Page 109 of The Blue Viking

Rurik is chopping down my door, was her first thought.

Her second was, The man is losing his mind.

“Rurik, are you losing your mind?” she screamed over the racket.

There was blessed silence for a moment.

“Are you talking to me, Maire?” Rurik asked, followed by a muttered “Praise be to the gods!”

“Aye, I’m talking to you, dunderhead,” she said, unlocking and flinging open the door before he had a chance to swing the ax again. And it was a mighty big battle-ax, she noted.

But that wasn’t the most astonishing thing.

Rurik was standing before her in an old suit of armor that must have belonged to her father or one of her grandsires … booty stolen from some raid on Saxon or Norman lands, because Scots soldiers did not wear metal armor. He smiled at her tentatively, as if testing the waters. The visor on his metal helmet kept slipping down, though. Finally, he flipped the helmet off with exasperation and tossed it out into the corridor, where she heard it roll, then bang down the stone stairway.

She returned his smile with a frown.

Which immediately caused his smile to turn to a frown, too. “What? You don’t like knights in shining armor now? Well, how was I to know that? I’m coming in.”

“You’d better, unless you want an audience for your stupidity.” She pointed to the corridor and stairwell, where dozens of people were crammed, trying to get a firsthand glimpse of the Viking idiot in action.

He tossed the battle-ax in their direction and everyone scampered out of the way. Then he stepped through the broken door and locked it behind him. He didn’t just walk in, though. He lumbered in … creakily.

“There is no need to lock the door,” she said.

“Yea, there is,” he said, advancing on her. He stopped when he was a hairbreadth away. To her dismay … or perhaps not to her dismay … she noted the sensual flicker in his stormy blue eyes. “ ’Tis past time for us to end this silly squabble.” He was already beginning to peel off the armor, starting with the arm pieces.

“Silly squabble? Silly squabble?” she squeaked out, shoving his immovable metal chest. He didn’t budge one speck. “This ‘silly squabble’ involves your betrothal to another woman … and your giving me the bride gift that was intended for her.”

“I already told you that the amber necklet must have been intended for you. It would not have suited Theta, at all. Her eyes are brown, not green, and she much prefers crystal stones, as I recall.” He stopped talking when he realized he was not helping his cause. So, he began to remove more of his armor.

Maire was disconcerted to see that he wore the flexible chain mail underneath. “Even if I accepted your explanation regarding the necklet,” she said, “there is still the matter of your betrothal.” She hated the fact that tears rose in her eyes; she had thought the well had run dry with all her sobbing.

He waved a hand airily. “The betrothal is no longer an issue. I have decided that the best course is for you and me to wed.” Rurik appeared dumbfounded at his own words, as if they had just supped out of their own accord.

She stared at him, insulted by his halfhearted proposal. “Bigamy now? You would practice bigamy?”

“Bigamy?” he repeated dumbly. “Oh, you mean the more dánico. Nay, I will not indulge in that Norse practice of multiple wives.”

“Speak plainly, Viking.” She narrowed her eyes at him.

“Theta agreed to wed with me only if I would have the blue mark removed. Since that is no longer an option, the betrothal is invalid. I will inform Theta of that fact by courier… Jostein and John, to be specific.”

“Why is removal of the blue mark no longer an option?” She was beginning to feel as thickheaded as the doublespeaking Norseman standing before her.

He gave her a look that said she should already know the answer. “Because Cailleach offered me a deal. She would remove the blue mark if I would give you up and leave Scotland forever. And I said nay.”

“You said nay?” She backed up and hit her shoulders against the bedpost, overcome with amazement. Rurik had chosen her, over his own renowned vanity? How could that be?

“Of course. What else did you think I would say?” he asked, affronted. He had all the armor off now. “There is another thing, Maire. Cailleach told me that you are not carrying my child… you know, from our mating in the loch. I’m sorry. I mean, I’m sorry if you’re sorry.”

He’s not leaving Scotland?

He’s choosing me over his vanity?

He’s sorry that I’m not pregnant?

Just then, Rurik noticed that her tapestry was finished. He walked over to examine it more closely. For a second, Maire could have sworn she saw an expression of intense yearning in his eyes as he touched the cloth, reverently. “Maire, dost think that the fantasy could become reality?”