Page 23 of Viking Unchained

He nodded, fully understanding how a person would want vengeance for such a cowardly act.

The little red-haired woman sidled her chair closer to his and gave him a slant-eyed glance . . . the universal signal of male-female interest. “From Norway, huh? Don’t suppose you know Britta Asado.”

He frowned, then realized she referred to Britta Asadottir. “Yea, I have made her acquaintance.

Methinks she wed the seal, I mean, cow named Pretty Boy.”

“Huh?”

“He means cowboy,” Torolf interpreted for him.

Thorfinn glowered at his cousin. “That is what I said.”

The woman continued, “Britta was in training for the WEALS at one time, you know.”

How would you like to tup? He nodded. “She was a warrior back in the Norselands, too.”

“You talk funny.”

Dost prefer top or bottom? “Nay, you talk funny.”

She smiled at him.

I could have her on her back in the bed furs in a trice, if I choose. Oddly, he did not choose. She was comely, as were the other women at the table, but he could claim no “enthusiasm.” Mayhap I need one of those magic blue pellets.

But then, he smiled to himself. Nay, it was not that. More the stress of being in this time and place, and the wariness to watch his every step. Even if those steps were in the bed furs.

After answering her questions tersely and asking no personal questions in return, she finally realized that he was not going to mate with her. She muttered something to Torolf about his “brooding cousin,” and wondered, “Is he gay?” Which was silly, of course. How could I be brooding and gay at the same time? With a final glower cast his way, she turned to the man on her other side, Geek, who proceeded to expound on some invention of his called a penile glove. He must remember to ask Torolf about that, later.

Meanwhile, he leaned back in his chair, ankles crossed, and observed his surroundings. The music, if it could be called that, was so loud he could scarce hear what the others said around the table. And the lyrics! The musicians sang something about a man telling his wife that she wasn’t much fun since he quit drinking. He pondered the words for a few moments. ’Twas true. A little mead made a nagging wife tolerable; a tun of mead made the homeliest maid pretty. The downfall of many a man.

The men and women were dancing together, and what dancing it was, too! Arms wrapped around each other as they undulated their body parts. Then Cage got up to dance with the Cajun woman, Marie, and Thorfinn’s eyes about popped out of his head. In rhythm to a pounding beat of a song about “Hot, Hot, Hot!”—must be about California, since the climate here was sweat-producing even without exertion—they scandalously emulated bedsport in their motions. He bucked his hips against her backside. She nigh rode his extended leg. Foresport, it definitely was.

He turned to Torolf and asked, “Is this a brothel?”

His cousin laughed and said, “No. Why do you ask?”

“The last time I saw a man and woman engaging in sex in front of others was in a Miklagard brothel.”

“They aren’t having sex. They’re just dancing.”

Thorfinn was about to argue the point, but his attention was arrested by a woman who had just come in, on the far side of the tavern. Two women, actually, but it was the black-haired one who caught his attention. In fact, the other one, the blonde, was Kirstin Magnusson, Torolf’s sister and his cousin.

She was not young, the dark-haired wench. She might even match his thirty years. Definitely not a young maid.

Her hair was piled high atop her head, making her appear even taller than she already was, with loose strands framing her face. She wore den-ham braies and a sleeveless, collarless shert like many of the others here, but on her they somehow seemed more . . . alluring.

Some men approached Kirstin and the woman, offering them drinks. The woman laughed at something one of them said, causing his back to straighten with displeasure. How odd! Then his attention moved to her mouth. It was wide and full and painted crimson, to match her red shert .

He groaned as a lurch of enthusiasm hit his groin. At the same time, the fine hairs stood out on the back of his neck.

Torolf gazed at him with alarm. “What . . . what’s wrong?”

“I do not know.”

Torolf turned his head in the same direction as his stare, then said, “Oh, it’s Kirstin.” He waved at his sister, motioning her to come to their table.

“Not her. The other wench.”