Page 121 of Hot & Heavy

He tweaked her cheek like he used to do when she was a child. Odd how she recalled that now. And what a handsome man he was still! In truth, all three of the brothers were of superior good looks, including her father. Only a little gray threaded through their long, brown-and-blond hair. But they wore modern clothing—denim braies and tea-shirts—which made them seem strangers to her. In truth, she'd never seen her Uncle Jorund without a sword, or Uncle Rolf without his shipbuilding tools, or her father without a hay rake nearby.

"You seem different," Ragnor said, looking at her in a small mirror attached to the glass front. "You were always nagging me before."

"Hah! She nagged everyone who got within her hearing range. A shrew, that is what she was," her father added, as if it were something to be proud of.

She shrugged. "I still am."

"I don't know about that. Looooove has made her soft." Ragnor made a face at her in the mirror. Really, the rogue was thirty years old, only one year younger than she was, and he still acted the fool.

"You are driving too fast, Ragnor. Slow down. There is no hurry. Dost think the sky will fall down if we get there a few minutes later? And, by the by, you need your hair clipped. It is too long and unruly. I am glad you have regained your 'enthusiasm,' but, whew, that Svein Forkbeard had his face hairs in a twist over you not marrying his daughter Inga. Men will be men, you always said. But methinks you are just a dunderhead who cannot keep his dangly part in his braies."

Everyone burst out laughing.

And Ragnor said, "Good ol' Madrene. A shrew to the end."

"And how does your husband feel about your shrewishness?" her father asked in a teasing fashion.

Before she could answer, Ragnor said, "Hah! They are a perfect match. Mac is as ill-tempered as she is.

And nag? You would think he invented the word."

Madrene leaned forward and smacked her brother on the side of the head, even though she agreed. She and Ian were a good match, but not because of the nagging.

There was no time for teasing or anything else then, because the white box was traveling up a narrow lane, lined on either side by a low stone wall and magnificent old oak trees. At intervals were large clay pots overflowing with red flowers. Wildflowers filled the lawns that stretched out to a stream which fed into a small lake. Behind the house as far as the eye could see, there were dozens of neat rows of grapevines.

Madrene decided to gather some of the wild-flower seeds before she left. They would look nice in her kitchen garden at Norstead.

That thought caught her up short. Will I be going back to Norstead? Can I travel back? Do I want to go back? What about Ian? Honor says I must be avenged…my entire family must be avenged, in fact… but how will I manage all that? She sighed loudly and answered her own question. Like I always do. With bullheaded determination.

"Look, Madrene, look up ahead," her father said excitedly.

There was a large keep with a porch that wrapped around all sides. In its courtyard stood many people, young and old. They were laughing and waving at her, as if they knew her well, and she did not recognize a one of them. She blinked her eyes rapidly several times. I will not weep.

Once they exited from the vehicle, her father guided her by the elbow toward the crowd, which now hushed. "This is my beloved daughter, Madrene, whom most of you know so well," he announced.

Since when did I become beloved to my father? He always called me a pestsome wench because I nagged him so. Ah, well, I always called him a hopeless libertine, and I still loved him.

The crowd formed itself into a line and Magnus introduced her to the family, one at a time.

"This is my daughter Marie, who was born after I left the Norselands." He put a hand on the shoulder of a black-haired girl of about thirteen who looked at her father with adoration and at Madrene with question.

Madrene felt a stab of jealousy that this stranger was held in such high regard by their father, which was mean-spirited, she knew. But there it was. She had no idea what to do, so she extended a hand to shake.

Marie stared at her hand, and Madrene realized it must have been an inappropriate thing to do.

Next, her father moved to a blond mophead of a girl with dancing blue eyes. She was probably a few years older than Marie. "You remember Lida, don't you?"

Madrene's eyes widened and she smiled. "The little smelly baby? She was not even one year old last time I saw her." She ruffled the girl's curls and moved on.

"I remember you," a young man of about seventeen said.

She cocked her head.

"Kolbein."

She gave him a kiss on the cheek. "You were such a needy mite, always following Father around like a shadow."

"Kolbein is thinking about becoming a priest. Can you imagine that? A Viking priest?" her father asked.