Page 21 of The Last Viking

When she’d prepared ten slices of French toast, she placed them in the warming cycle of her microwave, set the table, and laid out butter and maple syrup. Then she prepared a pitcher of orange juice from concentrate and turned on the coffee maker.

She could still hear the shower running, so she returned to her computer and her distressing Norse journeys on the Internet. Thus far, way too much of what she’d learned confirmed Rolf’s preposterous stories. There had been a powerful Jarl Eric Tryggvason in the Vestfold region of Norway in 997, and one of his sons had been a shipbuilder and noted warrior. Eric’s brother, Olaf Tryggvason, had reigned as high king of Norway at that time. Aelfgifu, queen of Britain and wife of Aethelred the Unready, had been weak and plain, just as Rolf had said. She’d died of childbed fever, possibly in 997.

How did Rolf know all this historical trivia?

Punching in her password now, she waited for her computer program to log on her access. Tapping her fingertips nervously while the computer processed her data, she made plans.

She intended to fax her brother Jared in Norway the minute she got to her office. She didn’t have a home fax system yet.

And she had some questions for Mike, as well, still not convinced that he and Jared didn’t have something to do with Rolf’s arrival. But she’d tried Mike earlier and learned that he was visiting some Army buddies in Bangor for the weekend.

“What are you doing, Merry-Death?”

Meredith jumped, not having realized that Rolf had come up behind her. Placing a palm over her thudding heart, she glanced back over her shoulder and had to stifle a groan. Lord, the man was gorgeous.

Wearing the same black sweatpants she’d given him the night before, he’d donned a gray Adidas T-shirt, tucked in at the waist where his talisman belt was clasped—an incongruous combination, but somehow it fit his Viking image. He’d pulled back his damp hair with a rubber band, and he’d shaved, revealing even more dramatic good looks. Lines of grief bracketed his eyes and grim mouth, but he appeared well rested.

Never breaking eye contact, he placed his left hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “Thank you,” he said huskily, and Meredith knew he referred to the comfort she’d offered the night before.

She nodded her acknowledgment and he stepped away. Then she noticed what he carried in his other hand.

“What are these?” he asked, sitting in a straight-backed chair near hers.

She smiled. “Those are jockey shorts. Underwear.”

He held the white briefs up in front of him and scoffed. “Nay, they are too small to a hold a man’s parts.”

She scoffed back. “They stretch…even for the biggest man parts.” But then she concluded, with embarrassment, that he must not be wearing anything under his sweats. Lordy!

“And these?” he asked.

“Athletic socks. You know—” she searched for words he would understand—“ummm…hose, that’s the word. You put them on your feet before you put on your shoes.”

He nodded his understanding, and did just that, after some clumsy efforts to figure just how it was done. Then he lifted an eyebrow and held up the last of the items he’d brought with him, Jared’s decrepit sneakers.

“Those are Jared’s old running shoes,” she informed him, dropping down to her knees in front of him to help put them on.

“Really? Men in your country have shoes just for running?”

“Yes,” she said with a laugh. It did sound funny now that he mentioned it.

“And do they have special braies for sitting?”

“No,” she grunted out as she tried to force one of the shoes onto his foot. The shoes were, indeed, at least two sizes too small. “You must wear a size-thirteen shoe. You know what they say about Vikings with big feet, don’t you?” She’d blurted out that last observation, and instantly regretted it.

Rolf looked down at her with a puzzled frown. “Nay, what do they say about Vikings with big feet? And why is your face so red?” Then a grin tugged at the edges of his lips. “Could it be the same thing they say about Saxons with big noses?”

She decided to change the subject. “Do you think you can stand to wear them? Your toes must be cramped.”

He shrugged. “’Tis no worse than wet leather boots in the midst of a battle.” Then he stood, did a couple of deep knee bends and ran in place for a few seconds. “Yea, I warrant a man could run like the wind in these cloth boots,” he said, flashing her a dazzling, bone-melting smile. “Now show me this box you were staring at when I walked in. Blessed Thor, I ne’er saw a land with so many magic boxes.”

A short time later, Geirolf sat blinking with amazement, trying desperately to process all the information Merry-Death and her come-pewter flashed out. “’Tis sorcery, pure and simple, of that I have no doubt, but sorcery of the most wonderful nature. Letters and pictures and all the wisdom in the world are contained in this little box…in the…what did you call it? Oh, yes, the seedy-rome.”

She laughed.

He’d no doubt mispronounced one of the hellish words in this new language. “You are a mean-spirited wench to garner pleasure from my discomfit.”

“It’s just that you sound so cute.”