Viking Unchained

by Sandra Hill

“Likewise, m’lord.”

  Huh? Best I try a different tactic? “I want my son.”

  “Too bad. Mike is away for two weeks—”

  “Two sennights! If you think I will wait that long to see my son after all these years, you have an oar missing in your longboat.” Thorfinn had learned to make those types of word comparisons from Torolf, who was always saying someone was “two bricks short of a full load,” or “a loaf missing a slice or two.”

  “Listen, buster, you aren’t getting within a hair of my son until I find out exactly who you are. If you’re not Dave’s reincarnation, or sent by Dave, you will never see him.”

  He girded himself not to say something rash, like that she would be the one not seeing her son again once he laid hands on him, but even in his fury, he recognized that he was in no position to make threats. “If you think I am going to be interrogated whilst I lie here naked, enthusiastic as a raging bull, and you fully clothed, or partly clothed in those scandalous garments, you are more barmy than I already thought.”

  “I’m wearing shorts and a tank top. There’s nothing scandalous about that.”

  “Scandal is in the eye of the beholder. And bare feet! Didst know that in some cultures a woman’s foot is considered a temptation greater than a bared breast?”

  “You’re making that up.”

  “Why would I? You are the one wearing wanton attire. ”

  “Wanton? I’m not wanton. In fact, I never bring strange men home.”

  Really, I am in no mood for false modesty at this late date. He arched his eyebrows at her, taking her measure with a full-body survey. “Women always protest their chastity, even as they wiggle their arses in a man’s face.”

  “I never wiggled . . . just for the record, I’m not a slut.”

  “Dost think I care.” In fact, wantonness is an asset to be desired, in some women. “But just so we are clear, you invited me, then swived me up one side and down the other, head to toes. If that is not wanton, I do not know what is.”

  “Uh . . . you mentioned feet. You’re not into toe-sucking, are you?” Rosy patches bloomed on her cheeks as she asked that outrageous question.

  He pretended to consider her question. “Nay, methinks that bedsport exercise would not be to my taste . . . lest you mean that you would be sucking another body part of mine whilst I sucked your toes. Yea, there might be some attraction in that . . . um, position.” And, after all, I did pare my toenails this week.

  “Oh!” she huffed with indignation. “I didn’t mean that I wanted . . .” She clamped her mouth shut, but he could tell she wanted to say something biting to him. Instead, she waited ’til her temper tamped down and asked, “Are you Dave?”

  His only response was a snort.

  “Did Dave send you?”

  Dave, Dave, Dave. I am sick of hearing about this Dave person.

  “Where do you live?”

  If you only knew!

  “Why did you follow me to the ladies’ room last night? Did you feel that same zap of recognition that I did? Why did you come here with me?”

  He bit his bottom lip to keep from answering her last question in crude terms once again. But he thought them, and those thoughts must have shown on his face.

  She grimaced, then made her face go blank. “You said your name was Thorfinn. Do you prefer Thorfinn or Finn?”

  He still did not answer.

  “Okay, Finn it will be. Thorfinn is too much of a mouthful.”

  I can think of something that was not too much of a mouthful for you.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  And she was gone, afore he could tell her all the things he wanted to do to her.

  Chapter 7

  Getting to know you . . .

  He followed her to the solar, where she tossed his clothing at him. Afterward he went into her scullery, where she was preparing a meal for them both . . . ham, eggs, more toasted bread, and a hot beverage he recognized as coffee, a bitter brew which he had come to like.

  While they were eating, she said, “My husband, David Denton . . . Dave . . . died five years ago in Baghdad. An enemy ambush.”

  I was ambushed in Baghdad, too, though that fact is probably irrelevant. Still . . . hmmmm.

  “Dave was a Navy SEAL.”

  Another SEAL! The world is overflowing with the arrogant lot.

  “We have a son, Mike, who is more than four years old, as I told you before.”

  As my son would be now.

  “I loved Dave so much.”

  Luta nigh hated my guts.

  She gulped visibly several times and fought against tears. “Dave had silver-gray eyes, as does Mike. An unusual color unlike any I’ve ever seen before until . . .”

  “. . . me,” he finished for her. I think I have fallen down the barmy hole.

  She nodded. “It’s not just the eye color, though. When I saw you across the tavern, even before I could see your eyes, I got goose bumps. I sensed something about you.”

  He realized now where this conversation was going. Pushing aside the tray with the half-eaten food, he said, “I am not Dave.”

  “I know that, and yet . . . there’s something. Don’t you feel it?”

  The only thing I feel is a growing vexation with your incessant jabbering. “No, I do not feel it, whatever it is. However, I will concede this. I am here in this . . . um, country . . . under unusual circumstances which I cannot explain, even if I wanted to. Let us just say that I was drawn here, to this time and place, for reasons unknown to me.”

  “Damn!” She frowned. “Every time I think you’re just a stranger and I need to get rid of you, you say or do something that makes me second-guess myself.”

  Chirp, chirp, chirp. She is like a bird that will not stop chirping. “What did I say this time?”

  “That you felt drawn here. That might mean . . . that Dave sent you here.”

  He rolled his eyes.

  “Okay, if you’re not leaving right away, you can go for a walk on the beach, or there’s a TV and DVD player in the living room. Check out the DVDs. You might enjoy movies like Braveheart or Pirates of the Caribbean. Have you seen them?”

  “Seen who? Of course I have seen pirates. Any Viking who rides the high seas has met a pirate or two.”

  She blinked in confusion. “Never mind. If you need something, just yell. I have to go somewhere and think.”

  “Somewhere?”

  “The basement. To dance. I have a small studio downstairs. I don’t work today . . . on a Sunday. I always think more clearly when I dance, and you’ve given me tons to think about. Besides, I have some new dance moves to work out before tomorrow.” She stopped short when she realized she was blathering with nervousness.

  “I do not understand what you say by half.”

  “I’m not making much sense to myself either.”

  After she departed, he muttered to himself, “My brain burns with questions, and the wench goes off to dance.”

  The demented wench was dancing with a maypole . . .

  After an hour, Thorfinn decided he had had enough.

  He was allowing himself to be all twisted up inside over a woman. His comrades-in-arms back in the Norselands would laugh their bloody heads off. And his brother Steven would never let him forget this happenstance.

  On top of all that, he was bored. After his walk on the beach, which was like any other beach in the world, Thorfinn attempted unsuccessfully to start the TV. Then he visited the bathing chamber, where he thoroughly examined the showering stall, the running water, the toilet, and all the objects in a mirrored cabinet above the sink. What is lavender douche anyway? He’d pulled out every drawer and opened every closet, including a room which must be his son’s sleep bower, decorated as it was with stuffed animals and stars on the ceiling.

  The witch was still below stairs. Dancing, no doubt, if the music he heard was any indication. Barmy as a bell tower!

  Well, she would be doing a different type of dance soon. He’d g
iven her privacy long enough.

  He walked slowly down the stairs, letting the loud music lead his way. Son of a troll! The music was so loud and raucous, the closer he got, it was a wonder her ears did not bleed. His for certain were starting to ache. Some wailing about boogie woogie woogie, whatever that was.

  Then he saw her.

  Oh. My. Gods!

  After being ambushed by Arab villains, riding a bird in the sky, time-traveling to the future with all its unbelievable inventions, being made captive by a woman, he’d thought he could no longer be shocked.

  He was wrong.

  Lydia was dancing. With a pole. A floor-to-ceiling pole that was surely a phallic symbol. Mirrors covered an entire wall. Holy bloody hell! Mayhap he had died and gone to Valhalla after all, and Lydia was a Valkyrie, whose sole purpose was to appease the hungers of dead warriors. Of course they were supposed to be virgins, but that was of no matter to him, especially after the far-from-virginal performance this lady had put on for him thus far.

  With hair piled atop her head, she wore a one-piece black garment that hugged her body like a second skin. There were stirrups at her bare feet. Her arms, neck, and shoulders were exposed. The curve of her breasts was clearly delineated. For the love of Frigg, he could probably see the dimples in her buttocks if he looked close enough.

  And she was sweating. Who knew a woman’s sweat could be erotic? Certainly, not him, and the evidence was standing out from his body like a bloody banner. In truth, he was not certain he had ever seen a woman sweat before lest she were a peasant doing hard labor in the fields or scullery. And being aromatic then had definitely not been lust-producing.

  He watched from the doorway as she danced, not knowing she was being observed. She strutted around the pole. She climbed it, then arched backwards, arms dangling, held only by the strength of her thighs straddling the pole. She lunged up to grab the pole at a height above her head, climbed even higher, using hands and thighs, then spun downwards in a spiral fashion.

  If one viewed the pole as a representation of a penis . . . and he did . . . her dance moves could only be construed as sexual foreplay. And he was construing, for a certainty.

  Another thing was certain. She would be entertaining him later by dancing with the pole. Naked.

  Without missing a move, the song changed to lyrics about not being able to get any satisfaction. Well, he was going to give her satisfaction; that was another for-certainty.

  “Greetings, Lydia,” he said loudly enough to be heard over the music.

  Startled, she lost her grip on the pole and fell to the floor, no doubt bruising her buttocks. She stood and began to back away.

  Big mistake.

  She was soon trapped against the mirror wall, betwixt his two extended arms, braced on either side of her head. “I thought you might have left.”

  “Obviously, I have not.” Has there ever been a woman with lips so rosy red . . . and kiss-some?

  “What are you going to do?”

  Guess. “Suffice it to say . . . never drop your sword to hug a wild boar.”

  “That makes no sense. Besides, I was just going to come up.”

  “So you say! Methinks you hoped I would leave if you malingered long enough.”

  “True enough. Actually, I was going to call your cousin Kirstin.”

  He arched his eyebrows. Her nipples are hard, I can see. Is it because I excite, or is it due to my earlier fondling?

  “I recalled, belatedly, her telling me that you were her cousin when we first saw you in the Wet and Wild, and I thought maybe she’d have some idea how I could . . .” She let her words trail off, realizing she was doing herself no good.

  “So, you knew I was kin to Kirstin and Torolf when you brought me here.” That hole you are digging gets deeper and deeper, wench.

  “You have to understand. Something about you reminds me of my husband—”

  “The dead one?” Is there more than one?

  “Yes, Dave is gone, but your eyes are the same.”

  Here we go again. “Lots of people have the same color eyes.” Is your heart beating as fast as mine, vixen?

  “No, not like yours . . . and Dave’s and my son Mike’s.”

  Her mention of the boy caused him to grit his teeth to prevent himself from throttling her.

  “I’m so confused.”

  You are not the only one. “And that is an excuse for your wanton behavior? For kidnapping me?” Not that I am really complaining. Not anymore since I have benefit-ted so well.

  “I did not kidnap you. I just . . . um . . . uh . . . temporarily restrained you.” She gave him a little hopeful smile.

  You will have to do much better than that, sweetling. Gods! Where did that come from? Now I grace her with endearments? He shook his head to clear it and said, “Notice my lack of amusement.”

  “We need to talk—”

  I do not think so. Lest it is sex talk. “The time for talk is long past, m’lady, lest you mean to talk with your body again.”

  He was already barefooted; so, ’twas easy to shrug out of his braies and shert.

  Face blooming with color, she continued, “Before we talk, I would appreciate it if you would put your clothes back on.”

  He glanced down at himself and his rampant “enthusiasm. ” Then drawled, “My nudity did not bother you afore.” I know when a woman likes my body.

  The blooming color in her cheeks deepened. “Well, it does now. It’s not appropriate.” She licked her lips with nervousness.

  “M’lady, I would like to know how you expect me to swive you with my manpart covered.”

  “I don’t expect any such thing.”

  Even as his mind boggled at her typical female ill-logic, he slipped the backs of his fingers under the strap of her garment, pleased at her hiss of outrage. Or was it arousal? Her skin felt warm and very soft. He watched in fascination as the fabric sprang back when he tugged it outward. “What manner of garment is this?”

  “A leotard. It’s worn for . . . what are you doing?”

  “Taking it off.”

  “Why?” she nigh gurgled.

  She cannot be so thick-witted. Can she? “Mayhap to even the playing field.” He glanced down at his own nude body for emphasis, then tugged her garment down to her waist, thus trapping her arms at her sides. What a gift from the gods is a woman’s body! She was tall and slim, but her breasts were full and rose-tipped with big nipples. She is definitely aroused, he concluded with satisfaction. He also noticed that her breasts were high for one who had born and mayhap nursed a babe.

  “I refuse to do any . . . playing.”

  “That is not up to you, wench.” Especially after showing me how well you play.

  “And stop calling me wench.”

  By the runes! I am going to enjoy taming this one. “Where did you get the idea that you have any control over my actions?”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Ah, smart she is to ask that question. “Plenty.”

  She whimpered.

  Whimpering is good. “Methinks you would make a good love thrall.”

  “Thrall?” she choked out.

  “Slave,” he said. “Yea, instead of me being your love slave, you will be my love slave.”

  He held her eyes with his as he sank to his knees, tugging her garment off and to the floor. Still holding her gaze, he ran his fingertips from the outside of her ankles, up her bare legs to her thighs and hips, waist, and underarms. Then, without warning, he moved up and took one breast in his mouth, sucking hard.

  She groaned, and her body folded itself down so that she was on her knees facing him.

  “Who are you?” she murmured, placing her hands on his shoulders, as he continued to suckle her.

  The answer to your maiden dreams? “Your master,” he murmured back, moving his mouth from the one wet, erect nipple to the other.

  She shook her head. “Your eyes . . . they tell me . . . something. There’s a message in them.”


  He glanced upward from her breast. “That I want to swive you?”

  She shook her head some more. “Somehow Dave is involved. ”

  Dave, Dave, Dave, he wanted to chastise her, but the time for talk was over.

  She was trembling with need.

  He was trembling with need.

  And so it was that he played master to his slave on the floor. Up against the mirror. On her back. On his back. All with a pounding rhythm that seemed to go on endlessly.

  But, a long time later, he panted for breath and had to wonder who was the master and who was the slave in this particular bedsport.

  The things a woman will do for love . . .

  Lydia was in a state of pure shock as she sat at her kitchen table, sipping a cup of black coffee from a mug which read, “Dancers Do It with Rhythm.” What an understatement!

  Her visitor or captive or captor or whatever you wanted to call him . . . Finn . . . had allowed her to put her leotard back on, hinting that if she didn’t follow his orders, he would put restraints on her, as she had on him. He was only teasing.

  But that wasn’t what had her in shock . . . or only partially. And her dancing had done nothing to clear her mind.

  She was behaving in a totally bizarre manner. Bringing a stranger home with her. Engaging in sex . . . numerous times. Never once protesting the things he asked her to do . . . in fact, initiating some of it herself. Continually seeing him as some reincarnation of Dave, or a messenger sent by Dave, or Dave himself, for heaven’s sake. She was finally going off the deep end. She didn’t even know what he did for a living.

  Maybe her behavior was as simple as a reaction to five years with no sex. Or maybe it was a delayed reaction to Dave’s death, not that she hadn’t reacted before.

  Her kitchen, dining area, and living room were all one open-air plan. So, Finn could easily be seen sitting on the sofa, back to her. If she were braver, she could creep up on him with a baseball bat and conk him over his thick skull. A skull which was covered with that long hair with those two ridiculous beaded braids framing his face. Men should not have prettier hair than women, she’d always contended. Barefooted and bare-chested, he wore a pair of Dave’s old gray jogging pants. That was another sign of her shock . . . that she would have allowed him to root through the storage box in the basement, which hadn’t been touched since Dave’s death.