by Sandra Hill
“Ah, so that’s why you got the guard dog,” Abe remarked, nodding his head in approval.
Alison and Lillian both smiled.
“Sam is hardly a guard dog. Not yet,” Lillian said.
“But he does bark a lot,” Alison added.
Ragnor sat up straight at all the talk of intruders and breathers, wondering if the latter referred to fire-breathing dragons. He wouldn’t be surprised in this land where people flew in the air and cooked food without fires. “Are you saying that someone, or something, is endangering you?” he asked Alison.
She shrugged. “Let’s just say I have reason to be cautious. That’s how I met Detective Phillips. He was sent to the house to investigate after the break-in.”
“I knew it! I knew it! I told you that I was called here because you are in danger,” Ragnor told Alison. “Well, you are not to fret. I hereby take you under my shield. I will protect you.”
Alison rolled her eyes. “You took me under your shield before,” she pointed out.
Insufferable wench! She does not halfway appreciate the protection a man’s shield provides!
Abe and Lillian stared at him with a mixture of confusion and admiration.
“I had an odd experience when the chieftain attempted to drown me, and while I was walking toward the light, Alison beckoned to me because of some danger she faced,” Ragnor explained to Abe and Lillian. “Even then, afore I actually met her in person, I sensed she was my destiny. Plus, I do so like a woman with red hair, a nice arse, and a little intelligence. Not too much intelligence, mind you. Just a mite.”
Alison was no longer rolling her eyes, she was gaping at him with disbelief.
What? Did she think I was making up all that destiny stuff? She must think I’m demented. And, really, has she no sense of humor? I was teasing about the arse business. Not that I don’t like her arse. But …
“You are demented,” she said.
“The chief … I’m assuming that you are referring to Master Chief MacLean … he tried to drown you?” Doctor Fine-gold asked Ragnor with consternation.
Finally, someone is outraged on my behalf.
“It was just drown-proofing exercises,” Alison explained.
“Hah! Since when do you drown-proof someone by drowning him?” Ragnor demanded.
Abe and Alison exchanged looks that pretty much translated to He’s mixed up in the head, but Lillian smiled at Ragnor as if he’d just created the sun. So he addressed his next remark to her. “You are not to worry about Alison tonight. I will accompany her home and ensure her safety.”
Lillian nodded hesitantly.
Abe looked skeptical.
Alison stated vehemently, “No, you will not.” Then, “Besides, you’re not permitted to drive.”
I probably am not permitted to be here in this drinking hall either. And that hasn’t stopped me. Or my comrades. “Drive what?”
“A car, you imbecile.”
He didn’t know what “imbecile” meant, but a car he did understand. It was one of those horseless wagons used to transport goods and people in this country. If you asked him, a good horse would suffice, but then, no one had asked his opinion on the matter. “Nay, I do not drive a car, but I can accompany you, then walk back to my sleeping quarters. Or run. I am getting very good at running. Ha, ha, ha!”
She did not even smile at his jest.
Lillian answered for her. “Yes, you could walk, or run, back from our place.”
“Traitor,” Alison muttered under her breath to Lillian.
“You are under my shield now, milady,” Ragnor repeated once again, as his final word on the matter. “Do not push the bounds of what is seemly for a woman by arguing with me.”
Alison made a gurgling sound as if she were speechless but had lots to say.
Good.
Lillian stood and took Abe’s hand. “We will be on our way then, and leave you two to resolve the matter.”
Abe looked at Lillian and asked, “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” Lillian said.
Bless you, Lily-Anne.
“I’m going home now,” Alison said soon after the couple left. “And don’t you dare follow me out of this bar. If I’m seen leaving with you, my career is dead in the water.”
Never dare a Viking, milady. ’Tis the first lesson most young ladies are taught at their mothers’ knees. He let her leave on her own, but he was not about to give up. Soon he followed her, with as much subtlety as a very tall, bald Viking in tight braies could manage.
She had just unlocked her car and opened the door when she noticed him. “You again. What a pest!”
“You did not think me pestsome when you were kissing me till my eyes rolled back in my head.”
“I was not … oh, look there.” She stared at a car that had just driven up. It was loaded with laughing men in military uniforms. “Get in this car right away before someone sees you.”
He fumbled with the latch on the door and finally got it open. With great difficulty he managed to squeeze himself inside, though it was a tight fit. His knees pressed up against his chest, and his head touched the ceiling. His tight braies became even tighter. In truth, he feared the blood supply might be cut off to his most precious body part.
“Oh, good heavens! Put the seat back,” she ordered when she noticed how scrunched up he was.
“How would I do that?” he grumbled.
“The lever is on the floor by the door.” After a moment, he got the seat moved all the way back. It was still a tight fit for his tall frame, but better than before. “Put on your seat belt,” she advised. He watched how she did hers and did the same for himself. Now he truly did feel like a sausage, confined by the tight pants and the belt.
She drove across the parking area and onto the roadway at a high rate of speed. He braced his feet on the floor and held tightly onto the edge of his seat. “Must you travel so fast?” he asked.
“Fast? I’m only going twenty miles per hour,” she said, as if that explained away her foolhardiness. Then, probably just to annoy him, she sped up the horseless wagon and they nigh flew down the roadway.
“I am not afraid,” he said—though no one had asked—whilst closing his eyes for the collision that was sure to come.
She just laughed. “You act as if you’ve never been in a car before.”
“I haven’t.”
“Puh-leeze. At least while we are alone, drop the Viking nonsense.”
“You consider my being a Viking nonsense?”
“I don’t doubt that you are of Norse descent. Maybe you are even from Norway originally, but this constant use of Old-Norse-style words and this constant misunderstanding of modern words … well, it’s getting old.”
He had no time to defend himself because she slowed down the car, presumably approaching her home, and he saw a shadowy figure in the side yard. “Stop the car!” he yelled.
“What?” she yelled back at him as she pressed her foot down hard on a floor lever, and they came skidding to a stop.
“How do I get out of this bloody belt?” He tried but could not release himself. By the time she’d showed him how and he’d managed to find the door handle, the man was no longer to be seen. Still, Ragnor vaulted from the car and ran to the side yard, then all around the house, searching. The only thing he found was a still-smoking tow-back-hoe stick, which had been discarded in the grass. He pinched out the hot end and put the butt in the pocket of his braies.
“Max? What’s going on?” She came up beside him as he stood surveying the street. From inside, a dog could be heard barking wildly.
“There was a man skulking around your house when you drove up,” he told her.
He saw the alarm that widened her eyes.
“No dragons, though,” he assured her.
“Stop kidding.”
“Hah! Dragons are not a kidding matter, believe you me.”
“Have you seen many dragons, Max?” she asked mockingly.
“Nay. T
hey are elusive creatures.” Actually, he felt silly saying so because he was not sure they existed.
Meanwhile, she went back to her car and got a weapon from one of the compartments … a small gun.
He arched an eyebrow at her.
“I want to be armed before entering the house … just in case.”
He was about to tell her that he would enter first and protect her, but a weapon might be useful as well. “Do you have any idea who the man might be?”
“I have no idea. All I know is that someone entered my place several days ago. Didn’t take anything. In fact, he took great care not to be detected. The only clue we have is that I’ve been getting Breather telephone messages on my answering machine.”
Ragnor knew what a tell-a-fone was, though he could hardly credit that it worked the way Cage had explained it to him. Later he would puzzle over that marvel. For now, he was more concerned about the danger that obviously threatened Alison. “What is a Breather?”
She quickly explained, and he understood that it was a man threatening a woman in a cowardly fashion. Either to scare her or to get his man-pleasure in a perverted fashion. A danger to Alison, either way. “You need a guard.”
“That’s why Lillian got herself a guard dog this week.” She motioned toward the house where the dog was yipping and yapping.
She went up the front steps, gun in hand. He needed a weapon of his own. To the right, he saw a long-handled rake propped against the porch. Quickly he stomped on the rake end to break it off, thus giving him a makeshift spear, which he raised over his head, battle-ready. Holy Thor, he wished he had his sword, but this would have to do. Tomorrow, come hell or Valhalla, he was going to find a smithy where he could purchase a new sword.
At the cracking noise, Alison glanced back over her shoulder and gasped. “Good Lord, you look like an ancient Viking warrior.”
“That I am,” he said. “Though not so ancient.”
In the still of the night …
The minute she unlocked and opened the front door, Sam made a barking, flying leap for Max, who caught the animal in one arm, his other arm being occupied with his wooden “spear.” Ragnor staggered backward, just catching himself from toppling over at the unexpected furry catapult. Then Sam, the not-so-great guard dog, proceeded to lick the Viking’s face with wild abandon.
Alison laughed. How could she blame the puppy? She’d been pretty much licking the guy’s face tonight, too.
“This is your guard dog?” Ragnor asked as he put the animal back on the floor. Sam’s tail was wagging a mile a minute as he rubbed himself against Ragnor’s pant leg. Ragnor grinned at her.
Geesh! Don’t grin at me like that. I hate grinning men. I hate your grin in particular. Any minute now I’ll be wagging my tail and rubbing myself against your pant leg.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked in a silky voice that implied he knew just what she’d been thinking.
“Some warrior you are! In fact, some SEAL trainee you are, standing here chit-chatting when there might be someone lurking inside this house.”
His face flushed.
That was an unfair criticism, Alison realized immediately. And unkind. But really, she had to keep her distance from this guy; he had the strangest effect on her.
“You are correct in your criticism, milady. I am distracted when I am around you. A good warrior must be focused.” He pushed her behind him then, even though she had a gun and he had only a rake handle. For some reason, his presence made her feel safe.
Carefully they examined all the rooms on the first floor, along with the doors and windows. Everything was secure. Next, they moved up the stairs to her apartment, which was locked and secure, as well. She told Max, “Whoever was outside never entered. Maybe you were mistaken. It could have been just the shadow of a tree.”
He turned from where he had been examining some framed photos on the mantel. “There was a man.” He showed her a cigarette he’d picked up in her side yard.
It was a slim European brand. She put it on her desk. “Okay, then, maybe I’d better call John.”
He bristled. “The policing man? Why? Am I not protector enough for you?” He’d moved to her sofa, where he ran his palms over the silk fabric, then fingered the lace curtains behind it.
“No, it’s not that. I just think I should put in a report.”
He waved a hand of dismissal, sat down in a recliner that had belonged to David, then gasped when it flew back, bringing his feet upward. Once he realized that he hadn’t done anything wrong, and that the chair was actually quite comfortable, he sighed his satisfaction. Good thing the vibrator didn’t kick on. “Do your reporting in the morn. After daybreak, John of the Declining Hair will be able to examine the damp grass outside as well. For clues.”
John of the Declining Hair? Is he making a joke? Or could he be jealous? Oh, my goodness, Alison, don’t you dare be pleased over making a man jealous. How freakin’ pathetic! That’s even more pathetic than sucking the saliva off a perfect stranger’s tongue in a honky tonk storeroom. Or almost a stranger. Wet, for sure … and wild, for sure, too. Aaarrgh!
“All right. I’ll call the police in the morning,” she agreed. “You can leave now. If you don’t get back to the base soon, you’ll probably be in trouble. Muster is usually at oh-five-hundred and it’s about midnight now.”
“I’m probably already in trouble. In truth, I am always in trouble with the various chieftains anyway, especially your brother. One more spate of ‘trouble’ won’t bother me.” He got up out of the chair in one lithe movement. She usually crawled off clumsily.
She had to smile, not about his too-smooth body moves, but his using that odd word. “Why do you call him a chieftain? That must irritate the hell out of Ian.”
“Well, yea, it does irritate him for some reason. And, yea, I continue to do so for that very reason.” He grinned mischievously at her, and she had the oddest inclination to wag her tail … or jump his handsome bones. “But, bloody hell, that is his title, is it not?”
“He is a Master Chief.”
He shrugged. “Same thing.”
She followed him out of the living room into her kitchen, which was large and roomy with a round oak trestle table sitting in an alcove featuring a large floor-to-ceiling bay window that overlooked the back garden. In the distance could be seen the bay and the San Diego skyline.
“Any culprit wanting to enter your keep could easily break these windows and gain access. You should wall it up, or move elsewhere.”
“I love those windows, and this kitchen, and this house. I’m not moving anywhere.”
“Then you need a protector, and not just a silly pup,” he asserted. The dog was already sleeping near her front door, waiting for Lillian’s return, no doubt.
“The puppy will grow up, and he can be trained to be a better guard dog. What are you looking for in there?”
He was opening and closing the refrigerator, seemingly fascinated by the light that went on and off, and by the cold air coming out. “What do you call this?” he asked.
“A refrigerator. It keeps food cold so that it doesn’t spoil, as if you didn’t know.”
“I do not suppose you have any leftover boar and manchet bread?” he inquired, peering inside again.
“Are you hungry?”
“Hah! Does a Saxon lie? Do snakes slither? Do priests pray? Do men tup women? Do dogs in heat—”
She held up a hand, laughing. “I get the message.” She pushed him aside and began to take items from the fridge—boiled ham, sliced cheese, potato salad, pickles, mustard, and three-quarters of a chocolate layer cake left by Lillian several days ago.
“Why don’t you take Sam outside to do his business while I set the table?” she suggested.
He nodded and went off.
This is absolute insanity … bringing a guy who is practically a stranger into my house … when I’m his superior officer … when he’s a SEAL trainee … when I am so attracted to him m
y toes curl. She could not seem to help herself. By the time he returned, she had set all the items out on the table.
As if he hadn’t been gone for fifteen minutes, he resumed their previous conversation. “As to that other suggestion of yours, I will remain here with you till Lily-Anne returns and the house is fully secured. Or till daylight. Whichever comes sooner.”
At first she was going to argue, but she was too disconcerted by his implication that Lillian might stay out all night. “What would make you think that Lillian would stay out all night with Abe Feingold?”
“Alison,” he said, his tone chiding her for even asking the question.
She felt herself blushing. “She’s older than he is.”
“That would signify how?” he asked with amusement, already picking at a piece of ham. “Some of my best coupling has been with older women. And you? Have you never lain with a younger man?”
He was stone-cold serious. “Actually, there haven’t been that many men in my life. None since my fiancé died.”
He cocked his head with interest. “You are … were … betrothed?”
She nodded, wishing she hadn’t brought up the subject.
“What happened?”
“He was killed by a bunch of scumbag terrorists.”
“I have been hearing much about terrorists in the SEALs training. And, yea, they are scum, no matter what country they come from.” He continued to eat, then asked, “How long ago was that?”
“Five years.”
“Five years since you have made love with a man!” he exclaimed. Then he smiled … one of those horrible gloating male smiles.
She smacked him on the upper arm.
“Why did you do that? I was just smiling.”
“Yeah, but I could tell what you were thinking.”
“You could?” He smiled some more. “That with your prolonged celibacy and my renewed enthusiasm, we should be incredible together?” He waggled his eyebrows with exaggerated lasciviousness.
“We are not getting involved,” she asserted, although it already felt as if they were involved.