She smiled at him in a patronizing manner he did not find one bit complimentary.
"Of course you're special. I just meant that there's no need to attach fancy labels to yourself. Who you are is enough."
"Aaarrgh!" he growled, then forced himself to control his temper when he noticed the flash of alarm on her face and the darting of her eyes toward the guardsman just outside in the corridor. "Let me make myself clear: I do not consider Viking a 'fancy label.' I am a Norseman... a Viking born and bred. That, m'lady, is no fantasy."
"I see," she remarked in a tone he could tell was intended to placate. She did not believe him.
He decided to change the subject. "What is this why-two-key I see mentioned on the black box all the time?"
At first the wench did not seem to understand his words. "Why-two-key, why-two-key," she repeated several times, then laughed. "Oh, you mean Y2K."
"That's what I said, didn't I?"
She ignored his grumpiness and explained. "Even though the turn of the century has passed, lots of people are still patting themselves on the backs over having escaped unscathed."
"Well, that is as clear as fjord fog on a frosty Friggsday." But something else she'd said tugged at his brain. "What do you mean about the turn of the century having passed? It was the year 998 when I left Vestfold. There is a year and more till the turn of the century." He was beginning to think that perchance it was the wench who was mad, not the other inhabitants of this madhouse, and definitely not him.
"Joe!" she exclaimed with alarm. "This isn't the year 998. It's the year two thousand."
"That's impossible!"
She shook her head slowly with a telling sadness. Instead of his convincing her of his sanity, he could tell she was increasingly convinced he was demented.
He inhaled and exhaled several times to digest all that she had proclaimed.
Finally he told her, "If I am not dead, as you have assured me, and if this is in truth the year two thousand, then there can be only one conclusion."
"And that would be?"
He groaned. "I've heard about this in the sagas of the Norse gods, but never did I actually think it could come true, especially not for mortal men. But what other explanation could there be?"
"What are you talking about, Joe?"
"I must have traveled through time."
"Time travel!" Another delusion.
"Yea, time travel," Joe said. "Oh, I know it is hard to believe, and never would I have thought it possible myself. But the Norse sagas tell tales of even more fantastical events. Even the Greeks told of impossible heroes doing
extraordinary things... like Hercules."
"Those are myths," Maggie informed him gentlly. "Fantasies."
Joe shrugged. "Mayhap one's man's fancy is another man's reality. Nay, do not frown at me so. I am a man who deals with the bloody face of war, ofttimes on a daily basis. Believe me when I tell you I am not given to fanciful notions, but even I would find it hard to discredit miraculous events."
Maggie arched her eyebrows at him. "Are you saying that you have experienced a miracle?"
"Hmpfh! What would you call being shot through time on the back of a killer whale?" Obviously Maggie's usually impassive face was not so impassive today, because Joe was quick to add, "Mayhap the Norse culture is more inclined to believe in the spectacular than yours. Mayhap, because of our harsh environment, we tend to have more hope in the gods... and miracles."
With an air of hopelessness, Maggie put her notebook and pencil aside and walked over to the window.
Maybe I should just give up now. Call the state hospital and have them come pick up Joe. Better yet, just let him go and fare the best he can on the streets. There's no way I can give him all the help he needs in one lousy week. No way!
On the other hand, if we let him go now, he'll probably be out on Galveston Bay, rowing a longboat... or waving that sword around in the nearest McDonald's.
Crossing her arms over her chest and leaning against the windowsill, she stared out blindly through the bars, trying to figure out how to handle this latest problem... especially with the time constraint her boss had laid on her only yesterday. "Why are you so sad, m'lady?"
Maggie jumped, not having realized that Joe had stepped up beside her. Although she was not short by any means, Maggie had to crane her neck to gaze up at him.
He didn't touch her at all not that he could, wearing a straitjacket but Maggie felt his nearness as a palpable thing. The pine scent of the hospital-issue soap he'd used to shower with that morning was a whisper teasing at her senses. But more than that, there was the scent of man... of him... erotic and compelling.
Maggie took a slight step backward, and her shoulders hit the side wall. She wasn't afraid, but she needed some distance between herself and this provocative male specimen. ....
"You fear me?"
She shook her head.
He contemplated that contradiction of words and physical evidence, then smiled slightly, as if he understood that it was herself she feared. She saw the moment of hesitancy in his smoky eyes, when he contemplated moving closer to test his theory, but luckily he exercised restraint.
Maggie wasn't sure what she would have done if he'd leaned in and rubbed his lips against hers. Or pressed his sex against hers. Or breathed her name. Lordy, lordy!. Pretty soon I'm going to qualify for admittance to my own mental hospital.
"You didn't answer my question," he murmured gruffly, jarring Maggie back to reality. "Why did my mention of time traveling make you sad?"
"There is no such thing," she answered bluntly, "and if you really believe that's what happened to you, then that makes my task impossible... a task that now has a deadline on it."
"What task would that be?" He was leaning back against the window now, his butt propped on the ledge, his bare feet crossed at the ankles. How a man wearing a straitjacket could look so relaxed was beyond Maggie.
"Making you healthy?"
"Who says I am unhealthy?" His chin jutted out.
"Mentally healthy," she elaborated.
"Oh, that! The demented nonsense again," he scoffed.
"I never said you were demented, Joe. Just..."
"I know... just troubled. But why does being a time traveler—"
"Your belief that you are a time traveler, not your being a time traveler," she interjected.
"Aaarrgh! If you keep interrupting, I will forget what I was going to say. Then you will accuse me of being demented—I mean, troubled for that reason, also."
"Sorry. Continue then."
"Why does my conclusion that I have traveled through time affect your ability to cure me any more than my claim to being a Viking, or my arrival in your land, bare-arsed and wielding a sword?"
"There isn't enough time to work on all those problems. Oh, I'm really encouraged by your finally talking, and I'm sure we'll be making great progress, but not before..." She let her words trail off.
"You mentioned a deadline," he prodded.
She paused a moment, then disclosed, "I shouldn't be telling you this, but Rainbow Hospital may soon be sold. The prospective buyers will be here next week six days from now—to look everything over, and Harry—I mean, Dr. Seabold has given me my orders: everything has got to be shipshape for their inspection tour."
Jorund listened carefully, trying to comprehend all that the wench said. Although he was learning the language of this world day by day, he still had trouble with many of the words. What has she to do with ships? Finally he asked, "And I would not fit into this shipshape?"
"You would not fit into this shipshape," she agreed.
"So what will happen if I am not... uh, shipshape by then?"
"Well, the team—Dr. Seabold, me, and your head nurse, Gladys Hatcher—would sit down and decide whether to send you to a state-run hospital, or just release you."
Jorund inhaled deeply with surprise. "Glad-ass has a say in my fate?" he inquired. He would have
to be nicer to the witc
h in the future. "Glad-ass?" the wench choked out.
"Yea, Norse Hatch-her... the sadist with the bed trencher."
Mag-he tried to suppress a smile, but he saw it nonetheless.
"Nurse Hatcher is a very nice woman... a dedicated professional."
He lifted both eyebrows in disbelief. "Are you speaking of the same person? The Amazon with the arms of a seasoned warrior?"
Mag-he smiled. "I wouldn't describe her in quite those words, but yes."
"Well, I am informing you here and now, that hatchet-faced, bed trencher-brandishing, smartmouthed woman is having naught to do with my fate," he told her in no uncertain terms. "Back to that other... all I have to do is stay here for six days and then I could be freed?"
She nodded. "Possibly."
"Well, why didn't you tell me this afore?" Six days? That is not an overlong delay. Really, Jorund had no desire to rush back to the place where the killer whale had deposited him. For some reason his instincts told him to sit back and study his surroundings, to try to understand why the gods, or the bloody whale, had chosen to interrupt his father's quest with this particular stop. He was convinced he would have to locate Thora in order to return to his own time. He sensed that Thora would be the key to his return home.
"Oh, Joe," she said in a voice wobbly with emotion. "Being free isn't the answer if you're not well."
He cocked his head to the side and studied her more closely. "Why do you care?"
"I don't know," she answered, clearly dismayed. Her lips were trembling and her eyes misting up.
"Oh, for the love of Freyja! Tears!" The wench was about to weep. Over him! He could not abide female tears under the best of circumstances, and definitely not in pity of him. Straightening, he emitted a low growl of outrage and jerked his restricted arms sharply to the sides—once, twice, three times. To his amazement, as well as hers,the torture shert split down the center.
She gaped at him.
He gaped at her, then clicked his jaw shut. It was not fitting that he should appear dumbfounded at his own incredible strength.
"How did you do that?"
He shrugged, as if it were nothing. In truth, he had no idea how he had done it.
One minute he had seen her near tears, and the next minute he was consumed with frustration at his being unable to... what? Hold her? Holy Thor! Best I rein in those thoughts.
"Are you Houdini, or some kind of magician?"
"Well, I have been known to wield magic onoccasion," he lied. Ha! The only sorcery skill he could boast was that an overendowed Saxon tart had once told him he had magic in his rod, and she had been drunkinn at the time.
She narrowed her eyes at him. "Have you been playing a game with me?"
"Nay." But I'd like to. One that involves kiss some lips, sweet, succulent toes, long legs, round breasts, and a sex-voice.
"Just tell me this... have you been able to break free from that straitjacket all along?"
"I have not," he answered honestly.
She seemed to accept his answer.
In a matter of seconds, he had tossed the garment aside and was flexing his limbs to get the blood flowing again. He turned back to the wench, glanced away, then immediately turned back. "What?" She was staring at his bare chest as if she'd never seen a naked man before, though he was not really naked, since he still wore those loose blue hospital braies with the waist ties.
He would have to be blind not to see the interest in her eyes. He stepped closer, obeying a strange compulsion that drew him against his will. It was like the sensation one got sometimes when standing on a cliff. A person didn't want to jump or fall forward, but there was some physical pulling sensation nonetheless. Had she cast a spell on him?
"Don't touch me .... " she protested weakly.
"I have wanted to touch you for days," he admitted in a gravelly voice, but he restrained himself from doing so. For now, he was content to inhale her flowery scent, to appreciate the rise and fall of those magnificent breasts, to wonder at the trembling of her full, cherry lips. "You shouldn't... you can't."
"Who says I cannot?"
"I do. It's unethical."
"What?"
"I'm a doctor; you're my patient. There can be nothing personal between us."
He made a snorting sound of disagreement. "I know about this dock whore/pay-shun business from The Guiding Light. There was this man, Dock-Whore Rick, who... well, never mind that. Heed me well, wench; I never hired you to be my dock whore. Therefore, I cannot be your pay shun. Mayhap I will be Dock-whore Hairy's pay shun. Then I can touch you all I want."
He could see that he was confusing Mag-he. Good. It was always best to keep a wench in a muddled condition, lest she start thinking she had a brain equal to a man's.
Also, women, no matter their station, were more likely to succumb to men's baser suggestions in that state. Once he had befuddled an Irish wench so badly that she had agreed to the most outrageous things. But that had been a long time ago, and it was neither here nor there.
Jorund needed a plan. Too many baffling thoughts and feelings were hitting him from every angle. If he were in the midst of battle, he would be dead by now.
Where was his legendary gift for war tactics? How had he lost his focus?
"Come." He directed the wench to a small metal table with folding chairs on either side. "Sit down, and let us come up with a plan for healing me."
She eyed him skeptically, the way that women were wont to do on occasion when they thought their men were up to some mischief.
He sat down, but she still stood on the other side of the room, suspicious of him. He wished she would hurry so they could get this business over with. By his count of the big, circular ticking device on the wall, Judge Judy would be coming on the black world box soon, and he did enjoy her saucy tongue when wielding her edicts. He was learning much about the law of this land.
The wench went to a door first, which he had learned previously was called a close-it. From it she took a shert, which matched his braies. "Put this on first," she demanded.
He was about to ask why, but he knew... somehow he knew. His near-nudity disconcerted her. Now that was a fact to be stored for future reference. He did as she asked, leaving the strange fastening devices undone; they were known as butt-ons. For a certainty, he intended to take a sampling of these back to his country. He knew a few merchants who would pay a fortune for knowledge of their marvelous usage.
Now that they were sitting across from each other, Jorund took a deep breath and began, "Your problem is that you must heal me within a week, whilst—"
"No, not exactly. That's the purpose of a mental facility... to be helping patients with problems. What we can't have is your being locked in a barred room with ankle restraints and a strait jacket. I'm not saying they aren't legitimate tools for controlling out-of-control patients, but if the need for them continues for a week or more, then that person probably belongs in a maximum security mental facility. Not here."
He put both hands in the air in a manner that said, What is the problem?
She tilted her head in silent question.
"Can't you see, the problem is halfway solved? My feet are free .... "he teased, extending one leg and wiggling his toes at her.
Her face went prettily pink at his action, and he thought, not without some satisfaction, that mayhap she had a fascination for his feet, just as he'd experienced over her flame-colored toenails. How odd! That was another fact to store for future reference.
"And I no longer wear the torture shert. Do you see me attacking anyone? Or harming myself?"
Just then the guard must have peered through the window and noticed that he was free. He opened the door and rushed in, about to attack him—or try to. "Dr. McBride! Why didn't you call for help?"
Dock-whore Muck-bride stood quickly, placing herself between Jorund, still seated, and the burly guardsman. "Everything's all right, Hank. I, um... I released Joe. A little experiment. And it's working out just fine."
br /> God, he loved it when his very own Valkyrie— even if she wasn't such, he liked to think of her so—went hostile on his behalf. He would have jumped up and defended himself if he hadn't been enjoying the sight of her in battle mode so much.
"Well, if you say so," the guardsman agreed reluctantly and left, though Jorund noticed that he left the door ajar.
"Well done, m'lady." He gave her a smart salute.
"Huh?"
"You put Hunk in his proper place."
"Huh?"
"Now that we have resolved the first two obstacles—the ankle restraints and the torture shert— what can be done about the bars and locked doors?"
"I think an experiment is in order. We move you to another room. No bars. And the door will be unlocked for certain periods of the day... not all the time, at first. At those times you will be able to go to the activities room or the workout room, where you can mix with some of the other patients. How does that sound?"
Just wonderful! I will get to exchange pleasantries with demented people. "Fine," he said, because that was obviously the answer she wanted.
"Good." She smiled broadly. "I think we'll start by having you eat dinner with the others in the dining hall."
"I hope there will be no more of that green jail low. That provender is a torment even the vilest prisoner should not be subjected to."
Mag-he thought a moment, then laughed. "Oh, you mean Jell-O. Yes, you're right. They do tend to overdo the green Jell-O a bit. Anyhow, if the dining experience works out all right, tomorrow you can join group therapy for the first time."
He didn't even want to know what he would be doing in a group with other half-witted people. But his brain cautioned him not to protest too much, to take one step at a time, to watch, assess, then act. "So this is how you heal people?"
"Well, not exactly. Usually we draw up a contract."
"See. Did I not offer already to have a contract with you?"
She shook her head at him as if he were a mischievous child. "Not that kind of contract."
His shoulders slumped with disappointment.
"You do not want me for a love slave?"
"Get serious, Joe."
"I was serious. Well, mayhap I wasn't, really. But it did pose interesting possibilities. On the other hand, you could be my love slave. That definitely would be of interest. What do you think?"