Miranda's Viking

by Maggie Shayne

  "Rolf?"

  He studied her face, so soft, and her eyes, so intensely searching his. Truly she had never seemed as beautiful as she did at this moment. How could she be here? If he'd ever completed that journey, then he should be in the wilderness of Helluland, among the Skraelingar by now, far to the north of Vinland with his crew of other outcasts.

  How could she be here?

  In answer to her queries, he only shook his head and returned his attention to the food. As he ate, he recalled her brief lesson below and that she had said she, too, was "hungry." He pushed the platter of fowl toward her and repeated her words as he remembered. "Adrianna… am hungry."

  "No." She shook her head firmly, giving him no mistake as what her no meant. "Miranda. Miranda is hungry. Rolf is hungry."

  "Adrianna is," he stubbornly repeated. "Rolf is." He frowned. "I am."

  She nodded, but he could see a flare of anger in her gray eyes at his refusal to use her newly acquired name. He sighed his relief. At least she would now give him a lesson in her make-believe language. Did she insist on using it, he might as well learn to speak with her.

  She pointed at him with her graceful finger. He wondered briefly why she'd cut off her nails. They had once been her pride. "You are hungry." She made a motion with her hand indicating them both, and went on, "We are hungry." She picked up a piece of fowl and placed it between her full lips. Rolf watched her eat the food. His own appetite had vanished.

  Every once in a while he looked at her in a way that sent shivers down the back of her neck. They weren't from fear, because she no longer saw the anger she'd seen earlier. His gaze would simply intensify… to an unbelievable degree.

  The rest of the time she could only marvel at his obvious wonder and occasional delight with everything he encountered. He didn't pretend not to be impressed, as most of the men she knew might have done. Especially her father. Rolf's feelings were out in the open in full view. Especially the sudden frustration he'd seemed to experience a few minutes before. She wasn't certain of its cause, but she saw that he was troubled about something.

  As they shared the meal, Miranda began his English lessons in earnest. There was so much he would need to know if she was going to pull off this charade. First and foremost, she needed to be able to communicate with him. His ability to learn astounded her. In a single sitting, she taught him to conjugate the verb "to be" and to name every object in the entire kitchen. In fact, by the end of the meal she was pointing to things and asking "What's this?" and getting perfect answers every time.

  She'd been amused by his reaction to the fork. It was alien to him, but he was curious, so she showed him its use. He only shook his head, his expression telling her more eloquently than words could, how ridiculous an instrument it was. With elegant grace he continued picking up the fowl in his long fingers and placing it between his lips. Watching him, she nearly conceded that forks were useless.

  She longed for some time to sit down and think through this crazy decision of hers. She longed to analyze and plan, to weigh the consequences of her actions, to make a list of pros and cons and to prepare for the possible results of such a deception. But she couldn't. She didn't dare leave him alone at this point. It was vital that she find a way to communicate with him as quickly as possible, and equally vital that she think of a way to hide his presence from the police and Professor Saunders. That was the only thing she knew for certain. She couldn't let anyone know. She couldn't let him fall into the hands of ambitious scientists who would see him only as the opportunity of a lifetime. They would justify his incarceration and resultant torment as being for the greater good.

  With two police guards right outside the door, she realized her predicament was precarious at best. If they saw Rolf…

  "Clothes,"' she whispered, mostly to herself. "We need to get you some clothes." She looked at him frowning at her and tilting his head to one side. Shaking her head, she picked up the telephone and dialed Darryl's number. If she could trust anyone at all it would be her father's sidekick, assistant and devout worshiper. He answered on the first ring.

  "Darryl, it's Miranda O'Shea." She smiled as Rolf tilted his head and frowned again.

  "How's the professor?" Darryl asked without preamble, genuine concern in his voice. "I called the hospital, but they wouldn't tell me anything."

  Miranda swallowed hard. Guilt reared its head inside her. She'd actually forgotten about her father for a little while. How could she? "He's not good, Darryl. Not good at all."

  She heard the young man swallow hard. "Will he—"

  "The doctors don't know yet. They're doing everything possible, but…" Her throat swelled and her words faded out.

  "Man, I'm sorry. What about you, Ms. O'Shea? Are you all right?"

  She sighed. "I'll be fine. But I do need a favor and you're the only person I can ask." Rolf was standing now, staring curiously, coming nearer.

  "Sure. You know I'll do anything I can. What is it?"

  Rolf positioned himself right in front of her. He reached out a hand to the phone on the wall, fingers touching the buttons and causing tones to sound in her ear. She pushed his hand away and shook her head at him. "A friend of mine just arrived from Norway, er, Iceland."

  "A friend?"

  "Colleague, actually. He's a… um…" Rolf was tugging the phone from her ear, and she had to struggle briefly to regain it. She caught his questing hand and held it in hers, trying to send him a silent message with her eyes, "… historian." She rushed on to cover her stammering explanation. "He didn't know about Russell, of course. Anyway, he's staying here and the airline lost his luggage."

  "You gotta be kidding me."

  "No, I'm afraid not. The thing is, he hasn't got a single thing except the clothes he's wearing—" Rolf gripped the phone with his free hand and pulled it from her ear. He bent his head lower, listening, eyes going wider. She tugged the receiver back in time to hear the last part of Darryl's offer to take Rolf shopping.

  "Actually, he speaks very little English and he's really timid about going out in public. Do you think you could just pick up a few things for him? I know it's a lot to ask, but—"

  "Come on, after everything you and the professor have done for me? It's nothing. Here, let me get a pen. What size is he?"

  She knew his measurements by heart, so an educated guess wasn't difficult. "You'll have to go to a big and tall shop, I imagine. Do you want to stop by for my credit card?"

  "I'll just use my own and bring you the bill."

  It was the answer she'd been hoping for. Time was of the essence here. God only knew when the police outside would take it into their heads to check on her again. "As long as it's okay with you," she said. "If you could just grab a couple of casual outfits and some basic necessities, I'd be grateful. And I hate to say it, but I need them in a hurry."

  "No problem. I'm glad I can help out."

  As soon as Miranda hung up, Rolf had the receiver in his hand, holding it to his ear and punching buttons at random to hear the tones they made. She reached up, depressed the cutoff, and motioned with her hands for him to stay where he was. She ducked into the living room and picked up the extension. "Hello, Rolf. This is Miranda." She saw him step into the doorway, receiver in his hand, and stare first at it, then at her. "Gott kvöld, Rolf."

  His face broke into a broad smile. He spoke into the mouthpiece as she had, his voice deep and resonant, caressing her ear. "Gott kvöld," he replied.

  She smiled back at him and replaced the receiver. He did the same. The scientist in her was steadily shrinking. This was going to be an adventure. "Come on, Rolf. You need a bath. And a shave. If we disguise you, we can say the specimen was stolen and that you are my dear old friend from Iceland. Old Norse is still spoken there, so it ought to be believable." She looked at him and shook her head. "More believable than the truth, at least."

  He frowned at her and muttered, "Eg skil ekki."

  She took his arm, quickly glancing into his eyes to see if he w
ould object. He didn't seem offended by the contact. She drew him toward the stairs. "Come with me, Rolf."

  He did, albeit reluctantly, as she guided him up to the second floor and along the hall. He stopped often to peer into each room they passed. In the bathroom she forced herself to take her time, to show him the tub and the basin, the hot- and cold-water settings, to teach him the words for these things. His patience seemed as boundless as his curiosity. She started the water running in the tub, and while it filled she located a pair of scissors, a razor and a can of shaving cream.

  She swallowed hard and brought him to stand before the sink where he could see his reflection in the mirror. He jumped at first, but she saw that he understood what it was and gradually accepted it. In a moment he was studying his reflection with interest. Mirrors in his time had consisted of nothing more than small disks of polished steel. This one must be quite a surprising change.

  "Rolf?" He looked at her, his blue eyes wary and searching. She lifted the scissors to her own face, moving the blades on an imaginary beard. Very slowly she moved them toward his face.

  Rolf drew back fast and shook his head. "Nei!"

  "All right. It's all right." She spoke softly, feeling as if she were soothing a confused, frightened child. The poor man had traveled thousands of miles and nine centuries from everything he'd ever known. He'd died and been resuscitated. The last thing on his mind would be the need to shave, but she had to force the issue.

  She approached him, setting the scissors aside, lifting her hand to show him it was empty and then moving it closer, slowly, until she let it rest gently on his face. "Trust me, Rolf," she said softly. "You've got to trust me." She glanced down at the scissors, then back at him. She fingered the thick whiskers and grimaced slightly. "Gjöriŏ svo vel? Please?"

  He frowned and turned toward the mirror once more. He studied his face, threading his fingers thoughtfully through the curling reddish beard. When he looked at her again, she saw his reluctant compliance even before he sighed and said, "Já."

  He stepped forward again and stood with unbelievable patience while she trimmed and trimmed and trimmed. It seemed to take forever to get the beard down to a manageable thickness. He watched in the mirror as she worked, but his eyes were as often on her reflection as on his own. Eventually she whittled enough hair away so that he wore only a thin coating of it on his face. He now had the look of a dangerous rebel rather than a lumbering mountain man.

  He was much more attractive with the shape of his face visible. Not that she would be foolish enough to let herself actually feel an attraction to him… even if she were disposed to that type of thing, which she most certainly was not. She didn't even like men:

  Finally she set the scissors aside and lifted the razor. She showed him what she intended by smearing lotion on her own face and scraping it away with the razor. Rolf glanced into the mirror, running one hand thoughtfully over what remained of his beard. He nodded once and turned to her. Miranda smeared the lotion over his face, feeling the tickle of his whiskers against the sensitive hollow of her palm. It seemed such an intimate act, rubbing her hands over his face this way. But of course it wasn't. It was simply something that needed doing, and who else was there to do it?

  She could let him shave himself. He would manage. Shaving had not been unheard of, even in his day. She frowned and glanced down at the razor. No, she didn't want him cutting his face to ribbons just because she was ridiculously shy about touching him. Besides, she'd never shaved a man before.

  She rinsed the scented lotion from her hands and lifted the razor to his cheek. In careful, steady strokes, she began to remove the bristles from his skin. Little by little his face was revealed to her. First the shape of his cheeks, then the wide, firm line of his jaw, then his square chin with the cleft at the center.

  When she finished she took a wet cloth and dabbed the remaining cream and loose whiskers from his face. She stopped, staring mutely up at him and blinking down her shock. The man was incredible, the most undeniably handsome man she'd ever encountered, bar none. She knew she was gaping like an idiot, but she couldn't take her eyes from him.

  He grinned and she caught her breath. He had dimples in his cheeks!

  Okay, that's enough, she told herself firmly. With all I have to worry about it's positively insane to be standing here, staring at him this way. So what if he's gorgeous? Lot's of men are gorgeous. What does it matter to me? I'm frigid, remember?

  He glanced into the mirror, running one hand over his now-smooth face. He looked at her once more, nodding in approval. "pakka pér fyrir."

  "Pakka per fyrir," she repeated. "Thank you. Repeat, Rolf. Endurtakiŏ. Thank you."

  "Thank… you."

  She smiled. She couldn't help it. He seemed so pleased with himself. "You're welcome."

  "Ahh, yor welcome," he echoed. "Verŏi yŏur aŏ góŏu. Já?"

  She was fairly certain he'd just repeated "you're welcome" in Islensk. "Yes, that's right." She couldn't contain her pleasure. He really was good at this.

  His gaze intensified then as he studied her. His smile died slowly, and he searched her face. One hand rose slowly and covered her cheek. He shook his head. "Adrianna?"

  "No. Miranda." She put as much emphasis as she could manage behind the words. His eyes narrowed, seemingly roving her face in search of some proof of her identity. She knew of none she could show him, none he would understand, at least. Instead, she reached for a spare toothbrush and proceeded to give him another lesson in modern hygiene. He actually seemed to enjoy brushing his teeth. But even while he did, he kept his eye on her.

  She shut off the water in the now-brimming tub, forcefully dismissing the lingering effects of his probing stare. She pointed. "Bath. Rolf, take a bath." He didn't move and Miranda reached up to his already unlaced tunic and tugged it slightly. He seemed hesitant, but he pulled the tunic over his head. She nodded. "Good, now the shirt." She touched the shirt as she had the tunic. "Take it off."

  His eyes glittered with some secret amusement, but he obeyed, removing the shirt and standing bare-chested before her. Her gaze fixed itself to that muscled wall of chest, then moved downward over rippling pectorals and a tight, flat belly. His skin was utterly hairless, with one exception. Sparse golden hairs inches below his navel traveled a narrow path downward, disappearing into the waist of the leggings he wore.

  The raw masculinity of him hit her like a solid blow to the solar plexus. She couldn't seem to draw a deep-enough breath for a moment, or to take her stupid, stubborn eyes from his bare skin. With great effort, she forced herself to meet his gaze. She saw his knowing look and perhaps a hint of something else, as well. She was humiliated and looked away. She pointed again to the tub and repeated her earlier words. "Take a bath, Rolf." Her throat was tight.

  Lifting one foot he very nearly stepped into the water, leggings and all.

  "No!" She gripped his arm, her discomfort momentarily forgotten, and drew him back. She shook her head in exasperation. She knew perfectly well his people had been fond of bathing. He must know what she asked of him. Honestly, there was so much to be done and so little time.

  She tugged at the ties that held his leggings tight at the waist.

  His hand covered hers, stilling it.

  She looked up slowly and gasped. His eyes blazed with some unnamed, but obviously potent, emotion. In a second he'd closed his arms around her, drawing her flush against his warm, naked chest. She brought her hands up, trying to put some space between them, but to no avail. His body forced hers to bend backward as he leaned over her. His mouth came so near to hers she could feel his every breath. He whispered, "Adrianna…"

  "No," she began, but too late. His mouth claimed hers with ferocity. He forced her lips open and thrust his tongue inside, ravaging her mouth the way his people had ravaged the coasts of England in his time. One hand moved upward, to cup the back of her head and hold her face more tightly to his for his brutal, punishing kiss. His other hand dropped lower, cup
ping one buttock and squeezing hard, painfully hard. His hips moved against her and she felt the rocklike arousal pressing into her stomach.

  She forgot that he was confused and out of his time. She forgot that he was huge and could probably break her neck with one hand. She only knew a rush of panic and a need to escape. She lifted one shoe-encased foot and slammed it down hard on the top of his bare one.

  His hold on her relaxed with his shock, just enough for her to avert her face from his. She tried to pull free of him, but he gripped the front of her shirt and shot a rapid stream of Norse words at her, words she was glad she couldn't understand. Anger rose to displace her fear. She brought one hand stingingly across his face and tore loose from him, her blouse ripping down the front as she did.

  And then Rolf froze. For a long moment he stood stock-still as if paralyzed. When she dared glance up, she saw that he was staring at the dark, berry-colored birthmark on the upper half of her right breast. It was the size of a silver dollar, but kidney-shaped. He blinked twice, shook his head and lifted his gaze to her face. Whatever he saw there seemed to confuse or confound him. He scowled harder than ever and released her at once.

  She glared at him, despite the hot tears she felt pooling in her eyes. She fought down the waves of nausea that swamped her, but to no avail. The fear had been too real, and she whirled, falling to her knees in front of the toilet, and violently emptied her stomach.

  For a moment she remained there, trembling. His hands on her shoulders urged her to her feet, and then he pressed a damp cloth into her hands. She couldn't look at him. She swiped at her face and flushed the toilet. She pointed to the tub. "Take a bath." The words were bitten out. She turned and left the room without another glance at him.

  She went downstairs and into her father's study. She reached up to the top bookshelf and pulled down a tiny key. It opened the top drawer of the tiger maple desk, the drawer where Russell kept a tiny, antique derringer. Miranda checked to be sure it was loaded and was about to tuck it into her pocket when she paused and thought hard. Could she really take the life of a nine-hundred-year-old, living, breathing Viking? Hiding his existence from her colleagues was bad enough, but to destroy him utterly? She slipped the gun back into the drawer and pushed it closed. She didn't think he'd attack her again. If he did, she'd drive a letter opener into his leg, or give him a dose of hair spray in the face. If he got to be too much to handle, perhaps she'd have to let someone else in on the secret. For now, though, she'd manage on her own. She wouldn't allow her nightmarish memories to drive her to act hastily.