Sandra Hill (13 page)

“Rolf, I’m sorry if I offended you,” she stammered out.

He could see that her pride had been damaged as well, and that the words came hard.
Good
. He’d removed his modern raiment and donned his leather tunic with the talisman belt. Now he was setting aside the comfortable running boots and pulling on his stiff leather, cross-tied boots. Let her be reminded that he was a Viking, not some weak-sapped modern man that she could push here and there like a lump of dough.

With a sneer of distaste, he realized that already his man-parts felt a chill without a loincloth. And he would no doubt have blisters on his heels from the chafing of his skin boots, which had shrunk in the ocean brine.
Bloody hell! A few days in this strange land and I am getting soft
.

She put a hand on his arm. “Rolf—”

“Unhand me,” he said stiffly and stepped away. He had to be careful. The wench muddled his senses every time she got within a hairsbreadth of him.
Oh, wonderful! Now her eyes are filling with tears. Here it comes. She will try every feminine wile to bend me to her will. But I won’t abide such cajolery. I won’t!

Taking one of the silver armlets from his upper arm, he handed it to her. “This is recompense for the money you have advanced me. I will no longer be working on your longship.”

She tried to give it back but he sidestepped her.

“When Mike arrives in the morn, I’ll give him the other armlet. Perchance he can find a money broker who will purchase it so that I’ll have enough funds for food and supplies to complete my longship.”

“Are you crazy? Those bracelets are probably worth several hundred thousand dollars.”

He shrugged.

“Listen, I spoke hastily when I came outside because I was upset. My whole family just announced that they’re coming here.”

“Why did you not deny them your consent?”

Her head snapped up as if that thought had never occurred to her.
My brother Magnus is right. Females do have lesser intelligence
.

“They didn’t ask.”

He snorted with disgust. “No trouble did you have in finding the words to castigate me.”

“Oh, you just don’t understand. My parents badger me with politely spoken condemnations. My brother takes advantage of my fondness for him. My sister
banks on my guilt and sense of responsibility.” She rolled her shoulders helplessly. “It’s easier to give in than argue with them.”

“’Tis never easier, or best, to give in without a fight. It sets a precedent, and forever after you are easy prey for those who would chip away at your armor.”

Her face brightened at his understanding. “That’s exactly what has happened. They use me.”

“Just as you were using me?”

Her face fell. “No. Of course not. Well, no more than you were using me.”

He had rolled up several blankets and was now tossing some apples and several biscuits into their center. “If you do not mind, I have borrowed these blankets till I can purchase some bed furs on the morrow. The food I will need to break fast since you have warned me against snaring any wild game and cooking it on an open fire.”

“Wh-what? You’re still going? But where?”

“Just outdoors. I’ll sleep under the stars near my longship. Even though I no longer work on
your
project, I must needs complete
my
boat to return home.”

“You’re going to camp in my yard?”

“Did I not say so?”
Yea, Magnus had the right of it where female intelligence is concerned
.

“But…but…what will people think?”

“Unlike you, I care not what other people think of me.”

Scarlet patches bloomed on her cheeks. “I said I’m sorry.”

“I heard you, wench…now and afore. And ’tis too late for apologies.” He studied her for a long moment, reconsidering. “Do you take back the words?”

“Yes. I mean, which ones?” She wrung her hands
nervously, looking everywhere but at him. “No, you’re not dismissed,” she finally mumbled with ill grace.

“Ah,” he said, folding his arms over his chest, waiting till she was forced to meet his gaze. “And the other words?”

“The other words? Oh, yes, well, of course I need you for the project.”

He shook his head. “Those were not your exact words, my lady. What you said was, ‘I don’t want you.’”

“I just said I needed you for the project. Darn it! What do you want from me?”

“The truth. Do you want
me
?”

A soft moan escaped her lips, hitting him like a potent aphrodisiac he did not need. “Yes, I want you, but I’m fighting the desire, strenuously.”

He grinned. Her heightened breathing and flushed skin told him that she wanted him, even without her reluctant confession. Why did she hesitate? “Mayhap you think too much, sweetling,” he said tenderly, skimming his fingertips over her parted lips.

She inhaled sharply. Did she experience the same shimmering heat that shot through his hand, up his arm, and out to all his sensitized body? “Have you ne’er chosen the impulsive path?” he asked thickly.

“Never.”

“More’s the pity.” He stepped closer.

She backed away from him, hitting the wall. As skittish as a colt she was…or a mare in heat, he observed inwardly.

“Stop smirking,” she ordered and slapped at his reaching hand, which had already loosened the brooch confining her hair in a tight knot at the nape of her
neck. Immediately, the mahogany tresses blossomed out and the scent of drek filled the air.

He braced his hands against the wall on either side of her head and loomed over her. “Why do you tremble, Merry-Death? You have naught to fear from me.”

“You don’t intimidate me,” she said, raising her prideful chin. He knew she resisted the temptation to duck under his arms and bolt from his presence like a cowardly rabbit. Her courage was impressive, and foolhardy. For her fate was sealed now that the hunt was on. If naught else, Geirolf was a talented hunter.

“Ah, then you tremble for me,” he said, his voice husky. The first rule of the hunt was to disarm the prey. He leaned closer and brushed his lips along the line of her stubborn jaw.

“Wh-what? I do not.”

“Liar. Already your body makes ready for our mating.” He ran a calloused palm over one silk-covered breast, then the other.

She rewarded him with a whimper.

“Your hardened peaks bespeak the lie, m’lady.” While his hand was in the vicinity, he flicked open two buttons on her silk
shert
. Two, that was all. Parry and retreat, another rule of the good hunter.

She stared at him like a doe caught before the bowman’s arrow. He refused to break eye contact. Even the wildest beast of the forest could be mesmerized thus by a good huntsman. After a long pause, he opened one more button. Then another. Her
shert
gaped open, exposing her breasts.

He did not touch her. He just looked, and looked.

Under his smoldering scrutiny, the rose-tinted nipples bloomed, growing and straining against the lace cups of her undergarment.

His throat went dry, and a fierce shudder rippled over him. ’Twas not a good sign. The stalker must always be in control. At first, he could not speak. When he did, his voice came out hoarse and barely recognizable. “Do you ache for my touch as much as I ache to touch you?”

Her emerald eyes looked up in appeal, but he was beyond benevolence now. Blood roared in his veins and pounded in his lust-infused brain.

When it became clear he would not relent, she nodded.

“Say the words,” he demanded.

Her pale face turned pink with embarrassment, but she yielded. “Touch me,” she whispered. “Please.”

He needed no more invitation. Looping a finger under the front band between her breasts, he pulled forward, tearing the garment. Her breasts burst free, and they were glorious, perfect globes of creamy skin and dusky aureoles.

With a groan of pure ecstasy, he cupped each breast from underneath, raised them even higher, then lowered his head to take one nipple deep into the hot cavern of his mouth, suckling deeply.

She screamed, a high-pitched wail of agonizing pleasure.

Had ever a man heard such a sound from his woman and not felt as one of the gods…blessed? In reward for such homage, he gave equal treatment to her other breast and had to hold her upright as her knees collapsed with weakness. With a laugh of triumphant joy, he scooped her up in his arms, prepared to carry her outdoors where they could couple in private.

She did not protest. Not once. Instead, she curled against his chest and buried her warm face in his neck.
The smell of drek surrounded him, and Geirolf exulted. ’Twas wondrous, this feeling of man-woman as they prepared to make love.

“I am so pleased that you surrendered, sweetling,” he said huskily against her ear as he nudged the door open with his hip. “I feared you wouldn’t agree that I am heading the project.”

“Wh-what?” Her body went stiff as a warrior’s pike. “You misunderstood. I’m heading the project. Not you.”

She scrambled out of his arms. Her eyes were still slumberous with passion. Her hair flowed every which way in wild disarray. Her nipples continued to glisten from his kisses. But her mood was fast changing. That was more than obvious when she braced her hands on her hips and scowled at him. “I was surrendering my body, not my authority.”

He stepped back. “I’ll not work for you, Merry-Death. Either I head the project, or I’m not involved at all. No more of this ‘I am the employer, you are the employee’ business. No more bloody orders.”

Her shoulders slumped. “That’s one concession I can’t make. I direct the Trondheim Venture. I give orders. That’s the way it has to be.”

Like ice water from the North Sea, her words dashed his excitement. How could he have misread her body signals? Damn her, and damn all willful women who would not bend to a man’s better judgment. She gave him no choice. “Then we have naught else to say to each other.” With that, he stormed down the steps, picked up his blanket roll, and left the keep.

His pride was still intact.

His heart was not.

Two days later Thea was on the patio painting bright red nipples on Ingrid when Meredith arrived home. The girl had already given Rolf’s figurehead a base coat in a flesh tint where the flaking “skin” was exposed. Now she was refurbishing Ingrid’s finer points.

“Hi, Aunt Mer.”

Meredith could barely hear her niece over the music blasting from the CD player at her side. The raucous musicians were named some ridiculous appellation like Nine Inch Screws, or was it Nine Inch Nails? Whatever. The lyrics were incomprehensible, though undoubtedly vulgar. Meredith’s parents were just going to love Thea’s music; their tastes ran more to medieval dulcimer.

“What are you doing home so early, Aunt Mer?”

“Mike called and asked me to come talk with Rolf again.” His exact words had been, “Beg the man, Dr.
Foster. We’re in deep shit here.” Meredith leaned against the patio door and continued, “Mike said he and the college kids aren’t making any headway on the project. They’re bungling more than they’re building. Meanwhile, Rolf’s ship is going up like gangbusters.”

“Rolf is, like, so cool, Aunt Mer.”

Cool? Hardly the adjective I’d use
. “He’s nice,” she conceded.

“Nice? Nice? Peanut butter is nice. Rolf is, like, industrial. Can’t you make up with him?”

“‘Making up’ isn’t what this is about, honey.” Just then, Meredith noticed that her niece wasn’t wearing her usual grunge makeup.
Hallelujah! One fewer thing for my parents to complain about
. “You have beautiful skin, Thea.
Really
beautiful skin. I never realized how pretty you are.”

“That’s what Rolf said. He made me stand in front of a mirror, first with my makeup, then without. And he didn’t tell me which one was better. He just asked me which one I prefer. Because that’s the most important thing, you know. Not trying to impress other people. Just being happy with myself.”

Was Rolf’s counsel to Thea supposed to be a not-so-subtle message for me?
Meredith wondered. “Well, that’s very good advice, sweetie, but what brought that discussion on?”

“Oh. I’m not sure. We have lots of talks. Rolf never treats me like a kid. He says children become adults when they’re only twelve years old in his country.” Thea put her paintbrush down and tilted her head in concentration. “Now I remember. We were talking about his sister Katla. She married a Viking prince from Normandy when she was only thirteen—they marry young in his country, you know. Anyhow, Katla
was always unhappy with her hair. Like, it was so blond it was almost white. So-o-o, one time she dyed it with walnut juice.” Thea giggled. “It took six months for the stain to work out of her hair. And her forehead. And her hands. In the end, it turned out that her prince lo-o-oved her white-blond hair. That is such a totally cool story, don’tja think?”

Oh, yeah! I wonder why Rolf doesn’t share these personal reminiscences with me? Hah! Maybe because I never believe anything he says. Maybe because I ignore him most of the time. Or try to
. “I’m glad you now recognize the importance of natural beauty. I notice you still have the nostril earring, though.”

“Hey, let’s not take this inner beauty stuff too far. Besides, Rolf said that if you can wear jewelry on your nose, he supposed my nostril ring wasn’t so bad.”

“Huh?”
Geez, did I really say “huh?” Again? I’m regressing here, big time
.

“Rolf thinks those silver-rimmed spectacles you wear perched on your nose are a kind of nose ornament. Like my earring.” Thea’s eyes danced merrily as she related that information.

They both laughed companionably then.

“Have you had lunch yet?” Meredith looked at her watch. It was only twelve-thirty, and she hadn’t accomplished anything at her office. She might as well stay home today. Work on some lesson plans. Shampoo her hair. Ogle Rolf.

“No thanks, Aunt Mer. Rolf is making all of us a Viking feast outside on an open fire.”

Meredith immediately stiffened. Oh, Lord! “Not…oh, please don’t tell me it’s going to be fresh-killed rabbit.”

Thea smirked. “Rabbit? Geez, Aunt Mer, where do
you get these ideas? No, he sent Mike and some of the college girls to the supermarket. They couldn’t find a caldron or spit anywhere, though, not even in WalMart. They finally bought some cast-iron contraptions from an antiques store. Mike bought some old furs for Rolf there, too. They are, like, totally awesome.”

“Furs?” Meredith said weakly. What next?

Meredith didn’t have to wait long to find out.

Sniffing the air, Meredith realized that Thea had been telling the truth. The scent of food cooking on a wood fire wafted through the air. She wondered idly if there was an ordinance against that sort of thing in this neighborhood. Maybe not.

“By the way, Aunt Mer, I hope you don’t mind. Mike put an extension cable on the TV so that we could watch
Home Improvement
tapes outdoors. He’ll bring the TV set back in later.”

Meredith shook her head at the irony. Primitive cooking on an open fire and television.

“Rolf is totally buggin’ over that program, you know. In fact, Aunt Mer, he’s, like, adopted Tim ‘The Toolman’ Taylor as his hero. Isn’t that so cool?”

Yeah! Real cool! Another thing my parents are going to love
.

“Is it true that Grandfather and Grandmother Foster never had a television set when you and Mom and Uncle Jared were growing up?” Meredith noted that Thea had taken to calling her mother “Mom” again, and not Jillie. Another change for the better.

“It’s true, hon. ‘Junk food of the masses,’ our parents called TV. To this day, they don’t have a television.”

“Yuck! They are such brainiacs.”

That about says it all
, Meredith agreed.

“Wait till they get a gander at
Home Improvement
,” Thea remarked with a mischievous grin.

Meredith grimaced. “The show that epitomizes male chauvinism and stupidity, that glorifies working with the hands, rather than the brain. Oh, Lord!”

“Like, I can’t wait,” Thea said enthusiastically.

“I can,” Meredith said and put a hand to her forehead. It seemed she had a nonstop headache these days. “Do we have any Extra-strength Tylenol left, Thea?”

“Nah, you emptied the bottle last night. You know, when Rolf walked out of the shower in his, whadjacallit, loincloth.” Thea grinned again.

Even though Rolf refused to stay in the house, or eat with them, he couldn’t quite give up his showers. He insisted on paying Meredith for the use of her bathroom—a ridiculous ten dollars a shot. She suspected that he was in and out of the house repeatedly during the day when she was at the office.

“Yo, Dr. Foster. You and I have got to have a heart-to-heart,” Mike asserted, coming from around the side of the house.

Meredith’s jaw dropped practically to her chest.

Mike was wearing a long-sleeved, collarless, deerskin tunic that hung down to mid-thigh and was belted at the waist with a three-inch tool belt. His bare legs led down not to a pair of flat-soled boots, like Rolf’s, but instead to hiking boots with no socks. The image was ludicrous considering Mike’s close-cropped blond hair.

“What in the name of God are you doing?” Meredith asked, barely stifling a giggle.

A flush stained Mike’s cheeks, but he raised his chin haughtily. “Rolf said it would be a good idea for all of us to dress the part to make this a truly authentic
project. By the way, toots,” he said, addressing Thea, “where’s your Viking babelet gown?”

“In the house. I didn’t want to get paint on it,” Thea answered, looking up at Mike adoringly.

“Ahem!” Meredith coughed, drawing Mike’s attention back to her. “I thought Rolf was refusing to give you any advice.”

“He is…on the longship project. But he doesn’t mind sharing information on the Vikings themselves.”

“How big of him!” Meredith observed snidely.

“Rolf was right, Dr. Foster. Everyone feels more in the spirit of the project when they’re dressed appropriately. And isn’t that what your grandfather really wanted from this project—to teach young people about another way of life?”

“Well, maybe,” she conceded, sticking her head around the corner. Sure enough, the dozen or so students were dressed like Mike and Rolf. Some wore the same collarless, thigh-length tunics over tight-fitting trousers, with the shirts gathered in tightly at the waist with huge belts. A few had simple capes thrown over one shoulder and attached with round metal pins, instead of the traditional ornate Viking brooches. Their modern “brooches” sported such logos as, “Go Eagles,” or “Long Live the Grateful Dead,” or “Party Night at Sigma Nu, You Might Get Lucky,” and even one that said, “It’s Not the Way You Fish, It’s How You Wiggle the Worm.”

The college girls looked darling in braided hair and long-sleeved linen shifts covered with calf-length, open-sided Mother Hubbard—style aprons attached at the shoulders with garish bronze brooches.

“Where did they get all this stuff?” she asked, turning back to Mike.

“Some of them went to the local Society for Creative Anachronism. Some to Goodwill. But mostly the kids made their own outfits. The fabric was real cheap, and the belts and brooches are just dime-store items,” he said defensively, giving Meredith a clue that the money had come from the project kitty.

She relaxed. “Well, I suppose—”

“Would you have any problem with our using the damaged lumber to build a longhouse out by the swimming pool?”

“Wh-what? Absolutely not. Where’s Rolf? I want to talk to him. Now! What happened to his tight time schedule? A longhouse! Oh, I’m going to kill him. Where is that damn Viking?”

“Must you shriek all the time, Merry-Death?” Rolf said, coming up behind her. Mike and Thea hurried off, leaving her to face the man alone. “Truly, every seagull from here to Iceland has flown away with all your caterwauling.”

Because she’d had to present a progress report at a faculty meeting that morning, Meredith wore a black silk peplum suit with a knee-length skirt, nylons, and high-heeled pumps. Even as he criticized her “caterwauling,” Rolf leaned lazily against the house, arms folded over his wide chest, and made a sweeping assessment of her outfit. It was hard to miss the appreciative widening of his whiskey eyes at the vast stretch of exposed legs.

“I was not shrieking,” she said, disconcerted. “I merely said…Rolf, are you listening to me?”

“Huh?” His eyes were still riveted on her stockings, not to mention her fitted jacket and the modest cleavage where a single pearl on a gold chain nestled. Then a
slow grin crept over his lips. “Just how high do those scandalous hose go?”

“High enough,” she snapped, her face flushing with heat. “Really, my attire has nothing to do with…aaarrgh!…what are you doing?” This time she really was shrieking.

Rolf reached an arm downward and was proceeding to lift the hem of her skirt to check for himself on the hosiery.

She slapped his hand away and told him, “It goes to the waist, and it’s called pantyhose. Now, can we get back to the reason for my coming home—to talk to you?”

“Hmmm,” he murmured, his attention now centered on the pearl pendant. “I have an emerald necklet in my treasure casket at home…bartered from a Rustrader in Novgorod. I would give it to you if I could. ’Twould match your beautiful eyes, sweetling.” He flicked the pearl with a forefinger.

Her bare skin underneath felt seared by his brief touch. “Oh.” She sighed involuntarily.

“Oh,” he said at the same time, throatily, with obvious surprise. Then his amber eyes went heavy lidded and smoldering. In an instant, the brush of his forefinger across her skin had acted like the abrasion of a match, striking instantaneous fire in them both.

Alarmed at the sudden wave of turmoil that flooded her, she backed away, through the patio door and into the house.

He followed after her, drawing the door shut and clicking the lock in place.

She backed into the corner by the fireplace, out of view of any who might pass by outside. Did she do so accidentally, or because she wanted privacy to be alone
with Rolf? Had he missed her as much as she’d missed him these past two days? Did he want her as much as she was beginning to want him?

With arrogant presumption, Rolf snaked one hand around her nape and used the other hand to haul her hips up flush against his. And, oh, Lord, he had missed her. A lot.

“I don’t think—” she started to protest.

“That’s right, dearling, don’t think,” he finished for her. Incorrectly, of course, but Meredith couldn’t manage to get the words out to set him straight. Rolf had lifted her by the waist and pushed her against the wall, her high heels a good foot off the floor. With his hips holding her in place, belly to belly, Rolf proceeded to do what he’d intended all along.

With a rumble of supreme male determination, he ran his callused palms over her silk stockings, from the creases of her knees, over the backs of her thighs and buttocks, up to the waist, hitching her skirt up along the way.

“I’m going to have dozens of snags,” she choked out.

“Yea, you are good and truly snagged now, wench,” he misinterpreted and undulated against her once in demonstration. Bolts of white-hot arousal shot out from that point to all her extremities, and Meredith blinked with wonder. She hoped her eyes weren’t bugging out.

Then he pulled away for a second to allow space to hike the skirt up to her waist in front, too. He flipped up his tunic as well so there were only her pantyhose and the thin fabric of his loincloth separating them. Before she could slip down to the floor, his hips were back in place, locking her to the wall like a rag doll.

“Who is in charge now, Merry-Death?” he said
huskily against her ear, reminding her of their ongoing battle.

Even his hot breath felt like a caress, but she refused to answer. It was so unfair of him to carry their differences over the longship project into this personal arena.

He laughed at her unspoken resistance to his question, and Meredith feared he would take it as a challenge.

He did.

Bending his knees slightly and canting his pelvis forward, he fitted his arousal with perfect accuracy into the vee of her legs. Her senses reeled and a soft whimper escaped her throat.