Page 18 of The Very Virile Viking

Does it matter?

She was staring at him as if equally poleaxed by the intense emotions swirling between them. Everyone around them probably noticed, but he did not care. Something important was happening… what, he could not say for a certainty. He just knew his life was about to talk a major turn.

This woman was no longer young. She was at least thirty years old. But comely. Nay, more than comely. Beautiful. Masses of curly black hair surrounded a heart-shaped face. Her parted red lips were full and sensuous and immensely kiss-some. To the right of her mouth was a small black mole, which, rather than being repulsive, was sinfully tempting. Oh, the things that could be done to that very spot by the tongue of a man with expertise in the love arts… which he had in excess. Thick black lashes shadowed eyes of so dark a brown they appeared black.

She wore a two-piece garment of white silk, which left the creamy skin of her neck and part of her chest bare, where a small gold cross on a thin chain rested tantalizingly. She was tall for a woman, but curvy.

The hem of her garment ended just above her knees. Her long legs were covered with transparent silk hose, and on her feet were black leather shoes with thin, high heels. If his hands were not occupied with the babe, he would be unable to restrain himself from touching that long, long stretch of winsome leg. Not just touching, either. Licking would be good, too.

His heart began to race madly against his chest walls as he gazed upon her. He could scarcely breathe. If he did not see her chest heaving with the effort to pant for air, he would have thought her a goddess, or one of the Valkyries, not a living, breathing woman.

"Faaa-ther!" Torolf groaned. "Do not appear too anxious. Your tongue is practically hanging out."

He cast a quick glower at his son, whom he was beginning to think he should have left behind with Ragnor. Almost immediately he returned his attention to the woman. He was not going to let her out of his sight. Still, without looking at him directly, Magnus remarked to Torolf, "I have not yet seen the day when I will take advice from a pup such as you. I have bred thirteen children, for the love of Odin! Do you not think I have learned a thing or two?"

"Oh, God! I can see it all now. More children."

"There will be no more children," he declared. I hope . "Shut your teeth now. I need to concentrate."

Torolf muttered some rude opinion about where his concentration was lodged.

"You know, Torolf, you could learn something from your elders. My mother, Lady Asgar—your grandmother—was always of a whimsical bent. She believed that for every man there was one special woman. A soul mate."

" Faðir, you just met the woman."

"It matters not. Mother always told me and your two uncles that we would recognize that person when she came. I suppose she told your Aunt Katla the same thing, in reverse, but I was never around for that discussion."

Torolf grunted his opinion.

" 'Women may come and go in your lives, my sons, but there will be only one who will touch your heart to the quick, and change your world so that it will be forever empty without her.' That is what my mother always said."

Torolf grunted again.

"Geirolf and Jorund and I scoffed with disbelief behind Mother's back, but now I know she was right.

This is my woman… my destiny."

"Destiny has boiled your brain," Torolf grumbled.

"I think what Father said is beautiful," Kirsten stated.

Dagny sighed deeply in agreement.

Hamr and Njal snorted.

Jogeir looked unimpressed.

Storvald was eyeing a nearby piece of what appeared to be fake driftwood, uncaring one way or another.

Kolbein clung tighter, probably fearful that Magnus was going to toss him aside in favor of some lady love.

Lida gooed .

Magnus did not care what any of them thought. The only thing that mattered in this moment was how she felt.

Even so, how would she fit in with his vow of celibacy?

And did she like children… like eleven of them? Well, nine only, if you counted those with him. Nine was not such a dreadful number. Was it?