Page 50 of The Last Viking

A flush stained Mike’s cheeks, but he raised his chin haughtily. “Rolf said it would be a good idea for all of us to dress the part to make this a truly authentic project. By the way, toots,” he said, addressing Thea, “where’s your Viking babelet gown?”

“In the house. I didn’t want to get paint on it,” Thea answered, looking up at Mike adoringly.

“Ahem!” Meredith coughed, drawing Mike’s attention back to her. “I thought Rolf was refusing to give you any advice.”

“He is…on the longship project. But he doesn’t mind sharing information on the Vikings themselves.”

“How big of him!” Meredith observed snidely.

“Rolf was right, Dr. Foster. Everyone feels more in the spirit of the project when they’re dressed appropriately. And isn’t that what your grandfather really wanted from this project—to teach young people about another way of life?”

“Well, maybe,” she conceded, sticking her head around the corner. Sure enough, the dozen or so students were dressed like Mike and Rolf. Some wore the same collarless, thigh-length tunics over tight-fitting trousers, with the shirts gathered in tightly at the waist with huge belts. A few had simple capes thrown over one shoulder and attached with round metal pins, instead of the traditional ornate Viking brooches. Their modern “brooches” sported such logos as, “Go Eagles,” or “Long Live the Grateful Dead,” or “Party Night at Sigma Nu, You Might Get Lucky,” and even one that said, “It’s Not the Way You Fish, It’s How You Wiggle the Worm.”

The college girls looked darling in braided hair and long-sleeved linen shifts covered with calf-length, open-sided Mother Hubbard—style aprons attached at the shoulders with garish bronze brooches.

“Where did they get all this stuff?” she asked, turning back to Mike.

“Some of them went to the local Society for Creative Anachronism. Some to Goodwill. But mostly the kids made their own outfits. The fabric was real cheap, and the belts and brooches are just dime-store items,” he said defensively, giving Meredith a clue that the money had come from the project kitty.

She relaxed. “Well, I suppose—”

“Would you have any problem with our using the damaged lumber to build a longhouse out by the swimming pool?”

“Wh-what? Absolutely not. Where’s Rolf? I want to talk to him. Now! What happened to his tight time schedule? A longhouse! Oh, I’m going to kill him. Where is that damn Viking?”

“Must you shriek all the time, Merry-Death?” Rolf said, coming up behind her. Mike and Thea hurried off, leaving her to face the man alone. “Truly, every seagull from here to Iceland has flown away with all your caterwauling.”

Because she’d had to present a progress report at a faculty meeting that morning, Meredith wore a black silk peplum suit with a knee-length skirt, nylons, and high-heeled pumps. Even as he criticized her “caterwauling,” Rolf leaned lazily against the house, arms folded over his wide chest, and made a sweeping assessment of her outfit. It was hard to miss the appreciative widening of his whiskey eyes at the vast stretch of exposed legs.

“I was not shrieking,” she said, disconcerted. “I merely said…Rolf, are you listening to me?”

“Huh?” His eyes were still riveted on her stockings, not to mention her fitted jacket and the modest cleavage where a single pearl on a gold chain nestled. Then a slow grin crept over his lips. “Just how high do those scandalous hose go?”

“High enough,” she snapped, her face flushing with heat. “Really, my attire has nothing to do with…aaarrgh!…what are you doing?” This time she really was shrieking.

Rolf reached an arm downward and was proceeding to lift the hem of her skirt to check for himself on the hosiery.

She slapped his hand away and told him, “It goes to the waist, and it’s called pantyhose. Now, can we get back to the reason for my coming home—to talk to you?”

“Hmmm,” he murmured, his attention now centered on the pearl pendant. “I have an emerald necklet in my treasure casket at home…bartered from a Rustrader in Novgorod. I would give it to you if I could. ’Twould match your beautiful eyes, sweetling.” He flicked the pearl with a forefinger.

Her bare skin underneath felt seared by his brief touch. “Oh.” She sighed involuntarily.

“Oh,” he said at the same time, throatily, with obvious surprise. Then his amber eyes went heavy lidded and smoldering. In an instant, the brush of his forefinger across her skin had acted like the abrasion of a match, striking instantaneous fire in them both.

Alarmed at the sudden wave of turmoil that flooded her, she backed away, through the patio door and into the house.

He followed after her, drawing the door shut and clicking the lock in place.

She backed into the corner by the fireplace, out of view of any who might pass by outside. Did she do so accidentally, or because she wanted privacy to be alone with Rolf? Had he missed her as much as she’d missed him these past two days? Did he want her as much as she was beginning to want him?

With arrogant presumption, Rolf snaked one hand around her nape and used the other hand to haul her hips up flush against his. And, oh, Lord, he had missed her. A lot.

“I don’t think—” she started to protest.

“That’s right, dearling, don’t think,” he finished for her. Incorrectly, of course, but Meredith couldn’t manage to get the words out to set him straight. Rolf had lifted her by the waist and pushed her against the wall, her high heels a good foot off the floor. With his hips holding her in place, belly to belly, Rolf proceeded to do what he’d intended all along.

With a rumble of supreme male determination, he ran his callused palms over her silk stockings, from the creases of her knees, over the backs of her thighs and buttocks, up to the waist, hitching her skirt up along the way.