Page 30 of My Fair Viking

She punched him in the arm, hard, and he flinched. Well, not hard enough for him to flinch. He was teasing her again.

"Actually, I thought you in particular dined on sour crabapples and prickly pears and tough-as-hide boar meat. They go better with your disposition than"—he glanced down at some of the platters being placed before them—"sweet cream and late strawberries." He stretched out a hand and dipped his fingers into the cream, plucking out a plump berry. "Here," he said, offering it to her with his fingers.

"Nay… I do not want… oh, you lout…" She opened her mouth for his offering because cream was dripping from his fingers onto the table, making a mess. Unfortunately, he did not immediately remove his fingers from her mouth and made her lick off the cream before he drew back.

As she munched on the sweet berry, he dipped his fingers in a bowl of water and wiped them on a linen cloth. The whole time, he watched her chew. "My God!" he said finally. "You have the most amazing mouth."

Tyra wasn't exactly sure what he meant by that, but she sensed it was a compliment. Bloody hell, she knew it was a compliment. How could it be anything else when he was staring at her so hotly?

"My mouth is too big, and you well know it," she snapped.

He shook his head slowly from side to side. "It's just the right size."

"For eating?"

He laughed. "Not for eating."

"My sisters…" she said, grasping for some subject of conversation to make him stop staring at her. "What think you of my sisters? They're beautiful, aren't they?"

At first a slight smile tugged at his lips, as if he recognized her evasive tactics. Then he looked about the hall, searching out each of her sisters. First Ingrith, a Norsewoman through and through. Tall, slim, and ever so efficient, with her blond hair hanging in long braids down over her crisp blue, open-sided apron, worn over a sky-blue gunna. She glanced up from where she was instructing a kitchen carl on proper methods of ladling beer into mugs from a big wooden barrel, noticed Adam's scrutiny, and smiled at him.

Tyra's heart sank at Ingrith's interest in the man, and his apparent return of interest. And she cringed at her own attire, compared to Ingrith's. She wore a brown belted tunic and brown leather braies. They were clean and of fine fabric, but not at all feminine. This was how she wished to be attired… as an example to her men. Leastways, that was what she told herself.

While her mind wandered, Adam's gaze had moved to Vana, who came into view then, bustling about the tables, wiping up the spill from one Viking's ale horn, shooing a dog out the door—none were permitted indoors during meals—or chastising another Viking for some loathsome act… probably wiping his greasy fingers on one of the cloths that adorned the upper tables. Vana would have been considered merely pestsome because of her prissiness, but her cool Icelandic good looks made up for any nuisance caused by her cleanliness passion.

Rafn snagged Vana as she bustled by, backing her up against a far wall. Rafn was a fierce fighter in battle, Tyra's right hand in a fight to the death, but he was pudding in Vana's hands and always had been. Right now he had one arm braced on the wall behind her and was twirling a loose strand of her white-blond hair in the forefinger of his free hand. Vana was laughing at something he said. If by some miracle Tyra ever married, Vana and Rafn would be married in the next instant, so much in love were they.

Then there was Breanne, who had just entered the hall. When engaged in her carpentry and building work, Breanne often wore men's attire, but at other times, like now, she adorned herself as the pure woman she was. Right now her curly red hair was pulled back off her face with a gold circlet, and she wore a gown of amber silk in the Frankish style, without the usual Viking apron. Breanne was gorgeous, and any man in the room would be glad to have her.

Drifa came up to them at the high table, swinging her hips in a saucy way. Drifa's black hair had gained silver highlights in the flickering light of soapstone candles and wall torches. Drifa had always been people-shy, and she raised her eyes demurely as one of the soldiers, clearly impressed with her beauty, asked her a question. Her eyes, a light shade of jade, matched the green apron and shift she wore. When she got to their place at the high table, Drifa made a great fuss about arranging a bowl of flowers on their table, and she saw Adam's eyes twinkle with merriment at her transparency. All the men adored Drifa with her exotic blend of Eastern and Norse blood. She was a tiny creature, but womanly and sweet-natured… all the things Tyra was not. Adam would probably adore her, too.

She looked to him to see if that was so, but his eyes had already wandered to a young Norsewoman far below who had begun to strum a lute. While Tyra's burly Viking comrades much preferred a louder, more vulgar form of entertainment, Adam seemed impressed. In fact, he tilted his head to the side, and a whimsical expression crossed his face.

Finally, when his attention came back to her, she couldn't help asking, "You like the pretty lady's music?"

He shrugged. "My sister Adela used to play the lute. It just reminded me of a time…" He shrugged again. "It just reminded me," he said with a sigh.

"And so, what do you think of my sisters?"

His gaze swept over her then, bemused. Taking in her manly attire, no doubt. And her bigness.

She raised her chin. She would not bow under any man's condemnation. She was who she was. So there!

Grasping one of her braids in his hand, he tugged her closer. "Your sisters are beautiful… each and every one of them in her own way."

She blinked, hoping her disappointment did not show. What was wrong with her? Of course he considered her sisters beautiful. Everyone did. Why had she even asked? Why had she invited the comparison?

He tugged more on her braid till she was forced to lean forward from her chair, till she was so close she could smell the soft soap on his skin and the mead on his breath.

"If you are asking, however, which one I would choose to share my bed furs for a night… if I could renegotiate our pact…"

She wanted to protest and tell him that that wasn't what she'd meant at all, but it was. It was, may the gods have pity on her pathetic soul.

He brushed his lips against hers… a whisper of a kiss, but so powerful she nigh shook from the aftereffects. Like fire it was. Sweet fire.

And then he finished his statement.

"… I would still choose you."