Page 30 of The Blue Viking

And he did not like the MacNab … not one bit.

And he did not relish jumping to any man’s tune, least of all a scurvy Scot.

And honor was too hard-won for a man to give it up easily.

And the look on the Campbell men’s faces when he’d defended them had touched a place deep inside of Rurik.

And he had not yet “punished” Maire with long bouts of bedsport.

Still, Rurik surprised even himself when he declined with a curt, “I am not interested.”

Chapter Six

It was late before supper was served that night.

Maire and her women had worked hard to clean the hall—the first time in many, many months, apparently—and she’d insisted that everyone bathe before coming inside to eat. So, the men went to one loch and the women to another, where they made quick work of their ablutions in the icy waters.

Although the Scotsmen did a bit of griping, Rurik and his men didn’t mind all that much. Norsemen tended to bathe more often than the average man. Some said that was why women from many lands were attracted to them … not because of their wondrous good looks, but because they were less malodorous than their own menfolk. Rurik preferred to think it was both.

He now leaned back in his chair on the dais where the head table was located, sipping at a cup of uisgebeatha. The amber-colored liquid went down smoothly, and his gullet was becoming accustomed to its bite, but Rurik was cautious about imbibing too much. He had plans for later that would not be enhanced by his having an ale-head. In the meantime, it was rather nice, just sitting in a clean hall, with muscles aching after a day of hard labor, knowing they were safe for a while, and relishing the pleasant scents wafting around them—not just the sweet-scented herbs from the rushes, but the rich aromas of roast meats, soon to come to the table. I must be getting old, to gain satisfaction from such small things.

There was another activity bringing enjoyment to Rurik, and that was just watching Maire as she bustled about the hall, ordering maids and housecarls about in the serving of the meal. She’d changed her arisaid after bathing, and this one-piece, belted garment that the Scotswomen arranged so artfully into pleats and gathers was just as faded as the one she’d had on this afternoon. Were they all she had? And her a highborn lady, too. Why hadn’t her husband—gone only three months—provided better for her? Oh, Rurik knew the keep was in bad shape, neglected because of other, more dire concerns, but her people raised their own sheep and wove their own cloth.

Hmmm. There was a puzzle here … one that Rurik promised himself he would solve later.

Besides, she looked good to him, even in the loose garment. A braided belt called attention to a slim waist and the turn of hips and high breasts. She would hate it if she knew how all her movements pulled the loose fabric this way and that, but mostly taut against her feminine parts, including the sweet, sweet curve of her buttocks. She would also hate it if she knew that she kept touching, reflexively, the love mark he’d put on her neck, and each time she did so, he felt a jolt in his nether regions. Lance—the ridiculous name he was now giving to his man part, thanks to Maire—was nigh gleesome with anticipation.

Her hair was still damp from her bath and curled about her face since she’d not had time to dry it properly. He remembered suddenly how her luxuriant hair had felt in his fingers that afternoon.

And how her lips had felt under his lips. Oh, Holy Thor! He would never forget that. No other woman had such a sensual mouth. He should tell Bolthor to concoct a praise-poem to her lips. “Ode To a Woman’s Lips.” That idea caused his own lips to curl up at the edges in a slight grin. He could only imagine her consternation.

She glanced up suddenly, and her eyes connected with his. In that moment, when time stood still for a mere second, he saw awareness in her gaze. He would wager a king’s treasure that she was remembering, too.

A burst of laughter somewhere in the hall caused them both to blink and glance away, as if they’d committed some forbidden act. He forced himself to take several deep breaths and concentrate on other activities.

At the far end of the hall, he caught a fleeting glimpse of Wee-Jamie, followed by Rose, the mangy cat, followed by the huffing and puffing monk, Father Baldwin, who grabbed both boy and feline by the scruffs of their necks and dragged them back outside. The boy appeared to be still filthy and the only one in the entire clan who hadn’t taken a bath. If Rurik didn’t know better, he would swear the priest was showering the lad with bad words.

Maire noticed the boy, too. He saw the yearning look in her doleful eyes, but she did nothing to call him back. Evidently, Maire still wanted the boy away from the keep, for his own safety. It seemed unfair to deprive a child of the feast, but that was her decision to make, not his.

Old John was there at the high table with him, as well as Bolthor, Stigand, Toste, and Vagn, though the latter two were ogling the sloe-eyed daughter of some sheepherder come down from the hills yestereve. They were all sipping at the potent brew, and, whilst not drukkinn, they were all feeling mellow.

Rurik’s eyes strayed to Maire once again … an involuntary action he could not seem to stop.

Old John coughed when he noticed the direction of Rurik’s gaze. “Smitten with our fair Maire, are ye?”

“Huh? Who? Me?” Rurik said halfwittedly.

Old John just smiled and touched his neck, mirroring Maire’s gesture. By the holy rood, had everyone noticed the mark on her neck?

Sensing Rurik’s discomfort, he said, “Now, now, do not be blustering so. ’Tis a natural thing fer a man to want a woman. The bulls in the fields, the rams in the hills, even the wee fishies in the burns … all these are subject to the same urges as we men. Some say it all began with Adam. Aye, methinks ’tis all part of God’s plan and you and Maire be no different.”

Odin’s eyes! Now, I’m being lectured on sex by a one-armed, aging Scotsman! Rurik heard an odd gursound and realized it emanated from himself. “Maire hates me,” he pointed out.

“Faint heart ne’er won the fair lady,” Old John expounded.

Oh, God!

“Besides, Maire deserves some good treatment from a man,” Old John rambled on. “She’s had little enough of it in her life thus far.”