Sandra Hill (16 page)

“Oh,” she squeaked out and sank a bit lower in the tub.

Now, he was tracing a forefinger through the thick layer of bubbles, making a path of letters that immediately melded together. “I-L-O-V—”

“Wh-what are you doing?” she asked in a panic. Surely, he hadn’t been writing what she’d thought she’d seen.

He jerked back his hand, as if just realizing what he’d been doing. “Practicing my alphabet,” he said.

Liar
.

“Mayhap you would like me to practice my letters
on your skin. Prune skin, did you call it when I walked in?”

She closed her eyes as a tingling awareness passed over her, almost as if he were actually tracing the words on her flesh…words she yearned for and at the same time resisted with her whole being.

“Merry-Death,” he said gently, a note of desperation in his voice, “do you tingle when I touch you?”

Her eyes shot open. Could he read her mind now, too?

“Not when I touch you intimately, but just in passing. Like that fleeting kiss I gave you earlier? Did you tingle then?”

He gazed at her with such abject bleakness as he asked the question.

She frowned with confusion. “What’s wrong, Rolf? Why are you asking me these questions?”

He shrugged. “’Tis something your sister suggested to me.”

Meredith bristled. “Was that before or after she attempted to jump your bones?”

The grimness of his expression lightened and he chucked her playfully under the chin. And she did tingle, darn it.

“After.”

“Well, then, what did my sister suggest that has turned you so grim?”

He was back to tracing letters in the bubbles with seemingly idle concentration, but she could tell that he was deeply troubled by something…something Jillie had suggested to him. What could it be? Meredith had no deep, dark secrets.

He lifted his head and held her eyes. “She said…she said that I am in love with you.”

That was the last thing Meredith had expected. “I…I…” she sputtered. What she wanted to say was, “Are you?” but she didn’t have the nerve. For some reason, his answer was far too important to her.

Tears welled in her eyes, and she turned her face toward the wall. Her vulnerability was crushing her. Not so much because she was naked and he was not, but because she felt so…needy.

With a forefinger against her jaw, he forced her to face him. “I denied it…at first.”

At first? Oh, my God!

“But I fear that Jillian made a wise assessment.”

“She did?” Meredith’s white knuckles clutched the sides of the tub in desperation. If she didn’t hold on tight, she just might sink and drown in two feet of water from the sheer passionate lethargy that swept her torso. “What are you saying, Rolf?” she whispered.

“I think…Nay, I cannot hide behind cowardly words of hesitation,” he confessed huskily. ““
Ég elska þig
.”

“What?”

“I love you,” he translated in a low mumble. Then louder, “I love you. May the fates have mercy on us, but I do. I love you, Merry-Death.”

“You love me?” Merry-Death choked out.

The scarlet flush of arousal on her face faded to pale cream, and her luminous eyes widened with anxiety. If her white-knuckled fingers clutched the tub’s edge any tighter, she might break through the porcelain.

Geirolf wasn’t offended. He understood her panic. Had he not fought the same urge to run like the wind when Jillian first suggested to him that he loved Merry-Death?

Regaining her composure, Merry-Death laughed. It was a false laugh, one of those unattractive sounds people make to cover their real emotions. “Ha-ha-ha,” Merry-Death said. “Great joke, Rolf, but you don’t have to give me that old line. I’ve already decided to have an affair with you. So you don’t—”

“You have?” Grinning at her from where he remained perched on a stool, chin propped on his stee
pled hands, he could scarce keep from jumping into the tub with her—tunic, boots, and all. But first, he had to make himself clear. “’Tis not a line, as you name it. ’Tis a statement of fact. I wish ’twere not so—we have so many obstacles in our path. I do not want to love you, Merry-Death, but there ’tis. I love you.”

She made a kittenish mewl of distress, and he couldn’t tell if she was pleased or not. Since he’d never uttered those three dreaded words to a woman afore, he had no experience to draw on.

“I’m telling you, Rolf, you don’t need to soft-soap me to get me in your bed. You won that battle days ago.”

He chuckled. “But I would much relish soft-soaping you, sweetling, if the exercise even remotely resembles drekking you.”

A smile twitched at the corners of her lips—lips that he anticipated kissing very soon and very thoroughly.

“Have I told you how much I enjoy the scent of your drek, almost as much as the flowery bath oil that permeates this bathing chamber? I will ne’er smell roses again without thinking of you.”

Merry-Death’s head snapped back, and she gave him an uneasy look. Why would she be surprised that he cherished the fragrances associated with her? But he had another question. “What is this ‘affair’ you have decided to have with me? Is it a perversion?” he asked hopefully. Meanwhile, he trailed his fingertips idly through the dissipating bubbles, giving him a murky vision of the glorious body beneath.

“You are outrageous,” Merry-Death proclaimed, but she didn’t seem sad about that. “An affair is a fling, a casual relationship that both parties know will end in a short time.”

Geirolf drew himself straight. “Nay, there is naught casual in my sentiments for you. Do not dismiss me in such a light manner, my lady. It demeans what I offer you.”

“And what, exactly, are you offering me?” she inquired tentatively.

“My heart.”

“Oh, Rolf.” Her eyes filled with tears…happy tears, he would wager. She started to say more, but then stopped. “Look, this isn’t the place to discuss this. Would you turn around so I can get out of the tub?”

He grinned. “You may certainly stand, but I’m not such a lackwit that I would turn away.”

“I’d feel more comfortable talking to you on an equal basis, fully clothed.”

“I could remove my garments,” he offered.

She tsk-tsked at him, just like his mother. Well, not exactly so. The dreamy expression on her face was far from maternal, praise the gods!

“Come, Merry-Death, stand and let me dry you off. Then we’ll see about the business of…uh, discussing.”

She sank deeper into the tub, her chin skimming the water’s surface. The stubborn wench!

“Coward!” he taunted.

Her eyes flashed green fire for a moment before she stood with a whoosh, splashing water over the rim. He wanted to clap or give words of praise for her bravado, but his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and his arms lay frozen at his sides.

She was magnificent.

Standing stone-still in knee-deep water, she stared boldly back at him, allowing him to study the lines of her trim body. Like a Byzantine marble statue she was,
all sleek planes and enticing curves. With her wet hair combed back and her proud chin held high, she presented a face that was not beautiful but nicely formed. Flawless skin. High cheekbones. Straight nose. Thick arched brows over crystalline green eyes. Full, kissable lips. Nay, he amended, she
was
beautiful…to him.

Her breasts were round and firm, the size of pomegranates, the nipples and surrounding aureoles a lovely shade of dusty pink. He adored her breasts and would show her how much—later.

She was slender, but not overly so. A narrow waist tapered out to full hips that framed a flat stomach and indented navel. He promised himself an extended exploration of that territory with his hands and tongue, mayhap even his teeth. Yea, teeth would be interesting.

He forced his eyes to move on to long, clean-shaven legs that joined at the most enticing spot of all, a patch of dark brown curls glistening with wet drops from her bath. His own groin tightened as he looked at her there, wondering at all the hidden secrets she harbored and would ultimately reveal to him. ’Twas a heady, heady prospect.

“Well?” she demanded. The word came out brashly, but he could tell she needed affirmation of her appeal. Oh, foolish, foolish maid, that she did not know.

He paused, seeking the perfect compliment, but she misread his hesitation.

“You jerk,” she hissed and catapulted herself at him over the edge of the tub, reaching outstretched hands for his throat. She hit harder than he expected, prompting him to fall backward off the stool. They both landed on the floor, her on top of him, with a loud thud.

He held onto her affronted body with an armlock
around her waist as she tried to squirm away. Then he began to laugh, but immediately bit his bottom lip, tucking her face into the curve of his neck, when he heard a sharp rap on the door.

“Mer, are you okay? Did you fall?”

Merry-Death raised her head, though he held the rest of her body, chest to legs, flattened against his. “I’m okay, Jillie. I just slipped on a loose…rug.”

I will show her just how slippery a “rug” I can be
. “I was about to say that you are beautiful…magnificent,” he whispered into her ear, licking the shell-like lobe in the process. It tasted so good, he did it again.

She groaned.

“Did you just groan?” Jillian asked, apparently still standing in the hallway. “You
are
hurt. Let me in, Mer.”

He started to inform Merry-Death that her fingernails digging into his shoulders were piercing the skin, but she slapped one hand over his open mouth. And he soon forgot the insignificant pain as she turned slightly toward the door, lifting her breasts inadvertently closer to his face.

Holy Hel and Blessed Valhalla! What a sight!

“I was groaning because I’m tired and it’s an effort even to put my nightgown on, Jillie. Go to bed.”

In one expert move, Geirolf took her by the waist, shifted her slightly up his chest, then immediately clasped her flailing arms by the wrists in his one hand behind her back. He used his other hand to mold her bare buttocks, fitting her against his hardness. Then he wrapped his legs around her calves and spread them apart ever so slowly.

Her eyes nigh popped out, and the pulse in her neck jumped. With a motion of his head toward the door,
he cautioned that they might not be alone yet. He couldn’t have spoken aloud if he’d wanted to, so light-headed had he become.

“Jillie? Are you still there?” she croaked out.

While her attention was diverted to her sister, he used the opportunity to pull on her wrists, still enclosed in his fist resting on her rump. The movement induced her shoulders to bow backward and her breasts to arch forward in invitation.

He was never one to deny himself such an invitation.

“I’m worried about you,” Jillian said through the door.

He leaned his head up slightly and flicked his tongue over one hardened peak, then another. Merry-Death made no sound, though her lips parted and her belly lurched against his.

“I told you I’m not hurt,” she told her sister. The whole time, their eyes were locked in a fiery exchange.

“Oh, I don’t mean that. I mean about you and this Viking character. He’s strange.”

This strange Viking character began to lave wet circles around her aureoles and taut nipples, first with the flat of his tongue, then the pointed tip.

Merry-Death’s breathing escalated to panting as she tried to twist out of his embrace.

“He could hurt you, Mer,” Jillian continued.

“I don’t see how.” Meredith snorted, though she gave him a meaningful glance that implied there were different kinds of “hurting.” To punish her for the silent reprimand, he took one nipple and aureole deep into his mouth and began to suckle with a rhythmic fervor. With each erotic pull, a delicious shiver passed from his tongue to his loins. He suspected there was pulling and shivering going on in her body, as well.

“Well, all right then. We’ll talk in the morning,” Jillian said. The shuffle of her departing feet faded down the hallway.

Merry-Death probably wasn’t aware her sister had left, so stunned did she appear. He had that effect on women ofttimes. Gasping, she closed her eyes and threw her head back, giving him even greater access to her breasts. At the same time, her hips began to undulate against him.

It would be over afore he began if he wasn’t careful. Twice now, the witch had seduced him into losing his seed in his
braies
. It would not happen again, he vowed.

Releasing her hands, he rolled over, causing her to land on her back with him on his side bending over her. Numb with passion, she gazed up in confusion. “Wh-what?”

He put a fingertip to her lips. “Shhh. The time isn’t right for our joining. There is much we need to settle first.” He gave her numerous little kisses in between his words.

She gaped at him blankly, and her breath still came out in gasps. He shared the turmoil.

Passing his palm over a heaving breast, he skimmed her stomach, resting the heel of his hand against her nether hair, the fingers delving into her woman dew. He nigh keened with male triumph that he’d brought her to this state so swiftly. “Before we talk, do you want me to bring you to your ecstasy?” His fingers moved against her slickness till they found the bud of her pleasure, swollen with need.

Her thighs trembled before she stammered, “A-alone?”

He puzzled over her question till he realized she was
asking if they’d bring each other to mutual satisfaction. Or couple. “Yea. Alone. Just you.”
For now
.

“You idiot!” she exclaimed, shoving him aside and scrambling to her feet.

Now it was his turn to blink in confusion. He sat on the floor with his knees drawn up to his chest, watching with bafflement as Merry-Death grabbed a fleecy robe from a wall hook, sliced him a quelling glare, unlocked the door, and shot away from him, faster than an arrow from a crossbow.

He would never understand women. How could Merry-Death’s mood have altered in such a short time from happy tears over his avowal of undying love to scowling condemnation? Was it a woman quirk? A female tactic to drive men mad?

Or could he perchance have mishandled the situation?

Quickly, before Rolf could follow, Meredith extinguished the living room lights and crawled under the sheets of her makeshift bed on the sofa. She didn’t want him to see how shaken she was. She didn’t want him to see the tears that wouldn’t stop flowing.

She heard the shower running upstairs. The dolt! She boiled with frustration, and he was cool, calm, and collected enough to take another of his leisurely showers.

How could she have been such a dope…falling for that old line?
I love you, Merry-Death
. Hah! There was nothing of love in his working her up like a wind-up Barbie, then having the nerve to tell her they wouldn’t be making love…that he’d be pressing her buttons, but not participating himself. She felt pathetic and unfeminine.

It was probably some kind of power play. A form
of Viking torture. Another example of her trying too hard to please, and falling short. Pathetic. She was pathetic. He
had
been interested in the beginning, she knew he had, but somewhere along the way he must have decided she wasn’t all that exciting.
What else is new?
The challenge for him had faded away with her surrender. But Rolf had pitied her in the end and he’d been willing to finish her off. Oh, the humiliation of it all!

Suddenly, one lamp light clicked on, then another. Rolf stood over her, water drizzling from his wet hair, which was raked back off his forehead and behind his ears. Water also drizzled down his body…a body that became alarmingly naked and menacing and fully aroused when the towel wrapped around his hips accidentally unknotted and slipped. He started to catch it, then shrugged and let it drop to the floor.

Aroused? But he didn’t want me
.

Grinning when he caught her gawking at his…ah, midsection, he drawled, “Even a cold shower couldn’t bank my lust for you.”

Huh?
“You said you didn’t want to make love with me.”

“I said no such thing,” he asserted, and then burst out laughing. Pointing downward, he chuckled, “Merry-Death, Merry-Death, tsk-tsk, how can a woman with your education be so naive? In truth, how could anyone with a lick of sense misinterpret
this
.” His laughter escalated to deep belly guffaws.

She began to blubber in earnest under the onslaught of his ridicule, causing him to notice her tears for the first time.

“
Blód hel!
” he cursed, and scooped her up in his arms—sheets and robe and all. Then he swiveled his
body so he plopped down on the couch with her on his lap. She kicked and flailed and clawed, to no avail.

“Leave off,” he hissed, and maneuvered his torso so she was sandwiched between the back of the sofa and him. There really wasn’t room on the narrow cushions for two people, and certainly not when one of them was six-foot-four and over two hundred pounds, with an added rock-hard appendage poking her belly.

She stilled but continued to show her resistance by glaring at him…between sobs. A lot of good that did. He raised one of his hands, which had been imprisoning hers at her sides, and used a thumb to wipe the tears from her cheek. It was useless. No sooner did he erase one than another took its place.