"Whate'er you say, dearling," he drawled with a mocking grin.
It wasn't a grin to engender warm, fuzzy feelings.
"What's the problem, Rolf?"
"Mike isn't the only one who knows naught of Vikings," he went on in a voice whose calmness contrasted ominously with his take-no-mercy eyes. "You two study Norsemen in your books but fail to see us true.
"I don't understand."
"Nay, you do not. That is a certainty. You have caged the wild beast here, Merry-Death," he informed her, pounding his chest with one fist, "but it is about to break free."
The quiver in her stomach escalated to an earthquake. "Are you trying to frighten me?"
"Do I?"
"No."
He smiled, but it was more a feral baring of the teeth.
"Foolish wench. I realized today that I have allowed myself to be caged voluntarily, chained by my excessive lust for you. I have played the tame pet for you overlong. 'Twas my mistake, granting you time to give your free consent to our joining. Enough! If you will not be my wife, then you will be my thrall."
"A slave?" she twittered nervously.
"Yea, a love slave," he said softly. "How do you view the prospect of being a Viking captive? Hmmm? Subject to my every whim?"
"Stop playing games with me, Rolf." She tried to edge away, but he put a palm on either side of her head, his arms braced tautly. She had the coolness of the refrigerator at her back and the heat of an aggressive male at her front. It wasn't an entirely unpleasant experience, she admitted to herself
"Mayhap, slave, I will keep you naked till you bend to my will. Or wearing the scant garments I choose."
His eyes took note of the angora sweater she'd donned earlier at his request.
A mistake, she discerned now as he licked his lips slowly. With anticipation? Did he suspect that she'd also put on the Victoria's Secret panties he'd bought for her?
He did, she saw as his hot scrutiny briefly settled there. She was wearing loose linen trousers, but he knew. He knew.
"Put your hands over your head, thrall," he demanded.
"What?"
"Do you question your master's authority, slave?" he said with lethal calmness, taking a steak knife from the counter and pressing it against her throat. "A recalcitrant slave must be punished."
She wasn't really frightened, except perhaps of the thudding of her heart. She surprised herself by doing as he'd commanded, raising her hands to the top of the refrigerator, where she grasped the edges of a casserole dish. But, despite her compliant pose, she tossed her hair over her shoulder in a gesture of petulance.
"Ah, a defiant slave," he cooed. "Are you wanting to be tamed, wench?"
She shook her head. Do I?
Before she realized his intent, he eased the small knife inside the neckline of her sweater, first to the left then the right, slitting the straps of her bra. He did the same from under the hem in front, cutting the center band of her undergarment. With the flick of his fingers, he pulled the wispy lingerie out and dropped it to the floor.
"Nay, do not move," he ordered when her hands began to lower. Holding her eyes, he undid the button of her slacks. The rasp of the sliding zipper echoed loudly in the silent room. In an instant, the fabric slithered down and pooled at her ankles. She was bare from ankle to waist, except for the French-cut, flesh-colored silk briefs.
The slight hitch of his breath was his only sign of appreciation.
"A beautiful slave girl is a highly prized commodity," he said in raw tones, dragging the hem of her sweater downward so the sensuous fibers abraded her bare breasts. The tautened material outlined her uplifted breasts, whose nipples blossomed into hardened peaks as he watched. He released the hem, and the elasticized material sprang back into its original shape.
He repeated the procedure several times till her nipples ached for more. The touch of his calloused fingertips came to mind.
"Rolf," she whimpered and lifted her arms higher, bowing her chest outward in invitation.
"A slave does not address her master," he reprimanded, running the backs of his knuckles over the
tips in a too-quick motion. She wanted more.
"Spread your legs," he said, "as far as you can."
Restricted by the pantlegs at her ankles, she could only separate her feet so far. But it was enough. Her feminine folds parted, exposed against the silk crotch of her panties.
"Good." Rolf stepped back.
Meredith couldn't believe her eyes. Instead of taking her in his arms, as she'd expected, he walked away from her and sat in a chair on the other side of the table. "Do not think of moving, slave, or it will not go well for you," he informed her in a thick rasp. Then he leaned back in the chair, arms lying loosely in his lap, legs sprawled forward, and he studied her like... like a possession.
The kitchen clock ticked the seconds away. Thea's rock-'n-roll beat created a rhythm that was echoed in the throbbing of her nipples and the heated place between her legs. It was a vulnerable, seductive position he'd placed her in, but oddly, she didn't feel demeaned.
She felt extremely excited.
Whatever label she took on—wife, lover, friend, slave—she was Rolf's. Well, that wasn't quite true. They were still at a stalemate concerning his plans for their future. He was leaving in a few short weeks, and she was going to be devastated. Better the small pain now than the agonizing pain later.
"I will not marry you," she cried. And she meant it.
"Whate'er you say, dearling." He grinned. And he didn't mean it.
"What I say is that I want you to touch me," she snarled with frustration.
"Where?" he asked with amusement, though she noticed his knuckles were white where they now clasped his knees.
"Everywhere."
"Greedy wench." He laughed.
"So, do the Vikings have male captives, too?"
"For a certainty."
"Do female Vikings ever have male slaves?"
His eyes lit up with understanding at the train of her questioning. "Yea, some do."
"Hmmm... Perhaps you might be willing to reverse roles and—"
"Aunt Mer," Thea shouted from upstairs, "what's for dinner? I'm starved."
Rolf swore softly at the interruption, and Meredith scurried to pull up her slacks and hide her damaged bra.
"Yea, Merry-Death, I am starved, too." Rolf strolled over to help button her slacks because her fingers were trembling so. Their eyes locked for a moment before Thea came barreling into the kitchen.
It wasn't food he was hungry for, and Meredith shared the hunger.
With a chuckle, as if reading her mind, Rolf swatted her on the behind. "Never fear, sweetling, a Viking always satisfies the appetite of his lady."
She clucked at his play on words, and he winked at her.
"Of course, a Viking man Partakes heartily of the feast, as well. We are renowned for our lusty appetites. Then, too, we are equally renowned for our hospitality." He paused dramatically. " 'Tis not polite to let a lady eat alone."
All hell broke loose that night, and the dispute she and Rolf were having over marriage faded in importance.
Bam!
Meredith jackknifed into a sitting position in her bed.
Thea, as usual, slept like a rock. Maybe it was just a dream. No, she'd been dreaming about male anatomy.
Specifically, Viking male anatomy of the gluteus maximus variety.
Bam!
"Oh, my goodness! It's a gunshot. And it's coming from the side yard," she murmured.
"What was that?" Thea slurred sleepily.
"Nothing, honey," Meredith said, already up and rushing for the door. "Go back to sleep. I don't want you coming downstairs. Do you hear me?"
"Um-hmmm." Thea rolled over and fell back asleep.
Meredith took the steps two at time and didn't bother to snap on the lights or grab a flashlight as she unlocked the front door and hurried to find... she didn't know what. The sounds of raised voices, grunts, and tussli
ng emanated ominously from outside. Some peril threatened them; she sensed that much.
What if... ? Oh, gee, a little more than a week ago, a stranger from another time had, invaded her home.
Maybe a whole dam shipload of time travelers were storming her keep now. She fought back a wave of hysteria at that ridiculous notion and rounded the corner of the house.
"Oompfh!" She tripped over a black-clad body and almost fell. There was only a half-moon tonight, and all she could make out was dark shoes, pants, gloves, and a ski mask. A gun lay on the ground near the open hand of the unmoving perpetrator.
A gun? Oh, my God! Was he dead?
One of Rolf's wooden spears rested where it had landed near the person's head. Having no point, the stick couldn't have broken the skin's surface. At least, she didn't think so. But maybe a head trauma from a blunt object thrown with force might be fatal. She should check for a pulse. No, no, no. First, she had to find Rolf.
Scuffling noises, accompanied by guttural curses, came from the back of the house. She picked up the spear and rushed forward. Another black-clad figure, much bigger than the one she'd just found, wrestled on the grass with Rolf, who wore only a pair of jogging pants. Rolf must have been sleeping in the longhouse tonight.
In delayed reaction, she gasped, then put a hand over her mouth and screamed.
Startled, Rolf looked up and shouted, "Go back, Merry-Death. 'Tis not safe. I'll handle these assailants. "
The attacker took advantage of Rolf's surprise and managed to scramble free, raising a gun. And, oh, dear Lord, he was aiming it at Rolf. Acting instinctively, Meredith grasped the spear like a baseball bat and swung. It was heavier than she'd expected; so she didn't have much momentum. To her dismay, at the last minute, the creep ducked. And she hit Rolf smack across the stomach.
"Oompfh!" Rolf fell backwards on his butt and the assailant's gun went off accidentally. The bullet didn't seem to have hit anyone.
For a brief second, Rolf and the attacker gazed at her as if she was a crazy woman. She was. But Rolf was in danger, and she couldn't let anything happen to him. Weaponless now, she made a leap for the jerk with the gun, but he spun about and with a twist of his body had an antilock around Meredith's neck. He pressed the gun to the side of her head.
Rolf stood warily. "Don't harm her," he pleaded. "I'll give you whate'er you want. Be careful. No one has to be hurt. "
"The belt," the man demanded in a muffled voice. "Drop it to the ground, and step back."
A sense of something familiar or not quite right about the gunman nagged at Meredith, but she couldn't puzzle it out now. "Don't do it, Rolf. He's bluffing."
At least, I think he is.
"One more word and you're dead, bitch," the obviously disguised voice said against her ear.
Rolf didn't pay any attention to her. He'd already unbuckled his talisman belt. It fell with a clunk. Then he took two steps backwards.
"The arm ring, too," the thief ordered.
Arm ring? Since when does your everyday burglar know that is an arm ring? Most people would call it a bracelet, or silver arm band But "arm ring" is a medieval term. Recognition hit her like a ton of bricks.
Jeffrey! The bastard!
Uncaring of the risks, she wrenched herself out of his arms by elbowing him hard, then swiveling and delivering a sharp knee to the groin. His gun went off again, right against her head, but Meredith realized at once that, although her ears were ringing, she hadn't been injured. The weapon must contain blanks.
With a groan, Jeffrey bent at the waist, clutching his precious jewels. By then, Rolf was standing. He picked up the spear and whacked Jeffrey over the head, knocking him unconscious.
Rolf grabbed her by the forearms and demanded, "Are you all right?" She nodded, and he hauled her into a bone-crunching bear hug. "Woman, I'm going to wring your neck in a few moments for taking such a foolhardy chance. But right now, I'm so happy you're alive." His voice cracked at the end as he lavished tiny kisses of euphoria all over her face and neck.
"Oh, Rolf, I was so worried. I thought... Oh, sweetheart, I love you so. And I thought I'd lost you ... already. I mean, too soon. Oh, I don't know what I mean." She was sobbing and kissing him at the same time.
"Shhhh," he crooned, and then straightened with concern. "We've got to get these two inside and restrain them. Open the patio door for me, Merry-Death." Bending, he heaved up the body with ease, even though it must be very heavy for him, and threw it over his shoulder like a sack of flour. "I know not who these knaves are, but you can be sure I will soon find out," he growled.
"Well, actually-" she stammered, shifting from foot to foot.
Rolf had started to walk toward the house with his living baggage, but he paused and turned back to stare at her.
"You know this man?" he asked icily.
What? Did he imagine she was in cahoots with the burglars? Geez! "It's... Oh, I know this is hard to "'believe, but it's—"
"Spit it out, Merry-Death."
"—my ex-husband."
Rolf said a very foul word, then pointed toward the side yard. "And who might that be? His pregnant wife?"
"No. I'm not sure. Oh, God, this is so awful." She began to weep.
"Hell, the tears again!" he stormed. "Merry-Death, this man weighs more than a butchered boar. Speak up. Who's the other miscreant?"
"My sister. Jillie," she said in a small voice.
"Blód hel! " he swore, then put his free hand to her face and whispered, "Oh, Merry-Death. I'm so sorry."
He was the one who looked as if he might cry then—for her.
Much later, they still sat about Merry-Death's great room, trying to determine what to do with the culprits squirming on the sofa under his scowling scrutiny.
"I vote for throwing them off the cliff," he grumbled, but Merry-Death-kind-hearted soul that she was-urged, "Stop kidding, Rolf. What we have to decide is whether to involve the police."
"Give me a break, Mer," Jillian said, examining her fingernails with unconcern. Apparently, a major tragedy had occurred in the course of her falling—she'd broken a fingernail. "You wouldn't want the publicity. Besides, I could sue that barbarian over there for attacking me." She rolled her shoulders and winced for effect.
What a game she played! Pretending to be hurt when his "spear" hadn't even broken the skin between her shoulder blades. Then he pondered her words. "Are you calling me a barbarian, wench? You, who planned a siege of your own sister's home?"
"Shhh, Rolf," Merry-Death cautioned. "She's right. I don't want to call the police, but not to protect my reputation or hers. Thea has to be protected."
"That's another thing," Jillian complained. "You had no right to have Mike come here and take her away. She's my daughter and—"
"Jillie, that's the most self-centered thing I've ever heard you say, and that's saying a lot. How could you have wanted Thea to witness this? Don't you care if she knows you're a thief, or worse?"
"Don't be so melodramatic, Meredith," Jeffrey chimed in. "We're not thieves. We would've returned the belt and arm ring after we'd done the testing and written the book. Sometimes, Meredith, you're too damned stubborn for your own good. If you'd been reasonable when Jillie and I talked to you—"
With a roar, Geirolf went for the man, arms outstretched, but Meredith held him back. "Please," she begged.
He halted, for her sake, but he lashed out at her past-husband, "Put a lock on your coarse tongue when you talk to my betrothed, or I will cut it out with great relish."
Bloody hell, Geirolf decided, they thought and talked too much in this land. What they needed was less brain gnashing and more body gnashing. They'd been sitting for more than an hour drinking coffee.
Well, the rest of them drank coffee. He swigged mead from a long-neck bottle. After three cups of coffee, he'd told Merry-Death he was going to piss black if he drank any more of the strong liquid.
Jeffrey had made a foolhardy remark then about his "crudity," and that was the first time Ge
irolf had split his lip. The second time was when the bastard dared to ogle Merry-Death's rump in her tight jeans whilst she bent to pick up a piece of firewood. Merry-Death had done her tsk-tsk routine at Geirolf then and refused to go upstairs and change into something more modest—like a tent.
After they'd brought Jeffrey and Jillian into the house, Merry-Death had gone to her bedchamber to soothe Thea and change from her sleeping shert into a sweating shert and the den-ham braies. Good thing she wasn't wearing the cat sweater... that he wouldn't have allowed, no matter her resistance. The visual, and tactile, delight of the cat sweater belonged only to him.
In fact, he was going to destroy it before he departed this land.
He groaned inwardly at the thought of his inevitable separation from Merry-Death. He couldn't imagine how he would survive the rest of his life without her.
But he was also more adamant than ever that he would leave her behind after tonight's incidents.
When he'd seen the scoundrel holding a gun to her head, Geirolf's blood had run cold. He'd thought he'd lost her then. And it was all his fault. He'd brought the talisman belt here; he would take it away.
And there was naught she could say that would convince him to take her with him. Especially not now. He would never, ever risk her life again. And definitely not with the almost-certain death associated with the Demon Moon and the shipwreck whirlpool. The time porthole was never intended for the likes of her.
Besides, what if he were able to take her back? And what if he were killed in one of the incessant battles with the Saxons? How would she survive alone in another time?
Merry-Death glanced up at him and his uplifted bottle with an anxious frown from where she sat on the raised hearth near his feet. He patted her head, assuring her he would behave-for now-because she asked.
She had withstood his request for mead, at first, saying she wanted him to keep a cool head. Hah! A tun of mead couldn't make him any more furious than he was now. And if he chose to beat the villainous cur to death and cut off the bitch's nose, as he sorely yearned to do, then a cup of coffee wouldn't hold him back. But Merry-Death's fervent plea had held him back—for now.
Sandra Hill - Viking II 03 - The Last Viking Page 22