Page 75 of The Bewitched Viking

She winced, but not from his tight fingerhold on her wrist, which he immediately released. Nay, she’d winced because he’d hurt her feelings.

Bloody hell! Why should I feel guilty for voicing a fact that should be apparent? She has been overdoing the chicken broth. But mayhap I shouldn’t have referred to her good efforts as slop. He wasn’t in the mood for apologizing, though.

“I want some real food,” he said, sitting up suddenly, then immediately dropping back to the pillow when an invisible broadaxe cleaved his skull. He pressed the heels of both palms to his brow to stop his brains from spilling out. “Did you poison me again? Did you give me a potion to explode my head this time, instead of my bowels?”

She ignored his accusations and immediately reached forward with concern, placing a cool palm on his forehead. I am not in the mood to be placated, but her hand does feel good. Mayhap I will let it rest there for a moment.

“What is amiss? Is it your head?”

“Nay, it’s my arse.” Hell and Valhalla! I am in a vile mood.

She made a tsk-ing sound as she adjusted the furs around him, tucking them in tightly at the sides till he felt like a corpse being dressed for the coffin.

He slapped her hands away. “Stop fussing over me.”

“I’m only trying to help.”

“Help me by fetching some bloody damn food.”

“I don’t like your tone.”

“I don’t give a damn what you like.”

“My, my, you are testy today. Must be you are getting better when you begin to sound like Rurik. Grumble, grumble, grumble all the time.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Was that Rurik I heard shouting earlier today?”

She examined her fingernails with blatant guilt. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t keep track of Rurik’s doings.”

“What did you do to him now?” he demanded to know.

“Me?” she asked, fluttering her eyelashes. “I have no idea what you mean.”

He rubbed his bristly jaw. “God, my mouth tastes like a midden on a hot summer day.”

“Your breath smells the same.”

“Thank you for pointing that out. Chicken breath, that’s what I must have. Now get me some food. Anything, as long as it doesn’t have feathers. Mutton would be good. Or lamb chops. Baby lamp chops.”

All that talking had worn him out, and he yawned widely, feeling his body closing down for sleep once again.

He thought he heard the wench giggle then as she eased herself off the high bed and asked, “How about some eel pie?”

“What’s so funny about eel pie?” he grumbled.

“If you’re lucky, Viking, I might just show you.”

A smell drew Tykir out of his sleep once again.

It was a strong, pungent smell this time…not unpleasant, but different. Soap. That’s what it was. Girta’s homemade soft soap, used in the bathhouse.

He opened his eyes a mere slit and saw that Alinor was bathing him. The nerve of the wench! Bathing him like a newborn babe. But, nay, there were other possibilities. Immediately, he closed his eyes, hoping for “other possibilities.” He was too weak to engage in any vigorous activity, but he wasn’t so far gone that he couldn’t enjoy laying back for a few lustful…possibilities.

He tried to regulate his breathing to emulate sleep, a hard task when she was lathering up his neck and shoulders and—Oh, my God!—his chest. He did have a fondness for touching…both being touched and doing the touching himself. There was an art to good touching. Alinor was an artist, if he did say so himself…or she would be once he’d given her the advanced tutelage of a touch master.

She used a damp, soapy cloth to wash his neck and shoulders, wiping the area off with the same cloth, which had been rinsed and wrung out. But she worked the soap into his chest hairs with her fingertips, over his flat nipples, skimming his abdomen and waist, over and into his navel.

He bit his bottom lip to hold back a moan. ’Twas a good thing his private parts were covered with a breechclout. Else he would, no doubt, scare her with the size of his appreciation.