Page 84 of The Last Viking

“Don’t be so melodramatic, Meredith,” Jeffrey chimed in. “We’re not thieves. We would’ve returned the belt and arm ring after we’d done the testing and written the book. Sometimes, Meredith, you’re too damned stubborn for your own good. If you’d been reasonable when Jillie and I talked to you—”

With a roar, Geirolf went for the man, arms outstretched, but Meredith held him back. “Please,” she begged.

He halted, for her sake, but he lashed out at her past-husband, “Put a lock on your coarse tongue when you talk to my betrothed, or I will cut it out with great relish.”

Bloody hell, Geirolf decided, they thought and talked too much in this land. What they needed was less brain gnashing and more body gnashing. They’d been sitting for more than an hour drinking coffee. Well, the rest of them drank coffee. He swigged mead from a long-neck bottle. After three cups of coffee, he’d told Merry-Death he was going to piss black if he drank any more of the strong liquid.

Jeffrey had made a foolhardy remark then about his “crudity,” and that was the first time Geirolf had split his lip. The second time was when the bastard dared to ogle Merry-Death’s rump in her tight jeans whilst she bent to pick up a piece of firewood. Merry-Death had done her tsk-tsk routine at Geirolf then and refused to go upstairs and change into something more modest—like a tent.

After they’d brought Jeffrey and Jillian into the house, Merry-Death had gone to her bedchamber to soothe Thea and change from her sleeping shert into a sweating shert and the den-ham braies. Good thing she wasn’t wearing the cat sweater…that he wouldn’t have allowed, no matter her resistance. The visual, and tactile, delight of the cat sweater belonged only to him. In fact, he was going to destroy it before he departed this land.

He groaned inwardly at the thought of his inevitable separation from Merry-Death. He couldn’t imagine how he would survive the rest of his life without her. But he was also more adamant than ever that he would leave her behind after tonight’s incidents.

When he’d seen the scoundrel holding a gun to her head, Geirolf’s blood had run cold. He’d thought he’d lost her then. And it was all his fault. He’d brought the talisman belt here; he would take it away.

And there was naught she could say that would convince him to take her with him. Especially not now. He would never, ever risk her life again. And definitely not with the almost-certain death associated with the Demon Moon and the shipwreck whirlpool. The time porthole was never intended for the likes of her.

Besides, what if he were able to take her back? And what if he were killed in one of the incessant battles with the Saxons? How would she survive alone in another time?

Merry-Death glanced up at him and his uplifted bottle with an anxious frown from where she sat on the raised hearth near his feet. He patted her head, assuring her he would behave—for now—because she asked. She had withstood his request for mead, at first, saying she wanted him to keep a cool head. Hah! A tun of mead couldn’t make him any more furious than he was now. And if he chose to beat the villainous cur to death and cut off the bitch’s nose, as he sorely yearned to do, then a cup of coffee wouldn’t hold him back. But Merry-Death’s fervent plea had held him back—for now.

He leaned against the fireplace and took a long swig of mead. Every time he hoisted the bottle, he saw Jeffrey’s upper lip—the one covered with a thin milksop mustache—curl with distaste. The man had a death wish, he really did, daring to cast condescending eyes his way.

Merry-Death put a hand on his calf. No doubt she would latch onto his ankle like a puppy if he lunged for the two lackwits who sat guiltily on the couch-bed. They’d run like the wind if he turned his back.

“Can we get on with this?” Jeffrey asked testily. “I have an appointment at noon with my department head. You remember Dr. Preston, don’t you, Meredith? He came to our wedding.”

A rumble of outrage rolled up from Geirolf’s chest, but it was Jillian who put up a forbidding hand to him this time. Addressing Jeffrey, she said, “You are a solid gold—plated ass, Jeffrey. Put a lid on it, or I’ll cut out your tongue.” She spoke to Merry-Death then, a contrite expression coming onto her face. “You’re well rid of the jerk, Mer. Really. He’s a weak, two-faced, sniveling bastard, and I feel sorry for the woman who has him now. Really.”

“You have no room to talk,” Jeffrey spat back at her. “You’re nothing but a bitch in heat, except you’ve got the hots for fame, not sex.”

“Could we please stop all this bickering?” Merry-Death interjected shrilly, and Geirolf could see that she was approaching the limits of her endurance. Hauling her to her feet, he cradled her in the curve of his shoulder, and whispered into her hair, “Go up to bed, dearling. Let me handle this.”

She shook her head. “It’s my problem. I brought them here by sending them sketches of your belt clasp.”

“Nay, sweetling, I brought danger to you by coming to your home in the first instance.”

“Son of a bitch!” Jeffrey cursed, gaping at the loving picture of Merry-Death in Geirolf’s arms.

“Could you two save the billing and cooing for later? I have a plane to catch in Bangor at five A.M.,” Jillian snapped. “Either call the cops, or let us go.”

“Yea, ’tis time to stop dawdling,” Geirolf agreed. “We will not involve the legal authorities. That has been decided. Am I correct, Merry-Death?”

“Yes.”

“What destination does your flying machine have, Jillian?”

“Flying machine? Huh? Oh, I’m going back to London. Jeffrey was going to take the belt and arm ring to the Met to be dated, though God knows why I trusted him. Chances are he would have hocked the things and taken off for some tropical island to screw a few dozen nubile native girls.”

“Bitch!” Jeffrey seethed at her, spit flying.

“Bastard!” she countered, making a point of wiping the drool off her face with a tissue.

“Aaarrgh!” Merry-Death said.

“Damn, but you two deserve each other,” Geirolf opined.

“Jillie, what about Thea? She’s supposed to be back in school in another week. Will she be going back to her father in Chicago, or to London with you?”