Page 63 of Viking Unchained

“Why must there be blame in this? Is there shame in being a warrior?”

“No, of course not. Dave was military to the bone.”

He threw his hands out in disgust. “Can we have a single conversation that does not involve your dead husband?”

Her shoulders slumped, and she sank down into one of the fabric chairs in her solar. “You have to understand, every time Dave went on a mission, and there were dozens and dozens of them, I died a little. The roller-coaster ride of fear, elation, fear, elation, over and over, took its toll. And it took a toll on Dave, too. Toward the end, I could see that all the killing . . . and, yes, I know it was a noble cause . . .

was eating away at his soul.”

He nodded, understanding her emotions. Still . . . the willful woman gainsaid him at every turn. One moment nigh attacking him with lust and the next nigh attacking him with fruit.

“I can’t love another man in the military. I just can’t.”

He was about to ask her when love became an issue with them, but bit his tongue. In truth, the prospect of her loving him held an odd appeal. As for him loving her . . . any woman, for that matter . . . that prospect was enough to curdle his blood. “What would you have me do?”

“I don’t know. You said you ran an estate or something. Can’t you do that here?”

Now she wants to dictate my life. He inhaled deeply and exhaled. “I am a warrior, Lydia. A far-famed one, truth to tell. It is who I am, and I do not apologize for ridding the world of tyrants and villains. Even if I had other choices, it is what I want to do.”

“Even if it means the end of us?”

He bristled. “Is that an ultimatum?”

“It’s the way it has to be.” She was weeping again.

Well, he would not be swayed by tears. This issue was too important. He stared her down, expecting her to fold, to admit she had been hasty in her words. To have make-up sex, that wonderful modern invention, which was not all that modern, except they did not give it a name in his day.

She did not budge.

Now he was angry. Thorfinn’s pride was great. He could not allow a woman to rule his life.

“So be it,” he snarled, heading toward the door, where he stopped momentarily, adding, “But heed me well, Lydia, we are not through, not by a Viking longshot. I will see my son. Either I go to Minnesota with you, or I go myself. In the meantime, fare thee well. I have enjoyed swiving you.”

And he left.

Lydia stared at the closed door in shock.

What had she expected? That he would apologize and promise to go work at Wal-Mart, or do construction work, or anything other than fighting? To give her flowery declarations of love, instead of crude mentions of sex? Was she a fool to have drawn a line in the sand?

Despite her second-guessings, she did not regret her anger at Finn for not telling her of his military aspirations. Nor could she conceive of bending on this issue, ever.

But, oh, his leaving felt like losing her beloved all over again. How would she survive?

When vengeance turns bloody

. . .

Jamal watched the Hartley farm—Mill Pond Farm, it was called—through binoculars from his perch on a nearby hillside.

The parents-by-marriage of the Navy SEAL came and went, along with Denton’s little boy. A happy, healthy boy about the same age his own Baasim would be today, Jamal realized with an aching heart.

Intelligence ran in Jamal’s family; his brother was not the only one with an advanced IQ and education. In fact, Jamal had graduated from Oxford and had been a researcher at Baghdad University at the time of the explosion.

He had not worked since then, relying only on meager funds he had saved or been given by sympathetic friends. His mission consumed him. But this celebration to honor his wife and son’s murderer would finally put his savage anger to rest. Maybe he could get his old job back. Maybe he could even find another woman to marry and give him other children. He was still a young man.

Jamal was patient. He waited, unmoving for a long time, ’til dusk finally rose from the horizon. Only then did he lift his rifle to his shoulder and aim. Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang. One cow for each year of his suffering.

It was a small price for those below to pay. But it was just a forewarning.