Viking Unchained

by Sandra Hill

  And he left.

  Lydia stared at the closed door in shock.

  What had she expected? That he would apologize and promise to go work at Wal-Mart, or do construction work, or anything other than fighting? To give her flowery declarations of love, instead of crude mentions of sex? Was she a fool to have drawn a line in the sand?

  Despite her second-guessings, she did not regret her anger at Finn for not telling her of his military aspirations. Nor could she conceive of bending on this issue, ever.

  But, oh, his leaving felt like losing her beloved all over again. How would she survive?

  When vengeance turns bloody . . .

  Jamal watched the Hartley farm—Mill Pond Farm, it was called—through binoculars from his perch on a nearby hillside.

  The parents-by-marriage of the Navy SEAL came and went, along with Denton’s little boy. A happy, healthy boy about the same age his own Baasim would be today, Jamal realized with an aching heart.

  Intelligence ran in Jamal’s family; his brother was not the only one with an advanced IQ and education. In fact, Jamal had graduated from Oxford and had been a researcher at Baghdad University at the time of the explosion.

  He had not worked since then, relying only on meager funds he had saved or been given by sympathetic friends. His mission consumed him. But this celebration to honor his wife and son’s murderer would finally put his savage anger to rest. Maybe he could get his old job back. Maybe he could even find another woman to marry and give him other children. He was still a young man.

  Jamal was patient. He waited, unmoving for a long time, ’til dusk finally rose from the horizon. Only then did he lift his rifle to his shoulder and aim. Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang. One cow for each year of his suffering.

  It was a small price for those below to pay. But it was just a forewarning.

  More was to come. And soon.

  The pig meets the shrew . . .

  Thorfinn was so consumed with fury that he walked for two hours afore he realized he was in the neighborhood of Madrene and Ian MacLean, who also lived on the beach in San Diego. His ill humor would do best without company, but he needed someone to drive him back to Torolf’s apartment in Coronado.

  “Greetings!” he grumbled to Madrene when she answered his knock on the door.

  “Thorfinn!” a surprised Madrene greeted him.

  He pushed her aside and stomped into her house.

  “Well, look what the cat drug in. Not that our sweet Samantha would put her teeth to your tough skin. What are you doing here?” This was not an unusual “welcome” from Madrene, who had shrewishness down to an art form. Everyone said so.

  Just for emphasis, the fat cat in question sidled up to him, hissed, then waddled away. Off to deposit a large amount of hair on the furniture, no doubt, or piss on the carpet.

  Madrene just grinned at him and led the way into the solar. Leastways, he thought she meant for him to follow.

  She wore very short braies that exposed her long legs and a tight shert that outlined her voluptuous breasts. In truth, her bosom was the first thing people, especially men, noticed about Madrene. The second was her waspish nature, which almost, but not quite, wiped out the allure of her udders.

  “Welcome to you, too, cousin,” he drawled, hoping to embarrass her over her rudeness. Every good Viking knew that hospitality was important . . . every good Viking, except Madrene, apparently.

  “Hello to you, my dearling cousin.”

  “Your sarcasm is not appealing, Madrene.”

  “Dost think I care, you loathsome lout? How did you get here?”

  “I want you to drive me to Torolf’s keep. I walked from the home of Lydia Denton. Dost know her?”

  She nodded, a look of shock on her face, whether at the fact he knew Lydia or that he had walked was unclear.

  “That’s more than five miles,” said her husband, Ian, a Navy SEAL commander, walking toward him and into the solar, where he and Madrene stood. Ian had come through an open doorway in the hallway, which must lead to the lower level, where music could be heard. “What’re you doing with Lydia Denton?”

  “She’s his love slave,” Madrene answered for him with a smirk.

  Ian’s head jerked toward his wife. So did Thorfinn’s.

  She added, “But he was her love slave first.” Then more smirking.

  “It appears my love slave has a flapping tongue,” Thorfinn observed. He sank down onto a low sofa and clicked on the television set. It seemed everyone in America had one of these picture boxes, just as Torolf did. Immediately, music blared forth, and young people were dancing or flailing their arms and legs about.

  “Shhhh!” Madrene shushed him, running over and turning the television off. “My children are napping.”

  “Has anyone ever told you that you are a harridan?”

  “Has anyone ever told you that you are lackwitted?” she shot back.

  Only then did he notice that Ian was shertless and barefooted, just now buttoning his den-ham braies. And Madrene, well, there were whisker burns on her cheek and neck, and her nipples . . . surely, they were not always so distended. In that moment he realized he had interrupted them in bedsport.

  He waved a hand dismissively at them both. “Resume your bedplay. I will wait here ’til you are finished.”

  Ian laughed. “You think we’re going to engage in sex while you sit down here twiddling your thumbs?”

  “And why not? ’Tis not as if I will be standing over you, watching. Lest you make a lot of noise, I might not be imagining exactly what you are doing.” He flashed Madrene a deliberately lascivious glance. “Are you noise-some in the bed furs, Madrene?”

  “Male chauvinist pig!”

  “Irksome witch!”

  “Now wait a minute.” Ian glowered at him. “There’s no need to pick on my wife.”

  Thorfinn exhaled with a whoosh and leaned back, hands folded behind his head. “Just go and finish what you started. Later, by your will, I would appreciate a ride back to Torolf’s. I got my driving license today, but—”

  “Thorfinn on the road? Spare us, oh, Lord!” Madrene interjected.

  He glared at her and continued, “But I have not yet purchased a jape.”

  “A jape?” Ian asked.

  “He means a Jeep,” Madrene translated for him.

  “That is what I said. I wish to buy a jape like Torolf’s, but only if I pass my SEAL test, and only if I stay in this country.” He realized his slip instantly. He had been warned not to discuss the time travel with just anyone.

  Ian shook his head and looked to his wife. “Another one?”

  She nodded.

  It was Ian then who said, “Spare us, oh, Lord!”

  “First of all, neither Torolf nor Hilda are at home,” Madrene told him. “Torolf is still on a mission, and Hilda decided to delay her return from her women’s shelter in the north. No doubt to avoid your delightful company.”

  Thorfinn shrugged, deciding his best path was to ignore Madrene’s vocal jabs. “I can stay there myself. I would not be good company anyway—”

  “Like you ever are!” Madrene remarked.

  “Can you not control your wife, Ian? Truly, a biddable wife is a blessing.”

  “Like your wife was biddable? Is that why she left you?”

  “Madrene!” Ian rebuked her.

  He could tell Madrene regretted her words, but stubborn wench that she was, she just lifted her chin. Her eyes softened, though, and she said, “Did you and Lydia have a fight?”

  “Not precisely. Apparently, someone”—he gave her a pointed look—“told her that I had been a warrior and would be joining the military here. She refuses to be with another military man, after losing her husband.”

  “Oh, Thorfinn, I am sorry.” She sat down next to him and put a comforting hand on his knee.

  The idea of Madrene soothing him was so appalling that he moved to the other side of the sofa, putting distance betwixt them.

  “Do you love
her?”

  “Whaaat?”

  “Well, you would not be upset if you were not smitten.”

  “We had sex without stop like lustsome rabbits, that is all,” he told her, though he did not believe that any more than she did. I am bloody hell smitten, all right. Besotted. Besmitten. Bewitched. I must be barmy.

  Ian grinned. “Like rabbits, huh?”

  Madrene smacked his arm. “I hesitate to suggest this . . . I must be losing my mind, but why not come to Blue Dragon with me?” Madrene offered. “I’m going tomorrow, and Ian will be coming on the weekend. They’re having a harvest festival. It would take your mind off your broken heart.”

  Thorfinn considered her offer, which was generous considering their grating reaction to each other, not that he was suffering a broken heart, even if he did feel a constriction in his chest at the prospect of not seeing Lydia again. Good gods, Big-Mouth Madrene will be telling everyone of my broken heart, as if I were a youthling in the first blush of sex. “It is kind of you, Madrene, but I really must needs practice those half-brained exercises in order to take my PST test next week.” See, I can be polite, even with a shrew.

  “If you want, you could take the test on Friday and go up with me on Saturday,” Ian suggested. “They’re giving make-up tests for those recruits who couldn’t make it last week.”

  Madrene gave a visible sigh of relief, no doubt at the prospect of being spared his company.

  I am relieved, too. Hours confined in a car with her and three bratlings would be torture.

  “That is, if you think you’re ready,” Ian added.

  “I am as ready as I will ever be.” And if it means forgoing Madrene’s company, I will for damn sure be ready.

  “You can stay here tonight and go in with Ian in the morning. Mayhap he will let you practice drills with his SEALs,” Madrene said, getting up. “Dinner will be ready in about an hour.”

  “In the meantime, go finish what you started, you two,” he said, lying down on the sofa, putting a small pillow under his head. He took great pleasure in Madrene’s eyes staring daggers at his shoes. “Really. I understand.”

  “Do you?” Ian asked with a laugh. “Actually, Madrene was demonstrating one of the dance lessons that Lydia gave this week at her studio.” He waggled his eyebrows at him. “Pole dancing.”

  “Ah,” Thorfinn said. “A great invention, that, especially when . . .” He paused. Should I?

  “Especially when . . . ?” Ian prompted.

  Why not? “Man to man, Ian, I must tell you, it is best viewed when the dancer is, um, nude.”

  Madrene gasped and would no doubt like to make another remark to him about his crudity. Or smack the smirk off my face.

  Ian, on the other hand, gave him a considering look. “You are a man after my own heart.” Then he turned to his wife. And winked.

  Later Thorfinn walked down to the basement with Ian, who wanted to show him his weight-lifting corner.

  “Thor’s teeth! What is this?” he asked on viewing the dozens of candles arranged around the darkened room with scarves floating from one of the support poles.

  “Aromatherapy.”

  “Are the flameless lights broken? The electricity, I mean.”

  “Nope. This is for atmosphere.”

  “It smells like a bloody flower garden.”

  “It’s supposed to be romantic.”

  Thorfinn gazed at Ian in wonder. He was a supposedly intelligent man. “Surely, all Madrene would have to do is take her clothes off to get your sap running. Bloody hell, a certain look would do it, I would think.”

  “Ah, but the idea is to have her be along for the ride.”

  “I do not understand.”

  Ian laughed at him. “You don’t need to understand. It’s fun, dammit.”

  “Fun and sex. Ah.” Thorfinn did understand then.

  He wondered if he would ever have the chance to have this kind of fun again . . . with Lydia.

  Oh, my stars! . . .

  Lydia was miserable.

  For the first few hours she was righteous in her indignation. In fact, she went down to the basement storage room and pulled out some boxes she hadn’t opened for four and a half years.

  The first box contained all the things she was saving for Mike when he was older. The flag that had adorned Dave’s casket. His uniform and Budweiser, the nickname given to the SEAL trident pin. The Purple Heart and framed proclamation. A baseball mitt, tennis racket, hockey stick, and high school football cleats. Yearbooks. Sports trophies. She’d even saved his duffel bag containing a toiletry kit, complete with toothpaste and toothbrush, razor and shaving foam, deodorant, comb, aspirin, and Gold Bond powder for chafing in the desert. Finally, there was a red-ribbon-tied bundle of letters . . . letters they had written to each other over a ten-year period, from way back when she’d still been in high school. She held them to her chest, then put them back, knowing she wasn’t strong enough to read them yet. Maybe she never would be.

  Next she pulled out the box of star memorabilia. Some people collected pig trinkets or geese, cows, angels, or snowmen; she had a fascination with stars. In fact, the box contained several strings of star lights for a Christmas tree, along with dozens of kinds of star ornaments she’d gathered over the years, mementoes from trips, coming-home presents. Star picture frames, a star lamp base, star wind chimes and sun catchers. She could account for the provenance of every one of them, and most were connected to Dave. There was even a star pendant and dangly silver star earrings.

  Her pain was palpable as she put the boxes back in the closet. How could she possibly sustain this kind of grief again? How could she love another military man? The answer was that she couldn’t.

  But then she went back upstairs and wondered how she could face the loneliness. Maybe she had been too harsh with Finn. After all, it wasn’t his fault he was military. Maybe she could have an affair?

  But, no, she was not the affair type. Love would have to be involved.

  Is it already?

  Oh, my God! Is it already too late?

  Do I love him?

  The question was answered later that night when she was cleaning the bedroom, trying to keep herself busy so that she would not have to think. And mourn.

  Under the bed, she found several bags which Finn must have stuffed there. She assumed they were his purchases from the day he’d disappeared for several hours in Coronado, the day he’d gotten the infamous haircut.

  In one bag there were five boxes of condoms . . . sixty total. She shook her head at his overconfidence.

  The next bag held a miniature Sir Lancelot costume. She smiled, knowing that Finn must have bought it for Mike, even if Mike wasn’t his son. Which he wasn’t, of course.

  Finally, she opened the last bag from a Coronado jewelry store. A gift for her?

  She gasped when she saw the contents. It was a piece of amber, and in the center was a tiny star. She sobbed openly before setting it on the bedside table.

  It had to be a sign.

  Chapter 13

  Running with the wolves . . . I mean, seals . . .

  By late Friday morning, Lydia was frantic.

  She had called Torolf’s place repeatedly ’til she’d had to admit that Finn had not gone back there. She’d called Kirstin to see if she knew where Finn was. She didn’t. Kirstin called Hilda up at Hog Heaven, and even Hilda didn’t have a clue, her response having been, “We should be so lucky that the lackwit is lost!”

  “He’ll show up somewhere, honey,” Kirstin had assured her.

  But Lydia wanted to talk to him now, and she feared the longer they were apart, the harder it would be to heal the rift. If indeed he wanted to get back together with her. Not that they’d had any kind of understanding before.

  Really, she just needed to talk with him.

  And maybe kiss him silly.

  Then she got some more bad news.

  Her cordless phone rang about noon.

  “Finn? Is that you? Thank God
!”

  “Uh, honey. It’s me. Your dad.”

  “Oh.” Her disappointment felt like a lead weight on her shoulders. Then her daughter-antenna went up. Her dad hardly ever called her. It was always her mother who called, occasionally passing the phone to her dad for a quick hello. “What is it, Dad? What’s wrong? Is it Mike?”

  “Now, honey, it’s nothing like that. I just wanted you to know, before you hear it somewhere else. We had a little trouble here last night. A few cows were killed.”

  “Killed?”

  “Shot through the head.”

  “Who would do a thing like that?”

  “Maybe it was just a hunter with a vision problem.”

  She laughed. “You don’t really think that, do you?”

  “Nope. Not when it was five cows.”

  “Five? What’s going on, Dad?”

  “It might be one of those animal-rights cuckoo birds, or some teenager wantin’ to show off his shootin’.”

  “Maybe I should come get Mike.”

  “Now, there’s no need to do that. The police have been here, and we’re keeping close tabs on the little one. Plus, he’ll be going over to the Dentons’ soon to stay there for a week.”

  "If you’re sure.”

  “I am. If I think he needs to go home, I won’t hesitate, little girl.”

  Little girl? Thirty years old, and he still calls me little girl. “Okay, I’ll see you next week. Love you.”

  “Love you, too, honey.”

  No sooner did she click off than the phone rang again. She knew enough this time not to assume it was Finn. And it wasn’t. It was Kirstin. Still, she was disappointed.

  “Lydia, I know where Finn is. He’s been staying with Ian and Madrene, and he’s over at the base this morning taking his PST exam.”

  “So soon? I thought that wasn’t coming up for another week or two.”