Kiss of Wrath

by Sandra Hill

  “What will you be doing today?” he asked.

  “For one thing, I have to testify in court on behalf of an elderly man whose children are trying to have him declared incompetent so that they can sell his house.”

  “Greed,” he concluded.

  “Definitely.”

  “That is my brother Harek’s big sin,” he mentioned.

  “What is?” Somehow, she’d lost the thread of this conversation.

  “Greed,” he said.

  “And what is your big sin?” she asked, not really expecting him to answer.

  But he did. “Anger.”

  For a moment, she didn’t know what to say, but then she told him, “We offer wonderful anger management classes at our clinic.”

  He snorted his opinion of that suggestion. Then, he made a shooing motion with his hand. “Go! Before I check to see what you are hiding under that ugly robe.”

  She smiled inwardly as she saw him begin to clear the table and rinse her mug and his glass in the sink. Her very own house husband, sort of. Wait ’til she told the women at work what she had waiting for her at home. A Viking nanny. Or a Viking house manager. Whatever. He was damn hot and in her kitchen.

  Something occurred to her then. “Are you married?”

  He glanced back, realizing she hadn’t left yet. “No.”

  “Ever married?”

  He hesitated before nodding. “She died long ago.”

  She was about to apologize for being so intrusive, but had to ask one more question. “Do you have children?”

  The sudden bleakness in his eyes was shocking. His lips thinned, in anger or pain, she wasn’t sure. He tossed the dish towel on the counter and sliced her with a cutting glance. “I do not ever discuss my children. Never!”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He ignored her apology and walked stoically out of the kitchen and into the backyard. Through the window, she could see him staring off into space, his back to her. Even from here, she could see that his hands were fisted.

  Who is this man I’ve brought into my house?

  Why am I so touched by the pain he has clearly suffered?

  Is this going to be the biggest mistake of my life?

  Eight

  (Viking) honey, I’m ho-o-o-ome . . .

  Miranda checked with Mordr several times during the day to make sure everything was going all right.

  At nine a.m., on her grilling him, he said, “The children are settled in their schools under the watchful eye of my men. Naught will happen to them there.”

  “Already your men are there?”

  “Already.”

  “Did they get to school on time?”

  “Of course.”

  “Larry always forgets—”

  “Larry had his backpack on.”

  “I meant to mention the broken bathroom window.”

  “The glass man is coming this afternoon.”

  “What about—”

  “Miranda.”

  “What?”

  “Go to work.”

  At ten a.m., she asked what he was doing.

  “I am putting motion detectors on your roof.”

  “Please God, don’t tell me you are up on the roof.”

  “This is not a good time for me to talk. Oops!”

  “Mordr! Mordr!” she yelled into her cell phone.

  Finally, he spoke again, “I slipped, but all is well.”

  “Get off the damn roof!”

  He hung up on her.

  Oh my God! Did he fall off the roof? I hope my homeowners’ policy covers this liability. I can hear my insurance agent now. “And what was a Viking nanny doing on your roof?” Heart racing, she called right back.

  He sighed into the phone. “Miranda, you must stop calling me, lest I get no work done.”

  “Are you on the roof again?”

  Instead of answering her question, he said, “Did you know your neighbor cleans her house in the nude?”

  “What neighbor?”

  “The pink house, across the street and over one.”

  He was on the roof! “Mrs. Edmonds? She’s sixty if she is a day.”

  “Hmm. She is well-preserved for an elder. You should see her bend over to vacuum under the sofa.”

  “You’re going to be arrested for being a Peeping Tom.”

  “I do not know this peeping person, but if anyone is arrested it will be Mrs. Edmonds for . . . oh.” He released a snort of disbelief, like suppressed laughter.

  “What? What now?”

  “She has a tattoo of two kissing pigs on her belly, low down.”

  “How can you tell what the tattoo is from that distance? Are you using binoculars?”

  “No. I have exceptional vision.” On those words, he hung up on her. Again.

  Miranda finished the paperwork in her office, put all the necessary files in her briefcase, and headed toward her van for the short drive to the courthouse. Two hours later, after testifying on behalf of Edgar Harris, her client, hopefully helping him to thumb his nose at his ungrateful children, she talked in the hall to the opposing psychologist on the case, Jerome “Call Me Jerry” Daltry. A real slimeball, who made his living as an “expert” witness in court proceedings around the country. She told him exactly what she thought of him, and he had the nerve to ask if she was free for dinner that night. “Not even if I were starving to death!” she replied.

  But Jerry’s mention of food reminded her that it had been five hours since her short breakfast with Mordr that morning, so she hit the drive-through at Wendy’s where she got a salad and diet soda to eat back in the office, where she had client appointments lined up all afternoon. Okay, she also ordered a cheeseburger and small fries. So kill me!

  She resisted calling home until one-thirty, post yummy lunch. “How are things going, Mordr?”

  “Fine. Your cleaning person is helping me decide what to make for dinner.”

  “Mrs. Delgado?” The usually stoic Mrs. Delgado rarely spoke to Miranda unless asked a direct question. She wouldn’t help Miranda choose dish detergent if asked, let alone plan a dinner. In fact, she’d informed Miranda on being hired that she didn’t do windows, babysitting, or dinners.

  “Do you have more than one cleaning person?”

  “No. Are you being sarcastic?”

  Another sigh. “Why are you calling, Miranda?”

  She was the one who sighed now. “So, what did you and Mrs. Delgado decide on?”

  “Roast pot.”

  Oh good Lord! Is that why Mrs. Delgado is always so dazed-looking? High on drugs? “Don’t you dare bring pot into my house! That’s it. You’re fired.”

  There was murmur of conversation. Then he corrected himself, “Pot roast. Listen, wench, you need to wipe your suspicious mind lest I decide to quit this job, which is not at all to my liking anyway. What?” He was speaking to Mrs. Delgado again. “Do we have a crock?”

  Huh? “Why do you need a crock?” And what’s with the we?

  “A Crock-Pot,” she heard Mrs. Delgado say in the background, followed by a giggle.

  Mrs. Delgado giggling? Would wonders never cease?

  “The Crock-Pot is in the cabinet above the refrigerator. But you don’t have to make dinner. I can stop for something on the way home.”

  “Did I not tell you to stop worrying, that you are under my shield now.”

  “What shield?”

  He made a tsking sound of impatience and ignored her question. Instead, he told her, “I am making a list for Mrs. Delgado to go grocery shopping. Is there anything you need? Your larder is depleted of many things. By the by, do you mind if I drink the occasional beer?”

  “Uh, no.” Mrs. Delgado is grocery shopping for us? Is this the same person who said she didn’t do errands when I asked her one time to stop for milk on the way to my house?

  “Good.” On that terse response, he hung up on her, yet again. Did the man not know how to say good-bye? Come to think on it, he didn’t say hello, either.


  Miranda found herself able to accomplish more work in the next three hours than she had in the past three days. Maybe she would even be able to attend that two-day conference in L.A. next month. No, that was too much to hope for. Still, she felt as if a great weight had been lifted off her shoulders, and at least for the time being she wasn’t worried about Roger or the children’s welfare. She only hoped that she wasn’t deluding herself about how much Mordr could help her.

  It was five p.m. by the time Miranda arrived home. Using the remote, she opened the garage doors and parked her vehicle next to Mordr’s. He’d told her this morning that it was advisable not to leave their vehicles outdoors where they could be compromised in some way. She hadn’t asked exactly what he meant by compromised, assuming he meant explosives or sabotaging the engine or simple vandalism.

  She entered the house from the garage directly into the kitchen, which was neat as a pin, and empty. Usually, the kids were here making a mess of after-school snacks. At the thought of food, she noticed the delicious smell of pot roast. Lifting the lid, she saw not only a large, succulent beef chuck roast but little potatoes and carrots as well. Not just that, but she could smell bread baking in the oven.

  So, where was the Viking wonder?

  Scent of a woman . . .

  Mordr wondered if he would be sane once this mission was completed.

  Right now, the children were sitting about the floor in the family room doing their schoolwork with the television turned off, all on his orders. If they remained silent and completed their assignments, he’d promised to tell them about the first time he went a-Viking as an overconfident eleven-year-old and almost wet his braies when a shark head-butted his longship. With slitted eyes and arms folded over his chest, he dared them to speak before their half hour was over, whilst he sat in an incredibly comfortable leather chair called a La-Z-Boy. It reclined, it vibrated, it molded its cushions to his backside, and he was harboring sinful ideas about what could be done on such a piece of furniture. And, yes, a red-haired vixen starred in that mind game.

  But he could fantasize for only so long. Always, his thoughts came back to the little ones he had been sent to protect. Truly, being around children was tearing at his soul, causing him to go nigh faint on one occasion, and at other times, wanting to howl to the high heavens with his pain. Several times he’d escaped their presence for a few moments just so he could breathe without gasping. Tears even welled in his eyes when they got too close. A Viking warrior weeping? It was unacceptable.

  He didn’t need to pray to Michael to relieve him of this particular assignment. Michael knew! And, not surprisingly, the irksome saint remained absent and silent.

  Mordr was fine—well, not fine, but not screaming silently—when he was busy with specific tasks, like driving the five chatterlings to and from school. The only time they were not talking, or laughing, or giggling, or shouting, or shrieking was when they were asleep. Worst of all was the little girl, Linda, who insisted on giving him kisses. Kisses! Once last night before going to bed, and once before leaving his car and going into her school.

  Another thing was their smell. Oh, not the scent of the dirt and other unmentionable things they attracted like moving magnets, but their skin when clean, especially after bathing, had a distinct child scent that was all too familiar to him, even after all these centuries.

  When he’d arrived at their schools this afternoon to bring them home, they entered the car like a herd of Huns let loose from some dungeon.

  “My peanut butter and jelly sandwich got smushed.”

  “You’re s’posed to put it on top of your backpack, not under the books.”

  “I traded a Twinkie with Johnny Severino for a night crawler.”

  “Eew! Where is it? Where is it?”

  “I put it on Jane Hardy’s shoulder an’ she screamed an’ I had to do quiet time in the corner for a whole hour. During recess!”

  “Farty Hardy! Farty Hardy!”

  “Wish I could miss math class.”

  “I got ninety-eight on my spelling test. I missed jogging. Didja know there’s two Gs in jogging?”

  “Stop touching me.”

  “You touched me first.”

  “Ow!”

  “Miss Washburn says I need to have my eyeglasses adjusted so they stop slipping.”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “I have to pee.”

  “I have to poop.”

  “Hurry, Mordr, hurry!”

  “Can you build us a longship, Mordr?”

  “Where would you sail it, dickhead?”

  “Swear jar, swear jar!”

  “We could tow it to the lake, like Mr. Bates does with his pontoon.”

  “I would make a good pirate. Arg!”

  “Dork!”

  Once inside the house, before they had a chance to throw their belongings hither and yon, all bodily functions seemingly forgotten, he ordered them to take their school backpacks to their bedchambers. What were modern people thinking? Making little ones lug around those heavy canvas bags on their backs. They would be hunchbacks before they ever reached adulthood.

  After they’d washed their hands, and taken care of bladder and bowel functions, he gave them milk and an unusual sweet called cookies, or Oreos, which they broke apart and licked before dunking in milk. Mordr was going to try some later. The Oreos were one of many wonderful suggestions from Mrs. Delgado, who’d spent every bit of the two hundred dollars he’d handed her for grocery shopping. Money well spent, if these Oreos were any indication. Then on to the family room, where they were now, finishing up their schoolwork.

  “I’m done,” Maggie exclaimed, shutting her notebook. She came over and sat on the floor next to his chair, wanting a front-row seat for his story to come. Linda was already on the floor at his other side, reading a book about Hansel and Gretel and a witch, which seemed all together too frightening for a child her age, in Mordr’s opinion. In any case, Linda claimed she did not have any homework, though Larry was working out numbers on a lined paper, occasionally glancing up at him with questions like, “What’s two plus three?”

  Mordr had to discreetly count on his fingers to give the answer.

  Ben and Sam looked at Maggie with disgust as they continued to labor over their own work, a history lesson about a war between Britain and America. Those bloody Saxons continued to be war-like throughout the years, apparently, Mordr mused, whilst Vikings, who had clearly been the better fighting men, had died out as a separate race. Try to find the logic in that!

  Finally, they were all done, or so they said, and he moved his chair into an upright position as they gathered about him.

  “In Viking times, children did not remain children for long. By the time a boy was eleven or twelve, he was ready to go a-Viking with his father and brothers, and girls learned how to run a household.”

  “What about school?” Sam wanted to know.

  “No school. We had priest tutors for a few years, but that was all.”

  “Wish I lived then,” Ben said, making a swishing motion with his hand like he was sword fighting. “I would make a great Viking.”

  Mordr almost smiled. The little bratling probably would.

  “How come girls didn’t go a-Viking?” Maggie pushed her glasses up her little nose and scowled at him.

  “Times were different then.”

  “Doesn’t seem fair to me.” Maggie continued to scowl at him as if he were personally responsible for the inequality of the sexes back then.

  “How come you talk like you lived back then?” Larry asked.

  Good question! “It is just a way of telling a story about our history,” Mordr fabricated.

  “Go on,” Linda encouraged as she pressed her blond head against his knee. Although he wore blue denim braies today, he could feel the fine hairs on his legs stand on end at the sweetness of the gesture.

  “So, it was time for me to go on my first adventure. I had been training with the older men, of course, since—�
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  “With swords?” Ben asked with awe.

  Mordr nodded.

  “Real swords, not wooden ones?” Sam specified.

  Mordr nodded again. “We practiced with wooden swords as youthlings, my brothers and I, then moved on to short swords, then later broadswords.”

  “How many brothers do you have?” Larry was picking his nose and examining his find as he asked the question.

  “Six.”

  “And sisters?” This from Maggie, of course, who was still disgruntled over girls being barred from manly ventures.

  “No sisters.” Then, as a concession to Maggie, he added, “I did not mean to imply that women always stayed at home. There were always exceptions. Like Boudicca, the Celtic warrior queen. And female pirates. And, on the rare occasion, a Viking woman on a longship adventure.” But only when their lackwit fathers or husbands permitted such foolishness.

  “Whoa! Pirates?” Ben exclaimed with a wishful gleam in his eyes.

  “I want a real sword,” Sam declared. “If Viking boys got real swords, why can’t I have one?”

  “Can I have a kitten?” Linda asked with absolutely no relevance.

  Larry continued to search for booty in his nose and wipe his fingers on his pants. Which reminded Mordr that he should make him wash his hands afore dinner.

  Maggie had her little arms folded over her little chest, still upset over the female situation in Viking times. “If I lived then, I would organize all the women to demand our rights.”

  And end up locked in some tower or minus a tongue. “Good for you!”

  Just then, all the children spoke together, each with different opinions, each with different questions. Ben tackled Sam ’til he was face first on the floor and sat on him because Sam called Ben a wuss. And Maggie shoved Larry for making a rude remark about girls doing girl things. And Linda was singing some song for him that she had learned in school that day, something about the wheels going around. So much for his story!

  Mordr put his face in his hands as chaos reigned around him. Maybe he should suggest more Oreos. Just then, he smelled something floral. Light. Not overpowering. But compelling. Oh no! Lilies. He raised his head and saw Miranda standing in the open doorway. He hadn’t even realized that she had come home.