Page 6 of The Last Viking

“Ingrid?” she squeaked out. “You have a woman with you?”

“A woman?” He laughed. “You could call her that.”

A flush of rage suffused Merry-Death’s pale cheeks. Obviously, the wench had no sense of humor. But she had other attributes he was beginning to notice. Her hair had sprung free from the unbecoming knot at the back of her neck and spilled out over her silky, pale brown shert, like burnished walnut. With hands on hips, she called attention to the loose, brown men’s braies she wore over her thin frame, and tapped her brown leather slippers.

So much brown, he mused idly. Does she try to hide her womanliness, to appear like a drab tree? Nay, not a tree, with that abundance of reddish-brown hair, and those witchy green eyes.

Oh, she was certainly not to his tastes. But she was not as barley-faced as he’d originally thought, either.

And the foolhardiness of the woman! Demanding answers of him, a high-born karl of Norway!

Hah! I’ll soon put her in her proper place. “Yea, Ingrid is outside near your moat, drying out from our long swim.”

“Moat?”

Her eyes didn’t look quite so beauteous now that they crossed with frustration. He was convinced, the woman was feckless. “Yea, that stone ditch with the blue water.”

“The swimming pool? Did you take the cover off of Gramps’s pool? Oh, I’ve had enough of this nonsense. I can’t believe you left a woman outside—probably injured—while you broke into my home to mumble incantations over a poor animal, and assault me.”

Ignoring his snort of incredulity at her accusations, Merry-Death turned toward the strange glass doors and inhaled sharply at her first glimpse of Ingrid, lying breasts skyward, huge red nipples highlighted by the rays of the full moon.

“Mike Johnson, I’m going to kill you. I warned you about a bimbo figurehead,” the wench mumbled; then she turned angrily, striding back toward him, about to spout more of her sharp words, no doubt. But she stopped mid-stride. “Wh-what are you doing?”

He was unbuckling the clasp at his mid-section, about to remove his belt and tunic. Tilting his head in bafflement at her panic, he tried to reassure her, “You have no reason to be fearful. I intend you no harm…unless you gainsay me.”

“Gainsay?”

“By acting hastily.”

“Hastily?”

He shrugged. “Yea, my shrewish parrot. Do not try to attack me. Or escape. Then I might be forced to lop off your head, or thrust you over the cliff.”

The woman clicked her gaping mouth shut and made a gurgling sound, but apparently not at his words. Her eyes were riveted on his body as he raised his tunic over his head. Wearing only a breechcloat and his ankle boots. he watched the wench back away from him in fright. Holy Thor! Surely, she had seen a naked man afore. Especially since she claimed to have no maidenhead.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she stammered out.

“I’m going to bathe all this salt from my skin in your moat. Then I’m going to eat my rabbit. After that, I intend to sleep for a long time. Where are your bed furs, by the by? I couldn’t find them when I explored your keep earlier.”

“Put your clothes on,” she directed, averting her face like a shy maiden.

Lord, he was tired of the wench’s caterwauling, and her false modesty.

“Nay, I will not. And mayhap you should remove your own garments, as well.” He was discovering he had another appetite besides his hunger for rabbit. In the delayed rush of exhilaration at his miraculous escape from death’s talons, he felt the need to celebrate life…in the way of battle-weary warriors throughout time.

The wench’s green eyes widened with astonishment.

“Despite your bony body and sharp tongue,” he informed her, adding a smile to show the great honor he bestowed, “I’ve decided to take you as my bedmate whilst I am visiting in your lands.”

Chapter Two

Geirolf dropped his loincloth.

Merry-Death’s green eyes just about popped out of her head. She made a low strangling sound in her throat.

He chuckled with satisfaction. ’Twas the reaction of most women on first viewing his man parts. The gods had been generous with him in that regard.

“You…you…” she sputtered as he swaggered past her and through the open door.