Sandra Hill - [Vikings II 04] (11 page)

“Me, too,” F.U. and Sly said as one, walking toward the door with Cody, both of them wearing the blue
braies
he’d noticed many men wearing in this country, along with U.S. Navy tea-ing
sherts
.

“Count me out both ways,” JAM said.

Everyone turned to look at him.

His face bloomed red as he disclosed, “I have a date.” JAM was dressed in the white uniform some of
the military men wore. The contrast with his dark complexion was startling, and probably attractive to women. JAM came from Mexico, where skin color was somewhat dark, but not as dark as Nubians, like Sly … although Sly was not from the land of Nubians. He came from a country called Man-hat-ten. Very confusing!

“Whooee, ya gotta watch them quiet ones,” Flash said. The others added randy remarks on the former priest-to-be’s prowess in the bed furs. Like youthlings they were. In truth, like Vikings they were. He guessed that men in all lands of whatever age liked to tease each other about their virility.

“Do you like country music?” Flash asked him.

“What country?”

“Never mind,” they all said with communal disgust. “Never mind” was a common saying here.

Two hours later, they were sitting at a back table in a drinking hall named the Wet and Wild, wearing uniforms of tight faded-blue
braies
, short-sleeved tea-ing
sherts
, and lightweight running shoes.
What a country! Special shoes just for running!
And of course they all had handfuls of cone-domes in their pockets, just in case they got lucky. Ragnor didn’t need to have “getting lucky” explained to him.

Little had he known that the place’s name, Wet and Wild, came from the wetting down of females, and males, who entered the premises, thus turning their upper garments nigh transparent. Not a bad idea! Mayhap he would suggest it to his castellan when he returned to the Norselands. Women who entered his great hall for a feast would have to endure a bucket of water over the chest area first. On the other hand, women like Madrene might just bop any man who
dared such with the flat side of their own broadswords. Besides, a wet
gunna
didn’t give quite the same effect as a wet tea-ing
shert
. Oh, well!

He, Flash, Cage, and Pretty Boy had just finished off platters of chicken wings doused in a red sauce that about blistered the tongue, followed by hard pretzels that about broke the teeth. This was considered fine dining in Ah-mare-ee-ca. Now they just sat, drinking long-necked bottles of mead—rather, beer—discussing subjects that are important to mankind. Like fake orgy-ass-ems.

They’d had to explain the word orgasm to Ragnor first, as they had so many words in the past few days. He’d told them that Vikings used the word “peaking” instead of orgasm. Same idea.

“Man, I hate it when women fake it.” Flash shook his head with disgust. “When I broke it off with Janine last year, she told me she’d been fakin’ all along. That she hadn’t come one single freakin’ time.”

“She was probably lyin’ just to get back at you,” Pretty Boy said.

Flash shrugged. “Maybe, but how’s a guy to know?”

“
Mon Dieu
! You just ain’t doin’ it right, if you have to ask that,” Cage opined. Cage always had an opinion, especially about women. To his mind, Cage-huns—that was the culture he came from—did everything better.

“Bullshit!” Flash said. “I been doin’ the deed since I was fourteen. I guess I’ve learned everything there is to know about screwin’ by now.”

“I just let the woman do all the work,” Pretty Boy said. “Then, if she has any complaints, it’s her fault. Come or don’t come, it’s up to her.” It wasn’t
surprising that Pretty Boy would think something like that, being so full of himself.

“Betimes I fake my own orgy-ass-ems,” Ragnor revealed, before he had a chance to bite his tongue.

Everyone turned to gawk at him. Then they hit him with a barrage of comments.

“Liar!”

“Impossible!”

“Well, you topped us with that one, Max. Hoo-yah!”

Finally, after they all stopped laughing, Flash swiped at the tears of mirth rimming his eyes and asked, “Not that I believe you, but how would a guy be able to fake an orgasm?”

“
Mais, oui
,” Cage added. “Women have the ‘ooh-ooh-ooh-you-are-killing-me-baby’ routine down pat, but a guy can’t hide the visible facts. Either he wilts or he doesn’t.”

“Hah! You would be surprised how many women don’t bother to look. They are selfish creatures at heart. Furthermore, ’tis just as easy for a man to say, ‘Ooh-ooh-ooh-you-are-killing-me-sweetling.’ ”

“But why?” Pretty Boy wanted to know. “Why would a man want to fake it? What’s the fun in that?”

Ragnor shrugged. “Boredom. Once you’ve tupped two hundred women and more, the novelty wears off.”

“Two hundred?” all three of his comrades sputtered.

“Get out of here!” Pretty Boy snorted with disbelief.

“Are you pullin’ our legs?” Flash asked.

“Two hundred sounds about right for me, too,” Cage said, then burst out laughing. “Hot damn! Ain’t male exaggeration the greatest!”

“You do not believe me,” Ragnor concluded. “Well, ’tis naught to be proud of anyhow. I never
actually counted, but, really, I have seen seven and twenty winters. I have been tupping since I was thirteen, and those first few years, my brother and I could not get enough. I have … had … a brother who was the same age as I, and we had this unspoken competition to see if all the maids in the Norselands could warm our bed furs.”

“A twin? You’re a twin?” Cage asked.

Ragnor shook his head. “Not twins. We were born of the same father, but different mothers from different countries only days apart. We were similar in appearance—almost twinlike, I suppose—except I am dark and he was light.”

“You said
was
,” Pretty Boy said with touching gentleness.

“Yea, my brother died, along with my entire family. All ten of them. Except for my sister Madrene.”

“Good God, man! All of them died? How?”

“Drowned, probably.” He shrugged. “I still miss them, especially my brother.”

Cage put a hand on Ragnor’s shoulder and squeezed. “I’ll be your brother.”

“All of us will,” Flash said, squeezing his other shoulder.

“You betcha,” Pretty Boy put in, too.

Ragnor couldn’t help himself. Tears misted his eyes. He could not speak over the lump in his throat, but he did nod his thanks to each of them.

He hadn’t realized till that moment just how lonely he had been feeling of late, and not just since coming to this new land. He missed his brother and the camaraderie they’d always shared. And he missed his best friend who’d died last year. No wonder he’d felt as if his life were unraveling, as he’d told Madrene.

But he had no more time to dwell on that misery because a group of musicians stepped up to a platform and broke into a rowdy song about boot-scooting boogers, of all things. The drinking hall erupted with cheers and laughter as patrons hooted out their appreciation for the song, some of them singing along, and some of them stepping onto the sawdust floor to dance. And what a dance they were doing! The women shook their arses in their tight
braies
and jiggled their breasts; that he liked. But some of the men looked downright silly, in his opinion, with their off-rhythm, flailing, unmasculine moves.

“Okay, losers, time to show you how the winners operate.” Pretty Boy stood, cracked his knuckles and flexed his fingers in an exaggerated manner, then sauntered over to the bar, where he leaned back on his elbows and waited. Within seconds, he was approached by a woman wearing extremely tight white
braies
and a wet tea-ing shirt which showed off her prominent breasts. She kept flipping her long blond hair over one shoulder with a saucy toss of her head.

Soon the band changed rhythm to a slower-paced song, something about friends in low places. Pretty Boy stepped out onto the dancing floor with his newfound woman friend, along with a dozen or so other couples. What they did then pretty much amounted to foresport.

“
What
is that?” Ragnor exclaimed

“Dancing,” Flash answered.

The couples stood face to face, arms wrapped around each other, moving foot to foot with an occasional swirl tossed in. In essence, body rubbing. And the women allowed it? In public? What a land!

“Are they going to fornicate in public, too?” he asked.

“Hell, no! It’s just dancing,” Flash said. “And actually, I’ve seen you out there a time or two before, buddy. So don’t knock it.”

“You have seen me dance? Knock what?”
Why do people keep reminding me of events I cannot recall? I know I would remember doing something so wicked in public.

“Watch this,” Cage said. Making eye contact with a young lady with flowing black hair who was standing across the room with a long-necked bottle of mead in her hand, he crooked his forefinger, beckoning her to come over to him. To give the wench credit, she didn’t jump at his command, but she did throw her head back and laugh. Then she crooked her finger at him. “Whatever you want,
chère
,” he murmured, chuckling. With a grin, Cage stood, downed the rest of his beer, then danced his way over to her. In truth, Cage’s dancing was quite good, unlike the uncoordinated movements of the other flailing males out there. Within seconds, Cage and his female were dancing together, creating quite a spectacle of themselves.

“And what do you call
that
?” Ragnor asked Flash, the only one of his friends left behind.

“Dirty dancing.”

“For a certainty,” Ragnor agreed. Cage had been right about one thing he’d boasted of so often. Those Cage-huns did know how to dance.

Flash left him then, too, to find his own partner … a blond woman of medium height who reminded him a bit of Svein Forkbeard’s daughter Inga. He hoped Flash was being careful; if this wench was as
designing as Inga had been, he’d find himself wed-locked afore he knew it, cone-domes or not.

After that, he just leaned back with his long legs crossed at the ankles and propped on the next chair, watching and listening. No need to make conversation. No need to get up and meet some woman. No need to make a fool of himself dancing. He was on his third bottle of mead, so it was not surprising that everything spun around him and the talking, laughter, and music came together into a pleasant buzz.

Suddenly, though, he saw something that caused his wandering gaze to halt, then look again. Walking through the water archway was a tall red-haired woman in leather boots, tight, tight black
braies
, and a sleeveless, neckless white
shert
which was now damp. It was Alison MacLean. Even from across the room, he could see the outline of her breasts.
Now, that is a gift from the gods.

Ragnor gulped and set his bottle of beer on the table. He wanted nothing to cloud his vision now. Should he get up and go to her? Or should he wait for her to notice him?

As if reading his thoughts, Cage danced close to his table and warned him, “Don’t you dare, cowboy. That woman is off limits.”

Pretty Boy soon followed, noticing the direction of Ragnor’s stare. Alison was laughing at something her companion said … an older woman similarly attired, except that she wore a short-sleeved tea-ing
shert
with some words on it. “No freakin’ way, Max. Don’t even think it,” Pretty Boy said, his arms wrapped around the pretty blonde as they danced in place. “Remember what we told you about fraternization.”

It was no surprise that Flash showed up next. “Man, you are going to scorch the good doctor by looking at her like that. Cool down, Max. Go find yourself another woman. Or stand under the water archway to cool off.” Flash danced off then, his good deed done for the night.

They were right. Alison MacLean spelled trouble for him. He would be in this country for only a short time … he hoped. No sense landing himself in the military prison called a brig because he lusted after the wrong woman. Still, his heart raced and his blood warmed just watching her walk across the dancing hall.

She headed toward a table where, to his surprise, Doctor Fine-gold was seated, and rose to greet Alison. No wonder Ragnor hadn’t recognized the brain healer before. He wore dark blue
braies
, like just about everyone in the hall, a multicolored, long-sleeved
shert
, and high-heeled boots which gave him some additional height. Alison appeared to be introducing the older woman to Doctor Fine-gold before they all sat down at the table. Alison’s back was to Ragnor, which gave him plenty of opportunity to observe, undetected.

He relaxed somewhat, with his legs still propped on the other chair, and indulged in another long swig of beer. He should take the recipe for this beer back home to Madrene, who prided herself on her skill in brewing mead. She always looked for new recipes. He made a mental note to himself of things to carry back with him: cone-domes, beer, running shoes, weapons known as guns, and toothpaste. Idly he wondered if his trip back to the Norselands would involve near-drowning again, and whether all those
items could survive a water dousing. He smiled to himself at his mind meanderings.

The serving wench brought him another cold beer, which he sipped now, not wanting to become
drukkin
. Pretty Boy, Cage, and Flash stopped by periodically, checking on him, no doubt to make sure he didn’t “make a move” toward Alison. They even offered to introduce him to some wenches, an offer he declined.

He watched through slitted eyes as Alison talked animatedly to her woman companion and Doctor Fine-gold. Mostly, though, the conversation took place between the older woman and Doctor Fine-gold; the woman had to have a number of years on Fine-gold, but Ragnor could see the sexual interest between the two.

That was neither here nor there. His interest—sexual and otherwise—lay with Alison. He saw her only from the back and the side when she turned periodically. It was enough. From the back, he could see clearly the muscle definition of her shoulders and upper arms. This was not the kind of soft woman he was accustomed to, but a female as hard-bodied as some of his SEAL comrades. Oh, not in an unfeminine way. She had all the curves that marked her as a woman, but they were sharply defined. He found that he liked that about her. Hard and soft all in one package. In other words, irresistible.