Page 89 of The Blue Viking

Rurik’s head jerked up. How did she know where he’d spent his youth? Fine hairs stood up all over his alert body. Truly, the witch gave him a creepy feeling; she knew too much. But he would turn the tables on her. “Can you remove this blue mark?” he asked, touching his forehand and running a forefinger down his nose and through the center of his chin.

The witch laughed. She had the nerve to laugh at him. Then she shrugged. “Mayhap I can. And mayhap I cannot.”

Rurik clenched his fists to keep from reaching for the witch’s scrawny neck.

“Getting rid of that mark is important to you, isn’t it?” Cailleach inquired amidst a few more cackles.

“What manner of question is that? Yea, I want the mark gone. Is there aught wrong with that?”

“Not if ye do not make it more important than everything else. Some say the peacock must lose its feathers afore it can truly sing.”

“Are you daft, old lady? Stop speaking in riddles.”

“Aye, I will speak plainly to ye, lad, and make sure ye listen well. Yer life is about to be turned upside down. We shall see what kind of man ye are when ye finally land on yer feet. We shall see if ye deserve Maire. Or if that bloody mark is all ye care about in this world.”

Oh, that was unfair… to lay the blame on him. Why was it such a bad thing that he wanted his face restored to its former appearance? Who said it was the only thing he cared about? He was not that vain and self-centered. Just because he could not love, that did not mean he could not care.

Rurik closed his eyes to calm his roiling temper. When he opened them, the witch was gone … though he thought he heard the sound of cackling laughter in the distance.

Little did the witch know. His life was already turned upside down.

“Can we go celebrate now?”

Rurik’s warm breath whispered into her ear, causing incredibly sensual currents to ripple through her body. For a moment, Maire paused and relished the exquisite sensations that caused her breasts to peak and heat to pool between her legs.

Finally, inhaling sharply for composure—a futile exercise—she turned in her seat at the high table and addressed the rogue, “I thought we were already celebrating … for two hours, to be precise. What else do you call these massive amounts of food and ale, not to mention lute and bagpipe playing, singing, juggling, and more of Bolthor’s sagas than any sane person should be required to hear?”

Even Rurik, who was not an overly modest man, had said, “Enough!” when Bolthor had told not one, or two, or three, but four different sagas about Rurik’s heroic deeds during today’s battle. And Toste and Vagn had yelled, “More than enough!” when Bolthor had attempted, instead, to tell a saga entitled “A Tale of Witch Swiving,” immediately after “Ghostly Seductions.”

Rurik laughed, his mouth still way too close to her ear. “I had in mind more of an intimate celebration.”

She knew what he meant, and, truth to tell, her thoughts had been wandering in that direction all day. But she had things to tell him first. Taking one of his hands in hers, she twined their fingers together, marveling at how small her hand—which was not all that small—looked in his much larger one. At the same time, she delighted in the pressure of his callused palm against hers, and the beat of his pulse where their wrists met. Maire feared she was a lost cause where this man was concerned. Bracing herself, she started what had to be one of the most difficult conversations of her life. “I have wanted to thank you. You saved my clan, and for that I will be forever grateful.”

“You are welcome, m’lady,” he said graciously, then waggled his eyebrows at her, adding, “Perchance you would like to thank me in a more private place. Methinks a little chain mail exercise would not be amiss.”

Maire’s face flamed at his reminder of her outrageous conduct of yestereve. “Rurik, I must know. What are your plans now?” She couldn’t believe she’d asked that question. She’d promised herself that she would not, even though it had been foremost in her mind all day.

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “Well, actually, I do know, but must we discuss this tonight?”

Her heart sank at the seriousness of his tone. But he was right. This was a night for celebration. She could learn of his plans later.

There was a critical matter to be discussed, however.

“About Jamie …,” she began.

Rurik groaned.

“I told you afore you left for the MacNabs that there was something important I had to tell you. Well, this is the time—”

“Speak of the little devil,” Rurik said, chuckling.

Jamie and his little band of urchins were swaggering across the cleared area in the middle of the great hall where some ring dancing had just ended. The rascals … six in all… were wearing miniature tunics, like the Vikings wore, and each had their hair braided clumsily on the sides of their faces. But they’d added a new touch this evening … blue, jagged lines down the center of their faces … probably made with blueberry juice, Maire guessed.

She felt Rurik stiffen beside her. Alarmed, she looked at him and quickly advised, “Now, don’t be getting your whiskers in a twist again. They’re not mimicking you. They’re emulating you. You’re their hero of the day.”

But Rurik wasn’t angry this time. She could see that. Instead, his head was tilted to the side and a puzzled expression caused his forehead to furrow. “I’m not upset… precisely,” he murmured distractedly. “It’s just… his black hair.”

“Hair? Jamie’s?” Oh, God! Oh, no, not now! Not this way!