Page 35 of The Bewitched Viking

With a smirk, he took the rope back from her and proceeded to bind their hands tightly together at the wrist. There was no way she would be able to undo the knots without attracting his attention, unless he was drunk, or asleep, or dead.

“I suppose you are so thirsty you could drink a tun of ale,” she commented casually a short time later as the oaf dragged her after him down the rocky shore, toward the edges of the town.

“At least a tun,” he called back to her, “except I have to meet with Rachelle, and there is much produce I need to stock up on for the winter months.”

Hmmm. It appears drink is out of the question.

“Well, you will have to sleep sometime,” she offered brightly.

He gave her a sideways glance of suspicion as she did a little skip and caught up to his side.

“Where will I sleep tonight, by the by? Back on the ship?”

He shook his head. “In my home here, behind the market stall. ’Tis cramped quarters they will be, and you will have to share my bed furs.”

Alinor’s head came up with alertness. “You jest.”

“I’m not letting you out of sight, my lady witch…not even in the dark.” He grinned, aware of her shock. “I am loath to ask, but do you snore? I cannot abide a snoring bed partner.”

Alinor’s upper lip curled back and a most unfeminine growl emerged from deep in her throat. If he hadn’t held her at bay with his outstretched free hand, she would have lunged for him. “Do not think for one minute that you are poking me in the dark with that…that thing.”

“What thing?” Tykir asked, dancing back when she swung an arm to slap his laughing face.

“That limp wick you and all other men carry around betwixt your legs. That’s what.”

“Limp? Wick?” he hooted. “Oh, milady, you have obviously never seen a Viking…wick.”

“You…are…a…troll,” she seethed at him, then stomped ahead of him, jerking him along behind her by their bound hands. The most alarming thought occurred to her then. She’d already exhausted the first two possibilities for escape: him being drunk or asleep. That left only dead. She wondered briefly if she would have the stomach for that. But then who would be her guardian angel?

She glanced over her shoulder at the brute, who deliberately hung behind, forcing her to tug on him. Then she glanced again, and wished she could sink into the ground with mortification.

The troll was staring at her bottom. And smiling.

Even wearing Tykir’s heavy fur cloak, Alinor shivered. The air had turned blustery and the winter harsh. Suddenly gray skies portended snow or, at the very least, an early frost.

She and Tykir were walking toward the town of Hedeby, the fingers of their bound hands laced together like lovers. It was not really a loverlike body contact, however. First of all, Tykir had forced it on her. Secondly, Tykir was gazing ahead, stone-faced and tight-lipped. He was “sore bedeviled,” or so he said, at Alinor’s constant hammering away at his less-than-admirable virtues:

“Stop picturing me naked.”

“Why do you walk so fast? Dost think me a giant like you?”

“Stop picturing me naked.”

“Where did you get that silly earring? And why do you braid your hair on one side only? To show off the ornament or your winsome face? Ugh! You are so vain, you…you prideful fop.”

“Stop picturing me naked.”

“I am hungry…but not for gammelost. I’d give anything for roast woodcock and a loaf of fresh-baked manchet bread and a…why are you smirking? Do not dare suggest what I think you are about to, you…you lecherous troll. I didn’t mean anything.”

“Stop picturing me naked.”

“Best we find a garderobe…soon!”

“Hver fjandinn!” Tykir cursed finally. “Damn it, damn it, damn it!” He halted abruptly and turned on her. Taking a deep breath, he conceded with ill grace, “I must yield to your sharp tongue. A truce, my lady?”

Actually, it was rather tiresome to nag away at someone who wouldn’t respond to every little jibe. She nodded hesitantly.

“I will consent to stop ogling your…uh, tail”—he grinned at that last word—“if you will stop pecking away at me like a demented wood-pecking bird. Peck, peck, peck! ’Tis enough to drive a sane man mad.”