Page 54 of The Viking’s Captive

Woman in a Red Dress, but no Buddy Holly in sight…

Tyra was missing from the great hall.

Adam hated the fact that he noticed her presence or absence. Truth to tell, he liked looking at her. He liked teasing her. He especially liked kissing her.

Was she avoiding him again?

Probably.

Alinor had told him a short time ago that Tyra considered him a toad, and she was smiling as she made that announcement, as if he should be pleased … as if it were a compliment.

Women! ‘Twas hard to figure them out.

An odd silence came over the hall then. He looked up and peered through the smokiness toward the other end where a staircase led to the upper level. The most magnificent woman he’d ever seen was storming through the aisle between the long tables, heading toward the dais where he sat with Tykir, Alinor, Rafn, Bolthor, and the sisters. She was tall, very tall, with flowing blond hair. And she wore a long-sleeved, low-necked gown of crimson red which molded her body from truly splendid breasts, to narrow waist, to womanly hips.

It was Tyra.

Who knew? Who knew?

Adam put a hand to his heart to still the mad pumping there. He felt hot all over, and proud … so very proud … of his lady.

My lady? Aaarrgh! She is not my lady. I have no right to be proud of her. How can she be my lady if I am her toad? My brain is splintering apart here. Do not look at her. How can I not look at her? Oh, God, she looks so damn good.

“Where are my sisters?” were the first words out of her mouth, and they were directed at him.

“Huh?” he answered, unable to move his gaze from that vast expanse of alluring skin just above the swell of her breasts. Shaking his head to clear it, he looked from side to side and noticed that Alinor and the sisters had somehow disappeared.

Ah, now he understood. They were responsible for this remarkable transformation in Tyra.

“Sit down,” he demanded, forcing her into the seat next to him. “You are creating a scene.”

” ‘Twill be nothing compared to the scene I create once I put my hands on four sisters and a certain lady.”

“You should be thanking them,” he said, placing a goblet of mead in her hands. She needed a good swig, not that he would tell her that.

“And why is that?” she asked icily.

“You are beautiful. They played some trick on you so that you would realize just how beautiful you are.”

“That is pure hog swill. I am not beautiful, and fine feminine garments will not make it so. But that is neither here nor there. I am too big for such feminine finery. People are probably laughing at me behind their hands. How can I lead my men in battle dressed like this?” She waved her hand with disgust down the front of her body. Then she downed the contents of her goblet in one long swallow, belched loudly, and waved to a housecarl for a refill.

Adam barely stifled a grin. “As long as you keep belching and scratching, medoubts you will ever have to worry about appearing too feminine to your soldiers. And, besides, can you not don different apparel for different jobs … as Breanne does?”

“So, you notice the way Breanne dresses?” The question was asked idly, but he could tell it mattered to her … especially when she downed another goblet of mead and motioned for yet another.

Was that hurt in her eyes? He hoped so. He liked the idea of Tyra being jealous of him.

“I notice all women. I like women, but—”

“If you like women, why have you remained chaste for two years?”

Did everyone have to discuss his sex life? Did everyone have to pick and probe at his emotions? He might as well tell her, or she would never let up. With a deep sigh, he revealed, “Because I was in mourning … for my sister, Adela, who died two years past. I loved her more than anyone else on this earth, but I could not save her. I did not remain chaste apurpose. There was no vow or aught like that. I just was not interested.” He shrugged, unable to add more to those bare facts.

Tyra seemed to understand. She placed a hand on his forearm and squeezed in commiseration. It was not her pity he wanted, but he was comforted by her silent understanding of his grief.

Enough gloom!“But what I started to say before you interrupted me, wench, is that I like women, and I notice the pretty ones, like your sisters, but you are so much more. When you are in a room, you are like a bright, vibrant flower, and they fade in comparison.”

“Hmph! Me, a flower? I do not believe that for one moment. But it is nice of you to say so,” she conceded with a sniff. No doubt it was the three goblets of mead she’d imbibed that prompted the concession.