Sandra Hill (15 page)

Jillian’s face flushed red at his rejection. Then she threw her hands up in surrender. “Hey, it’s your loss, buddy. You’ll see. Mer is sweet and all that. Too sweet, actually. Some men get turned on by that niceness, but they soon lose the itch when they realize how unimpressive she is. A wimp.”

“A wimp?”

“Weak.”

“Are you demented? Merry-Death is the strongest woman I have e’er met. Well, aside from my mother. Whate’er obstacle the fates throw in her path, she meets the challenge with the mettle of a seasoned warrior. Ne’er does she run from her honor-bound duties.” He
addressed the last remark to her pointedly, referring to her lack of maternal responsibility.

“You don’t know Mer as well as I do,” she said, glossing over his criticism. “She’s always trying to please. Always failing. I learned a long time ago not to dance to the music of other people’s dreams, but Mer is still running in place, trying to memorize the right dance steps.”

He cocked his head in puzzlement.

“From the time we were kids, my parents set such high standards for us. Impossible standards. Jared, our older brother, came closest to meeting the grade. He had the best marks in school. The most serious personality. Never got into trouble. If Mer is boring as a rock, Jared is a concrete tomb.”

He bristled at her disparaging words, but Jillian jabbered on. “Jared was super-intelligent. He moved out when he went to college and never came back. But the damage was already done. He’s become a clone of Mother and Father…an academic workaholic with no social life.”

“And Merry-Death?” he asked. Despite his misgivings about listening to this loathsome woman’s prattle, he wanted to know more about Merry-Death’s past…why she was so skittish with him.

“Meredith was pathetic, even as a little girl. Somehow she got the idea that our parents would love her if she met their standards.”

He made a grunting noise of disbelief. “Parents do not set conditions on their love.”

She arched her brows in disagreement. “Ours did, and still do. And while Jared has flown the coop, and I stopped jitterbugging to their tune long ago, Mer is still trying to please them…to earn their love.”

His heart ached with sympathy for Merry-Death. Having been raised in a loving household, he cringed with sympathy at the cold atmosphere that must have formed her early years.

“Mer did the same thing with Jeffrey, her husband,” Jillian went on spitefully, and Geirolf’s ears pricked up. “She smothered him with love. Oh, I know that he left her for that young bimbo he was screwing, and I know he got the girl pregnant, but there’s no question in my mind. If Mer had been more of a woman, Jeffrey never would have left. Even if she’d been able to pop out babies like Pez candies. As I said, she’s pathetic.”

Geirolf stiffened angrily. “Mer is all woman. Any person who fails to see her worth is blind. Furthermore, there’s strength, not weakness, in the fealty she lavishes on those she loves.”

“You use the most archaic language. Where did you say you were from?” Jillian’s forehead creased with concentration as she studied him. “Anyhow, I don’t know who you are, or where you’ve come from…
yet
. But I do know that you find me attractive.”

He exhaled wearily. So, they were back to the seduction. His lack of interest should be more than evident.

“I saw the way you stared at me earlier,” she argued. “You turn me on, too, Viking, in a primitive way.”

His lips curled with revulsion at her lack of loyalty toward her sister and the too-blatant invitation to share her bed. “A man’s pole will rise to most any bait, but it takes a woman with more than surface beauty to hook the fish. You, my lady, are a poor fisherwoman.”

“And you think Mer is better in the sack than me?” Her mouth slackened with incredulity. “Listen, if
you’re worried about Mer, she doesn’t have to know. We can go outside. I don’t mind sharing a sleeping bag.”

“I use bed furs.”

“Even better.”

He groaned at her perseverance. “Cast your hook elsewhere, my lady,” he chided. “This fish is taken.”

Her eyes widened as if suddenly enlightened. “Good Lord! My sister has landed herself a Viking. The nerd and the stud.” Jillian leaned back in her chair and scrutinized him as if he’d grown three heads. “You’re in love with my sister.”

“Nay, I am not,” he denied.
Am I?
His heart began to thud madly as he pondered the outlandish suggestion.
Is it true?
“Why would you say such?” he blurted out, wishing instantly that he could bite back the question.

She smirked as women are wont to do when they believe they have won some battle with a man, though why his affection for her sister should count as a sign of defeat for him he could not fathom.

“I suspected it the first time I saw you together. You can’t keep your eyes off Mer.”

“I doubt that I watch her overmuch,” he demurred, “although she
is
pleasing to the eye.” He resolved then and there, to keep a close rein on his traitorous eyes in future. “Besides, a man looking at a woman does not signify love.”

“You touch her every chance you get.”

“Now,
that
I know to be a falsehood. I am very careful about touch—” He caught his mistake at once. Had he really revealed a conscious—or was it unconscious?—effort on his part to control his impulse to touch Merry-Death?

“And the way you defended Mer to me a little while ago…well, anyone could tell you must love her.”

“You mistake chivalry for some romantic notion,” he said with finality and departed huffily from the house. The bothersome wench’s laughter followed after him.

Regardless of his protests, Geirolf was unable to stop thinking about Jillian’s suggestion. Deep down in his soul, he feared she might have discovered something he hadn’t realized himself.

Girding himself with resolve, he vowed,
Nay, I do not love Merry-Death. I will not allow myself to fall in love with her, or any other lady
.

But in that moment, he knew. Somehow, some way, he had managed to fall in love for the first time in his life. And the recipient of his reluctant affections was almost a thousand years younger than he.

How could that be?

I do not want this
.

What future could they have? None. He would return soon to his time, alone.

Alone. Why, after all these years of cherished freedom, does the solitary life no longer appeal?

Well, ’twas for the best, he decided, laying out his bed furs near his half-completed longship. She was too different from him. And it wasn’t just their disparate cultures and times. She worked with her mind; he worked with his hands. She dreamed of a quiet family life; he carried the blood of Viking adventurers. She deliberated too much afore making decisions; he acted on instinct. He liked Oreos, she preferred pasta worms.

Ah, but what would it be like to mate with a woman he loved? With Merry-Death?

That enticing image lingered. And lingered. And lin
gered. It would not go away as he tossed about restlessly in his bed furs, unable to sleep.

I am doomed
.

On the other hand, he made much ado over naught. Perchance if he said the words aloud—nay, not aloud—perchance if he said the words in his head, he would see how foolish the proposition really was. So, that’s what he would do, Geirolf decided. Scrunching his eyes closed, he clenched his fists, fortifying himself for the ordeal.

He might have been preparing for a brutal battle, or a dousing in the frigid North Sea.

I love Merry-Death
, he said, testing. Then, it was as if a volcano erupted in his brain. The words poured out in an unending stream, like lava.
I love Merry-Death, I love Merry-Death, I love Merry-Death, I love…

With that terrifying recognition, another equally terrifying prospect occurred to him. Was it possible that his destiny was not to replace the relic?

Was Merry-Death his destiny?

It was midnight and Meredith was still basking in her grandmother’s deep, footed bathtub—an extravagance her grandfather had provided for his beloved wife when putting in the large modern bathroom with its shower stall. Thank God for his extravagance. And his love.

She kept a thin stream of hot water running, and every once in a while dumped in more scented oil to replenish the bubbles, using her big toe to release some water so it wouldn’t overflow.

Oh, the memories of Gram coming upstairs at the end of the day for her nightly soak. The secret smile
she and Gramps used to exchange. The scent of roses permeating the small house.

Was that why Meredith had continued to buy the same bath product over the years, although she hadn’t dared use it when Gramps was in the house for fear it would bring him too much pain? Did she associate the fragrance with love? Jeffrey had detested the perfumed oil. Too flowery. She adored it.

Taking another sip of white wine from the crystal glass on the tub ledge, Meredith leaned her head back, her hair dangling in a wet swath over the back edge. The house was quiet. Jillian had stopped in a half hour ago just before going to bed.

Even Jillie hadn’t been able to upset her tonight with her prodding questions about Rolf, his background, where he came from, her feelings for him. On and on she had grilled her, but for once Meredith had stood her ground. “Tomorrow, Jillie. Tomorrow, I’ll explain it all to you.” So, Jillie had gone off to sleep with her daughter.

For the first time in days, she felt at peace. No cares about the project. No worries about her personal future. No compulsive need to think and plan each little aspect of her life and work. No being on constant guard against Rolf’s tempting presence. Maybe she should take life like this soothing bath…go with the flow.

The door clicked open behind Meredith and she realized that her sister hadn’t gone to sleep, after all. “I hope you’re not going to renew your interrogation, Jillie. Hand me a towel, will you? My skin is beginning to feel like a prune.”

“Now that is something I would like to test for myself.” A deep masculine voice chuckled.

Geirolf feasted on the sight before him. Merry-Death
let out a little squeal and tried to sink deeper into the water as he neared the tub.
So, this is a bubble bath. Bloody hell, there are a few things about this land I would not mind taking back with me to the past. Bubble baths. Power tools. Merry-Death
.

“Shhh,” Geirolf said, coming up to the side of the tub. “We would not want your sister storming in here to the rescue. No doubt she would launch a fierce assault to protect your virtue.”

The cynicism of his tone must have alerted Meredith. She studied him for a telling moment, then exclaimed, “Oh, good heavens! My sister put the make on you, didn’t she?”

Her lack of jealousy surprised him, giving him no time to fabricate a story. “’Twas naught of importance.”

“Hah! Maybe not to you. Listen, Rolf, you’ve got to understand my sister. She gives the impression of being overconfident, but deep down she’s insecure. My parents always made us kids feel…well, lacking. Jillie’s method of handling the continual criticism was rebellion…and cockiness.”

He shook his head at her. “You are amazing, Merry-Death. I cannot credit your making excuses for your sister’s guile. She attempts to lure your man into her bed, and you call it a trifle. Well, I consider it more than mischief, I tell you.”

“Rolf, you are not ‘my man.’ You are just…Oh, never mind. And you’re right. I do make too many excuses for Jillie. Do you know—” she hesitated, and then divulged “—I suspect that she made a play for Jeffrey while we were married.”

And that weasel Jeffrey probably succumbed. Poor Merry-Death! Always the victim of those she loved
most. Before he had an opportunity to offer solicitude, she went on. “What are you doing here anyway?”

“I thought perchance I would take a shower,” he lied.

“Liar!” She laughed. “You’ve already taken two showers today.”

He raised a brow. “You’ve been counting the number of showers I take. Hmmm. Mayhap you have been imagining yourself in there with me.”

“I have not,” she said indignantly, a becoming color suffusing her cheeks. A good guess, he decided with immense satisfaction. She
had
been picturing them both thus occupied. “Besides, you can’t just walk in here when I’m taking a bath. You’re going to wake everyone up.”

“No one will know I’m here if you soften your voice. Has anyone e’er told you it has a decided screech to it?”

“Rolf, you’ve got to respect my privacy.”

He could tell he made her uncomfortable. She made him uncomfortable, too. “Hmpfh! With all the people coming in and out of this keep, when do you and I get to have some much-needed privacy? It occurs to me this is the only chamber with a lock on the door.”

Looking askance at the bubbles that were starting to diminish slightly—not enough, to his mind—she reached over to a low shelf and poured a dollop of liquid into the tub, causing more bubbles to erupt. At the same time, she lifted a big toe from the water and flicked a silver lever, which immediately caused water to gurgle out. Then she flicked her toe in the opposite direction.

“
Blód hel!
Do that again and you will have one large Viking in the tub with you.”

“Do what again?” She cast him a startled sidelong glance.

“That exotic trick you just did with your toe.” He smiled at her. His wench was very talented. He wondered idly what other talents lay hidden beneath her prim exterior.

“Stop smiling at me like that.”

He smiled wider.

“And stop staring at me. It’s not decent. Oh, what are you doing?”

After locking the door, he’d pulled a short stool closer and sunk down onto it wearily. Then he stretched out a hand to the bottle of bubble lotion, placing it at the opposite end of the ledge, out of Meredith’s grasp.

Meredith studiously avoided looking at the hem of Rolf’s tunic, which rode up when he sat down, knees spread, exposing way too much hairy calf and thigh. “I asked you a question. What are you doing here?”

Resting his elbows on the side of the tub, he smiled lazily. She hated it when he smiled lazily. “Waiting for the bubbles to evaporate,” he said.