Merry-Death! It sounds rather perverted to me, and your timing is odd—" he paused for only a moment "—but I'm willing, if you are." He threw his arms out in invitation.

  Jillian and Thea howled so hard tears streamed down their faces, but Merry-Death stared at him as if she'd been poleaxed.

  Sometimes, he decided, 'twas wise to poleax a woman. In one form or another.

  Hours later, Geirolf sat drinking mead at the scullery table while Jillian endlessly examined his belt clasp
under a magnifying glass. She'd done the same with his arm rings before that. For some reason, he didn't mention the hidden relic, which was revealed only when a secret bead on the gold work was pressed just so. From the very beginning, he'd told all to Merry-Death, without hesitation, and yet he'd held back with her sister. How curious!—But he didn't want to dwell on such ruminations now. He was bored. And in a rare lustful mood.

  Oh, the lust itself was not rare, but the fierceness of his need for Merry-Death was becoming nigh overwhelming.

  Merry-Death had gone upstairs a short time ago with a glass of wine to soak in something she called a bubble bath. He would like to see that. Yea, he would.

  Instead, for the past hour, he'd listened to Jillian ooh and aah over his belt clasp, when he'd much rather have Merry-Death ooh and aah over another of his possessions—a bit lower down his belly—and clamoring for attention.

  "Why are you glaring at me?" Jillian asked.

  He refused to answer and grabbed his belt out of her hands. " 'Tis time for sleep. I must be up at first light."

  The last thing on his mind was sleep.

  "I'm not very tired," she said, slitting her eyes at him. "Why not leave the belt with me to do a few more sketches? I can return it to you in the morning."

  Hah! No doubt she planned to scramble off with the talisman in the dead of night and place it under guard in some dusty museum. Or sell it to the highest bidder.

  "Nay," he asserted emphatically, "you have examined and scribbled enough."

  The flash of vexation in her eyes, which she quickly masked, told him that slyness was second nature to her.

  She cared for herself and her own greedy ambitions first and foremost. That was evident in her neglect of her daughter. Not to mention her current flirtatious fluttering of eyelashes and not-so-accidental brushing against his body parts.

  He was buckling on his belt and walking toward the outside door when she called after him. "My sister isn't woman enough for you, you know. I would be the far better choice."

  His step faltered and he turned slowly. "What a faithless wretch you are. Does family mean naught to you?"

  She shrugged. "I love my sister... Oh, don't look down your nose at me, Viking... I am fond of Mer—in my own way." She stretched her arms over her head, presumably to remove the kinks from her long sitting, but more to tempt him with her form.

  It was a very nice form, but he felt no inclination to see more of it. Or to try her charms.

  Still she persisted. "I've never made it with a Viking before. Have you ever done it with a jewelry maker? We have really good... hands." She gave him a slumberous meaningful glance and flexed her fingers.

  He shook his head with disgust. " 'Twould seem some things ne'er change. In every land and every time, a snake in the grass is still a snake in the grass. You are cut of the same cloth as that biblical Jezebel."

  "Don't be such a judgmental prude. We're talking about a little hanky-panky, not a freaking marriage. Besides, it's plain to see that you and Mer haven't done the deed yet, and probably never will, if I know my sister."

  Angered by her perfidy, he stomped back to the table and jabbed an admonishing finger into her chest.

  "Whether we have or not, she is the woman of my choice, and she is your blood kin. Have you no shame?"

  Jillian's face flushed red at his rejection. Then she threw her hands up in surrender. "Hey, it's your loss, buddy. You'll see. Mer is sweet and all that. Too sweet, actually. Some men get turned on by that niceness, but they soon lose the itch when they realize how unimpressive she is. A wimp."

  "A wimp?"

  "Weak."

  "Are you demented? Merry-Death is the strongest woman I have e'er met. Well, aside from my mother. Whate'er obstacle the fates throw in her path, she meets the challenge with the mettle of a seasoned warrior. Ne'er does she run from her honor-bound duties." He addressed the last remark to her pointedly, referring to her lack of maternal responsibility.

  "You don't know Mer as well as I do," she said, glossing over his criticism. "She's always trying to please. Always failing. I learned a long time ago not to dance to the music of other people's dreams, but Mer is still running in place, trying to memorize the right dance steps."

  He cocked his head in puzzlement.

  "From the time we were kids, my parents set such high standards for us. Impossible standards. Jared, our older brother, came closest to meeting the grade. He had the best marks in school. The most serious personality. Never got into trouble. If Mer is boning as a rock, Jared is a concrete tomb."

  He bristled at her disparaging words, but Jillian jabbered on. "Jared was super-intelligent. He moved out when he went to college and never came back. But the damage was already done. He's become a clone of Mother and Father... an academic workaholic with no social life."

  "And Merry-Death?" he asked. Despite his misgivings about listening to this loathsome woman's prattle, he wanted to know more about Merry-Death's past... why she was so skittish with him.

  "Meredith was pathetic, even as a little girl. Somehow she got the idea that our parents would love her if she met their standards."

  He made a grunting noise of disbelief "Parents do not set conditions on their love."

  She arched her brows in disagreement. "Ours did, and still do. And while Jared has flown the coop, and I stopped jitterbugging to their tune long ago, Mer is still trying to please them... to earn their love."

  His heart ached with sympathy for Merry-Death.

  Having been raised in a loving household, he cringed with sympathy at the cold atmosphere that must have formed her early years.

  "Mer did the same thing with Jeffrey, her husband," Jillian went on spitefully, and Geirolf's ears pricked up. "She smothered him with love. Oh, I know that he left her for that young bimbo he was screwing, and I know he got the girl pregnant, but there's no question in my mind. If Mer had been more of a woman, Jeffrey never would have left. Even if she'd been able to pop out babies like Pez candies. As I said, she's pathetic."

  Geirolf stiffened angrily. "Mer is all woman. Any person who fails to see her worth is blind. Furthermore, there's strength, not weakness, in the fealty she lavishes on those she loves."

  "You use the most archaic language. Where did you say you were from?" Jillian's forehead creased with concentration as she studied him. "Anyhow, I don't know who you are, or where you've come from... yet. But I do know that you find me attractive."

  He exhaled wearily. So, they were back to the seduction. His lack of interest should be more than evident.

  "I saw the way you stared at me earlier," she argued. "You turn me on, too, Viking, in a primitive way. "

  His lips curled with revulsion at her lack of loyalty toward her sister and the too-blatant invitation to share her bed. "A man's pole will rise to most any bait, but it takes a woman with more than surface beauty to hook the fish. You, my lady, are a poor fisherwoman."

  "And you think Mer is better in the sack than me?"

  Her mouth slackened with incredulity. "Listen, if you're worried about Mer, she doesn't have to know. We can go outside. I don't mind sharing a sleeping bag."

  "I use bed furs."

  "Even better."

  He groaned at her perseverance. "Cast your hook elsewhere, my lady," he chided. "This fish is taken."

  Her eyes widened as if suddenly enlightened. "Good Lord! My sister has landed herself a Viking. The nerd and the stud." Jillian leaned back in her chair and scrutinized him as if he'd grown three heads. "You're in love with my sister."

  "Nay, I am not," he denied. Am I? His heart began to thud madly as he pondered the outlandish suggestion. Is it true? "Why would you say such?" he blurted out, wishing instantly that he could bite back the question.

  She smirked as women are wont to do when they believe they have won some battle with a man, though why his affection for her sister should count as a sign of defeat for him he could not fathom.

  "I suspected it the first time I saw you t
ogether. You can't keep your eyes off Mer."

  "I doubt that I watch her overmuch," he demurred, "although she is pleasing to the eye." He resolved then and there, to keep a close rein on his traitorous eyes in future. "Besides, a man looking at a woman does not signify love."

  "You touch her every chance you get."

  "Now, that I know to be a falsehood. I am very careful about touch—" He caught his mistake at once.

  Had he really revealed a conscious—or was it unconscious?—effort on his part to control his impulse to touch Merry-Death?

  "And the way you defended Mer to me a little while ago... well, anyone could tell you must love her."

  "You mistake chivalry for some romantic notion," he satid with finality and departed huffily from the house. The bothersome wench's laughter followed after him.

  Regardless of his protests, Geirolf was unable to stop thinking about Jillian's suggestion. Deep down in his soul, he feared she might have discovered something he hadn't realized himself.

  Girding himself with resolve, he vowed, Nay, I do not love Merry-Death. I will not allow myself to fall in love with her, or any other lady.

  But in that moment, he knew. Somehow, some way, he had managed to fall in love for the first time in his life. And the recipient of his reluctant affections was almost a thousand years younger than he.

  How could that be?

  I do not want this.

  What future could they have? None. He would return soon to his time, alone.

  Alone. Why, after all these years of cherished freedom, does the solitary life no longer appeal?

  Well, 'twas for the best, he decided, laying out his bed furs near his half-completed longship. She was too different from him. And it wasn't just their disparate cultures and times. She worked with her mind; he worked with his hands. She dreamed of a quiet family life; he carried the blood of Viking adventurers. She deliberated too much afore making decisions; he acted on instinct. He liked Oreos, she preferred pasta worms.

  Ah, but what would it be like to mate with a woman he loved? With Merry-Death?

  That enticing image lingered. And lingered. And lingered. It would not go away as he tossed about restlessly in his bed furs, unable to sleep.