Page 6 of The Caged Viking

Obviously!

…that trouble was coming…

What could be worse trouble than living in a cage?

…or that she was trouble.

That’s gratitude for you!

At least she had him talking.

“Why dost thou carry the emblem of a dog? I have ne’er heard of a Viking realm named for such. Bearstead, Wolfshire, Fox Lair, Ravensmore…but ne’er a scrawny mongrel.”

“Huh?” She followed the direction of his gaze and laughed. “That’s just Snoopy. A pet dog known for his wit and philosophy of life.”

“Why does it have his finger raised? Not that dogs have fingers.”

She laughed. “It’s an age-old gesture. Can be traced by to ancient Roman times, I think. Even Socrates mentioned it.”

His eyes went wide when he understood her meaning. Then he shook his head again and muttered, “The Norns of Fate must be having a grand jest at my expense.”

“I saw you weeping tonight,” she told him then, reaching a hand through the bars to pat his arm in sympathy. “Do you want to talk about it? I’m good at listening.”

“You dare much, milady,” he snarled, grabbing hold of her wrist and yanking hard. “Lest you taste the flavor my wrath, you will ne’er mention that subject again.”

“Ouch!”

He released her hand and she drew it back quickly, rubbing the soreness with her other hand. “Jeesh! Talk about overreacting! There’s nothing wrong with a man crying on occasion. It doesn’t make him any less manly. In fact—”

He said a one-word Anglo-Saxon expletive that had survived the centuries, right in line with her Snoopy shirt.

On and on the dream went. Sometimes he didn’t talk to her at all, just stared at her intensely. Other times, he spoke, a little. The gist of it all was that, despite his words to the contrary, he needed her.

That was her opinion anyway, and when it came to her dreams, she had the last word.

Chapter 3

Vikings here, Vikings there, Vikings everywhere...

It was barely past dawn when Kirsten gave up the ghost, so to speak.

With sleep being impossible, she got up, brushed her teeth, pulled her long blonde hair into a pony tail, and went downstairs, still in her Snoopy sleepshirt covered by a terry cloth robe. In the pantry, a coffeemaker, on an automatic timer, was bubbling away. Pouring herself a mug and putting in a spoonful of sugar, she walked barefooted out onto the back porch where she found her father. Magnus Ericsson had always been an early riser, since the days when he’d been what he called “a simple farmer” back in the “old country” of Norway.

“Good morning, sweetling,” he said. “You’re up early.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” she replied.

“Excited about your birthday celebration tonight?”

“Please! What woman welcomes a thirty-fifth birthday?”

He grinned, knowing that age didn’t matter much to her. Not yet, anyway. She was too busy with her professional life.

Glancing pointedly at the rare blue amber in a white gold filigree setting that she wore on a chain around her neck, he asked, “Do you like your birthday gift?”

“I love it! I’ve never seen amber this color before.”

“’Tis rare. In the old days when I did a bit of amber harvesting in the Baltics, after my crops were planted and before harvest, we found a few pieces of that color. Mostly shades of rust, but there was the occasional blue or green or red. I gave Madrene a red stone one time, called Dragon’s Blood. Methinks her husband, that miscreant Karl, took it with the divorce.”