by Sandra Hill
Finn continued to peruse a photo album and all the framed photographs he had taken off the mantel and spread out on the coffee table, not bothering to look up as she walked over. She sat down on the ottoman and picked up the wedding picture, where Dave’s tanned skin was a sharp contrast to his dress whites. His dark hair had been trimmed into its usual high and tight. The lines that later bracketed his mouth and eyes from repeated violent live ops had been absent then. He gazed down at her with a big goofy smile and dancing eyes that promised loveplay later. And she, in white gown and veil—Was I really that innocent and hopeful?—stared up at him as if he were her everything. Well, he had been.
“Why do you weep?”
Her head jerked up to see Finn staring at her.
Setting the picture down, she swiped at her eyes. “I miss him so much.”
“Dave?”
She nodded.
“And that is why you have engaged in bedsport with me as if I am your long-lost love?”
She nodded again, ignoring his sarcasm.
“I am not Dave.”
“I know that now.” I think. “Still . . .”
He cocked his head in question.
“Still . . . I can’t get rid of the notion that there’s some connection. You mentioned Baghdad. Did I tell you that Dave died in Baghdad?”
“You may have said something. How long ago?”
“Five years.”
“Five years . . . pfff! The lackwit event that drew me here took place a mere three months ago.”
“Now see, I could accept your story, but then you talk with a foreign accent, English but not English, using words like lackwit or sweetling. And you drop little bombs like the fact that you were drawn here. What do you mean by drawn? Like an angel?”
He grinned, something His Somberness rarely did. And—be still my heart—he had a wonderful, crooked grin, accented by one cute dimple. “No one has ever likened me to an angel. The devil . . . now that is another story.”
“Then what did you mean?”
“I cannot explain right now. Suffice it to say, my means of getting here was unusual and against my will.”
“You don’t see anything peculiar in our coming together? ”
“Oh, these are peculiar matters, indeed.” He held up a baby picture of Mike, taken in the hospital soon after his birth, and said something which totally knocked her for a loop. “This, m’lady, is my son, Miklof.”
The big gruff Viking had tears in his eyes.
Chapter 8
Being a love-slave master is such hard work . . . not! . . .
“Come here,” he said, motioning her toward him with the fingers of his free hand.
“No. I don’t take orders,” the foolish wench said as she stood and dug in her heels.
“More is the pity!” Hell and Valhalla! I am going to enjoy this. He reached out suddenly, grabbed her hand, and yanked her hard. She flew toward him, landing across his lap. With a slap to her bottom, he set her on the cushioned pallet-type furniture beside him.
She gasped and glared at him.
“I must needs explain my situation to you . . . well, part of it . . . and see if you can make sense of all this insanity. ”
Straightening her back, she gave him her full attention.
She was a beautiful woman; he had to give her credit there. Long hair like ebony silk down to her shoulder blades. Golden skin . . . from the sun, no doubt. Women in his time did everything in their power to preserve a milk-white complexion. Ne’er would they be caught basking in the sun, as women in this country did.
And then there was her heart-shaped mouth, which was red from his kisses . . . an observation which caused his man-pride to puff up. As if his mark on her was something to commend.
And her body . . . well, her body he could grow accustomed to . . . and already had.
Best of all . . . or worst of all, since this had to be a passing liaison . . . was her zest in the bedsport. Luta had at best endured his lovemaking. Lydia gave as good as she got.
“I was married to a woman named Luta . . . a girl, really, ” he started. “When I was twenty-five and she was eighteen, we had a son. A mere two weeks after the birthing, she rose from her bed and left my keep, taking the babe with her. Disappeared like the wind, she did. Only later did I discover that she’d had a lover afore our marriage . . . a merchant . . . who returned and took her off on his trading ship—willingly, I might add. Rumor has it that they all died in a violent sea storm, but—”
She put a hand on his arm. “But you haven’t been able to accept the death.”
He nodded. “I searched for more than a year, but nothing. Oh, I cared not what happened to the traitorous Luta, but my son . . .” His choked voice trailed off.
“You loved him very much, then, even though you’d only had him for a few weeks?”
“I loved him in the womb. I loved him as I caught his wee body coming out of the womb. I loved the way his big silver eyes stared up at me, as if he recognized me.” He ignored the tears of sympathy welling in her eyes. “Several months past I got word that a woman and boy resembling Luta and Miklof had been seen in Baghdad.”
“Ah, so that’s why you were in Baghdad?”
“Yea, my brother Steven and I traveled there with our seamen. To no avail. It was not Luta.”
She was frowning now, trying to figure out what all this had to do with her. When understanding came, she gasped. “You can’t believe that Michael . . . Mike . . . and your son are one and the same.”
“The evidence is there,” he said, pointing to the picture in front of him on the low table.
“He is not your son.”
“So you say.”
For a brief second, she did not see the implications of his contention, but then she did. “No! You cannot have him. He’s mine.” She tried to stand, but he pushed her back down and held her at his side with a firm arm around her shoulders. Only when her squirming and flailing of arms and kicking of legs and spitting out foul words had died down did he seat her on the low table in front of him, betwixt his widespread knees.
Still holding her by the shoulders, he said, “I need to see the boy. Methinks I will know for a certainty if he is Miklof. Just as there is a maternal bond, a father knows his son, too.”
“That’s bull. You’re looking for a substitute for your lost son, and you’ll see things that aren’t there.”
“Like you see your dead husband in me?”
“That’s different. I’ll tell you this, I’ll never let you see Mike if there’s even the remotest chance you plan to take him from me.”
“Who said aught about taking him?” Especially since I have nowhere to take him at the present time.
“What then?”
Bloody hell! How do I know? “Mayhap we will raise him together.”
That caused her mouth to drop open.
He waggled his eyebrows at her, the way Steven did when playing the fool. “Mayhap I will even pretend to be your Dave, if you are very nice to me.”
Her mouth slammed shut, and her eyes flashed blue fire, but then she said, “When pigs fly.”
He just laughed and stood, drawing her up beside him, then tugging her along like a troublesome puppy as he walked to the bedchamber where he had left his den-ham braies.
At first she balked, no doubt figuring he was up for another bout of swiving. He was, but that would have to wait. Pulling a piece of parchment out of the leather money pouch that had been in his braies pocket, he handed it to her and said, “I need you to tap this number into your telephone. ”
“What? Whose number is it?”
Thorfinn had become familiar with the amazing talking device known as a telephone, but was still unclear how to do it himself. On this parchment was a series of numbers Torolf had given him in case of an emergency.
“Do not worry yourself about who it is. Just do it. In fact, make us something to break our fast whilst I am talking.”
She sputtered her indig
nation at his giving her orders. Stubborn wench!
“I have a fierce hunger . . . for food. Well, for that other, too, but first things first,” he continued. “That meal you prepared for us earlier was not enough to satisfy a cat.”
“You ate enough to feed a horse, and it was followed by a quart of strawberry ice cream.”
“And your point?” Whilst they talked, he was already walking back toward the scullery, where he’d last seen the telephone. She muttered as he led her by hand after him, grinning to himself, enjoying the ease with which he could rouse her temper.
Lydia tapped in the numbers and began rummaging through the cold chest, searching for provender. He sat on a high stool, listening to the ringing sound from the phone pressed up to his ear. Every once in a while, he gave her an exaggerated lustsome look, just to annoy her. This whole time-travel nonsense must be causing his brain to regress back to childhood if he got his pleasures in such boyling pranks.
“Hello!” Torolf barked into the phone.
“Greetings.”
“Son of a bitch! Is that you, Finn?”
“My mother was not a bitch, and well you know it.”
“Where the hell are you? Are you all right?”
“Of course I am all right. I am here, spending time with my love slave.”
“Oh. My. God!”
Lydia threw eye-daggers his way.
“You’re going to get yourself arrested!”
“Arrested? Dost mean by the law men? Nay, that will not happen. The wench made me her love slave first.”
“Oh. My. God!”
“You are repeating yourself, cousin.”
“You are the dumbest arrogant brick-for-brains idiot in the world. Give me your address, and I’ll come pick you up.”
“Nay. Not yet. I still have much love-slaving to do yet.”
Lydia muttered something a lady should not say.
“Give me your damn address,” Torolf yelled into the telephone.
“Nay, I do not think that would be wise.”
“Let me talk to your . . . to the woman.”
“My love slave is busy.”
“Doing what? Shit! You’re not getting a blow job while we’re talking, are you?”
He moved the phone away from his ear and asked Lydia, “What is a blow job?”
Her face went bloodred, and her eyes fixed on the region of his male parts.
He frowned, then figured it out himself. He was not a total lackwit, despite what Torolf thought. “Nay, not just now,” he said into the telephone. “But last night, for a certainty, praise the gods!”
“I am going to kill you.”
“For getting a blow job? Hey, I blew her, too. Do you and your sweet wife not blow each other?” ’Twas hard for him to picture Hilda engaging in such acts. If it were him, he would not allow her teeth within biting distance of his manparts.
“Don’t you dare ever ask Hilda that question. She would draw and quarter you.”
“She could try. Really, Torolf, you need to exert some authority over your woman. She gives new meaning to the word shrew. Dost want to be considered a milksop like Ivan the Woman-Whipped?”
After Torolf gave him the telephone numbers for his tutor, with Thorfinn repeating them aloud so Lydia could write them down, his cousin asked, “How long do you expect to be with your . . . um, love slave?”
In the background, he could hear Hilda squawking, something about, “Love slave? That male chauvinist cousin of yours is going to land us all in jail.”
Ignoring Hilda’s prattle, to Torolf he said, “About two sennights . . . till I meet my son.”
There was silence at the other end. Then a long sigh. “Finn, your son is dead. You’ve got to accept that and get on with your life.”
“Mayhap he is, and mayhap he is not. I must needs be sure.”
“Listen, buddy, I’m going operational tonight, and I might not be back for a week or so. I would feel a lot better if you were back here at the apartment, or at Blue Dragon.”
“I will be fine here. Do not worry. If there is a problem, I will call Ragnor or your father, whose numbers you gave me along with your own. Is Geek going with you?”
“Why?”
“Just answer me.”
“No, Geek won’t be traveling with us. He sprained his ankle in P.T. this morning.”
“Good.”
“Good? Geek being hurt in physical training is good? What kind of half-assed remark is that?”
“Enough of this prattle, Torolf. May Thor guide your weapon arm on your mission and Odin give you wise counsel for strategy. We will speak on your return.” Thorfinn clicked off the talking connection before his cousin could question or chastise him more. Really, Torolf treated him like a youthling, not a grown man of thirty winters.
Next he consulted the parchment he’d given Lydia with the numbers on it. This time, with much care, he tapped in the numbers for Geek himself, and prided himself on his success.
After first gaining a pledge of secrecy from Geek as to his whereabouts, he made arrangements for the young man to come there later that afternoon, urging him to bring his lap computer, a magic invention which was helpful in his studies.
He was only half-attending when the phone rang in his hand, jolting him with surprise. Studying the different buttons, he pressed the green one and put the phone to his ear.
“Hullo!” a young voice said. “Who’s this?”
“Thorfinn. Who are you?”
“Michael. Where’s my mom?”
Thorfinn slapped a hand over his suddenly racing heart. There were so many things he wanted to say, but he was unable to speak over the lump in his throat.
“She is here,” he choked out.
“What’s she doin’?”
“Making a meal.”
“Lunch?”
“Yea, we are breaking fast. Ham burglers, I think.”
“Be careful she doesn’t sneak some veggies in, especially onions.”
He lifted his head from the phone and asked Lydia, “Are you putting onions in my ham burgler?”
She went suddenly stiff and stomped over to him. “Who are you talking to? I thought you were talking to Torolf.” She grabbed the phone out of his hands.
He moved to a chair by the table, leaned back, and watched her interact with what could very well be his son.
“Who was that? Oh, nobody.”
She calls me nobody, does she? We shall see about that.
“Uh-uh. A friend.”
I do not know what is worse . . . that she considers me a friend, or nobody of any worth.
“Yes, I know you’ve never met him. He’s a new friend.”
Gor the Gruesome is my friend. Cnut the Courageous is my friend. You, m’lady, are not my friend.
“Will I bring him with me to Minnesota?” She turned to look at him.
He favored her with his best glower.
“Maybe.” She listened for awhile then. Even from here, he could hear the boy’s chatter, though not clearly enough to make out the words. He noticed one thing. Lydia’s face fair glowed when she talked to her son. “Why do you want me to bring your cowboy hat? Oh, right. Itchy has a cowboy hat; so, you have to have one, too. Listen, sweetie, I’ve got to go. I love you bunches, honey bear.” She grinned at something he said then.
She smiled whimsically at the phone as she clicked it off.
“Why are you smiling?”
“He called me honey bee.”
Well, that was a lackwit thing to smile about, in his opinion, but he said naught as she went back to preparing their meal. She had to be aware of the effect the boy had on him. Was she being sensitive to his feelings, or did she just not care because he was a nobody, as she had told her son?
He watched through narrowed eyes as Lydia bustled about the scullery, banging pots and pans together, slamming metal food containers on the cabinet tops, muttering under her breath. She was clearly annoyed with him, for some reason.
He c
ared not a whit for that. He was enjoying himself too much. In the black garment which hugged every nook and crevice of her body, she was temptation in its purest sense. With her hair piled in a loose knot atop her head, her neck and her shoulders were bare, showing evidence of his whisker burn and sex bites. Her breasts, which provided an endless feast when they made love, tempted him constantly. They were full, full enough to fill his big hands, and hard-tipped. A woman’s breasts.
Her legs were alluring, too. Extra long length with muscled thighs and calves from all her dancing, he supposed. Good for hugging his hips when the bedsport got vigorous.
What he liked most about Lydia was her zest for loveplay. She was unapologetic about her needs, and thus allowed herself to peak, repeatedly, sometimes loudly, sometimes with delicious moans or sweet keening. Other than strumpets, most women he knew endured bedsport as a marital duty.
Not that he was complaining.
Oddly, he had spent much effort in giving her pleasure, too. He could not recall it mattering much to him in the past whether his partner peaked or not. But with Lydia, her pleasure was his pleasure.
He watched now as she bent over, opening a lower door, searching for some item or other. Her buttocks were round and curved, like half moons, with enough flesh for a man to grab on to. He grinned to himself, imagining something he might try in that regard.
As if sensing his scrutiny, she glanced his way over her shoulder, then glanced again. “What? Why are you staring at me?”
Dost really want to know? He linked his hands behind his neck, his body relaxed, legs extended and partly spread. And continued to stare at her.
“No,” she said.
He arched his eyebrows.
“No more sex.”
Definitely more sex. “Dost think you are in a position to dictate to me, wench?”
“And stop calling me wench.”
“What wouldst thou prefer? Dearling? Sweetling? Heartling?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She was standing now, backed up against the cabinets.