Page 89 of The Bewitched Viking

It was just so infuriating. Like a puzzle that must be solved—but a piece was missing. What item had he overlooked in his search for the Lady Alinor?

The witch had to be somewhere inside the keep. There had been no time for her to escape the castle walls. And even if there had been the time, she would have been seen. Furthermore, dressed as she was in a thin chemise, she would not have ventured into the freezing outdoors.

So, where could she be hiding?

He raised his eyes to the stairway leading to the second floor, where he could see the open corridor circling the great hall. All bedchambers and storage rooms on the second floor opened onto the two-story great hall. But they had checked and rechecked every nook and cranny of the keep that was not already secured tightly under lock and key.

Tykir shifted in his seat, about to tip his chair back against the wall when his attention was caught by the jingle of keys on the ring at his waist. He looked down at the large metal keys, then up again to the second floor.

And then he smiled.

Something awakened Alinor from her light slumber.

Peeking out from under the precious furs in the treasure room where she’d hidden, she could see nothing in the pitch blackness of the windowless chamber. All she could make out was the outline of walrus tusks, bolts of cloth, pottery jars of wine, intricately carved wooden boxes that she knew from her earlier exploration contained jewelry, gems, gold and silver coins, and ornately embossed swords and sets of chain mail. And, of course, many bags and miniature caskets of Tykir’s chosen product of trade—amber.

She squinted into the darkness. How many hours had passed? Was it afternoon or evening? All she knew was that she’d finally fallen asleep after becoming bored with just lying in hiding. Now her stomach was churning with hunger, not having eaten since the night before. You’d think with all that wine, the trader troll would have plundered some foreign soil for rare foods, too, like almonds or sugared dates. Even a boiled camel’s hoof would hold some appeal at this point.

Maybe that was what had awakened her…the sound of her hungry stomach. No, it was another sound. A key was turning in the door lock.

Uh-oh!

She’d had hours and hours to second guess her hasty decision to run from the Viking. Now, it appeared that she would find out if she’d been wise or foolhardy. She’d also had plenty of time to hone her arguments against Tykir’s punishment plan. For some reason every one of them escaped her now.

This was absurd. She should step forward before he detected her…take the offensive…brazen out her actions.

Instead, Alinor scrambled back under the furs and held her breath. She would be brave later.

She sensed a faint light.

“Alinor, I know you’re here,” he said. “Come forth. Now!”

Alinor didn’t need to see Tykir to know he was stiff with outrage. No doubt he was clenching his fists. Gritting his teeth. Playing mental games of “Pick the Torture.”

Ha, ha, ha, she thought then. How fanciful of me! Despite being a vicious Viking when it comes to war or defending himself, Tykir wouldn’t do great physical harm to a woman. Leastways, I don’t think he would. Just that love slave business, which is almost more frightening than a good birching. The latter I am familiar with and can withstand. The former…well, what exactly does a love slave do?

“You are making me angry, Alinor. Very, very angry. That is not a wise course.”

She could hear him kicking aside chests and rummaging amongst bolts of fabric. A clanging noise probably indicated swords falling against each other. “Force me to waste more time searching for your scrawny hide. Go ahead. I relish the prospect of additional sins to add to your already staggering list of transgressions.” His voice dripped ice.

Enough of this cowering! Alinor flipped aside one sable and two fox furs and stood clumsily. “Were you looking for me?” she asked with forced cheerfulness.

His only answer was a growl. His teeth were indeed gritted, as she’d suspected. She could see them, and his clenched fists, by the light of the smoking torch he held overhead. He reached down to pick up a broadsword in his path, then motioned with it for her to step out of the room in front of him.

She lifted her head proudly and squared her chin before proceeding to obey. Could he tell she was quivering inside like a bowl of calves-foot jelly? That her knees felt like butter?

As soon as she passed by him, she felt a hard whack across her bottom. Shocked, she glanced back over her shoulder, and realized that the brute had struck her with the broad side of his sword blade. And he was looking very pleased with himself, though the smile that creased his face was cold and mirthless, never reaching his eyes.

“You brute,” she said, rubbing her buttocks as she hobbled out of the room. “So, that is your plan, then? To beat me?” Well, she could live with that. She’d been beaten by her brothers innumerable times in the past. ’Twas humiliating and painful but soon over.

“Nay, there will be no beatings. Leastways, not unless you rile me even further…which is a distinct possibility.” He tossed aside the broadsword with which he’d smacked her. It landed with a thud on a pile of Persian carpets.

“What then?” She insisted on knowing her fate, even as he reached out an arm to drag her from the room.

“First off, I intend to swive you till your tongue curls and your eyeballs bulge. Then, mayhap, I will suckle raspberries till I get a rash. You will then lick my rash to ease the itch. By that time there should be several itchy spots, if you get my meaning.”

Alinor didn’t.

“Then I might swive you another ten or so times.”