Page 32 of Viking Unchained

“Do you want me to leave?”

She hesitated, then shook her head. “I don’t blame you if you want to go, though. I haven’t handled this well, I know.” She turned, about to leave.

“Wait!”

Stopping, she glanced back at him over her shoulder. She was wearing short braies . . . very short braies, which ended mid-thigh on long legs made golden from the sun, as was the skin on her bare arms and face. He had learned whilst staying with Torolf that folks in this country favored tanned skin on their women, as compared to milk-white complexions, which were revered in his country and time. In any case, the long, supple legs on this woman, tanned or not, were very attractive, especially when he got mind-images of how they’d looked yestereve wrapped around his hips.

Another thing he’d noticed the night before. She had no hair on her underarms or legs, unlike most dark-haired women. Did she pluck it out like a harem houri? What else can you do like a houri?

Today, she wore no lip or cheek rouge, nor eye kohl. Her face looked scrubbed and, well, passing fair.

Hah! In truth, she was beautiful.

“I saw some framed portraits on your mantel . . . of a small boy,” he said. “Bring them to me.”

“Why do you want to see pictures of Mike?”

“Because he is my son.”

She gasped. “Why do you say that?”

“For months I have wondered why I have been sent here, and now I know. Leastways, I think I know.

My son has drawn me here.”

She was staring at him as if he were the gold at the end of a rainbow once again. Then she went out and returned with three frames, all of which she set on the mattress beside him where he sat. Taking the frames in his hand, one at a time, he studied the images. First, a baby with scraps of dark hair, very much like he recalled Miklof having soon after his birth. Then there was one of a toddler, now with more dark hair, and finally, one which must be more recent. “How old is he here?”

“Four, soon to be five. It was taken earlier this year.”

He nodded. That would be about the right age. “He has gray eyes.”

“Yes. Sometimes Mike’s eyes are bluish gray, and at others, a true silver gray.”

He did not need to say, “Like mine.” The conclusion sat betwixt them, a living, breathing entity. “You call him Mike.”

“Yes. That’s his nickname. For Michael.”

Thorfinn knew that nicknames were shortened names given to people, just as some in his country and time called him Finn, instead of Thorfinn. And, yea, Mike was a logical one for Miklof, he supposed.

“Tell me about him.”

“He’s adorable. A scamp, but an adorable scamp. He walked and talked earlier than most kids. When you touch the bottoms of his feet, he giggles. He likes to play rough boy sports, but then he can sit still for an hour or more if I read stories to him. His favorite is Trolls, Dragons, and Other Scary Beasts. He swims like a fish, and his skin gets brown as an acorn in the summer. He has gone to preschool, but next year he goes to kindergarten. He can’t wait. He’s on my parents’ farm right now, as I told you last night.

My dad got him a pony and he’s teaching him to ride. He’ll go to your parents’ neighboring farm next week. That is, if you really are . . .” Her words trailed off. She must still be thinking he was her dead husband again. Which was no more demented than his thinking she was Luta.

But that was neither here nor there.

He’d always thought he would be the one to teach his boy to swim and to ride his first horse. He would have liked to see him take his first step. Or hear him giggle. There were so many firsts he had been deprived of these past five years. And what did she mean about his parents’ farm? His parents did not farm.

“You have tears in your eyes,” she informed him. In truth, she had tears, too.

“I have missed my son sorely.” And all because of you. Unashamed of his eye dew, he did not bother to swipe it away. Instead, he continued to study the pictures.

And then she said the one thing that tore at his heart. “He misses you, too.”

I’ll be your sex slave if you’ll

be mine . . .