Page 47 of Viking Unchained

Viking . . .

Thorfinn was lying beside Lydia on the bed after another bout of lovemaking.

Truly, he had engaged in more sex this past day or so than he had the past year. At first, he had been plagued with a faint worry . . . very faint . . . that she would wear him down to a nub. Instead, he seemed to get bigger with each bout.

Amazing!

And exhilarating!

He could not wait to tell Steven. He did not need those magic elixirs Steven had purchased in Baghdad.

Instead he just needed to swive ’til he was woolly-witted.

Of course, he might not ever have the opportunity to tell Steven, and that fact saddened him greatly.

She interrupted his reverie as she raised herself on one elbow to stare down at him. “I have to go to work tomorrow. ”

“Work? What kind of work?”

“I own an aerobics dance studio.”

“Arrow-backs?”

“Everybody knows what aerobics are.” She frowned at him, waiting for him to explain.

How can I explain the unexplainable? “Not me.”

“It’s a type of exercise. People come to my studio to get in shape, or keep in shape.”

“Do they pay you for this service?”

“Of course.”

There is no “of course.” “If you leave, I might never see you again . . . or my son.”

“You don’t trust me?”

Does the tinder trust the flame? “Hah! You would no doubt run like the wind if you knew who I really am.”

“Oh, God! Are you a criminal? An escaped convict? Her body stiffened and she sat up, tugging the bed linen to cover her nudity.

Now she goes modest on me. I do not think so. He yanked the linen back off and flicked it over to the floor on the other side. “Nay, I am not a law-breaker. Leastways, no law I am aware of.” He exhaled loudly, then confessed, “I must needs confess . . . I am a Viking.”

She paused for a further explanation which was not forthcoming. “A Viking. That’s all?”

“’Tis enough.”

“Hey, sweetie, I’m from Minnesota. Vikings abound there. But I don’t recall your name ever being on the roster. What years did you play?”

“Play what?”

“Football.”

“The game where grown men run around kicking balls and tackling each other to the ground?” Why does every conversation in this country feel as if I am wading through mud?

“Yes,” she replied, hesitantly.

She thinks I am a lackwit footballer. “You truly must consider me a lackwit. I am not that kind of Viking. I am a real Viking from the Norselands.”