Page 57 of The Last Viking

She arched her brows in disagreement. “Ours did, and still do. And while Jared has flown the coop, and I stopped jitterbugging to their tune long ago, Mer is still trying to please them…to earn their love.”

His heart ached with sympathy for Merry-Death. Having been raised in a loving household, he cringed with sympathy at the cold atmosphere that must have formed her early years.

“Mer did the same thing with Jeffrey, her husband,” Jillian went on spitefully, and Geirolf’s ears pricked up. “She smothered him with love. Oh, I know that he left her for that young bimbo he was screwing, and I know he got the girl pregnant, but there’s no question in my mind. If Mer had been more of a woman, Jeffrey never would have left. Even if she’d been able to pop out babies like Pez candies. As I said, she’s pathetic.”

Geirolf stiffened angrily. “Mer is all woman. Any person who fails to see her worth is blind. Furthermore, there’s strength, not weakness, in the fealty she lavishes on those she loves.”

“You use the most archaic language. Where did you say you were from?” Jillian’s forehead creased with concentration as she studied him. “Anyhow, I don’t know who you are, or where you’ve come from…yet. But I do know that you find me attractive.”

He exhaled wearily. So, they were back to the seduction. His lack of interest should be more than evident.

“I saw the way you stared at me earlier,” she argued. “You turn me on, too, Viking, in a primitive way.”

His lips curled with revulsion at her lack of loyalty toward her sister and the too-blatant invitation to share her bed. “A man’s pole will rise to most any bait, but it takes a woman with more than surface beauty to hook the fish. You, my lady, are a poor fisherwoman.”

“And you think Mer is better in the sack than me?” Her mouth slackened with incredulity. “Listen, if you’re worried about Mer, she doesn’t have to know. We can go outside. I don’t mind sharing a sleeping bag.”

“I use bed furs.”

“Even better.”

He groaned at her perseverance. “Cast your hook elsewhere, my lady,” he chided. “This fish is taken.”

Her eyes widened as if suddenly enlightened. “Good Lord! My sister has landed herself a Viking. The nerd and the stud.” Jillian leaned back in her chair and scrutinized him as if he’d grown three heads. “You’re in love with my sister.”

“Nay, I am not,” he denied. Am I? His heart began to thud madly as he pondered the outlandish suggestion. Is it true? “Why would you say such?” he blurted out, wishing instantly that he could bite back the question.

She smirked as women are wont to do when they believe they have won some battle with a man, though why his affection for her sister should count as a sign of defeat for him he could not fathom.

“I suspected it the first time I saw you together. You can’t keep your eyes off Mer.”

“I doubt that I watch her overmuch,” he demurred, “although she is pleasing to the eye.” He resolved then and there, to keep a close rein on his traitorous eyes in future. “Besides, a man looking at a woman does not signify love.”

“You touch her every chance you get.”

“Now, that I know to be a falsehood. I am very careful about touch—” He caught his mistake at once. Had he really revealed a conscious—or was it unconscious?—effort on his part to control his impulse to touch Merry-Death?

“And the way you defended Mer to me a little while ago…well, anyone could tell you must love her.”

“You mistake chivalry for some romantic notion,” he said with finality and departed huffily from the house. The bothersome wench’s laughter followed after him.

Regardless of his protests, Geirolf was unable to stop thinking about Jillian’s suggestion. Deep down in his soul, he feared she might have discovered something he hadn’t realized himself.

Girding himself with resolve, he vowed, Nay, I do not love Merry-Death. I will not allow myself to fall in love with her, or any other lady.

But in that moment, he knew. Somehow, some way, he had managed to fall in love for the first time in his life. And the recipient of his reluctant affections was almost a thousand years younger than he.

How could that be?

I do not want this.

What future could they have? None. He would return soon to his time, alone.

Alone. Why, after all these years of cherished freedom, does the solitary life no longer appeal?

Well, ’twas for the best, he decided, laying out his bed furs near his half-completed longship. She was too different from him. And it wasn’t just their disparate cultures and times. She worked with her mind; he worked with his hands. She dreamed of a quiet family life; he carried the blood of Viking adventurers. She deliberated too much afore making decisions; he acted on instinct. He liked Oreos, she preferred pasta worms.

Ah, but what would it be like to mate with a woman he loved? With Merry-Death?