Page 8 of The Viking’s Captive

She nodded. “How long will it take you to pack your medicinal supplies?”

“I beg your pardon, m’lady … I mean …” He paused meaningfully, not knowing her name. If this woman, magnificent as she is, thinks I am going anywhere near the frigid mountains of that godforsaken section of Norway, she is sadly mistaken.

“Tyra. Tyra Sigrundottir. Tyra, Cub of the Wolf. Tyra First Child. Tyra the Blonde. Tyra Brave One.” She shrugged as if to say she would answer to any of those appellations.

“Or Tyra Warrior Princess,” he offered, half in jest.

To his surprise, she agreed. “That, too.” And she didn’t even smile as she said it. Of a certainty, the woman was full of herself, and lacking in humor.

But her ego was of no consequence. He, and an important part of his body, thought she was glorious. Especially since she had not scratched herself again … thanks be to God! If she belched or did something else of a distasteful masculine nature, he might just cry with disappointment.

“In any case, Tyra, I regret to inform you that I cannot help your father. I have not practiced the healing arts these past few years. When, or if, I resume treating patients again, it will be here in Britain. My traveling days are over. Under no circumstances would I be willing to go so far.”

She made a scoffing noise. “I do not recall asking you to come. You will come, of that there is no question.”

He raised himself to his full height, which was more than considerable, and fixed her with a glower. “I will not.”

Tyra rolled her eyes as if to say, Here we go again!

Some of her men sniggered and began to talk amongst themselves. He understood the Norse tongue perfectly. These sea pirates were placing bets … against him in this battle of wills.

“Uh-oh,” Rashid said and danced quickly away from his side.

Adam’s glance wavered briefly. In that instant when he looked to Rashid to see what the problem was, then glanced back, he saw that the demented woman had her broadsword raised high above her head and was lowering it. Toward him, of all things. He had no time to duck aside. The flat side of her sword hit him on the crown, causing him to see stars and his knees to buckle.

The warrior princess bent over him in the rushes, admonishing, “See what you made me do, you dumb dolt!”

He was a dumb dolt, because all he could think about was the magnificent set of breasts jutting out above his face.

Just before the blackness overtook him, the most amazing thing of all happened. She picked him up— she actually picked him up—and tossed him over her shoulder.

It appeared he was going to Norway, after all.