Mrs. Claus and the Viking Ship

by Laura Strickland

  He believed in many things: Odin’s wisdom and the return of the spring. He believed in her.

  Gravely, he returned, “Do you?”

  “Aye, Claus, I do.” She leaned up and kissed him softly, her lips on his a single point of warmth in the darkness.

  Had Claus not already given her his heart, it would have been lost then.

  “And that child,” he asked, when she drew away from him, “what did she call me? I could not tell.”

  Mischief danced in Tinnie’s eyes. “Father. She called you Father. Not so strange, really, since that is what you have been to all of them this night—their Father Christmas.”

  Chapter Ten

  “Missus, I have so many plans in my head. Schemes for next year when we come again.”

  Tinnie turned her head to look at her husband. They stood on the deck of the Viking ship, watching as the tide carried them out onto a sea smooth as glass. The last time she had seen this beloved stretch of shore slip away from her, it had been with agony in her heart, terror and dread.

  Now what did she feel? She could scarcely believe her hatred for Claus had muted—nay, transformed into something quite different. But so it was. Even before returning to Scotland she had learned much of him. A man of his place and his time, and one who acted from a desire to succeed rather than to harm, he was also just and generous to those for whom he cared. And he cared for her. This journey had proved that in full.

  And that other journey they had taken together on Christmas Eve? Aye, that had proved something also, to her heart, for there had been enchantment in it. She still felt a thrill when she remembered how their mingled, joyful laughter had trailed the sledge, just like the snowflakes, on the way back to her father’s dun.

  “Shall we return again?” she challenged, and lifted a brow.

  “Ja, of course we will. The children will be in need.”

  She stepped close and linked her arm with his. “Tell me your plans.”

  She felt his surge of joy. “It was good, very good to bring the things they need. But did you see that child’s face when I gave her the trinket? We will bring more toys next time, many more toys.”

  “Aye?”

  “A child should have a plaything on Christmas morning, eh? A surprise when he or she wakes. And I have skill, me, in making such things. There are many months ahead, all through the winter, when I can carve elves and reindeers.”

  “I see.”

  “And we will need a bigger sledge, so we may be sure to make all the deliveries in one night. I can make one of those this summer, carved all over with reindeer,” he enthused. “We will bring it with us.”

  “Reindeer?”

  “It is my favorite.” He gestured to the prow of the ship. “Like Dasher.”

  She leaned still closer. “And like the one that dances across your chest?” She had a sudden and quite shocking desire to run her fingers over his reindeer tattoo, and quite possibly the rest of him. No matter—she had a whole winter ahead in which she could snuggle up to his big, warm body in their bed.

  She waved to her mother and others of the clansfolk who stood on the shore. They had not forgiven Claus—how could they? But he had extended a hand that she believed they would accept when he returned next year with more gifts—and one other thing.

  She pressed her cheek to his shoulder and squeezed his arm tight. “You have a love of children, Husband?”

  All the breath left his body. He stared into her face, his eyes blue as the sky stretching overhead, his head wreathed in that wild, light mane.

  “I do,” he said solemnly. “And I find I like, also, giving to them. You were right, Missus—no child should go without at Yule or Christmas. I shall do all in my power to assure none do—at least, none I can reach.” He hesitated. “Dare I hope this makes a difference between us?”

  She returned, half teasing, “It is possible to hope for many things.”

  “Like peace with these folk?” He gestured to those still standing on the shore. “And, you and me—might I hope for peace between our hearts?”

  “I believe you may. You know, Claus, what that woman in the last hut called you for bringing food that may well save her bairns’ lives? A saint.”

  “I am certainly not that. I warn you, Tinnie, I will always keep my gods, and Yule as well. Even for you, I cannot forsake these things.”

  “Ah, then I suppose you shall just have to be pagan and saint—the first, perhaps, in all the world. Do you think you can keep Yule and Christmas?”

  “Ja, wife, I think that is a thing I would enjoy.”

  “And our children? Do you think they will enjoy two celebrations, also?”

  He gazed into her eyes, too struck to speak.

  She laughed, sudden joy in her heart. “Do not look at me so. Surely with what has passed between us, it is not so surprising.”

  “You are certain?” His eyes lit, and he placed one large hand against her belly, tenderly.

  “Build a big enough sleigh, Claus. When we return next Christmas, we will need room for both Frost and a wee elf.”

  “And some day,” he exulted, “a whole passel of elves.”

  And across the wide ocean, Claus’s great laugh boomed out once again.

  A word about the author...

  Born and raised in Western New York, Laura Strickland has been an avid reader and writer since childhood. Embracing her mother's heritage, she's pursued a lifelong interest in Celtic lore, legend and music, all reflected in her writing.

  Author of the Guardians of Sherwood Trilogy, she is pleased to publish this, her fourth book with The Wild Rose Press.

  Thank you for purchasing

  this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.