Page 95 of Viking Unchained

Taking her hand in his, he turned back to watch the next bout of “talent.” In the process of turning, he noticed Mistress Hartley watching him. She must have seen him kissing Lydia’s neck because she looked first at him, then Lydia, then back to him . . . and smiled.

No doubt she and her husband were back to the business of him being Dave and them wanting him to run their farm. Which was not going to happen. Bloody hell! ’Twas past time for everyone to let Dave rest in peace.

One of the Hartleys’ farmworkers was demonstrating how to lasso a steer with a long, looped rope, except that the steer was actually a wooden post. He was very talented, and soon had others wanting to be taught that particular skill.

“I cannot see what circumstance would require a SEAL to lasso,” he commented as Sly failed with his third attempt.

“Well, they might need to lasso a tango,” Lydia replied. “You know, making do with the weapons or materials at hand.”

“Or one of the webfoot warriors might need to lasso a shark. Ha, ha, ha,” Thorfinn added. That is not even funny. What a clodpole I have become!

“That’s not as funny as you think,” his uncle Jorund said, sinking down to the ground beside them. “Did I tell you how I traveled here to the future? On the back of a killer whale. I jest not!” At the look of incredulity on Lydia’s face, he explained. He had somehow landed in a hospitium for demented people, called a mental clinic, because of his claims to have time-traveled. As a result, everyone who had come thereafter never mentioned the outrageous happenstance of how they had arrived.

Thorfinn had heard Jorund’s story before, but enjoyed watching Lydia hear it. Mike was sitting on his lap now, listening intently, which Lydia must have decided was acceptable since the little boy would just think it was a tall tale. In the end, Mike sighed. “I wish I could ride a killer whale.”

“Maybe we’ll go to Sea World sometime,” his mother promised. “Remember how you liked the orcas there?”

Next, Cage demonstrated his guitar-playing talents, singing some Cajun songs. The music was lively and the lyrics fun. Begrudgingly, he had to admit that the SEAL had talents, even if he did enjoy annoying him with his attentions to Lydia.

Everyone was subdued that evening after dinner. He came downstairs after listening to Lydia read five books to his son, and kissing him good-night himself. Still a new, heart-tugging experience for him. He’d given Lydia a kiss, too, before she had a chance to duck his embrace. Mike had thought it hilariously funny that he would want to kiss his mother.

Now, with Mike, Lydia, her mother, and her father asleep, the men in the living room were breaking down and inspecting their weapons. He was honing his sword. Magnus was snoring on a low sofa, his broadaxe across his massive chest. Sleeping bags were scattered across the floor. No one said much.

The night before a mission was much the same anywhere, at any time. Anticipation. Dread.

He, for one, would be glad when it was all over, and he could get on with his new life . . . whatever that would be.

’Twas the middle of the night when he awakened, his back aching from lying on the hard floor. By the light from the kitchen, he could see all the various bodies at rest, most on the floor, like him, except for Magnus on the sofa, and two men in reclining chairs.

He stood and made his way toward the stairs. Quiet as he was, Torolf whispered, “Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” he whispered back. “I just want to check on Miklof.”

Torolf chuckled.

Once upstairs, he was alarmed at first to see Lydia’s bed empty, but he found her curled up with Miklof in his sleeping bower. His heart swelled with deep emotion at the sight.

So exhausted were Lydia and Miklof, or so adept was he, that neither awakened when he picked Lydia up and carried her back to her own bed. He laid her gently on the bed and slid under the bed linens behind her. Lying on his left side, he spooned against her back, then placed one arm on the pillow over her head and the other lightly on her hip. Soon, drugged by her body warmth and floral scent, he fell asleep, too.

In the middle of the night, something awakened him. He was a light sleeper, as a warrior must always be.

Listening, he heard nothing, but then he realized that the rhythm of Lydia’s breathing had changed. She was awake.

And his manpart was hard and long, riding the crease of her buttocks. Bloody hell, can you not behave this once? Oh, that is it! I am finally over-the-edge barmy . . . talking to my cock.

And his hand was caressing her breast. Well, no wonder you are misbehaving.

And her nipple was engorged, its point pressing into his palm like an erotic signal. See, it is her fault, not ours.

“Lydia,” he whispered, not wanting to awaken others in the house. They were both on their sides, still spooned together, very tightly. Did she just wiggle her arse against me? Or was that you? He was still talking to his manpart, for Frigg’s sake!

“How did I get here? What are you doing here?”

“I was lonely.”

Me, too.

That is just wonderful. IT talks back, too.