Page 51 of My Fair Viking

"Me, too," said Breanne. "Just let me pour in another bucket of hot water. Relax, why don't you, sister? Dinner won't be served for another hour."

"Um-hmm." Tyra was already closing her eyes sleepily as she sank down into the tub.

"My baby needs to be nursed soon," Alinor added. To Tyra's sisters she advised, "Let us pick up these wet linens and dirty clothes. Take them to the laundry yard. The buckets, too."

Soon there was blissful silence. That did not happen often in Tyra's life. Always she was surrounded by noise and people, whether they be her soldiers or sailors, servants or family members. She had not realized how much pleasure was to be had in mere quiet.

A short time later, the quiet of Tyra's bedchamber was broken by a shrill scream of outrage. Hers.

"How could they? How could they?" She paced about her small room, stark naked, searching for her garments… her male garments. But the only item of apparel left there was a gown of crimson silk. Nor was this a Viking-style gown of modest chemise and over-apron. Nay, this was a form-fitting gown in the Frankish style with low neckline and cross-lacing that would make the gown fit snugly from under her breasts to her hips.

Desperately she searched for something else to cover herself. But her sisters and Alinor had not left even a bed linen. She had no choice. She would have to don the scandalous gown… one of her sister Breanne's, she would guess, since she was taller than the rest. Blessed Freyja! She would kill them all.

Tyra was missing from the great hall.

Adam hated the fact that he noticed her presence or absence. Truth to tell, he liked looking at her. He liked teasing her. He especially liked kissing her.

Was she avoiding him again?

Probably.

Alinor had told him a short time ago that Tyra considered him a toad, and she was smiling as she made that announcement, as if he should be pleased… as if it were a compliment.

Women! 'Twas hard to figure them out.

An odd silence came over the hall then. He looked up and peered through the smokiness toward the other end where a staircase led to the upper level. The most magnificent woman he'd ever seen was storming through the aisle between the long tables, heading toward the dais where he sat with Tykir, Alinor, Rafn, Bolthor, and the sisters. She was tall, very tall, with flowing blond hair. And she wore a long-sleeved, low-necked gown of crimson red which molded her body from truly splendid breasts, to narrow waist, to womanly hips.

It was Tyra.

Who knew? Who knew?

Adam put a hand to his heart to still the mad pumping there. He felt hot all over, and proud… so very proud… of his lady.

My lady? Aaarrgh! She is not my lady. I have no right to be proud of her. How can she be my lady if I am her toad? My brain is splintering apart here. Do not look at her. How can I not look at her? Oh, God, she looks so damn good.

"Where are my sisters?" were the first words out of her mouth, and they were directed at him.

"Huh?" he answered, unable to move his gaze from that vast expanse of alluring skin just above the swell of her breasts. Shaking his head to clear it, he looked from side to side and noticed that Alinor and the sisters had somehow disappeared.

Ah, now he understood. They were responsible for this remarkable transformation in Tyra.

"Sit down," he demanded, forcing her into the seat next to him. "You are creating a scene."

" 'Twill be nothing compared to the scene I create once I put my hands on four sisters and a certain lady."

"You should be thanking them," he said, placing a goblet of mead in her hands. She needed a good swig, not that he would tell her that.

"And why is that?" she asked icily.

"You are beautiful. They played some trick on you so that you would realize just how beautiful you are."

"That is pure hog swill. I am not beautiful, and fine feminine garments will not make it so. But that is neither here nor there. I am too big for such feminine finery. People are probably laughing at me behind their hands. How can I lead my men in battle dressed like this?" She waved her hand with disgust down the front of her body. Then she downed the contents of her goblet in one long swallow, belched loudly, and waved to a housecarl for a refill.

Adam barely stifled a grin. "As long as you keep belching and scratching, medoubts you will ever have to worry about appearing too feminine to your hesirs. And, besides, can you not don different apparel for different jobs… as Breanne does?"

"So, you notice the way Breanne dresses?" The question was asked idly, but he could tell it mattered to her… especially when she downed another goblet of mead and motioned for yet another.

Was that hurt in her eyes? He hoped so. He liked the idea of Tyra being jealous of him.