Page 5 of The Last Viking

“I should have known a woman as long in the tooth as you are would have spread her thighs for the pleasuring. Where is your man now?”

Long in the tooth? Spread my thighs? The nerve of the chauvinistic beast! “I’m only thirty-five years old. I’ll bet you’re about the same, you long-in-the-tooth oaf. And I have no husband, if that’s what you’re asking—” Meredith immediately regretted her hasty words and backtracked. “I mean, my husband will be home soon.”

He arched his brows, unconvinced. “So, you are a wanton woman—an aged wanton woman—who lives alone. Do you entertain your lovers here?” He swept her with a swift physical assessment that clearly challenged her ability to attract a lover.

She didn’t care if the ape did wield a knife; Meredith had had enough. Jumping to her feet, she put her hands on her hips, demanding. “Who are you and what are you doing in my home?”

“Ég er týndur.” Geirolf watched the quarrelsome woman who dared to defy his commands as she assimilated his statement, word by word.

“I am lost,” she translated.

His ears still rang from her high-pitched screams. Claw marks seeped blood on his forearms. And Merry-Death—the oddly named wench—dared accuse him of being a rapist. As if he would even want a woman such as she. Too tall. Too thin. Too sharp-tongued. And old. He liked his women young and soft-fleshed and biddable. Like Alyce.

He was sore tempted to toss the foolish wench into the raging sea, but he needed answers first. And, more important, he feared she might be a sorceress. On first entering her keep, he’d explored all the chambers—none of which had the customary rushes on the floor. And not a candle or soapstone lamp in evidence anywhere. Of particular interest was the room with a magic box that threw off light when the door opened. He’d found some cheese inside, but it was nigh inedible, covered as it was by an unchewable, invisible film.

If she was a witch—and those pale green eyes of hers, flashing angrily at him now, were surely witch’s eyes—he would have to tread carefully. Even with the talisman, a sorceress’s charm would be hard to withstand.

But Merry-Death would suffer for her insults, no doubt about that. Later, he would show her the fate of a defiant woman.

“My lady, hvar er ég?” he growled peevishly. “Where am I?”

That question seemed to disarm her, and her wide eyes quickly took in his many bruises, softening with sympathy. Hmpfh! he thought. ’Tis past time the lady thought of offering hospitality to a wayfarer in her land. And an injured one, at that.

“Were you hit on the head?” she inquired.

He curled his lips with disgust. She obviously considered him a half-wit. “Answer, wench. Where am I?”

“Maine.”

“Maine. I have ne’er heard of such place. Is it in Greenland—that new world discovered by Eirik the Red?”

“Are you for real? Maine is in the northeast portion of the United States. Greenland is about fifteen hundred miles north of here.”

“Hmmm. My ship went farther off course than I realized.”

“Off course? More like off the globe.”

“’Tis my brother Jorund’s fault. He’s the mapmaker in our family.”

“Jared? My brother Jared sent you here?” The frown on her face—the one he would have wagered was permanently implanted there—melted away, and before he could correct her false assumption, she homed in on his other words. “Your ship?”

“Thor’s toenails! You sound like a parrot Jorund brought back once from the eastern lands. Squawk, squawk, squawk. And always repeating words.” He took greet delight in the snarl that barb drew from the testy wench. “And, yea, my dragonship, Fierce Wolf, drifted for days, ever since the battle with Storr Grimmsson a sennight ago. Finally, it sank. I will miss Fierce Wolf mightily. ’Twas one of the finest ships I ever built.”

Merry-Death’s face brightened. “You’re a shipbuilder? So that’s why Jared sent you. Or was it Mike?”

He ignored her puzzling words. “Yea, I am the finest shipbuilder in the world,” he boasted, “and Grimmsson will pay with his life for the loss of my crew, as well as my ship. Ah, well, I can easily build other ships.” Like that one outside this keep, which will carry me back to my homeland. But best I not disclose my plans to you yet. “Unlike men’s lives, a boat can be replaced.”

“But…but…how did you get here?”

“My ship sank,” he repeated with deliberate patience, “and I swam ashore this morn.”

Merry-Death gasped. “You’ve been in a shipwreck?”

It took her a long time to grasp the meaning of his words, even though the talisman was doing a fair job of translating. Mayhap she was slow-witted, as he’d originally thought.

“No wonder you look like you’ve been beaten. Why didn’t you say so earlier? My God, did you climb up that cliffside?”

Finally, he would get a little blessed compassion for all his ordeals. “Yea, and I assure you, ’twas no easy task, carrying Ingrid.”