by Sandra Hill
“We don’t have time for this.” He picked her up, placed her on the seat, and buckled her in, all before she had a chance to whack him a good one.
Resigned, Britta turned and greeted JAM and Cage, then said, “And who is this princeling sitting on his very own throne?”
Zach buckled himself in and turned as well. Actually, Sammy did look like some kind of self-important royalty on a throne staring down at all his underlings.
Cage quickly put a hand over Sammy’s mouth before he could tell Britta what he thought of his “throne.”
“That’s my son, Sammy,” Zach told Britta.
Sammy, whose mouth was now free, corrected him, “Samir Abdul Hassim Arsallah.”
“You forgot the Floyd in there, big boy.” To Britta, Zach explained, “His last name is Floyd, same as mine.”
“He looks just like you,” Britta observed.
“Huh? He has different hair color,” he pointed out.
She shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. He’s the spitting image of you. Pretty.”
So many people called him Pretty Boy, he no longer considered it a compliment. But he kinda liked Britta thinking he was pretty. Sammy, on the other hand, could be heard sputtering his outrage in the backseat. The last thing he wanted was to look like his father. Or pretty.
“Where are you taking me?” Britta asked as he pulled out.
“You’ll see. It’s a surprise.”
“I hate surprises.”
“You’ll like this one.”
“That’s what you said that time when you showed me tongue kissing.”
He laughed and heard laughter behind him, too, and one “Yeech!”
“Well, not as good a surprise as that.” He turned to smile at her before returning his attention to the road.
“Dolt!” she muttered.
Britta had to be terrified over this first ride in a car, but she never showed it as they cruised out of the base and toward the Coronado Bay Bridge. Her knuckles were white where she held on to her knees, but brave girl that she was, she never let out a peep.
The Bay Bridge had a high arch in the middle to allow for oceangoing vessels to pass through. When a tugboat let loose with a loud foghorn under them, Britta jumped as far as her seat belt would allow and muttered what must be a Norse curse, something about Thor’s bloody toenails.
Out of the relative quiet, Sammy said, “Scaredy cat!” As if he hadn’t practically peed his pants the first time he’d heard it. Then Sammy remarked to Britta’s back, “You sure are big.”
Uh-oh!
Britta turned slightly to look back at Sammy.
“Are those boobs for real?”
A stunned silence met his question. Where did the kid learn this stuff? Well, some of it came from the mercenaries that had lived in the rebel camps in Afghanistan. But some of it had to come from TV or Zach’s buddies or, okay, himself. He had to be more careful.
Even Cage and JAM had no smart remark to make, or none they were about to speak aloud, and Britta probably didn’t even know what he meant.
She soon proved him wrong.
“Dost know what they do with boylings in my country who misbehave?”
Sammy raised his chin defiantly.
“We boil them in oil.”
Sammy’s chin dropped, and for once he didn’t have a quick comeback.
“I think you should apologize, Sammy,” Zach said into the rearview mirror.
After a moment, to Zach’s surprise, Sammy murmured, “Sorry.”
Zach turned on the radio. He wouldn’t be able to carry on much of a conversation with Britta, but then she wouldn’t be able to hear Sammy’s crude remarks.
Britta remained quiet on the half-hour ride while he pointed out various landmarks. And the country music station told her all about cheating hearts, low-down men, and redneck women.
Soon they pulled into the driveway of Mac and Madrene’s modest oceanfront cottage. There were a half dozen other cars around, indicating the party was already in full swing.
He got out, then walked around to help Britta, who was struggling with her seat belt, complaining about being a prisoner. Since it was a two-door, the guys had to wait till they were out first to emerge.
“What does that say?” Britta asked, pointing to a banner that had been draped across the bay window in front. She seemed to have no trouble understanding the spoken language here but apparently could not read. Yet.
He smiled and squeezed her to his side. “Welcome, Britta.”
“Well, ’tis past time you offered me welcome to your country. And keep your tempting fingers to yourself.”
He kept his tempting fingers right where they were, pressing against the bare, warm skin of her exposed waist, and smiled. “Not me, honey. That’s what the banner says. Welcome, Britta.”
“Huh?”
Just then, Sammy came up to him, having been released from his car seat by one of the guys. Adjusting the matching Polo for Kids shorts outfit Zach’s mother had bought for him, complete with its very own mini-golf shirt, Sammy said, “I look like a dork.”
“A cute dork,” Cage remarked.
“Bite me!” Sammy replied. “Everyone’s gonna laugh at me.”
“No, they’re not,” JAM said. “They’re gonna pinch your cheeks and tell you what a handsome little fella you are.”
The guys were not helping at all, which was probably their intent.
Sammy snarled and narrowed his eyes.
Zach recognized the crafty gleam in the kid’s eyes, which presaged his bolting to parts unknown, like the proverbial roadrunner. Quickly, he grabbed him by the belt of his shorts with his free hand, then wrapped the same arm around his waist, lifting him off the ground.
Thus it was that when he emerged at the back of the house, he had Britta tucked against his one side and Sammy tucked on the other side, his little sandals two feet off the ground, his little butt in the air, his arms and legs flailing wildly.
“SURPRISE!” the crowd yelled. And they looked as surprised at the picture the three of them must have made as Britta was at the dozen or so people waiting for them.
There were people in the crowd Britta knew but hadn’t seen for years. They’d gathered to welcome her to…California. A surprise!
Britta claimed to be okay with where she’d landed in Coronado, but she had to be feeling lost. Zach’s heart ached for her. This party had been the only thing he could think of to help her.
“Smile, you two,” he told his two human appendages.
Under her breath, Britta said, “I am going to kill you.”
“Kin I help?” Sammy asked.
Chapter 7
Hail, hail, the gang’s all here…
“Good tidings, Britta! Welcome to Ah-mare-eek-ah!”
“Didja bring yer big-ass sword? Ha, ha, ha!”
“Has Pretty Boy lured you into his bed furs yet? Ouch, why did you elbow me, Alison?”
“Give the lady some room, fellas. Remember me, Britta? Torolf. C’mere, Britta baby, and give me a big ol’ wet kiss.”
“Mind your manners, husband.”
“How does The Sanctuary fare?”
“Oooh, Britta, you look hot, hot, hot.”
“Forsooth, give the lady room to breathe.”
Zachary had released his hold on her shoulders and squeezed her hand, letting her know he was still beside her. For once, she welcomed his presence.
Britta blinked with confusion. Pressing in front of her was a blur of people—men, women, and children—in colorful clothing that nigh blinded the eye. Leastways, colorful compared to her time where drab brown was the norm for common folks. On some women were knee-length gunnas that left the shoulders and legs shockingly bare. Lips were rouged and eyelids kohled.
Other people were adorned with flowered sherts, like Zachary’s, but also tanking tops and tea-sherts, like hers, of all the colors of the rainbow. On bottom, worn by men as well as women, were braies made of den-ham, a popular fabric in thi
s country, as well as short braies that barely reached the knees.
And the noise…what a cacophony of shouted greetings! Lively music…a man singing of wasting away in Margaret’s villa, having only a last shaker of salt, and a woman to blame. A baby was crying, people laughing, all against the backdrop of the roaring ocean waves. There was even a barely stifled sob!
Then suddenly silence, except for the ocean.
Everyone stared at her, smiling, expecting some response.
Slowly, Britta began to take in the scene before her as faces became separate and in some cases familiar.
There was Ragnor Magnusson. A handsome rascal still, who was surprisingly wed to the sister of the WEALS’ dour Commander MacLean, who, not surprisingly, stood looking dour beside his wife Madrene. A little boyling sat on his shoulders pounding on his head; it must be the infamous Ivan the Terrible. Madrene held a sleeping babe against her shoulder.
And, oh my gods and goddesses, waving at her over there was her good friend Hilda, though she could barely recognize her in her new attire: white den-ham braies, like her own black ones, and a fluttery long-sleeved shert that was nigh transparent, showing underneath the female harness known as a bra…in her case, a black lacy one. Her hair was still long but arrayed in wild curls. Standing next to her was that grinning rogue, Torolf, who had a restraining hold on the hand of a squirming child scarce out of swaddling clothes. The boy had Torolf’s mischievous eyes and Hilda’s silver-colored hair.
Also in attendance were Geek, whom she already knew, and several others she did not recognize, some of whom must be SEALs, and was that Kirstin Magnusson over there? Sweet Frigg, she had not seen Kirstin since they had both been girlings at a Hedeby Althing. She saw Cage slip an arm around Kirstin’s waist, which Kirstin promptly slapped away. But she grinned as she did so.
In the background stood an aging Magnus Ericsson, a giant of a man. Britta was tall. Zachary was taller than she. Magnus was even taller still. His long, light brown hair, threaded with gray, was plaited into thin war braids on either side of his face, exposing big ears. He wore a belted tunic and slim braies. Still Viking to the bone!
It was all so confusing…and overwhelming. So many people that Britta had thought dead! More than ten years ago, Magnus Ericsson and nine of his eleven living children had supposedly been involved in a shipwreck in Iceland with no survivors. Ragnor had died in battle; everyone said so. Madrene had been captured by the evil Steinolf and sold as a slave in the Arab lands. And her good friend Hilda, surely she had died in that avalanche that even Britta had witnessed; no one could have survived that disaster.
What is happening? Could it really be time travel? Surely not! But what other explanation is there?
Instinctively, she stepped even closer to Zachary.
He squeezed her shoulder, kissed the top of her head, and whispered in her ear. “It’s okay. Everything’s gonna be all right, babe.”
“So you say!”
“Behave yourself.” He pinched her bottom.
To which she yelped, then shoved his chest.
Startled, he fell backward onto the sand.
Betimes Britta did not know her own strength.
Everyone was laughing as Zachary stood, rubbing his buttocks.
“I did not mean to hurt you,” she apologized begrudgingly.
“That’s okay. You can kiss it and make it better.”
Her eyes widened. “You want me to kiss your arse?”
Luckily, he was the only one to hear that remark. He grinned and said, “Only if you want to.”
“You are making jest of me in front of one and all. I did not mean to knock you down.” It was as close to an apology as the brute would get from her. But, really, ’twas embarrassing when she hurt people accidentally, one of the disadvantages of her great size. Hopefully, that great size would prove an advantage in the WEALS.
She held out a hand to help Zachary up to stand beside her. A big mistake.
He immediately put his mouth near her ear again. “After the party’s over, I’ll take you to my place and rock your world,” he told her, then blew a hot breath, which slingshotted all the way through her body, arousing even her pores.
She turned fully, brow creased with a mixture of irritation and confusion. His face was mere inches from hers. In truth, she could smell the mint on his breath and feel his manheat. Her traitorous body reacted with pearling nipples and a pulsing betwixt her legs, the usual response of late to this too-handsome man. Even the spot he had pinched throbbed. Next she would be drooling like Hilda’s dog Stig, who had been ever randy.
“Orgasms,” he explained, waggling his eyebrows.
Huh? Oh. So, that is what ‘rocking my world’ means. “You could try!” she said with more assurance than she felt, then pushed away from him and headed toward Hilda, who was motioning for her to approach. Why had she ever mentioned the subject of orgy-as-hims…rather, orgasms…to the man? Now he used it against her.
To her back, she heard Zachary say, “Oh, I’ll definitely try. Count on it.” There was a smile in his voice.
“Lackbrain!” she muttered as she resumed stomping away.
Magnus was the first to greet her with a tight hug that lifted her feet off the ground. “Welcome to Ah-mare-eek-ah, Britta. Is your father still the greedy bastard he once was?”
She had to smile at Magnus’s frank manner. “Worse,” she answered as he placed her on her feet. “I do not understand.” Britta rubbed her eyes with both hands, then looked at the big man again. “I thought…everyone thought you were dead.”
“Do not try to take it all in right now,” Magnus advised. “Give yourself time to adjust to what you will discover is an amazing adventure.”
“Amazing, for a certainty,” she agreed.
“I came soon as I heard of your arrival, dearling. My wife Angela would have come, but she is busy with a wine festival.”
Britta appreciated the welcome.
“Come stay with us,” he urged. “’Tis a confusing time, I warrant. Best you make a home at Blue Dragon till you decide what to do.”
She shook her head. “My thanks for the offer, Magnus, but I know what I want to do.”
“The military?”
She nodded.
“’Tis no place for a woman,” he grumbled and would have said more, but a red-haired woman stepped up beside him and extended a hand to Britta, then held Britta’s hand in both of hers.
“Don’t pay any attention to Papa Ericsson. He is still living in the Dark Ages.”
“Humph!” Magnus said, walking away to pick up an amber glass bottle, then putting it to his mouth.
“Hi, I’m Alison MacLean Magnusson, Ian’s sister and Ragnor’s wife.”
Aaah, she should have known by the red hair and the resemblance to Commander MacLean.
“I’m in the Navy, too,” Alison said. “We need to talk later if you really are serious about WEALS. You’ll need some outside instruction, like Ragnor did when he first came here. English as a second language. World history. That kind of thing. I’ll give you a buzz.”
Britta wondered what she meant. Was she going to buzz by her, like a bee? Although she was able to understand English, some words spoken here were still confusing.
“You do not try to talk me out of my military inclinations?”
“Good heavens, no! Why would I do that? I’d be in the WEALS program myself if I weren’t married. And, hey, I saw you give Pretty Boy a shove. Good for you, girl! He’s needed a good comeuppance for a long time.”
This was a woman Britta could like.
A short time later, after being hugged warmly by those people she already knew and introduced to others, a stunned Britta sat at the far end of the deck, a wooden ledge attached to the keep, talking with Madrene and Hilda and Kirstin. The men were at the other end, watching an object called a grill as it sizzled meat and drinking from the amber glass bottles. Grown men watching meat cook! Ridiculous!
Even more ridiculous, ou
t on the beach some distance away, Britta saw a man being led on a leash by a dog who pulled him hither and yon, then squatted down to deposit his waste on the sand. The ridiculous thing, though, was that the man used a small metal scoop to pick up the leavings and place them in a bag. Then the dog led him off again. What was the man going to do with the dog leavings? What a strange land this was!
Britta and the three women from her past spent an hour catching up on old news, mostly her telling them all that had happened after Hilda left The Sanctuary or how Norstead and Amberstead fared these days. Britta assured Hilda that The Sanctuary still thrived…alas, there would always be women fleeing abusive men…but not so many as when Hilda had been there. As to the two estates, they flourished under the Ericsson cousins from Norsemandy, Thorfinn and Steven.
“We wanted to talk to you in private,” Hilda began, “about the time travel.”
Britta groaned her opinion. That again!
“There are some things you need to know,” added Kirstin, the sister to Torolf, Ragnor, and Madrene. She worked at a school for adults called You-Seal-Aye teaching ancient history, the turn of the tenth century and beginning of the eleventh century. Dark Ages, Kirstin called it, which Britta could understand. Everything was brighter here, including the buildings with their magic lighting.
“Come inside, Britta,” Madrene suggested. “Let me show you some things that should convince you that this is a different time.” Once in the scullery, Madrene demonstrated a large box that kept food cold and even made ice, another box with fire circles on top that cooked food without flames, and a loud whirring hole where wet garbage was chewed up and washed away. No middens here, apparently. Off the kitchen, there were two more boxes, one for washing clothes and the other for drying them. There was even an object that sucked up dirt from the floor, as if brooms were not sufficient.
Madrene and her husband must have had great wealth, although Britta was not impressed at all by the size of their keep. Compared to Norstead and the nearby Magnusson farmstead where Madrene and her family had grown up, this dwelling would scarce fill the great halls.
After a tour of the downstairs, they went up to Madrene’s bathing chamber, where she showed Britta a vast array of woman products…flesh-colored face creams, cheek rouges, lip paints, eye kohl. Laughing, the three ladies sat Britta down on the closed porcelain privy and showed her how to use the various items. Soon they had her hair unbraided and spread out in spiral curls. The faint imperfections in her face—she’d had no idea she even had imperfections—were smoothed out with liquid “makeup.” Her eyelashes were curled and colored a dark brown, making them appear extremely long and full. And on her lips they applied red lip gloss.