by Sandra Hill
“Hey! You can’t come back here,” said a burly man in a blood-spattered white apron.
“I just wanted to compliment your hunters who brought in all this meat. And, holy Thor, where are the cows that provide the milk? Or the laying chickens?”
The man’s jaw dropped with each of his questions.
“Dost have any boar flanks? I have not had a good boar steak for ages, since Uggi Big-Arms brought down that massive broken-tusked boar in the Rus lands.”
Before the gaping man could reply, Lydia shot through the doorway, grabbed him by the arm, and yanked him back into the store, saying over his shoulder, “Sorry. My friend is a little confused.”
More like a lot confused. He shrugged off her handhold. “You do not need to apologize for me.”
“If you have any questions, ask me.”
When are we going to have sex again? “I am not speaking to you.” A foolish statement to make when he had just spoken to her, but he could not care.
“Well, then, I guess you’re not interested in the surprise I was going to buy for you.” Her eyes twinkled with devilment.
Does it involve sex? He arched his brows in question. No words.
She held out a small bottle.
Reading the label, he said slowly, “Ting-ling Mass-age Oil.” Yes!
“That’s okay. I can take it back.”
He grabbed it from her hands and tossed it in his own cart. Then he smiled at her, no longer angry . . . leastways, as long as she did not mention her dead husband again.
She pushed her cart up beside his, leaned up, and kissed him on the cheek. “Does that mean we get to have make-up sex?”
“As long as it involves tingling.”
They were dancing fools . . .
Lydia was back at work while Finn went off to practice driving with Geek, after which he would take his California driver’s exam. Oddly, she felt bereft without her constant companion. She was missing a man she had only known for a few days.
“Okay, ladies, this is our first day of pole dancing. Are you ready?”
“Yes!” the dozen women in the room yelled, including Kirstin and Alison Magnusson and Madrene MacLean.
If she’d bought more portable poles, Lydia could have filled the class with twenty more women. As it was, she had two more classes today, all filled to capacity. In fact, she’d been invited to demonstrate her program at a half-dozen private parties for women, even Tupperware ones, for goodness’ sake, following a feature article about her in a local weekly newspaper. Women expected to come out of these classes as sultry vixens, even the shy ones.
“I know most of you are here because of the naughty factor,” she teased.
They all laughed, even while they warmed up with knee extensions and waist bends, following her lead. None of them disagreed.
“If you let loose, you can have fun with your sexual partner or just gain a little self-confidence about your body. The main reason I’m offering the pole-dancing workout, though, is to help you tone your bodies.”
She did a brief demonstration for the class first, dancing to “Private Dancer,” which she flicked on her CD player. As she danced and even pretended to make love with the pole, she narrated the various moves: the swing walk, leg hook, pole bend and slide, corkscrew, firefly, climb and spin, body inversion, pivot, and freeform arch. In the end, she showed them the “helicopter,” warning them that this was an advanced move that required upside-down spinning in a crunch position with legs and toes forming a vee with the pole.
“Wow!” Kirstin Magnusson said. “I think I’m way out of my league here.”
“You? I can scarce lift my leg that high, let alone do it in midair,” Madrene added.
“Now, now, I told you that was an advanced move for much later. Today, we’re going to learn the basic fireman, where you grip the pole, swing up as high as you can go, then spin downward like a . . . fireman. Watch carefully and save the vamping for later, please.”
By the end of the hour, they were able to perform the move, clumsily on some parts and with curses from others. But they were all feeling good about the class as they walked out laughing and talking.
“Kirstin,” Lydia said, “do you have a minute? My next class doesn’t start for an hour.”
Kirstin stopped, telling her family members to go ahead, that she would catch up. After they left, Kirstin arched her brows at her.
“I wanted to ask you about . . . someone,” Lydia started hesitantly.
“I knew it! I knew there was something different about you.”
Kirstin slid down to the floor and grabbed for a towel to dab at the perspiration on her face and neck, the whole time smiling.
“Different how?”
“Well, my guess would be that you are gettin’ some, honey. Either that or you’re pregnant. You glow, girl.”
“No, I’m not pregnant, but I do want to ask you about your cousin Finn.”
Kirstin’s eyes went wide, and her jaw dropped for a moment. “You’ve been getting it on with Finn, the world’s biggest male chauvinist?”
An apt description. “The very one.” She sank down next to Kirstin.
“The family has been worried about him since he disappeared several days ago.”
“Four days.”
“Oh, my God! He’s been with you.”
She nodded.
“So what’s the problem?”
“Well, he tells the most outlandish story.”
“Uh-oh!”
The fine hairs stood out on the back of Lydia’s neck. “I know you’ll think this is crazy, but he claims to have time-traveled from the eleventh century. Ha, ha, ha.”
Kirstin was not laughing in return.
The fine hairs were practically doing the hula now. “What?”
“It’s true.”
The blood drained from Lydia’s head. If she hadn’t been already sitting, she might just have fainted. “It can’t be true.”
“I come from a rather strange family.”
I already know that. “There is strange, and then there is strange.”
“Really strange, honey.” Kirstin’s eyes darted to someplace over Lydia’s right shoulder, then she made a beckoning motion with her fingertips before calling out, “Come join us. You need to hear this, too.”
Madrene and Alison, now in street clothes, headed over and quickly sank down to the rug and sat cross-legged in front of them.
“Lydia is asking me about the time travelling,” Kirstin said, raising her eyebrows meaningfully at the other ladies and shocking the spit out of Lydia.
How could her friend betray a confidence like that? “Kirstin!”
She patted Lydia’s hand. “It’s okay.”
“How do you know about . . . it?” Alison asked, her face turning almost as red as her hair.
“Thorfinn,” Kirstin answered in a ta-da fashion before Lydia could speak. “He and our pole-dancer queen have a thing going on.”
“Kirstin!” she chastised again.
“Surely, you are too intelligent to fall for that arrogant toad,” Madrene remarked. “The insufferable man told Ian that if he ever wants to get rid of me, my breasts are so big they could float a longship.”
“Hilda is the one who really has a personality conflict with him,” Kirstin said. “He keeps telling Torolf how shrewish she is and that it’s his job as a Viking man to tame her.”
“I would like to see him try,” Madrene said with a huff. “Oh, my gods and goddesses, you are the love slave.”
“What?” Kirstin and Alison squealed.
“Torolf told me that Thorfinn was living with his love slave. Bloody hell! I just remembered something. Thorfinn said some woman made him her love slave first.”
Lydia could feel her face heat with mortification. “It was just a joke,” she lied.
No one believed her.
In fact, Kirstin gave her a high five. “Way to go, sister! ”
“He is good looking,” Alison conceded. “
There are a lot of women who wouldn’t mind him putting his boots under their beds.”
They all turned to Lydia then.
“Has he?” Alison asked.
Oh, yeah! Like a time or two . . . or twenty. She didn’t have to answer; her face said it all.
Alison smacked herself upside the head. “Well, of course he has, if they were playing love slave,” she mused aloud.
“Maybe it’s not too late.” This from Madrene, who turned to her. “You haven’t fallen in love with the lout, have you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. You people are being too hard on him, though. Yeah, he’s a bit overbearing, but he’s not all bad. He has a vulnerable side, too.”
Four sets of eyebrows shot up with disbelief.
“He thinks my son Mike is his son Miklof, and no one can deny he misses his lost baby tremendously.”
“That is true. That is true.” Madrene had a soft heart, despite her usually shrewish nature.
“Back to the original issue . . . the reason Kirstin called you over. I was telling her about Finn’s outrageous idea about time-traveling.”
There was an ominous silence.
Then Madrene put a hand on her knee. “’Tis true. I come from that time period, too, as do Hilda and Kirstin.”
Lydia turned to stare at her friend.
Kirstin just shrugged. “I was only fourteen when my family came here.”
“Ragnor didn’t come here ’til after Madrene, just a few years ago,” Alison added.
“And you believe in time travel, Alison?”
She fully expected Alison, who was a physician, to scoff at the idea. Instead, she shrugged and said, “There’s no other explanation.”
The ladies spent the next fifteen minutes explaining things that really could not be explained. In the end, Kirstin summed it up. “If you can’t accept the science of it—and who can?—then call it a miracle.”
A miracle. Lydia could believe in that. Especially if Finn’s appearance was somehow tied to Dave.
Madrene and Alison left with promises to get together that weekend for some gathering at Blue Dragon Vineyard, where things would be more clear. Kirstin stood next to Lydia as her next class began to shuffle in.
“There’s one thing I don’t understand, Lydia,” Kirstin said, picking up her towel and carryall. “I thought you vowed never to be involved with a military man again.”
Lydia’s brow furrowed. “I did, and nothing’s changed.”
“But Thorfinn . . .” She let her words trail off. “You don’t know, do you?”
“Know what?”
“Thorfinn was a famous warrior in our time, and he plans to try out for SEALs. If that’s not military, nothing is.”
As Kirstin elaborated, a film was being torn off Lydia’s eyes, and she was seeing clearly for the first time in days.
Lydia felt like such a fool.
Chapter 12
Oooh, boy, was he in trouble! . . .
Thorfinn could not recall the last time he had had such a wonderful day.
Everything had gone well, starting with Lydia waking him up just past dawn by licking the backs of his knees. More licking went on after that, by both of them.
“Amazing what a good lick can do for a man’s outlook on a new day!” he’d told Lydia once he had been sated and able to catch his breath.
“A woman’s, too,” she’d agreed. The saucy wench!
“Now get up and prepare me a meal. I must needs break my fast, lest I lose my stamina,” he’d teased, and he hardly ever teased.
“Uh, you ever heard of women’s lib, Finn? How about you prepare me a meal?”
And he had. For the first time ever, he’d made a meal for himself and his lady. And, surprise!—he enjoyed doing so more than he ever could have imagined.
Then Geek had taken him out to some country road to practice driving his car. And Geek hadn’t even yelled at him, or hidden his head in his hands, like Torolf was wont to do. Then they’d gone to the driver testing center, where a policing man checked his driving abilities. And he’d passed, praise the gods! Although the officer was not amused about his seeming jest concerning horseless carriages. Now he could drive whenever he wanted, and mayhap even buy his own vehicle.
He was whistling as he entered the number on the security pad on Lydia’s door. That was when he was hit in the chest with one of her cloth running shoes.
“Ooomph,” he said, then ducked as the matching shoe hit the closed door just over his head. “Lydia! What is amiss?” When he’d left this morning, she kissed him farewell, but now it did not appear there would be any kisses on his horizon anytime soon.
“You jerk! You obnoxious arrogant lying worm!” She had an orange from the fruit bowl in hand now. When she lobbed it at him, he caught it in his right hand. The apple landed in his left hand. With no hands remaining, he rushed forward, dropping the fruit, and tackled her to the floor. “Desist! Dost hear me? Leave off with this nonsense.”
“You liar! You liar! You liar!” she was screeching as he knelt, straddling her hips, both of her hands held to the floor above her head. Even as she berated him, tears streamed down her face, and, if her red eyes were any indication, she had been doing much weeping afore his return.
“Lydia! What happened? Oh, good gods, it is not Miklof, is it?”
That caught her attention. “No, it is not Mike. It’s you.”
“But I am safe.”
“Not for long.” She attempted to raise her knees and no doubt hit him in some vulnerable spot.
He tightened his grip on her hips with his knees and half-sat on her thighs.
“You bastard! You horse’s ass! You son of a bitch! You slimy loser!” On and on she hurled expletives at him, some very creative, some downright insulting. Finally, she wound down with a hiccough, then whispered, “Damn you.”
“I am going to release you now, Lydia, so you can explain what this is about. If you start railing at me again, I give you fair warning: you will be across my knees, your bare, blistered arse facing northward.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Dost dare to dare a Viking?”
“Let me up. I’m calm now.”
He arched his eyebrows, unconvinced. Still, he rose in one fluid motion, then took her hand, raising her to her feet. Immediately, she pulled her hand, away, as if his touch were repugnant. Then she went to the kitchen and grabbed some paper handkerchiefs, dabbing at her eyes and blowing her nose.
He watched her the whole time, hands folded over his chest, waiting.
“You were a soldier,” she accused him. “And you plan on joining the teams.”
Whew! I thought it was something grave and life-threatening. “That is so.”
“ ‘That is so,’ ” she mimicked in an offensive, mock-masculine tone. “You lied to me, you rat.”
He shook his head. “I did not lie. I never lie.”
“Are you trying to say that you told me you planned to join the military . . . the SEALs? Oops, my ears must have been plugged that day.”
He felt his face heat. “At first, I did not tell you, deliberately, because I am new in this country, and I was warned not to give out too much information about myself. Especially not about the time travel or SEALs. Later, after I overheard your prayers, mentioning how you could not be involved with another military man, I decided not to volunteer the information, but I did not realize it mattered this much to you.” Even I find that hard to believe.
“A lie of omission.”
“That does not signify.” He gritted his teeth. “I value honesty above all else. If you had asked, specifically, I would have told you.”
“Oh, that’s just great. Try to lay the blame on me.”
“Why must there be blame in this? Is there shame in being a warrior?”
“No, of course not. Dave was military to the bone.”
He threw his hands out in disgust. “Can we have a single conversation that does not involve your dead husband?”
<
br /> Her shoulders slumped, and she sank down into one of the fabric chairs in her solar. “You have to understand, every time Dave went on a mission, and there were dozens and dozens of them, I died a little. The roller-coaster ride of fear, elation, fear, elation, over and over, took its toll. And it took a toll on Dave, too. Toward the end, I could see that all the killing . . . and, yes, I know it was a noble cause . . . was eating away at his soul.”
He nodded, understanding her emotions. Still . . . the willful woman gainsaid him at every turn. One moment nigh attacking him with lust and the next nigh attacking him with fruit.
“I can’t love another man in the military. I just can’t.”
He was about to ask her when love became an issue with them, but bit his tongue. In truth, the prospect of her loving him held an odd appeal. As for him loving her . . . any woman, for that matter . . . that prospect was enough to curdle his blood. “What would you have me do?”
“I don’t know. You said you ran an estate or something. Can’t you do that here?”
Now she wants to dictate my life. He inhaled deeply and exhaled. “I am a warrior, Lydia. A far-famed one, truth to tell. It is who I am, and I do not apologize for ridding the world of tyrants and villains. Even if I had other choices, it is what I want to do.”
“Even if it means the end of us?”
He bristled. “Is that an ultimatum?”
“It’s the way it has to be.” She was weeping again.
Well, he would not be swayed by tears. This issue was too important. He stared her down, expecting her to fold, to admit she had been hasty in her words. To have make-up sex, that wonderful modern invention, which was not all that modern, except they did not give it a name in his day.
She did not budge.
Now he was angry. Thorfinn’s pride was great. He could not allow a woman to rule his life.
“So be it,” he snarled, heading toward the door, where he stopped momentarily, adding, “But heed me well, Lydia, we are not through, not by a Viking longshot. I will see my son. Either I go to Minnesota with you, or I go myself. In the meantime, fare thee well. I have enjoyed swiving you.”
