Page 53 of The Last Viking

“Yes, we’re changing the subject. Look at this,” she stormed, waving a hand in the air toward the two unfinished longships. “Mike and the students barely have a framework up for the project vessel, while yours will be done in no time.”

He shrugged. “With my time freed from managing the project, I’ve been able to spend all the daylight hours working on my boat. And, of course, I have no reservations about using sandpaper and modern wood fillers. Tomorrow I’m going to have Mike take me to Hardware Heaven again—”

“That’s Hardware Superstore,” she corrected.

“I know that, wench,” he said, tweaking her nose, “but to a man who works with his hands, it is indeed heaven. As I was saying, I intend to buy some power tools. Mayhap a drill and an electric saw. And duct tape. I have heard that duct tape is man’s best friend.” He jiggled his eyebrows at her.

“You are not using modern tools on my longship.”

“Tsk-tsk-tsk! You are not listening, my lady. These are for my longship, not yours.” He tapped his front teeth pensively. “I just had a wonderful idea. Mayhap I will make another purchase, too. A motor. Yea, I will be the first Viking with a power motor in my longship.”

“You…you—” she fought for words “—you wouldn’t!”

“Merry-Death, Merry-Death, Merry-Death, you disappoint me. When will you learn not to rise to every bait a man throws your way? Nay, I’ll not spoil a good ship with a motor. However, I’ve been studying the motor in Mike’s wheeled box, and since he got me a sew-shall sack-your-tea document today, along with a travel pass—a passport—I am contemplating…”

His hesitation should have given her a clue.

“…getting my driver’s license tomorrow. And buying my own wheeled box. A car, not one of those trucks that Mike prefers.”

“Oh, my God!” Merry-Death used the expression overmuch when talking to him. It no doubt meant he overwhelmed her with his wisdom and cunning.

“Perchance, do you know a good wheeled-box mart where…?” he started to ask, tentatively.

Merry-Death narrowed her eyes suspiciously at him. He loved her sea-green eyes, even when narrowed shrewishly.

“…where a Viking could purchase a…longcar?”

She made a choking sound before spinning on her heel and stalking toward the keep. To search for another of those magic pills of hers, he would wager. Let her cure her head megrims any way she could, for she will not plead an aching head later when he came presenting his own magic. And his magic wasn’t in a pill.

Chapter Ten

Meredith’s sister Jillian swept into their lives that evening like a summer storm over his beloved Vestfjord Valley. All bluster and no substance.

She wore tight black braies of a stretchy material that would surely catapult her all the way to Iceland if a man pulled on the waistband and let go. On top, her breasts strained against a silky white shert that went down to her thighs and wrists but was cinched in at the waist with an oversized, metal-studded belt. Several opened buttons provided an impressive cleavage filled in with a handsome gold-and-amber necklet similar to those made by the Coppergate artisans in Jorvik. Matching loops hung from her ears, which were exposed by the oddest hair. The color was the same dark reddish-brown shade as Merry-Death’s, piled atop her head in disarray, but strands of gold ran uniformly through it. He didn’t think the sun could produce such an effect.

Mike and the students had left for the day, and dusk approached as Jillian hugged Thea over and over, then sent her outside to carry in the vast amount of baggage she’d brought with her. Turning to him and Merry-Death, Jillian asked bluntly, “So, are you two lovers?”

“No!” Merry-Death said.

“Yes,” he said at the same time.

Jillian looked at each of them, her crimson lips curving up with amusement.

“’Tis a question of definition,” he explained, ignoring Merry-Death’s coughing fit.

“We are not lovers,” Merry-Death said emphatically and speared him with a sidelong glare. “I hired Rolf to work on the longboat project. He’s a shipbuilder from…Norway.” She’d warned him in a nervous rush when Jillian’s hired box drove up earlier that he was not to discuss time travel, ancient Vikings, or anything that would cause her sister to know his true identity. Not that Merry-Death believed his explanations. And he didn’t appreciate her referring to him as ancient, either.

He wagged an admonishing finger at Merry-Death. “Nay, you misspeak our relationship. I was hired to direct the project. Is that not so, my lady?”

A speaking silence ensued in which Jillian mouthed the words “My lady?” at Merry-Death, and then narrowed her eyes, watching them far too closely.

He no longer required the talisman’s magic to help him translate their strange language, except for the occasional tongue-twisting words. Although he’d always mastered foreign tongues with ease, he was certain the relic had helped speed his lessons this time.

Finally, Merry-Death’s shoulders slumped with resignation. “That’s right. Rolf is directing the physical work on the project, and I’m handling the paperwork and liaison with the foundation committee. We’re…partners.” Her last word came out tentatively, and she held her breath, waiting for his reply.

Damn, but the woman was willful. He should take an excessive time contemplating her impertinent claim. But compassionate man that he was, he nodded, and she released a sigh of relief. Later, she would pay for testing him so.

“Mom, where do you want this luggage?” Thea asked, huffing into the room, overloaded with leather boxes of all sizes named for the biblical hero Samson.