Page 84 of The Bewitched Viking

He laughed aloud then.

She was not so naive that she did not understand the lecherous lout’s intent. Scooting under an outstretched arm that was aimed, unbelievably, for one of her breasts, she folded her arms across her chest, tapped a foot impatiently and said in the sternest voice she could muster, which was really difficult when her breasts were throbbing under her forearms, “I did not beckon you here to satisfy your lewd inclinations.”

“You didn’t?” He folded his arms across his chest, too, and leaned against the wall. Lazily. Like a wild beast stalking his mark, biding his time to ambush his unsuspecting victim. Well, she was not unsuspecting.

“Nay, I called you here because I could see by your manner that you suffer from a misunderstanding.”

“Me?” he said with exaggerated horror, eyebrows lifted dramatically.

“I let you kiss me this afternoon because—”

“Forgive the interruption, my lady. A small clarification is called for here. Methought you were kissing me back.”

“Well, be that as it may, what I am trying to say is that you should not put too much meaning into a mere kiss.”

“Mere? There was nothing mere about the enthusiasm of your lips pressing on mine. There was nothing mere about the feel of your tongue in my mouth. There was nothing mere about—”

“Enough!” She stamped her foot on the stone floor. “You are deliberately teasing me when I am trying to be serious.”

“’Tis hard to be serious when I am thinking of you naked,” he said ruefully.

She followed the direction of his stare and saw that even under the heavy fabric of her bodice the outline of her distended nipples was evident. She moaned softly, then caught herself.

“God, I love it when you moan. Wouldst thou do it again?”

“You’re impossible.”

“Please.”

“Listen to me, and listen well, you thick-headed fool. The kiss”—she saw that he was going to correct her—“the kisses were nice, but that is the end of it.”

“Nice? You call my kisses nice?” He raised his chin with consternation, causing the light from the kitchen fire in the next room to glitter on his long golden hair, which was braided off to one side. “I am deeply offended. Come here, my lady, and let me try again. I promise you, this time I will do better than nice.”

She put her hands out, barring his approach. “Stop harping on irrelevant details, Viking.”

“I do not consider nice kissing irrelevant. A milksop gives nice kisses. A mother gives nice kisses. A lover does not give nice kisses, that I know for a certainty.”

“You are not my lover,” she declared hotly.

“Nay, I am not,” he said. “Yet.”

Chapter Thirteen

“Wake up, witchling,” a voice said cheerily the next morning.

Alinor burrowed deeper into her bed furs. Girta probably wanted her to help with the soap making she’d planned for today. Apparently, it took a massive amount of soap to keep these huge Vikings clean.

“’Tis time for all slug-a-beds to be up and about,” the voice continued with maddening brightness. The male voice.

’Tis Tykir the Troll.

He must be up to some mischief to address me in such a syrupy tone. Either that, or he wants some favor of me. Well, he can’t have it…no matter what it may be.

Then another alarming fact crept into her sleepy head. Good Lord! Is it possible the troll is actually blowing in my ear?

Alinor’s eyes shot wide open to see a cleanly shaven, freshly bathed Tykir leaning over her. His shiny hair, almost dry, stood out in a halo of burnished gold about his head, down to his wide shoulders, which were covered in a newly laundered tunic. God, what a sight to awaken to! St. Michael the Archangel couldn’t look any better! Or Lucifer on a mission of devilment.

“Go away!” she said, and pulled the bed furs up to her chin, wondering how long the man had been watching her. The room was chill, the fire in the small hearth having burned down to embers. Thank the Lord she had decided to wear a linen chemise to bed, or the lout would have gotten more of a view of her endowments—or lack of endowments—than he’d wagered for.