Rough and Ready

  They all laughed, and no one protested when the dish was shoved down the table, away from them.

  After the meal, Torolf took Hilda’s hand again and urged, “Come, walk with me. I have some questions that need answers.”

  “Ask me here?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to be alone with you . . . when I ask.”

  Chapter 7

  When testosterone has a mind of its own . . .

  Torolf and Hilda walked hand in hand—he had a death grip on their linked fingers—down the motte and toward the fjord where the longship had wrecked.

  Her blasted dog, Stig, nipped at his heels the whole time, till the beast spotted a squirrel in the distance and practically did somersaults trying to catch it. At least it kept his doggie mind off Torolf’s leg.

  Torolf liked holding hands with Hilda. He wasn’t sure why. Because he enjoyed irritating her? Yeah, that was part of it. But he also had this melting sort of sensation in the region of his heart as his callused palm pressed against her callused palm. He fancied that the pulse beats at their wrists blended into one rhythm. All this was new to Torolf. And scary.

  Sex was usually tops on his agenda with women. He didn’t have female friends, just work acquaintances. There were no female SEALs, but they did work with military personnel from other units, including women. In his personal life, he usually gravitated toward women who liked a good time. Mutual enjoyment. No strings. He wasn’t a love ’em and leave ’em kind of guy. He just never stuck around that long. But Hilda? Dangerous thinking, man! Very dangerous.

  She would probably hit him upside the head if she knew what he was thinking. Actually, most women would whack most men if they knew what they were really thinking when they asked, “What are you thinking, honey?” Hah! “About nailing your sweet ass to the wall, that’s what I’m thinking, honey.” Aliens must have stolen my brains—or else my brains got lost in the time warp—for me to be having these kinds of thoughts in the presence of good ol’ Hilda.

  The cold autumn breeze picked up, causing them both to shiver momentarily. She wore a long wool cape. Drab brown, as usual. He wore a Navy SEAL lined windbreaker over his Viking-style tunic and jeans. Perhaps I’ll set a new trend here in the Norselands. Change fashion history and all that.

  “You’re smiling again.”

  He squeezed her fingers. “I’m happy. Is there anything wrong with that?”

  “Yea, there is, when there is naught to be happy about.”

  “I don’t know about that. I’m alive. I’m young. Oh, don’t look at me as if I’m ancient. Thirty-one isn’t old in my country.”

  “Why do you keep saying that? This is your country.”

  “It was, but you’re right. I may not be able to leave here again, and if that happens, I’ve got to get used to thinking of this as my homeland again. God forbid! I’ve become used to bodily comforts.”

  “You speak in riddles.”

  “That’s because you’re not ready to hear the truth.”

  Without releasing her hand, he sank down to the ground, taking her with him. The remains of the longship still sat in the shallow water up against a crude stone-and-tree dam, but many of the loose pieces had already floated down the fjord toward the North Sea. The dam was a primitive engineering marvel, really, with a large wood door in the center that could be opened and shut with a rope pulley system to regulate the flow of water.

  “Who built the dam?” he asked.

  “We did. One stone and one limb at a time. It took us two years and many cuts and bruises, but we finally managed to obstruct the flow of waters from the mountain. There is still a thin stream, of course, but it only results in an ankle-high depth now. Of course, we must continually work to maintain it.”

  He could see that this was a bare-bones defensive tactic, which would have to be continually kept up. It wouldn’t stop committed invaders, but it would certainly slow them down. “Where does the mountain runoff go now?”

  “We diverted it so that it runs through that wooded area over there and emerges farther down the fjord.”

  “I can’t imagine how you women managed that hard labor.”

  She raised her eyebrows at him.

  “Don’t get your tail in a twist. I would’ve said the same thing to a man.” Actually, he wouldn’t have, but that was beside the point. “Tell me about yourself and the other women here.”

  “What? All sixty of us?”

  “I want to know the history of each of you so I can best judge how to use your talents in fighting Steinolf. There may be weak links here that even you are not aware of.”

  Little by little, she discussed the women who had come to her. Not all of them, but many.

  “You should be proud of yourself for giving sanctuary to so many.”

  She shook her head vehemently. “Each of us builds on the strength of the others. I may have provided the initial keep, but I could not have done this on my own.”

  “You do know that Steinolf could take this place with little effort if he really tried, don’t you?”

  At first, she bristled. Then her shoulders slumped. “Mayhap we are not as safe as we would hope.”

  “What precisely do you want? If you could defeat Steinolf, what then?”

  She pondered for several moments. “Each of the battered estates to be restored and returned to its people. An Althing held to establish laws—fair laws—to be administered to all the people in those regions, as a whole, not separately. A return to peaceful ways. Farming, trading, everyday living without the threat of constant war.”

  He smiled. “And would there be no adventuring in this perfect world? The men . . . would they go a-Viking no more?”

  She smiled back at him.

  That melty sensation in the region of his chest turned hot and moved lower.

  “Men will be men,” she conceded.

  Oh, yeah! Even me! He leaned forward so Hilda wouldn’t look at his lap. Holy shit! What a time to get turned on!

  “I doubt anyone could prevent a Norseman from going a-Viking when the season comes.”

  With more calm than he felt, he asked, “How about you? Would you go back to Amberstead? Marry again?”

  “Pfff! I will never wed again. Three times is enough. If I can find a good man to take over there, I will not return. There is naught for me there anymore.”

  “What would you do?”

  “Stay here. I find that I like helping other women.”

  “Hmmm. It would be like running a women’s shelter in my time . . . uh, country.”

  “Yea, that is what The Sanctuary is. A shelter for women.”

  “Commendable . . . but lonely.”

  “How can I be lonely when I am never alone here?”

  “Come on, Hildy. You know what I mean.”

  A pink bloom filled her cheeks, and she glanced away. “Men always think that women have this great need for them.”

  “Some . . . most women do,” he said gently, using the forefinger of his free hand to tip her chin toward him.

  “I am not most women. Dost think I am unnatural because I do not crave the mating . . . because I do not crave you?” She was angry now, as well as embarrassed.

  Wow! Talk about a loaded question! “No, not unnatural. Just . . . untested.”

  “Oh, you are such an arrogant lout. Let me guess. You are the one who would test my resolve. I do not think so.”

  “Hildy, shut up.”

  “What?”

  “Shut up,” he repeated, yanking her closer to him. She was too surprised at first to protest. “I’m going to kiss you.”

  “Nay, you are not,” she said, but she had stopped struggling. Probably curious.

  Curiosity killed the cat . . . and apparently the SEAL, too, he thought with irreverent, self-deprecating humor.

  The blasted dog came back and sniffed at his lap, but he shooed him away with a wave. Luckily, this time the stubborn animal did as he was told. God must b
e on my side. No, not God. He would not condone what I’m contemplating. Would he?

  Still holding her left hand with his right, he used his left hand to cup her nape and tug her even closer. She smelled like pine soap and cold skin, and he was so hot for her his body trembled. He had gone from mildly interested to horny as hell in record time, even for him. As he prepared to settle his lips on hers, he noticed that her blue eyes, now the color of a Norse fjord on a summer day, were wide open and staring at him with incredulity. He laughed against her lips and said, “Shut your eyes, sweetheart.”

  She did, her brown eyelashes fluttering closed like fans against her pale cheeks.

  And then he kissed her.

  His downfall.

  They came to a meeting of the minds . . . uh, lips . . .

  The lout was about to kiss her.

  Just before he touched his mouth to hers, he licked her bottom lip. The shock of that small gesture curled like wildfire and shot through her whole body, which caused her to part her lips with surprise. Thus, when he kissed her, her mouth was open, as was his.

  For the love of Frigg, people did not kiss with their mouths open. Did they? Oh, they must . . . they must . . . because it felt so bloody good.

  He moaned.

  She whimpered.

  The kiss deepened as he shaped her mouth with his, and then, she could not believe it, but he slipped his tongue inside her mouth, then out again, then in again. Ah! So, this is the tongue kissing Rakel alluded to. Every part of her body went on alert. Her heart raced. Her nipples pearled. Her lower belly thrummed. There was a sensual pooling between her legs. She felt as if she was being sucked into warm quicksand. She had to struggle to the surface, but she could not.

  She was about to tell him nay, to stop this nonsense when she realized two important, alarming facts. She was lying flat on her back with the lout leaning over her, and her tongue was in the lout’s mouth. How did that happen?

  “Nay,” she murmured, jerking her face to the side.

  “Shhh,” he said, blowing in her ear.

  She jerked upward at the intense pleasure his breath brought to her ear, of all places.

  The lout used that opportunity to slip his arms under her and arrange himself on top of her, resting on his elbows.

  “Have you lost your mind?”

  “Yes, I think I have.” His mouth was wet from kissing her, and his eyes, now the color of the darkest amber, were slumberous with desire. He renewed his kissing then, but now it was with a wild hunger that frightened and thrilled her at the same time. He undulated his hips so that his hardness hit her woman’s center. In a haze of passion unlike any she’d ever experienced before, she heard Torolf swear, “Go away. Dammit! Go away.”

  Opening her eyes, she saw that Stig was straddling Torolf ’s leg, humping the back of his thigh.

  She wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. Laugh at the idiocy of the dog and cry that she had put herself in this ignominious position.

  Realizing that the moment was lost—thank the gods!—Torolf raised himself, swore at the dog, and sat down beside her, his face resting on arms crossed over his upraised knees. He was panting like a warhorse.

  Once she stood and straightened her clothing, she looked down at him, speechless for the moment. How could he? How could I? “You must think I am a wanton.”

  He raised his head and looked at her. “Hardly.” After he stood and glowered at the dog, who sat at his feet, tongue lolling in adoration, he turned to her. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

  She turned her back on him and walked as proudly as she could under the circumstances back to the keep.

  From several paces back, he yelled, “I take that back. I’m not sorry. I liked kissing you. A lot.”

  She refused to look back at him to see if he was teasing or not. To Hilda’s way of thinking, this was the worst thing she had done since she’d put saltpeter in her third husband’s mead, which may or may not have contributed to his death.

  “But don’t think that because I like to kiss you that you’re going to trap me,” he said, coming up closer behind her.

  She stopped and turned slowly. “And why would I want to trap you?”

  “To stay here. No offense, honey, but I’m outta here once Steinolf bites the dust.” In a lower voice, he added, “If I’m able to leave.”

  “Let me understand. You think that I am so charmed by your bloody kisses that I will be begging you to stay with me.”

  He had the grace to blush at her words. “Well, you did kiss me back.”

  She bared her teeth and fisted her hands till the nails bit into the flesh. Do not rise to the lout’s bait. Do not claw his eyes out. Do not scream. With the most restraint she’d ever garnered, she turned again and proceeded to walk away from him briskly.

  He caught up with her again. This time he was beside her before he spoke. “I said that all wrong.”

  “I should say so.”

  “It’s just that . . . well, a lot of women get ideas, and—”

  “And you thought I was like all your other women? For a certainty, you are not inclined to meekness.”

  “Dammit, Hilda, I didn’t say you were like other women. And I don’t have any women in my life currently.”

  She laughed at his thickheadedness. “Currently?”

  “I haven’t had a lot of women. That’s what I meant.”

  “Oh? Define ‘a lot’?”

  He blushed again.

  She rather liked making the lout blush.

  “What I don’t need in my life right now is a high-maintenance woman.”

  “And I am high maintenance? Well, who asked you to maintain me? Dost think I cannot maintain myself?”

  “Stop twisting my words. Bottom line, babe, we aren’t going to kiss again . . . or anything else. That way there will be no misunderstandings or hard feelings.”

  Ooooh, he makes me so angry. She stopped again, put her hands on her hips, and gave him her most cynical smile. “Do you not think you should wait till you are asked afore setting these restrictions? Furthermore, if I decide there will be kissing, there bloody damn hell will be kissing.” With that, she raised herself on her tiptoes, pressed herself closer to his body, and . . . licked his lips.

  It was with the greatest of pleasure that she heard him swearing under his breath as she stomped away.

  GI Janes they were not . . .

  Torolf surveyed the exercise area, a hard-packed dirt space in the bailey the size of a football field, where he and his men were trying to teach the women how to fight. They were aiming for a primitive replica of the O-course on the grinder back at Coronado. Instead, it was like a bad Monty Python parody of military training.

  The women were divided into six groups with different Close Quarter Defense exercises taught by each of the SEALs. By the end of the day, each group should have gone through the different evolutions at least twice. Archery; knife and lance throwing; slingshotting; karate; free climbing; silent kills, like garroting; and regular PT.

  One of the CQD exercises, which Pretty Boy had just finished, taught the women how to roll with the blows, which was a joy to watch. Not! Lots of people didn’t realize that soldiers—good soldiers, like SEALs—needed to learn to bounce well when hit. It was called “taking the beat.” If a soldier allowed himself to be slammed to the ground, a leg or other body part could be broken. Plus, it placed them in a vulnerable position.

  Geek was teaching archery at the far end of the field. Some of the women weren’t too bad, but there were arrows sticking out of the palisade wall, the eave of the keep’s roof, a wooden wheelbarrow, and various other places. An enraged Elise, a weaver, had even got an arrow in the butt, which ended her exercises for the day. And Stig and his latest girlfriend, a mangy black dog with fleas, had run off, whimpering, when one of the arrows had barely missed them rutting near the drawbridge.

  Behind him, Pretty Boy was starting another evolution of PT. First, he had them doing push-ups in
sets of ten. “Drop! Down one, down two, down three. Recover. Now drop again. Down one. Down two. Come on, ladies. Push ’em out!” They were the most miserable push-ups Torolf had ever seen, even from women.

  “It’s better to sweat in training than bleed in war,” Pretty Boy told them.

  One woman, about five feet tall with a butt the size of an artillery target, retorted huffily, “Methinks ye are getting too much joy from our woman-sweat. Methinks it turns you lustsome seeing us wimmen bendin’ and stretchin’ our female parts.”

  Pretty Boy, not missing a beat, replied, “Oh, yeah, honey, that churns my butter, all right.” Then Pretty Boy changed to a simple toe touching exercise in rotations of twenty. At that point, a disgusted Frida, the cook, who had to weigh two hundred pounds, swore in Norse and told Pretty Boy, “If the gods wanted me ta touch me toes, they would have put them on me knees.” With that, she stomped off to her kitchen.

  Pretty Boy laughed at Frida’s abrupt departure and said, “Hey, ladies, remember: the only easy day was yesterday.”

  To which, one woman yelled, “Yesterday I was wrestling sheep to ground. Naught is harder than that. You want to wrestle?”

  “Not right now, sweetheart. Maybe later.”

  Cage had set up a target on a tall evergreen tree outside near the forest. He was instructing a group of women in knife-throwing, telling them how to aim for the fat line on a man: that area between the neck and the groin, where all the vital organs were located. Plus, they had constructed homemade slingshots and were practicing with those, too. He was having more success than some of the others with his lessons.

  Earlier, Torolf had hacked the narrow side limbs off of the straight trunk of a pine tree and taught a group of women in braies how to free-climb so that hopefully they would be able to gain quick access to the upper ramparts of Norstead and Amberstead. They were all going to have cuts and splinters in their hands by nightfall and black-and-blue butts from their numerous falls.

  JAM was doing defensive moves: karate, Tae Bo, that kind of thing, including the throwing star. “Come on, Max. Let’s show them how to react when danger comes on you suddenly, and you don’t have a weapon handy.”