Page 11 of Viking Unchained

The flying bird began to dip and shake. Whilst he held on to the chair arms, white-knuckled, with his stomach nigh up to his throat, Thorfinn made a mental list of how he was going to kill his cousin when he returned. All he knew was it was going to be slow . . . and painful.

After the flying bird settled down, he scanned the area around him, his scrutiny stopping at a woman seated on the other side of a narrow corridor that separated the rows of chairs. Wearing a white uniform, including braies, she had short, red, curly hair and her lips were painted red. She must be a loose woman.

Mayhap from the Arabs’ harem, and, truth to tell, he had more than enough of harems after his recent sojourn in Baghdad.

His assumption was proven true when she smiled at him, then winked. The universal invitation to bedsport.

“Not now.” He had no interest in bedding the wench, but there was no need for rudeness; so, he added, “Mayhap later.”

Her red eyebrows arched at him in question.

“My belly is roiling too much to swive you right now.”

“Whaaaat?” the woman screeched and was undoing her belt restraint. In truth, she looked as if she might attack him, and not for sex.

The man on her other side chortled, and Torolf stepped up quickly, apparently having overheard. “Uh, Millie, don’t be offended. My friend here doesn’t understand the language or the customs of our country.”

“Hah! I need no interpreter to understand the look the wench gave me,” he argued.

“Wench? Wench? I was just being friendly,” she protested to Torolf.

“There is only one thing I need from a woman, and it is not friendship,” he continued. “Bedding and birthing, those are women’s roles.”

“Is he for real?” the woman asked Torolf.

“Unfortunately,” Torolf answered. “Millie, I’d like you to meet my cousin . . . Jake Lavin. Jake . . .”

Torolf scowled at him. “This is Army Captain Millie Donovan.”

“Army? She is a soldier? What kind of soldier wears white into battle? She must be Frankish. They are dimwitted when it comes to warfare.”

Torolf groaned.

“I knew Jake Lavin,” Millie said, narrowing her eyes, “but he was short and had blond hair.”

Thorfinn was no lackbrain . . . leastways, not all the time. “I am a different Jake Lavin.”

Torolf nodded his approval.

He cared not a whit for his cousin’s approval.

“Like I would be interested in a man who wears beads in his stupid braids!” The woman continued talking to Torolf. He assumed she was referring to him.

Torolf groaned again, knowing Thorfinn could not let the insult lie, like a rotten lutefisk on a Frigg’s Day

feast table.

“Everyone knows that warriors must needs wear war braids on either side of their face to keep their hair from blinding them in battle,” he explained haughtily. “Mayhap you are not really a soldier, if you do not know that.”

Another groan from Torolf.

“Uh, why not just cut your hair, ding-a-ling?” the barmy woman asked with a smirk.

“Because I am a Vik-ing, not a dingle-ing, as you said. The beads are there to denote class in Norse society. Mine are fine crystallite.”

“La dee da! Vanity, thy name is man . . . or rather, Viking man. And, jeesh, don’t be offended. The braids are adorable.”

“Adorable? My braids are not adorable.”