Viking Unchained

  He turned to Torolf and asked, “Is this a brothel?”

  His cousin laughed and said, “No. Why do you ask?”

  “The last time I saw a man and woman engaging in sex in front of others was in a Miklagard brothel.”

  “They aren’t having sex. They’re just dancing.”

  Thorfinn was about to argue the point, but his attention was arrested by a woman who had just come in, on the far side of the tavern. Two women, actually, but it was the black-haired one who caught his attention. In fact, the other one, the blonde, was Kirstin Magnusson, Torolf’s sister and his cousin.

  She was not young, the dark-haired wench. She might even match his thirty years. Definitely not a young maid.

  Her hair was piled high atop her head, making her appear even taller than she already was, with loose strands framing her face. She wore den-ham braies and a sleeveless, collarless shert like many of the others here, but on her they somehow seemed more . . . alluring.

  Some men approached Kirstin and the woman, offering them drinks. The woman laughed at something one of them said, causing his back to straighten with displeasure. How odd! Then his attention moved to her mouth. It was wide and full and painted crimson, to match her red shert.

  He groaned as a lurch of enthusiasm hit his groin. At the same time, the fine hairs stood out on the back of his neck.

  Torolf gazed at him with alarm. “What . . . what’s wrong?”

  “I do not know.”

  Torolf turned his head in the same direction as his stare, then said, “Oh, it’s Kirstin.” He waved at his sister, motioning her to come to their table.

  “Not her. The other wench.”

  Torolf groaned at his use of the word wench, but then stiffened. “No, no, no. Not Lydia Denton. Do not go setting your sights on her.”

  “Why not?”

  “She’s a friend of the women in my family, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

  Now it was Thorfinn’s turn to stiffen. “Dost think I am such a dolt as to offend every woman I meet?”

  Without hesitation, Torolf said, “Yes.”

  “I can be charming when I want.”

  “Are you kidding? You are the most insulting man I’ve ever met. Hell, you wouldn’t know charming if it hit you in the face. Do you even know how to smile?”

  He decided to ignore his cousin’s insults and concentrated instead on the black-haired woman. Lydia, his cousin had named her.

  Lydia sounds much like Luta, he thought of a sudden.

  He attempted to see better across the room, and, in truth, there were some similarities. Height. Slender build. Nose and chin. But, nay, this woman had a definite bosom, whereas Luta’s chest had been flat as a round of unleavened manchet bread. And Luta had been blonde.

  Still, there were common characteristics and a similar name. Most important, there was an ominous tightening sensation in his gut that he often experienced just before battle . . . a signal of something big about to happen.

  Is it possible that Luta time-traveled, too?

  Of course not! What a fanciful notion!

  But then, he gasped as an even more fanciful notion hit him, this time in the chest, causing his lungs to contract and his breath to be cut short.

  Is it possible that Miklof is here in this land?

  Is that the reason for my time travel?

  Is this woman . . . Lydia . . . the key to all I hold dear in this world?

  For the first time in what seemed like forever, he smiled. Life was suddenly worth living again.

  Chapter 5

  When old loves become new loves . . .

  Lydia and Kirstin were laughing so hard they could barely speak.

  The two ensigns who’d been hustling them had gone over to the bar to replenish their drinks when Lydia and Kirstin took one look at each other and burst out laughing.

  “They’re sooooo young,” Lydia said, swiping under her eyes to make sure her mascara hadn’t smeared.

  “Yes. And that’s great, isn’t it? You know what they say about younger men and older women, sweetie?”

  “But Lanny wanted to know if I have an Xbox. At first I thought he was referring to my sexual parts. I know, I know, I’m behind the times. But really, do thirty-year-old women play video games?”

  “Hey, the guy who was talking to me . . . Elliott . . . implied that his package is larger than average. As if that’s the first thing mature women are looking for?”

  “Isn’t it?”

  They both burst out laughing again.

  All of a sudden, Lydia felt a prickling at the back of her neck. It was the sensation her grandmother used to describe as “being tickled by the devil.”

  Her head shot up and immediately she saw the tall . . . very tall . . . man approaching her from the far side of the tavern. Why he should have caught her attention, she wasn’t sure. He wore jeans and a black Aerosmith T-shirt, both of which showcased a very fine body. Other than his height, he was not her type at all. With gold bracelets on his upper arms—probably brass—he had long, black Fabio hair, and, good Lord, were those beads in the braids framing his face, which was dark and brooding. He’s probably gay. My luck.

  Noticing her stare, Kirstin said, “Oh, look, it’s my cousin Finn. He’s new in town. That must mean . . . yep, there’s Torolf and his buddies.” She waved at her brother, seated at a round table with a group of men and women. “Should we join them?”

  “Sure,” Lydia said, “but first I’m going to the ladies’ room. You go ahead.” She gave one last glance at the tall man who was now stalled in the middle of the dance floor, where he was shoving people aside in his haste to get . . . somewhere. Torolf, no longer seated, was trying to tug him back to their table.

  This stranger scared her, she realized, and she couldn’t figure out why. Maybe it was the liquor. She’d had two glasses of wine during dinner, and she was halfway through her second screwdriver. Time to slow down before she did something she might regret, like pole dance in public. Like that would ever happen, drunk or sober!

  She went into the ladies’ room, and after having peed and repaired some straying strands of hair from her top-knot, she pressed a wet paper towel to her heated face. Her heart was racing, and her skin felt both clammy with coolness and hot with dryness. Was she getting sick? Or was she having a delayed reaction to the alcohol? Hands trembling, she reapplied her lip gloss and left.

  Only to see the tall man with the Fabio hair leaning against the opposite wall, arms folded over his chest, waiting for her. None of his separate parts registered with her . . . not the long hair, height, muscles, somber, almost angry expression. It was his eyes.

  Silver gray.

  Dave’s eyes.

  Could it be . . . was I right all along? Dave isn’t dead?

  No, it can’t be. It’s just wishful thinking on my part, she argued with herself.

  But he looks so much like Dave, she thought—and not just his eyes. His height. Body build. Even the way he leans against the wall. It was all so . . . Dave.

  Only his face was a little different.

  That was when a crazy thought took hold of her. If he was hurt in the explosion, he could have had plastic surgery. And maybe . . . maybe he’d been a POW or covert operator all these years.

  The fantasy of it was so sweet that it hurt.

  “Are you . . . my husband?” she asked softly.

  He recoiled, as if she’d struck him. “I do not know . . . I might be.”

  That was all she needed to hear.

  “Oh, my God! What have they done to you?” she murmured, then threw herself into the man’s arms, kissing his neck and face and lips. “I have missed you so much, baby. So much!”

  He didn’t respond, at first. In fact, he acted as if he was in shock.

  Well, she was, too.

  Looping her arms around his neck, she leaned back to stare into his face. Not Dave’s face, but that didn’t matter. Not too much, anyway.

  “Dave?” she said a
t the same time he said, “Luta?”

  Both of them shook their heads.

  “I am Thorfinn . . . or Finn.”

  “I’m Lydia.”

  Lydia was confused, but she didn’t want to dwell on her confusion. She wanted to bask in the joy of being with Dave again, even if it was this weird reincarnation of Dave.

  “Kiss me,” she urged in a raw voice.

  “You do not like kisses,” he remarked, cocking his head to the side. Then, tentatively, as if unsure now, he added, “Luta does not like kisses.”

  “I do.” She leaned up on tiptoe, placing her mouth a hairsbreadth from his. I’ll know if it’s him if I kiss him. No one kisses like Dave.

  He hesitated only a second, then hauled her up tight into his embrace and kissed her as only Dave could. A mind-blowing, hungry kiss that went on and on and on. Alternately gentle and fierce. Coaxing and demanding. Always hot.

  All the frozen places inside her melted by degrees.

  It’s him. Oh, my God! It’s Dave.

  When they finally came up for a breath, he stared at her. Her belly was pressed against his erection, her breasts against his chest. The muscles in his shoulders bunched under her hands. They were both panting.

  “Where is my son?” he asked, his face going harsh and angry.

  “Mike? You know about Mike?”

  “Of course I do. I was there when Miklof came out of your womb.”

  “You were?” Lydia was lightheaded with wonder to know that Dave had been there in spirit throughout the hard labor. She had sensed his presence.

  “Where is my son?” he repeated.

  “On vacation. With our parents, actually.”

  He frowned. “In Norsemandy?”

  She shook her head. “No. Minnesota,” she told him hesitantly. Normandy? Maybe Dave had some kind of amnesia. That would explain a lot. “I’m going to pick him up in two weeks. They’re going to erect a statue in the town square to mark the fifth anniversary of your death. You’ll have to tell them to call it off.”

  “All that damn tutoring, and I can scarce understand half of what she says.” He seemed to be speaking to himself, but then he looked down at her again. “What in bloody hell is going on here?”

  “I have no idea. All I know is you’re back, and I love you.” She kept touching him. His face. His shoulders. His lips. His silly hair.

  “I do not want your love. I want my son.”

  “We’re a combined package, buster, as you well know. And stop kidding about not wanting my love. You love my loving you.”

  Ignoring her words, he ordered, “Take me to your keep where we can talk, in private.”

  “Keep?”

  “House. Dwelling.”

  She nodded, bewildered and ecstatic at the same time.

  As they walked out of the tavern, she put an arm around his waist and leaned her face against his chest, inhaling his delicious male scent. Dave’s scent. A knot rose in her throat.

  It has to be Dave. It just has to be.

  Even a Viking knows good sex when it lands in his . . . um, lap . . .

  This was one of the strangest experiences of Thorfinn’s life, second only to the strange time-travel nonsense.

  He was in a woman’s house . . . a woman who appeared to be Luta, but was not Luta. Or was she? He was not sure. There were similarities. Height. Facial features. But the hair color was wrong, and for a certainty this woman wanted him with a red-hot passion. She could not stop touching him, whereas Luta had merely tolerated his presence, never mind her initiating any intimacy. Mayhap she had had numerous lovers over the past five years and she had learned passion. That would be the least of her crimes.

  He glanced around whilst she flicked levers on flameless torches about the solar. Lamps, they were called. It was an attractive room with soft cushioned chairs and low sofas, and with the ocean visible through massive windows, but he was not here to enjoy the comforts of her home or the view. Wooden shelves held dozens, maybe hundreds of books. Other than the church, only kings or very wealthy men had books where he came from, and then only one or two. Across the room, he saw framed pictures on the fireplace mantel, some portraying a small boy. Fearing disappointment, he would need to get his nerve up afore going over to examine them.

  “Where have you been the last five years?” she asked dreamily.

  Hah! More like, “Where have you been, you faithless witch?” Biding his time as he tamped down his wrath, he merely replied, “Looking for you.”

  “Oh, that’s sweet. You could say I’ve been waiting for you to find me, honey.”

  Sweet? Me? “We must needs talk,” he said. Lest I cut out your lying tongue.

  “Later, honey. First, I want to make love. I haven’t had sex since you left.”

  ’Twas not I who left. Lest you forget, wench, you went off with your lover and my baby. And do not try to foist that false story of celibacy on me. Not with the way you are nigh drooling over me.

  Noting his resistance, she tugged on his hand. "C’mon, sweetie. Let’s go to the bedroom. I want to kiss you all over, to prove to myself that you’re real, not a figment of my imagination.”

  “Oh, I am real,” he said, and a very real part of his body lurched to attention. To say he’d gotten his enthusiasm back would be a vast understatement.

  “You look so different, like a stranger, but only on the outside.” She giggled like a girling. “It will be like the first time we made love.”

  Did she really just put her hand inside my braies? He tried to snarl out, “I am angry with you,” but it probably came out as a gurgle.

  “Because of the baby?”

  “Most definitely about the baby.” And your faithlessness. And your deceit.

  “It wasn’t planned, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “And that excuses your perfidy? Truly, your gall is amazing. When I think . . . what are you doing?” Oh, good gods. What is that lacy harness over her breasts? Does it serve some purpose? Other than causing my heart to nigh explode?

  “Taking off my clothes. If we’re not going to the bedroom, we can do it here.”

  “Have you no shame?” Whatever you do, do not stop.

  “Not where you’re concerned, honey. What’s the big deal, anyhow? We’ve already done it on every surface in this house. The floor, the couch, the deck, the kitchen table, the countertops, the washing machine, the dryer, the shower. Remember the time we made love under a beach blanket in broad daylight?”

  We did? The mind images she painted caused his cock to harden and lengthen even more. Meanwhile, she removed her shoes, shert, and braies. “Stop! Have you become a harlot?”

  She raised her arms, releasing her hair from its ties, letting the ebony waves puddle over her shoulders and back and chest, but not too far in front because her breasts were clearly visible as she slipped out of her scandalous, almost transparent undergarments and stood before him, totally nude and not a bit self-conscious.

  “I’ll be anything you want me to be, honey.” She leaned back against a wall, one knee bent, her arms raised over her head. A pose of seduction. “Is this harlot enough for you, big boy?” she purred.

  Holy Thor!

  This could not possibly be Luta.

  Could it?

  She appears to want my lovemaking.

  Could her lover have done a better job than me in teaching her an enthusiasm for the bedsport?

  Her breasts are different. Bigger. With large nipples.

  Mayhap nursing changed them.

  But Luta claimed no desire to suckle the babe. She said she would get a nursing mother to perform that odious task.

  Did she change her mind?

  And her woman’s fleece is thick with dark curls, whereas Luta’s had been pale.

  These thoughts flicked through his brain, which felt fuzzy and disoriented. ’Twas like swimming through a pool of honey, trying to get his bearings.

  “Do you have a condom?” she asked in a low, husky voice.


  He nodded, pulling one of the birth control packets Torolf had given him out of his back pocket.

  “Will you undress, or would you like me to undress you?”

  “Uh . . . ,” he said, as what was left of his brain turned to porridge and his cock practically did a handstand. The bone-melting anger was still there, but it was being overcome, for now, by waves of excitement. The intensity of her passion swirled around them both.

  His brain said, Halt! Something is not right here. We need to talk.

  His cock said, Talk later. Enjoy now.

  His garments were half off when he noticed the tears welling in her blue eyes. “What? You have changed your mind?” How like a woman!

  She shook her head vigorously, which caused her breasts to jiggle, which caused his blood to nigh hum.

  Enthusiasm, thou art fickle.

  “I’m just so happy to have you back, even if you don’t exactly look like Dave.”

  “Who is Dave?” he asked as he continued to disrobe. Who in bloody hell cares?

  “You,” she said, studying him.

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Oh, I know you don’t look exactly the same, but your eyes are identical, and you know what they say about the eyes being windows to the soul?”

  The wench is barmy, he concluded, immediately followed by, and I could not care less.

  Should I tell her I am not this mythical Dave?

  Not if I want my enthusiasm sated this night.

  Before he had a chance to approach her, she launched herself at him, her arms clutching his shoulders, her hands making quick work of sliding the condom on him. Then she buried her mouth in the crook of his neck, and her legs locked around his hips. She smelled like flowers and feminine arousal.

  “Wait . . .” he started to say.

  But she wiggled her hips, and he found himself embedded in her sheath up to the hilt, her inner muscles spasming around him with a welcome that was both torture and pleasure. I am in heaven. Or is it Asgard? Who cares? This. Is. Bliss.

  His knees almost gave way, and he backed her up to the wall. Please, knees, do not give way now. With his elbows braced on either side of her head, he pressed his belly against hers, forcing her to remain still. Aaahhhh . . .