Page 61 of The Blue Viking

Oh, Rurik, if you only knew, you create beauty in your own way… not just in how you look. And your greatest legacy is a boy with hair black as a raven’s wing and silken to the touch.

Still another time, Rurik remarked, “You seem happy when you sew. Nay, happy is not the correct word. You seem peaceful.”

“Hmmm. I suppose I do feel peaceful.”

“Methinks I will carry this image into future battles with me. In the midst of all the blood and carnage, I will call up a mind-picture to soothe me—‘Maire at Peace.’ ”

Maire’s heart skipped a beat at the prospect of Rurik being at war, surrounded by imminent peril, possibly injured or killed. It was silly of her to mind so. After all, it was Rurik’s occupation to be a fighting man. And yet Maire hated to think of him endangered.

Mostly, there were silences while she sewed on her tapestry … easy, comfortable silences. Once, Maire looked up to see Rurik just staring at her. Their eyes connected, and he smiled, softly. She smiled back. It was such a precious moment that tears welled in her eyes, and she had to resume her work quickly before Rurik could notice and think her a foolish, smitten maid.

Then Maire became absorbed in her work, pausing only when she heard a commotion coming from belowstairs and realized that her people were making for bed. She must have been working for many hours.

Glancing over to the bed, she saw that Rurik had fallen asleep. She set aside her threads and placed the precious needles in their special silver case, which had been passed down through generations of Campbell women. Walking over to the bed, she looked down at the insufferable rogue. At rest, he was handsome in an altogether different way. His black lashes lay against his skin like fans. His mouth was full and sensual, but not in a threatening way. The blue mark stood out, of course, but, truth to tell, Maire liked it. Without it, his features were too perfect.

With a sigh, Maire slipped her chemise over her head and eased herself into the bed. Resting her face against his warm chest, she felt the steady beat of his heart.

Still sleeping, Rurik wrapped one arm around Maire’s bare shoulder and tucked her more tightly against his form.

During the night Rurik awakened her in the best possible way—making sweet love to her. It was a silent, gentle loving … as powerful and bone-melting as his more aggressive, blood-pounding bedplay had been earlier.

Words were not necessary.

They both knew they were falling in love.

And they both knew how utterly impossible such a love would be.

Sometimes destiny was not all the bards claimed it to be. Sometimes fate dealt the harshest blows by planting love where there was no chance for the seedlings to grow. Sometimes Maire wished she really were a witch so that she could make wishes come true with a mere swish of her magic staff.

Chapter Twelve

“Ahoooommm! Ahoooommm! Waaaraaaa!”

“What was that?” Rurik asked as he bolted upright in bed, awakened from a sound sleep mere minutes past dawn.

“Ahoooommm! Ahoooommm! Waaaraaaa!”

“Holy Thor! It sounds like a herd of elephants farting.”

Maire sat up beside him, rubbing her eyes sleepily with one hand, and holding on to a sheet tucked about her breasts with the other. “I know you have traveled a great amount, Rurik, but have you actually encountered a herd of elephants … breaking wind?” she inquired incredulously.

“Nay. Not precisely.”

“Tsk-tsk!” she chided playfully. “Best you watch your lying, Rurik. You know what they say about Vikings that misstate the truth.”

“Well, I have seen elephants, but not…” He stopped abruptly. “That is not the issue. What is that ungodly racket?”

“Murdoc is probably teaching Bolthor how to play the bagpipes.”

“At dawn.”

“They will be busy with more crucial duties the rest of the day. This would be the only time.”

Rurik put his face in his hands. “I have survived a childhood of abuse in a pigstead. I have survived near-mortal wounds in battle. I have survived five years of ridicule over my blue face mark. But I doubt that I can survive both Bolthor’s sagas and his playing the pipes.” All the time he spoke, the most ungodly noise was rising up from the courtyard below their windows … rather like a lusty mead fart, or the blowing sound of mockery made by children with outthrust tongues, except that this sound was louder. Much louder.

“Ahoooommm! Ahoooommm! Waaaraaaa!”

“Mayhap we should send Bolthor and a set of bagpipes onto the MacNab lands. That would be enough to make them surrender, methinks.”