by Sandra Hill
“And that’s what you think I dream of?”
“It’s what you’ve always said.”
“Am I being dumped, here?”
“No! Absolutely not.” He licked his lips and gulped several times. “I am walking away so that you can be free.”
He’s walking away. Oh, my God, he’s walking away. Tears burned her eyes.
“Please don’t cry. I cannot bear it when you cry.” He started to come to her, but she put up a halting hand.
“You big ignoramus. You don’t have the right to declare me free or not. That is totally my decision.” She patted a hand over her heart in emphasis. “Just for the record, what are you going to be doing, now that you are flying fancy free?”
“Mayhap I will go to Norway to see if I can locate the place where my family holdings once were.”
“I could go with you.” Oh, jeez, I’m not going to beg, am I?
“Why would you want to?”
“To help you.” Yep, begging.
“You can help me by becoming the first female Liberty Team member.”
“You said you loved me.” I can’t believe I’ve become that kind of woman. I don’t recognize myself.
“I do.”
“What kind of love gives up at the first hint of trouble?” Okay, that’s my last grovel.
“ ’Tis the kind of love that wants what’s best for you.”
“And you get to decide that? In what macho world are you living?” Definitely the last. Pull yourself together, girl. Get some dignity.
“It is over, Alison. I wanted to do this amicably. I did not want to hurt you. In truth, I want only the very best for you.”
“I think you’d better go.”
“Perchance we can talk again once you are less emotional.”
“Perchance you can go to hell.”
“Mayhap I am already there.”
On that odd note, he looked at her for a long time, then silently made his exit.
Alison stood stock-still, unable to move or breathe or scream, which was what she really wanted to do. Ragnor had left. He said he loved her, but still he left. Something was wrong with this picture.
I should go after him and karate-chop him to the ground.
Or I should go jump his bones.
Am I really going to let him go so easily, without a fight?
Hell, no! No way can I let Ragnor go this way. No way!
She went to the door, opened it and was about to run down and catch him before he left, but what she saw stopped her cold.
Ragnor was at the bottom of the steps with his forehead pressed against the front door. His shoulders shook slightly.
Alison inhaled sharply with sudden understanding.
Her Viking was weeping.
Vikings take clueless to a whole new level …
Ragnor sensed, rather than heard, Alison behind him.
Oh, this is too much! Now I leak like a sniveling youthling. How pathetic! And how do I explain it to her? He turned reluctantly and saw her standing at the bottom of the steps, arms folded over her chest, eyes glaring. She would have looked fierce if not for the ridiculous black marks running down her cheeks from the kohl she must have put about her eyes.
“Uh, I got a cinder in my eye.” Holy Thor, is that the best I can do?
She walked up and punched him in the stomach as hard as she could. It didn’t hurt all that much, but he flinched anyway.
“Why did you hit me?”
“For scaring me like that. For making me think you didn’t care.”
“I ne’er said I did not care.”
She drew back to punch him again, but he grabbed her wrist.
Meanwhile, Sam was barking like a mad dog behind Lillian’s closed doors. Lillian must be out, otherwise she would come to investigate.
With a sigh of surrender, he lifted her in his arms and began to carry her up the stairs. Alison kept slapping him about the ears and shoulders. Once he set her down in the middle of her solar, she demanded, “What was that all about?”
“Sacrifice.” It didn’t sound as good now as it had when he’d rehearsed it on the way here.
“Whose? Mine? You were sacrificing me for what?”
“Not you. Me. I was being noble.” He could feel his face heat up on those last words. How noble was it when a man told people he was being noble? Didn’t that take the nobility away?
She eyed him as if he’d lost half his brain.
Maybe he had.
“I know you have some affection for me—” he started to say.
“Affection, you lunkhead? Love. L-O-V-E.”
She was not making this easy for him. “Knowing that you care and probably feel some obligation toward me …”
Rolling her eyes, she walked over to the sofa and sat down. “You’d better sit, too, baby, if it’s going to take you this long to spit it out.”
“Sarcasm ill suits you, m’lady.”
“Blustering ill suits you, m’lord,” she mimicked back at him. “Get to the freakin’ point.”
He sat down next to her. “I heard about the rules for the Liberty Teams. Only unwed men and women, and those promising not to marry for at least two years. I did not want you to give up your dreams because you were bound to me.”
“So you were giving me a choice?”
“Yea, I was.” He brightened at her finally understanding his motives.
“Are all Vikings as dumb as you?”
“Huh?”
“Ragnor, when you walked out of here today, you weren’t giving me a choice. You were telling me how things would be, based on your choice. You gave me no choice as to whether you should stay or go.”
He put his face in his hands, then looked sideways at her. “If I were not here … if we’d never met … would you join the Liberty Teams?”
She shrugged. “Maybe. Probably. But I’m not joining them now.”
“You’re not? But you said—”
“I said that I haven’t officially given them my answer, but I’ve already said no informally.”
“Because of me?” he asked with a huge sigh.
“Because of you,” she said softly. “Oh, Ragnor, I love you. I want to be with you. I’m a physician. I can work anywhere you go … whether it be Norway or America or Timbuktu.”
“Tim who?”
“Never mind,” she said, laughing.
He stood then and smiled for the first time that day. Picking her up by the waist, he twirled her around, hugging her tightly to him. “I love you, too, heartling.”
“Does that mean you are going to continue to seduce me till I agree to marry you?”
“Nay.”
“Nay?”
“I figure I am all nobled out. ’Tis your turn to do the seducing.” He kissed her then, a warm, hungry press of lips upon lips, a silent promise that everything would work out now.
When the kiss ended, she stared at him adoringly—Vikings had a way of bringing such an expression to a woman’s face.
“I love you,” she said.
“I love you,” he said. “For all time.”
“So, Viking …” She slanted him a half-lidded sultry look, which put him immediately on guard. Beware of sultry-eyed wenches. “I don’t suppose you have any more of those Spots up your sleeve?”
He threw his head back and laughed. “Actually …”
Epilogue
Ragnor Magnusson married Alison MacLean in a mid-October wedding held outdoors at Blue Dragon Vineyards.
They had originally planned to move in together and wait till the following spring, but then Alison had balked, claiming she wasn’t giving her Viking another chance to go noble on her … or go off a-Viking. He’d pretended to hesitate, but he wasn’t giving her a second chance to escape, either … or go off a-Navy SEALing.
The members of Ragnor’s—rather Torolf’s—BUD/S team, along with the bride’s brother Ian, came in dress whites and formed a beautiful arch of swords for the bride and groom to pass through. R
agnor’s family formed an arch of swords as well, except theirs were ancient pattern-welded swords a thousand years old.
Torolf acted as best man and Kirsten as maid of honor. Rear Admiral Thomas MacLean gave his daughter away and seemed to have taken quite a fancy to Angela’s brazen cousin Carmen, a rabid feminist who was said to have told the admiral, “Making war to get peace is like screwing for virginity.” At which the admiral had howled with laughter and countered, “Screwing a feminist is like digging for gold in a mine field.”
To everyone’s surprise, Ragnor had decided to enter the next SEAL class. In the meantime, he would be taking myriad computer courses and boning up on his school studies. He and Alison hoped to be the first married members of the new Liberty Teams, assuming the marriage regulations would be lessened a year or two from now, by the time they would be ready to apply. They still planned to have a family—Ragnor said one child, Alison said three—but they would wait a bit to get started.
In the meantime, the happy couple planned to honeymoon in Norway. No one was sure what Ragnor hoped to accomplish by going there, but the entire family wanted to go along. Wisely, the couple declined the offer.
One strange thing happened during the wedding reception. Ragnor took Ian into the house to show him a painting hanging above the library mantel. It had been painted from memory by Ragnor’s talented artist sister Dagny. A lovely blond woman, unsmiling and haughty in her demeanor, stared down at them. Dressed in regal Viking attire, complete with fine gold embroidery on the gown and amber jewelry, the woman was magnificent. It was Madrene, of course.
Long after Ragnor returned to the reception outdoors, Ian stood gazing up at her. Entranced, some said later.
When the reception was winding down, Ragnor took his bride aside and said, “I think I know why I always thought you were my destiny.”
“Oh?” she said, linking her arms around his neck. She’d told him earlier that she wore nothing under her wedding gown. He couldn’t wait to discover the truth of that statement.
“I assumed that destiny meant I was called here because you needed me.”
“And now you think that’s not true.” She cocked her head to the side in surprise. “Here I was getting used to being your destiny.”
“Oh, you are still my destiny. ’Tis just that I am the one who needed you, not the other way around.”
“Oh, Ragnor, what a sweet thing to say.”
“That is the best thing about us Vikings. Our sweetness.” He waggled his eyebrows at her.
“But, honey, you told me something else was the best thing about Vikings.”
“That, too.” He laughed. “Shall I demonstrate?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
About the Author
SANDRA HILL is a graduate of Penn State and worked for more than 10 years as a features writer and education editor for publications in New Jersey and Pennsylvania. Writing about serious issues taught her the merits of seeking the lighter side of even the darkest stories. She is the wife of a stockbroker and the mother of four sons.
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Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
WET & WILD.
Copyright © 2004 by Sandra Hill.
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EPub Edition JUNE 2010 ISBN: 978-0-06-201375-0
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