Jorund needed a plan. Too many baffling thoughts and feelings were hitting him from every angle. If he were in the midst of battle, he would be dead by now. Where was his legendary gift for war tactics? How had he lost his focus?
“Come.” He directed the wench to a small metal table with folding chairs on either side. “Sit down, and let us come up with a plan for healing me.”
She eyed him skeptically, the way that women were wont to do on occasion when they thought their men were up to some mischief.
He sat down, but she still stood on the other side of the room, suspicious of him. He wished she would hurry so they could get this business over with. By his count of the big, circular ticking device on the wall, Judge Judy would be coming on the black world box soon, and he did enjoy her saucy tongue when wielding her edicts. He was learning much about the law of this land.
The wench went to a door first, which he had learned previously was called a close-it. From it she took a shert, which matched his braies. “Put this on first,” she demanded.
He was about to ask why, but he knew…somehow he knew. His near-nudity disconcerted her. Now that was a fact to be stored for future reference. He did as she asked, leaving the strange fastening devices undone; they were known as butt-ons. For a certainty, he intended to take a sampling of these back to his country. He knew a few merchants who would pay a fortune for knowledge of their marvelous usage.
Now that they were sitting across from each other, Jorund took a deep breath and began, “Your problem is that you must heal me within a week, whilst—”
“No, not exactly. That’s the purpose of a mental facility…to be helping patients with problems. What we can’t have is your being locked in a barred room with ankle restraints and a strait-jacket. I’m not saying they aren’t legitimate tools for controlling out-of-control patients, but if the need for them continues for a week or more, then that person probably belongs in a maximum-security mental facility. Not here.”
He put both hands in the air in a manner that said, What is the problem?
She tilted her head in silent question.
“Can’t you see, the problem is halfway solved? My feet are free….” he teased, extending one leg and wiggling his toes at her.
Her face went prettily pink at his action, and he thought, not without some satisfaction, that mayhap she had a fascination for his feet, just as he’d experienced over her flame-colored toenails. How odd! That was another fact to store for future reference.
“And I no longer wear the torture shert. Do you see me attacking anyone? Or harming myself?”
Just, then the guard must have peered through the window and noticed that he was free. He opened the door and rushed in, about to attack him—or try to. “Dr. McBride! Why didn’t you call for help?”
Dock-whore Muck-bride stood quickly, placing herself between Jorund, still seated, and the burly guardsman. “Everything’s all right, Hank. I, um…I released Joe. A little experiment. And it’s working out just fine.”
God, he loved it when his very own Valkyrie—even if she wasn’t such, he liked to think of her so—went hostile on his behalf. He would have jumped up and defended himself if he hadn’t been enjoying the sight of her in battle mode so much.
“Well, if you say so,” the guardsman agreed reluctantly and left, though Jorund noticed that he left the door ajar.
“Well done, m’lady.” He gave her a smart salute.
“Huh?”
“You put Hunk in his proper place.”
“Huh?”
“Now that we have resolved the first two obstacles—the ankle restraints and the torture shert—what can be done about the bars and locked doors?”
“I think an experiment is in order. We move you to another room. No bars. And the door will be unlocked for certain periods of the day…not all the time, at first. At those times you will be able to go to the activities room or the workout room, where you can mix with some of the other patients. How does that sound?”
Just wonderful! I will get to exchange pleasantries with demented people. “Fine,” he said, because that was obviously the answer she wanted.
“Good.” She smiled broadly. “I think we’ll start by having you eat dinner with the others in the dining hall.”
“I hope there will be no more of that green jail-low. That provender is a torment even the vilest prisoner should not be subjected to.”
Mag-he thought a moment, then laughed. “Oh, you mean Jell-O. Yes, you’re right. They do tend to overdo the green Jell-O a bit. Anyhow, if the dining experience works out all right, tomorrow you can join group therapy for the first time.”
He didn’t even want to know what he would be doing in a group with other half-witted people. But his brain cautioned him not to protest too much, to take one step at a time, to watch, assess, then act. “So this is how you heal people?”
“Well, not exactly. Usually we draw up a contract.”
“See. Did I not offer already to have a contract with you?”
She shook her head at him as if he were a mischievous child. “Not that kind of contract.”
His shoulders slumped with disappointment. “You do not want me for a love slave?”
“Get serious, Joe.”
“I was serious. Well, mayhap I wasn’t, really. But it did pose interesting possibilities. On the other hand, you could be my love slave. That definitely would be of interest. What do you think?”
“I think you just took five steps forward and ten steps backward in your healing with that comment.”
“So what kind of contract do you usually do?” he asked, not bothering to hide his chagrin.
“We do a mental-health diagnosis, which we discuss with the patient. Then we set up goals for how to overcome those mental problems and enter back into society as a productive member…though some of our patients still work with us after they’ve left the clinic.”
“I could do that,” he concluded enthusiastically.
“Wonderful.” He could tell she was about to conclude their meeting, which he wasn’t prepared to do just yet.
“Wait,” he said, stretching out a hand to encircle the nape of her neck. The short hairs were prickly and silky at the same time against his fingertips. “Do you not conclude contracts in a particular way, as they do in my country…especially when the contract is a man-woman one?”
“Wh-what do you mean?”
Jorund saw the small pulse leap in her throat, as if she enjoyed his touch, despite herself, and yearned for more. Well, she was about to get more, if he had his way.
“In my culture, a true Norseman likes to seal his bargains with”—he leaned forward—“a kiss.”
“Liar,” she whispered.
The blood in Jorund’s veins was pumping so wildly, he was in no condition to protest her insult.
His lips brushed hers then, back and forth, light as a feather, but the pleasure it evoked was so intense, he moaned against her lips. Or was it she who moaned into his mouth? He could not help himself then. He deepened the kiss and slipped his tongue between her parted lips. Sweet, sweet, sweet, she was. And hot!
He drew back sharply, and withdrew his hand.
He stared at her, mesmerized.
She stared at him, mesmerized.
It was she who spoke first. He could tell that she was about to say that this shouldn’t have happened, or that it wouldn’t happen again, as women throughout the ages were wont to do after they had succumbed to temptation, but instead she surprised even herself by blurting out an irrelevancy.
“I thought you didn’t like kisses,” she whispered in that sex-voice that seeped under his skin and grabbed at his loins with a jolt.
At first he was unable to utter a word. When he did, it was in a choked growl. “I changed my mind.”
The next day…
Joe was about to begin his first group-therapy session, and Maggie was more than a little nervous.
It had taken some convincing to have Harry a
gree to Joe’s moving into therapy so quickly, but even he was impressed with the way the man, who still claimed to be a tenth-century Viking, was mixing in with the others. Not only had he signed the personal contract required by Rainbow, the rules of which must be obeyed or the patient would be expelled, but he had behaved himself at dinner the night before, and he’d taken to the workout room with great enthusiasm.
One of the aides reported to her this morning that Jorund had lifted weights like an Olympian, and had manned the rowing machine as if it were an actual boat. In fact, he’d given it a name…Fierce Wizard, or some such thing. In true leadership fashion, he had set two other patients, who had been lethargic about exercise thus far, to rowing in tandem. You’d think they were the potential crew members of a…well, a longship.
Still, it was good to see Joe being proactive about something, anything. So much progress in such a short time was hard for Maggie to comprehend, but she wasn’t about to protest a good thing.
“Are you ready?” she asked on arrival at his new room, where he was waiting for her. This room was the same as the other, sans barred windows and two-way mirrors on the corridor wall. She was about to escort him to the terrace room where group-therapy sessions were held. It was a light, sunny place that everyone liked.
“I must be. We have only five more days to get my ship in shape.” He jiggled his eyebrows at her with his little joke, which was really odd because he appeared to be a man little inclined to teasing.
It was adorable the way he deliberately misinterpreted words and phrases. At least, she assumed it was deliberate. The other possibility meant more hurdles for them to jump in his therapy. And actually, he was adorable, period. Today he was wearing a white Dallas Cowboys T-shirt tucked into a pair of tight-fitting jeans and high-top athletic shoes. His long blond hair was held back off his face with a rubber band.
“We’re wearing matching braies,” he commented as they strolled down the corridor.
She looked down, then over at him. Yes, they were both wearing denim braies, which appeared to be the word Joe used for pants. But Maggie wasn’t wearing a sweater or T-shirt today, as she usually did for these sessions. Instead she wore a white cotton blouse and a blue blazer. Group-therapy day was usually one on which she deliberately chose casual clothes to fit in with her patients. But today, she suspected, she hadn’t wanted to be disconcerted by any hot looks toward any part of her anatomy…in particular, her breasts.
“I like you better in those sheer hose you wore yesterday,” he mentioned, “but tight braies have a certain allure, too.”
As if she cared!
Okay, she hardly cared.
She was trying not to care.
Oh, lordy!
Heads pivoted as they passed, and not just those of the women staff and patients. Men gawked, too. Joe Rand was a sight to see. It wasn’t just his immense height or good looks. It was the way he carried himself, as if he were someone important. No, that wasn’t quite it. It was pride, or grace, or an innate air of leadership…she couldn’t say for sure which.
“Do I pass your inspection?” he asked, apparently aware of her scrutiny.
“Just checking out your new duds. Thank God for Goodwill.”
She wasn’t fooling him one bit. He was enjoying her discomfort immensely. That was especially obvious when his gaze snagged on her lips, and paused.
Was he remembering their kiss?
She had certainly been able to think of little else. And her dreams last night had been X-rated. For a man who disliked kisses, he’d sure known a whole lot of ways to kiss. In her dreams, at least.
“Oh, lady, if you’re thinking what I think you are, I am not going to be able to concentrate on anything during this group-therapy business. Leastways, anything except how soon I can bed you.”
Maggie gasped. “I was not thinking anything at all like that.” Exactly. “I will tell you this, Joe: there can be no repeat of what happened yesterday. I’m willing to overlook one kiss. You caught me off guard. But if you try it again while you’re my patient, I’m going to have to excuse myself from your case.”
The knowing look he gave her didn’t bode well for Maggie. This Viking was going to do whatever he wanted. And he wasn’t fooled one bit by her insinuation that the kiss had been a one-sided deal. She had participated, too. And enjoyed it immensely.
Luckily, they were interrupted then by Harry, who was on his way to a budget meeting.
“How do you do, Joe?” Harry reached out and shook Joe’s hand…an action that Joe looked on with puzzlement. “I’m Dr. Harrison Seabold. I know we’ve met before, but I just thought I’d introduce myself again. Glad to see you moving around, buddy. And talking.”
Joe looked at their joined hands, then at Maggie. “Is this a gesture of welcome in your land?”
“Yes. Exactly,” she said, which prompted him to reach out and shake her hand, as well…heartily.
“How do you do?” he repeated woodenly.
“Not quite so tight,” she advised, and he loosened his iron grip.
“See,” he pointed out as they continued to the end of the hall. “I can adapt to your culture.”
In little ways, he could. But Maggie wondered how he would handle the bigger things—like his first group-therapy session.
The others were already there when they arrived, sitting about in a circle of folding chairs.
Steve Askey was an attractive, fiftyish former professional baseball player and Navy SEAL vet, who suffered from PTSD, posttraumatic stress disorder. His alcoholism and subsequent self-destructive behavior had already resulted in a broken marriage, which had further escalated his problems. Despite being on the wagon for a year, he thought he had no future. She could see it in his posture as he slumped in his chair, staring at nothing.
Chuck Belammy, thirty, was purported to have multiple-personality disorder, except that his was the darnedest case Maggie had ever heard of. His personalities were animals: a cow who ate grass and mooed all the time, a galloping horse, a chicken pecking for kernels of corn, a rooster crowing—which could be annoying in a hospital setting—and a slithering snake. His animal personas all had names. Right now he must be Bessie, because he was making mooing sounds and chewing his cud. Actually, Chucks “animal MPD” was a sham…something the very intelligent young man had dreamed up to throw his doctors off track. Underneath, he hid some other mental problems that he deemed too horrible—or embarrassing—to share…yet.
Natalie Blue, twenty-four, was agoraphobic—afraid to leave her house, even to go shopping. Ironically, she dreamed of being a country-western singer, which would be impossible if she was unable to perform before crowds. But she’d progressed tremendously in the past six months. At least now she came to them as an outpatient. There was a time when she’d been unable to leave the security of her bedroom.
Rosalyn Harris, twenty-eight, was a mousy librarian, when she was able to work. Most often she just rocked back and forth. Sometimes Rosalyn mutilated herself. Thus far Maggie had been unable to diagnose the cause of her condition, except that she had feelings of low self-worth. Rosalyn lived at home and was brought to the clinic weekly by her parents, who insisted on her getting therapy because they believed she was anorexic. Maggie thought there might be some other reason for her withdrawal…something Rosalyn had yet to disclose.
Harvey Lutz, a nerdy looking young man in his early twenties, was a bipolar obsessive-compulsive who had a habit of continually counting things and lining them up. Right now he was counting lint pills on his wool trousers. Every time he got to twelve, he stumbled and started over.
Fred Bernstein, a balding, middle-aged man, was delusional, hiding his problems in fantasy identities. From one week to the next, she never knew if he was some famous movie star, athlete, or biblical figure. She couldn’t wait to hear why he was carrying two large, ironstone dinner platters today. The kitchen staff wouldn’t be pleased to know they were missing.
Sometimes there were extra people in t
he group: a biker from Houston with head injuries, a chronically depressed accountant who yearned for a lost love, and various others. The wonderful thing about Rainbow, in Maggie’s opinion, was that people could come and go, as their ailments required.
Maggie sat down next to Rosalyn and motioned for Joe to sit across the circle, with Chuck on one side and Steve on the other. That was when she realized that Joe wasn’t beside her. Looking up, she saw him still standing in the doorway, gawking at the group as if he’d landed in…well, Bedlam.
But what he said was, “Is this Niflheim?”
Chapter Seven
Jorund could not believe his eyes. He’d never seen so many lackwitted people in one room in all his life. Even Viking warriors in the midst of battle who had gone berserk did not look this bizarre.
The most difficult thing to accept in this scenario was that Mag-he thought he was as demented as this lot of mush-brains. Raising his chin, Jorund fixed a glower on the female who had brought him there, and immediately eased his temper. There was a pleading expression on her face—one that begged him not to make a scene, or embarrass her in front of her other pay-shuns.
Biting his bottom lip to keep him from saying what he really thought, Jorund followed Mag-he’s direction and sat in a seat across from her. Almost immediately, he jumped when he got a good view of the man sitting next to him…and what he was doing.
“Bock, bock, bock, bock, bock!” the red-haired young man, who couldn’t have seen more than thirty winters, was clucking as he bobbed his head like a rooster.
Jorund glanced at Mag-he, then back at the man, who greeted him with, “Cock-a-doodle-do!”
Yea, I was correct. A rooster.
“Everyone is looking good today,” Mag-he said brightly.
Is she demented, too? Everyone did not look good, in Jorund’s opinion. In fact, they were a sorry lot, if he’d ever seen one.
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