The Last Viking

  A very tall male-at least six-foot-four-stood arm's length away, wearing a thigh-high, sleeveless, one-piece tunic of supple leather. The Dark Age garment was tucked in at the waist by a wide belt with an enormous circular goldlike metal clasp engraved with a wrathing animal design. Etched silver armlets circled heavily corded upper arms. Jillian, who designed her own line of medieval-style jewelry, would go nuts if she saw these masterpieces. Heck, her brother Jared, an archaeologist, would be impressed, too. Even if they were reproductions, they were the finest examples Meredith had ever seen outside a museum.

  His light brown hair hung down to his shoulders, damp, as if he'd just emerged from a leisurely swim.

  Flat-soled, leather boots covered his feet, cross-gartered up to the knee.

  A Viking. Her captor resembled an ancient Viking god.

  An extremely handsome Viking god.

  Meredith had never paid much attention to the physical attributes of men. Raised in a scholarly home, she'd been much more attracted by brains than brawn.

  But, for the first time in her life, she comprehended why her female students squealed over Brad Pitt or rolled their eyes in appreciation when a particularly appealing college boy in tight jeans walked by.

  Oh, my God! My hormones are regressing. She bit her bottom lip to prevent herself from saying something really stupid, such as, "Can I touch you?" But inside she was squealing like any lust-crazed teenager.

  Amazing! Wherever he'd found this guy, Mike had really outdone himself. Maybe he was a male stripper at one of those female nightclubs. Oh, yeah! Vikings 'R' Us.

  But, no, he looked too... authentic. Meredith peered closer. Old scars and new wounds, oozing blood—probably ketchup—covered most of the exposed skin of the guy's well muscled physique, from his massive shoulders to his perfectly formed face to his tendon-delineated calves. Despite the glower on his face and his menacing, widespread stance, the big lug was devastatingly gorgeous. In fact, he looked a lot like a Viking Age version of that actor, Kevin Sorbo, from the Hercules program on television. Not that she watched much television, she reminded herself with hysterical irrelevance.

  He raised his chin haughtily and drawled out with pure insolence a string of Old Norse words, too low for her to catch them all. Meredith didn't need a translator to know that he was asking, "Do you like what you see?" She cringed at the reminder that she'd been scrutinizing him much too long. "Not much," she lied.

  He sat down on her low coffee table, knees casually widespread, and Meredith wondered-even as she chastised herself with disgust—if he wore underwear beneath the short tunic. He rubbed the fingertips of one hand over his bristly jaw as he studied her, appearing distressed, as if unable to understand her. Then he distractedly stroked the fingertips of his other hand over his belt buckle, which she could swear was solid gold.

  To her bewilderment, she no longer feared the guy.

  In fact, she felt a deep pull of unwarranted compassion for him, even though he still held her grandfather's knife. He appeared lost, like a little boy.

  He had to be an actor, hired by Mike. Hadn't her grad assistant told her over and over that she needed to lighten up? In fact, he'd given her a novel one time called Love With a Warm Cowboy, about a female college professor who goes out cruising for nothing more than a quick relationship with a cowboy after her long-time lover leaves her.

  But enough! Fun-and-games time was over. Maybe if she threatened criminal prosecution, the jerk would end this joke and go home. Forcing a threatening tone to her voice and a deep scowl to her face, she gritted out, "Get out of my house, you... you rapist, or I'm going to call the police."

  He blinked at her with surprise, and then glanced down at his belt with a peculiar expression. Anger quickly replaced confusion as he turned back to her.

  "Rapist? You call me a rapist? Hah! I am Geirolf Ericsson. My father is a high jarl in Vestfold and brother to Olaf, the king of all Norway—"

  "Yeah, and I'm the queen of England," she scoffed.

  "Nay, you are not. Aelfgifu is queen of all Britain, and a more timid wren there never was. I misdoubt she'll live another year. Many times has she gone through the childlied fever and yet produced but one heir for King Aethelred."

  She gaped at him.

  He waved a hand in the air imperiously, annoyed that she'd interrupted him. "Know this, my lady... I, Geirolf Ericsson, have no need to force my attentions on any wench. Women have been begging for my favors since I was an untried boy."

  Favors? She rolled her eyes at his arrogance. "Listen, buster, I don't care if you're Kevin Sorbo. Get the hell out of my house."

  "Your language... 'tis odd. What is this Calf in Shore Bow?" As he spoke, a frown creased the man's brow and he continually looked down at his belt buckle, which he clasped tightly now. Then he muttered to himself, "How curious! I can understand and speak her foreign tongue when I touch the talisman."

  "Give me a break," she sneered, but she realized, at the same time, that she could understand him now, too. And the bizarre thing was that she knew they both spoke different languages. A shiver of alarm swept her skin. "I don't know if this is someone's idea of a silly gag, or if you're a burglar, or a rapist, but—"

  Meredith stopped speaking—as she noticed a strong odor, like charred meat. Sniffing, she scanned the room, and couldn't believe her eyes. Some kind of skinned animal was impaled on a peeled stick, roasting in her fireplace. "Wh-what is that?" she asked shrilly.

  "Oh, God, is that the stray that's been hanging around my back door lately? Did you... did you kill Garfield?"

  "Guard field?"

  "Yes, Garfield, the cat."

  His eyes shot up. "A cat? You think I killed a cat? And plan to eat its flesh? Blód hel!" Then he grinned.

  " 'Tis a rabbit."

  "Rabbit?" Inwardly, she sighed with relief. Not a cat.

  "Yea."

  Yea? What's this "yea" business? He was still grinning, as if killing a rabbit was normal. He was probably one of those NRA redneck fanatics. "Why... are... you... cooking... a... rabbit?" she asked very slowly, barely reining in her anger.

  "Because... I... am... hungry," he replied, mimicking her snide pacing. "And because I'm sick of eating raw fish. Why else?"

  Of course. Why else? "Hungry? Raw fish? But... but where did you get a rabbit?"

  He exhaled loudly with exasperation, as if her questions were foolish. "I snared it outside your keep."

  "Keep?"

  "Your manor house. Why do you keep repeating words? Are you a lackbrain?"

  "No, I'm not a lackbrain, you... you lackbrain."

  Suddenly, she thought of something else. "Where did you put the... other parts?" Lord, she hoped she didn't have rabbit fur and guts in her kitchen sink, especially since her garbage disposal was broken.

  "I offered them to the gods, of course, in gratitude for my safekeeping." He gazed pointedly at the blazing fire, with a mischievous glimmer in his whiskey-colored eyes.

  "I beg your pardon. Did you say that you used my fireplace as an altar to some heathen god?"

  He shrugged. "I worship both gods, Norse and Christian."

  "How dare you practice some pagan rite in my fireplace!"

  He sucked in a deep breath. "Blessed Freya! You have a voice that could peel rust off armor. Best you shut your teeth, wench, or I may decide to sacrifice a virgin as well."

  That mischievous gleam was still there in his sparkling eyes, which she decided were the color of aged bourbon. Yes, booze eyes. And that twitch at the edge of his full lips—was it a nervous tic, or suppressed amusement?

  "Well, good thing I'm not a virgin then," she snapped.

  He broke into a full-fledged smile, rewarding Meredith with a dazzling display of his white teeth. Her mind said, So what? But another part of her body said, O-o-h, boy!

  The creep soon jolted her back to reality, though.

  "I should have known a woman as long in the tooth as you are would have spread her thighs for the pleasuring
. Where is your man now?"

  Long in the tooth? Spread my thighs? The nerve of the chauvinistic beast! "I'm only thirty-five years old. I'll bet you're about the same, you long-in-the-tooth oaf. And I have no husband, if that's what you're asking-" Meredith immediately regretted her hasty words and backtracked. "I mean, my husband will be home soon."

  He arched his brows, unconvinced. "So, you are a wanton woman—an aged wanton woman—who lives alone. Do you entertain your lovers here?" He swept her with a swift physical assessment that clearly challenged her ability to attract a lover.

  She didn't care if the ape did wield a knife; Meredith had had enough. Jumping to her feet, she put her hands on her hips, demanding, "Who are you and what are you doing in my home?"

  "Èg er týndur" Geirolf watched the quarrelsome woman who dared to defy his commands as she assimilated his statement, word by word.

  "I am lost," she translated.

  His ears still rang from her high-pitched screams.

  Claw marks seeped blood oh his forearms. And Merry-Death-the oddly named wench accused him of being a rapist. As if he would even want a woman such as she. Too tall. Too thin. Too sharp-tongued. And old.

  He liked his women young and soft-fleshed and biddable. Like Alyce.

  He was sore tempted to toss the foolish wench into the raging sea, but he needed answers first. And, more important, he feared she might be a sorceress. On first entering her keep, he'd explored all the chambers—none of which had the customary rushes on the floor. And not a candle or soapstone lamp in evidence anywhere. Of particular interest was the room with a magic box that threw off light when the door opened. He'd found some cheese inside, but it was nigh inedible, covered as it was by an unchewable, invisible film.

  If she was a witch—and those pale green eyes of hers, flashing angrily at him now, were surely witch's eyes-he would have to tread carefully. Even with the talisman, a sorceress's charm would be hard to withstand.

  But Merry-Death would suffer for her insults, no doubt about that. Later, he would show her the fate of a defiant woman.

  "My lady, hvar er ég?" he growled peevishly.

  "Where am I?"

  That question seemed to disarm her, and her wide eyes quickly took in his many bruises, softening with sympathy. Hrmph! he thought. 'Tis past time the lady thought of offering hospitality to a wayfarer in her land. And an injured one, at that.

  "Were you hit on the head?" she inquired.

  He curled his lips with disgust. She obviously considered him a half-wit. "Answer, wench. Where am I?"

  "Maine."

  "Maine. I have ne'er heard of such place. Is it in Green land at new world discovered by Eirik the Red?"

  "Are you for real? Maine is in the northeast portion of the United States. Greenland is about fifteen hundred miles north of here."

  "Hmmm. My ship went farther off course than I realized. "

  "Off course? More like off the globe."

  " 'Tis my brother Jorund's fault. He's the mapmaker in our family."

  "Jared? My brother Jared sent you here?" The frown on her face—the one he would have wagered was permanently implanted there—melted away, and before he could correct her false assumption, she homed in on his other words. "Your ship?"

  "Thor's toenails! You sound like a Parrot Jorund brought back once from the eastern lands. Squawk, squawk, squawk. And always repeating words." He took greet delight in the snarl that barb drew from the testy wench. "And, yea, my dragonship, Fierce Wolf, drifted for days, ever since the battle with Staff Grimmsson a sennight ago. Finally, it sank. I will miss Fierce Wolf mightily. 'Twas one of the finest ships I ever built."

  Merry-Death's face brightened. "You're a ship-builder? So that's why Jared sent you. Or was it Mike?"

  He ignored her puzzling words. "Yea, I am the finest shipbuilder in the world," he boasted, "and Grimmsson will pay with his life for the loss of my crew, as well as my ship. Ah, well, I can easily build other ships." Like that one outside this keep, which will carry me back to my homeland. But best I not disclose my plans to you yet. "Unlike men's lives, a boat can be replaced."

  "But... but... how did you get here?"

  'My ship sank," he repeated with deliberate patience, "and I swam ashore this morn."

  Merry-Death gasped. "You've been in a shipwreck?"

  It took her a long time to grasp the meaning of his words, even though the talisman was doing a fair job of translating. Mayhap she was slow-witted, as he'd originally thought.

  "'No wonder you look like you've been beaten. Why didn't you say so earlier? My God, did you climb up that cliffside?"

  Finally, he would get a little blessed compassion for all his ordeals. "Yea, and I assure you, 'twas no easy task, carrying Ingrid."

  "Ingrid?" she squeaked out. "You have a woman with you?"

  "A woman?" He laughed. "Yon could call her that. "

  A flush of rage suffused Merry-Death's pale cheeks.

  Obviously, the wench had no sense of humor. But she had other attributes he was beginning to notice. Her hair had sprung free from the unbecoming knot at the back of her neck and spilled out over her silky, pale brown shert, like burnished walnut. With hands on hips, she called attention to the loose, brown men's braies she wore over her thin frame, and tapped her brown leather slippers.

  So much brown, he mused idly. Does she try to hide her womanliness, to appear like a drab tree? Nay, not a tree, with that abundance of reddish-brown hair, and those witchy green eyes.

  Oh, she was certainly not to his tastes. But she was not as barley-faced as he'd originally thought, either.

  And the foolhardiness of the woman! Demanding answers of him, a high-born jarl of Norway!

  Hah! I'll soon put her in her proper place. "Yea, Ingrid is outside near your moat, drying out from our long swim."

  "Moat?"

  Her eyes didn't look quite so beauteous now that they crossed with frustration. He was convinced, the woman was feckless. "Yea, that stone ditch with the blue water."

  "The swimming pool? Did you take the cover off of Gramps's pool? Oh, I've had enough of this nonsense. I can't believe you left a woman outside-probably injured-while you broke into my home to mumble incantations over a poor animal, and assault me."

  Ignoring his snort of incredulity at her accusations, Merry-Death turned toward the strange glass doors and inhaled sharply at her first glimpse of Ingrid, lying breasts skyward, huge red nipples highlighted by the rays of the full moon.

  "Mike Johnson, I'm going to kill you. I warned you about a bimbo figurehead," the wench mumbled; then she turned angrily, striding back toward him, about to spout more of her sharp words, no doubt. But she stopped mid-stride. "Wh-what are you doing?"

  He was unbuckling the clasp at his mid-section, about to remove his belt and tunic. Tilting his head in bafflement at her panic, he tried to reassure her, "You have no reason to be fearful. I intend you no harm... unless you gainsay me."

  "Gainsay?"

  "By acting hastily."

  "Hastily?"

  He shrugged. "Yea, my shrewish parrot. Do not try to attack me. Or escape. Then I might be forced to lop off your head, or trust you over the cliff."

  The woman clicked her gaping mouth shut and made a gurgling sound, but apparently not at his words. Her eyes were riveted on his body as he raised his tunic over his head. Wearing only a breechcloat and his ankle boots, he watched the wench back away from him in fright. Holy Thor! Surely, she had seen a naked man afore. Especially since she claimed to have no maidenhead.

  "What do you think you're doing?" she stammered out.

  "I'm going to bathe all this salt from my skin in your moat. Then I'm going to eat my rabbit. After that, I intend to sleep for a long time. Where are your bed furs, by the by? I couldn't find them when I explored your keep earlier."

  "Put your clothes on," she directed, averting her face like a shy maiden.

  Lord, he was tired of the wench's caterwauling, and her false modesty.


  "Nay, I will not. And mayhap you should remove your own garments, as well." He was discovering he had another appetite besides his hunger for rabbit. In the delayed rush of exhilaration at his miraculous escape from death's talons, he felt the need to celebrate life... in the way of battle-weary warriors throughout time.

  The wench's green eyes widened with astonishment.

  "Despite your bony body and sharp tongue," he informed her, adding a smile to show the great honor he bestowed, "I've decided to take you as my bedmate whilst I am visiting in your lands."

  Chapter Two

  Geirolf dropped his loincloth.

  Merry-Death's green eyes just about popped out of her head. She made a low strangling sound in her throat.

  He chuckled with satisfaction. 'Twas the reaction of most women on first viewing his man parts. The gods had been generous with him in that regard.

  "You... you. . ." she sputtered as he swaggered past her and through the open door.

  He kept his pace deliberately slow, shoulders thrown back, so she could get a good look. Mayhap now she would appreciate the honor he bestowed in taking her as bedmate.

  "Come back here," she shrieked like a banshee. "And put your clothes back on."

  "Nay, in my lands we do not bathe wearing garments."

  "We don't wear clothes when we bathe here, either, you idiot, but the pool heater hasn't been turned on yet. The water's freezing."

  "Hah! 'Tis obvious you have ne'er taken a winter bath in a fjord in my homeland. The water is cold enough to turn a man's cock into an icicle. This can be no worse."

  "But... but why not use the warm shower inside the house?"

  He halted at the edge of the moat and dipped his big toe in. A shiver rippled upward, all the way to his scalp, raising skin bumps in its wake. His proud staff shriveled with dread. The coward. Bloody hell, the water was freezing. "What is this 'shower'?" he inquired casually, not wanting her to think him too weak-sapped for a frigid bath.

  "Come on. I'll show you. But cover yourself, for God's sake. Where did Jared and Mike find you anyhow? Some jungle?"