Chapter Ten

Norsemen go a-Viking, Norsewomen go a-shopping …

Maddie and Sam were strolling, as if they hadn’t a care in the world, along a strip mall about two miles from Ian’s home when he finally caught up with her.

Ian pulled his red Mustang convertible into a parking slot and started after the errant pair. Sam saw him first and had the good sense to duck between Maddie’s legs. Maddie had no sense at all, just waved at him as if she had a perfect right to wander off.

The first thing he said to her when he walked up, practically nose to nose, was, “What the hell are you doing here?”

She cocked her head as if trying to puzzle him out, and answered him tit for tat. “What the hell are you doing here?”

He took a deep breath and warned himself to be polite … until he got the willful witch home. “Maddie, dear , I’m curious. What are you doing here?”

“Looking in the market stalls, dearling .”

Do not lose your temper. Do not lose your temper. She’s just being sarcastic. Like I am most of the time. Do not lose your temper. “I distinctly ordered you to stay home.”

She looked at him as if he were dumb as toast. “Dost really think that I would take orders from you … or any other man? You have not been listening to me, if you are of that opinion. Mayhap you are deaf … or leastways, deaf where women are concerned. Some men are. Bloody hell, most men are. And, by the by, that vein in your forehead is throbbing again. Best you be careful or it may explode.”

“Aaarrgh!” He took her by the upper arms and barely restrained himself from shaking her. “Did it ever occur to you that I might have a reason for wanting you to stay indoors? Did it ever occur to you that you don’t know this city and could get lost? Did it ever occur to you that someone other than yourself might have a brain? Did you even think, period?”

“Did it ever occur to you that you are not my real husband, nor my master? You have no rights over me. I do not like your tone. Not at all. I am not one of your seals that you can speak to like that. If you must know, I was bored. After washing your clothes and hanging them to dry, there was nothing else to do. And take your hands off me. I did not give you permission to touch my body.”

“Lady, if I want to touch you, I will, and by damn, I’m not going to say ‘Pretty please’ first.”

“Be careful, troll, I could wave my magic fingers at your male parts and render them useless.”

“Bullshit!” He laughed and released his hold on her. Guilt struck him then as he noted the marks he had made on her fair skin. “I’m not afraid of your fingers, sweetheart, magic or otherwise. You give me a hard-on that couldn’t be brought down by a hammer, let alone your piddly little fingers.”

She gasped with indignation. “I know what a hard-on is, you oaf. I asked Pretty Boy when I heard him use the word back in Baghdad.” A smile flickered on her lips then as she asked, “I give you a hard-on?” She appeared pleased at the notion. Probably because she enjoyed torturing him so.

“This is not a conversation we should be having. Not in a public place.” Not anywhere else either. “Another thing, people don’t go out walking with a cat. Cats run away. Cats get run over by cars.”

“Sam does not run from me. She is a good cat.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Really, even when I entered these shops, the traders would not let her come in, but I told Sam to sit outside on the pavement and wait for me. And she did just that. Didn’t you, sweet cat?”

Ian glanced down at the cat, which was indeed sitting next to Maddie like a docile pet. “How come she never behaves like that for me?”

“You handle her incorrectly.” The implication was that he handled Maddie incorrectly, too. If she only knew how tempted I am to handle her!

While Maddie was looking at him and not at the cat, he could swear Sam stuck out her tongue at him. “Well, since we’re here, we might as well get you some clothes. You can’t wear the same thing every day.” She was wearing the T-shirt and latex pants she’d put on this morning. Lordy, Lordy!

Her face lit up. “I love to buy … and trade. Would it be immodest of me to say I have a talent for trading? The merchants at Birka and Hedeby know me well, and respect the hard bargains I make with them.”

Okaaaay. Birka and Hedeby again. I’ll have to ask Geek where they are.

So a-shopping they did go.

She went nuts over some weaving loom or whatever the jumble of wood was in the window of an antique shop. “I had a hand loom like that one time. I did not have much idle time, but when I did, I loved to sit and weave.” She sighed.

He was getting used to her sighs. Not!

They continued walking, but she kept looking over her shoulder at the loom. And Ian did not miss the fact that, while they were walking, lots of people— mostly men, dammit! —did a double take when glancing at Maddie. Her pale hair hung in a long, single braid down her back. Her facial features were sharp. Her lips were full and sexy … really sexy. She walked like she was the queen of the strip mall on long, long legs. And he wasn’t even going to look at her breasts … though a couple dozen men were.

“That forehead vein is throbbing again,” Maddie pointed out.

Something else is throbbing, too. “You bring that out in me.”

“I do not!”

He shrugged. “By the way, what did you mean about washing my clothes? I didn’t think there was any detergent left by the washing machine.”

“Deter-gent. Mash-sheen.” She sounded both words out, and when he just shook his head at her continuing game of “What is that?” she replied, “I washed your garments in that metal trough in your kitchen. I used the hard soap that was there. Then I hung them out to dry.”

The dingbat washed my clothes. “I’m afraid to ask. Where did you hang them? I don’t have a clothesline.”

“Out on the railing of the wooden platform behind your house.”

Oh, good Lord! “The deck?”

“Yea, the deck. And what a problem I had with your pant-teas and mine, not to mention my breast harness. The wind kept blowing them out onto the sand.” Her face brightened. “But I took a rod down from your window covering in the kitchen and anchored it between two chairs. With the garments strung along the rod, they are drying nicely.”

“My pan-panties?” he sputtered out. “Holy hell, Maddie! You washed my jockey shorts? By hand?”

“Yea, I did.” She must have noticed the stormy expression on his face, because she glared at him, hands on hips, and said, “Say thank you.”

He barely choked out the words, but he said, “Thank you.” Man, we’d better get this shopping expedition over quick. One of the guys might come over early for our meeting tonight. I’ll never hear the end of it if they see my tighty whities blowing in the wind, next to her “harness.”

For the next two hours, Ian enjoyed the wonderful pleasure/torture of watching Maddie try on tight jeans, revealing shirts, short skirts, sandals and sneakers, all of which she marveled over like a kid in a toy store. In the process, he saw up close and personal that Maddie had been telling the truth. Her “harness” had been left at home on his deck rail.

The lingerie section was particularly embarrassing to him. Maddie held up one sexy bra after another, continually referring to them as harnesses. “I wear a 34-see,” she told him. Like I need to know that! As for panties, they settled for hip-hugging silk scraps, which he was not imagining on her body. Uh-uh. Not him. When he suggested that she try a thong, she examined it closely, then made a scoffing sound. Looking up at him impishly, she said, “I’ll wear a thong if you will.” They didn’t buy any thongs.

Now they were headed toward their last stop … the grocery store at the end of the strip mall. Maddie’s eyes went wide, even wider than they had on first seeing an aircraft, or all the clothing items in the boutique, or his freakin’ kitchen.

“This must be heaven.” She sighed orgasmically. No, no, no! I did not think that word orgasmically. She sighed—that’s all. Oh, God, this is a losing battle. I am dead meat.

First they went to the produce department, where Maddie had to touch and smell everything. Grapes that she declared bigger and more succulent than those on her father’s farmstead, wherever that was. Apples that were redder and firmer than those she’d seen in Birka, wherever that was. Pomegranates more inviting than those eaten in the Arab harems, wherever they were. She claimed to have never seen a banana before. He bought several of those. Oranges she was familiar with, but the ones she’d tasted had been far smaller and bitter. He gave her a sample section which was set out on a tray. She declared it food of the gods. They tossed a bag of oranges in the cart. Then a bag of lettuce mix, potatoes, tomatoes, peaches, blueberries, watermelon and so much more, each of which required another of those sighs which he was not categorizing in a sexual way, like he had before, though he was thinking it.

Dammit. A man has to be dead below the waist not to want a woman to sigh like that over him. I can hear it now. “Oooh, it is bigger, and firmer, and more succulent than any I have seen before.”

“Why are you grinning?”

He zipped his lips. “Never mind.”

He had to pull her from the produce department after half an hour and a half-full cart of produce alone. The meat department was equally tantalizing to her. She just couldn’t accept that there were no cows or pigs or lambs being slaughtered behind the counters to yield all these packets of meat. They bought hamburger, hot dogs— and didn’t that raise her eyebrow? —steaks, bacon, sausage, a couple of frozen pizzas, frozen French fries, butter, bread, rolls, ice cream, milk, eggs, soda, beer, nail polish, dish and clothes detergent, a brush, comb and mirror, soap and shampoos, each of which she had to sniff. Even as they left, he with a sigh of relief, she with a sigh of regret, he had to promise they would return. They ended up with two carts full of groceries and a three-hundred-dollar bill.

Outside, one exasperated-looking cat greeted them with a loud, whining, “Meow!”

“We bought you some cat food, sweetling,” Maddie told Sam, reaching down to ruffle her fur. Sam purred her thanks.

“Hey, thank me . I’m the one who paid for it.”

Sam thanked him by pissing on the sidewalk near his boot.

“Damn cat!” he said under his breath as he led them toward his convertible.

“I heard that,” Maddie said. But she wasn’t mad at him, he could tell. He’d taken her to a magic mart—her words—and he was in her good graces. For now.

They were cruising down the streets in his neighborhood, top down, the late-afternoon sun warm on their heads. Ian was feeling oddly at peace. And happy. He couldn’t say why for sure. He just was.

Maddie was holding on to her seat for dear life. Claimed she had never ridden in a horseless red box with no roof before. “Do you have to go so fast?

“Are you kidding? I’m going fifteen miles an hour. Relax.”

Maddie sat back and seemed to loosen up. That was when she threw him one of her zingers. “Ian, is one hundred thousand dollars a lot of money?’

“You could say that. Yeah, it’s a lot. Why?”

“The man in the jewel mart offered me that much today.”

“No way!” Oh … my … God! Prostitution now. I don’t believe it. No, no, no! It can’t be that. Even Maddie wouldn’t be worth that much money for a roll in the hay. “No way!” he repeated.

“He did. I assure you, he did.” She held out a business card to him. It read: Abraham Kranich. Fine Estate Jewelry. Then, handwritten on the card was, “$100,000. Eight-carat emerald.”

He had just pulled into his driveway and was about to punch in the remote for his garage door when he turned to her. “You have an eight-carat emerald?”

She nodded, and took a big green stone from her pocket to show him. What did he know? It looked like a big green stone.

“The man said this is a rare jewel and of superior quality.”

“I’m going to hate myself for asking, but where did you get it?”

Her face flushed. “I might have taken a jewel … or two … from the harem treasure chests.”

“You stole jewelry?” This is just great! First she seems to be a terrorist, then a hooker, now a cat burglar.

She lifted her chin haughtily. “I was sold, against my will, to one man after another. For two long years I have been kept from my homeland. I deserved just payment, and that is what I got. No one ever missed them. I kept them sewn into the seams of my gunna. Ten little jewels! Pfff! I had ten times as much stolen from me when Steinolf invaded my keep.”

Steinolf again! “Ten, you say?”

“More or less.”

He raised his eyes heavenward. “You’re a freakin’ millionaire.”

“Is that good?”

“Very good.”

“Then I will give you one of the jewels for the groceries you bought today. I do not like to be beholden to any man.”

He started to laugh and couldn’t stop. He could see that she was annoyed by his laughter. “A hundred thou for a bag of groceries?” he choked out through his continuing laughter. “What is that? Like a hundred dollars an orange? A hundred dollars a banana? A hundred dollars for a brush? A hundred dollars for a candy bar? Oh, geez. Oh, man. This is the funniest thing I’ve heard in a long time.”

She looked downright cute glaring at him.

So, what could a red-blooded male—which he was—say but, “Baby, you can pay me in some other way”?

It was a Norse-Arab-Cajun-American Indian pasta dish …

Madrene was in the kitchen learning how to cook while the men were in the solar talking about some big secret mission, as men were wont to do. Every time she entered the room, they went silent. Men! Blowhards, all of them.

One at a time, each of the men came into the kitchen, where she was watching the red spaghetti sauce cooking on the stove. Every one of them tasted the sauce and added some new spice or grated cheese. They came to get a beer … which was similar to mead. She was drinking a glass herself.

They all commented on her new attire. Tight braies , called jeans. A sleeveless, hip-length shert , which tapered in at the waist, called a blouse. It had odd fasteners on the front called butt-ons, and was made of a light blue fabric. When he purchased it, Ian had said it matched her eyes, which pleased her; he did not toss many compliments in her direction. No doubt he wanted something from her.

Omar, who prided himself on his cooking skills, had spent some time with her in the beginning of the evening, teaching her how to use the kitchen implements. The stove. The can opener. The toaster. The microwave oven. Of course, he had to then explain to her what a can was, or why one would want to brown a slice of bread. He’d also had to explain all the different foods to her, since she could not read the labels. Tomato sauce. More spices than she ever thought existed. Rice. Pop-Tarts. Spa-get-he … which was what they were making tonight.

In addition, he showed her the laundry room and demonstrated the two magic mash-sheens there. No wonder Ian had been embarrassed over his undergarments hanging outside. Apparently, people here hid their washing and drying efforts.

She saw Omar studying her at various times when he did not realize she was aware of his scrutiny. He also alternated his conversation between Arabic and Saxon English, as if trying to trick her up with some mistake.

“So, you live with your little girl?” she asked. “Five years old, did you say?”

“Uh-huh,” Omar replied while he stirred the mary-nary sauce with a wooden spoon and added some Eastern spice. Every once in a while, he tested it by dipping out a little on the spoon. He made her do the same, though she had no idea how to determine when it was done. He took out a shiny paper with the image of a little girl on it. The red-haired child did not much resemble Omar. “Darla is going to start school in September. Early enrollment in kindergarten.” Pride was evident in his voice.

That got her attention. “Girls go to school in this country?”

“Absolutely. It’s required of both boys and girls.”

“That is wonderful. I have always wanted to learn to read and write, as my brothers did. My father, unlike many, would have allowed it, I think, but there was no time. Running a vast estate, whether it be a farmstead or royal household, left no time for anything not strictly a necessity.”

“A vast estate, huh? Tell me what kind of things you did.”

Omar was a very interesting man. He had been a teacher at a large university before becoming a seal. He had regaled her with astonishing stories of his brave ancestors on his father’s side. They had been red men, known as Indians.

Because he had shared some of his life story with her, she felt comfortable doing the same for him. “I will tell you of Norstead, the royal estate, because that is where I was at the last … not at the farmstead.”

“Royal?”

“My father’s family held a jarldom. We are related to the king’s family, though not in line of succession, thank the gods. What a snake pit of greed and intrigue that is! I had been married to Karl Ivarsson for a few years, but he put me aside and—”

“Do you mean divorce?”

She shrugged. “I guess that is your word for it.”

“I’m divorced,” Omar said.

“Really? Did you put your wife aside?”

He laughed. “Nah. It was a mutual decision.”

“But the child stays with you? How odd!”

“Colleen is a magazine writer. She travels all around the world in her job with Vanity Fair . It was more expedient to leave Darla with me.” He went over to the kitchen table and showed her a sheaf of thin papers, bound together. “This is Vanity Fair magazine, he noted.

“You travel, too,” she pointed out.

“Yes, I do.”

Obviously, the mother did not choose to take on the responsibility of her own baby. For shame! “And what happens when you are gone?”

“My mother helps out.”

“I would give anything to have a child. Girl or boy, no matter. But it is not to be.” She sighed.

“You were telling me about your duties at … Norstead.”

She regaled him for a long time with a description of her duties from dawn till nightfall, some of which changed with the seasons.

He was looking at her with amazement when she was done. “I could almost believe you.”

Madrene took insult at his words, but did not tell him so. He must have suspected how he had offended, though, because he put a hand on her shoulder and said, “Give us time to get to know you. We’ll come around. Or you will.” He grinned at that last.

“Hah! You will see.”

They smiled at each other, just as Ian came in to put a big loaf of bread in the oven to warm and to put on a large pot of water to boil for the spaghetti. “You never smile at me like that,” he griped. “Guess it’s true that nice guys finish last.”

“Who is the nice guy?” she asked.

Ian stomped out.

Omar just grinned at her.

Geek came next … a young man with freckles on his face that made him look much younger than his years. He added a pungent section of garlic to the pot. “You can never have too much garlic,” he said with a wink. Then he came over to the table where she was sitting. “What’re you reading?”

“I am just looking at the pages. I do not know how to read.”

“No kidding? I thought everyone knew how to read. In all parts of the world, I mean.”

“Some do in my country, but not many women.”

He nodded as if he understood, muttering something about women’s liberation needing to reach every corner of the world.

She eyed him closely for a second, then asked, “Would you teach me to read and write?”

He gave her a steady gaze, surprised at her request.

“I could pay you,” she added quickly.

A smile twitched at his lips. “Yeah, I heard.”

She could only imagine what kind of story the troll had told his teammates.

“I’ve never been a teacher,” Geek said then, “but I can try.”

“Another thing. Ian tells me that you know everything about everything, and—”

“He was being sarcastic.”

“Hmmmm. I do not think so. In any case, I need to find a way home to Norstead. Would you be able to help me?”

“You mean, a map.”

“Yea, a map would be good.”

“Probably. Next time I come I’ll bring my laptop and we can check it out on the Internet. Or else we can use Ian’s computer.”

Madrene did not understand all his words, but it appeared that this young man had agreed to help her find her way home, in addition to teaching her to read and write. “Thank you, thank you.” She got up and hugged him.

Ian walked in to get a beer, saw the hug and walked back out. She thought she heard him say a well-known, one-word Saxon expletive.

Geek arched his eyebrows at her in a knowing manner.

Sly, the tall black man, regaled her with stories of his homeland, Man-hat-and, also called the Big Apple, which was odd since he’d told her, upon questioning, that there were no apple trees there. She could hardly fathom his claim that there was a building more than a hundred stories high; a story was one level of a building, floor to ceiling. No doubt he was teasing her, as all the seals were wont to do.

She was laughing at his description of the way people traveled there on underground vehicles when Ian came in again. He looked at her, frowned, then banged some utensils at the stove as he added the thin sticks of spaghetti to the water. “Don’t let me interrupt anything,” he said. The words should have been polite, but they came out like a criticism.

“Why would he criticize us for laughing together?” Madrene asked Sly after Ian stomped out of the room again.

“He’s jealous,” he said.

“Impossible,” she replied. “He does not care about me.”

Sly winked at her and left.

Cage, the mischievous one, came next. He didn’t even bother to taste the sauce. Instead, he turned up his nose and said, “If it ain’t gumbo, it ain’t worth fixin’.” He put a little black box on the table in front of her. “You ever heard Cajun music, sugar?”

She shook her head slowly from side to side.

“You’re in for a treat.” He pressed a red thing on the black box, and loud, raucous music came forth.

She jumped out of her seat and backed away. “What is it? Is there a person in there playing an instrument?”

“Oh, chère,” he said with a grin, “you have so much to learn. That, darlin’, is Cajun music, the best in the world.”

“Well, it certainly is loud.”

“That’s a backhanded compliment if I ever heard one.” He told her a fascinating story about his people—the Acadians, who were driven out of France and then Canada. Finally, many of them settled in Lewis-i-anna. Apparently, there were swamps in this region which abounded with fierce animals called ally-gate-ors. But the strong Cajun people survived there, eating the animals the city dwellers disdained, turning them into spicy dishes. And they were a happy people, as evidenced by their lively music. “Plus,” Cage added at the last, “Cajun men are known to be great lovers.”

At first she did not realize that he was teasing her. When understanding came, she told him, “ ’Tis the same thing men of my country claim. Methinks men have an overblown opinion of their prowess in the bedsport. Except for my father, of course. He bred thirteen children on different women and could lay claim to being particularly virile. Is that not outrageous?” Without waiting for an answer, she continued, “Of course it is. And believe you me, I told him so on many an occasion. Some people say that I am a shrew, but I prefer to say I am a strong-minded woman. What say you?”

Cage blinked at her several times, as if she’d stunned him with her words. He was not the first man to do so. Then he smiled at her. “All I can say, Maddie, is that you are a very interesting woman.”

“I will take that as a compliment.” Even though it probably was not meant as such.

“Would you like to dance?” Cage held his arms open for her.

“I cannot imagine dancing to that music.”

“I’ll show you. C’mon, baby. A strong-minded woman wouldn’t be afraid of a little dance.”

She narrowed her eyes at him for throwing her words back at her, but she stepped into his embrace, which was too intimate for mere acquaintances in her opinion. But the rogue never gave her a chance to protest, and he twirled and stomped her about the kitchen to an exercise called the “Cajun two-step.” Every time she stepped on his toes with her new sandals, he kept telling her, “Feel the beat, Maddie. Just feel the beat.”

“I would like to beat someone, for sure,” Ian said, flicking off the radio and glaring at Cage. “In case you’ve forgotten, dimwit, we are having a serious meeting in the living room.” Then he turned and walked away.

Cage followed him, but not before saying, “It would seem that there is more than one shrew in this house.”

She was flipping through the magazine again when Luke came in—she preferred that name to his nicking name, Slick. Actually, he was standing in the doorway, leaning lazily on the frame, watching her. For how long, she could not say. This man was different from the other seals. Oh, he was handsome, with his dark hair and eyes so dark a blue they almost appeared black. And his long, lean body was as muscled as all the rest. He did not talk much, though, and there was a danger in his quietness. Like she used to see in her Uncle Jorund.

“I understand you have some valuable jewels,” he said finally, after prolonged silent scrutiny.

She nodded.

“If you ever need to sell them, contact me. I can put you in touch with … people.”

She nodded again.

“Avenil, leave my wife alone,” Ian said, coming up on Luke.

“Wife?” Luke inquired in a disbelieving voice. Then he, like the others, walked away.

“I am not your wife,” she called after Ian.

“You’re not my mother, either, Mrs. MacLean,” he called back.

What does that mean?

After the meal, which was messy … at least for her … the men went back into the solar to finish their meeting, except for Pretty Boy. He noticed the magazine was opened to a page where there was a beautiful woman with scarlet lips and fingernails, posing with her hands upraised, combing through a wild mass of wavy red hair.

“She’s beautiful,” Madrene observed.

“You could be just as beautiful, with a little cosmetic help.”

“I bought some nail paint today at the shopping mart. Is that what she is wearing?”

He nodded.

“Mine is not so red. It is a color that Ian called pink. Do you know how I go about putting it on?”

He flashed her a wicked smile. “Babe, this is your lucky day. I have three sisters who made me help them sometimes when I was a kid and not big enough to refuse. Besides, any male worth his testosterone has tried painting a pretty woman’s nails after watching that sexy scene in Bull Durham .”

Madrene went to the sleeping chamber and got the nail paint. When she returned to the kitchen, Pretty Boy had moved her chair closer to his. “Plant your sweet ass here, honey.”

Once he was done, her nails looked beautiful, in her opinion, even though hers were short and a bit ragged, unlike the long-nailed woman in the magazine. She kept holding her hands out to admire them.

“How about a pedicure, too?” At her frown of confusion, he explained, “Your toenails?”

She giggled at the prospect of such an exercise in vanity. Madrene could not remember herself giggling in a long, long time … or engaging in such a frivolous activity.

So it was that when Ian came back to the kitchen this time, she was sitting with her legs extended and her bare feet in Pretty Boy’s lap. And he was studiously painting her toenails.

“What the hell is going on here?” he grumbled. That vein was sticking out on his forehead again. “You guys are acting like friggin’ idiots. She’s not the queen, and you are not one of her minions.”

Pretty Boy ignored Ian and helped her put her feet on the floor. “We’re done, honey. Be careful for a little while. Don’t put your shoes on or touch the polish.” He kissed her on the cheek then.

Ian made a growling sound.

Grinning, Pretty Boy swaggered by Ian, saying as he passed him in the doorway, “Don’t be such a dog in the manager, boss. It might come back to bite you in the butt.”

Ian stared at Maddie for a long moment then, taking in her new outfit and her newly polished finger and toenails.

Does he like what he sees? Oh, yes, he does. “Betimes you are a dragon’s arse, Ian, but I do not think you are a dog.”

He obviously didn’t understand what she meant, and then he did. He grinned in a rueful manner and said softly, “I would have polished your nails for you.”

After he left, Madrene thought about his words for a long time. And she found herself oddly excited.