The Last Viking

  "Then what's the problem?" She moaned, trying to wriggle her arms out of her sheet strait-jacket to reach for him.

  "Shhh. Behave yourself, wench." He feathered a fleeting kiss across her lips and chuckled. "Did you feel the tingle?"

  "I'm looking for a hell of a lot more than a tingle."

  "Tsk-tsk," he teased. "A coarse tongue is uncomely in a Viking woman."

  She told him in one explicit expletive what he could do with his Viking women.

  "Surely you know that I have no desire to do that with any woman but you at the moment. Patience, my love," he cautioned with a smile, "though I must admit that your eagerness flatters my ego. No, no, no, do not turn willful on me now. And sticking out your tongue is another thing that is ill-favored in a Viking woman. Truly, you must learn to curb yer waspish impulses."

  "Let... me... up... now, " she demanded.

  "Nay. Lie still till I explain."

  "You are driving me crazy. Are we or are we not going to make love?"

  "You must be crazed if you would ask that. Of course, we will make love. But not tonight."

  He had to subdue her then, bearing down on her shoulders. Otherwise, she would have slapped him silly. The man was fuming her into a basket case. Finally, she calmed down, and Rolf began again, "When we exchanged vows of love, it changed everything. Before, our coupling would have been a mere sating of lust. A form of 'Love with a Hot Viking,' as you once mentioned. Now, it will be much more. Lust, to be sure. 'Love with a Hot Viking,' to be absolutely sure. But, in addition to that, methinks love merits a different, more tender handling."

  Meredith clamped her lips together, resisting the urge to ask Rolf to elaborate on his insane logic. But her eyes threw daggers at the infuriating man.

  "If we were in my land, my father would go to your father and ask for your hand in marriage."

  She giggled at that ridiculous notion. A Viking jarl entering her father's staid library? No doubt replete with furred mande and battle axe. Then she inhaled sharply. Marriage? She hadn't expected that. But she liked it. A lot.

  "There is naught of amusement in formal wedding negotiations, Merry-Death. A legal wife is distinguished from a concubine by the bride price her husband's family pays for her."

  Meredith didn't like the sound of "price." It made her feel like chattel. "And if my father refused?"

  "I would have you anyway." He grinned at her with heart-stopping arrogance.

  "Are you... are you asking me to marry you?"

  "Yea... nay. Damn, I am bungling this badly because I care too much."

  Bungling? This guy's bungling could charm the socks off a nun.

  He took a deep breath before resuming. "If we were in my homeland, I would get down on my knees—" he looked pointedly at his kneeling position—"and pledge you my troth... man to woman- The Viking way. 'Tis as valid in the eyes of the gods as any Christian marriage."

  "I want to touch you so badly." She whimpered under the sweet caress of his words.

  He denied her plea, soothing her with a butterfly stroke of his fingertips across her lips. "But that wouldn't satisfy my family, especially my mother.

  Banns would be called up and down the fjords throughout Norway, and a grand wedding feast would be planned. Each week, I would send a new and more wondrous present to entice you to my bed—fine jewelry from Byzantium, sable furs from the North Seas, fine silks, a newly foaled Saracen colt, fragrant oils from the east. When the fated day arrived, we would wed in the loud and boisterous way of Norsemen throughout time, and then say our vows afore the priest who serves my mother's chapel. The celebration would last two sennights."

  She smiled at the splendid picture he painted.

  "But we are not in my time, or my land, and ne'er will be." He sighed. "Leastways, not together."

  Ripples of panic drew her alert.

  "So, I must improvise."

  "'This is the nineties, Rolf. Couples today rarely wait till marriage to consummate a relationship, especially when engaged, or committed."

  "Ah, but I am not a man of the nineties."

  Geez, this is a new twist. A man insisting on celibacy before marriage. But I kind of like it. Yes, I do. He'd better not make me wait too long, though. "We could be married by a priest, or a justice of the peace, here in Maine."

  "Nay, I am the man. I must provide. We'll have a wedding, to be sure, but it will be that of a Norse man and woman. A personal ceremony-man to woman-not a religious one. A ritual of the heart."

  A ritual of the heart? What a wonderful expression!

  God, this man is really smooth. Or he speaks from deep emotion, which is a soul-staggering prospect. She blinked back tears. "When?"

  "Two, three days at most."

  She moaned.

  He chuckled. "Anticipation is not a bad thing, sweetling."

  "Easy for you to say," she snapped.

  "Nay, not easy at all," he said somberly. Then he released a breathy sigh of resolution. "But I must make preparations first. The wedding garments for us both. My bride gift. The ritual bed furs. The marriage longhouse."

  "I don't need all those things, Rolf. And if you go out and kill some animal to give me a fur, I swear I'll kill you." But then she caught the last of his statements. "Oh, no, no, no. I told you before. No longhouses built on my property."

  He smiled and patted her arm. "We shall see. Mayhap just a small one. A few discarded planks from your ship, some wattle and daub, a thatch or turf roof, a center hearth, a bed-most important, a bed. A sweat-house would be nice, too... just a tiny one, a hut, really. I don't want to anticipate too much."

  "You... you... you..." she sputtered.

  "Overwhelmed, are you, dearling?"

  "I'll show you overwhelmed," she raged.

  "You will? Ah, I can scarce wait. Will it be a sexual trick?"

  "Let me loose," she demanded.

  He tightened her linens, instead. "Is it wise to turn your face so red, my love? I don't want you to swoon with the vapors afore we settle our other obstacles."

  She went still with suspicion. "What other obstacles?"

  "The divorce."

  "I beg your pardon. You asked me to marry you only a few moments ago. Now, you're planning the divorce. Oh, no! You're not talking about a prenuptial agreement, are you?"

  "Prenuptial what? Oh, that. Nay. I meant that I will be leaving your land in a few short weeks, and—"

  "You intend to leave? But I thought—"

  "You thought I would stay now that we have acknowledged our love?" he finished softly.

  She nodded.

  "It cannot be. My mission remains the same. I have to return the relic as I promised my father. I've been researching tenth-century Norway in your library and on the Intemet. There are references to a famine late in the tenth century."

  "That may well be, but I keep telling you, I don't think you can change history."

  "Mayhap not, but what of changes within history?"

  She waited for him to explain.

  "Since the books give no date when the famine ended, perchance my intervention will cut it short by months or years. And there is another concern." He worried his bottom lip with his upper teeth as he contemplated something that clearly alarmed him. "I discovered in one of your history tomes that Aethelred, the slimy bastard, intends to slay all Norsemen in Brit in five years hence, in 1002, including the Viking settlers and hired soldiers in his own service. Amongst those to fall under his blade will be the sister and the brother-by-marriage of King Svein of Denmark. Duty compels me to give my fellow Vikings fair warning of Aethelred's evil designs."

  "Now, that is changing history. And you must know if you read farther into those texts, that there will be massive retaliations against Aethelred in subsequent years. And ultimately, around 1017, a young Viking knight, Cnut, will conquer all of Britain. England will be under Viking rule for twenty-five years after that. So, in a sense, what goes around, comes around."

  "I am unfamiliar with this g
o around-come around rule. I just know I must return to my homeland, to complete the circle."

  "Then I'll go with you," she decided suddenly.

  His expression hardened. "It cannot be."

  "You made the offer to me before," she pointed out.

  "Yea, but that was afore I loved you. I'm not even sure that the Demon Moon time hole will work for me. And I would never, ever risk your life in the effort to perform my mission. Besides, you'll have your own grandsire's quest to carry through when I'm gone. I can build your longship, but I'll not be here for the sailing."

  "So, what does all this have to do with a divorce?"

  He swallowed with some difficulty, and then proceeded, "When I am gone, I do not want you to grieve ... leastways, not overlong. In time, you'll want to wed again." He raised a palm to stop her objections. "That's why we'll exchange only the Norse vows. No Papist rite, which is more binding. Divorce is simple in my society. A mere declaration of intent afore witnesses and a stating of the grounds for complaint."

  "Like?" she said through gritted teeth. Lord, he was a thick-headed ass if he thought she'd do any such thing.

  "Any number of just causes. Impotence, the woman wearing men's braies, the man donning feminine apparel, miserliness—"

  "I'll bet a wife's being barren is one of those just causes."

  "I thought I told you not to mention that subject again. By the by, did I neglect to tell you, a willful wife is one of the biggest reasons for divorce?"

  "How about a husband who refuses to listen to his wife?"

  "That, too," he said with a grin.

  "So, Mr. I've-Got-It-All-Planned, you intend to marry me, bebop off through time to your home, divorce me, then—"

  "Oh, nay, I ne'er said I'd be divorcing you, sweetling. I have no intent of doing that. I'll not wed again, that I vow. I but wish for your freedom."

  "This was the most ridiculous conversation. "Will... will you come back?"

  "I could try, but, nay, my guess is 'twould be impossible."

  "And how about your mistress, that sweet Alyce from Hedeby tart?"

  He shrugged. "I cannot promise celibacy for life. Nor would I expect it of you."

  Meredith felt as if she'd been dealt a sucker punch to the stomach. "You are so incredible. You tell me you love me in one instant and that you're leaving me in the next. Well, I won't stand for it."

  "You have no choice, dearling."

  "Oh, I have a choice all right. I may not be able to stop loving you, but I can refuse to make love with you. And I sure as heck am not going to marry a guy who intends to desert me a few week's later."

  "They can be the best weeks of both our lives," he pleaded.

  She surged upward with anger and desolation. When he tried to push her back down this time, she bit the heel of his hand.

  "Ouch!" he griped, but didn't give way, even when she drew blood.

  She sank back down and closed her eyes. She couldn't bear to see even that tiny wound on his hand and know that she'd caused him pain, however small.

  "I won't marry you," she repeated in a dull monotone, with her eyes still closed.

  "Yea, you will."

  "And I won't make love with you now." Making love with Rolf, and then giving him up would hurt more than never having him at all. "And none of your sweet talking will move me, either."

  He laughed with supreme self-confidence. " 'Tis said that a Norseman, when his sap runs high, could move the earth."

  "Go away, Rolf. I want to go to sleep now." She needed time alone to ponder all that had happened tonight and to brace herself for the days ahead. Days when she would have to fight her feelings for Rolf.

  Then those days when he would no longer be here.

  "I'll stay with you till you fall asleep." He got up off his knees and nudged her hips over so he could sit on the edge of the sofa. She scrunched her eyes tighter.

  "Mayhap I could tell you a bedtime saga. Nay, I know; I'll regale you with little hints of the ways in which Viking men make love to their brides."

  Oh, no!

  "You do know about the famous Viking S-spot, of course.

  A snicker was her only reply.

  "You doubt my word? Ah, You will pay for that, wench, in good time. But, truly, Norsemen have long been known for their prowess in the bedsport, and—"

  She snickered again, continuing to keep her eyes closed. She wouldn't give him the benefit of seeing the hurt in her eyes.

  He tapped her chin in reprimand. "Part of our prowess is due to our fit bodies, no doubt—"

  "No doubt."

  "Sarcasm ill-suits you, my love," he remarked, "but there are some who attribute our prowess to the... ah, secrets. "

  Secrets? What secrets? When he didn't carry on, she cracked one eye only a teensy bit, but he noticed. It was the cue he'd been waiting for. The rat!

  Chuckling, he clarified his outrageous assertion with great gusto. "Being adventurers, we Norsemen travel far and wide—"

  "To rape and pillage everything in sight."

  "This raping and pillaging accusation has become tiresome. What I was about to say is that, in our vast travels, we have learned many secrets of lovemaking. Secrets we pass down in our families. Secrets that draw women to our beds like honeybees."

  "Don't think for one minute I'm going to hop in the sack with you because of some sexual secrets. Buzz off and find another place to scatter your pollen, you over-sexed... insect. This bee isn't interested."

  "Ha-ha-ha! I am laughing at your jest. See, Merry-Death, I told you that you have a sense of humor."

  "Well, I'm not laughing now, and this is no joke. You either stay in Maine, or I go home with you. And that's that.

  "Nay."

  "Yes."

  "Nie þýđir nei, " he said sternly. "No means no, and that's final."

  "Not in my vocabulary."

  He inhaled and exhaled several times with exaggerated loudness. "Mayhap I should share one of the secrets with you to change your mind. Just one, do not beg for more. But you must promise not to reveal it to any other."

  She rolled her eyes at his persistence.

  To her horror and amazement, he went into graphic detail about some erotic foreplay that involved tongues and ropes and immense size and remarkable out-of-this-world staying power.

  "You lie," she accused. No one, man or woman, could do what he'd just described.

  He arched a brow with displeasure. "Did I not tell you that I never lie? If you cannot credit that secret, mayhap you will be more believing of the 'Hot Oil-Cold Sword' secret. That one is for more accomplished warriors in the bedsport." He grinned at her. "I have done it many a time."

  She clucked at his overinflated ego. Really, if she weren't so angry, she'd have to admire his adorable charm. "Go away, Rolf. I will not marry you." She rolled over, facing the back of the sofa.

  "Have you e'er made love in bed furs, Merry-Death?" he asked in a silky rasp. "There is no better sensation in the world for a woman, I am told, than the caress of the furs at her back, and the seductive torment of her lover's tuffed skin at her front. I would give you that experience."

  A thrum of excitement whisked through her.

  "And then, of course, we shipbuilders have particular talents. "

  "Oh, Lord!"

  "It comes from working with our hands. We love to touch... and touch... and touch. The skin on our fingertips has become so sensitive. Have you e'er made love with a man who bears the calluses of his trade, Merry-Death? I would warrant you have not." He paused, the sound of his breathing heavy in the air. "It is a pleasure beyond all others, this I promise you," he ended on a whisper.

  She turned back, facing him. "Don't do this to me, Rolf ."

  "I love you, Merry-Death," he said fervently, leaning forward to lay his warm lips against hers. "I cannot promise you a perfect manifestation of this love. I can guarantee no future for us. But this I do swear; I will do the best I can to make you happy in the days we have. No man could do more." r />
  With that, he stood and walked away from her. At the patio door, he stopped. Over his shoulder, he repeated, "I love you, Merry-Death."

  "And I love you, Rolf," she choked out. But he was already gone. And Meredith got a foretaste of the slow death she was going to suffer when he abandoned her for good.

  A whirling dervish hit Maine the next day, and its name was Geirolf Ericsson. Now that he had a mission, he worked with a feverish intensity. And his mission, in this case, wasn't the return of the relic. The mission was—Heaven help me—her.

  How would she ever be able to resist him? When she came home from the college at six o'clock, Rolf and Mike were glaringly absent. But the progress made on the project in just that day of Rolf being back on the job was phenomenal. Although work on Rolf's ship had started the day before, the college longship—which they'd christened Fierce Eagle after the school mascot and to complement Rolf's Fierce Destiny—had a skeleton framework standing proud on the stocks, highlighted by an impressive fifty-foot keel. Even the stem and stem had been hand-riveted on. Rolf had been right. Already this ship looked much sturdier and more finely crafted than Gramps's had.

  She'd left for work at seven, having a pile of project paperwork to tie up and lessons to prepare for classes, which resumed on Monday. Before her departure, she'd studiously avoided even a glimpse of the side yard where she could hear Rolf working. Coward that she was, she'd feared facing him after their monumental disclosures of love the night before, followed by his infuriating opposition to a future for the two of them.

  But she wouldn't be able to dodge him forever.

  She began to walk around the site. There were more of the students than ever before—at least three dozen.

  Apparently, as word of the project spread, more young people volunteered their time. Meredith had received three phone calls this morning at her office from area newspapers wanting to do feature stories on the Trondheim Venture. That should gather even more support.

  To her dismay, Meredith had also found a message on her answering machine from the producer of Home Improvement, which she'd yet to return. And, even more incredible, Mike had a message from Sharon Stone. "Hey, Mike, just calling between scenes to chat. Later, babe. Sharon."