Page 7 of The Viking’s Captive

“Are you mad? That … that man-woman is not what I would consider for a harem.” Rashid practically sputtered with indignation.

“What then? A Valkyrie?” He’d heard the tales of the legendary female gods who led brave warriors to the afterworld.

“That is no Valkyrie,” Rashid asserted. “That man-woman is live and human … I would swear it on Muhammad’s grave.”

As the group drew closer, Adam got his first good look at the woman through the light provided by the open doors and meager arrow slit windows. And he had to agree with Rashid’s assessment. This was no goddess, come from the other world. She was flesh and blood … and definitely woman.

The oddest thing happened then. Fine hairs stood out all over Adam’s body. His heart stopped beating for a second, then raced wildly. Most remarkable, a surge of energy slammed into his loins, pumping hot blood into the region, and settling there, thick and pulsing. Like the drawbridge, he’d thought his manpart was rusted down. He was wrong.

She was tall, for a female. In fact, Adam was very tall himself and he had only a half head on her. Despite being slender, she was well muscled, as any soldier would be. The short-sleeved tunic she wore, belted at a narrow waist, left bare her arms, which bore etched silver armlets over well-defined muscles. Even her forearms displayed the raised tendons and ropy muscles of a swordsman. Exceedingly long legs were encased in skintight, soft hide leggings which also showed the delineation of musculature … no doubt from long hours atop a warhorse.

That image—female legs spread wide, the rhythmic up-and-down canter of the horse pressing against her womanplace—caused the throb in his manhood to intensify. Bloody hell! It feels as if I have a heartbeat there.

She must have been wearing flexible chain mail, because he could see its hem beneath the thigh-high tunic, and because it molded her body in such a way that her breasts were upthrust against the fabric of her tunic. From a distance, she might have resembled a man-woman, as Rashid had referred to her, but up close she was all woman, in Adam’s opinion.

To his utter shock, the woman did the most outlandish thing. She scratched at her groin … as men were wont to do. He could swear she did it deliberately, to reinforce the notion that she was a manly woman, or mayhap just to startle them. Repulsed as he was by the crude gesture, his manpart knew no better … it still throbbed.

Two years without a woman, and the first one that arouses me is wearing chain mail and scratching at her groin. Some celestial being must have a twisted sense of humor.

Who is she?

The richness of the jewel-brooched garments and gold-studded belt she wore, along with the silver-scabbarded weapons, bespoke a personage of high rank. He thought he knew all the families of Viking nobility, but this woman did not strike a memory chord.

Even as he stared at her rudely, the woman pulled the fitted leather helmet off her head, causing thick, pale blond braids to fall out, then cascade loose from their leather ties into what could only be described as skeins of golden silk.

He gasped.

And throbbed some more. Good thing he wore the loose Arab robe he favored when in his own home, or he would embarrass himself.

Under his breath, Rashid murmured in Arabic, “On the other hand …”

Adam arched an eyebrow in question.

“On the other hand, yon man-woman might make a magnificent harem houri. Dost think she would consent to wearing pierced bells on her breasts?”

“Shhhhh,” Adam cautioned, then added, also in Arabic, “It would be more likely she would pierce your balls with bells, my friend. This is no tame desert damsel, eager to please her master.”

Eyes of cerulean blue pierced them both, almost as if she understood their words. Her men snickered under their collective breaths.

“Which of you is the healer?” she asked, speaking for the first time.

Her voice was deep and husky, but not at all manlike. Nay, Adam could imagine that voice whispering wicked things to a man when they were both stoked to passion. He could imagine it suggesting ways to cure the pleasure-pain that continued to envelop his loins. He could imagine—

“Well?” she interrupted his reverie. “Enough time have I wasted, traipsing across this wretched land. Which of you is the healer I have been searching for?”

He and Rashid exchanged a long look, not sure if either of them wanted to be the subject of her search. Finally, Adam admitted, “I was … am … Adam the Healer.”

Rashid piped in, “And I am Ibn Rashid al Mustafa. Your humble servant.” He performed a peculiar obsequious bow native to his country, involving the rapid touching of his forehead, nose, mouth, and heart.

“I have been trained as a physician,” Adam continued, “but I no longer treat patients. Perchance I could recommend another doctor for you … there are several monk healers in St. Peter’s ministerium at Jorvik. What exactly is your problem?”

“It’s not my problem that causes me to seek you out,” she explained, the whole while motioning with hand gestures to Emma and Bridget that they should provide drink for her men who were sitting down at the long trestle tables. Adam should have been embarrassed at not offering the hospitality himself, but he was too confused by this woman and her mission. “‘Tis my father, King Thorvald of Stoneheim, who needs your help. He is gravely ill of an unknown malady. Dost know of him?”

Adam shook his head slowly.

“He is called Thorvald the Wolf.”

“Aaaah. Now I recall. His kingdom is in far northern Norway … Halogaland.” Adam’s stepuncle Tykir lived in Dragonstead, at the end of beyond in Norway. Men had body parts frozen off there if they were careless enough to venture outdoors overlong during the winter months. Stoneheim was even farther north, in the most primitive, mountainous area … a land nigh uninhabitable.