Page 111 of The Last Viking

“There is naught worse than a stiff-boarded boat.”

“Or a stiff-necked woman,” Tim added.

Rolf grinned, no doubt patting himself on the back. “A man must be in control of his ship, steering its course,” he elaborated on his macho analogy. “A boat that is off keel will list through life…I mean, through the seas. Rudderless.” He grinned even wider.

I’m going to take care of his rudder if I ever get my hands on him again.

“A good boat can be a man’s greatest treasure, or his greatest heartache,” Rolf concluded with a sigh. “Of course, there’s one sure way to stop a willful boat from tossing you to and fro,” Rolf said casually, walking over to the wall of tools on the side of the set. Taking down an S-shaped metal bolt, he held it in the air. “Norse shipbuilders make such a device, carved from wood, Tim. Have I e’er told you about the famous Viking S-nail? Nay? Well, perhaps another time. ’Tis a sure-fire mechanism for securing a wayward boat, or, in the case of the famous Viking S-spot, putting a woman in her rightful place.”

Then Rolf winked into the camera lenses.

Meredith knew—she just knew—that the wink was intended for her. A promise. The Viking lout intended to put her in her “rightful place.”

Dusk already blanketed the countryside as Meredith drove up the long lane to her cottage the next evening. She’d just come from the airport, where she’d put her niece on a shuttle for Chicago. Thea was going to spend a few days with her father and his family—the first visit since she’d moved in with Meredith. It wasn’t a trip the young girl had looked forward to, but she’d consented to a short visit, at Meredith’s urging. The girl needed her father’s love.

Approaching her darkened A-frame cottage, Meredith felt a sense of déjà vu. It had been a long time since she’d come home to an empty house—almost three months, in fact. That was when Rolf had first entered her life, and then Thea.

At that point, the Trondheim longship hadn’t been built. She hadn’t given up her tenured position at Columbia to stay on here at Oxley College. Her life hadn’t been turned upside down and inside out. She hadn’t been pregnant.

A solitary few days would be good for her, Meredith resolved as she parked the car and then walked to the front door. She needed time alone to make some decisions about her future and any relationship she might have with Rolf, whom she presumed was still in New York where the Home Improvement show was taped. Or was it L.A.? Whatever.

Mike had been decidedly mum when she’d questioned him about Rolf that afternoon, except to tell her that Tim Allen had offered Rolf a periodic guest spot on his program—a Viking philosopher role, similar to Wilson’s. Apparently, the show’s rating had shot sky-high last night.

She’d gone slack-jawed with amazement at the news. That was all she needed—Rolf as a TV celebrity.

“Rolf declined the offer,” Mike had related.

Thank God!

As she inserted the key in the lock, a loud yipping noise greeted her. She smiled, realizing some other things were different from her lonely life of a few months ago. She wasn’t entirely alone now. She had Dog.

Yippee! she thought wryly.

No sooner did she step into the entryway than a rough arm wrapped around her waist from behind, lifting her off the floor, while a knife was pressed against her neck. Time stood still, and the last three months slipped away like snowflakes in the wind.

In an exact recap of the previous experience, she dropped her briefcase to the floor, its contents spilling everywhere. Even her words came out the same as she flailed her arms and legs, shrieking, “Let me go!”

Dog barked loudly, but Meredith wasn’t sure if he was trying to scare the “attacker” off, or encourage him.

“Hljótt!” Rolf ordered the animal, who slunk off to lie down obediently in the corner. Geez, did Dog understand Old Norse?

Her “attacker” spat out the single guttural command of “Hljótt!” or “Quiet!” to her, as well, when she continued to scream and fight his painful hold on her. Finally, he exhaled loudly with disgust and tossed her over his shoulder.

“You want a vicious Viking, you’ll get a vicious Viking,” he muttered. Carrying her into the living room, where the only light came from the blazing fireplace, the wretch threw her down to the sofa and followed after her, his braced hands pinning her shoulders flat and his right hip nudging her body firmly against the backframe.

“You’re…you’re despicable,” she screeched.

“Yea, I am,” he seethed. “And best you accustom yourself to my baser nature, because even your screeching will not drive me away this time.”

“You can’t just barge into my home. A civilized man would respect my wishes and stay away,” she stormed weakly.

“Like Jeffrey? Blód hel! Is that the kind of man you favor now?” The contempt in his voice ripped through the air.

“No!” Then, realizing she’d conceded a point, she added, “But that doesn’t mean—”

He put up a halting hand and inquired frostily, “Wouldst prefer that I go back to my own time, Merry-Death?”

She shook her head, unable to speak over the torment such a possibility evoked. What a dog in the manger she was. She didn’t want him here, but she didn’t want him gone.