Page 57 of The Blue Viking

How could he be so affected in such a short time? Witchcraft? He shuddered at the possibility. There was no denying the fact that when he looked at Maire his insides melted, his heart raced, and he lost his concentration. In essence, he felt rather sick in his stomach. He could not stop touching her, or thinking about her, or smiling…. Yea, he’d been doing an inordinate amount of smiling these past hours. Best he be careful, lest he start staggering about like a dreamy-eyed lackbrain.

Truth to tell, Rurik suspected he was falling in love with the witch. Not that he knew from experience how that would feel. But if it was, indeed, true, then he would have to find a way to stop it right now. Falling in love did not fit in with his plans. Nay, not at all.

There were many reasons why he could not allow himself to love a woman, but three important ones came immediately to mind:

First, he was a warrior, pure and simple. He had no other identity than that. Being arse-over-shoulders in love with a woman—especially one with the talent for turning certain body parts blue and others rock hard—would make him weak and vulnerable … something he could not countenance. He’d had love-struck soldiers under his command in the past. They soon lost their focus. Many were brought down swifter than a Saxon arrow, usually by tripping over their own feet.

Second, there was no future in loving a Scottish witch. Rurik hated the land of Alba with a passion and could scarce wait to leave its boundaries. Besides, he was betrothed to a Norse princess, and it had been a pledge made in honor, which must be upheld.

Third, Maire was his foe, and he should not forget that fact. ’Twas she who’d marked his face and subjected him to years of ridicule.

Well, at least he now knew what he must do. He had a new goal to go along with the removal of his blue tattoo. Do not love Maire.

It was late afternoon. He and Maire had been making love off and on—mostly on—since dawn, and still he could not get enough of her. Even now, as she slept in his arms, he could not tear himself away, though his belly rumbled with hunger, his body was growing rank from all the sweaty exercise, and the bed linens were uncomfortably damp. So, following his new “Do not love Maire” motto, Rurik called upon his years of discipline to avoid noticing Maire’s allure as he carefully disengaged himself from her billowing red hair and clinging limbs.

Actually, he had his eyes scrunched tight. That worked, too.

He was congratulating himself a short time later when he emerged from the bedchamber without awakening Maire. Closing the door quietly behind him, he nigh jumped out of his skin when the first thing he saw was Toste and Vagn leaning against the facing wall, arms folded over their broad chests and ankles crossed. They were smirking at him.

“What are you two doing here?”

“Guarding the mistress,” Toste answered.

“As you ordered,” Vagn pointed out.

“I did not ask you to guard her when I was with her,” he grumbled. “Besides, why was it necessary for two of you to stand guard?”

“Toste is the guard. I’m just keeping him company,” Vagn said.

Both of them were still grinning.

“So, did you or-gaz the wench?” Toste and Vagn both asked him at the same time.

“Would everybody please stop using that ridiculous word? Furthermore, ’tis none of your concern whether I did or did not.”

“Well, you certainly look as if you’ve been or-gaz-ed… good and proper,” Toste said, ducking when Rurik swung a punch at his laughing mouth.

“Yea,” Vagn agreed. “Methinks he is still suffering after-tremors, too … from his fit. Perchance he has or-gaz pains. Mayhap I should go check on the witch’s condition.”

“You stay away from Maire,” Rurik ordered, too quickly and too gruffly.

Both men stared at him with arched eyebrows.

“Uh-oh!” Toste said.

“Uh-oh!” Vagn said.

“I’ll give you both reason to say uh-oh if you don’t stop flapping your tongues.”

Rurik noticed something else. Each of the twins had a piece of scarlet yarn tied in a bow about his middle finger. “What is that?” he asked, pointing at one, then the other adornment.

“A measuring yarn,” Toste replied, his face turning bright red. Rurik could not recall a time, ever, when Toste had blushed, even when he’d done some mighty embarrassing things.

“For our cocks,” Vagn explained, and his face was red, too. “I mean, for measuring our cocks.”

“Holy Thor! Did you two dimwits believe that outrageous tale about Viking lies and shrinking manparts?”

“We did not precisely believe it, but we wanted a measuring standard, just in case,” Toste said defensively. “You never know with a sorceress, Rurik. Really, one can’t be too careful.”