Page 12 of Hot & Heavy

He let himself fall back to the ground and looked up at her. He seemed just as surprised and repulsed at her appearance as she was at his. "Jesus, who are you?" he asked.

English. The troll-man spoke the Saxon English. Just my luck to be saddled not only with a troll, but a bloody Saxon as well. "Nay, I am not Jesus," she replied. The man's head wound must have rendered him senseless.

"Jes… what?"

"I… am… not… Jesus," she said, very slowly, so he could comprehend her meaning.

"Holy hell! I know you're not Jesus. Who are you?"

"Madrene," she said, before she could hold her tongue. 'Twas not wise to give the enemy too much information.

"Yasmine?" he repeated, mishearing her. His eyes went wide with wonder.

"Yea, that is who I am. Yasmine." What a dolt!

Narrowing his eyes, he reverted to the Arabic tongue and asked, "Are you Yasmine?"

"I already said I was," she snapped back, also in Arabic. A double dolt, that is what I have here.

"You speak Arabic." The troll-man smiled then, which made him look almost appealing, and at the same time ridiculous in that black face with white eyes and teeth. "Sonofabitch! Talk about wandering in a field of shit and landing in a gold mine," he muttered to himself.

"What is your name?" she inquired in English, a language which came easier to her tongue than the Arabic, since it was more like her own Norse.

He hesitated, then disclosed, "Ian MacLean."

"A Scotsman! I should have known," she said, throwing her hands up with disgust.

"What's wrong with a Scotsman?" he asked, working himself into a sitting position, then wiggling his arse back so his head rested against the cave wall, his long legs outstretched.

"Hah! Sneaky thieves, that's what they are. Always stealing cattle and such. And they eat that horrible haggis."

He shook his head as if he couldn't believe what she was saying. Betimes she had that effect on men.

"Are you the one who knocked me out?"

She nodded.

"Why?"

Questions, questions, questions! Does everything have to have an explanation? She shrugged.

"Every soldier knows to take the offensive. Attack before being attacked."

"You, a soldier?" he scoffed.

"Betimes." I should have knocked him harder. She could tell that her answer surprised him.

"What makes you think I would have attacked you?"

Now, that is a silly question. "You were carrying a club."

"Huh?"

She pointed to the iron object.

"That's a weapon, for chrissake. An assault rifle, to be precise."

Madrene hadn't a clue as to what he'd just said.