Authors: Sandra Hill
Viking Heat (11 page)
“She says that she was a warrior in her land,” Arnis told him, reading her action the same way he had.
“And what land is that?” he asked her.
“None of your business,” she snapped.
“Have a caution, wench. You are in my land now.”
“Big deal!”
“ ’Tis a big deal, for a certainty, when I am master and you are slave.”
“Blah, blah, blah.”
He was not sure what that meant, but it was not a compliment, he concluded, especially when accompanied by that unattractive sneer on her grimy face.
“She has red hair,” someone in the crowd behind him pointed out. “Mayhap she is one of the Sigurdssons still prowling about. Mayhap we did not wipe them all off the face of the earth.”
’Twas true. Most of the Sigurdsson clan had varying shades of red hair. “Are you a Sigurdsson, wench?”
“No, I’m not a cigar-whatever. I don’t smoke and certainly not cigars. But here’s a news flash, mister—”
“Not mister. Master.”
“That is so not funny. Earth to alien Viking: If you want to carry on a civil conversation, you better stop calling me wench. And here’s another news flash: I’ll call you master the day hell freezes over.”
“Unwise speech for a slave.”
“Slavery went out with the Civil War, buster.”
“What war?”
“Never mind.” She waved the knife in the air to indicate her indifference.
“I know not this land of women warriors. Are your men so weak?”
“Talk about gender bias! You talk funny, by the way.
What country is this?”
“ ’Tis not I who talk funny. This is the Norselands.”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s what your brothers said, but quit the joking. Where am I really, and when does this nightmare joke end?”
He did not understand half of what she said, but not because he did not glean the meaning of her brand of English. ’Twas more the words themselves. Why would she think her being here was a jest? Because she’d spent a sennight in his fool brother’s company, that was why, he answered himself. “What is your name?”
“Joy.”
“Well, I wish you joy, too, but what is your name?”
She rolled her eyes, as if he was the idiot in this room. “My name is Joy. Joy Nelson, and don’t be telling me it’s a fine Viking name. I’m not a Viking. Or a wench. Or a slave. And you better let me go, or my SEAL team will be after you like gangbusters.”
He looked at his brothers, then at Tork, who’d come down to stand beside him, and they looked back at him with equal confusion.
“Seals?”
“Yes. I’m in WEALS. That’s like a female SEAL.”
“You are a seal?”
“Yep. Now, are you ready to release me? More than that, you better take me back to that village in Hedeby. That’s where my men are no doubt searching for me.”
“Your men? You have more than one?”
“Six on this trip.”
“And you bed them all?”
Hmmm. Mayhap she has talents that are worth exploring.
Hmmm. Mayhap she has talents that are worth exploring.
“At one time?” Erland wanted to know.
Definitely worth exploring.
He shoved Erland aside with an elbow.
He shoved Erland aside with an elbow.
She stared at them for a long moment before making a clucking sound of disgust. “Men! Why does it always come down to sex? No, I don’t have sex with the men on my team, and definitely no ménages. We are operatives on this duty billet. That’s all.”
“Are you saying that you are comrades-in-arms with them?”
“Exactly.”
“Are you barmy?”
“If that means crazy, the answer is no, but I’m beginning to think I’ve landed in a nuthouse.”
Nuthouse? What could she possibly mean? Does she mean a tree? Well, it mattered not. Enough of this nonsense!
He dumped the fruit from a large wooden platter and held it in front of his chest as a shield, moving toward her. Before he could anticipate her next move, she yelled out something that sounded like “Hee-yup!” She feinted to the left, then right, twirled around, and aimed a kick at his groin area. It was only his ducking at the last minute that saved his manparts. Instead, she hit the edge of his “shield,” knocking it out of his hands. Since she was barefooted, it had to hurt, but she betrayed none of her injury, holding her knife and poker at the ready.
“We can surround her,” Tork told him from his side.
“Nay.” He motioned for everyone to step back. “I will handle this myself.”
“Big mistake, Mr. Dark and Dangerous,” she said.
“Dark and Dangerous?” He was standing still, assessing the situation, even as she did likewise. A formidable opponent, for a woman.
“Yeah, I have big brothers who think it’s cool to play the dark and dangerous role to charm women. Believe me, I am not charmed by you.”
For some reason, her words annoyed him.
Can I possibly want her to be attracted to me?
“Dost think I would try to charm such as you? Believe me, I could if I wanted.”
Can I possibly want her to be attracted to me?
“Dost think I would try to charm such as you? Believe me, I could if I wanted.”
“Hah! Better men than you have tried, and frankly, I suspect you are charm-challenged.”
“Dost claim to be a virgin?”
“Jeesh! You’re as bad as your brothers. No, I’m not a virgin. No, I’m not a slave. No, I’m not from your country. No, no, no. And, by the way, I could charm you if I wanted.”
“You could try,” he offered.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Mayhap.”
“Well, forget about it. I wouldn’t let you screw me if you were the last man on earth.”
“Screw? Is that what I think it is?”
“Probably.”
“Milady Wench Warrior, you are going to be tupped, whether by me or some other man in this hall. That I can guarantee.”
He saw the fear flash on her face, then be quickly masked with some icy resolve. Before he could guess what she would do next, she grabbed for the woman sitting on the nearest bench. Ebba, it was. Dropping the poker, she held Ebba with one arm tight around her waist. In the other hand, she held the knife up to the white throat, already drawing a thin line of blood. “Move any closer, and she is dead,” she warned him.
Would she really kill someone? he wondered. Most women were loath to look at sword dew, let alone spill it themselves. But then, she was obviously like no other woman. “Do what you will.” He shrugged, pretending indifference. “Think carefully. I am Brandr Igorsson. This is my estate. If you do not obey me, in the end, you will be the one to suffer. Hurt this woman, and your suffering will be far worse.”
“Not if I kill myself, too.”
“You could not manage two kills in the time I would reach you.”
“Think again, Igor.”
“Why do you call me Igor? That was my father’s name.
My name is Brandr.”
“Igor is the name of Frankenstein’s assistant. You know, the hunchback, deaf, mute monster. It’s sort of a cliché name for an ugly, beastly man.”
His eyes about popped out. She dared to compare him to a beast . . . an ugly beast. He was not ugly. Was he? He would have to check Liv’s looking brass. No, he would not! He did not care if he was ugly or not. Damn the woman for her impertinence! “I repeat, wench. You cannot manage two kills at once. I will have my hands about your stubborn neck in a trice.”
“I know exactly where to slice and dice for the most effective, quick kill.” She pointed the knife at the large vein in Ebba’s neck.
She was right. She might just be able to do it. “My name is not Igor,” he gritted out, as if that mattered a bit. “ ’Tis Brandr.”
“Same thing.”
He fisted his hands to keep from leaping on her like the beast she’d named him. “What is it you want?”
“Freedom. Safe passage back to Hedeby.”
You have lost your senses if you think I will let you go now.
“That is all?”
“That is all?”
“A glass of water to wet my parched throat. Your brothers are asses. They forgot to feed me or give me a drink since yesterday.”
He glanced over at Erland and Arnis with reproach.
“I thought he did it,” each said of the other.
They
were
asses, just as she’d said. Not that he would tell her that.
were
asses, just as she’d said. Not that he would tell her that.
“Put down the knife, and I’ll give you a horn of mead.
And a platter of food.”
“What about the other demands? Freedom and safe passage?”
Not in this lifetime! Thralls do not make demands of their master.
“I will ponder those later.”
“I will ponder those later.”
Her shoulders dropped, but not her knife. She whispered something in Ebba’s ear, which caused the woman to relax. Then the wench—Joy—began to back up toward the stairs. She must have asked Ebba what was up there, because he heard Ebba say, “The master’s bedchamber, a solar, and several other bedchambers, including Liv’s at the far end.”
“Who is Liv?”
“Don’t answer her, Ebba.”
Ebba looked at him helplessly. “She’ll kill me,” she moaned, then told Joy, “The master’s sister. I hear she never leaves her room.”
He said a rude word, a famous Anglo-Saxon one. “Does he care about her?”
“Yea, he does. Very much, I am told. But what do I know? I arrived on the same ship you did.”
Once again taking him by surprise, she shoved Ebba at him, causing them to both topple over to the floor. When he righted himself, she was already racing up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time. By the time he caught up with her, she was on the other side of the door in Liv’s bedchamber. He could hear the bolt being slid into place.
Liv was crying.
But then she was not.
“Wench, if you hurt her, I will kill you slowly. First I will skin you. Then I will feed your eyeballs to the vultures. Then—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I told you before, my name is Joy. Not wench.”
He pounded against the door with both fists, but it held fast. Having helped his father build it years ago, he knew how sturdy it was.
“I have no intention of harming your sister,” she said. “We will talk later. Now I want you to bring us some food and water, lots of water. By the stench in here, your sister needs a bath, and this room needs a good cleaning.”
“Of course . . . Joy,” he agreed. Readily. Once that lock was undone, he would be in there in a trice with sword a-ready.
“Not through the door,” Joy added. “I’ll draw the basket of food and buckets of water up through that arrow slit window.”
“How am I supposed to get a rope up that high? My aim is not that good, Joy.” He hated using that ridiculous name for her, but using it made him appear amenable to her demands, even if he was not.
“I bet one of your archers could do it. Barring that, I’ll make a rope myself.”
“I’ll bloody hell do it myself. Are you all right in there, Liv?”
He was not surprised when he heard nothing from Liv. She hadn’t spoken since they’d brought her home. Even during the birthing process, when she’d dropped the Sigurdsson whelp, not one sound did she utter.
“Liv is fine. She and I are going to become best buds by morning,” the wench told him.
“You can be all the flowers you want, but Liv better not be changed in any way.”
“You are an idiot,” the wench said. “A bud is a friend. A buddy. Liv and I are going to become friends.”
He would like to see that. Liv hadn’t responded to one single person in almost four months. Not even him, and he had always been her favored brother.
“By the way, I noticed you have a vein sticking out in your forehead. Anger-related, I’m sure,” the wench said from the other side of the door.
“What?”
he blurted out before he had a chance to check himself.
he blurted out before he had a chance to check himself.
“Anger does that to a person. It’s called anger psychosis.
If you’re not careful, you’ll have a stroke one of these days. But not to fear, I’m a doctor—well, almost a doctor—of psychology. You know, emotions, mental illness, that kind of thing. I can help you with some anger management tools.”
First she claimed to be a warrior, now a healer. What next? A wizard?
He was incensed that she would dare to say he had a problem with anger and that she would attempt to cure him. What kind of bloody warrior would he be without anger? He sputtered, then expressed his opinion in the only way he could without offending Liv’s sensibilities with foul curses. He kicked the door. So hard he had to limp away, biting his lip at the pain. He had probably broken a few toes.
Even then, the wench yelled out loud enough for him to hear down the corridor. “See! Anger psychosis.”
Another “What was I thinking?” situation . . .Joy had landed in the middle of some Monty Python nightmare.
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