She fainted then. Of course she did. What woman wouldn’t?
When she regained consciousness, slowly, it was to find herself wrapped in his arms, her face on his chest, his big, rough hands making sweeping caresses down her back.
“That was amazing,” he told her.
“I agree.”
“Ne’er have I experienced anything like it.”
“Me neither.”
He tipped her chin up with a forefinger, wanting her full attention. Then, with an impossible air of arrogance, he repeated his earlier words. “You are mine.”
“I love you, too,” she said, wanting him to say the words.
But he didn’t. Instead, he proclaimed, “I will not let you go.”
“I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.” She caressed his cheek in reassurance.
“You misread me, Joy. I will not let you go
ever
.”
Those were fighting words.
Chapter 21
Even Vikings got the spirit . . .
Brandr was no fool.
He was a seasoned warrior. He knew when to retreat and plan new strategies for attack.
So when Joy nigh waged war on him, again, on his declaration that he would never let her go, by saying, “I beg your pardon! I
will
be gone by spring,” he had said, “Whate’er you say, dearling.” But what he had thought was,
Just you wait and see.
He’d taken her mind off the subject good and well by reminding her, “I have not yet shown you the famous Viking S-Spot.”
And then he had.
Afterward, she had been speechless, a remarkable and rare feat for her. In truth, she had probably forgotten her own name, let alone their piddling disagreement. He had been a bit speechless himself. Apparently he had not lost his knack.
As a result, things had gone smoothly with them in the days that followed. They made love by night . . . and during the day, too. Being frank of manner, she shocked him betimes with the things she said and did, which of course prompted him to say and do equally outrageous things. Like she with the honey icicle business, the icicle of which was not icy at all, not by a Norse long shot . . .
long
being the key word. Like him with the episode on the cobbler’s bench. She had even invited him to shave her legs one evening in the bathing house. Sweet Frigg! He would never look at his sharpened shaving blade in the same way again.
His people were growing fond of her, too, or leastways they were fascinated with her stories of the North Pole, of which they were familiar, and strange characters like Santa Claus, a fat man with a white beard in a red tunic and braies, and reindeer who could fly, including one particular red-nosed reindeer, and elves . . . who could forget the elves? Vikings were a superstitious folk and loved the old tales of giants and dwarves and trolls and such. She fed into that hunger for fantasy. Which everything she said was, really . . . time travel fantasy.
So he should not have been shocked, but was, when he entered the kitchen now to find her baking mud balls in the bread ovens.
“What in bloody hell are you doing now?”
She smiled up at him. “Making baseballs for the children’s Christmas presents. The little children
and
the big ones.” She looked pointedly at him, as if he were a big child.
Vikings loved to give gifts, so he could not object to that, except, “Must presents require baking mud?”
“Yes. We needed something for weight in the center. So we improvised by gathering mud and mixing it with straw.”
“Where did you find mud this time of the year? The ground is frozen.”
“Behind the bathing house,” she announced as if she’d just discovered the secret to . . . well, mud.
“Here’s one that’s already baked.” She held out a perfectly round lump of a hard, claylike substance, not unlike the caulking used in wattle-and-daub houses. “See how Liv is covering it with yarn, crisscrossed over and over until it’s about the size of a man’s fist. Usually they’re covered with thin leather, but I don’t think we’ll have time for that.”
Liv grinned at him as she worked at her lackwit job, using a foot to rock a sleeping Erik in his cradle.
This was the barmiest thing he had seen Joy do so far, but for the changes she had made in Liv alone, he would grant her most any indulgence. “What does one do with a baseball?”
“Hit it with a bat. Osmund is making the bats out of hickory limbs. Isn’t that great?”
“Just great!”
“Here, catch.” She tossed a ball at him.
He caught it just in time.
“That’s the way, except when you play outside, you would throw overhand, like this.” She pretended to be throwing an object by lifting an arm over her head.
But he was more interested by something she said. “We are going to
play
outside. I like the sound of that. Except it might be rather cold.” He winked at her, then turned to go back outside.
“What does he mean?” Liv wanted to know.
“Oh, Brandr was just teasing. He likes to play games with me, like ‘Catch Me If You Can.’ ”
Brandr glanced back at her over his shoulder and gave her his
You will pay later
glower, but he was not really upset with her. He rather liked the teasing games she played with him.
“Hell and Valhalla, he is grinning again!” Tork observed as he was coming in, carrying several dozen thin saplings. “Have you no shame, Brandr? Brave Viking warriors do not go about grinning all the time.”
Brandr ignored Tork’s remarks and made his own observation. “I am afraid to ask what those are for.”
“Hula hoops. Do you not know anything?” Then he demonstrated with one of the strips that had bound together into a circle. Putting it over his head and around his waist, he began to roll his hips in the most humorous fashion, trying to keep the ring from falling down, which it did, to Tork’s disgust. “I must needs practice more.”
Brandr made a clucking sound at the idiocy. “More Christmas gifts?”
“Yea, and Dar Danglebeard is cutting heavy sailing cord for jump ropes.”
“Why would anyone need a rope to jump? Nay, do not answer that. I am sure that I do not want to know.”
Sven the Scowler joined them then, and he was smiling. For the love of all the gods, Sven never smiled, especially since they had that fight over his snide words to Liv. Sven had a huge pile of holly boughs in his outstretched arms. “Merry Christmas!” he said as he passed by.
Brandr and Tork exchanged looks of wonder. Mayhem, the woman was creating mayhem everywhere he turned. But he had to admit, it was a rather nice mayhem.
The calm before the storm . . .
It was one week until Christmas, and the Viking household was in a full-tilt boogie, jolly Yule mood. Joy loved it!
Snow falling outside, warm fires inside, the anticipation of a big celebration to come. Everything that the holiday season should be, even if it was a thousand years ago.
There weren’t that many children under age twelve. Only fifteen or so. But right now they were doing a grand job of singing carols to entertain the post-dinner crowd. The Vikings loved to sing, especially the livelier songs, like “Jingle Bells,” “Here Comes Santa Claus,” and “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” But she’d told them the story of the Three Wise Men and the Nativity, and they joined in “Silent Night,” as well. For some reason, they thought the song, “Joy to the World,” was funny . . . because of its association with her.
But the lack of children . . . that’s why Ebba’s pregnancy was so important. Bear’s Lair needed new life, the best way to heal after all the sorrow of the past. If only Ebba’s baby wasn’t to be a thrall.
But Joy wasn’t going to think about that now.
One thing she would do, though, if she were to stay here—not that there was any chance of that—was to make sure that there were separate sleeping quarters for married couples. Oh, she knew that many of the huts and smaller longhouses had been burned down by the Sigurdssons and were yet to be rebuilt. That’s why they were so crowded here. Even so, inside there should be privacy. She hadn’t mentioned it to Brandr yet, because there were too many things on his agenda already. Plus it wasn’t her place to recommend changes when she wouldn’t even be here to help implement them.
Once again, she reminded herself not to go there. Not now. Not yet.
Brandr linked his fingers with hers under the table and smiled. “Why so pensive?”
“Just thinking about everything I have to do yet before Christmas.”
“More?” he asked with mock horror.
“Yes, more.” She squeezed his hand, as if in punishment, but she wasn’t strong enough to do him harm. “Kelda and I are experimenting with a recipe for fruitcake. Our efforts so far, using honey instead of sugar, have been less than successful. Even the puppies wouldn’t eat it.”
“Well, I have all the Yule logs you requested.”
“Good. Don’t bring them in until Christmas Eve, though. It’ll give the children something else to look forward to.”
“You know that we Vikings have traditions related to the Yule log, too?”
“Really?”
“Yea. Every spark from the log is supposed to represent a new life born in the barnyard. Piglets. Calves. Chickens.”
She brightened. “And babies. Human babies, too, I’ll bet.”
“I do not know about that.”
“I do. It’s a sign. Your home is going to flourish with new babies in the new year; I just know it.”
He narrowed his eyes at her.
“Not me. I already told you that . . .”
“I know. I know. The birthing control device.” He did not appear to like the idea of her implant for some reason, which was strange. Most men would relish sex without consequences.
Joy sniffed. “Don’t you love the smells of Christmas? The clean hall. The pine tree and holly. Beeswax candles. The baking.”
“I must admit, it is pleasant.” He cleared his throat, then added, “I thank you, Joy, for the changes you have wrought here. There is a peace that has not abounded for many a time.”
“That’s Christmas spirit.”
“There is that, but more.”
She tilted her head in question.
“A Joy spirit.”
“That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
“And for that you get tears?”
She laughed and swiped at her eyes. “I’m just happy.”
He held her gaze for a long moment, then said softly, “I am happy, as well.”
In Joy’s book that was as close to “I love you,” as he could get. With sudden insight, she told him, “I think that’s why I was sent here. To make you happy.”
He was startled at first, but then he grinned, dimple and all, and said, “Methinks there are a few other ways you can make me happy.”
Chapter 22
Christmas visitors came knock, knock, knocking on their door . . .
He should have known. All good things end. But it was shocking nonetheless to have the end come in the form of a makeshift sleigh on the fjord, containing a woman and a boyling of about four years, pulled by four men. All of them frostbitten and nigh starving to death.
Tork was the first to spot them from the far exercise field, not the one inside the bailey, where they had been practicing swordplay. Quickly, he and his men ran to aid the visitors, whilst Tork led other men inside to get blankets and ask Joy and Arnora to prepare pallets for the lot, who would surely be in need of care.
It turned out that these were the only survivors of a shipwreck that had occurred out at sea, near the mouth of Igorssfjord, six sennights past. They had been living in tents, waiting for the fjord to freeze over so they could make their way inland.
If the first shock was the arrival of the visitors, the second shock came when they discovered that the woman was none other than Dagny, Tork’s divorced wife. The third shock was that her betrothed was Einar Ericsson, who had formerly been promised to Liv. Still more shocking was the boyling with Dagny who very much resembled Tork.
Could things get any worse?
Well, yea, they could.
Joy developed an instant fascination for the monk who traveled with them, a man named Mendozo, Father Jacob Mendozo. He looked rather Arabic to Brandr, but he claimed some nationality Brandr had ne’er heard of: Mexican. Every time he checked, Joy was off somewhere in a corner conversing with the priest. And he did not think the God man was hearing her confession.
Right now, a day after their arrival, Brandr was sitting in a place he would ne’er in a million years choose to be: the far end of his great hall, acting as mediator betwixt Tork and Dagny.