Page 6 of My Fair Viking

"Your other stepuncle, Tykir, then? He is a full-blooded Viking, is he not?"

Adam shook his head. "Tykir is Norseman to the bone, but he would not venture past the bounds of Dragonstead in Norway… not at this time of year… not with his lady, Alinor, breeding yet again at the advanced age of five and thirty, no less."

Adam shrugged with unconcern. They had naught to fear; there was nothing worth stealing. Even so, they both grabbed short swords lying nearby and made for the doorway.

Clang! Clang! Clang! Huff, puff, huff, puff. "Bloody damn hell!" The noises made by the intruders were getting louder as they climbed the steps. Adam heard a female screech of dismay… probably Emma, the cook. No, there were two female screeches, combined. It must be Emma and Bridget, the chambermaid. By the timbre of their screams, you'd think a dragon had entered his keep.

The humng-and-pufftng, the clanging, and the expletives, he understood immediately. After all, there were thirty-seven steep stone steps leading up from the bailey to the double doors of the great hall. He knew because he'd counted them on innumerable occasions and cursed fluently in several languages, especially when he was suffering from mead-head.

Adam and Rashid were making their way down the interior stairway when Adam stopped abruptly at the bottom, incredulous at the sight he beheld. Rashid slammed into his back.

"Oh… my… God!" Adam muttered.

"For… the… love… of… Allah!" Rashid muttered.

They were standing next to each other by now, gaping at the other side of the great hall, where a small entourage of Viking warriors stood, broadswords drawn and battle-axes at the ready. They were a fearsome group of fighting men, massive in height and breadth, clad in furs and armor, wielding weapons that could cleave a grown man from head to groin with a flick of the wrist. That was what had caused Emma and Bridget to scream, no doubt; both women stood leaning against a nearby wall, fanning themselves with their aprons.

"May God help us!" Adam exhorted.

"Hah! I prefer the proverbial wisdom, 'Call on your God, but avoid men with sharp blades.' "

In truth, these hesirs did not frighten Adam, his words prompted more by surprise than fear. Even though he was Saxon by birth, he and his sister Adela had grown up in a Norse household. It was not the sight of armed Vikings that had caused Adam and Rashid to go slack-jawed with amazement. It was the leader of the Norse troop that drew their attention. Tossing aside a full-length, midnight blue, wool cloak lined in gray sable, the Norse chieftain stood before them, arrogant and proud.

It was a woman.

A woman warrior.

A sudden thought occurred to Adam, and he turned on his assistant. "Rashid! You didn't! Surely this is a coarse jest, even for you."

"Me? What have I done?" Rashid slapped a palm over his heart, as if suffering some great insult.

"The harem nonsense," Adam reminded him. "A short time ago, you urged me to start a harem, and now this," he said, indicating the Amazon who had resumed her bold approach toward him, followed closely by a dozen soldiers. The woman even walked like a man, in an exaggerated, swaggering sort of way.

"Are you mad? That… that man-woman is not what I would consider for a harem." Rashid practically sputtered with indignation.

"What then? A Valkyrie?" He'd heard the tales of the legendary female gods who led brave warriors to the af-terworld.

"That is no Valkyrie," Rashid asserted. "That man-woman is live and human… I would swear it on Muhammad's grave."

As the group drew closer, Adam got his first good look at the woman through the light provided by the open doors and meager arrow slit windows. And he had to agree with Rashid's assessment. This was no goddess, come from the other world. She was flesh and blood… and definitely woman.

The oddest thing happened then. Fine hairs stood out all over Adam's body. His heart stopped beating for a second, then raced wildly. Most remarkable, a surge of energy slammed into his loins, pumping hot blood into the region, and settling there, thick and pulsing. Like the drawbridge, he'd thought his manpart was rusted down. He was wrong.

She was tall, for a female. In fact, Adam was very tall himself and he had only a half head on her. Despite being slender, she was well muscled, as any soldier would be. The short-sleeved tunic she wore, belted at a narrow waist, left bare her arms, which bore etched silver armlets over well-defined muscles. Even her forearms displayed the raised tendons and ropy muscles of a swordsman. Exceedingly long legs were encased in skin-tight, soft hide leggings which also showed the delineation of musculature… no doubt from long hours atop a warhorse.

That image—female legs spread wide, the rhythmic up-and-down canter of the horse pressing against her womanplace—caused the throb in his manhood to intensify. Bloody hell! It feels as if I have a heartbeat there.

She must have been wearing flexible chain mail, because he could see its hem beneath the thigh-high tunic, and because it molded her body in such a way that her breasts were upthrust against the fabric of her tunic. From a distance, she might have resembled a man-woman, as Rashid had referred to her, but up close she was all woman, in Adam's opinion.

To his utter shock, the woman did the most outlandish thing. She scratched at her groin… as men were wont to do. He could swear she did it deliberately, to reinforce the notion that she was a manly woman, or mayhap just to startle them. Repulsed as he was by the crude gesture, his manpart knew no better… it still throbbed.

Two years without a woman, and the first one that arouses me is wearing chain mail and scratching at her groin. Some celestial being must have a twisted sense of humor.

Who is she?

The richness of the jewel-brooched garments and gold-studded belt she wore, along with the silver-scabbarded weapons, bespoke a personage of high rank. He thought he knew all the families of Viking nobility, but this woman did not strike a memory chord.

Even as he stared at her rudely, the woman pulled the fitted leather helmet off her head, causing thick, pale blond braids to fall out, then cascade loose from their leather ties into what could only be described as skeins of golden silk.