"Aidan," the man replied.
Geirolf choked out. "St. Aidan?"
"I know naught about sainthood," the man said, his ethereal eyes twinkling as if at some jest.
"Are you the monk who started a religious order on Lindisfame?" Geirolf couldn't believe he'd actually asked such a question. If true, it would mean that the had lived here more than thirteen centuries ago.
Ridiculous!
But is it any more ridiculous than my living in the tenth century? Or traveling here from the tenth century?
Geirolf put a hand to his throbbing head.
"Dost thou trouble thyself about matters thou can't control, my son?" the man inquired with concern, his misty eyes seeming to pierce Rolf's soul. "Nothing will happen but what God wills."
Geirolf raised his eyes hopefully. Perhaps this priest if that he was, had the answers.
"I believe you have some thing for me," the monk put out a palm.
Shiver passed over Geirolf's flesh. Without hesitation, he undid the clasp on his talisman belt and removed the sacred relic. He placed the crucifix in the monk's hand, which immediately closed over it. Then, with a sigh, the monk said, "It is done."
"What's done? Who are you, really? And why am I here?"
Once again, the monk just smiled softly at him.
"When time comes full circle, the line will continue."
"Huh? What kind of riddle is that?"
He made the sign of the cross in the air before Rolf.
"Bless you, my son."
"But... but... what am I supposed to do now?"
"Fulfill thy destiny."
"Destiny? What destiny?" Geirolf cried to the monk's departing back.
Just then, a gusty breeze came up, whipping his long hair across his face. In the second it took for Geirolf to brush the strands from in front of his eyes, the monk was gone.
"Fulfill thy destiny, " the monk had said, but Geirolf had no idea what that destiny could be... until his gaze, still scanning the windswept coastline for the monk, snagged on a red object nestled amongst the craggy rocks. How could he have missed it?
Stepping closer, he saw a single red rose grow amid the ruins. Hunkering down, he sniffed the air permeated with the flower's scent. And then he smiled, It was a sign.
Geirolf now knew what his destiny was.
Merry-Death.
"Professor Foster, we have another applicant for captain position," Mike said, poking his head into the doorway of her office at the end of the day.
Meredith's head jerked up from the papers she'd been grading, and she glanced quickly at her watch.
Six o'clock. She would have to leave soon to pick up Thea after soccer practice. She was surprised to see Mike here so late. Since he'd begun dating Sonja, he didn't hang around evenings anymore. And why wasn't he at the longship site?
But she was even more surprised to hear him announce another candidate for the longship job. They'd filled the post, albeit unsatisfactorily, the week before with a young boating enthusiast from Michigan.
"Tell him we've stopped interviewing." Meredith took off her reading glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. She noticed then the paleness of Mike's complexion and the way he held a fist to his mouth, as if to suppress some great emotion. "Are you sick?" she asked with concern, standing and moving to the side of her desk.
He shook his head. "I think you'll want to meet this applicant," Mike insisted. "He's perfect for the job. With that, he stepped back, calling over his shoulder, "Sonja and I will go to pick up Thea at the school."
Before she had a chance to react to Mike's unsolicited offer, a very tall man started to back into the office, speaking softly to Mike as he entered. At first, all Meredith could see was long legs encased in loafers and designer jeans, and broad shoulders covered with collarless, white linen dress shirt and a dark blue suit, no, she observed something else in that split second. Long, pale brown hair pulled back into a pony-tail. Just like...
Her heart lurched, then pounded madly against her chest as the man turned in what seemed an exaggerated slow motion. And a pair of familiar whiskey eyes clung to hers with staggering adoration.
As blood drained from her head, a wave of lightheadedness swamped her. She grabbed onto the edge of her desk to prevent herself from fainting. She blinked once, twice, three times to make sure she wasn't hallucinating. The proof stood before her still, eyes brimming with tenderness, waiting for her recognition. A Viking, to be sure, despite the modern trappings.
A sob escaped her tortured lungs.
"Dearling," he rasped.
"Rolf!" she cried and threw herself into his arms. "You came back!"
At last! Geirolf thought when he got his first glimpse of Merry-Death. In that brief flash of time before she launched herself at him, he saw that she'd reverted back to drab brown braies and shert, and her luxuriant mahogany hair was pulled back into a nunlike knot at her nape.
He would change that soon enough, but for now he closed his eyes as an overwhelming rush of pleasure surged over him. His misery at being parted from Merry-Death had been a physical pain, he realized now. One touch from her and he was healed.
Kicking the door shut with his heel and flicking the lock with a snap of his fingers, he proceeded to lift Merry-Death more tightly into his embrace, her legs dangling above the floor, his face buried in her neck.
He inhaled deeply, and the faint scent of roses filled his senses.
He was home. At last!
With a bone-deep sigh, he raised his head.He couldn't resist skimming his mouth lightly across hers. He almost swooned with the heady bliss of his lips on hers once again. Immediately, the kiss turned hungry and devouring. It had been too long. Too damn long!
Finally, she tore her mouth from his, panting for breath. She held his face in her hands and gazed at him with pure love. Tears streamed down her face from eyes that looked like liquid emeralds.
"Did you feel the tingle?" She gasped, pressing the fingertips of one hand to her lips. "Oh, God, I haven't tingled for six long weeks."
He smiled. Yes, there was a definite tingle on his lips... and other unmentionable body parts. He smiled wider.
Somehow, they'd moved to the desk, and she was half-sitting, half-leaning against the side with him bent over her. Rolf stretched out an arm and swept all the papers, pens, and other profess-whorely debris from her desk, then hoisted her up so she could lie flat on her back.
In a pinch, Vikings were known to improvise a bed for coupling anywhere. In fact, some said a Norseman could mate on a glacier if the lust was upon him, Geirolf recalled. His brother Jorund once claimed to have made love in a tree, but Geirolf hardly credited that as true.
In his haste, he didn't bother to undress her, or himself. He merely pulled her braies and silk panties to her knees in one swoop, buttons flying hither and yon.
And he undid the snap and zipper on his jeans—Lord, these modem men knew what they were doing when they invented zippers. In the blink of an eye, he was poised over her. He would have bruises on his knees from the hard desk, but who could worry about that now? Every Viking warrior knew the best-won battles were worth a little pain.
Her eyes narrowed at him. "You haven't been tingling anyone else while you've been gone, have you?"
He tried to laugh, but it came out as a suffocated gurgle. "Sweetling, would I be on you like an over-eager pup if I had been tingling another wench?"
She smiled sweetly, pulling him forward with one hand wrapped around the back of his neck. The other hand was wrapped about his man-part to guide him, thus causing stars to burst behind his eyeballs. He fought for restraint. And then—Bless the gods!—he was inside the hot, welcoming sheath of his beloved.
Between his strokes, he planted feathery kisses on her eyelids, chin, the soft pulse spot beneath her ear, her forehead, the tip of her nose. And intermingled with his kisses were the softspoken endearments expressed by them both on how much they'd missed each other and how wonderful it was to be t
ogether again.
"You broke my heart," she whispered.
"I'll put it back together"' he promised, "with my love."
"Never leave me again.
"Never!"
"I love you, Geirolf Ericsson."
"I love you, Merry-Death Ericsson."
The earth moved then as they came to an explosive, mutual climax. Or mayhap it was just the desk skidding across the wooden floor from the force of their love-making.
He preferred the former explanation. Another sign from the gods. In truth, he could swear he heard a clap of Thor's thunder in the distance. Or was it the Christian one-god clapping at this thick-headed heathen finally fulfilling his destiny?
As he and Merry-Death lay sated in each other's arms, murmuring their awe at the fates that had ordained their converging paths, Geirolf pondered whether it was too soon to ask Merry-Death if she had any Oreos at her keep.
Meredith couldn't believe how dramatically her life had changed in a few short hours. As they headed toward the pink convertible in the faculty parking lot, she kept looking at Rolf just to make sure she wasn't dreaming.
"You kept the car," Rolf commented with a smile, reaching over to brush a wisp of wind-tossed hair behind her ear. He couldn't stop touching her. She felt the same way.
She raised her chin defensively at his remark about the car. "I haven't had time to get rid of it yet," she lied. Although she'd protested his purchase of the horrendous car in the beginning, threatening to sell it the moment he was gone, she'd come to love the gas guzzler, which could be seen even from this distance—a football-field length away, thanks to its Pepto-Bismol color.
He laughed, and continued to ask her nonstop questions. She had a ton of questions for him, as well. What happened when he'd traveled back to the tenth century? Had the famine ended? How had he managed to come back? But she let Rolf talk first.
"I feel like I've been gone a millennium, instead of six weeks." He expelled a breath and pulled her snugly against his side, kissing the top of her head. "Tell me everything that's happened since I've been gone."
"It's been hell."
"For me, too, sweetling." He squeezed her shoulder. "Is Thea adjusting?"
"Extremely well. Oh, she's been distraught over your"—she looked at him with dismay—"death. But kids are resilient, and Thea is blooming in this environment."
"Speaking of blooming—why is your face so flushed? You're not feverish, are you?"
Meredith's heart skipped a beat. Rolf didn't know about her pregnancy Yet. In fact, no one did; she'd planned to keep the secret to herself until she began to show in another month or two. She cast him a shy sideways glance. Would he be happy? Of course, he would. But this wasn't the time to give him the news.
Later. She wanted the moment to be special... just right. "Merry-Death?" Rolf cocked his head, prompted her.
"It must be the sun," she answered evasively, and then wiggled her eyebrows at him, "or our lovemaking."
He nodded with arrogant satisfaction. "Just don't think of getting sick now—at least not till we've made love another ten or twenty or fifty times—"
Yep, arrogance was second nature to Rolf.
As they arrived at her car, she tossed her briefcase into the back seat and turned to him, lifting a skeptical eyebrow.
He winked.
"Promises, promises," she taunted, barely able to suppress a giggle at the flutter of butterflies in her stomach that his mere wink engendered. "By the way, where did you get the footsy duds?"
"London," Rolf remarked idly, about to open the car door.
Uh-oh! Geirolf thought, realizing his blunder immediately.
"London?" The soft expression on Merry-Death's face went hard as a rock. She speared him with an incredulous scowl. "You just got back after six weeks in the past, and you decided to go to London before seeing me?"
He'd also forgotten her talent for ear-splitting shrieks.
"What? No, you misunderstood, Merry-Death," he said, trying for a casual tone. "The time-travel reversal failed. I have been... " His words trailed off as he saw her demeanor become even stiffer.
"The time reversal didn't work?" she gritted out. "Are you saying that you've been around the neighborhood for the past six weeks and you never bothered to inform me of the fact?"
"Not the neighborhood, sweetling. Europe." He tried to put an arm around her shoulder. He wasn't surprised when she shoved his hand away.
"You moron! You beast! How could you do that to me? Oh, to think of the agony I've been through!" She put her face in her trembling hands. "I never thought you could be so cruel."
"Merry-Death, let me explain."
"No!" she shouted and stormed to the other side of the car, opening the driver's door. Bracing her hands on her hips, tears of anger and hurt welling her eyes, she told him icily, "I thought I was used to betrayal, after Jeffrey, but this... this is the worst thing any man has ever done to me. I never want to see you again. Do you hear me? It's over."
"Never!" How dare she liken him to that misbegotten past-husband of hers! He had just cause for his actions. Love for her had been his guiding light. "Merry-Death, if you would only listen. I had good reason for pretending to have died."
"Nothing—nothing—in this world could justify that." She slipped into the driver's seat and slammed the door. Turning on the ignition, she revved the motor, then glared at him as he prepared to slide into the seat next to her. "Out! You are not coming home with me now."
"Where should I go?" he sputtered.
"I don't know," she wailed. "I don't dare."
Stung, he removed his body from her vehicle and slammed his door shut with equal vehemence. "You don't mean that, Merry-Death. Have a 'caution with your harsh condemnations. Some words, once spoken, can ne'er be taken back."
She pressed her forehead against the steering wheel for a moment. Then with a long sigh, she looked up at him. "I care, Rolf, but some things are more important in life."
"More important than love?" he scoffed.
"Yes. Like trust. Commitment. Honor. I need some. time alone to think this through, Rolf. Don't follow me. Please."
Before he had a chance to tell her that she would be unable to reflect on the matter without all the facts, Merry-Death's car roared away in a cloud of exhausting fumes. And Geirolf's Viking pride kicked in.
Trust went both ways. Where was Merry-Death's trust in him?
And what made her, imagine he would chase after her like some milksop swain? He'd suffered much these past sennights, trying to find a way to stay in her time. And did she appreciate his efforts? Nay!
Worst of all, Merry-Death had questioned his honor.
That insult he could not countenance. That slur to his integrity was the verbal knife wound that hurt the most. Well, let her come to him when her common sense returned. He was a Viking. No more would he demean himself in pursuit where he was not wanted.
It was not the homecoming he'd envisioned.
Chapter Twenty
"Oh, my God! Aunt Mer, hurry! You've got to see this! Thea called from the living room.
Meredith wiped her hands on a dish towel and turned down the flame under the pot of chicken soup simmering on the stove. With deliberate care, she plastered a smile on her face as she prepared to go into the other room, not wanting her niece to see how she was splintering apart inside.
It had been a week since Rolf had returned... a week during which pride had prevented each from approaching the other. Despite the urging from Mike and Thea, who'd both spoken with Rolf on numerous occasions—in fact, Rolf was staying with Mike—she'd refused to meet with him. Her feelings were still too raw.
And she feared for her baby. Did she want to bring the baby's father into its life if he might leave at a moment's notice? Or choose not to be in their lives, as he'd done so callously those past six weeks?
Meredith groaned as she saw why Thea had beckoned her into the living room. The girl was watching Home Improvement on the television. D
og slept at her feet, all four legs spread out.
Then Meredith did a double-take.
Was that Rolf on the screen, conversing with Tim "The Toolman" Taylor, his friend Al, and the neighbor Wilson?
It was.
Somehow, the insufferable brute had managed to get himself on the network program. He'd better not be planning on bringing the show here. I already warned him about that. He'd better not involve the Trondheim Venture. He'd better not...
Hah! The thick-headed fool would do whatever he wanted, as evidenced by his face being plastered on nationwide television—just the kind of exposure she'd warned him could be dangerous.
Rolf was dressed in full Viking regalia: thigh-length deerskin tunic, cross-gartered ankle boots, and a wide leather belt with a gold buckle. In fact, the TV cast members wore similar attire as they stood admiring a Viking longship that sat, incongruously, in Tim's drive-way.
But how had they gotten a longship on the set with such short notice? This particular model must have come from a museum, or else it had been whipped up hastily with plywood and hot glue. Or duct tape—the dumb man's favorite tool toy.
"It's a show about how Tim soups up his motorboat to be a 'real man's motorboat,' " Thea apprised her hastily, giving her a quick catch-up on what had already transpired in the program. "When he and AI tried it out on a local lake, the speedboat went about one hundred and fifty miles per hour. Of course, the stupid thing ran into the wharf, where Tim met this Viking character, played by Rolf, who had just come in from sailing his longship. Isn't that a cool storyline, Aunt Mer?"
Yeah, real cool! Studying the screen, Meredith decided that the armsmen looked ludicrous, especially Tim, who spotted an large bronze horned helmet, Al had a battle-ax propped over one shoulder. Wilson's face was screened by a battle shield.
On second thought, Rolf didn't look ludicrous. He looked absolutely gorgeous. As usual. Dam it!
Meredith frowned. Where was Rolf's talisman belt?
Now that she thought about it, he hadn't been wearing it last week when she'd seen him, either. And he never went anywhere without that blasted belt. Unless...
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