Page 39 of Viking Unchained

“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.