Chapter Three

Hollywood, land of dreams…

"You've got to be dreaming!"

Angela wasn't surprised by Darrell Nolan's reaction to her counteroffer of five hundred thousand dollars to use the Blue Dragon as a setting for his new movie, Grapes of Sin . In fact, she'd known beforehand that she was going to have to engage in some of the high-powered persuasive techniques she'd perfected these past years as a successful real estate agent. "No, I'm not dreaming. You have to see my grandmother's vineyard to appreciate how perfect it would be as a backdrop for this movie. It's worth every cent."

"Oh, I would definitely require a firsthand inspection if I am going to pay out two hundred thou."

" Five hundred thousand," she repeated.

"Honey, I could get the Taj Mahal for a half mil."

She shrugged and tried to appear unconcerned and not desperate, as she really was. At the same time, she gritted her teeth over the producer's use of the word honey . The aging Lothario with the thick, wavy white hair and George Hamilton tan was living in another era. He didn't understand how offensive the endearment was in today's work environment. Next he would be pinching her behind. Putting her irritation aside, she said, "My price is firm."

"So is your butt," he said, waggling his eyebrows suggestively as he walked around his desk, and, yep, pinched her behind. He didn't even check to see what her reaction was. Instead, he strolled toward the set of windows that covered two walls of his posh office in the Universe Studios building. The man was a sexual-harassment suit waiting to happen…even here in Hollywood, casting couch of the theatrical world. On the other hand, he was a genius of a producer, highly regarded for his movie credits across the world.

"Look, Angie…" he began.

Angela hated that nickname—with a passion. If she didn't watch herself, she was going to grind her teeth down to the gums.

"…I already have money problems casting this production."

Angela had heard rumors that Angelina Jolie and Benjamin Bratt were to play the leads. So, yeah, big bucks were probably involved. Her five hundred thousand would be a pittance.

"I've got to cut costs somewhere."

That hangdog expression isn't winning me over, buster . "But time is money, Darrell. I have a readymade movie set for you…a spectacular working vineyard. Every week you spend searching for a cheaper site is going to cost you."

"You have a point there."

"Why don't we schedule a day when you can come to visit? Don't dig in your heels on the price till you've seen the place." Angela was confident that once he got a look at the Blue Dragon, money would be a moot point.

He conceded and told her that he and a crew would be there a week from Thursday. "Actually, I have bigger problems than the location for my next film. I've got to finish my current project, a remake of that old Kirk Douglas classic, The Vikings , and Dirk Johansson has walked off the set…again. God, what a prick he is! First he didn't like his costar…."

Angela frowned. "I thought I heard that Pamela Templeton was starring in this movie."

"She is…she is," Darrell said, nodding. "And, hot damn, what red-blooded male wouldn't want that blond goddess as a costar? Only the world's biggest egotist, that's who."

Angela had to smile. She'd read enough Variety magazine articles to know that Johansson was renowned for his high opinion of himself. Supposedly there were so many mirrors in his Beverly Hills mansion that it resembled a brothel. Pamela Templeton was outrageously sexy and beautiful…the perfect match for a Norse warrior, you would think. But he must view her beauty as competition.

"If that wasn't bad enough," the producer was rambling on, "Dirk —the dick!— doesn't like the drab clothing that Vikings wear. Says he doesn't look good in brown. He does like the fur cloak, though. You should see the outfit he wants to wear. Pfff! Better suited to a gay pimp than a Viking hunk."

Angela wanted to tell Darrell that none of this was her concern…that all she cared about was getting some cash for her grandmother to continue operating Blue Dragon…but, of course, she didn't. Some of her most important house sales were made by employing a little diplomacy.

"The latest foolishness on Dirk's part is that he gets seasick…on a fake longship, for chrissake! On an artificial ocean. He made us turn off the wave-making machine. What does he think…that longships sailed in calm seas. That Norsemen rowed halfway across the freakin' world?"

"I saw the longship as I drove up, sitting in that fake lake. It was beautiful…a wonderful reproduction. I understand how frustrating it must be for you," she commented, just to make conversation. Now that Darrell had agreed to visit the Blue Dragon, she just wanted to escape. She stood and gathered her briefcase and purse, easing her way toward the door. "Well, I've got to be going."

"Oh…my…God!" Darrell exclaimed.

Now what? Angela turned slowly to see the producer staring out the window, slack-jawed with disbelief.

"Who is that guy, and what the hell does he think he's doing on my ship? Where's security? And who the hell turned that wave machine back on?"

This was the perfect opportunity for Angela to escape, but she couldn't help herself. Curiosity compelled her to turn around and walk over to the window.

"What?" she asked, standing next to Darrell.

"Look…look…" he sputtered, pointing down two stories to the lot that she had passed earlier…the one with the longship floating on a man-made lake.

Now it was her turn to exclaim, "Oh…my…God!"

Standing with legs widespread on the prow of the longship was a man who could only be described as…well…a Viking. He was six-foot-five, at least, with long, light brown hair streaked with blond highlights—probably from riding a surfboard and not because he'd been riding the ocean waves on some ancient dragonship. He was over thirty years old, but, hey, there were lots of overage surfers in California, living the perpetual quest for the perfect wave.

This Viking, who must be part of some publicity stunt, was wearing a thigh-length leather tunic over wide, muscled shoulders. The outfit was accented by a thick belt around a sinfully narrow waist. His sinewy legs were bare, except for cross-gartered boots. His arms, also roped with muscles, were bare, too, except for etched silver bracelets on his biceps. In one hand he held a huge sword. In the other arm he held a little blond-haired girl dressed in an old-fashioned pinafore-style gown. The most amazing thing of all was the group with this…this…Viking on a longship. Not just the toddler in his arm but a bunch of other kids as well. She quickly counted. Nine in all, each dressed in ancient attire that she surmised was the way the old Norse would have been garbed.

Her gaze went back to the man then, as if compelled to do so. He was staring about the set and acting profoundly baffled, but still protective of his family…if that was what the children were.

In a town that was loaded with gorgeous men, this man took the prize. His features were not perfect. In fact, when the wind blew intermittently, she noticed that he had rather large ears. Furthermore, he was too tall—and too bulked up—for her tastes. Despite all that, he was as handsome as a Viking god. Kevin Sorbo in his role as Hercules…but better.

For some strange reason, Angela's heart was racing. And she felt like laughing and crying at the same time. If she didn't know better, she would think this was love at first sight. But, of course, she knew better.

"Who is he?" she finally managed to ask.

"I have no idea," Darrell said, still gaping goggle-eyed out the window. "But I'm sure as hell gonna find out."

The tone in his voice made Angela instantly suspicious. "Why?"

"Why? I'll tell you why." He was chortling with glee. "Screw Dirk Johansson. Who needs him now?"

"Why?" she asked again.

"I've just found my perfect Viking."

Out of the fog, but someplace hot…

"By thunder! It's hotter than the fires of Muspell here." Magnus wiped sweat off his forehead with a forearm—the same arm that held his favorite sword, Head Lopper. In his other arm he held Lida, who was goo ing at every bird or breeze that passed by. The wee one certainly had a pleasant disposition, but in this case her good mood was probably due to her nappy being filled with some stinksome substance.

"I have heard of such hot weather in the deserts of the Eastlands," Torolf answered him. He also was perspiring profusely under the blistering sun, as evidenced by the beads of moisture on his forehead and upper lip and by the underarm stains on his leather tunic.

"How could we have gone from the cold of Vinland waters to this excessive warmth in such a short time? The fog was confusing, but I am fairly certain we did not travel eastward. Dost think we have entered the Land of the Dead?"

"That fiery first level of the Norse underworld, comparable to the Christian hell?" Torolf shook his head. "I hardly think my younger brothers and sisters have done anything wicked enough to merit such punishment. Bloody hell, I have not been so bad myself…except for that time when I put honey on the privy seat when I was a youthling…or when I seduced the smithy's daughter…or when I got drukkin on Frey Day and…Oh, never mind. Besides, those people over there look alive…and normal. Well, not normal, considering their clothing and hair. But not dead. 'Tis strange, this place, though." Obviously his rambling son was equally puzzled by the scene surrounding them.

They were still on his longship, and they were still at sea, if the waves lapping at the sides of Fierce Dragon were any indication, but the land that was visible a short distance away was anything but familiar. The irksome whale was gone, he noticed. Thank the gods for small blessings . In the distance he could see huge letters propped against the mountainside: H-O-L-L-Y-W-O-O-D…the same sign he had seen in his dreams. Or was it through the fog? Next he expected to see the white-haired lady with the prayer beads pop out of one of the puffy clouds. If that happened, he might just jump overboard and end it all.

The only thing certain in this uncertain happenstance was that they had entered the land of Holly and Wood. But where this strange new land was, he had no clue. There were enormous buildings unlike anything he'd ever seen before; the longhouses reached far up into the sky. And moving horseless vehicles fairly shot along the roads that crisscrossed all the land as far as his eyes could see. In addition, at the beginning of one of the roadways, much closer than the Hollywood sign, was another sign that said, Universe Studios . He tried to sound the words out, "You-knee-verse Stew-dios." It was all so confusing.

The most alarming thing to Magnus was the lack of farmland, or open spaces where cultivation of the land would be possible. What would he do in this new land if he could not farm?

The people who were gathering along the shore were strange, as well. The hair on most of the men was short, in the Frankish style. Some of the women had short hair, too, which made them look rather mannish. And the clothing! Not a man in sight wearing a belted tunic over braies . And the women! Some of them wore men's breeches, and some wore short gunnas that were so tight as to be a second skin, ending barely beneath their womanplace.

"For the love of Frigg!" Torolf exclaimed, as his eyes riveted on the same scandalous attire of the women. Soon an appreciative smile spread across his son's face. "Could this be a land of harlots?" He did not appear displeased at the prospect.

"I would like to be around when one of them bends over to churn some milk or feed the chickens," Magnus remarked, not often sharing such lascivious thoughts with his son, but too shocked to restrain himself.

"Nay, Faeir , did you misremember your vow? 'Tis best that you not view such sights and be tempted. I will look for both of us."

Magnus glowered at Torolf, but the cocky cub just laughed.

But women were not the only ones in the gathering crowd, and some of the men arriving looked angry, especially those with matching dark blue sherts and braies with shiny, star-shaped brooches on their chests. They carried objects in their hands that Magnus suspected were weapons, though they were not the spears or battle-axes with which he was familiar.

"I sure hope they are not as vicious as those natives in Vinland," Torolf commented, noticing the direction of his stare. He fingered his sword, Skin Slicer, as he spoke. "I have grown accustomed to a hairy scalp on my head." Torolf had a misplaced sense of humor betimes.

Just then Magnus's attention was drawn to a movement overhead. "Hamr, get away from there this instant. If you climb that mast pole one more time, I am going to chain you in some dungeon till you are at least"—he had to quickly do a mental count to remember the rascal's age—"six years old."

"Which dungeon, Faeir? " Hamr called out, an impudent grin on his face as he slid down the pole. "Do they have dungeons in this new land?"

"I have no idea," he said in a snarl. "If they do not, I will build one…just for the likes of you."

"Goo!" Lida said with a wide toothless grin. Drool drizzled down to her chin. The brave imp, who was teething, almost never cried. Thank the gods for another small blessing!

Kirsten and Dagny were behind him, cowering in fright, and weeping as they had been doing ever since they'd left the Norselands. Storvald and Njal were wrestling on the ship's plank floor, trying to settle one insult or another that had been uttered just to start such a wrestling bout. Jogeir was making some observation about the ocean here not really being an ocean at all. Kolbein was clinging to Magnus's thigh like a barnacle. Every time Magnus tried to move, it felt as if he were dragging an anchor with him. And wasn't that another odd thing? Suddenly his longship, which had been drifting through a dark, eerie fog for a day and more, had discovered its anchor and stood firmly in place now, as it should have been back in the waters off Vinland.

"GET…OFF…THE…SHIP!"

Magnus jumped at the sound.

"GET…OFF…THE…SHIP!" was repeated once again, at an exceedingly loud pitch.

He looked left and right, trying to discover the source of the order that passed through the air like a roar from the heavens. Was it one of the gods calling for him? Finally he ascertained that the noise came from a large horn being held by a man on the shore. Over and over the order was repeated through the horn, as if he were deaf and could not hear properly, or as if he were a dunderhead. He would like to purchase one of those horns to take back with him when this adventure was over. It would be useful when laying siege to a Saxon castle, as King Olaf was ofttimes wont to do.

"COME…AND…GET…US," Magnus yelled back, as loudly as he could, which was nowhere near as loud as the man with the horn. All of his children could swim, except for Lida, of course. But he was not about to get them or himself wet needlessly. Nor did he want to risk their drowning. Many a skilled swimmer had sunk in strange waters with undertows and other unknown perils.

At first he did not think he was heard, or understood. But then the man with the horn muttered something like, "Arrogant bastard!" He had no time to be offended because a small boat with two oars was being launched to come for them. He still kept his sword drawn, though, as did Torolf. They were taking no chances.

No sooner did the two men in the boat climb up the rope ladder to his ship than the white-haired one of foppish appearance stepped forward, obviously the leader. He motioned to his companion, one of the men in all-blue attire with the shiny chest brooch, to put down his weapon, even though both of them were eyeing the swords he and Torolf still carried with some trepidation. "They're just props," the leader told his comrade.

Magnus glanced quickly at his broadsword, then Torolf's, and wondered what they might prop up with their swords…except for some enemy's gullet. Was that what he meant?

"I'm Darrell Nolan," the chieftain explained, "as if you didn't already know. Ha, ha, ha! Great publicity stunt, young man. Great publicity stunt! Ha, ha, ha! Although why you brought along all these children is beyond me. Well, whatever! An interesting touch, I suppose. Ha, ha, ha! I must admire your enterprise in avoiding the usual audition procedure. Great job! What is that putrid smell, by the way?"

Lida said, "Goo."

Dare-all turned slightly green with comprehension, but then he made a deliberate effort to smile widely at Magnus, exposing the whitest, most perfect teeth Magnus had even seen on a man his age. Not a bit of wear or staining. Most Viking teeth were worn down somewhat by the time they reached old age because of the bits of stone in their bread, which resulted from the stone-quern process of milling the flour.

The man was still smiling after a prolonged silence.

"I think he's waiting for a response from you," Torolf prodded in an undertone, out of the side of his mouth.

"Huh?" was Magnus's brilliant response. Thor's toenails! He understood much of what was spoken in five languages, and he was fluent in three of them, including the Saxon English. But this English that Dare-All No-Land spoke was different. Surprisingly, Magnus could understand most of it, except for some words, such as pub-less-city and odd-itch-on. Even his children seemed to understand what was being said. How odd! But then, how odd was it to be overcome by a weird fog and end up in a new world?

"Is this hell?" he asked of a sudden, deciding to ignore the smile on the man's face—a smile that implied that Magnus was a tasty morsel he'd just been handed. That made Magnus mighty distrustful.

"I beg your pardon?" Dare-All said.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why are you begging my pardon? Did you do something that needs pardoning?" Yea, he'd been right to be wary of this ingratiating miscreant. Was he a sodomite? Nay, he did not think that was it. Perchance a pirate out to rob him of his longship and treasures? Yea, that was more likely. Best to be on guard. He gave Torolf a quick eye signal to indicate that he remain on guard, as well. "Be prepared," he whispered.

"I need a sword," Hamr said.

Magnus swatted him on the head. "Not now, halfling."

"Let's go get Faeir's spare sword, Heart Piercer," Njal offered. He was too far away for Magnus to swat.

"I have a big piece of wood I was going to start carving. We could use that for a club." It was Storvald speaking now as he squinted at the two visitors on the longship.

Magnus groaned. Does life get any better—or worse—than this?

"Good idea, Stor." Hamr patted his older brother on the back. "And I warrant there are bows and arrows somewhere on this ship. Someone keeps hiding them from me."

Guess who? "I have a better idea," Magnus said. "How about I drop three bothersome boys overboard for a good dunking?"

Dare-All shook his head as if to clear it. "Let's start over," he suggested, and extended his right hand toward him.

Magnus took one step backward. What now? Did Dare-All want him to hand Lida over to him? That hard ly seemed likely after his grimace at her odor. Ha! It must be his sword. "I am not handing over Head Lopper. So just forget about that."

"Head…Head Lopper?" Dare-All stammered.

"My sword."

Dare-All turned rather green again, but then he regained his composure with a nervous laugh. "You seem almost like a real Viking. I swear, if this is acting, you've got a job. What's your name, by the way? Are you union?"

"My name is Magnus…Magnus Ericsson," he revealed, but said no more. 'Twas best not to give the enemy—or potential enemy—too much information.

"Are you from L.A.?"

"Ell-aye?" Magnus shook his head slowly. "Nay, I am from the southwestern coast of Norway. Vestfold, to be precise."

"Norway?" Dare-All exclaimed. "My God, you are too good to be true. A pure-blooded Viking, to the bone. Hey, those are some armrings you're wearing, buddy. Look like solid silver, but of course they must be fake. Right? They sure look authentic. Holy shit! And I love those tunics you and your ‘sons' are wearing. Couldn't get Dirk Johansson to wear anything resembling what you've got on. Too plain."

Plain? There is naught plain about me . "Dirk?" His head was starting to hurt from all the questions bumping about inside his brain. That and the sun. "Dirk is a new name, even for a Viking, and we have some of the oddest in the world. Halfdan of the Wide Embrace. Ragnor Hairy-Breeks. Ivan the Ignorant. But ne'er have I heard of a man named for a knife. Dirk. Hmmm. I like it." Now, why he had decided to home in on the peculiar name, rather than all the other things this strange man had said, was a wonder to Magnus. Probably because his brain was being baked in this hot sun.

"Yeah. Dirk the Jerk. Dirk the Dick. You get it? Ivan the Ignorant. Dirk the Dick. Ha, ha, ha!"

This fellow was acting a bit demented. Magnus wasn't sure he wanted to be associated with him. Narrowing his eyes suspiciously, he asked, "What country is this?"

"Are you for real? This is carrying the stunt a bit far, don'tcha think? Oh, well, I'll play along. It's America. Ha, ha, ha!"

"Ah-mare-ee-ca," he sounded out. "Is that anywhere near Vinland?"

"Vinland? Where the hell is Vinland? Oh, you mean that place where the Vikings were supposed to have discovered America about a thousand years ago."

A thousand years ago? Yea, this man is barmy as a bat . "Look, Dare-All, my family and I have been aboard this longship for days. May we board your small boat to go ashore and get our land feet, and perchance refresh ourselves afore departing for other shores? A small repast would be much appreciated, as well. In all truth, I am sick of gammelost and moldy manchet bread."

At first Dare-All appeared confused, but then he brightened. "Sure. Sure thing. Let's all go ashore and get a repast. Ha, ha, ha!"

Dare-All's incessant laughter was beginning to grate on Magnus's nerves. Besides that, he suspected that if he looked up, he would see a five-year-old, soon-to-be- arse-paddled young boy at the top of the mast pole…swinging his father's second-best sword.

In less than an hour they were all ashore, though not without much grumbling and consternation—the latter on his part. Dare-All had balked at the idea of his taking four heavy wooden chests into the small boat. "Why the hell do you need those chests? And how did they get on my longship anyhow?"

" Your longship?" Magnus had asked in an icy voice. "I beg to differ. This is my longship, Fierce Dragon . It was built by my brother Geirolf five years past, and a better ship has never sailed the seas." He deliberately failed to inform the man that the chests contained much treasure, which he intended to use in whatever new land he settled…obviously not this one, which was already settled.

Dare-All had said, "Whatever!" Then he'd quickly added, "But, please, put those freakin' swords away. There are laws against carrying weapons in public places, you know?"

He and Torolf had sheathed their swords, though they had not understood half of what Dare-All had said. What was a free-can sword? And what weapon laws?

"Let's go up to my office," Dare-All suggested.

Magnus wasn't so sure he wanted to visit any of this man's orifices, but perhaps he'd misunderstood. Meanwhile, dozens of people were milling about, gaping as if he and his children were freaks of nature, when in fact the onlookers were the odd ones.

Just then he noticed Hamr trying to climb atop one of the horseless vehicles standing at rest by the roadside. He grabbed the child by the scruff of the neck and shook him. "Behave yourself, boy. Do I have to tie you to my other leg, like Kolbein here?"

Hamr looked horrified.

One lady, apparently aghast at his treatment of his son, chastised him. "Is it necessary to be so violent with that child? He's only a little boy."

Hamr cast her a sweet smile.

"Perhaps you need some anger management classes."

"Perhaps you need to mind your own business, you old biddy."

"What is that putrid smell?" she said, then looked at Lida. "When was the last time you changed her Pampers?"

"When did I last pamper her? Blód hel , I pamper her way too much, if truth be told."

"I think she's referring to her diapers," Dare-All explained, still smiling.

"And what, pray tell, is a die-purr?"

"The cloth you put on the baby's ass to catch the piss and shit," Dare-All practically shouted, finally becoming exasperated with him.

"Well, why did you not say nappy to begin with?" he told the woman, who was slack-jawed with amazement. "I used the last one yesterday."

The woman gasped some more. "Oh…oh…oh! Is that boy limping? Did you hit him…or kick him…or something?"

Magnus glanced at Jogeir, who was blushing profusely at being singled out in such a way because of a handicap he chose to ignore. If this woman were a man, Magnus would call him out for such an insult. He would never kick a child. Never.

"Someone ought to call Child Protective Services."

Really, he had had enough for one day…in fact, for one year…and what he did not need was a meddling crone telling him what to do. On the other hand…. hmmm…"Are you interested in employment, my good woman?"

"Em…em…employment?" she sputtered out. "As what?"

"A nurse maid for my nine children, that's what."

" Nine? I'll have you know, I'm a noted chef in one of the city's most exclusive restaurants. I'm just touring the studio."

Magnus hadn't a clue what she'd just said.

"I think a chef is a kind of cook…for royalty and such," Kirsten explained to him. His daughter fancied that she was an authority on the lifestyles of the royal families of not just Norway, but England and Frankland, as well. Probably hoped to wed some prince, or at least a lower level atheling.

"Well, I would not mind a nurse maid who could cook a fair meal, too," Magnus told the woman.

"You have some nerve," the woman said, and stormed away. That was what women did whenever they knew they had lost an argument with a far more intelligent man. He had made her a perfectly reasonable offer, after all.

"Step away, everyone. Go back to work," Dare-All ordered, and surprisingly people began to obey him. He must be a chieftain here, after all, though Magnus could hardly credit that possibility. The man had no muscles to speak of. But then, Magnus knew of one Danish jarl, Sven Spear Thrower, who was short and stout, which he made up for by being mean as a snake.

As the crowd parted, Magnus got his biggest surprise of the day. It was a woman. But not just any woman.

"Good Lord!" the woman murmured.

Did she think he was a lord? Well, he would correct that notion later. And good? He would hardly describe himself in that way, though he was not bad, either.

Even as he puffed out his chest at her blatant inspection of his body, every fine hair on Magnus's body stood at attention. Just looking at this woman made his bones turn to pudding and his fingers itch to reach out and touch her to see if she was really…well, real. In all his thirty and seven years, he had never been affected by a female in such a way…and definitely not on a first meeting.

Is it a spell?

Is it a conjuring by the white-haired woman with the prayer beads?

Is it a joke by that jester god, Loki?

Does it matter?

She was staring at him as if equally poleaxed by the intense emotions swirling between them. Everyone around them probably noticed, but he did not care. Something important was happening…what, he could not say for a certainty. He just knew his life was about to talk a major turn.

This woman was no longer young. She was at least thirty years old. But comely. Nay, more than comely. Beautiful. Masses of curly black hair surrounded a heart-shaped face. Her parted red lips were full and sensuous and immensely kiss-some. To the right of her mouth was a small black mole, which, rather than being repulsive, was sinfully tempting. Oh, the things that could be done to that very spot by the tongue of a man with expertise in the love arts…which he had in excess. Thick black lashes shadowed eyes of so dark a brown they appeared black.

She wore a two-piece garment of white silk, which left the creamy skin of her neck and part of her chest bare, where a small gold cross on a thin chain rested tantalizingly. She was tall for a woman, but curvy. The hem of her garment ended just above her knees. Her long legs were covered with transparent silk hose, and on her feet were black leather shoes with thin, high heels. If his hands were not occupied with the babe, he would be unable to restrain himself from touching that long, long stretch of winsome leg. Not just touching, either. Licking would be good, too.

His heart began to race madly against his chest walls as he gazed upon her. He could scarcely breathe. If he did not see her chest heaving with the effort to pant for air, he would have thought her a goddess, or one of the Valkyries, not a living, breathing woman.

"Faaa-ther!" Torolf groaned. "Do not appear too anxious. Your tongue is practically hanging out."

He cast a quick glower at his son, whom he was beginning to think he should have left behind with Ragnor. Almost immediately he returned his attention to the woman. He was not going to let her out of his sight. Still, without looking at him directly, Magnus remarked to Torolf, "I have not yet seen the day when I will take advice from a pup such as you. I have bred thirteen children, for the love of Odin! Do you not think I have learned a thing or two?"

"Oh, God! I can see it all now. More children."

"There will be no more children," he declared. I hope . "Shut your teeth now. I need to concentrate."

Torolf muttered some rude opinion about where his concentration was lodged.

"You know, Torolf, you could learn something from your elders. My mother, Lady Asgar—your grandmother—was always of a whimsical bent. She believed that for every man there was one special woman. A soul mate."

" Faeir , you just met the woman."

"It matters not. Mother always told me and your two uncles that we would recognize that person when she came. I suppose she told your Aunt Katla the same thing, in reverse, but I was never around for that discussion."

Torolf grunted his opinion.

"‘Women may come and go in your lives, my sons, but there will be only one who will touch your heart to the quick, and change your world so that it will be forever empty without her.' That is what my mother always said."

Torolf grunted again.

"Geirolf and Jorund and I scoffed with disbelief behind Mother's back, but now I know she was right. This is my woman…my destiny."

"Destiny has boiled your brain," Torolf grumbled.

"I think what Father said is beautiful," Kirsten stated.

Dagny sighed deeply in agreement.

Hamr and Njal snorted.

Jogeir looked unimpressed.

Storvald was eyeing a nearby piece of what appeared to be fake driftwood, uncaring one way or another.

Kolbein clung tighter, probably fearful that Magnus was going to toss him aside in favor of some lady love.

Lida goo ed.

Magnus did not care what any of them thought. The only thing that mattered in this moment was how she felt.

Even so, how would she fit in with his vow of celibacy?

And did she like children…like eleven of them? Well, nine only, if you counted those with him. Nine was not such a dreadful number. Was it?

What if she was already wed? Mayhap even to Dare-All the Laugher? Nay, he could not countenance even the remote possibility. It was such a mismatch.

Was it really possible that he had had to go through four wives, six concubines, and numerous passing fancies before finding "the one" for him?

Did she feel their instant connection, too?

Would she be willing to live on a farm…assuming there were farms somewhere in this crowded land?

Better yet, would she return with him to the Norselands, if that was what he was called to do?

In essence, what did fate have in store for him now?