Wetand Wild

by Sandra Hill

  He frowned in confusion. “I have always been good with languages. I am fluent in eight and can read and write two of them. But then, most countries in proximity to the Norselands speak mutually comprehensible languages, even the bloody damn English. I do not understand some of your words, though, even in the context of surrounding words. Like ‘pickup line.’ ” As he rambled on, he continued to frown. Then his face brightened with understanding. “Oh, do you infer that I am being smooth of tongue? Deliberately insincere? If so, you say me wrong, milady. I can assure you that my attraction to you is honest and fierce. By your leave, milady, willst join me in my bed furs tonight?”

  “Bed furs? Bed furs?” she sputtered out. Don’t beat around the bush, buddy. Alison had once gone on a blind date with a guy who announced before they’d even gotten into his car, “I have three condoms in my pocket, baby. What say we forgo the dinner-and-movie crap and burn some rubber?” Needless to say, they hadn’t burned any rubber … in his car or otherwise.

  But this jerk here in front of her was waiting with actual expectancy. Hah! If he hadn’t already sustained a blow to the head, she might just give him one. She gritted her teeth and counted to five—ten being beyond her limits at the moment. And, no, she was not going to think about the totally unacceptable ripple of pleasure that had gone through her at his outrageous bed invitation. “You were ordered to go home,” she said in as level a voice as she could manage.

  “I was?”

  “Don’t play innocent with me. I was there.”

  “You were?”

  “And stop looking at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you are seeing me without my clothes.”

  “That I am.” He waggled his eyebrows at her.

  “Ensign!”

  “Call me Max, like my fellow captives do. Or Ragnor.”

  “Ragnor? Why would I call you Ragnor?”

  “Max, then.” He shrugged as if it didn’t matter either way to him. “Could we go somewhere private where we could … talk?” The mischievous gleam in his blue eyes could not be interpreted in any other way than man-to-woman sexual interest.

  Blue eyes? That observation stopped her short. I thought his eyes were brown.

  And that stubble of hair on his head … it appears black. She frowned with confusion. I could swear the Viking’s hair was blond.

  Hah! I know only too well how vain some of these self-proclaimed studs are. He probably dyed his hair and wore contact lenses, just for vanity’s sake. Which is an infraction, of course … wearing contacts.

  Like he would care. Case in point. Look at those arm rings back on his biceps again. Ian will kill him for that insubordination.

  “We have nothing to talk about. And certainly nothing involving bed furs. Go home,” she said finally. Let the Navy handle all his other offenses; she didn’t need to add sexual harassment to the load. All she cared about was his health … although he did not look unhealthy at this moment. In fact, he looked very … healthy. How come I never noticed those twelve-pack abs before? Or his sinfully flat stomach? Or the fullness of his lips? Or …

  Holy smoke! Since when do I notice physical appearance? This place is overflowing with prime male flesh, most of it wrapped around egos the size of a Goodyear blimp. No big deal!

  “I do not think I can,” he said.

  Huh? Oh, he must be referring to my order that he go home. “Why not?”

  “Methinks the gods want me to be here.”

  “The gods?” She barely suppressed a groan of frustration. SEALs and pilots were the most superstitious military men she’d ever met. She recalled how her fiancé used to insist on wearing his undershirts inside out whenever he left for a new mission. Ian wore a crucifix that had been a Christmas gift from Grandma MacLean. Her father had worn mismatched socks. She guessed “the gods” fit right in with that superstitious nonsense. So it was with forced patience that she inquired, “Why? Why would ‘the gods’ want you here?”

  He shrugged. “I know not, but I have a suspicion that you may be involved. The moment I saw you, I felt some … connection.” He gave her a slow head-to-toe survey that left no doubt what connection she might have, if only she would give the nod.

  “I beg your pardon,” she sputtered some more. Good Lord, he must have suffered a harder blow to the head than the X-rays had shown. Alison knew her physical limitations. She was no beauty and never had been. Besides, she’d met up with this guy numerous times over the past three months, and he’d never mentioned this “connection” before. “Does your head hurt?”

  “My head? Hah! My whole body hurts. Didst know our captors made us run endlessly in the sand, after first trying to drown us?”

  “Drown-proofing,” she said.

  “Huh?”

  “It was the routine drown-proofing exercise designed to show trainees how to survive in a field op involving a water insertion or extraction.”

  “Huh?” he said again, then paused a moment before inquiring slowly, “Are you on the enemy side or the prisoners’ side?”

  She was about to answer his ridiculous question when she noticed his face go white and his eyes widen with shock.

  “Oh!” he gasped. “For the love of Odin, where am I?”

  “I knew it, I knew it. You are still in shock, sailor, and you have no business engaging in extreme physical activity. You probably shouldn’t even be out of sick bay.”

  He didn’t hear her, she could tell. Instead, his head pivoted here and there as he seemed to notice the surroundings for the first time.

  “What … what are they? Those metal boxes on wheels?” he asked, pointing to various jeeps, trucks, and cars moving around the periphery of the base.

  “Transport vehicles. For carrying people and goods,” she answered hesitantly, as if speaking to a child. Actually, his question had been childlike. What kind of game was he playing now?

  “But there are no horses pulling them.” Before she had a chance to comment on that ludicrous statement, he had another question. “And that?” he asked, pointing upward.

  “A plane. And over there, a helicopter.”

  “Do people go up in them?” His face was bloodless with seeming shock.

  “Of course.”

  He shuddered. “What a strange land this is!”

  “Are you all right?”

  He nodded.

  “We’d better go back to the hospital so I can check you over.”

  “And all these buildings. With glass, no less! Is glass not a precious commodity in your land? Where is the royal castle, by the by? Or the fortresses? All I see are square buildings, and so many people in the same attire walking about. White, brown, and that odd mixture of brown, black, and green. All identical. And not a one of them carrying a sword or battle-axe. Are they captors or captives?”

  “Really, you’re pushing this game too far.”

  “I wish I had Foe Fighter with me.”

  “A musical group? You wish you had a musical group with you?” Alarm rippled through Alison as she wondered if she might need help to restrain this man. He was clearly delusional.

  “What musical group?”

  “Foo Fighters. The musical group that sang ‘My Hero.’ ”

  “That is absurd. I was referring to my favorite sword, Foe Fighter. Although it did prove to be my hero on more than one occasion.”

  He doesn’t look deranged. Maybe he’s just pulling my leg. “I am not amused.”

  “Hah! Neither am I amused. I thought at one point that I had died and gone to the other world—Nifhem or Muspell—especially when your brutish brother tried to drown me.”

  Aaarrgh! “He didn’t try to drown you. As I said before, that was a drown-proofing exercise, so that you could learn to stay underwater for a really long time.”

  As if she’d never spoken, he went on, “I rejoiced when I walked onto land again.”

  “That’s not unusual. Lots of trainees feel an immense relief after sustained punishment,
which is what near-drowning must feel like.”

  He cast her a look of incredulity, as if she were the one spouting nonsense. “Now I am beginning to believe once again that I did indeed die, and this is some strange region of afterdeath that the elders have never heard of.” He swept a hand in a half circle to indicate their surroundings. “Well, leastways there are no giants or trolls here. I feel weak as dragon piss at the moment and not at all up to fighting off monsters.”

  “Are you hallucinating? Do you have a fever?”

  “No fever, but I am hot.” He winked at her suggestively on that last word and took her by the upper arm. “Did you say something about a hospitium and checking me over? Dare I hope there are private rooms in your hospitium? There are? Good. I find that I am not too weak for that. Methinks I will like this ‘checking over.’ ”

  Surely he can’t be implying … “It’s just an examination, for heaven’s sake.”

  “In the nude?”

  He is! “Maybe. Probably.”

  He nodded his satisfaction at her answer. “Will there be bed furs involved? I assume those red blotches on your cheeks indicate ‘Nay.’ No matter. I must say, I have ever been partial to a midday swiving, especially when the enthusiasm is on a man … better than a midday repast, for a certainty, though I could use a horn of mead.”

  I am not going to ask him what swiving is, or enthusiasm. I’m afraid I already know. “Mead? Are you referring to beer? You know alcoholic beverages are not permitted on base.” Nor is midday swiving.

  As if she had not spoken, he said, “Is it not wonderful that I have regained my enthusiasm for the bed sport … and all because of you?” He smiled widely at her.

  Alison was speechless.

  Let’s play doctor …

  Ragnor followed the woman—Lieutenant Alison MacLean—into a building, presumably the hospitium, then down a narrow corridor, smiling the entire time.

  He knew her name because of the small badge she wore on her shert front. As to his smile, well, there was something about the male body that defied nature. The man could be battered and bloody, he could be exhausted, he could be on his deathbed, for the love of Frey, but the sight of a female arse swaying from side to side in front of him could raise the sap of even the deadest tree. Especially when that arse filled form-fitting braies.

  And there were three things to keep in mind here:

  —Alison had a very fine arse, as outlined by said white braies.

  —He was far from dead.

  —His enthusiasm was back with a vengeance, and this female would do well to avoid Vikings in the heat of enthusiasm, unless she shared the enthusiasm … may the gods be so inclined.

  About to open a door at the end of the corridor, Alison glanced back over her shoulder, noticed the direction of his stare, and blushed bright red, once again. He rather liked the idea that he could make her blush. Then she backed into the chamber.

  But that was all right. He’d seen enough to know she more than merited his renewed enthusiasm.

  He followed her into the room, which was much like the other rooms he’d seen along the way. So much white! White walls and ceilings. White patterned floor. White parchmentlike paper on a high bed-table. With all the glass windows letting in the sunlight, it was almost blindingly bright. This was unlike any hospitium he’d ever seen afore, certainly unlike the one attached to the minster in Jorvik, where he’d once been treated by the good monk-healers after a gruesome battle. But then, everything he’d seen here thus far was unlike anything in his experience.

  She waved to the right and said, “Go into the bathroom and give me a urine specimen.”

  “What?” He looked into the chamber, which had a white porcelain bowl attached to the wall and a larger porcelain chairlike thing sitting on the floor, which had water floating inside.

  “Here.” She handed him a clear cup, which looked like glass but was not. “Relieve yourself into the toilet”—she pointed to the porcelain chair—“but give me some in the cup.”

  Toy-let. The porcelain chair is a toy-let, he told himself so that he would remember the word. Then, “Give you what in the cup?”

  “Urine.”

  You’re in … you’re in, he repeated in his head, but it made no sense. He could tell Alison was getting exasperated at having to explain everything to him. “I’m in what?” Oh, this is too much! he thought as understanding dawned on him like a cloudburst. He did know what urine was. “You want me to piss in a cup?”

  “Of course.”

  “Are you going to drink it?”

  “Don’t be an ass. Just do it.” She shoved him into the bathing room and slammed the door after him.

  He did, in fact, piss in the cup and cover it with a lid. Some healers used animal urine in their healing arts. He supposed that was what Alison wanted with his piss, though he was not certain of that fact. Did she gather piss from everyone? If so, she must have a goodly amount. Yech!

  He finished pissing in the toy-let, which was quite an experience … especially when he found that if he pushed a certain lever, the water and urine washed away, down a hole in the bottom. Just to be sure, he pushed the lever five more times, till he was unable to coax any more piss from his organ.

  Then he examined the porcelain bowl attached to the wall. He discovered that hot and cold water came from the silver pipes and rushed down a drain in the bowl. The Romans had such marvels, he had heard, but never had he witnessed them himself.

  Glancing upward, he saw a mirror on the wall … one that was much clearer than any polished brass he’d seen in the past. To his horror, he got a really good look at himself. His hair was so short, he was nigh bald. He had oozing cuts and bruises on his face and on his shoulders and chest … mostly from the battle that morn with the Saxons.

  Had it really only been less than a day since he had fallen overboard with that Saxon warrior? Had Forkbeard truly escaped? Were all his men dead?

  He shook his head from side to side, not understanding any of what was happening to him.

  Next he touched a silver box on the wall that held soft, parchmentlike towels. Another container held liquid soap which squirted out when touched in a certain place. He knew it was liquid soap because he’d been fiddling around with some of the levers and ended up with splashes of water and splotches of the slick stuff all over the place. When he’d tried to wipe it up, it bubbled slightly, like soap. He decided to wash some of the stink off himself.

  After he’d washed and soaped and rinsed and washed and soaped and rinsed and dried himself off with the parchment towels, which he carefully folded and laid on top of the toy-let, since he was unable to shove them back up into the silver box, he pissed and flushed two more times.

  “Ensign Magnusson, what are you doing in there?” Alison opened the door a crack to peer inside.

  “Bathing and pissing,” he answered, walking past her. Some women did not know enough to give a man privacy. She was just like Madrene in that regard. “What did you think I was doing? Pleasuring myself? I do not do that.” Much.

  “Do you have any idea how close you are to landing in the brig?”

  “Mayhap I would know if I knew what a brig was.” In truth, Ragnor was getting as exasperated as the good dock-whore over his inability to understand all the new words in this land.

  “Lie down on the table,” she ordered, pointing to the high bed-table with the parchment cover.

  “Why? It hardly seems big enough for coupling. We could just as easily do it against the wall, or on the floor.” Now that he had his enthusiasm back, he was not too particular.

  She made a whooshy sound of disgust and pointed again. “I’m going to ignore that remark … this time. Keep it up, though, and you will most definitely find yourself in hot water.”

  He started to ask what she meant by hot water—was it a method of torture?—but decided he didn’t really care. “Shall I take off my garment first?” he asked. “I washed my manparts and buttocks in the bathing room to remo
ve all the sand, but I had to put the dirty small clothes back on.”

  Her jaw dropped open before she shut her mouth abruptly. “No, you don’t have to remove your shorts. I can pull them down myself.”

  I like the sound of that.

  She put a necklace of black cords with a silver pendant around her neck, then inserted two of the ends into her ears and pressed the pendant against his chest. It was cold, but he soon got accustomed to it. If this was foresport in this land, he found it mighty strange. “What are you doing?”

  “Listening to your heart.”

  “What is it telling you?”

  “That you have a strong heartbeat. A little rapid, but that’s to be expected, I suppose.”

  “Well, yea, I would say so … with you leaning over me, nigh touching me with your breasts.”

  She jerked back.

  “Nay, sweetling, do not draw away. I like your touching me with your breasts.” He reached up to draw her back down, closer, but she swatted his hands away. Touchy she was, like a nervous virgin, which he did not imagine she was at her advanced age.

  She pretended indifference to him, but he was not fooled. Her breasts grew full and peaked at his words. Even though she now wore a white coat over her shert, he could tell that about her. There were many things he did not understand about this land, but the interplay betwixt a man and a woman … ah, that he clearly understood. He was not a Viking for nothing.

  Grabbing another device, she wrapped a black band around his upper arm, below his own gold arm band, and inflated it somehow so that the binding became extremely tight. Then she watched an arrow on a circular piece of metal as it moved amongst some numbers.

  “Now what are you checking?”

  “Your blood pressure.”

  “My blood is hot for you, I can tell you that without some special device.”

  “Tsk-tsk-tsk! I’m not measuring the heat of your blood, just how fast your heart is pumping it.”

  “Hah! I would warrant it is racing like a hunted reindeer.” He looked pointedly at her breast region again.