Page 57 of Hot & Heavy

Give me your tired, your poor…

One day later, Madrene was so tired and confused and lonely and disheartened that she felt like crying.

But she had not wept for two long years, since the fall of Norstead, and she refused to succumb now.

She had ridden in an enormous bird known as a jet plane across the ocean for hours and hours, more than half a day. Most of the others inside the bird, at least two hundred, had worn military uniforms of one kind or another. Meals had even been served to the passengers, and there had been a privy. All this inside a bird.

It frightened Madrene to realize how much farther advanced this country was over her own. Even with all the adventuring that Norsemen did, none had ever reported such a civilization.

She had not wanted to cling to her new husband, but she had. When the bird had taken off. When she had seen clouds outside her window. When she had realized how far she was traveling from all that was familiar to her. When she smelled his man-scent or when he looked at her just so.

Then, late afternoon on the day after her wedding, they had landed in Ian's homeland, called Ah-mare-ah-ca. There, she'd been subjected to still more marvels. They rode in a horseless boxed cart with wheels, called a car, to Ian's keep in Sandy-egg-go. Everywhere she looked, there were people, hundreds and hundreds of people, all scurrying somewhere or other on important business. And the buildings were so close together here. No landed estates as in the Norselands, but small buildings with small plots of grass in front and behind.

Ian had told her that everyone was equal in this country, that there was no royal class. She could not fathom that. Even the Saxons had royal families, tradesmen, cotters and thralls. Her father had been a jarl, comparable to a Saxon earl.

She and Ian had come to somewhat of a truce.

Theirs was a marriage of convenience which would be ended sooner rather than later. She was agreeable as long as she could work on a plan to return to Norstead. Ian gained naught from their arrangement, except his honor, but she might just have a way of raising coin to repay him.

When they arrived at Ian's home, he helped her out of the tax-he car and said, "Be it ever so humble." He paid the tax-he car man, then led her up a stone walkway by putting a hand under her elbow. He slung his cloth carry bag over his other shoulder.

His home was modest by Norstead standards… as small as one of the stables, and there were no upper levels. He had told her that he lived alone in this cottage, with no servants; so it was no doubt big enough for his needs. There was a grassy section in front, like the other cottages had, but the back led to a sandy beach and the ocean. At least the smell of salt air was familiar to her.

When they got to the doorway, he put his bag down and inserted a key in the lock. He turned then and grinned at her. "Should I carry you over the threshold?"

"Whatever for?"

"A bridegroom is supposed to carry his bride over the threshold, for good luck." Before he even finished his words, the brute picked her up in his arms, kicked open the door and walked inside.

Madrene was not a small woman. "Put me down. I am too heavy for you."

He chuckled and nuzzled her neck. "Think again, sweetheart."

She could not recall any time in her thirty-one years that she had ever been lifted in anyone's arms.

Her mother had died when she was three. If her father had ever carried her, she did not recall it. There were always so many children about.

For just a moment, she allowed herself to enjoy the experience. She wrapped her arms over his shoulders and buried her face in the crook of his neck. She could swear he issued a soft moan. His skin smelled of pine and man. She could grow accustomed to that scent.

Nay, I could not, she immediately corrected herself. This is a temporary arrangement. I should not become too comfortable here. "Put me down," she demanded.

"Prickly already?" Ian laughed and set her down. It seemed as if he deliberately let her body slide over his, but she was no doubt wrong about that. He did appear to be in some discomfort.

"Are you in pain?" she asked.

He coughed and barely choked out, "No," though she thought she heard him mutter under his breath,

"Hell, yes."

She looked around a small room which had comfortable stuffed chairs, a fireplace and low tables. Pale brown carpeting covered the floors, even to the walls. It was so clean and plush, a person could sleep on it, unlike the rushes in her home, which were a constant chore for her to rake clean and sprinkle with sweet rosemary. The smooth walls were white, and on them were framed paintings, like the one over the fireplace that she would study later… a roiling sea with a ship in peril. There was also a black box with knobs on it; she would ask Ian about its purpose at another time.

For now, this was his great hall, unlike any she had ever seen. She liked it.

He had been watching her closely for a reaction to his home. No doubt modesty had caused him to refer to it as humble, which it definitely was not. Everyone knew that only the very wealthy could afford to have paintings on their walls.

"Welcome to my home," he said.

She could not tell if he was teasing her, or serious. She chose to take him seriously. "I thank you for your hospitality."