Page 4 of The Last Viking

“Yeah, and I’m the queen of England,” she scoffed.

“Nay, you are not. Aelfgifu is queen of all Britain, and a more timid wren there never was. I misdoubt she’ll live another year. Many times has she gone through the childbed fever and yet produced but one heir for King Aethelred.”

She gaped at him.

He waved a hand in the air imperiously, annoyed that she’d interrupted him. “Know this, my lady…I, Geirolf Ericsson, have no need to force my attentions on any wench. Women have been begging for my favors since I was an untried boy.”

Favors? She rolled her eyes at his arrogance. “Listen, buster, I don’t care if you’re Kevin Sorbo. Get the hell out of my house.”

“Your language…’tis odd. What is this Calf in Shore Bow?” As he spoke, a frown creased the man’s brow and he continually looked down at his belt buckle, which he clasped tightly now. Then he muttered to himself, “How curious! I can understand and speak her foreign tongue when I touch the talisman.”

“Give me a break,” she sneered, but she realized, at the same time, that she could understand him now, too. And the bizarre thing was that she knew they both spoke different languages. A shiver of alarm swept her skin. “I don’t know if this is someone’s idea of a silly gag, or if you’re a burglar, or a rapist, but—”

Meredith stopped speaking as she noticed a strong odor, like charred meat. Sniffing, she scanned the room, and couldn’t believe her eyes. Some kind of skinned animal was impaled on a peeled stick, roasting in her fireplace. “Wh-what is that?” she asked shrilly. “Oh, God, is that the stray that’s been hanging around my back door lately? Did you…did you kill Garfield?”

“Guard field?”

“Yes, Garfield, the cat.”

His eyes shot up. “A cat? You think I killed a cat? And plan to eat its flesh? Blód hel!” Then he grinned.

“’Tis a rabbit.”

“Rabbit?” Inwardly, she sighed with relief. Not a cat.

“Yea.”

Yea? What’s this “yea” business? He was still grinning, as if killing a rabbit was normal. He was probably one of those NRA redneck fanatics. “Why…are…you…cooking…a…rabbit?” she asked very slowly, barely reining in her anger.

“Because…I…am…hungry,” he replied, mimicking her snide pacing. “And because I’m sick of eating raw fish. Why else?”

Of course. Why else? “Hungry? Raw fish? But…but where did you get a rabbit?”

He exhaled loudly with exasperation, as if her questions were foolish, “I snared it outside your keep.”

“Keep?”

“Your manor house. Why do you keep repeating words? Are you a lackbrain?”

“No, I’m not a lackbrain, you…you lackbrain.” Suddenly, she thought of something else. “Where did you put the…other parts?” Lord, she hoped she didn’t have rabbit fur and guts in her kitchen sink, especially since her garbage disposal was broken.

“I offered them to the gods, of course, in thanks for my safekeeping.” He gazed pointedly at the blazing fire, a mischievous glimmer in his whiskey-colored eyes.

“I beg your pardon. Did you say that you used my fireplace as an altar to some heathen god?”

He shrugged. “I worship both gods, Norse and Christian.”

“How dare you practice some pagan rite in my fireplace!”

He sucked in a deep breath. “Blessed Freya! You have a voice that could peel rust off armor. Best you shut your teeth, wench, or I may decide to sacrifice a virgin as well.”

That mischievous gleam was still there in his sparkling eyes, which she decided were the color of aged bourbon. Yes, booze eyes. And that twitch at the edge of his full lips—was it a nervous tic, or suppressed amusement?

“Well, good thing I’m not a virgin then,” she snapped.

He broke into a full-fledged smile, rewarding Meredith with a dazzling display of his white teeth. Her mind said, So what? But another part of her body said, O-o-h, boy!

The creep soon jolted her back to reality, though.