The Last Viking

  He might have been preparing for a brutal battle, or a dousing in the frigid North Sea.

  I love Merry-Death, he said, testing. Then, it was as if a volcano erupted in his brain. The words poured out in an unending stream, like lava. I love Merry-Death, I love Merry-Death, I love Merry-Death, I love...

  With that terrifying recognition, another equally terrifying prospect occurred to him. Was it possible that his destiny was not to replace the relic?

  Was Merry-Death his destiny?

  It was midnight and Meredith was still basking in her grandmother's deep, footed bathtub—an extravagance her grandfather had provided for his beloved wife when putting in the large modern bathroom with its shower stall. Thank God for his extravagance. And his love.

  She kept a thin stream of hot water running, and every once in a while dumped in more scented oil to replenish the bubbles, using her big toe to release some water so it wouldn't overflow.

  Oh, the memories of Gram coming upstairs at the end of the day for her nightly soak. The secret smile she and Gramps used to exchange. The scent of roses permeating the small house.

  Was that why Meredith had continued to buy the same bath product over the years, although she hadn't dared use it when Gramps was in the house for fear it would bring him too much pain? Did she associate the fragrance with love? Jeffrey had detested the perfumed oil. Too flowery. She adored it.

  Taking another sip of white wine from the crystal glass on the tub ledge, Meredith leaned her head back, her hair dangling in a wet swath over the back edge.

  The house was quiet. Jillian had stopped in a half hour ago just before going to bed.

  Even Jillie hadn't been able to upset her tonight with her prodding questions about Rolf, his background, where he came from, her feelings for him. On and on she had grilled her, but for once Meredith had stood her ground. "Tomorrow, Jillie. Tomorrow, I'll explain it all to you." So, Jillie had gone off to sleep with her daughter.

  For the first time in days, she felt at peace. No cares about the project. No worries about her personal future. No compulsive need to think and plan each little aspect of her life and work. No being on constant guard against Rolf's tempting presence. Maybe she should take life like this soothing bath... go with the flow.

  The door clicked open behind Meredith and she realized that her sister hadn't gone to sleep, after all. "I hope you're not going to renew your interrogation, Jillie. Hand me a towel, will you? My skin is beginning to feel like a prune."

  "Now that is something I would like to test for myself." A deep masculine voice chuckled.

  Geirolf feasted on the sight before him. Merry-Death let out a little squeal and tried to sink deeper into the water as he neared the tub. So, this is a bubble bath. Bloody hell, there are a few things about this land I would not mind taking back with me to the past. Bubble baths. Power tools. Merry-Death.

  "Shhh," Geirolf said, coming up to the side of the tub. "We would not want your sister storming in here to the rescue. No doubt she would launch a fierce assault to protect your virtue."

  The cynicism of his tone must have alerted Meredith.

  She studied him for a telling moment, then exclaimed, "Oh, good heavens! My sister put the make on you, didn't she?"

  Her lack of jealousy surprised him, giving him no time to fabricate a story. " 'Twas naught of importance. "

  "Hah! Maybe not to you. Listen, Rolf, you've got to understand my sister. She gives the impression of being overconfident, but deep down she's insecure. My parents always made us kids feel... well, lacking. Jillie's method of handling the continual criticism was rebellion... and cockiness."

  He shook his head at her. "You are amazing, Merry-Death. I cannot credit your making excuses for your sister's guile. She attempts to lure your man into her bed, and you call it a trifle. Well, I consider it more than mischief, I tell you."

  "Rolf, you are not 'my man.' You are just... Oh, never mind. And you're right. I do make too many excuses for Jillie. Do you know..." she hesitated, and then divulged "—Il suspect that she made a play for Jeffrey while we were married."

  And that weasel Jeffrey probably succumbed. Poor Merry-Death! Always the victim of those she loved most. Before he had an opportunity to offer solicitude, she went on. "What are you doing here anyway?"

  "I thought perchance I would take a shower," he lied.

  "Liar!" She laughed. "You've already taken two showers today."

  He raised a brow. "You've been counting the number of showers I take. Hmmm. Mayhap you have been imagining yourself in there with me."

  "I have not," she said indignantly, a becoming color suffusing her cheeks. A good guess, he decided with immense satisfaction. She had been picturing them both thus occupied. "Besides, you can't just walk in here when I'm taking a bath. You're going to wake everyone up."

  "No one will know I'm here if you soften your voice. Has anyone e'er told you it has a decided screech to it?"

  "Rolf, you've got to respect my privacy."

  He could tell he made her uncomfortable. She made him uncomfortable, too. "Hmpfh! With all the people coming in and out of this keep, when do you and I get to have some much-needed privacy? It occurs to me this is the only chamber with a lock on the door."

  Looking askance at the bubbles that were starting to diminish slightly—not enough, to his mind-she reached over to a low shelf and poured a dollop of liquid into the tub, causing more bubbles to erupt. At the same time, she lifted a big toe from the water and flicked a silver lever, which immediately caused water to gurgle out. Then she flicked her toe in the opposite direction.

  "Blód hel! Do that again and you will have one large Viking in the tub with you."

  "Do what again?" She cast him a startled sidelong glance.

  "That exotic trick you just did with your toe." He smiled at her. His wench was very talented. He wondered idly what other talents lay hidden beneath her prim exterior.

  "Stop smiling at me like that."

  He smiled wider.

  "And stop staring at me. It's not decent. Oh, what are you doing?"

  After locking the door, he'd pulled a short stool closer and sunk down onto it wearily. Then he stretched out a hand to the bottle of bubble lotion, placing it at the opposite end of the ledge, out of Meredith's grasp.

  Meredith studiously avoided looking at the hem of Rolf's tunic, which rode up when he sat down, knees spread, exposing way too much hairy calf and thigh.

  "I asked you a question. What are you doing here?"

  Resting his elbows on the side of the tub, he smiled lazily. She hated it when he smiled lazily. "Waiting for the bubbles to evaporate," he said.

  "Oh," she squeaked out and sank a bit lower in the tub.

  Now, he was tracing a forefinger through the thick layer of bubbles, making a path of letters that immediately melded together. "I-L-O-V—"

  "Wh-what are you doing?" she asked in a panic.

  Surely, he hadn't been writing what she'd thought she'd seen.

  He jerked back his hand, as if just realizing what he'd been doing. "Practicing my alphabet," he said.

  Liar.

  "Mayhap you would like me to practice my letters on your skin. Prune skin, did you call it when I walked in?"

  She closed her eyes as a tingling awareness passed over her, almost as if he were actually tracing the words on her flesh... words she yearned for and at the same time resisted with her whole being.

  "Merry-Death," he said gently, a note of desperation in his voice, "do you tingle when I touch you?"

  Her eyes shot open. Could he read her mind now, too?

  "Not when I touch you intimately, but just in passing. Like that fleeting kiss I gave you earlier? Did you tingle then?"

  He gazed at her with such abject bleakness as he asked the question.

  She frowned with confusion. "What's wrong, Rolf? Why are you asking me these questions?"

  He shrugged. " 'Tis something your sister suggested to me."

  Meredith bri
stled. "Was that before or after she at tempted to jump your bones?"

  The grimness of his expression lightened and he chucked her playfully under the chin. And she did tingle, dam it.

  "After."

  "Well, then, what did my sister suggest that has turned you so grim?"

  He was back to tracing letters in the bubbles with seemingly idle concentration, but she could tell that he was deeply troubled by something... something Jillie had suggested to him. What could it be? Meredith had no deep, dark secrets.

  He lifted his head and held her eyes. "She said... she said that I am in love with you."

  That was the last thing Meredith had expected. "I... I... " she sputtered. What she wanted to say was, "Are you?" but she didn't have the nerve. For some reason, his answer was far too important to her.

  Tears welled in her eyes, and she turned her face toward the wall. Her vulnerability was crushing her.

  Not so much because she was naked and he was not, but because she felt so... needy.

  With a forefinger against her jaw, he forced her to face him. "I denied it... at first."

  At first? Oh, my God!

  "But I fear that Jillian made a wise assessment."

  "She did?" Meredith's white knuckles clutched the sides of the tub in desperation. If she didn't hold on tight, she just might sink and drown in two feet of water from the sheer passionate lethargy that swept her torso. "What are you saying, Rolf.?" she whispered.

  "I think... Nay, I cannot hide behind cowardly words of hesitation," he confessed huskily. ""Ég elska þig. "

  "What?"

  "I love you," he translated in a low mumble. Then louder, "I love you. May the fates have mercy on us, but I do. I love you, Merry-Death."

  Chapter Eleven

  "You love me?" Merry-Death choked out.

  The scarlet flush of arousal on her face faded to pale cream, and her luminous eyes widened with anxiety. If her white-knuckled fingers clutched the tub's edge any tighter, she might break through the porcelain.

  Geirolf wasn't offended. He understood her panic.

  Had he not fought the same urge to run like the wind when Jillian first suggested to him that he loved Merry-Death?

  Regaining her composure, Merry-Death laughed. It was a false laugh, one of those unattractive sounds people make to cover their real emotions. "Ha-ha-ha," Merry-Death said. "Great joke, Rolf, but you don't have to give me that old line. I've already decided to have an affair with you. So you don't—"

  "You have?" Grinning at her from where he remained perched on a stool, chin propped on his steepled hands, he could scarce keep from jumping into the tub with her—tunic, boots, and all. But first, he had to make himself clear. " 'Tis not a line, as you name it. 'Tis a statement of fact. I wish 'twere not so—we have so many obstacles in our path. I do not want to love you, Merry-Death, but there 'tis. I love you."

  She made a kittenish mewl of distress, and he couldn't tell if she was pleased or not. Since he'd never uttered those three dreaded words to a woman afore, he had no experience to draw on.

  "I'm telling you, Rolf, you don't need to soft-soap me to get me in your bed. You won that battle days ago."

  He chuckled. "But I would much relish soft-soaping you, sweetling, if the exercise even remotely resembles drekking you."

  A smile twitched at the corners of her lips—lips that he anticipated kissing very soon and very thoroughly.

  "Have I told you how much I enjoy the scent of your drek, almost as much as the flowery bath oil that permeates this bathing chamber? I will ne'er smell roses again without thinking of you."

  Merry-Death's head snapped back, and she gave him an uneasy look. Why would she be surprised that he cherished the fragrances associated with her? But he had another question. "What is this 'affair' you have decided to have with me? Is it a perversion?" he asked hopefully. Meanwhile, he trailed his fingertips idly through the dissipating bubbles, giving him a murky vision of the glorious body beneath.

  "You are outrageous," Merry-Death proclaimed, but she didn't seem sad about that. "An affair is a fling, a casual relationship that both parties know will end in a short time."

  Geirolf drew himself straight. "Nay, there is naught casual in my sentiments for you. Do not dismiss me in such a light manner, my lady. It demeans what I offer you. "

  "And what, exactly, are you offering me?" she inquired tentatively.

  "My heart."

  "Oh, Rolf." Her eyes filled with tears... happy tears, he would wager. She started to say more, but then stopped. "Look, this isn't the place to discuss this. Would you turn around so I can get out of the tub?"

  He grinned. "You may certainly stand, but I'm not such a lackwit that I would turn away."

  "I'd feel more comfortable talking to you on an equal basis, fully clothed."

  "I could remove my garments," he offered.

  She tsk-tsked at him, just like his mother. Well, not exactly so. The dreamy expression on her face was far from maternal, praise the gods!

  "Come, Merry-Death, stand and let me dry you off. Then we'll see about the business of... uh, discussing."

  She sank deeper into the tub, her chin skimming the water's surface. The stubborn wench!

  "Coward!" he taunted.

  Her eyes flashed green fire for a moment before she stood with a whoosh, splashing water over the rim. He wanted to clap or give words of praise for her bravado, but his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and his arms lay frozen at his sides.

  She was magnificent.

  Standing stone-still in knee-deep water, she stared boldly back at him, allowing him to study the lines of her trim body. Like a Byzantine marble statue she was, all sleek planes and enticing curves. With her wet hair combed back and her proud chin held high, she presented a face that was not beautiful but nicely formed.

  Flawless skin. High cheekbones. Straight nose. Thick arched brows over crystalline green eyes. Full, kissable lips. Nay, he amended, she was beautiful... to him.

  Her breasts were round and firm, the size of pomegranates, the nipples and surrounding aureoles a lovely shade of dusty pink. He adored her breasts and would show her how much—later.

  She was slender, but not overly so. A narrow waist tapered out to full hips that framed a flat stomach and indented navel. He promised himself an extended exploration of that territory with his hands and tongue, mayhap even his teeth. Yea, teeth would be interesting.

  He forced his eyes to move on to long, clean-shaven legs that joined at the most enticing spot of all, a patch of dark brown curls glistening with wet drops from her bath. His own groin tightened as he looked at her there, wondering at all the hidden secrets she harbored and would ultimately reveal to him. 'Twas a heady, heady prospect.

  "Well?" she demanded. The word came out brashly, but he could tell she needed affirmation of her appeal.

  Oh, foolish, foolish maid, that she did not know.

  He paused, seeking the perfect compliment, but she misread his hesitation.

  "You jerk," she hissed and catapulted herself at him over the edge of the tub, reaching outstretched hands for his throat. She hit harder than he expected, prompting him to fall backward off the stool. They both landed on the floor, her on top of him, with a loud thud.

  He held onto her affronted body with an armlock around her waist as she tried to squirm away. Then he began to laugh, but immediately bit his bottom lip, tucking her face into the curve of his neck, when he heard a sharp rap on the door.

  "Mer, are you okay? Did you fall?"

  Merry-Death raised her head, though he held the rest of her body, chest to legs, flattened against his. "I'm okay, Jillie. I just slipped on a loose... rug."

  I will show her just how slippery a "rug" I can be.

  "I was about to say that you are beautiful... magnificent," he whispered into her ear, licking the shell-like lobe in the process. It tasted so good, he did it again.

  She groaned.

  "Did you just groan?" Jillian asked, appare
ntly still standing in the hallway. "You are hurt. Let me in, Mer. "

  He started to inform Merry-Death that her fingernails digging into his shoulders were piercing the skin, but she slapped one hand over his open mouth. And he soon forgot the insignificant pain as she turned slightly toward the door, lifting her breasts inadvertently closer to his face.

  Holy Hel and Blessed Valhalla! What a sight!

  "I was groaning because I'm tired and it's an effort even to put my nightgown on, Jillie. Go to bed."

  In one expert move, Geirolf took her by the waist, shifted her slightly up his chest, then immediately clasped her flailing arms by the wrists in his one hand behind her back. He used his other hand to mold her bare buttocks, fitting her against his hardness. Then he wrapped his legs around her calves and spread them apart ever so slowly.

  Her eyes nigh popped out, and the pulse in her neck jumped. With a motion of his head toward the door, he cautioned that they might not be alone yet. He couldn't have spoken aloud if he'd wanted to, so light-headed had he become.

  "Jillie?Are you still there?" she croaked out.

  While her attention was diverted to her sister, he used the opportunity to pull on her wrists, still enclosed in his fist resting on her rump. The movement induced her shoulders to bow backward and her breasts to arch forward in invitation.

  He was never one to deny himself such an invitation.

  "I'm worried about you," Jillian said through the door.

  He leaned his head up slightly and flicked his tongue over one hardened peak, then another. Merry-Death made no sound, though her lips parted and her belly lurched against his.

  "I told you I'm not hurt," she told her sister. The whole time, their eyes were locked in a fiery exchange.

  "Oh, I don't mean that. I mean about you and this Viking character. He's strange."

  This strange Viking character began to lave wet circles around her aureoles and taut nipples, first with the flat of his tongue, then the pointed tip.