Page 41 of The Blue Viking

“Oh, really?” Maire said. “Well, I have heard it said just as I have told you, and the only way to reverse the demise of said virility is to correct the lies.” Then she addressed the entire crowd. “And, now that I think on it, I’m not so sure it’s not true of Scotsmen, as well.”

Pandemonium ruled then. All over the great hall, men were checking their braies and spouting out disclaimers to previously told lies.

“Really, Mary, I did not spill that ale. I drank it all meself.”

“Calm down, Collum. I will replace the missing bag of barley I charged ye fer.”

“Daracha, yer not really as satisfying as I said ye were.”

“I’m sorry to be tellin’ ye this, sweetheart, but yer buttocks are too big.”

“When ye eat haggis, yer breath stinks to high heaven.”

“Actually, I don’t like ta do it upside down.”

“The hair on yer legs is loathsome.”

“I didn’t muck out the stables when I said I did.”

“Truth be told, that rash on me male parts wasn’t really caused by a fall into a prickly bush.”

“To be honest, when ye sit on me in the bedsport, I canna breathe.”

“Yer nipples are too big.”

“Yer nipples are too small.”

“Ye have no nipples to speak of.”

Rurik put his face in his hands, trying to hide his laughter. This was the most outrageous thing he’d ever experienced in all his life. Maire might not be much of a witch, but when it came to getting even, she was the best. Finally, he swiped the tears of mirth from his eyes, and took her by the hand, pulling her away from the chaos she’d created.

She tilted her head in question.

“We are going to your bedchamber now, dearling,” he informed her. “If you are lucky, I might let you check whether I have been telling any lies lately.”

Chapter Eight

Rurik took Maire by the hand and tugged, hard. He wanted to leave her great hall… now!

Truth be told, he was randier than a bearded billy goat in a herd of nannies. So strong was the instinct to rut that he feared he might just make a flying leap at Maire—his very own nanny, for the love of Frey!— except that he had no cloven hooves to break his fall if he missed his target. And the way his life had been going of late, missing his “target” was a very real possibility.

Maire would no doubt disagree on the cloven hoof part, though, since she was always likening him to a devil’s spawn.

Aaarrgh! Who cares if I am a goat or a devil? I must needs plant this rock hardness sprouting from my groin in a place that is hot and moist and welcoming, or die of wanting.

But will Maire be welcoming?

Or hot?

Or moist?

He waggled a hand dismissively at his own internal questions.

I cannot attest to her outward reception, but she will be hot and wet, he promised himself. After that public challenge to my masculinity regarding orgasms, I will damn well make sure she is burning this time… and so sex-slippery we may very well slide off the bed furs. This I do swear… a blood oath to myself. My manhood is at stake here. Actually, you could say the reputation of all Viking men is being threatened.

A niggling thought in his head suggested he might be overreacting. But another niggling thought said there was no such thing as overreacting when it came to a man and his most precious body part.

Rurik attempted to drag Maire from the great hall—and, yes, she was digging in her heels, finding one excuse after another to stop and talk to her people … discussing such important things as what time to start the bread dough in the morn, or how much cleaning up from the feast needed to be done yet tonight, or who should shovel out the middens come Monday morn.