Page 80 of The Bewitched Viking

Mayhap he was besotted.

Mayhap he did not give a bloody damn, either way.

“I spoke with some of the villagers whilst I was walking,” she said in answer to his question as to how she knew of Dragonstead’s good care. “They have high praise for you. And Girta thinks you walk on water.”

He shrugged. “And that brings us to the reason for my clomping through the snow after you. A lady should not be out walking alone, unprotected. There are wolves about.”

“Wolves?” She shuddered, then waved his concern aside with her free hand.

He was holding on to her other hand like a lifeline. Even realizing that sad reality, he did not let go. It felt too good, and he had been feeling so bad lately. Hell, not lately, he corrected. Forever.

“But not to fear,” she babbled on, “I have brought my protection with me. Beast.”

They both turned as one to see the dog rolling playfully, side over side, in the fluffy snow.

“Some knight in armor your Lord Beast would prove!” he scoffed.

As if sensing that he was the subject of their discussion, Beast stood and shook his fur, then came loping toward them, tail wagging and tongue lolling. Without preamble, Beast stood on his hind legs, forelegs propped on her shoulder, and gave Alinor several sloppy dog kisses. Before he knew what the beast was about, the animal did the same to him, except that Tykir could swear he added more slobber.

Alinor laughed gaily.

He said, “Yeech,” but he was oddly touched by the dog’s demonstration. Beast dropped to all four legs and gave them each a long, considering look, waiting like a good dog to be told what to do next.

“Wouldn’t it be nice if people could love us unconditionally as a dog does?”

He raised a brow at her.

“A dog does not say I will love you if you are beautiful. Or if you do what I want you to. Or if you have wealth. Or if you produce babes. Or—”

“—if you are good-mannered. Or more quiet. Or less troublesome. Or a strong fighter. Or a diligent student. Or generous with gifts. Or especially lusty in lovemaking.” He waggled his eyebrows at her with that last remark.

She clicked her tongue in a familiar tutting sound he was coming to love. Nay, he was not coming to love anything about her. ’Twas just a sound he was coming to associate with her. There. He felt better having made that correction in his mind.

“Tykir?” she said softly.

He braced himself. The wench had a habit of boring her way into his personal life with her intrusive questions, and they most always started with a soft-spoken, “Tykir?”

“Why have you never settled here with wife and children?”

Intrusive did not begin to describe the depth of her probe this time. It speared the heart of him. He was about to say that it was none of her affair. Instead, some demon in his head said, “Why don’t you tell me…since you seem to have an opinion on every blessed thing in the world?”

“Mayhap you never found the woman with whom you wanted to share Dragonstead,” she said faintly. The expression that passed over her face could only be described as glorious.

Why should she look glorious?

He did not want to know.

Yea, I do. Why?

Females always think it is a woman who will make a man’s life complete. A fierce fight, strong ale and a warm bed…that is all a man really needs…and mayhap an occasional wench, but for rutting only.

Could she possibly think she is that woman?

“Where do you get these fey ideas?” he snapped, dropping her hand from his clasp as if it were suddenly leprous.

“Testy today, are you? Perchance you should have stayed abed another day. I know,” she pronounced brightly, “you need another bowl of my chicken soup.”

He put a forearm to his forehead in mock horror. Well, not really mock. He would be truly horrified if he had to slurp another drop of that soup.