Sandra Hill (8 page)

“I know who Moses was,” she snapped. “Lord, you do tell a good story. Not that I really believe there is such a relic in that cross, but assuming it’s true, what is its significance to you or your father?”

“Much guilt has my father suffered for taking the sacred relic, largely due to my mother’s nagging. She believes, and has convinced my father, that the great famine that now plagues Norway can be halted only if the relic is returned to its rightful place on Holy Island. Mayhap it must be buried under the ruins of the monastery, if none of the monkish order be about.

“When the frontispiece is returned, the curse will end. My mother had a vision in which an angel told her so.”

Meredith couldn’t stop the derisive sound that erupted from her throat. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“I am wont to be skeptical, too. About the stolen relic of Moses causing a famine, and its return miraculously ending the pestilence. But I cannot take the
chance of being wrong. And I am honorbound to complete the mission for my father.”

“So, on the way to return the crucifix to Lindisfarne, Storr Grimmsson…the guy you told me about…attacked you and stole the relic, right?”

He nodded.

Meredith was getting a headache from all this puzzling information. “So you followed Grimmsson to…?”

“Iceland.”

“Iceland. Of course,” she said sarcastically. “And from there you chased him to these waters and got shipwrecked.”

“Yea,” he said brightly. “Now you understand.”

Aaarrgh
, Meredith shrieked silently and handed the crucifix back to Rolf. After replacing it in its hiding place and putting the belt back on, Rolf sat down at the table. She placed a bowl of soup in front of him, along with a stack of grilled cheese sandwiches and a glass of milk.

“Blood soup!”

She laughed. “It’s not blood. It’s tomatoes.”

“These are someone’s toes?” he asked with horror.

“No, you fool. Just eat the soup. It’s from a vegetable, and it’s good.”

He did, and although he wasn’t too impressed with the meal, he devoured everything, including the milk, despite his having commented, “A good cup of mead would be preferable to this child’s drink.”

Meredith made a mental note to buy a six-pack of beer later that day.

“Okay, listen,” she said after she’d stacked the dishes in the dishwasher. She was about to tell him to
go back into the den and practice his English exercises while she went to the store.

“I’m listening,” he drawled against the exposed curve of her neck. He’d snuck up behind her. Darn those athletic shoes, which didn’t squeak in warning.

She tried to step away, but he wrapped his arms around her waist from behind and proceeded to release her hair from its knot at the back of her head. “I love your hair,” he whispered.

“So you’ve said before,” she said, relishing the praise. False praise, she was sure. No man had ever taken particular note of her hair before. After all, even on a good hair day, it was only brown—no spectacular color—and it was straight as a poker. No feminine curls or waves.

Rolf burrowed his face in it with a sigh as he used one hand to spread its strands over her shoulders. And suddenly her hair felt thick and luxuriant and…beautiful.

No sooner did she register that incredible fact than she noticed that his other hand was placed flat against her stomach, like a brand of possession.

Meredith couldn’t have moved if she’d wanted to.

And she didn’t want to.

“I’m sorry I fell asleep on you yestereve, Merry-Death,” he said softly, his lips tracing a path along her jaw to the side of her mouth, his hand moving upward from her stomach, under the hem of her sweater, to rub her bare abdomen.

She made a little mewling sound of distress. Or was it pleasure? She arched her neck back against his shoulder.

“But I’m not tired now,” he whispered, and cupped one of her lace-covered breasts. “Are you?”

She practically shot off the floor at the intense, erotic sensations his gentle touch engendered. But she was held pinned against the sink counter by Rolf’s lower body, which pressed insinuatingly against the back of her jeans-clad bottom.

“You need not worry about the possibility of a babe,” he assured her silkily as he pulled the neckline of her sweater aside and nibbled at the sensitive curve of her shoulder.

“Wh-what do you mean?” Had he actually bitten her shoulder blade? Then licked it?

“Now, sweetling, don’t go stiff on me. I just meant that I will make sure you do not breed.”

“And how will you do that?” she said testily, turning in his arms. “Since you claim to be a tenth-century Viking, with no modern methods of birth control, just how will you accomplish that remarkable feat?”

“Why are you angry, Merry-Death? I think only of your reputation. Most women would appreciate the consideration.”

She lifted a brow in question.

“I will not spill my seed inside your body,” he explained.

Letting out a whoosh of exasperation, Meredith ducked under his reaching arms. Thank God for the ice-water effect of his words on her impetuous, irresponsible near-capitulation to his seductive efforts.

“That wouldn’t be necessary,
if
we were going to make love. Which we’re not. Because, you see—” she took a breath as she gathered the nerve to disclose her painful secret—“because I can’t have children.”

He stared at her for a long moment, and then said only, “Oh, Merry-Death, I am so sorry.”

She closed her eyes briefly to hide her reaction to
his sympathy. Why hadn’t he said something callous like everyone else? Such as, “It doesn’t matter. Having children is no big deal. You can always adopt. It doesn’t mean you’re less a woman.” Or, worse, the remark Jeffrey had made before their divorce, “Maybe you weren’t meant to have children.”

Instead, Rolf had understood her pain and shared it.

When she finally got her emotions under control, she opened her eyes to see him staring at her intently, waiting out her inner struggle. He put one hand on the belt buckle and the other over his heart, holding her eyes the whole time, and all he said was, “I feel your pain.”

She nodded and forced herself to change the subject. She’d decided in that split second that they both needed a lighter mood. “Good thing you’ve got your walking shoes on, Rolf.”

“Why?” he asked with trepidation.

“We’re going to the mall.”

Geirolf sat with his legs braced stiff, belted into the seat of Merry-Death’s horseless, red wagon. They raced along a local road at an ungodly speed, stirring up dust in their wake.

“Slow down,” he gritted out. He was going to wring her foolhardy neck…if he ever escaped from this box.
Box!
Thor’s toenails, this was a land of boxes!

“Huh?” Merry-Death had been humming along with music that came from a shelf in the box, something she called the class-call station. “I’m only going thirty-five.”

“Well, that explains it,” he snapped. All the perplexing words and objects in this new land tired him mightily. He wanted nothing more than to return to his homeland, where life was simple and unmagical. He looked idly through the side window, and then looked
again. “Oh, Good Lord! Stop the box, Merry-Death. Make haste. There is much danger.”

Reacting instinctively, she slammed one foot against a lever on the floor and they came to a screeching halt at the side of the road. Despite the seat restraint, his forehead hit the front window and his knees banged against the dashing-board.

“What? What is it?” Merry-Death asked him in alarm.

Rubbing the already rising knob on his brow, he pointed up to the sky. “There is a huge shiny bird hovering overhead. Surely one of Loki’s vultures is about to attack. ’Tis so big it could swallow an entire troop of soldiers in one gulp. I have heard of such in the sagas.”

Merry-Death scanned the area where he pointed, then giggled. “Oh, you!” She jabbed his arm in reprimand. “That’s just an airplane.”

Since she didn’t share his concern, he released the breath he’d been holding. After she explained airplanes to him, he stared at her speechless. He could hardly credit her claims—that a machine had been invented that allowed people to fly in the air over long distances—even oceans.

Scowling at his assertion that he’d never heard of an airplane before, she started the car up again. The woman’s belief that he was a liar, or worse, was beginning to annoy him. And he couldn’t stop thinking about the amazing metal bird he’d just seen. As he worried his bottom lip with his upper teeth, he tried to understand. “Mayhap we should go back to your keep. I’m not certain I want to see any more witchly arts today.”

She laughed gaily. “Too late now. We’re there.”

He wasn’t exactly sure what constituted “there,” something Merry-Death called a shipping mall, but she’d promised it would be amusing. He scanned the area as she drove her box off the roadway into a huge clearing where hundreds of similar boxes, of different colors and shapes, sat side by side. No ships, at all, in this shipping mall.

As she steered her box into a stall and turned off the key, he let out a whoosh of relief and then peered around with bewilderment. “When does the amusement begin?”

She ignored his sarcasm and helped unbuckle his seat belt. Grinning mysteriously, she told him to follow her. Which wasn’t easy to do since he couldn’t figure out how to open the bloody door of the bloody box.

They began to walk toward the shipping mall structure when Geirolf stopped suddenly and exclaimed, “By the Holy Rood! Of all the things I have seen in this outlandish country, that is the most outlandish of all.”

“What?” Merry-Death craned her neck this way and that, unable to locate the source of his incredulity.

“There,” he said, pointing to an elderly woman walking with a pig on a leash. It was the ugliest pig he’d ever seen in all his born days, with a belly that drooped almost to the ground. “Is the wench taking yon hog to market?”

Merry-Death laughed. “No, that’s a pot-bellied pig. It’s a pet.”

“A pet?” he sputtered. “Like a kitten?”

“Uh-hum. Isn’t it darling?”

“Have you suffered a head blow of late?”

Moments later, they entered the glass doors of the shipping mall, and Geirolf jerked back with surprise.
Every person in this world must have assembled here, and they all chattered and shrieked with good humor as they briskly walked along—singly, in pairs, and in threatening groups.

He wished he had Brave Friend with him. He felt defenseless without his sword at hand. But Merry-Death didn’t appear frightened, so he trailed after her.

First, Merry-Death said she had to get some money from an aye-team machine. She inserted a square of some strange material called plays-tick into a slot, and Geirolf scoffed when he saw what came out of the wall. It was mere parchment, not coins.

She explained that, while coins existed in her country, paper, another word for parchment, counted as trading tender, as well. He accepted her pronouncement dubiously, but another distressing thought occurred to him. “I have no money with me. How will I buy clothing and all the items I’ll need whilst in your land?”

“You don’t have to worry—”

“I know,” he said with sudden enlightenment, pulling off one of his armlets. “I can sell this for coin, can I not?”

“You could sell it, yes, but—”

“Why do you hesitate? Is it worth naught here? In my world, jewelry is a portable commodity, to be bartered or cut into pieces for money.”

“Rolf, you could probably buy a small country with the money you’d get for such a priceless object. It’s just that it’s not necessary. There’s a salary that goes with the position of head shipbuilder for the Trondheim project. Not a large one, but sufficient for your needs. I’ll give you an advance.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Are you sure? I have always paid my own way. And, for a certainty, I’ve
ne’er let a woman care for my needs. I would not accept charity from you.”

“Save your pride, Rolf. I’ll let you know when your tab gets too high.”

“Well, then, we are agreed,” he said, slipping the armlet back on. Then, he turned with her to advance warily into the deep bowels of the shipping mall. But, he vowed, the first purchase he was going to make was a sword.

He saw several couples walk by—obviously lovers—with their hands entwined. So, he reached over and took Merry-Death’s hand in his, lacing their fingers. He liked the way her pulse beat against his at the wrist.

And she obviously did, too, because she glanced up at him with surprise, but did not pull away. And the slight coloring of her cheeks betrayed how his touch affected her.

Good! He wanted to affect her. And a lot more.

“Ooh, ooh, ooh! Look at that. Isn’t he adorable?” Meredith squealed and began to tug him in another direction.

“Wh-what?” he stammered, unable to discern the object of her ardor. All he saw was glass-fronted market stalls and an overabundance of people.

“It’s a Great Dane. Oh, I always wanted to have a Great Dane.”

“Would a great Norseman suffice?”

She started to choke with laughter at his words, and he slapped her on the back.

“Well, there is naught a Dane can do that a Norwegian can’t do better,” he said huffily. “And, frankly, I do not appreciate your raving on about other men in my presence.”

“Rolf, a Great Dane is the name of a dog breed.”
She dabbed at her brimming eyes with a paper handkerchief, then indicated with a wave of her hand the forlorn puppy that sat in front of the glass window, yipping and yapping. It was probably laughing at him, too.

“I knew that,” he lied and walked bravely off into the shipping mall.
Jealousy! For the first time in my life, I have exhibited that lackwit emotion. My brothers would laugh their bloody heads off. My father would say ’twas past time I suffered like all men. My mother would be arranging a wedding. I am doomed
. The next being—man or beast—that laughed at him was going to feel the bite of his sword. Once he bought a sword, that was.

The closest he came to a sword, however, was something called a laser pointer. It would have to do, for now.

Two hours later, they sat at a table in the food court. Bags of clothing and other purchases were stacked at their feet.

Meredith hadn’t had so much fun in years.

“Now
this
is food fit for the gods,” Rolf declared enthusiastically as he finished off his sixth slice of sausage and mushroom pizza. “But what is this fondness your people have for bodily raiment? I’ve had my fill of trying on garments and shoes for one day.”

She nodded. Actually, they’d bought more than enough to last Rolf for now. Two pairs of jeans and a half dozen T-shirts, underwear—he preferred boxers—and socks, and a pair of work boots…a whopping size fourteen.

Rolf had shown a surprising fashion instinct, selecting a pair of pleated, Ralph Lauren khaki slacks and
two Polo shirts, along with a pair of sinfully expensive loafers of the softest leather.

“This shopping is more tiring than a day of battle exercises,” Rolf grumbled, pushing away from the table and giving her his full regard.

Meredith didn’t like it when he studied her like that. It made her very uncomfortable. And he knew it. She could tell by the way he grinned, slowly and lazily. “I agree…about shopping being exhausting,” she said, picking at imaginary lint on her jeans. “And we still have to stop at the supermarket. The way you eat, I’ll need to stock up on lots more food.”

“Do you say that I eat overmuch? That I am fat?” He threw back his shoulders with affront, which only accentuated his superb body.

“Hardly.” He wore the plain old gray T-shirt and black sweats she’d given him that morning, along with the talisman belt, but if he got any more attention from ogling girls and oversexed women in this mall, she was going to scream. And Rolf didn’t even seem to notice the pivoting heads as he strolled along because he was doing his own gaping at each of the new wonders he encountered; water fountains, ballpoint pens, aquariums. Besides, he was probably used to female adulation, looking as he did.

As they headed back toward the mall entrance, weighed down with bags, Rolf stopped suddenly.

Now what?

“Give me fifty dollars, Merry-Death, and mark it in my book.” Rolf had made her purchase a small notebook to keep track of all his expenses. His male pride again.

“Why? I thought we got everything.”

“Not quite,” he said and veered off to the right after she handed him the bills.

“Oh, no,” she groaned, realizing that he was entering Victoria’s Secret.

“Rolf,” she hissed, finally catching up, her bags banging against her legs, “what are you doing in here?”

“All day we have been shopping for me, but naught for you. I want to buy you a gift.” He held up a flame-red, see-through nightie. “What do you think?”

Her face heated, turning a matching flame red, no doubt. “I don’t wear things like that to bed. I prefer…nightshirts.”

“I know,” he said dolefully.

“You know?” she squeaked out.

He shot her a glower of consternation. “I was tired last night, not dead.”

Oh, geez, what else did he see? Or remember?

He put the hooker-style outfit back on the rack, and said idly, “In truth, I prefer you wear no bed garments at all.”

As her heart started racing, he forged ahead into the store.

“These would show off those wonderfully long legs of yours.” He stuck a pair of French-cut silk panties in her face. “What are they?”

“Underwear. Rolf, please,” she whispered, mortified at all the attention they were getting. And, oh, Lord, was that one of her students over there—no, two of her students, Amy Zapalski and Joleen Frank?

He riffled through the assorted colors till he’d found a flesh-tinted pair edged with white lace, held it out before her as if to judge the size, and then tucked it under his arm. “Just right,” he said with a wink.

Next, before she could grab his arm and drag him out the door, he said, “Aaaah,” and hightailed it to the teddy section.

“What purpose do these garments serve?” he was asking a pencil-thin, blond sales clerk who’d appeared like a flash of lightning at his side.

“Those are teddies, hon. Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a teddy before.”

“Nay, never,” he replied, his mouth dropping practically to the floor with appreciation as she held up one scandalous creation after another.

“That one,” he said, stopping her at a pink satin, two-piece outfit, with tiny straps. Very simple and very sexy.

“What do you think, sweetling?” he asked, drawing her to his side with an arm looped over her shoulders. They’d dropped their packages to the floor back by the see-through nighties.

“I think you’re crazy, that’s what I think,” she muttered, but when he called her sweetling, she felt warm and tingly all over. Like a schoolgirl.
Oh, Lord!

“She loves it,” Rolf told the salesclerk, who was assessing him like a giant cotton candy she’d like to inhale. He squeezed Meredith closer and kissed the top of her head.

“No, I don’t love it,” she argued. “It’s…it’s pink.”

“And?”

“I’m thirty-five years old,” she informed the brute in an undertone. “Thirty-five-year-old women don’t wear pink.”

“They should,” he proclaimed, but by now his focus was diverted elsewhere. He was gaping at a mannequin
in the back of the store wearing the undergarment sensation of the nineties.

“Bloody hell!” he breathed.

“That’s it. No way! Never!” she asserted. “I draw the line at a Miracle Bra. Come on.” She tugged on his arm.

“Miracle Bra,” he said on a sigh, but he followed after her. While paying for his purchases, he remarked to her in an aside, “I have a brother Magnus who would buy a dozen of those, one for each of his mistresses.”

She glared at him dubiously.

“He would,” Rolf contended. “Magnus has a fondness for big tits.”

Meredith sputtered at that crudity.

“Hi, Ms. Foster,” Amy Zapalski and Joleen Frank crooned in unison, halting whatever tirade she would have come up with for the coarse Viking. The girls’ eyes were glued on Rolf’s bulging biceps and tight buns, highlighted when he bent down to pick up a quarter he’d dropped. Then their observation moved on to the items he was purchasing. The girls glanced from Rolf to her to the garments, and giggled.

Meredith cringed. She just knew the rumors would be flying around campus by morning. Professor in hot pink. Or would it be hot professor in pink? Or professor in pink with hot Viking?