Page 69 of The Blue Viking

When she gave a tentative nod, he announced in a husky voice, “I have another plan, as well.”

Maire moaned … especially since he’d already turned around and walked her, with her legs dangling off the ground, to the back wall of the parapet, beyond view of those below. Her garment was already halfway up her thighs, and his erection was already pressed against her woman place, and his lips were already nibbling at her parted mouth, when Maire registered his words.

“Aaah, Rurik, I must tell you, some of your plans are questionable. Some are bad, regardless of what you may think. Some are good.” Then she did the unthinkable. The saucy wench placed a palm on each of his buttocks and squeezed, adding in a seductive purr, “And some are spectacular.”

Rurik would have smiled, but he’d forgotten how.

Chapter Thirteen

For the rest of that day, Maire’s great hall was so a-bustle with activity, she scarce recognized it or her people. Whatever else Rurik might, or might not, accomplish that day, he’d already succeeded in renewing the self-confidence and hopes of her battered clan. For that, she would be forever thankful to him.

All of the women were working industriously on disguising garments for the children to wear while they plied their slingshots from the trees. Little more than hooded robes, the costumes were made of quickly basted woolen scraps of brown, black, green, and beige that should blend in with the foliage. The more mature boys who would be positioned closer, behind boulders, would wear cloaks of iron gray or sheep pelts, complete with heads.

Rurik, Stigand, and Bolthor were out in the exercise yard training, as much as possible in this short time, the men and older boys who were capable of wielding weapons. To Maire’s delight, he’d reported during the noon meal that some of them were extremely proficient with sword and lance and bow and arrow, despite their physical impairments or age. These skills, combined with the advantage of surprise and location, might just be enough to triumph over the MacNabs.

Just to be sure, Maire was praying… a lot. Too bad the monk, Father Baldwin, had gone off to a neighboring district to perform a funeral. She could use a few priestly prayers at this point.

She had asked Rurik earlier if he wanted her to attempt a good luck spell, but he’d declined with touching gentleness, fearing her charm might backfire. Under other circumstances, she might have been offended, but the fate of her clan was at stake now. She could not let her ego stand in the way. Truth to tell, she was not a very good witch.

Whatever the outcome of this fight, which should take place the following morning if tonight’s ghostly scheme worked, Maire had to be thankful for the pride Rurik was giving back to her people. She had forgotten how much a man’s dignity was influenced by his feeling that he could protect his family or his clan.

“Whoo-whoo!” Toste and Vagn said as one, coming up to the table where the sewing was taking place. Waving their hands in the air eerily, they were modeling the gossamer-thin fabric made into shroudlike garments, which would help them pass for spirits.

“ ’Tis not bad,” Maire said, pressing a forefinger to her lips as she studied them pensively. “Tell me true, Nessa. What think you?”

“I think they are enjoying this game overmuch,” Nessa concluded while the women watched the twins prance about in front of them, swirling the voluminous folds of their garments, the whole time making what were supposed to be ghostly sounds. “Their foolery will be the death of them if they are not careful.”

“Oh, we will be very careful, Nessa. Fear not,” Toste said, coming up behind Maire’s maid in a whirlwind of transparent cloth to press a quick kiss to the exposed nape of her neck. Then he pinched one of her buttocks.

“Oooh, you go too far,” Nessa squealed, rubbing her backside as though he had hurt her, which he obviously had not.

“Best ye exercise caution, Toste,” warned Fenella, a young farm girl from the village, “lest Stigand see you fondling his lady love. He is said to have a tendency to lop off heads first and ask questions later.”

“That was not a fondle,” Toste contended. “Believe me, I am noted for my fondles, and that was not a fondle.”

“ ’Twould seem you are noted for many things,” Maire commented dryly.

“I am not Stigand’s lady love,” Nessa protested, but it was clear from the roses blooming on her fair skin that something was going on between her and the berserker. Maire could not recall a time when she’d seen Nessa blush… not even when her husband, Neils, was still alive, and Neils had been an outrageous teaser. “Furthermore, Stigand has not lopped off any heads in a long while.”

Everyone just gaped at Nessa’s defense of the burly Viking, who surely did not need to hide behind the skirts of a wench.

“Back to me,” Vagn interjected with a saucy grin. “Well, back to the subject of me and my brother,” he amended. “Our disguise will be perfect this evening when it is dark—no moon is expected, thank the gods!—and when our apparel is donned properly.” He and Toste exchanged meaningful smirks on that last word.

“Am I supposed to rise to that bait?” Maire tried to keep her expression stern, but it was difficult when these two rogues were around.

“What bait?” they both asked with mock innocence, batting incredibly long eyelashes, and putting hands on hips that were enticingly narrow. By the rood, Maire could see why maids swooned in their paths. These two braw laddies were nigh irresistible when they employed their abundant charms.

“Tsk-tsk-tsk-tsk-tsk,” was all that Maire could come up with. Nessa was shaking her head at their antics. And some of the younger women giggled.

“Well, if you insist, we will tell you about the proper attire for a ghost,” Toste said with a long sigh, as if the women had been pestering him for an answer. “When we dress this evening before we enter the MacNab castle, we will be”—he paused dramatically—“naked. ”

“I don’t believe you!” Maire exclaimed. She looked to all her maids for corroboration, but they were staring at the two men. ’Twas plain as a wart on a witch’s nose that they believed … and would like to be there for the unveiling.

“Hah! Would we dare lie?” Toste grumbled. Both he and Vagn held up middle fingers, which sported scarlet bows of yarn.

Those stupid measuring yarns… nay, my stupid tale of lies and shrinking manparts! Do men really care so much about the size of their appendages? Maire wondered.

Absolutely, she answered herself with a grin.