Page 30 of The Bewitched Viking

“Crying.” What do you think I mean? Dancing?

“I’m not crying,” she said, peering up at him through watery green pools, shaded by thick fringes of reddish-gold, glistening with wetness. Remarkable, really, how beautiful her eyes were in a face mottled with those ugly freckles.

“Ert me mjg falleg augu,” he murmured. “You have very beautiful eyes.” Now, why would I feel the need to tell her that?

“What did you say?”

“Your eyes are crossed,” he lied. “When you weep, your eyes look crossed.” Her beautiful eyes set on him, but not with sorrow. He suspected that she got so few compliments in her life that his rude criticism rang true with her. No doubt her One-God exercised fairness in giving the woman one single mark of beauty to make up for all those other less beauteous attributes.

But, nay, that wasn’t quite true. There were other attributes. Like that naked body he had seen. Nay, nay, nay! I promised myself not to think about that. “Not crying? My lady, you are making more water than a war horse. Soon we will have to bail out the bilge again.” He thought she would smile at that jest, though her smiles were infrequent, and reserved only for Bolthor, or for her bloody sheep. Mayhap that was what caused her sudden dispirit. She missed her sheep.

“Do you miss your familiars?”

“My what?”

“Familiars. Don’t all witches have familiars?” He felt rather silly now and could feel his face heat up.

“And my familiars would be…?”

He hated that superior attitude she exhibited betimes. Like now. “Sheep.”

“Sheep?” Stunned, she blinked at him.

No doubt his perception stunned her. Perchance if he made a baaing sound that would cheer her up. Better yet, he could butt her derriere like that randy ram of hers.

He couldn’t help but grin at that.

“Stop smirking. I am not crying. I never cry. ’Twas just the wind. Furthermore, you have strange objects rattling about in your skull if you think my sheep are familiars.”

“Your freckles are growing.” Now where did that half-brained observation come from? Humph! I guess I’m just trying to avoid noticing those magnificent eyes. Or thinking about her naked. Nay, nay, nay! I have wiped that image from my mind.

“What nonsense do you speak now? Do you think to disconcert me with your idle remarks? Well, you can forget about that nonsense. I care not if you like my freckles or not.”

Truly, your tongue wags more than a puppy under the high table at a drunken feast, my lady blabberer…rather, blubberer. “I am wounded at your unjust criticism, my lady. What I meant was that your freckles grow larger when you blubber…or leastways, they appear to do so when your nose reddens and your face splotches up.” Well, I feel better now.

“You are a troll.”

“So you have said afore.” Leastways, she must be feeling better, if sniping at him caused her to stop sniveling. Tykir puffed out his chest with pride. He ever did have a talent for brightening the spirits of fair maidens. Not that she was fair, but…“Just so you stop your watery show. It bothers my men.”

She suggested he do something to himself that he knew for a fact was nigh impossible. And she said his bothered men could bloody well join him in the exercise. He put a hand over his heart with exaggerated shock. “I have never heard a high-born lady use such words afore. Of course, you are a high-born lady witch; mayhap the rules of your society are different.”

“Go away,” she said with a slump of the shoulders.

He hated it when she slumped her shoulders. It made him feel as if he was responsible for her woes, which he was not.

Instead of going away, he hunkered down in front of her, his forearms resting on his widespread knees. Instinctively, she shifted her body so they were not touching.

That annoyed him. So, of course, he moved in closer. Now his inner knees bracketed her tightly closed thighs, under the enveloping cloak. His cloak, by the by, he noted with a clutch of unreasonable warmth that she was wearing his garment. Almost as if she were under his protective shield.

Nay, nay, nay. She is a mere captive. To be delivered and be done with. Do not get involved, Tykir. But he was never one to listen to good advice, especially his own. “Tell me why you weep,” he urged.

“I was not weeping,” she said with a break in her voice. “But if I were…weeping…which I’m not…well, I have good cause, do you not think?”

“And why, pray tell, is that?”

Alinor wore no wimple or headrail today, but her rust-colored tresses, held in place by a braided silk cord around her forehead, did not fly about, as was their norm, because she had taken to using a pomade that Eadyth had given her, causing her hair to lay in gentle waves. The rose fragrance of the cream wafted out to him in delicate enticement.

“Why are you sniffing like a hedgehog?”