Sandra Hill (23 page)

Besides, what if he were able to take her back? And what if he were killed in one of the incessant battles
with the Saxons? How would she survive alone in another time?

Merry-Death glanced up at him and his uplifted bottle with an anxious frown from where she sat on the raised hearth near his feet. He patted her head, assuring her he would behave—for now—because she asked. She had withstood his request for mead, at first, saying she wanted him to keep a cool head. Hah! A tun of mead couldn’t make him any more furious than he was now. And if he chose to beat the villainous cur to death and cut off the bitch’s nose, as he sorely yearned to do, then a cup of coffee wouldn’t hold him back. But Merry-Death’s fervent plea had held him back—for now.

He leaned against the fireplace and took a long swig of mead. Every time he hoisted the bottle, he saw Jeffrey’s upper lip—the one covered with a thin milksop mustache—curl with distaste. The man had a death wish, he really did, daring to cast condescending eyes his way.

Merry-Death put a hand on his calf. No doubt she would latch onto his ankle like a puppy if he lunged for the two lackwits who sat guiltily on the couch-bed. They’d run like the wind if he turned his back.

“Can we get on with this?” Jeffrey asked testily. “I have an appointment at noon with my department head. You remember Dr. Preston, don’t you, Meredith? He came to our wedding.”

A rumble of outrage rolled up from Geirolf’s chest, but it was Jillian who put up a forbidding hand to him this time. Addressing Jeffrey, she said, “You are a solid gold—plated ass, Jeffrey. Put a lid on it, or
I’ll
cut out your tongue.” She spoke to Merry-Death then, a contrite expression coming onto her face. “You’re well
rid of the jerk, Mer. Really. He’s a weak, two-faced, sniveling bastard, and I feel sorry for the woman who has him now. Really.”

“You have no room to talk,” Jeffrey spat back at her. “You’re nothing but a bitch in heat, except you’ve got the hots for fame, not sex.”

“Could we please stop all this bickering?” Merry-Death interjected shrilly, and Geirolf could see that she was approaching the limits of her endurance. Hauling her to her feet, he cradled her in the curve of his shoulder, and whispered into her hair, “Go up to bed, dearling. Let me handle this.”

She shook her head. “It’s my problem. I brought them here by sending them sketches of your belt clasp.”

“Nay, sweetling, I brought danger to you by coming to your home in the first instance.”

“Son of a bitch!” Jeffrey cursed, gaping at the loving picture of Merry-Death in Geirolf’s arms.

“Could you two save the billing and cooing for later? I have a plane to catch in Bangor at five
A.M.
,” Jillian snapped. “Either call the cops, or let us go.”

“Yea, ’tis time to stop dawdling,” Geirolf agreed. “We will not involve the legal authorities. That has been decided. Am I correct, Merry-Death?”

“Yes.”

“What destination does your flying machine have, Jillian?”

“Flying machine? Huh? Oh, I’m going back to London. Jeffrey was going to take the belt and arm ring to the Met to be dated, though God knows why I trusted him. Chances are he would have hocked the things and taken off for some tropical island to screw a few dozen nubile native girls.”

“Bitch!” Jeffrey seethed at her, spit flying.

“Bastard!” she countered, making a point of wiping the drool off her face with a tissue.

“Aaarrgh!” Merry-Death said.

“Damn, but you two deserve each other,” Geirolf opined.

“Jillie, what about Thea? She’s supposed to be back in school in another week. Will she be going back to her father in Chicago, or to London with you?”

“Hell if I know,” Jillian said morosely. “Oh, don’t go getting all uptight and sanctimonious on me, Mer. I’m not sure what to do with her yet. And let’s be honest, isn’t the best place for her right now here with you?”

“You would give up your child?” Merry-Death stared at her sister incredulously.

“No!” Jillian shouted, but then softened her voice. “Maybe…I don’t know. Maybe I could give you guardianship…for a while. Oh, Mer, I do love Thea, but I’m so damned screwed up, and George has remarried. His new wife has two kids of her own. It’s just such a mess.” Jillian ended by bursting into a long sob. Then she began to blubber in earnest.

Merry-Death slipped from his arms and went to her sister. Both of them were hugging and crying now.

“Aaarrgh!” Geirolf said then.

“I’ll second that,” Jeffrey added with a shiver of disgust.

“I need another mead,” he grumbled, heading toward the scullery.

“I think I’ll have one, too,” Jeffrey said, standing.

Rolf stiffened. He didn’t want the companionship of this swinish past-husband of the woman he loved. But then he shrugged. He had surely landed in a country
of lunatics, and he feared he was becoming mad himself.

An hour later, Jeffrey and Jillie stood at the front door, preparing to leave. Meredith was emotionally drained and physically fatigued beyond endurance.

Despite the despicable acts that they had planned, there would be no legal repercussions for the two of them. They’d promised not to try their dirty tricks again, or spread the word about the belt on the academic grapevine. That was the way Meredith wanted it, and Rolf had grudgingly conceded. She wasn’t entirely certain that he’d been jesting when he suggested they throw them off the cliff.

“Are you sure you won’t reconsider, Rolf?” Jillie tried one last time. “Honest, I would return the belt to you. It could be so important to science and history.”

“Leave off, Jillian,” he ripped out.

“Won’t you at least allow us to interview you?” Jeffrey tried. Rolf was right. The jerk had a death wish. Anyone looking at Rolf’s stormy face could see Jeffrey was treading in treacherous waters. “I still don’t understand who you are, or where you’ve come from. But your description of—”

With a snarl of irritation, Rolf shoved Jeffrey and Jillian out the door and slammed it loudly after them. Then he turned the key in the lock and swung her into the circle of his arms, swirling her in a circle. “Alone, at last,” he said joyfully into her neck.

Almost immediately, he set her on her feet near the stairs. Holding her by the upper arms, he studied her face. “You are going to fall over with exhaustion, my sweet. Go to your bed and sleep. I already told Mike
there will be no work on the morrow; so, you can sleep late.”

“Well, I don’t know…. Oh, okay.”

But he didn’t let her go just yet. Leaning down, he kissed her tenderly on the lips, then he kissed her hungrily. Finally, with great restraint, he held her away from him again. She felt like a rag doll, no longer capable of common sense.

“I must know, Merry-Death,” he began somberly, “will you wed with me?”

What? Where did that question come from? After all they’d been through that night, it was the last thing on her mind.

“We’ve been at cross-purposes over this issue for days, and ’tis time to blister or bleed, as I told Jeffrey and Jillian earlier. Will you give your free consent to marry me?”

“Will you take me with you when you leave?” Her tone was weary because she already knew the answer.

“Nay, I cannot,” he sighed.

She sighed then, too. “If that’s the case, the answer is no. I love you so much my heart aches with it, but I can’t marry you, Rolf. I can’t.”

He gazed at her for a long moment, and then nodded. “So be it, then.” He gave her another quick kiss and proceeded to walk away from her.

So be it. What does that mean? So be it, I give up? I don’t think so. Or is it, so be it, now you’d better beware?

“Rolf?” she questioned as he walked around the room clicking off lamps. “Rolf, what do you mean, ‘So be it’?”

He didn’t speak. A slow smile curved his mouth but never reached his icy eyes. It wasn’t a smile that said,
“Okay, baby, have it your way. I give up.” No, his smile said, “Watch your butt, baby. You are in deep Viking trouble.”

Meredith was almost afraid to fall asleep that night. If she’d been living in another time, she’d be calling out her knights to man the ramparts, pull up the drawbridge, and prepare for battle. She giggled at the thought. But just before deep slumber overtook her, the oddest line occurred to her. It was a famous Anglo-Saxon refrain in the ninth and tenth centuries:

“From the fury of the Northmen, oh, Lord deliver us.”

“RUFF! RUFF!”

Meredith’s eyes shot open to bright sunlight and a rumpled bed. Had someone been shouting, “Rolf! Rolf!”?

Disoriented, her sluggish brain slowly registered that she’d just awakened from an exceptionally deep sleep and that it was very late. A quick glance at her alarm clock showed it was almost eleven o’clock.
Eleven o’clock!
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept that late, if ever.

“RUFF! RUFF!”

The noise came from downstairs, followed immediately by Rolf muttering, “Oh, shit!” or was it, “Oh, no! Shit”?

The loud barking noise, not someone shouting “Rolf,” was what had awakened her, she realized.
Barking?
Before she had a chance to assimilate the
implications of barking, she heard thundering footfalls running down the hallway, around the living room, and then up the steps.

“Come back here,” Rolf yelled. “You’ll spoil the surprise.”

The surprise—about a hundred pounds of dirty white fur on a creature that resembled a cross between a sheepdog and a small bear—barreled through her doorway, took a flying leap, and landed on top of her, causing her to fall back on the pillow. Then the animal, which wore a bright red bow around its neck, proceeded to lick her face and neck and hair with a wet tongue the size of a man’s tie. Dog hair was flying everywhere.

“Dog, get off Merry-Death. She’s sleeping,” Rolf said irritably, coming into the room.

Dog propped his front paws on her shoulders, pinning her to the bed. The rest of his body sprawled over her like a living rug.

She leveled a glare at Rolf. “You are in
big
trouble.”

“Oh, you’re awake, sweetling.”

“No, I’m sleeping with my eyes open,” she snapped. “What makes you think the racket you two made lumbering around downstairs didn’t wake me up? What makes you think the sound of barking wouldn’t wake me up? Did you expect me to think it was you barking? And what makes you think a dog the size of a horse lapping my face like an ice cream cone wouldn’t wake me up?”

“I think Dog likes you,” Rolf declared brightly, sitting on the edge of the bed near her.

“Hah! What’s wrong with its eye?” It must have been injured in an accident, because one side of its face
was twisted upward, leaving its right eye half closed and its mouth elevated off-center in a harelip fashion. The result was that the dog looked as if it was winking and grinning all the time.

“It ran into a cow that didn’t appreciate having its face licked. Dog is a very affectionate fellow, and very sensitive.” He said this last in a hushed whisper. “So, we must be careful what we say about his appearance.”

“Rolf, I don’t want a dog.”

“See, you’ve hurt his feelings.”

The dog didn’t seem any different to her, except…oh, geez, was that a tear in its eye?

“You must not judge him by his minor imperfections, Merry-Death. In my opinion, his defects will not detract from his being a fierce guard dog for you when I am gone.”

“Guard dog! This animal couldn’t guard its own tail,” she sputtered and refused to think about Rolf’s when-I-am-gone remark. “You’re taking this dog back where you got him.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“They’ll kill him if I take him back.”

She groaned and tried to sit up. Rolf helped her by pulling the dog by its ribbon collar. Finally, the dog gave in and decided to favor Rolf with a good face slobbering.

“Who’ll kill him?” she asked against her better judgment.

“The animal shelter where I purchased him. Nobody wants him. Is that not incredible, Merry-Death?”

They both looked at the dog, which jumped—plopped would be a better description—off the bed and ambled around the room, sniffing. Probably searching
for a fire hydrant. Then, with a frenzied yipping, the dog discovered the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door and began barking ferociously at itself. Its contorted face gave it a comical expression, as if it was making weird faces on purpose.

“You said once that you always wanted a Great Dane, sweetling, but I just couldn’t bring myself to give you such a mongrel breed. Danes are really not so great, you know.”

She started to laugh, then stopped. “What’s that smell?”

“Dog needs to take a bath,” he admitted sheepishly. “I’ll put him in your tub once you’re finished.”

“Finished what?” she asked dubiously.

“Your bridal bath.”

Once again, Meredith was soaking in a tub full of rose-scented bubble bath. There were a few major differences this time, however.

Number one: The bath salts came from a basket of expensive powders and oils Rolf had presented to her as another bride gift…after he’d carried her kicking and screaming into the bathroom, followed by the wildly barking guard dog.

Number two: The bathroom door was locked from the outside. Rolf had told her that, if she’d been in his land, the ladies of his family would massage aromatic oils into her body after the bathing. It was a ritual to prepare her for the marriage bed. Since he was without female relatives, he’d insisted that either she anoint her own body, or he’d do it for her—which was highly inappropriate for a betrothed, apparently. Either way, the door wouldn’t be opened until she’d completed the task, or asked for his help.
As if!

Number three: Her Viking bridal gown was laid out over a chair near the door. On top was the pink Victoria’s Secret teddy Rolf had bought for her last week, the only undergarment he would allow. “You will don the gown, or be wed naked. It matters not to me. In truth, there is appeal in the latter.”

“You are a brute.”

“Yea, I am. But I’ll not bend on this, Merry-Death. We will be wed this day.”

“Even if it’s against my will?”

“Even then,” he’d said adamantly. “My father captured my mother in a Saxon raid. She was wedded and bedded with a gag in her mouth and her body restrained with ropes.”

“I don’t believe that for one minute.”

“Believe it, my lady.”

An hour later, he knocked on the door of the bathing chamber. “Are you ready, Merry-Death?”

No answer. “Damn, she is going to be willful to the end,” he commented to Dog, who lay guarding the locked door. Even Geirolf had to admit ’twas an odd position for guarding: The animal was stretched out flat on his stomach with his four paws spread wide. He’d been snoring wheezily, but he cracked open his one good eye upon hearing Rolf’s voice. “Well, the die is cast, Dog. A man must set the pattern of authority with his woman from the start, or suffer thereafter.”

The beast agreed with a growly rumble and then yawned loudly, stumbling to his feet, watching Geirolf unlock the door.

Meredith had completed her bath, apparently, but that was all. With wet hair combed off her face, she stood on the opposite side of the room, wearing her
fleecy robe, instead of her bridal garments. And she dared to raise weapons at him. In one hand, she held a long-handled bath brush and in the other a can of hair spray. “Go away, Rolf. You can’t bully me.”

He lifted a brow. “Dost think to deter me with those? Think again, my lady.”

She, too, saw the weakness of her weapons and dropped them to the floor. “You’re not a violent man. Don’t do this. You won’t like yourself in the morning.”

“Who says I am not a violent man?” Then he asked, “Didst thou perform the anointing ritual?” A quick glance at the basket of oils showed that none had been unstoppered, except the bubbling one he’d dumped in her bath water. He made a tsking sound at her. “Foolish, foolish wench, to test me so.”

Dog ambled in then and Meredith released a little squeak of disgust as he sniffed at the toilet and began to lap up the clear water inside. “Bad dog,” she scolded and reached over to shut the lid in his face.

Unrepentant, Dog padded around the small chamber, snuffling here and there. When he reached the half-full tub, he went up on his hind legs, paws on the edge, to see better. And slipped head first into the rose-scented bath water.

“’Twould seem Dog is going to have his bath sooner than later,” Geirolf remarked dryly as the ungainly beast splashed water on the wall and floor and even the ceiling while he tried to get a firm footing. The whole time, he was barking, “Woof, Woof, Woof.”

“Oh, this is ridiculous! He’s going to scratch the veneer on the porcelain. Do you know how hard it is to get one of these things reglazed?” Merry-Death
sliced him a glare as if it was all his fault. “You hold the beast down while I soap him.”

Ah, now this was a step forward he hadn’t anticipated. She’d asked for his help.

Within a short time, Dog was soaped and rinsed and dried off with big towels. Smelling sweetly of roses, the disgruntled dog stood in the middle of the chamber and shook his fur, scattering drops like a summer rain. Then he squished over to the door, gave Geirolf a wounded look, and waited.

Geirolf opened the door to let the dog out, then immediately locked it behind him again.

Meredith was kneeling on the floor cleaning the tub when she heard the door click shut. “Not again, Rolf,” she chided him, recognizing that he was now going to deal with her.

“Again.”

She stood and wrapped her now sodden robe tighter about her body. Her green eyes flashed defiance at him.

He inhaled deeply with regret. Why did she fight the inevitable? Was it a woman thing? “Take off your robe and lie on the rug,” he told her as he picked up a small flask of oil. There was a hand-woven carpet, now slightly damp, on the floor beside the tub. He unfolded a dry towel and spread it over the rug.

“No,” she said, backing up.

“Do you say me nay, still?” he asked wearily, and made short work of removing the garment, pushing her to the floor face down and restraining her by sitting lightly on her buttocks.

Meredith was calling him some coarse words that did not bear repeating. And she was flailing her arms and legs, to no avail.

He uncorked the flask and poured a small amount of
the oil into his palm, then warmed it by rubbing both palms together. It was rose-scented, of course, but a light fragrance mixed with other essences. Not overpowering.

“I asked you this question afore, Merry-Death. Have you e’er made love with a man who has calluses on his hands?”

She stopped flailing.

“Methinks ’twill be especially pleasing to be anointed with fingers and palms carrying the hardened marks of a workman’s toil. Do you take my meaning, Merry-Death? Soft oil, abrasive skin?”

She seemed to stop breathing. He was fairly certain that was a sign that she understood his meaning.

Moving the wet swath of her hair to the side, he began massaging the oil into the back of her tense neck and delicately carved shoulders. “I have ne’er done the anointing, Merry-Death. So, you must tell me if I am too rough.”

She moaned and bit her bottom lip.

“Was that a good moan, or a bad moan?”

She declined to answer. He’d expected naught else.

As he rubbed the oil into her arms, from shoulders to fingertips, and underarms to endearingly fragile wrists, he talked softly of the day he’d mapped out for her. “’Tis traditional to exchange the wedding vows afore witnesses, but I’ve no fancy for others beholding the ignominy of a reluctant bride. Thus, our ceremony will be a private one…man to woman.”

He saw that she was about to protest, again, but then pressed her eyes closed tightly, dark lashes fanning out against pale cheeks. As if that would shut out his words!

“Tomorrow, or the next day if you prove particu
larly recalcitrant, we’ll have a wedding feast, with witnesses. In truth, next weekend might be best. More people could come.” He’d moved lower and was oiling her back and ribs and waist. The small of a woman’s back had always had a special allure to him, and he took extra care with that enticing indentation.

“Rolf, give it up. This is the twentieth century. You can’t make me marry you if I refuse.”

“Watch me, sweetling.”

“I don’t want this…this farce.”

“You will yield in the end, that I promise.”

She muttered something about arrogant, conceited Vikings while he switched positions. Still resting on her rump, he faced the opposite direction. Starting with the soles of her feet, which he learned were very ticklish—he stored that information for later—he worked his way up her long legs, stroking her ankles, calves, the backs of her knees and thighs. She was making little mewling gasps.

He forced himself to talk again, to divert his attention from his hardening arousal. “I called Mike this morn and told him there will be no work on the morrow, and perchance not the following day, either. Depends on how long it takes to—”

“You had no right, Rolf. Tomorrow is the first day after spring break. I have classes to teach.”

“’Tis no problem,” he apprised her airily. “Mike said he can substitute for you, especially since you left such detailed lesson plans.” He shifted himself slightly backward to rest on her back and focus on her buttocks. Over and over he kneaded the satiny globes till they glistened and grew pink. Only once did he allow himself the pleasure of inserting his fingers into the cleft,
pressing downward. Already her woman dew was rising, slippery and warm.

“Ah, sweetling, your tongue may say you want me not, but your body speaks another language.” With that, he rose to a kneeling position, flipped her over onto her back, and sat back down, now on her stomach. He began to work on her legs, undaunted by her fists pounding his back.

“Let me up,” she squealed. “I’ll finish the anointing business myself.”

He paused and gazed at her over his shoulder. “And will you give your free consent to the wedding vows?”

The foolhardy wench balked.

He shrugged and continued massaging her legs, stopping at the soft curls that joined her quivering thighs. He was saving that delight for last.

When he turned and straddled her from the other direction again, she tried to rear up and shove him off. He used a pair of her sheer hose hanging from a metal bar nearby to tie her wrists behind her back, then drizzled the oil over her breastbone, between her breasts, over her stomach and into her navel. With meticulous care, he massaged the oil into her flushed skin, above, around, below her breasts.