The Last Viking

  "Frank? Cantankerous?" Rolf frowned. "Why, Merry-Death, surely you misjudge the man. He was very amiable. In truth, he was so impressed with the progress on the project that he donated the sod for our longhouse. I invited him to the wedding."

  Putting aside her dismay over his issuing wedding invitations when there wasn't going to be a wedding, she leveled disbelieving eyes on Mike, who nodded.

  "It's true. The old fart actually smiled today. I didn't think he knew how."

  "He asked if he and his wife, Henrietta—who e'er head of naming a girl child after a chicken?—could volunteer on the weekends. 'Twould seem they are cooking book collectors. Is that not an odd thing to collect, Merry-Death? And they would relish trying some of their made-heave-all recipes here," Rolf elaborated. "Especially was Frank impressed with all the Norse activities blossoming about the site. In addition to the shipbuilding, of course."

  "Speaking of blossoms—" she began.

  "Ah, you noticed the rosebushes," he said, making a surreptitious little hand gesture to Mike to continue unloading the sod. Before she could chastise him for that sneaky action, though, he looped an arm around her shoulders. He was being entirely too familiar around Mike and the students. She tried to duck away, but he held her tight to his side. "With all the nagging you have lashed me with since I arrived, I thought perchance you'd missed them."

  "How could I help but notice the rosebushes, Rolf? They're all over the place," she sniped unfairly. She regretted her hasty words when she saw the wounded expression on his face.

  "You do not like them? But I thought—"

  She moaned. The man had a knack for putting her on the defensive and making her forget why she was so angry at him. "I adore them."

  He immediately brightened. "Come, see this one, sweetling." He pulled her over to the foundation of the longhouse and what would presumably be the front door. A small bush with one single blood-red bud-so dark it was almost black-held prominence. " 'Tis called Norse Rose," he told her in a hushed voice. "Do you think 'tis an omen?"

  She closed her eyes on a shudder, fighting hard to quell the new and wonderful emotions swirling through her body.

  "Are you gladdened by my first bride 'gift?" he asked with touching vulnerability.

  Against her better judgment, she opened her eyes and almost staggered under the sensual assault in his smoky amber gaze. "I'm delighted with the roses," she conceded in a suffocated whisper. Straightening with resolve, she added, "I am not going to marry you, though."

  "Whate'er you say, dearling." With an arm still wrapped around her shoulders, he hugged her closer and kissed the top of her head, then walked her toward the shipbuilding area. He spoiled the whole conciliatory pose, however, when he palmed her behind and confided, "I bought a barrel of dried rose petals today to spread on your bridal bed."

  "I am not going to marry you."

  "Whate'er you say, dearling."

  And when she went to her bed that night—the one she shared with Thea since Jillie was gone once again-Meredith saw a little velvet box on her pillow.

  With trepidation, she opened it to find an exquisite gold pin in the form of a rose. On one of its finely detailed petals perched a bumblebee that was sucking on the flower's nectar. Taped to the inside top cover was a tiny piece of paper, folded a dozen times into a one-inch square. When she finally got it open, a sob escaped her lips. With a tremulous smile, she read the one-word pencilled message, "Bzzzzz!"

  It was already approaching dusk on Friday when Meredith drove up the road to her house.

  Thea was babysitting tonight so that Sonja and Mike could go out to dinner and a movie. Her niece would be back by midnight, but Meredith wasn't taking any chances. Rolf would make sexual mincemeat of her if he got her alone for more than an hour. So, employing the weapon women have been using throughout the ages to ward off aggressive men—hiding—she'd stayed intentionally late at her office, then had done some unnecessary shopping at the mall and supermarket.

  She felt a bit guilty, knowing Rolf would be chagrined that she hadn't taken him to the mall with her.

  It was one of his and Thea's favorite places.

  As she pulled into the driveway, Meredith noted that the students had left for the day, but the house was fully lit, as well as the side yard with its floodlights.

  How different it was from the dark, lonely house she'd approached just one week ago! It seemed impossible that she'd only known Rolf for seven days.

  She could see him now in jeans and T-shirt pounding away on the project ship. The man never stopped working. He was obsessed. In more ways than one.

  She blinked away the tears that filled her eyes, knowing the inevitable day would come when she'd drive home like this and he'd no longer be here. How could he halve become such an important part of her life in such a short time? Was their love destined, as Rolf believed?

  In any case, he'd been a godsend to her in at least one respect. Since he'd reassumed control of the shipbuilding project three days ago, it was moving along at a surprisingly rapid pace. His small ship, Fierce Destiny, was almost completed, thanks to his fifteen- to twenty-hour work days, though there was much finishing work to be done. And the new Trondheim vessel was fully framed out and ready for the planking.

  Fierce Eagle was going to be a spectacular ship, as great as any of its Viking forebears. Once the students returned to classes next week, they wouldn't be able to come out so often; so, she was elated to see so much done this week.

  With the brisk efficiency of a born leader, Rolf had taken over management of all the various activities related to the ship construction and its ancillary Viking projects. But, even as he concentrated his efforts on his job, overseeing the students and working hands-on himself, he was relentless in his crusade to win her over. Among the arsenal of weapons he employed, the most obvious were the bridal gifts that he lavished on her.

  "Rolf, I can't accept this," she'd said Wednesday when he slipped an engagement ring on her finger. It was a heavy gold ring of intertwining wolves, the center stone being the yellow citrine eye of the beast in profile.

  " 'Tis not the traditional-style betrothal ring in your land," he'd explained huskily, "but it seemed perfect when I saw it in the antiques dealer's shop. Some refer to Vikings as sea wolves, and Geirolf means wolf in my language, you know."

  I know, she'd thought, but what she'd said was, "I will not marry you."

  "Whate'er you say, dearling."

  And somehow the ring had stayed on her finger.

  Then came the soft-as-silk bridal bed furs yesterday.

  He'd caught her in the kitchen before she'd left for the college. No hiding that time.

  "Sable? You thick-headed dolt! Do you ever listen to anything I say? I will never-absolutely, positively never-sleep on the fur of some poor endangered species."

  "Ay, but you must look closer, sweetling. 'Tis a high-quality fake fur. See, I do listen to you."

  "Hmpfh! Well, anyhow, I will not marry you."

  "Whate'er you say, dearling."

  "What's that I smell on your breath? What have you been eating?" she'd asked then. His lips, and hands, and body, were never far from her when they were in a room together. It was as if he had a homing device implanted in his brain with a magnetic pull toward her.

  Or maybe it was implanted in another body part.

  "Ah, I have discovered another food from the gods... almost as good as Oreos." He'd held a sandwich in front of her face.

  She'd sniffed. "Peanut butter?"

  "Yea. Thea introduced me to this delicacy. At first, I thought 'twas a prank she played on me. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, but she advised me on at the proper method of munching the sand-witch. The key is in the jam, you know?"

  "It's not a very filling breakfast," she'd said dubiously.

  "Oh, but I've had ten," he'd countered brightly.

  "Don't tell me... washed down with beer?"

  "Of course."

  She'd laughed then, som
ething she did a lot these days. He might frustrate and infuriate her with his insistence that they would marry and then part, but he also brought a smile to her face. It was hard to hate a man who made you smile. Not that she even remotely hated him. Lord, no. Just the opposite.

  So, now it was Friday—their anniversary, in a way.

  She cringed to think what outrageous bride gift would greet her now.

  Oh, who was she kidding? She could hardly wait.

  Meredith was putting groceries away when Rolf came in. The first thing he did was kiss her... thoroughly. It was what he always did, whether there were people about or not. He claimed he couldn't help himself, any more than he could resist touching her. She no longer resisted... his kisses, at least. She enjoyed them too much. She probably had a sexual homing device, too.

  "Why did you go to the food mart without me?" he complained, nipping at her shoulder as she shrugged out of his arms. Then his eyes latched onto a bag with a mall store imprint. "And the mall, too! Oh, you are a cruel, cruel woman. I will halve to think of some suitable punishment."

  She edged away from him with a sidelong glance of trepidation. One never knew what this Viking would do. The last time he'd decided to punish her for some transgression—probably snickering at a remark Tim Allen made on his moronic show—he'd tickled her till she giggled like a school girl, then caressed her till she'd felt... well, not like a school girl.

  "I need to take a shower. Mayhap you should drek me, like a slave girl."

  That's a punishment? "No way!"

  "Why do you resist me so, Merry-Death? You say you love me."

  "I do," she said wearily. "Rolf, we've been down this road before, and we always hit the same pothole. Either you stay, or I go with you."

  " 'Tis impossible."

  "Then, I will not marry you."

  "Stubborn wench," he muttered with disgruntled resignation.

  But she knew he hadn't given up. Not by a Viking longshot.

  "Your sister called an hour past," he informed her as he rummaged through the sacks, till he found what he'd been searching for. Oreos. If he stuck around much longer, Meredith was going to buy stock in Nabisco.

  "I'm not surprised. She called me three times today at the office. She's persistent, if nothing else." Jillie was obsessed with Rolf's belt ornament and arm rings. She was trying to convince him to lend them to her for testing through the Metropolitan Museum in New York where she was now. In fact, Meredith suspected she was meeting with publishers there as well, lining up book deals, expecting Rolf to give her enough material to fill its pages. In one of their conversations, Jillie had let slip a tentative title, The Last Viking.

  "I know she's your sister, sweetling, but she's becoming tiresome. I but wish to build my ships and spend my remaining time with you."

  "Just ignore her."

  "Hah! Her bothersome pestering has passed the bounds of my endurance. I am loath to offend any member of your family, but I must tell you, I hung up on her this time, blood kin or no."

  "Good for you!" she congratulated him, and then added with a self-conscious grin, "So did I."

  "You did?" Rolf seemed inordinately dulled at such a monumental discourtesy on her part. He was always telling her to be more assertive, to stop trying to please everyone. Well, she'd taken the first step today, and it felt dam good.

  "Would you stop doing that?" she mumbled. Rolf had separated the Oreo cookie into two halves and was licking the icing off with slow pleasure. You'd think it was an erotic experience for him. Maybe it was.

  "What?" He peered up at her, all innocence, but then his tongue took one more long swipe, and his golden brown eyes danced merrily. He was doing it on purpose. Before she could berate him, he said, "I have another bride gift for you."

  She groaned. "I will not many you."

  "Whate'er you say, dearling."

  While Rolf went outside to get the bride gift—the man didn't listen to her at all—the phone rang. She went to answer it in the living room, where Rolf had considerately started a cozy fire for her. Probably because he planned a cozy seduction. Picking up the phone, she hoped it wasn't Jillie again, or her parents, who still planned to arrive tomorrow afternoon. Oh, joy!

  "Hello," she said with mock cheerfulness.

  "Hello, is that you Meredith?"

  She froze with shock. Jeffrey?

  "Meredith, are you there?"

  'Yes, I'm here. What do you want, Jeffrey?"

  "Well, you don't have to be rude," he griped, reducing her to a child who'd never learned proper manners. "I thought we had an amicable divorce. I thought we were still friends."

  Friends? Amicable? Divorced men must live in another world. "Great hearing from you, Jeffrey! How's the family? What do you want?" she said snidely.

  "I was thinking of taking a drive up to Maine and—"

  "No!" she shouted in panic. But then she worried that it might sound as if she still cared for him. In the words of Thea, As if! She took care to modulate her voice as she went on. "Why would you want to come to Maine? You always hated it here when we were married. Too rustic for your tastes, you said."

  "It still is, but there are some... uh, professional ideas I'd like to hash over with you," he said, as if picking his words carefully. "You and I always brainstormed well on academic issues."

  "Professional work? Would you be bringing Nookie with you?"

  "That's Cookie," he bristled.

  Meredith knew only too well that the bimbo's name had been Corinne Cookson. "Nookie, Pookie, Cookie, big difference!

  "No, Cookie can't come."

  "Oh, why is that? Bad case of the zits? Too much homework? Diaper rash?"

  He inhaled sharply. "She's pregnant again and her doctor advises against traveling."

  Meredith swayed under the pain, as if she'd been punched in the stomach. Pregnant? Again? And Meredith couldn't have even one child. Oh, life was so unfair! "When's the baby due?" she was unable to stop herself from asking.

  "Three weeks."

  "Three weeks! And you're going to leave her alone while you traipse up here to Maine to... what did you call it? Brainstorm? Give me a break! Oh, no! Don't tell me you're looking to have an affair on the side now that your wife is indisposed? That would be a sad irony, wouldn't it? You had your affair when we were married because I couldn't have kids. And now you have an affair with your ex-wife because your present wife can have kids."

  He said a foul word, and lashed out indignantly, "I don't want you that way."

  Meredith's cheeks heated with embarrassment. Well, he'd certainly put her in her place, as usual.

  "What's wrong with you, Meredith? You were never so malicious before. Jillie was right. She said you were under the influence of some unsavory character. You always were too trusting. You need a keeper, if you ask me. Why don't I come up there, and—"

  "Jillie? You've been talking to Jillie?" Meredith shrieked. Putting a hand to her face, she realized that she was crying. Why did Jeffrey always have this effect on her? And wasn't it just like Jillie to enlist Jeffrey's help in wearing her down. They were both probably planning book deals, greedy amoral animals that they were.

  "Merry-Death, what ails you?" Geirolf said with concern as he walked into the living room. Tears were streaming down her face, and her hands were trembling as she talked to someone on the telephone. Another one of her family members, he would wager.

  Angry with her kin, who continued to badger her, and frustrated with Merry-Death's failure to stand up to them, he tossed the boxes he was holding onto the sofa. "Give me the bloody telephone," he snapped, moving closer to her.

  "No! Oh, no, no, no!" Her weepy eyes dilated with horror at the prospect of his speaking with whomever was on the other end of that talking box. Furious, he grabbed the phone from her hand. "Who is this?" he growled.

  "Jeffrey Foster. Who the hell are you?"

  "I am Geirolf Ericsson, Merry-Death's betrothed. What did you say to cause her to weep, you bloody whoreson?"
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  "Wh-what?"

  "You heard me good and well. Know this, you black-hearted bastard. You tossed aside the best woman in the world, but a better man has picked up the pieces. Do not presume to change your lackbrain mind now."

  "I don't want Meredith. Whatever gave you that idea?"

  "I know her for the amure she is—that's what gave me that idea."

  "Hot damn! She must have developed a few sexual talents since I've known her to make up for her other... deficiencies."

  A fierce rumble of outrage rolled up from his chest, emerging as the noise warriors often made before entering battle. "If you were here now, you cowardly cur, I would wring your neck and feed your scurrilous tongue to the ravens."

  "You're a lunatic. Let me talk to Meredith."

  "Apparently you have a hearing problem. Do not ever call Merry-Death again. Do not intimidate her. Do not belittle her. Do not come within a hide of her manor."

  "You have no right to order me around. Who do you think you are, you... you illiterate lowlife?"

  "I am the man who will lop off your head in a trice if you so much as look at my woman again, " he snarled and slammed down the phone.

  It took several moments for Geirolf's berserk temper to pass. 'Twas always thus when the war fever hit, giving him the blood surge necessary to fight off his enemies. When he came to his senses again, after several deep, panting breaths, he noticed Merry-Death staring at him. Her eyes were wide with unshed tears and recrimination. Recrimination? That brought his rage back with a vengeance.

  Advancing on her, he wagged a finger in her face.

  "Wench, when are you going to learn to defend yourself against your enemies, instead of cowering like a pup? What will happen when I am gone? Who will fight your battles for you then?"

  "Why... why... you dolt! I don't need you to be my knight in shining armor to settle a disagreement, and that's all it was. Not some major fight. Jeffrey and I always disagree. And, frankly, if you want to know the truth, you big, thick-headed oaf, I had already told him off before you jumped into the fray."

  "You did?" His anger immediately dissipated and was replaced with a heart-wrenching desolation. Her tears must have been caused by the love she still harbored for this past-husband. He could scarce breathe over the lump in his throat. "Dost still love the man then, Merry-Death?"