Sandra Hill (10 page)

Still, the mating urge roiled his blood, and he fought to bank his appetite. Oh, he’d have the wench afore he returned to his world. But in his own good time. At his pleasure, not hers.

So, she was safe from his advances for now, shivering, foolish female that she was, cowering behind the low bed-structure called a couch. Hah! He’d vaulted many a castle wall and ship rail in his time. Did she really think such a paltry barrier could prevent his taking her?

Then, perversely, his pride rankled at her resistance to his charm. No, he couldn’t allow her to think she’d got the upper hand. Women should be put in their proper place from the start. “Why do you fight your woman needs?” he grumbled.

“Wh-what?”

“You want me.”

“I do not.”

He snorted a laugh at her lie. “Yea, you do. Oh, your female body doesn’t betray you in the same blatant manner as a man’s,” he said, waving downward at the joining of his thighs.

She gasped at his crude gesture.

Well, betimes a man had to be crude to make his point. Especially when the woman was stubborn. “And your arousal does not stick out from your body like a witless pole, but the signs are there for a discerning man to see. For example, the passion-mist in your eyes…”

She shuttered her lids.

He grinned wolfishly. “Your parted lips and heightened breathing…”

She clamped her mouth closed.

He grinned wider. “Your swollen nipples…”

She folded her arms across her chest. Too late. He’d already seen the evidence. And for just a moment he forgot why he was supposed to remain alert.

The woman was dangerous. He shook his head to clear it and dropped down to the couch. Patting the cushion next to him, he exhorted, “Come, sit beside me. You are safe from my lustful inclinations for tonight.”

She balked, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Truly. Come. I must needs talk to you about the longship work. I want to start at first light, and there is much to discuss.”

“What’s your hurry?”

“The sooner I complete the boat, the sooner I can return the relic to its proper resting place. And the
sooner I can return to my homeland. Time is of the essence.”

She nodded, although he could tell she still didn’t credit his explanation about time travel. Who did she think he was? An outlaw, bent on stealing her possessions, or virtue? Probably. Or a demented halfwit? Even more probable.

“Relax tomorrow. I have to be at the college by nine, but I’ll send my assistant, Mike Johnson, out to meet with you if he’s around. He’ll work closely with you on the project. Plus, I need to fill out the paperwork at the business office for your employment records on Monday. I don’t suppose you have a Social Security number?” She studied him for a long moment. “No, I guess not. Well, Mike knows some shady characters who could probably get you fake credentials. Lord, I don’t believe I actually suggested that. Me? Breaking the law? Jeffrey would laugh his head off.”

“Who’s Jeffrey?”

“My ex-husband.”

“I don’t like him.”

She smiled…a warm, open expression that made his heart lurch. “I don’t either.”

“When you smile, you are not so plain. In truth, you become almost beautiful.”

“Thanks a bunch.” He’d honored her with that blunt honesty before. “Jeffrey said my overbite shows when I smile.”

“Jeffrey is an ass. When we make love, I will draw many smiles from your lips.”

Her smile faltered. “You promised,” she said, edging away from him.

“I didn’t mean tonight.”

She relaxed. “Most men don’t like women to laugh at them during sex. Jeffrey used to say—”

“Stop quoting your half-brain past-husband to me. He has naught to do with us,” he growled. “Besides, you won’t be laughing
at
me. You will be laughing
with
me. I intend to bring you much joy.”

She lifted her shoulders hopelessly. “Arrogance comes naturally to you, doesn’t it?”

He rolled his shoulders. “There is a difference between arrogance and self-confidence. I know what I know about my capabilities. Now stop bringing the conversation back to sex or I will think you have changed your mind about making love with me tonight.”

She bristled indignantly. “I did not—”

“Shh,” he said, putting a palm up. “Tell me how many helpmates you can provide for me. And how skilled are they?”

“Well, there’s Mike, of course, and roughly two dozen students working with him, male and female. Some of them have minimal carpentry skills, but they’re all eager workers. They’ll follow your instructions to the letter. However, there’s only one more week of spring break left. After that, most of them have full-time classes. So, they’ll only be able to help for two or three hours a day, plus all day on the weekends.”

“Hmmm. Perchance I will be able to finish the project in three or four weeks if I work all the daylight hours. But I must tell you, I have decided to make a second, smaller longship for myself.”

“What?” She recoiled and started to stand, obviously upset. “You can’t do that.”

“Yea, I can. You see, at first I intended to help you build your longship, then take it for my own purposes…to return home.”

“Oh…oh…I should have known! A thief!” she fumed, casting him a malevolent glare.

“Now, do not browbeat me. Since I have learned of your honorbound duty to fulfill your grandsire’s dream, I would not do such. But that means I have to build a smaller ship for my own purposes.”

“I can’t charge those expenses off to the foundation. That would be stealing. Besides, we’re on a tight budget as it is.”

He stiffened with affront that she would think he’d steal from her now. “I will pay for my own supplies from the monies I am paid. And I will work on my own time. You will not be cheated in any way, my lady.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, but her apology didn’t take away the sting of her insult. “Okay, so you build two longships. I don’t see any way you can get this done in three weeks, though.”

“I will have to,” he asserted. “When Thea and I were playing with your come-pewter tonight, I found more information on the Demon’s Moon. I told you there was such an astrological happenstance the night of my shipwreck. Well, the next Demon’s Moon occurs on April 28—one month from now.”

“And you believe the Demon’s Moon is somehow connected to a time portal that would let you return home?” she questioned skeptically.

He nodded. “And there won’t be another till next year. I have to go soon if I am to complete my father’s quest.”

She put a hand on his arm. “Rolf, I’m not sure you’re telling me the truth. But, assuming you are, chances are you can’t do anything that would change history.”

He stiffened, even though he knew she meant well. “I have to try.”

She nodded. “So, assuming that you are able to restore the relic to its rightful place, and the famine ends, then what? Tell me what your life will be like in your…land.”

“First, I intend to find Storr Grimmsson and put an end to his life. He and all his followers will die a torturous death for their miserable deeds. Then, I will return to my shipbuilding business. I own a beautiful farmstead nearby on a fjord.”

“You, a farmer? Somehow I can’t picture that.”

“I get much satisfaction in creating fine ships, and a lucrative living do I make in selling them about the world. In the early days, I was wont to test my vessels on trading voyages, or go a-viking, but in recent years I have not had a yen to travel. Perchance I will go adventuring again, if the mood calls. I can see from this trip that there are many new lands to explore. Then again, mayhap this journey will kill the need to seek new horizons.”

“Perhaps you’re ready to settle down and raise a family.”

He shrugged. “I did that afore and found no great bliss.”

“You did?” she asked with surprise. “You’ve been married?”

“Twice.”

“Twice,” she parroted.

“Both wives died in the child birth. My first wife I wed when I had only seen eighteen winters and she sixteen. Ariside died of the childbed fever after delivering a stillborn babe.”

“Oh, Rolf. I’m so sorry.”

He rolled his shoulders. “’Tis the way of things. And it was a long time ago.”

“And your other wife?”

“My second wife, Signe, died five years ago. Her labor came a month too early and lasted five days. She bled to death.”

“You must have been devastated.”

“Yea, ’twas tragic, their dying early and the babes ne’er having a chance. But I barely knew my wives. The marriages were arranged by my father, and I was gone much of the time.”

She patted his arm. “You’re young. You’ll marry again.”

“Nay, I will not. I have no taste for the married state, and no great inclination to breed heirs. I much resisted the last union with Signe, and only agreed when my father said it would end my blood-duty to him. So, I’ll not wed again.”

She blinked at him with unshed tears. Really, he thought, women went sentimental over the smallest realities of life.

“Leastways, all my appetities can be satisfied by my mistress, the sweet Alyce. She resides in the market town of Hedeby.”

She sneered with disgust.

“Now, you tell me, Merry-Death. What will you do when you complete your obligation to your grandsire? Will you stay here and be a profess-whore?”

“No,” she said, still sniffing condescendingly over his mistress. Women tended to be petty in that way. “I only took a sabbatical from Columbia. I’m expected to return for fall classes.”

“Expected? But what do you
want
?”

She closed her eyes briefly at the question. When
she opened them, he saw bleakness and uncertainty in the green depths. “I really don’t know. All my life I’ve done what others expected of me. My parents. My husband. Even Gramps. I can’t remember a time when anyone asked me what I really wanted. Maybe…”

He cocked his head, waiting.

“…actually, I do know what I want. Love.”

He scoffed.

“I’ve always felt alone. Growing up as a child. Even when I was married. I think I would be happy to give up my career and stay home with a man who loved me, and a houseful of children…well, at least two.”

Her eyes were misty with regret, and he remembered her telling him of her barrenness. He took her hand in his and laced their fingers, even when she tried to pull away.

“Don’t pity me,” she said.

“I don’t.”

“I can always adopt a child. Single women do that today. Maybe that’s what I’ll do. Stay here and adopt a child. I have a trust fund that would support me. And I could write a book—the kind my parents would consider far too frivolous.” She cast him a tentative sidelong look before revealing, “I’ve always wanted to write a book on outrageous women of medieval times.”

“I could tell you tales about a few of those.”

She laughed and swiped at her eyes with a free hand. He still held her other hand firmly, and found inordinate joy in the mere pressure of their two palms.

“What about this man who would love you?”

“There are none on the horizon, and I’ve been burned once. No, I’m more and more convinced that
adopting a child is the answer, not hunting for a man to fulfill my life.”

He wasn’t convinced and he wasn’t sure she was either.

Perhaps it was the odd connection he felt with this woman where their hands were joined. Perhaps it was the lustful fever that still hung heavy in his loins. Perhaps it was that mischievous god, Loki, who inspired his loose tongue. Regardless of the cause, Geirolf was as stunned as Merry-Death when he hauled her close and rasped out, “You could come home with me.”

Meredith awakened the next morning to a loud pounding noise. She cracked an eye open sleepily to see it was barely daylight. Her alarm clock on the bedside table read 6:00
A.M.

As the pounding continued, she realized that it came from outside. Climbing groggily out of bed, she pulled the quilt up over Thea, who was sleeping soundly through the racket.

Her first thought as her mind cleared was,
Oh, my God, it’s practically the middle of the night and that damn Viking is out there building a ship. The neighbors will call the police
.

Her second thought, following almost immediately on the first, was a recollection of the night before.
Oh, my God. That Viking actually invited me to go home with him…to the tenth century. And I’m tempted. I almost wish he were who he claims to be…sort of
my very own Viking in Shining Armor
. She giggled at the fantasy.

It was absolutely ridiculous that she should feel so flattered by his suggestion. Especially since he’d immediately looked as if he was going to have a stroke when the words slipped out. And it certainly hadn’t been flattering when she’d questioned him about what she’d do in his land and he’d stuttered and stammered and finally said that he supposed she could be his mistress.

As if!

Still, his proposal made Meredith feel oddly warm and fuzzy.

She lost all her warm fuzzies the minute she stomped outside in her pajamas and saw Rolf in the side yard, surrounded by the completely dismantled longship.

“Wh-what are you doing? I’m going to kill you. You’ve destroyed months of Gramps’s work.”

“Do not fret, my lady,” he assured her, sidestepping her outstretched arms and holding an axe over his head, out of her reach.

“I’d like to give you ‘fret,’ you jerk.” Meredith gritted her teeth, fisted her hands and counted to ten.

“Now, calm down, Merry-Death. I am merely starting over. In the end, it will save time. You’ll see.” He dropped the axe and walked over, putting an arm around her shoulders. “Wipe the tears from your eyes, sweetling. This is man’s work. I know what I’m doing.”

Oh, God, I hope so
. “And stop calling me ‘sweetling’.”
It makes me feel so…so…warm and fuzzy. Geesh!
“There’s no such thing as ‘man’s work’ in society today. So cut the macho tripe.”

He arched a brow condescendingly. “Really? Well,
then,
helpmate
, wouldst thou carry that keel arm down yon cliffside to soak in the water?”

The keel arm he pointed to was about twelve feet long and probably weighed two tons.

“I wish I could pick the darn thing up. I know just what I’d do with it, too. I’d use it like a battering ram to wipe the smirk off your face.”

Grinning wider, he stood, hands on hips in his modern attire—jeans, T-shirt, and athletic shoes, with his hair clubbed back at the neck and covered with a baseball cap. “Were you always violent? I admire that in a woman. Like a Valkyrie, you are. Mayhap I will take you a-viking with me some day.”

“Yeah, what I really need is a little raping and pillaging in my life.”

“Me, too. I can’t recall the last time I engaged in some good raping and pillaging. And plundering…don’t forget plundering.”

“Don’t push it, Rolf.”

But his attention had already wandered. He hunkered down and was examining several slender pieces of wood, about seven feet long, which resembled tomato garden stakes. Picking up one with disgust, he weighed it in his hands, then raised it in one hand to shoulder height. In an expert move that would have put any medieval warrior to shame, he aimed it like a spear at a refuse pile twenty feet away, making a perfect landing.

“Lucky shot,” she scoffed.

“Hah!” he retorted, clearly pleased at the challenge. With his whiskey eyes flashing, he did the same with five more makeshift “spears.” Only then did he turn and grin at her.

“Show-off!”

“Nay, I will show you what is showing off. ’Tis a trick my father taught me.” Picking up another “spear,” he sauntered over and handed it to her. Then he walked ten paces away and turned. “Now, throw the spear at me.”

“I will not!”

“Do as I say, Merry-Death. You won’t hurt me.”

“I don’t know.”

“Do it,” he ordered. “And throw it hard, or the trick won’t work.”

“Okay,” she agreed, not caring for his domineering attitude at all, “but if I hurt you, I’m going to kill you.”

He laughed at the inconsistency of her statement, then danced from foot to foot, taunting her. “Come, Merry-Death, pretend I am your past-husband, and I have just told you of my mistress.”

She needed no further provocation. She threw the spear and she threw it hard. To her horror, it was heading straight for his chest. “Oh, my God!” she shrieked.

But then, to her astonishment, he caught the spear in midair and, without a pause, twisted it agilely in his fingertips and flung it back at her. The darn thing whizzed right over her left shoulder.

“I would have speared you through the heart if I’d been aiming true,” he boasted.

Good Lord, had he ever really done that in a battle? Had he really killed someone? Of course he had. He’d told her more than once that he was a renowned warrior, as well as a shipbuilder. But, no, no, no, that was his time-travel story, which she didn’t believe.

“And this is a skill my Uncle Olaf taught me,” he continued. Picking up two spears this time, he threw them simultaneously at the refuse pile, where they
landed with perfect precision atop the others.

A trill of alarm went through Meredith. “You read about that in a history book, didn’t you?”

“What?” He dusted off his hands and swaggered toward her.

“That stuff about King Olaf and the double spear throwing. When you told me the first day you came here that you were related to Olaf Tryggvason, I was curious. Among other things, the sagas relate the fact that Olaf had a talent for throwing two spears at once. In fact, many years after his death, a man called-Tryggvi, who claimed to be his son by a foreign marriage, tried to win the throne of Norway. His rivals mocked him, claiming he was only a priest’s son. But in his last battle, Tryggvi supposedly flung two spears at once, successfully, and cried out, “
That
was how my father taught me to say Mass!”

“Merry-Death, you make my brain spin with all these words. I know not of this Tryggvi person. Many wives and mistresses did Olaf have, in many lands, and just as many sons, legitimate and bastard alike. What is your point?”

“My point is that I want you to stop this Viking time-travel nonsense. So, you learned some dumb stick-throwing trick. Big deal! But don’t pretend you were doing it with spears a thousand years ago.”

“I do not lie,” he said in an icy tone.

“You are not a time traveler.”

“I am.”

“You are not.”

He held two hands up in the air for truce. “I yield…for now, though I do not concede the battle. We will move on to a safer subject. Let me tell you of the biggest problem I detected this morn—the location.
Why did your grandsire choose this site for building a longship? ’Tis too far from the water. How will we carry the completed ship down that cliffside for launching?”

“Gramps had no choice. The college is inland and crowded for space. Gramps had this extra land here, and it seemed the logical place. Besides, it’s no big deal to put the boat on a flatbed truck when the time is right and take it a few miles down the road to a docking site.”

“Well, that may be, but there is also the lack of water to soak the timbers. I must needs build a water trough…a
big
water trough. Blessed Balder! Can you imagine how much time and muscle power it’s going to take hauling pails of water up that cliffside, or from your keep?”

She snickered softly and strolled over to the side of the house. Turning on an outside spigot, she pulled the hose along with her as she walked back toward him. And the evil side of her nature—the one she’d just discovered since a certain Viking entered her life—kicked in, giving her the perfect opportunity for revenge. “Let’s see you smirk at me again, Mr. This-Is-Man’s-Work Viking,” she jeered, and pressed the lever on the nozzle, spraying him from head to foot.

Rolf stood speechless for a moment as rivulets of water—probably very cold water—ran down his face, knocking off his cap, plastering his clothing to his body. Then a slow smile spread across his lips, just before he leapt forward, tackling her to the ground and turning the hose on her. She was the recipient of a good soaking then, and the water
was
cold.

Roaring with glee, Rolf reached out a hand and helped her to her feet. She spit out water and strands
of hair from her mouth. Only then did she notice that Rolf had abruptly stopped smiling. Instead, he gazed with decided interest at her wet pajamas, now plastered against every curve of her body, like black plastic wrap.

“I thought I did not like your pay-jam-hose when I first saw them yestereve,” he remarked with a lazy grin. “I have changed my mind.” Then, with a shake of his head, he took her hand, leading her toward the house. “Enough of these games. You must stop trying to seduce me, sweetling.”

She sputtered indignantly.

He chucked her under the chin. “Come, let us go into the keep and make a list of needed supplies. Do not dawdle now, wench.”

I must be an adult here. I must not rise to every baiting word he utters. I must not stare at his behind in those wet jeans
. “Have you had breakfast yet?”

“Yea, I broke fast long ago. Cookies and mead. You will have to go to the grocery mall again.”

Huh? Cookies and mead?
“Oh, Good Lord, did you have Oreos and Bud Light for breakfast?”

“Yea. Did I not just say so? Why is your mouth hanging open? The fare was delicious. I ate whilst watching
Sesame Street
on the picture box. Today I learned the letter X with Bert and Ernie. I’ve decided X is the best letter in your alphabet. Indeed, my favorite word has the letter X in it.” He waited several moments for her to comprehend what word that might be, his amber eyes twinkling with mischief.

She laughed, feeling wonderfully carefree and happier than she had in ages. Impulsive.

In fact, she decided to try Oreos and beer for breakfast.

Then again, maybe she should ease into this impulsive stuff.

Geirolf had landed in shipbuilders’ heaven—the Bangor Hardware Superstore.

“No kidding, man! Who are you, really?” Mike Johnson asked for about the hundredth time since he’d arrived at Merry-Death’s keep hours ago, at Merry-Death’s instruction. Although it was the Lord’s Day, she’d gone into her off-face to work. “I mean, what man gets his rocks off over sandpaper?
Sandpaper!
Now, Sharon Stone in a carpenter’s belt, I could see. But sandpaper? You must’ve been living in a jungle all these years.”

“What?” Geirolf replied distractedly, fingering the various grades of abrasive paper piled up on shelf after shelf. He threw a half dozen of each in his pushcart. “Do not take offense, Mike, but it appears lackwitted to me that you and Merry-Death would want to build a longship using the old methods when you have all these modern marvels.”

“That’s the whole point…to show our students the painstaking labor and perseverance needed to complete a project of this magnitude.”

“Hah! The rest of you can
persevere
by rubbing sand onto rough boards and shaving wood with an adz till your fingers ache, but I am not a lackwit. I will use sanding paper on my ship.”

Mike shook his head in amazement. “Professor Foster is gonna put your neck in a noose. And it’s not just the sandpaper. Wait till she sees those high-tech hammers and gouging tools you’ve picked out. She wants this ship built
exactly
the way the primitive Vikings did it.”

“The hard way, you mean. Isn’t that just like a woman?” Geirolf snorted. “And who says I am primitive?

Mike choked back a guffaw. “You’re really into this Viking re-enactment crap, aren’t you?”

“Nay, I told you…I have come from Hordaland—I mean Norway. And that is all I am free to tell you. I forswore an oath to Merry-Death not to discuss how I got here.”

“Now that’s real interesting, because she accused me…or her brother Jared of hiring you.” Mike slitted his eyes, studying him suspiciously. “She practically burned out her fax machine this morning shooting off letters about you and that crazy belt of yours to every university in the country. Even had me run a check on you with the local fuzz.”

Geirolf had no idea what a fax machine was. Perhaps Mike had meant Saxon machine. Or fuzz. Wasn’t that lint found in the navel? He was sore tired of asking “What’s that?” about every blessed thing he encountered in this land. He did understand letters, though. “In my opinion, that was one of the biggest mistakes your people made…teaching women to write. Bloody hell! You men of Am-eric-hah must be soft in the head. Now your females can not only jabber incessantly in a man’s face—
Dig the moat…Clean the garderobes…Stop belching
—but they can put all their nagging on parchment, as well.”

Mike laughed, rushing to keep up as Geirolf steered his cart around a corner. “And you’ve shared these opinions with Professor Foster?”

“Not yet,” Geirolf admitted, exchanging a rueful grin with the younger man.

Geirolf liked Mike. The man, who’d seen about
twenty-five winters, was dressed almost identically to him in den-ham
braies
, T-
shert
and running boots. Many of the males they’d encountered that day wore the same attire. Except that Mike’s
shert
was green and had U.S. Army printed on the front. That was the name for Am-eric-hah’s military force, Geirolf had learned. Mike had been a warrior for three years before going back to school, which was very strange to Geirolf’s way of thinking. A grown man needing more education?

And his hair! The young man had clipped his blond tresses—there must be Nordic blood in his family—down almost to the scalp. A gee-eye buzz cut, he called it. Geirolf had never held with that biblical notion that a man’s strength was in his hair, but it did keep a man warm on a cold Norse night when there was no wench available for the bedding. What could Mike have been thinking? A woman must have talked him into such a foolhardy action. Probably that Sharon Rock—no, Sharon Stone—creature who had Mike salivating at the mere mention of her name.