Page 25 of The Last Viking

“I know who Moses was,” she snapped. “Lord, you do tell a good story. Not that I really believe there is such a relic in that cross, but assuming it’s true, what is its significance to you or your father?”

“Much guilt has my father suffered for taking the sacred relic, largely due to my mother’s nagging. She believes, and has convinced my father, that the great famine that now plagues Norway can be halted only if the relic is returned to its rightful place on Holy Island. Mayhap it must be buried under the ruins of the monastery, if none of the monkish order be about.

“When the frontispiece is returned, the curse will end. My mother had a vision in which an angel told her so.”

Meredith couldn’t stop the derisive sound that erupted from her throat. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“I am wont to be skeptical, too. About the stolen relic of Moses causing a famine, and its return miraculously ending the pestilence. But I cannot take the chance of being wrong. And I am honorbound to complete the mission for my father.”

“So, on the way to return the crucifix to Lindisfarne, Storr Grimmsson…the guy you told me about…attacked you and stole the relic, right?”

He nodded.

Meredith was getting a headache from all this puzzling information. “So you followed Grimmsson to…?”

“Iceland.”

“Iceland. Of course,” she said sarcastically. “And from there you chased him to these waters and got shipwrecked.”

“Yea,” he said brightly. “Now you understand.”

Aaarrgh, Meredith shrieked silently and handed the crucifix back to Rolf. After replacing it in its hiding place and putting the belt back on, Rolf sat down at the table. She placed a bowl of soup in front of him, along with a stack of grilled cheese sandwiches and a glass of milk.

“Blood soup!”

She laughed. “It’s not blood. It’s tomatoes.”

“These are someone’s toes?” he asked with horror.

“No, you fool. Just eat the soup. It’s from a vegetable, and it’s good.”

He did, and although he wasn’t too impressed with the meal, he devoured everything, including the milk, despite his having commented, “A good cup of mead would be preferable to this child’s drink.”

Meredith made a mental note to buy a six-pack of beer later that day.

“Okay, listen,” she said after she’d stacked the dishes in the dishwasher. She was about to tell him to go back into the den and practice his English exercises while she went to the store.

“I’m listening,” he drawled against the exposed curve of her neck. He’d snuck up behind her. Darn those athletic shoes, which didn’t squeak in warning.

She tried to step away, but he wrapped his arms around her waist from behind and proceeded to release her hair from its knot at the back of her head. “I love your hair,” he whispered.

“So you’ve said before,” she said, relishing the praise. False praise, she was sure. No man had ever taken particular note of her hair before. After all, even on a good hair day, it was only brown—no spectacular color—and it was straight as a poker. No feminine curls or waves.

Rolf burrowed his face in it with a sigh as he used one hand to spread its strands over her shoulders. And suddenly her hair felt thick and luxuriant and…beautiful.

No sooner did she register that incredible fact than she noticed that his other hand was placed flat against her stomach, like a brand of possession.

Meredith couldn’t have moved if she’d wanted to.

And she didn’t want to.

“I’m sorry I fell asleep on you yestereve, Merry-Death,” he said softly, his lips tracing a path along her jaw to the side of her mouth, his hand moving upward from her stomach, under the hem of her sweater, to rub her bare abdomen.

She made a little mewling sound of distress. Or was it pleasure? She arched her neck back against his shoulder.

“But I’m not tired now,” he whispered, and cupped one of her lace-covered breasts. “Are you?”

She practically shot off the floor at the intense, erotic sensations his gentle touch engendered. But she was held pinned against the sink counter by Rolf’s lower body, which pressed insinuatingly against the back of her jeans-clad bottom.