Page 44 of Kiss of Wrath

She was the one who sighed now. “So, what did you and Mrs. Delgado decide on?”

“Roast pot.”

Oh good Lord! Is that why Mrs. Delgado is always so dazed-looking? High on drugs? “Don’t you dare bring pot into my house! That’s it. You’re fired.”

There was murmur of conversation. Then he corrected himself, “Pot roast. Listen, wench, you need to wipe your suspicious mind lest I decide to quit this job, which is not at all to my liking anyway. What?” He was speaking to Mrs. Delgado again. “Do we have a crock?”

Huh? “Why do you need a crock?” And what’s with the we?

“A Crock-Pot,” she heard Mrs. Delgado say in the background, followed by a giggle.

Mrs. Delgado giggling? Would wonders never cease?

“The Crock-Pot is in the cabinet above the refrigerator. But you don’t have to make dinner. I can stop for something on the way home.”

“Did I not tell you to stop worrying, that you are under my shield now.”

“What shield?”

He made a tsking sound of impatience and ignored her question. Instead, he told her, “I am making a list for Mrs. Delgado to go grocery shopping. Is there anything you need? Your larder is depleted of many things. By the by, do you mind if I drink the occasional beer?”

“Uh, no.” Mrs. Delgado is grocery shopping for us? Is this the same person who said she didn’t do errands when I asked her one time to stop for milk on the way to my house?

“Good.” On that terse response, he hung up on her, yet again. Did the man not know how to say good-bye? Come to think on it, he didn’t say hello, either.

Miranda found herself able to accomplish more work in the next three hours than she had in the past three days. Maybe she would even be able to attend that two-day conference in L.A. next month. No, that was too much to hope for. Still, she felt as if a great weight had been lifted off her shoulders, and at least for the time being she wasn’t worried about Roger or the children’s welfare. She only hoped that she wasn’t deluding herself about how much Mordr could help her.

It was five p.m. by the time Miranda arrived home. Using the remote, she opened the garage doors and parked her vehicle next to Mordr’s. He’d told her this morning that it was advisable not to leave their vehicles outdoors where they could be compromised in some way. She hadn’t asked exactly what he meant by compromised, assuming he meant explosives or sabotaging the engine or simple vandalism.

She entered the house from the garage directly into the kitchen, which was neat as a pin, and empty. Usually, the kids were here making a mess of after-school snacks. At the thought of food, she noticed the delicious smell of pot roast. Lifting the lid, she saw not only a large, succulent beef chuck roast but little potatoes and carrots as well. Not just that, but she could smell bread baking in the oven.

So, where was the Viking wonder?

Scent of a woman . . .

Mordr wondered if he would be sane once this mission was completed.

Right now, the children were sitting about the floor in the family room doing their schoolwork with the television turned off, all on his orders. If they remained silent and completed their assignments, he’d promised to tell them about the first time he went a-Viking as an overconfident eleven-year-old and almost wet his braies when a shark head-butted his longship. With slitted eyes and arms folded over his chest, he dared them to speak before their half hour was over, whilst he sat in an incredibly comfortable leather chair called a La-Z-Boy. It reclined, it vibrated, it molded its cushions to his backside, and he was harboring sinful ideas about what could be done on such a piece of furniture. And, yes, a red-haired vixen starred in that mind game.

But he could fantasize for only so long. Always, his thoughts came back to the little ones he had been sent to protect. Truly, being around children was tearing at his soul, causing him to go nigh faint on one occasion, and at other times, wanting to howl to the high heavens with his pain. Several times he’d escaped their presence for a few moments just so he could breathe without gasping. Tears even welled in his eyes when they got too close. A Viking warrior weeping? It was unacceptable.

He didn’t need to pray to Michael to relieve him of this particular assignment. Michael knew! And, not surprisingly, the irksome saint remained absent and silent.

Mordr was fine—well, not fine, but not screaming silently—when he was busy with specific tasks, like driving the five chatterlings to and from school. The only time they were not talking, or laughing, or giggling, or shouting, or shrieking was when they were asleep. Worst of all was the little girl, Linda, who insisted on giving him kisses. Kisses! Once last night before going to bed, and once before leaving his car and going into her school.

Another thing was their smell. Oh, not the scent of the dirt and other unmentionable things they attracted like moving magnets, but their skin when clean, especially after bathing, had a distinct child scent that was all too familiar to him, even after all these centuries.

When he’d arrived at their schools this afternoon to bring them home, they entered the car like a herd of Huns let loose from some dungeon.

“My peanut butter and jelly sandwich got smushed.”

“You’re s’posed to put it on top of your backpack, not under the books.”

“I traded a Twinkie with Johnny Severino for a night crawler.”

“Eew! Where is it? Where is it?”

“I put it on Jane Hardy’s shoulder an’ she screamed an’ I had to do quiet time in the corner for a whole hour. During recess!”