Page 63 of The Viking’s Captive

“Find a way to give him the coin without bruising his pride.”

She nodded. She could do that. She wanted to do that. “You are a contradictory man, Adam.”

“How so?”

“You are clearly annoyed by Alrek and his pestsome brood, and yet here you are, going out of your way on his behalf. You fight your fate mightily in regard to medicine, and yet you spent many hours today serving my people. You are a Saxon, and yet you have the spirit of a Viking.”

“You are probably correct,” he conceded, to her surprise, “but I can think of still other ways that I am riddled with contradictions. I mislike your mannish ways, and yet I like you. I do not want a permanent relationship with you, or any woman, and yet I sniff after you like a randy dog. I try my best to focus on your illmannered, masculine characteristics, but all I can see is the woman in you. Can you understand that?”

She could not.

But the woman in her did, and she exulted.

Tyra was walking away from him, and he was enjoying the event immensely.

In her tunic and tight braies, her hips swayed from side to side in the most enticing way. Did females have any idea how sensual their arses could be when viewed by the male from this angle? If they did, they would probably always back away from their men. He couldn’t stop gaping.

“Tyra,” he called out. “Why are you walking like that?”

She halted and looked back at him over his shoulder. “How?”

“Like … like you have a brick on your head.”

“A brick?” she choked out, and turned to face him directly, though she was some distance away. He still sat on the bench. “That’s ridiculous. A brick? Ha, ha, ha.” Her face bloomed a lovely shade of pink, as if she were guilty of some wrongdoing.

A wrongdoing involving her walk? Nay, that could not be.

“It must be the chain mail I am wearing,” she explained, still blushing profusely.

“Chain mail? Why are you wearing chain mail?” he asked, alarm ringing in his voice.

“I am off to check our borders with my men. Some Danish outlaws have been pillaging the area.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“Of course it’s dangerous.”

“Don’t go,” he urged before he could bite his hasty tongue.

“Don’t go? Are you demented? I must go. It is my job as chieftain to lead my soldiers. How could you think otherwise?”

“I don’t know.” He just knew that he wanted her safe. He did not want to picture her lying on the ground covered with blood. He wanted her close by so that he could help her, if necessary. He wanted her … well, suffice it to say, he wanted her.

“What is that look you are giving me?”

“A look? What look?” He tried to recall what expression might have been on his face.

“A hot look.”

He smiled then, especially when he remembered that Tykir and Bolthor and Rafn and Rashid had advised him to give Tyra just that—hot looks.

She was scowling at him, waiting for an answer.

Well, a hell of a lot of good their advice had done. Hot looks, indeed!

“Methinks I will go with you,” he announced, again without thinking.

“You … will … not. Besides, what about the people who come to you for your services?”