Page 86 of The Bewitched Viking

“Slave?” She was astonished. “You would have me scrub your floors and launder your clothing and carry firewood and such? I already do my fair share.”

“Not that kind of slave.” He grinned and leaned an elbow lazily against the mantel. Then he just stared at her, grinning.

“Well, are you going to share the jest?” she snapped. “What kind of slave did you have in mind?”

“A love slave.”

Tykir had been holding his hands over his ears for a very long time—at least a minute—but still he was unable to screen out the sound of Alinor’s shrieking. And the names she was calling him…well, a crusty old seaman might appreciate her repertoire of expletives, but he was not impressed.

“Enough!” he shouted finally. In one seamless motion, he picked up the shrew and tossed her over his shoulder like a bag of barley flour.

“Oomph!” she said as he knocked the air from her gullet. Good. Mayhap she would quiet down a bit.

“Where’s that rose hair salve?” he asked, spinning in a circle, with her kicking, flailing body slung upside down, as he scanned the small bedchamber.

“Why?” She was addressing his rump.

“Because I am taking you to the bathhouse, and I want to make sure you slather plenty of that cream on whilst you are bathing. I do favor a sweet-smelling woman.”

She made a low, growling noise that probably indicated that she did not care what he favored, but what she said was, “I took a bath yesternoon. I do not need to take another this morn.”

“Yea, you do,” he assured her. Having found the cream on a corner shelf, he walked through the open doorway. Meanwhile, Alinor was back to shrieking and struggling. “When will you understand that you have no choice in this matter?”

She continued to struggle.

“If you insist on extreme measures…” he said with an exaggerated sigh, and reached under the hem of her long chemise, clamping a hand on her bare buttocks.

She immediately stilled.

And so did he.

Holy Thor! She was round and smooth and warm to the touch there. He was going to enjoy this “punishment” even more than he’d thought.

“Checking for tails again, Viking?” she remarked sarcastically.

His own overanxious “tail” wilted. Alinor did have a way of cutting off a man’s lust at the quick. “Nay, I’m looking for a place to plant one,” he said with a laugh.

“Put me down. Right this instant. I’m going to put a curse on you. Do you hear?”

“The whole of Trondelag can hear.”

“I mean it. If you don’t let me go, I’ll make your manpart shrivel. I’ll turn your teeth blue. I’ll make hair grow on your rump. I’ll turn all your food stores into chicken broth. I’ll—”

“I thought you said you weren’t a witch.”

“Mayhap I am, and mayhap I’m not. Dost thou want to take that chance?”

He didn’t have to think for more than an instant. “Yea.”

She gasped then, and he looked over his shoulder to see her peering to the side through the open doorway of his bedchamber. “Why are those housemaids cleaning the rushes from your room today? And putting juniper tops in the fresh rushes? That is a springtime chore. And they are putting clean linens on your bed. Today is not Girta’s laundry day. And, blessed Lord, the fire in your hearth is big enough to roast a boar. What are you planning to do in your bedchamber, Viking?”

He could tell by the stiffening of her body that she immediately regretted her question.

“Use your imagination, my lady.” He was already down the stairway, stomping through the great hall toward the bathhouse.

“Where are all the men?” she asked. There were only a handful of his soldiers about and a scattering of servants performing their duties.

“They have gone on a hunting trip, to add to the supply of fresh meat for the winter.”