Page 31 of Viking Unchained

She was right there.

“So, just bear with me for a few moments. Okay?” The whole time she spoke, the wench avoided looking below his neck.

She swives the sap right out of me, all night long, and now she plays the modest maid. Hah! I am not buying the act, m’lady harlot. “Let. Me. Loose,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Not yet.”

“When?”

“After I get some answers.”

“Like?”

“Who are you?”

“Thorfinn Haraldsson.”

“Finn?”

“Some call me that.”

“Did Dave send you?”

“Dave?”

“My husband.”

“You have a husband, and you tup strangers from taverns?” Thorfinn had a policy of never engaging in bedsport with married women. “Am I expected to pay for your freely offered services?” It will be a cold day in Nifhelm afore you see any of my coin, you traitorous wench.

Her face bloomed with color.

Interesting . . . that she can blush.

“My husband is dead. I mean, last night I thought you were him. Dave, I mean. You have identical eyes, and there are some other similarities, but, really, you’re not the same, are you?”

“You think your dead husband sent me to you?” Likely excuse to swive one and all.

“Yes.” Her face brightened with hope. “Did he?”

Pathetic, lackwitted woman! But best he not be too open with her . . . till his restraints were loosened.

“Mayhap.”

You would have thought he’d told her there was a sack of gold awaiting her pleasure, so joyous was her demeanor now.

“Release me now.”

“I don’t know . . .”

“Heed me well. If you do not release me immediately, I am going to throttle you when I am free.” Or should I tup her a time or two first?

“I don’t think you would do that. Dave wouldn’t let you.”

He rolled his eyes. “A dead man is going to control my hands? Have you gone addleheaded?” Not that I care.

“Probably.” No matter who he was, Lydia decided she had no night to restrain him. She left the room and came back with a metal scissorlike device, which she used to cut through the restraints. While he was pulling them off the rest of the way, she left the room again. He used the opportunity to find her bathing chamber, relieving himself in the toilet, then taking a shower. When he returned to her bedchamber, one towel wrapped around his waist and using another to dry his body, she was just setting down a metal tray on a side table. On it was a large glass of orange juice, a delicious beverage he’d never tasted until coming to this country, and two slices of toasted bread spread with butter.

“When you’re done, you can call a taxi to take you home,” she offered politely.