Santa Viking

Meet a tenth century Viking hero and a modern-day Viking who both have the knack for making women melt
 . . .
with holiday cheer. Merry Christmas from the
Norse
Pole.

Bolthor’s Bride

Bolthor the Skald has been there for his fellow warriors, both in battle and as a friend. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride, so to speak. This gentle giant, now scarred and retired from the fray, has never found a woman who loves him despite his rough appearance—and his poetry, which is woefully bad.

Enter the sexy, Saxon widow Katherine of Wickshire Manor, a woman in need of a strong man to take care of her, her four children, not to mention about two hundred chickens, in the style none of her first three husbands could manage.

When Viking meets Saxon, the sparks do fly.

A Viking for Christmas

Bodyguard Erik Thorsson, a fiftieth generation Viking, meets Jessica Jones, dressed as a cute Santa Claus, when she stages a righteous attempt to rob the local Piggly Jiggly. All Jessica wants is a refund for a Burping Bear toy, which the store refuses to honor.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, Jessica takes hostage another Santa in the store, Erik himself, after accidentally shooting the Little Debbie cupcake display. For the first time in five years, since his beloved wife died, Erik finds himself head over Santa boot heels in love, but how to convince Jessica that he’s not her Christmas curse, but instead a Christmas miracle.

‘Twas the Night (anthology)

A Dixie Christmas

by

Sandra Hill

Bell Bridge Books

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

Bell Bridge Books
PO BOX 300921
Memphis, TN 38130
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-230-9
Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-217-0

Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

Bolthor’s Bride
Copyright © 2012 by Sandra Hill

A Viking for Christmas
Copyright © 1996 by Sandra Hill
Originally published by Dorchester Publishing (Love Spell imprint), November 1996

Blue Christmas
(excerpt) Copyright © 1998 by Sandra Hill.
Originally published as
Fever
in the
Blue Christmas
anthology.

Printed and bound in the United States of America.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

We at BelleBooks enjoy hearing from readers.
Visit our websites – www.BelleBooks.com and www.BellBridgeBooks.com.

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Cover design: Debra Dixon
Interior design: Hank Smith
Photo credits:
Candles (manipulated) © Jara3000 | Dreamstime.com

Helmet (manipulated) © Sgame | Dreamstime.com

Background: © Adina Nani | Dreamstime.com
:

Mvs:01:

Dear Readers,

Over the years, Bolthor has played a secondary role in more than a half dozen of my Viking novels. He became a favorite for many of my fans who bemoaned the fact that the poor giant of a Viking always played the bridesmaid, so to speak, in book after book, as his Norse comrades found their true loves.

Once a fierce Viking warrior, Bolthor lost an eye whilst saving one of his comrades-in-arms. So, now the giant of a man is no longer as good looking as he once was. Plus, in order to survive, he’s become a poet . . . truth to tell, the world’s worst skald or poet.

Poor Bolthor!

Readers often ask me where they can find a Viking of their own. My answer is that they are all around you. Often the men most overlooked are really the most attractive. Even big, sometimes clumsy men, like Bolthor.

Imagine a soldier today who is handicapped in some way for having sacrificed himself for one of his buddies in Afghanistan. I say, that guy is darn heroic . . . and attractive.

And don’t you just love the image of a tall mountain of a man using his big hands to soothe a child . . . or unsoothe a woman?

I hope you like Bolthor. Let me know what you think by visiting my website at www.sandrahill.net or my Facebook page at SandraHillAuthor. And, as always, I wish you smiles in your reading.

Sandra Hill

Did Vikings get writers’ block
 . . . 
?

’Twas the yule season in the icy Northlands, best known as
Jól
, a time for good Norsemen to cocoon themselves in warm timber keeps over the dark winter months. Come the spring thaw, they would be off a-Viking once again.

Animals had already been slaughtered
 . . .
pigs, cattle, and such
 . . .
so they would not have to be fed over the dark months. Vegetables had been preserved. Firewood cut. Mead brewed.

A time for celebrating at leisure, with
tuns
of mead, both for the pagan solstice and Christ’s birth. And, of course, many a Viking child would be conceived in the bed furs by Viking men and women who were bored and lustsome.

But not everyone was merry this yule season. Bolthor the Skald, for one, was not in the mood. Not for good
Jól
. Not for the mead madness. Not for bedsport. Not for the exchange of manly boasts of daring adventures in far-off lands or betwixt a woman’s thighs. And he was definitely not in the verse mood, which was sad for a skald, but, truth be told, his brain was blocked for any new poems.

In early days, he had been called
Bolthor the Big
because of his uncommon size. In his prime, he had also been known as Bolthor the Berserker, a far-famed warrior, but that was before he lost an eye in a long-ago battle. Not that he could not fight if need be, just not with the skills he had in the past. Still later, some referred to him, behind his back, as Bolthor the World’s Worst Skald. Despite the change in status, from warrior to poet, he had not been unhappy. For a certainty, he had come here to Dragonstead, home of his good friend Tykir Thorksson for that very reason
 . . .
to entertain the guests with his praise-poems and sagas.

“What is amiss, my friend?” Tykir asked, coming up to him at the back of the Dragonstead great hall where he had been sitting on one bench, leaning back against the trestle table, with his booted feet propped on the other bench. Tykir carried two horns of mead, handing one to him.

“Naught of concern.”

“You seem gloomy of spirit.”

Gloomy? Viking men do not get gloomy. Viking women, mayhap, but I am too manly for such brooding emotions.
“I am not gloomy. Can a man not be quiet and contemplative on occasion?”

“Did someone say something to offend you? Just say the word, and I will lop off the lout’s loose tongue.”

“Dost think I would let words wound me? And I can do my own lopping, thank you very much.”

“Perchance you have a bad case of the rumbling bowels.”

“Aaarrgh! My bowels are in fine shape. Go away, Tykir. If I was not gloomy afore, I will be now under your bothersome questions.”

“Mayhap you need to tup a maid, or five. Have I ever told you about the famous Viking S-Spot?”

“Lackwit! I was the one who taught you about the famous Viking S-Spot. And, hear me well, the answer to every problem is not a roll in the bed furs.”

“It works for me.”

The two men grinned at each other then.

Bolthor had seen forty-two winters. Tykir was older than him by a half dozen years or more, but Tykir was still a comely man with long, silver-threaded blond hair, beaded war braids framing one side of his face only, exposing a thunderbolt earring. Whereas Bolthor had ne’er been considered a prime specimen of male beauty. He was not ugly, but he was too big, too rough-skinned, and, of course, there was the missing eye, ever covered by a black patch.

Although he had to admit that he did look better than usual in the fine raiment that Tykir and his wife Alinor had given him as a
Jól
gift
 . . .
soft brown wool braies, an overtunic in a darker brown wool with neck and sleeves embroidered with gold thread in a writhing dragon design, and a gold link belt. Vikings loved to give gifts, no matter the season. He had brought a barrel of fine Frankish wine as his gift for them.

But now, Bolthor took a long swig of the cool mead, which came from Tykir’s sister-by-marriage, Eadyth, and his brother Eirik, who had yet to arrive from their Northumbrian estate, Ravenshire. Eadyth was renowned for her honey trade, which included the sale of honey itself, but also candles and very fine mead.

“Why do you keep yourself apart from the others?” Tykir persisted.

That’s it! I give up!
Bolthor exhaled with whooshy surrender. “I know they will ask for a saga or praise-poem, and I have none to offer.”

“None at all?”

Bolthor was not sure that was dismay or exhilaration that flashed on Tykir’s face at the news of no poem reciting.

“Not one single ode can I think of.”

“All ode-ed out, eh?” Tykir joked.

Bolthor was not amused.

“I invited you here for your company, not just for your
 . . .
um, talents. We have been friends and comrades-in-arms for more than twenty years, my friend. Your presence is enough.”

Bolthor nodded, then conceded, “I could recite some of the old praise-poems I created about you over the years.”

That was definitely dismay on Tykir’s face. “You recall them? All of them?” he choked out, then drank half his horn of mead in one long gulp.

“Yea, I do. Some from memory, but others I wrote on a wax tablet to remind myself,” he said. “Hmmm. There is ‘Saga of the Proud Viking,’ ‘Tykir the Great and the Raging Bowel,’ ‘Dumb Vikings,’ ‘The Bewitched Viking,’ ‘Manly Rules of Love,’ ‘Advice to a Dumb Dolt,’ ‘A Viking View of Life,’ ‘Tykir and the Horny Sheep,’ or ‘Viking Men and Jiggling Bosoms.’ For a start.”

“Oh, my gods!” Tykir did not even try to hide his dismay now. “You would not!”

Bolthor grinned.

“Yea, Bolthor would, if I have my say. Mayhap I will learn more about my dearling husband,” Alinor said, coming up and giving Bolthor a quick kiss on the cheek.

“Hey! How about me?” Tykir asked with mock affront, pulling Alinor onto his lap and kissing her with vigor and smacking lips.

Tykir and Alinor were smitten with each other, even after more than ten years of marriage. But they were the most mismatched couple
 . . .
everyone said so
 . . .
he being godly handsome and her not so pretty, with bushy rust-colored hair and hundreds of freckles. Then there were the rumors of her being a witch. Of course, Tykir considered her beautiful, and that was all that mattered. He cared not a whit if she was a witch or a sorceress as long as she shared his bed furs, Tykir told one and all.

“Did you find out why he is so gloomy?” Alinor asked Tykir, as if Bolthor were not there to ask directly.

“I am not gloomy,” Bolthor repeated.
I wonder if there is a cave somewhere that I can burrow in for the winter. All by myself. With a barrel of ale.

“I did ask why he had such a long face, but I do not think he gave me an answer. Did you?” Tykir turned to him.

These people were barmy. Nice barmy, but barmy still. “Nay, I did not. There is naught wrong with me. Must I be smiling and spouting drivel all the time?”
Now that is an image of myself I do not like. Is that how people see me? A jester, no less!

Ignoring what Bolthor said, Tykir told his wife, “The verse mood has suddenly left him, like the prick of a bloated sheep bladder.
Ssssssssssssssssh
!”

Some comparison! First a jester, now a stinksome animal!

“Really?” Alinor appeared genuinely concerned. “I was hoping to hear a new poem about you, husband.”

Tykir pinched his wife’s buttock.

She squealed.

They kissed.

Same as always. They were like children, even though they had four children of their own.

Straightening in Tykir’s lap with her holding onto his straying hands, Alinor gave her attention back to Bolthor. “Methinks I know the cure for your sad state.”

Bolthor groaned.
I know what is coming. For my sins, they plague me with the same old subject.

“A woman.”

“That’s precisely what I told him,” Tykir said. “A good
swiving
of a dozen or so young maids with jiggly bosoms, and he will be right as rain.”

“That is not what I meant, you crude oaf.”

“But I am
your
crude oaf,” Tykir asserted.

“That you are, heartling.” Alinor gave Tykir a fleeting kiss of apology. “I meant a wife. We must needs finds a bride for Bolthor.”

That is even worse.
Bolthor put his face in his hands and counted to ten, then reminded Alinor, “You tried this afore, milady. Remember the Saxon thrall with a bottom the size of a bishop’s arse.”

“Well, appearance is not everything,” Alinor replied huffily, though a smile twitched at her lips.

Bolthor rolled his one eye. “She had a wart on the tip of her nose, Alinor. A big wart.”

“Oh. Well, there was the tradeswoman from Jorvik,” Alinor reminded him.

“She preferred women to men.”

“Huh?”

Tykir whispered an explanation in his wife’s ear.

She went wide-eyed at whatever he said. “There were others that were good prospects,” Alinor insisted.

“I would like to know which ones. All I can think of is the former nun who liked to have her toes sucked. Or the warrior woman who wanted to arm wrestle with me. Or the harlot with the strange rash. Or the Arab girl who could not have seen more than twelve winters. Or the noble lady from Norsemandy who loved her ale, all day long. Oh, the Saxon wench was comely enough, but—”

Alinor raised her hands in surrender.

Tykir, of course, was laughing like a fool.

“Leastways you are wearing the garments I had specially made for you, Bolthor.” The devious gleam in her green eyes caused warning bells to go off in Bolthor’s head.

Uh-oh! Methinks the witch has another of her plans afoot.

Shoving herself off her husband’s lap and wayward fingers, Alinor brushed the wrinkles out of her gunna and said, “I still say a good woman is the cure for your melancholy. ‘Bolthor’s Bride,’ that is the name of my new venture.”

He would like to tell Alinor what he thought of that idea, but it would not have mattered. Alinor did what Alinor wanted.

To distract them from this unpalatable subject, Bolthor said, “Methinks I might have a small poem. I will call it ‘Ode to a Norse Winter.’”

’Tis oftimes said of Viking men
when icy winds blow down
’Tis best to stoke the fires in hearths,
As well as manly fires below.

“That was horrible,” Alinor said in an undertone to her husband.

Does she think I have hearing problems just because I have only one eye?

“All his odes are horrible,” Tykir replied, also in an overloud undertone. “But at least he’s creating the bloody things again.”

Yea, they think I am weak of ear. And no doubt weak of brain, as well.

“Very well done, Bolthor,” Alinor lied, a belated response to his poem. “But I am still going to work on my ‘Bolthor’s Bride’ venture.”

Bolthor bit his tongue to prevent foul words from escaping. He would like to tell Tykir that his time would be better spent chasing after his four sons, the oldest of whom, Thork, was surely the wildest, most mischievous youthling in all the Norselands. With his father’s blond hair and his mother’s green eyes, he strutted about Dragonstead like lord of the manor, leaving havoc in his wake. ’Twas enough to make a Norseman glad to be without cubs of his own.