Wetand Wild

by Sandra Hill

  “You would be right. It is high … but not alarmingly so.”

  She unwrapped the band from his arm and began examining his head. “Where is your head wound? And the swelling … there is no swelling.” She gazed at him with confusion and a bit of alarm.

  He shrugged.

  “You had a concussion,” she said, still frowning. “There is no evidence of that on your head now.”

  “I am quick to heal,” he offered as an explanation.

  “Plus, you’ve got lots more wounds and bruises on you today. Did you get all these during training exercises this morning?”

  “Undoubtedly. Your brother is merciless in the torture. But, nay, truthfully, most of them came from the battle. Those Saxons can be brutal. Not that I did not inflict as many wounds myself, many of them mortal ones.”

  She did not appear impressed.

  Quietly and with obvious puzzlement, she cleansed some of the cuts with a stinging ointment and closed several others with small metal clamps she called butterflies. By then, she’d arrived at his waist, and his enthusiasm reared its head, making a tent of his small clothes. He wondered if she would have the nerve to actually examine him there. He would bet she would be impressed.

  She did. Uncover him. With a sigh of surrender, she pulled the stretchy waistband down to his thighs, exposing his nether region.

  But she was not impressed. Or not so he could tell.

  The skin surrounding his standing cock and ballocks had been rubbed raw from the sand during his incessant run this morn, but it was naught to be concerned about. When she touched one particularly abraded area, his cock jerked, then lengthened.

  He smiled.

  “Stop it. Stop it right now.”

  “Stop what?”

  “You know what.”

  “How can I stop that? You have brought back my enthusiasm, praise the gods! ’Tis your fault, not mine.”

  “Yeah, well, how would your enthusiasm feel about a bucket of ice-cold water?”

  He pretended to ponder her question as if she were serious … which she could not be. Could she? Then he answered, “In all honesty, I think it would douse my enthusiasm, good and true. But why do such a thing?”

  She handed him the same jar of ointment she’d applied to his cuts and told him to smear them on his raw skin.

  “I would not know how,” he lied. “You do it for me.”

  “Figure it out,” she asserted firmly.

  “Do you fear your own arousal if you touch me?” he asked.

  “Get a life,” she said.

  He wasn’t sure what that meant, but he was fairly certain it was not a compliment.

  After he’d ministered to his own abrasions, she flicked the waistband of his small clothes up with a sharp snap and ordered, “Roll over so I can check your back.”

  He did as she asked, being careful to adjust his thickened manpart so he would not hurt himself. While she ran her cool fingertips over his back and buttocks and legs, treating the cuts there, he asked, “How long have you been a whore?”

  “I beg your pardon.” She said that in such a shrewish manner, he was reminded once again of Madrene. Shrewishness must be an inherent trait of most women, which some managed to bank down, while others let it run rampant.

  “I was told that you are a dock-whore,” he explained.

  “Oh,” she said, clucking her tongue at what she must consider his deliberate misunderstanding of her words. “It’s ‘dock-tore,’ as you well know.”

  “Oh,” it was his turn to say. Dock-whore meant healer in some countries, he recalled now. He supposed, with chagrin, that lewd-tenant didn’t mean anything lascivious, either.

  “Sit up,” she demanded then, turning away from him to write something on a parchment pad.

  “Sit up? Does that mean we are not going to couple?”

  “Unbelievable!” she muttered under her breath. Then louder, “You could say that. Not now. In fact, never.”

  “Ah, milady, you should never say never. Not to a Viking.”

  “Listen,” she said, turning and leaning back against the wall, arms folded over her chest. “You are in perfect health. I don’t understand how, but you are.”

  “I could have told you that. So why don’t you just hop up here and—”

  She put up a halting hand. “However, I am very concerned about your mental health. Maybe you are putting on an act. If you are, it is sick. If not, you are in deep need of some counseling.”

  “From whom?”

  “A psychiatrist.”

  “What is a sigh-kite-tryst?”

  “Brain doctor.”

  “Why in bloody hell would I need a brain doctor?”

  “To see if you are suffering some aftereffects from your brain concussion.”

  “I have no idea what you just said.”

  “Here’s the bottom line, Ensign Magnusson. I am inclined to ring you out of SEALs training and send you home.”

  “You could do that? Take me home to the Norselands?”

  “That’s not what I meant. I wouldn’t personally escort you anywhere. But I do have the authority to ship you out.”

  “Dost that mean you would force me to leave here?”

  “For your own good.”

  “Would I still be a captive?”

  “You are not a captive. You are here voluntarily.”

  “I am?”

  “This is a ridiculous conversation.”

  Ragnor thought about the ramifications of what she’d just said. I am not a captive? Then what am I? Does that mean all those men I thought were fellow captives are here voluntarily? Do I want to stay here with them … or wander elsewhere in this land? Or out to sea? Alone. Nay, best to stay with the enemy I know. Not that I know much about this enemy. He glanced up at Alison, beginning to conclude that this woman was of the enemy camp. Yea, he would like to know his enemy better.

  “Nay!” he said firmly. “I will not leave.”

  “It is not your decision to make.”

  “Yea, ’tis. I will not leave. You cannot make me.”

  “Be reasonable.”

  “You be reasonable.”

  She sighed. “Okay, here’s the deal. The only way I am going to sign you off medically is if you agree to start seeing Dr. Feingold on a regular basis.”

  He sighed, too. “Another dock-whore … I mean healer. The brain dock-whore, I presume?”

  She nodded.

  He snorted with disgust but said, “I will try one meeting, but that is all I will promise for now.”

  “Fine. I’ll set up an appointment.”

  “What do I get for being so accommodating?”

  “What’d you have in mind?” He could tell that she immediately regretted her question.

  He grinned. “Many things are on my mind. But a kiss would suffice for now.”

  “I better not have heard what I think I heard,” a booming male voice said behind him. Ragnor turned to see the evil captor, Chieftain MacLean, glaring at him.

  “Ian,” Alison said to her brother, “lighten up.”

  “You are out of line, sis. You may outrank me, but this man is under my command.” His eyes flashed angrily at her, which Ragnor did not like … not one bit.

  “Do not take out your fury with me on a woman,” he cautioned the chieftain. Standing to his full height, he glared at the man, who was clearly taken by surprise by his defense of Alison. “I have decided to take Milady Alison under my shield. That means any insult to her is an insult to me.”

  Alison and her brother gaped at him as if he’d grown another head. “How dare you?” both of them yelled at the same time.

  “I dare much because I am a man of honor. A Viking.”

  The chieftain made a low growling sound deep in his throat, and Ragnor took the battle stance—legs widespread, hands on hips—prepared to fight. By the gods, he missed his sword.

  Alison stepped between the two of them and put a hand on each of their chests. “Enough! No one is g
oing to fight here.” Addressing her brother, she said, “Ian, this man is in perfect physical condition. I don’t understand how, but he is. On the other hand, it’s obvious that he’s suffering some delusions. So he has agreed to meet with Dr. Feingold.”

  “Can he return to training?” the chieftain asked with a snarl.

  She nodded. “For now. His continuance will be conditional on Dr. Feingold’s report.”

  The chieftain smiled, and it was not a pleasant smile. “Come with me, then, Ensign Magnusson. You want to play games, do you? Well, I’m going to show you some Navy SEAL games, guaranteed.”

  “Well, thank you very much,” he told the chieftain as they walked off. “Mayhap I will show you a few Viking games, as well.” Over his shoulder, he winked at Alison.

  She almost smiled.

  Chapter Five

  Only the lonely …

  Alison arrived home at seven that evening.

  She pulled into the driveway, but then just sat there for a few minutes, motor running, while an old Hank Williams ballad played out, “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry.” Yep, that about said it all. Tears misted her eyes as a crushing sense of loneliness overwhelmed her with surprisingly sudden force. She had a job she loved, a good family, the dream of one day becoming a SEAL, and an apartment she took great pleasure in decorating bit by bit.

  It was that damn Viking, she concluded, swiping at her eyes. Ever since she’d met Ensign Magnusson this afternoon, she’d felt alternately exhilarated, then depressed. And so lonely she could die. Why? What was it about the SEAL trainee with the overblown ego and warped sense of humor and, okay, a body to die for that pulled at her heartstrings … and other strings, as well. Like maybe lust strings.

  She smiled at her musings, turned off the motor as ol’ Hank crooned off into the sunset airwaves, and got out of the car, briefcase in hand. She had a ton of paperwork to do tonight.

  “Hi, Lillian,” she called out to her landlady, who stood amidst her rose bushes in the front yard, watering them with the soft spray nozzle of a hose. Lillian Kelly had to be over fifty years old, but she wore tight blue jeans, a halter top, and sneakers. She’d recently dyed her waist-long gray hair a soft blond; it was pulled back now into a high ponytail. Lillian was the hottest middle-aged woman Alison had ever met.

  The dozens of magnificent species that adorned the flower beds were a testament to Lillian’s thirty-some years of precious care. Well, care by her and her longtime husband, Al. Al had taken off last year with his thirty-year-old dental assistant. To everyone’s surprise, Mrs. K. hadn’t been all that broken up over the philanderer’s departure. “The old fart has been boring me silly for twenty years now, and he wasn’t all that hot the first ten, either,” she’d told Alison when she’d attempted to sympathize with her. “Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

  “Hi, sweetie,” Lillian replied now. “Beautiful evening, isn’t it? Not too hot. Your mail is on the hall table. Come down for some lemonade and chocolate cake later, okay?”

  Alison smiled widely. She had a sweet tooth that could not be denied. “You bet.”

  After stepping up to the wraparound porch of the old Victorian house—painted yellow with blue shutters—and going through the ornate double doors with their side panels of stained glass, she gathered her mail, then went up the wide staircase. She unlocked the door to the second-floor apartment and went in, checking over the mail, mostly bills, as she entered.

  Almost immediately, her body went on high alert.

  Someone had been in her apartment. She could tell by the altered position of the cushions on the sofa—she was anal about positioning Grandma MacLean’s needlepoint pillows on her antique camelback sofa. The wrapped birthday gift for Ian on the kitchen counter seemed a bit wrinkled, as if it had been opened and rewrapped—though she couldn’t be sure that she hadn’t done that herself when she’d put some personal photos inside the wallet she planned to give him. There was definitely the faint scent of cologne … male cologne … that very intense Drakkar, she was pretty sure.

  Quickly she opened the top drawer of her desk, situated by the door, and took out her pistol. She already knew it was loaded, but she checked anyway. Only then did she move slowly about the two-bedroom apartment, checking every space, every window. There was a half-open window in the kitchen, overlooking the backyard. Had she left it open this morning? Probably. Who would ever expect someone to enter a second-floor apartment by way of a wobbly rose trellis? Mrs. K. was here most of the time, but not always.

  Once she returned to the living room, she noticed the blinking light on her answering machine. Five messages. She knew before she even turned them on who it would be. The Breather. No words, just the loud sound of heavy breathing. The creep was probably jerking off while she listened. But wait, he had said something on the last message: “Bitch!” There was an odd accent to the voice, noticeable even with only one word … possibly Middle Eastern.

  Alison felt like freaking out, but she couldn’t afford that luxury.

  What should she do?

  Call her brother? No!

  Talk to Mrs. K. to alert her to the possible danger and urge her to keep her own doors and windows locked? Yes.

  Call the police and have them dust for fingerprints? Alison was reluctant to call the cops. She was a strong woman who could take care of herself. But that was being foolish. Phone calls were one thing; breaking and entering was quite another. With a long sigh, she decided that she had to make the call. It was the right thing to do.

  She would not tell her brother, though. Not yet, anyhow. Ian would have her moved out and into his house before she could say, “Oh, brother!” How could she ever expect to be considered suitable SEAL material if she was unable to protect herself?

  Thus it was that two hours later, she, Lillian and Detective “Call me John” Phillips from the local police sat at her kitchen table drinking lemonade and eating chocolate cake. The other cops had already left after dusting for fingerprints, to no avail, and taking the tape from her answering machine back for the file they were starting on her case.

  “Be careful, both of you,” John said. “Two women living alone today. Pfff! You’ve got to be more careful about keeping doors and windows locked, even when you’re only outside in the yard, or making a quick run to the grocery store.”

  “I don’t like having to change my life for some pervert,” Lillian said. For they were assuming that the person who’d invaded Alison’s apartment was the same person who made the Breather phone calls. “Besides, no one entered my apartment.”

  You tell ’im, Lillian, baby!

  “Hey, the first access to the second floor is through your front door. If you don’t care about yourself, you have to be protective of your tenant,” he pointed out.

  Lillian ducked her head sheepishly at the reprimand.

  You tell ’er, Mr. Law & Order!

  John winked at Alison, to show he was being tough to be kind. And for personal reasons, as well, she suspected. She could tell he was attracted to her, though he was being subtle about his interest and entirely professional in his words. He wore no wedding band. A definite plus. In fact, single status was an essential in her dating requirements.

  Alison leaned back, studying the detective. He was about thirty-five, over six feet tall, had a slight receding hairline but was not unattractive. Unfortunately, Alison felt zilch when she looked at him. And wasn’t it a sad reflection on her life of late that she’d been turned on today by a crude goofball who talked like an eleventh-century Viking, but turned off by a perfectly nice, college-educated officer of the law?

  “I would suggest some other things … like maybe a dog.” John was talking to both of them.

  “Not for me. I love animals,” Alison said, “but I’m gone too much. It wouldn’t be fair to the dog.” And if she ever did make the SEALs, an animal would be totally out of the question. She would be gone for days, even weeks at a time.

  “Hmmm,” Lillian said. “I always wanted
a pet, but Al was allergic to pet dander. Yes, a dog would be a good idea.”

  “Let’s go to the animal shelter tomorrow,” Alison suggested, giving Lillian’s hand a quick squeeze.

  “Do they have pit bulls there?” Lillian asked. And she was serious.

  “Uh, I don’t think a pit bull is necessary,” John quickly inserted, barely stifling a grin. “What you want is a dog that will bark when a stranger enters your property, not an attack dog. Small breeds can be just as effective”

  “Okay,” Lillian agreed. “But not too small. I don’t want a tiny wussy dog that resembles a skinned rat.”

  Alison exchanged a smile with the detective, who was rather good-looking when he smiled. Maybe she shouldn’t be striking him out before she gave him a chance. Not that he’d really asked.

  But then he did, just before he left. “Can I call you?” he asked.

  She hesitated only a blink of a second before nodding.

  “What we really need is a man,” Lillian said when Alison returned to the table.

  “Was that a we in there?”

  Lillian shrugged. “Maybe. Though in my case I’m not interested in marriage again. A little sex wouldn’t be unwelcome, though.” She tossed her head as if daring Alison to make fun of her for such an idea, which Alison would never do.

  “And what makes you think I need a man?” Alison inquired.

  “Oh, honey, you need a man more than anyone I know,” Lillian said with a laugh.

  “Should I be insulted by that observation?” Alison asked, laughing as well.

  “Not at all. You’ve just been too long without, honey, and I don’t just mean sex.”

  You got that right. How about five freakin’ years? For some reason, the image of a six-foot-four Viking in shorts flashed through her mind. He was sex, and then some.

  “Why are you smiling?” Lillian asked.

  Because my brain has become lodged in my crotch. “Nothing,” she said, trying to make her face expressionless. But it was too late.

  “You met a man!” Lillian accused with a whoop of delight.

  You could say that. At first Alison was going to deny it, but then she conceded, “I met a man.”