Page 19 of Truly, Madly Viking

Surprising, too, was the way in which the gods could view what was happening in other worlds. He had always pictured Odin or Thor—even the Christian One-God—gazing down from the heavens to observe what mortal beings were doing.

But apparently they must all have these magic boxes to do the job for them.

Amazing!

"Well, since you're not talking, I guess that ends our session for today." She stood and ran a palm swiftly over the front of her garment, presumably to smooth out the wrinkles, but what she accomplished instead was the jarring of another memory: a belly ring... that was it. Jorund suddenly recalled seeing a gold ornament piercing her navel the first day he'd encountered her at the whale place. With an inward groan, he amended her name list. So now she was the wench of the man-hair, sexvoice, comely legs, kiss-some lips, and naughty navel.

Releasing a long sigh presumably at his stubborn silence, she tossed her shoulders back, as if to show that two people could be stubborn. But her posture caused her breasts to jut out against the white silk of her shert, and they were magnificent, round and uplifted; he even imagined he saw the hard points of her nipples. Oh, it was too much! Soon her name list would require a skald of exceptional memory to recite, as in the wench of the man-hair, sexvoice, comely legs, kiss-some lips, naughty navel, and magnificent breasts. Mag-he Man-hair Dock-whore sexvoice. Mag-he of the kiss-some lips. The combinations were endless.

She noticed the direction of his gaze and tsked her disapproval as she folded her arms over her chest, hiding her breasts from his view. It was a useless exercise, really, because the image was already planted in his head. "I'm really disappointed in you...whoever you are," she informed him sadly.

He tried not to look guilty. Men throughout time had been viewing women's physical attributes with appreciation. Why should she make him feel as if he'd failed her in some way by noticing she was a voluptuous woman?

"My daughters are the ones who begged me to help you," she told him in that low, raspy sexvoice that he was growing overly fond of. "They still ask about you every day. You've touched them in some way."

She sighed again. "I can't even tell them your name." Spinning on her high heels, she then proceeded toward the door.

A fierce constriction took place in the region of his heart. The twin girls, who resembled his own daughters, had interceded on his behalf. They had been touched by him just as he had been touched by them?

Finally, he was beginning to see some reason for his deliverance to this strange land.

Was it not possible that these girls had called to him... that they needed him for some reason?

Mayhap—Oh, please!—he was being given a second chance to make up for failing his own twin girls.

That prospect tantalized and terrified him. "Wait!" he called out suddenly.

She turned slowly, surprise showing on her face at his first word in a whole sennight.

"My name is"—his eyes darted between her and the black box in the corner, still distrustful of speaking and revealing too much—"Alan Spaulding."

"I see." She murmured something that sounded like "Celebrity delusions, too."

She quickly made some words on her parchment before addressing him again, this time with a smile.

"And you come from Genoa City, right? How do you feel about that?" Despite her recognizing his lie, she sat back down and waited expectantly for him to talk.

"Mayhap that was a slight mistruth."

"You mean a lie?"

He shrugged with resignation. "My name is Jorund."

She smiled widely, and somewhere deep inside him, he felt a melting sensation.

"Well, it's so nice to meet you, Mr. Rand. Do you object if I call you Joe?"

Joe? He glanced back over his shoulder before he realized that, of course, there was no one else in the room. "Am I your prisoner?"

"Prisoner?" Her eyes went wide, but then she must have realized that it was a natural assumption on his part, considering he was in a torture shert with ankle restraints and bars on his windows. Possible bondage fantasies, she wrote on her parchment.

He raised his chin indignantly, though secretly he wondered exactly what a bondage fantasy was. It brought up mental images that were... well, fascinating.

"Of course you're not a prisoner, Joe. You'll be released once we're certain of your safety." Hah! "How do you feel about that?"

How do you feel? How do you feel? I feel rotten . "Il tell you how I feel. Captive I may be, for now, but I want you to know, I won't be a slave to any man... Or woman."

"A slave?" she sputtered. "What would I do with a slave?"