Page 36 of The Bewitched Viking

“And what an appropriate choice of birds! Especially since your brain is naught but a block of wood.”

He chuckled, obviously enjoying their banter.

“A truce,” Alinor agreed then.

Which was a mistake.

On the one hand, there was what he said next…in a low, rumbly drawl. “Ah, sweetling, I knew you and I could get on together if we tried.”

Sweetling?

On the other hand, there was what he did. Even as he spoke, Tykir swooped down to seal their bargain with a kiss. It was just a light brush of his lips across hers, but, oh, they were so warm and firm and persuasive. With just that fleeting touch, Alinor felt such a fierce yearning…for things she could not even imagine, or had never considered within her grasp.

Tykir jerked back, as if she’d passed poison from her lips to his. But, intuitively, she knew. He was experiencing the same frightening emotion that she was.

Who knew? Alinor thought. Who knew?

She did her best to hide her traitorous reaction from Tykir, and he did his best to blanket his demeanor of incredulity. Their hands were still joined, though, and where his palm pressed against hers, skin to skin, she felt an odd connection.

Mayhap he truly was sent to her, by her God or his gods. ’Twas an outlandish idea, of course. But it stayed in Alinor’s head and nestled in her heart, giving her momentary hope.

Fortunately, her unwanted thoughts were interrupted by the loud barking of a dog. Beast came galloping toward them, yipping and yelping happily, much to the consternation of Rurik, who was being dragged along by his pet, clutching a length of rope. Rurik was grumbling mightily in the Norse language—foul words, no doubt.

Beast flew through the air with an ambitious leap, from three arm-lengths away, and stood on his hind legs, putting his paws on Alinor’s shoulders. He almost knocked over both her and Tykir, who was laughing uproariously. Then he licked her enthusiastically in greeting.

“Oh, aren’t you the friendliest dog in the world?” she cooed. “Must be you have Saxon blood in your veins. For a certainty, there is no sign of the ill-tempered Viking in you. Nay, there is not. And, praise the Lord, ’tis a comfort to know that at least one male amongst you plunderers has good taste.”

“Come back here, Beast,” Rurik demanded. “Now! I mean it. Make haste, or you will be sorry.”

Still propped against Alinor’s body, his tail wagging and his tongue lolling with ecstasy at her ruffling of his head fur, Beast looked back over his shoulder at Rurik with an expression that could only be translated as, “Go away, Viking. I’ll come when I’m bloody well ready.”

“See…see…” Rurik sputtered to Tykir. “The witch put a spell on my dog. Five years I have had Beast at my side. My closest companion he has been…excepting you, of course,” he added hastily. “But now the witch has taken him from me with a spell. Lop off her head, Tykir. ’Tis the only remedy.”

Rurik stood glaring at her with misplaced outrage. A dozen magnificent animals must have given their lives for the various furs that adorned his body in layered mantles, and his head was topped by a high black bearskin hat. Gold and silver jewelry bedecked his neck and chest and arms and fingers. Truly, the man was bone-meltingly handsome, even with the woad face mark, in a vicious, overbearing sort of way. With a snort of scorn at her scrutiny, he placed a hand on each hip and tapped a booted foot impatiently, as if he seriously expected Tykir to comply with his order to behead her.

He wouldn’t, of course.

Would he?

“Rurik, I swear, you are the world’s greatest dunderhead. Didst your mother drop you on your head as a babe?” Sometimes Alinor questioned whether she might have been dropped, as well, especially when her witless tongue raced hither and yon.

Rurik clawed his hands and stretched them out toward her neck. The low, ferocious growl that emerged from his throat would have done Beast proud.

Tykir took Beast by the scruff of the neck and set him aside. Then he quickly shoved Alinor behind him and warned, “Have caution, wench. Push a man too far and even the greatest warrior will be unable to protect your head.” He raised his free arm to impede Rurik’s approach.

“But the man is deranged,” she protested, Still forced to stand behind Tykir, she peered around his right shoulder as she spoke. Meanwhile, the dog thought they were playing a game and ran circles around both her and Tykir. “Beast comes to me, Rurik,” she explained, “because he can smell the scent of Beauty on my clothing.”

With a hiss of exasperation, Tykir put a palm on her face and rudely pressed her back again so she was hidden totally by his body. Beast thought that was a wonderful trick, apparently, because he jumped up and tried to put his paws on her face, too. Between trying to peer around Tykir to reason with Rurik and trying to calm the dog, Alinor had trouble standing upright.

“That makes sense, Rurik,” Tykir said, his one arm still upraised to halt his progress. At the same time, he squeezed her hand tightly with his other hand in a silent message that she was not to interfere anymore.

Alinor peeked under Tykir’s uplifted arm and saw Rurik’s face soften somewhat, but he continued to insist mulishly, “I still say she is a witch. She stole my dog. ’Tis a crime for which she must pay. The wergild for stealing a man’s horse is the thief’s life. I demand the same for the loss of my dog.”

“You can hardly equate a dog with a horse, Rurik,” Tykir argued. “Be reasonable.” A mischievous chuckle escaped his lips as some thought occurred to him. “Mayhap Alinor could wag her tail for you in recompense for the loss of your dog’s devotion.”

“Ah ha!” Rurik exclaimed. “So, you have seen her famous tail, after all, Tykir.”

“Well, not precisely,” Tykir admitted. He was clearly enjoying his ridiculous jest.