Page 64 of The Last Viking

“You did?”

“I did.”

Her open face revealed the inner struggle her mind was waging with her heart. Unfortunately, he must hurt her before all was reconciled betwixt them. “Lastly, you are barren.”

Meredith recoiled under his harsh statement.

“You told me of your infertility afore. Do not ever mention the subject again. ’Tis of no importance.”

She sighed. “Rolf, I don’t understand any of this.”

“Do you believe that I love you?”

He held her gaze till she answered in a whisper, “Yes.”

Releasing a sigh of relief, he leaned across the table and kissed her lips, briefly. Then he sat straight in his chair, all businesslike. “So, we have settled one issue. Now, the next important hurdle. Who am I? Tell me, Merry-Death, who is this man who sits across from you, professing his love?”

“I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.”

“See. That is one of the biggest obstacles we have to overcome before taking any further steps, including making love. And we will be making love, sweetling. Do not doubt that.”

“Are you saying that you didn’t want to make love with me upstairs because I don’t know who you are?”

“Exactly! Well, partly.”

“Then tell me. Who are you?”

“Merry-Death, I do not lie. You must concede. When I tell you that I come from the past, you must accept it as truth.”

“But it’s impossible,” she cried.

“’Twas hard for me to credit, too. But there it is. Until you trust me fully, we cannot…proceed.”

“But—”

“I could spend days telling you of my land and my time. I could describe, in detail, the Norse and Saxon courts and all their peoples. Their dress. Their language. The politics and the everyday living. I could fill in the gaps in your history books, and correct the mistakes they contain. Eventually, you would believe that I am Geirolf Ericsson, born in the year of our Lord nine-hundred-and-sixty-two on a Norwegian fjord to a Norse jarl and a Saxon lady. But we do not have days to waste, and I much prefer that you trust me on my word alone.” After his long-winded declaration, he waited for his words to sink in to Merry-Death’s obviously troubled mind. Finally, he insisted on a reply. “Who am I, Merry-Death?”

“Oh, no!” she whimpered. There were tears in her eyes as a dawning acceptance unfurled. Then, with a firm voice, she said, “You are Geirolf Ericsson, a tenth-century time traveler.”

He nodded, too overcome to speak. Her trust meant more to him than he’d realized.

“I’m not sure why I believe you, Rolf. Or when I accepted that you were telling the truth. Maybe just now. All I know is there have been too many little-known historical details you’ve volunteered that have turned out to be true. But, in the end, it comes down to intuition. Going with the heart.”

“Thank you,” he said softly.

She pulled their clasped hands across the table and reciprocated his earlier gesture, kissing each individual knuckle with slow, painstaking care. The whole time, her eyes clung to his with some mysterious message. He felt the tingle everywhere, even in his ears where he could swear tiny bells were ringing. When she was done, she set their hands back on the table.

“You haven’t asked me the most important question of all,” she informed him. “If you think those other things were impediments to overcome, you must know there’s an even bigger one ahead.”

He cocked his head. There were so many questions, but he wasn’t sure which she referred to. Except…

Oh, dear Lord, how could he have failed to consider that? Insecurity was new to him and unwelcome. He did not favor the unsettling queasiness in his stomach at the possibility of rejection. Oh, please, he prayed to all the gods, Christian and Norse alike, do not let me have come so far, only to fail.

Her face was blank now, revealing nothing. Would she keep him in suspense forever? “Well?” he rasped out.

“Well what?” Oh, she was a cruel wench, torturing him with knowing delight.

“Do…do you love me, Merry-Death?” His voice was so raw and low, he was not sure she heard him.