Sandra Hill (14 page)

“Was that an order I just heard, Dr. Foster?” he asked, taking her hands, which had begun to push against his shoulders, and raising them above her head. Lacing her fingers with his, he placed them against the wall.

She shook her head. “Is this how Vikings go about raping and pillaging? Is this how you subdue your captive women?”

“Nay, this is how,” he replied silkily.

And Meredith comprehended even before his head began to descend that she’d stepped into his trap.

“Wet your lips,” he demanded.

She should have refused. Instead, she obeyed. Her only satisfaction was his quick intake of breath.

He nodded with approval, and then coaxed, “Part your lips.”

She obeyed.

His erection lurched against her. “Arch your neck and raise your mouth to meet mine.” His order this time was a barely discernible whisper.

He took her lips then with a savage intensity, catching her moan in his open mouth. Rapaciously, he forced her lips wider to take his thrusting tongue. To her shock, Meredith found herself welcoming his rough invasion, drawing on his tongue, kissing him back. Never breaking the kiss, Rolf molded her mouth with wet, clinging expertise. He directed her without words on how to make her lips pliant, how to please him most.

When the pulsing sensation between her legs began to throb and spiral outward with delicious agony, portending a too-hasty, too-violent climax, Meredith tried to tear her mouth away and tighten her thighs together. “No!” she cried out.

Understanding far too much, Rolf nipped her bottom lip with controlled aggression. “Shhh, sweetling, let me.” It wasn’t a request.

“But I don’t want…oh!” Somehow in her passion-induced state, she hadn’t realized that her hands were still raised above her head, voluntarily now, while his hands had been busy undoing the buttons on her jacket. His golden brown eyes glittered with erotic excitement as he gazed at her lace-covered breasts, then eased the fabric aside.

He didn’t have to order her to bow her back and thrust her aching breasts forward. She did so out of a primordial need for his male touch. And, oh…
o-o-o-h!
…it took a mere flick of his callused fingertips over the swollen nipples for her to whimper and spread her legs, wrapping them around his waist.

With a guttural growl, he put his hands on her nearly bare buttocks and rocked her, first gently, then hard, hard, hard till the agonizing pulse grew and grew and
grew. They both exploded against each other in a wild rush of overwhelming ecstasy.

At some point, Rolf’s legs must have given way for she awakened from a brief swoon—the first of her life—to find herself on the floor, with her legs still clamped around his waist. He looked stunned.

She was pretty stunned herself. And mortified beyond belief.

Geirolf leaned against a tree and watched Merry-Death through slitted eyelids as she skittered amongst her students. She’d resisted Thea’s urging to change into an extra Viking gown, and instead donned a pair of jeans and a huge sweating
shert
emblazoned with, “I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar.” He smiled as he read the message. He already knew how she could “roar.”

He much preferred her in the garment she’d worn earlier—the one that exposed her long legs and a good portion of her bosom. Or the cat-fur sweat-her she’d worn to the shipping mall several days past.

He wouldn’t tell her of his preferences yet, though. At this moment, he was not pleased with the wench. Oh, she talked to the young people in a normal tone of voice about the project and other sundry matters. They sat about the fire nibbling at the meal he had provided for them on wooden trenchers: chunks of beef swimming in a thick gravy served over slices of unleavened manchet bread, which they called pita bread in this land. And she laughed gaily when admiring their attire, but he knew the gaiety was forced. The wench was as nervous as a cat on hot coals. And with good reason.

She’d escaped his clutches after their near coupling
an hour past. But not for long. He knew it. And she knew it.

Geirolf couldn’t believe he’d spilled his seed in his breechcloat like an overeager youthling. For the second time. The wench with her wanton hose had seduced him into an overpowering loss of control. And his release, though not attained in the mode he would have preferred, had been gloriously exquisite. Whilst he misliked the woman’s ability to turn his brain to gruel and his bones to butter, he could scarce wait to see what their actual bedding would be like, if this foretaste was any indication.

“You’re not eating,” she commented, coming up to him finally. He noted that she maintained a good distance betwixt them, as if she thought he might pounce on her.

Mayhap he would.

“I would prefer to finish the meal you offered, then took away afore I had a chance to fully…ah, indulge.” His words brought a stain to Merry-Death’s cheeks, which amazed him after her uninhibited display such a short time ago.

“Well, that was a—” she gulped—“mistake. Not to be repeated.”

He laughed, causing several students, as well as Mike and Thea, to glance their way. For her ears only, he whispered, “Nay, not a mistake. And, for a certainty, to be repeated. Again and again and again. Except
I
intend to lead the loveplay in future.
I
intend to give the orders.”

“It seems to me you gave enough orders already,” she blurted out, and he could see she wished the words had never escaped her lips…lips that were still swollen and bruised from his kisses. That reminded him of
how much he enjoyed kissing Merry-Death. The way she responded so readily. The ardor with which she returned his deep kisses. The kittenish purr she emitted when—

“Stop that! Stop it right now!”

“What?” His forehead furrowed with puzzlement.

“Looking at my mouth like…like…”

He arched a brow. “Like a hungry man?”

She moaned. “Rolf, this is serious.”

“Yea, ’tis.”

“No, I mean we have to behave in a more serious, professional manner. I came home from the office today to talk to you about our differences over the project, and instead—”

“Instead you enticed me with your harlot hose. ’Tis how women throughout the ages have attempted to settle differences with their menfolk. Tsk-tsk! Somehow, I expected more of you, being a
professional
woman and all.”

“I did
not
entice you,” she snapped indignantly. “You’re the one who assaulted me. No wonder you Vikings have a reputation for raping and pillaging. It must come naturally.”

“Assault? Do you say I assaulted you? Is that what you called it when you moaned your need into my mouth? When your green eyes turned molten with appeal? When you locked your warrior thighs about my hips and knocked me to the floor?”

“Warrior thighs? Warrior thighs?” she sputtered, shoving a palm into his chest, and then immediately stepped back when she saw the students gaping at them.

“Ah, you misread me, wench. Warrior thighs are an
asset for a woman. Better to clench man and horse alike.”

“Aaarrgh!”

“Your nipples are peaking.”

She looked down in horror, then cast him a disparaging scowl when she realized he could see nothing beneath the huge
shert
. “They are not.”

“Mayhap I am mistaken.”

“
Mayhap
your brain is lodged between your legs.”

He grinned. “For a certainty.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Yea. ’Tis one of the things women love about me.”

“Do all Vikings have overinflated egos?”

He pulled a face at her. “You confuse self-importance with self-confidence.”

“Are you going to take over the project again?”

“Are we changing the subject?” He laughed.

“Yes, we’re changing the subject. Look at this,” she stormed, waving a hand in the air toward the two unfinished longships. “Mike and the students barely have a framework up for the project vessel, while yours will be done in no time.”

He shrugged. “With my time freed from
managing
the project, I’ve been able to spend all the daylight hours working on my boat. And, of course, I have no reservations about using sandpaper and modern wood fillers. Tomorrow I’m going to have Mike take me to Hardware Heaven again—”

“That’s Hardware
Superstore
,” she corrected.

“I know that, wench,” he said, tweaking her nose, “but to a man who works with his hands, it is indeed heaven. As I was saying, I intend to buy some power tools. Mayhap a drill and an electric saw. And duct
tape. I have heard that duct tape is man’s best friend.” He jiggled his eyebrows at her.

“You are
not
using modern tools on my longship.”

“Tsk-tsk-tsk! You are not listening, my lady. These are for my longship, not yours.” He tapped his front teeth pensively. “I just had a wonderful idea. Mayhap I will make another purchase, too. A motor. Yea, I will be the first Viking with a power motor in my longship.”

“You…you—” she fought for words “—you wouldn’t!”

“Merry-Death, Merry-Death, Merry-Death, you disappoint me. When will you learn not to rise to every bait a man throws your way? Nay, I’ll not spoil a good ship with a motor. However, I’ve been studying the motor in Mike’s wheeled box, and since he got me a sew-shall sack-your-tea document today, along with a travel pass—a passport—I am contemplating…”

His hesitation should have given her a clue.

“…getting my driver’s license tomorrow. And buying my own wheeled box. A car, not one of those trucks that Mike prefers.”

“Oh, my God!” Merry-Death used the expression overmuch when talking to him. It no doubt meant he overwhelmed her with his wisdom and cunning.

“Perchance, do you know a good wheeled-box mart where…?” he started to ask, tentatively.

Merry-Death narrowed her eyes suspiciously at him. He loved her sea-green eyes, even when narrowed shrewishly.

“…where a Viking could purchase a…longcar?”

She made a choking sound before spinning on her heel and stalking toward the keep. To search for an
other of those magic pills of hers, he would wager. Let her cure her head megrims any way she could, for she will not plead an aching head later when he came presenting his own magic. And his magic wasn’t in a pill.

Meredith’s sister Jillian swept into their lives that evening like a summer storm over his beloved Vestfjord Valley. All bluster and no substance.

She wore tight black
braies
of a stretchy material that would surely catapult her all the way to Iceland if a man pulled on the waistband and let go. On top, her breasts strained against a silky white
shert
that went down to her thighs and wrists but was cinched in at the waist with an oversized, metal-studded belt. Several opened buttons provided an impressive cleavage filled in with a handsome gold-and-amber necklet similar to those made by the Coppergate artisans in Jorvik. Matching loops hung from her ears, which were exposed by the oddest hair. The color was the same dark reddish-brown shade as Merry-Death’s, piled atop her head in disarray, but strands of gold ran uniformly
through it. He didn’t think the sun could produce such an effect.

Mike and the students had left for the day, and dusk approached as Jillian hugged Thea over and over, then sent her outside to carry in the vast amount of baggage she’d brought with her. Turning to him and Merry-Death, Jillian asked bluntly, “So, are you two lovers?”

“No!” Merry-Death said.

“Yes,” he said at the same time.

Jillian looked at each of them, her crimson lips curving up with amusement.

“’Tis a question of definition,” he explained, ignoring Merry-Death’s coughing fit.

“We are
not
lovers,” Merry-Death said emphatically and speared him with a sidelong glare. “I hired Rolf to work on the longboat project. He’s a shipbuilder from…Norway.” She’d warned him in a nervous rush when Jillian’s hired box drove up earlier that he was not to discuss time travel, ancient Vikings, or anything that would cause her sister to know his true identity. Not that Merry-Death believed his explanations. And he didn’t appreciate her referring to him as ancient, either.

He wagged an admonishing finger at Merry-Death. “Nay, you misspeak our relationship. I was hired to
direct
the project. Is that not so, my lady?”

A speaking silence ensued in which Jillian mouthed the words “My lady?” at Merry-Death, and then narrowed her eyes, watching them far too closely.

He no longer required the talisman’s magic to help him translate their strange language, except for the occasional tongue-twisting words. Although he’d always mastered foreign tongues with ease, he was certain the
relic had helped speed his lessons this time.

Finally, Merry-Death’s shoulders slumped with resignation. “That’s right. Rolf is directing the physical work on the project, and I’m handling the paperwork and liaison with the foundation committee. We’re…partners.” Her last word came out tentatively, and she held her breath, waiting for his reply.

Damn, but the woman was willful. He should take an excessive time contemplating her impertinent claim. But compassionate man that he was, he nodded, and she released a sigh of relief. Later, she would pay for testing him so.

“Mom, where do you want this luggage?” Thea asked, huffing into the room, overloaded with leather boxes of all sizes named for the biblical hero Samson.

Jillian raised a questioning brow at Merry-Death, who said, “Upstairs. You can sleep with Thea. I’ll use the sofa.”

Jillian’s eagle eyes then swerved to him in speculation.

“Rolf prefers to sleep outdoors under the stars,” Merry-Death answered for him.

Geirolf made a soft snorting sound of contradiction as he passed Merry-Death on his way to relieving Thea of her burdens. She put a halting hand on his arm and whispered, “Will you help me, really? Will you resume work on the project tomorrow?”

“Yea.”

She tilted her head in surprise at his swift compliance.

“All you had to do was ask, sweetling. Not order.”

“Sweetling? How quaint!” Jillian observed.

“Oh, you are the most exasperating man!” Merry-Death said.

He grinned at her and couldn’t resist leaning forward to steal a quick kiss from her parted lips.

“Not lovers, huh?” Jillian hooted.

He jerked back. Merry-Death had a way of making him forget where he was. And how could it be that his lips tingled from that mere touch? Amazing. How much more intense would the tingling be if some other parts of their anatomies connected?

“Lordy, lordy, you two throw off more sparks than a bonfire.”

A rush of pink flooded Merry-Death’s cheeks.

He winked at her, envisioning a hundred different things he could do to make her blush even more. He could scarce wait.

Merry-Death jutted out her mulish chin, not her most attractive feature. As she stormed past him, leading the way to the stairs, he remarked to Jillian, “Your sister needs a lesson in the womanly arts…how to be more biddable.”

Merry-Death stumbled but didn’t look back.

Jillian chortled with laughter.

Thea was walking up the stairs, backwards, in front of them all, grinning from ear to ear.

“You see, Merry-Death gleans all her learning from books, whereas her real-life education is sadly lacking.”

“How interesting!” Jillian opined.

Merry-Death snickered and muttered something about Vikings who were full of themselves.

“You see, men in this land have a perfect hero to emulate—”

“Oh, no!” Merry-Death exclaimed, scowling at him from the upper corridor.

“Tim the Toolman Taylor!” Thea whooped.

Jillian joined Merry-Death in the hallway, her mouth forming a little circle of astonishment.

“Your hero is Tim Allen, the actor on
Home Improvement?
” Jillian asked incredulously, and then burst into another fit of laughter, throwing an arm over her daughter’s shaking shoulders. Even Merry-Death put a hand over her mouth to stifle a smile.

Why did these thick-headed women not understand the heroic qualities of the much-maligned Tim?

When Jillian’s laughter finally subsided into mere giggles, she slapped her thigh with delight. “And who, pray tell, Mr. Viking, would be the heroic equivalent for women? Who should we emulate to become more—what did you call it?—biddable?”

He did not much relish their laughter at his expense. And, really, females were all half-brained, chirping for explanations about every bloody thing. Well, he would enlighten them, good and proper. “Martha Stewart.”

“Martha Stewart!” all three women chirped in unison.

“Yea. I watched her on the picture box this morn whilst breaking fast. By all the gods, she is a wonder. In less than an hour, she baked twelve loaves of bread, poured concrete for a rock garden, pruned an apple tree, and crocheted a tablecloth. And not once did she badger a man to come to her aid.”

“Is this guy for real?” Jillian asked Merry-Death.

“I’m not sure.”

“You women could learn much from Martha. In truth, ’tis what I told Sharon Stone yesternoon when she complained about her busy schedule.”

“What did you just say?” Merry-Death shrieked.

Really, if he were not so smitten with the wench, he
would have to tell her that her voice made his eyes water betimes.

“You talked to Sharon Stone?”

“Did I not just say so?”

She put a hand to her forehead in that eternal female pose of “My lot in life is suffering and woe…and men are the root of all evil.” It was a good sign, in his opinion. She was weakening. “Where…how did you talk to Sharon Stone?”

“On the telephone. What a marvel that black box is!”

“Why did you call Sharon Stone? And how in God’s name were you able to get her number?”

“Hah! ’Twas not easy, I will tell you.” He put the travel cases on the floor and leaned into the corridor wall. “You know that Mike yearns for this woman, though I cannot see her appeal. Too coarse, if you ask me. And I must confess, Merry-Death, I do not believe she was born with blond hair. My sister-by-marriage, Gilda, looks just like Sharon, except—”

“Aaarrgh!” Meredith shrieked,
again
, causing his eyeballs to flinch. Next would come the watering. “Will you get on with your explanation.”

He cast her a disapproving scowl, and continued. “Mike wants the woman, and I was showing him how a Viking would handle the snaring.”

“Snaring? Snaring? Are you talking about snaring a woman?” Merry-Death sputtered.

“Exactly how is this snaring done?” Jillian was not quite so appalled at the notion of men snaring women.

“Straightforward. No muddling about with milksop pleas or sweet virginal dalliances. Just tell the woman, ‘I want you.’” He thought for a moment. “Or else just take her. That is, of course, another method.
Some women don’t want to be asked. Yea, that is my usual strategy. ’Twas my mistake with you, Merry-Death. Too much muddling.”

“God, I’m glad I decided to come,” Jillian chortled. “You are going to be so-o-o good for my sister.”

“Well said!” Geirolf commented enthusiastically. Then he went back to their previous discussion. “Sharon cannot come to Maine, unfortunately. She is acting out a story for the TV box. But she invited Mike to come visit her in Holly-Forest.”

“Tell them who else you called, Rolf. Tell them,” Thea urged, jumping up and down with glee.

He brightened. “Oh, did I forget to inform you, Merry-Death? Tim and Al are coming here to help with your longship project. They will bring a picture box crew with them, too, to make a flummery, a pretend story, about Tim building a longship in the courtyard of his keep.”

Merry-Death went speechless, her lips trembling with words that would not come out. In truth, she resembled his Great-uncle Bjolf when about to have a fit. No doubt she was overcome with awe at his ability to adapt so well to her country. He puffed out his chest, continuing, “And Tim’s overlord will pay you. So there! You may thank me later for adding to the sorely depleted coffers of your project.”

“Tim and Al?” she squeaked out. Leastways, she did not shriek this time.

“Tsk-tsk. You are not paying attention. Tim Taylor and Al Borlund.”

“You’ve been making all these long-distance calls on my phone?” she inquired weakly.

“Yea. And believe me, I had to make dozens of them afore I got the correct numbers. Agents. Picture
Guilds. Ted Turner. Tart-tongued upper-ate-oars.”

Merry-Death put her face in her hands. ’Twas a favored gesture of hers when talking with him. “I want an aspirin.”

“Ass-burn? Now? Well, well, well, Merry-Death! It sounds rather perverted to me, and your timing is odd—” he paused for only a moment “—but I’m willing, if you are.” He threw his arms out in invitation.

Jillian and Thea howled so hard tears streamed down their faces, but Merry-Death stared at him as if she’d been poleaxed.

Sometimes, he decided, ’twas wise to poleax a woman. In one form or another.

Hours later, Geirolf sat drinking mead at the scullery table while Jillian endlessly examined his belt clasp under a magnifying glass. She’d done the same with his arm rings before that. For some reason, he didn’t mention the hidden relic, which was revealed only when a secret bead on the gold work was pressed just so. From the very beginning, he’d told all to Merry-Death, without hesitation, and yet he’d held back with her sister. How curious!

But he didn’t want to dwell on such ruminations now. He was bored. And in a rare lustful mood.

Oh, the lust itself was not rare, but the fierceness of his need for Merry-Death was becoming nigh overwhelming.

Merry-Death had gone upstairs a short time ago with a glass of wine to soak in something she called a bubble bath. He would like to see that. Yea, he would.

Instead, for the past hour, he’d listened to Jillian ooh and aah over his belt clasp, when he’d much rather have Merry-Death ooh and aah over another of his pos
sessions—a mite lower down his belly—and clamoring for attention.

“Why are you glaring at me?” Jillian asked.

He refused to answer and grabbed his belt out of her hands. “’Tis time for sleep. I must be up at first light.” The last thing on his mind was sleep.

“I’m not very tired,” she said, slitting her eyes at him. “Why not leave the belt with me to do a few more sketches? I can return it to you in the morning.”

Hah! No doubt she planned to scramble off with the talisman in the dead of night and place it under guard in some dusty museum. Or sell it to the highest bidder. “Nay,” he asserted emphatically, “you have examined and scribbled enough.”

The flash of vexation in her eyes, which she quickly masked, told him that slyness was second nature to her. She cared for herself and her own greedy ambitions first and foremost. That was evident in her neglect of her daughter. Not to mention her current flirtatious fluttering of eyelashes and not-so-accidental brushing against his body parts.

He was buckling on his belt and walking toward the outside door when she called after him. “My sister isn’t woman enough for you, you know. I would be the far better choice.”

His step faltered and he turned slowly. “What a faithless wretch you are. Does family mean naught to you?”

She shrugged. “I love my sister…Oh, don’t look down your nose at me, Viking…I
am
fond of Mer—in my own way.” She stretched her arms over her head, presumably to remove the kinks from her long sitting, but more to tempt him with her form.

It was a very nice form, but he felt no inclination to see more of it. Or to try her charms.

Still she persisted. “I’ve never made it with a Viking before. Have you ever done it with a jewelry maker? We have really good…hands.” She gave him a slumberous meaningful glance and flexed her fingers.

He shook his head with disgust. “’Twould seem some things ne’er change. In every land and every time, a snake in the grass is still a snake in the grass. You are cut of the same cloth as that biblical Jezebel.”

“Don’t be such a judgmental prude. We’re talking about a little hanky-panky, not a freaking marriage. Besides, it’s plain to see that you and Mer haven’t done the deed yet, and probably never will, if I know my sister.”

Angered by her perfidy, he stomped back to the table and jabbed an admonishing finger into her chest. “Whether we have or not, she is the woman of my choice, and she is your blood kin. Have you no shame?”