Chapter Nine

Even Vikings get lucky sometimes….

Magnus could not believe his eyes.

The woman he had been waiting for all his life—without knowing it, of course—was standing before him practically naked. And she wanted him. Him… the most lack-witted Viking in all the Norse world. He had to be lack-witted to have wasted all these years with so many other women. Why had he not gone searching for her? Why had he bred babe after babe in meaningless encounters when he could have shared a love child with her?

Although she was not the most comely woman Magnus had ever coupled with, she was beautiful. Though tall for a woman, she barely reached his shoulder. But then he was exceptionally tall, even for a Viking. He had been with some women who could have kissed his navel, they were so short…not that there hadn't been an appeal in that activity at the time. But he knew now he'd been a fool to waste his time so.

Angela's hair formed a cloud of black silk about her heart-shaped face. Her lips were painted crimson red…to match the enticing undergarment, he supposed. He could not wait to kiss it off—the lip color, that is.

Her body was rounded in all the right places. Narrow waist, wider hips. Long, shapely legs. And her breasts…ah, her breasts were high and full and rose-tipped.

He wished he had met her many years ago.

"Why?" she asked.

He hadn't realized that he'd spoken aloud.

"Because I would not have made so many mistakes in women. Because I would not have had so many children with other women. Because I would have been worthy of you then."

"And because you wouldn't have taken the vow?"

The woman is too perceptive, by far . "That, too," he admitted with a laugh, and opened his arms for her. She had said she wanted to do the touching, but they had to start somewhere. Much more dithering and he was going to do something really disgraceful…like beg. And he knew—not from personal experience—that the sight of a Viking on his knees was not a sight to be relished…unless, of course, the man in question was doing something interesting sexually. That latter he did know from personal experience. Slightly. Only slightly. Holy Thor! Why am I feeling guilty over things I did years ago? It is as if even when I did not know her, I was betraying her .

Angela took one look at his open arms, crossed her own arms over her breasts in delayed modesty, and strolled right by him. The impudent wench! But he got an opportunity to gaze at her saucy behind in the skimpy red undergarment, so he didn't mind her bypassing him too much. She pointed to a long, low piece of furniture made of white cane, which was referred to in this country as a "chaise," and ordered him, "Lie down."

Be still, my heart…and other body parts. If m'lady thinks I am going to balk at her erotic orders, she had best think again. I am game for anything she might toss my way. Well, almost anything, as long as it does not involve breaking my vow…or perversions. Actually, it depends on the perversion . "Do I have to?" he griped in his best youthling whine.

"You agreed to the terms, honey."

Honey? I like that as an endearment…almost as much as sweetling. Mayhap I will use that term myself on occasion. With Angela only, of course. Not with any other woman .

"Lie down," she repeated.

Let the chase begin , he thought as he immediately obeyed. "What now, sweetling?" He was on his back, arms folded under his neck, ankles crossed, staring up at her. Even in this dim light—even with his jaw-keys—he could see his man part standing up like a tent pole. He could also see Angela trying her best not to notice his…uh, tent pole, which was an impossibility. 'Twould be like ignoring an elephant in a brass tub. 'Twas one of the best things about Vikings, his brother Geirolf always said—their tent poles . His brother Jorund claimed it was the Viking ability to maintain erections for an impressive period of time. Usually his brothers had imbibed a huge amount of mead when expounding these wisdoms. Personally he agreed with both philosophies.

"Move over," she said.

He didn't have to be told twice. Now he was on the far side of the chaise, on his left side, facing Angela, who carefully folded herself down beside him, lying on her back, the whole time holding one forearm over her breasts. What a talented lady! What she didn't know was that he could see her endowments anyway. What a talented man!

"You can kiss me," she said, "but that is all. There is no harm in that."

Ha! I will show her just how much "harm" I can do with no touching at all . Magnus leaned over and placed his lips against hers, but in the process he made sure that his chest brushed against her breasts, just a slight whisper of a caress, but enough for her to gasp against his mouth. He smiled even as he moved his lips over hers, shaping and testing. This lady was sorely misguided if she thought she could beat him in the game of bedsport. There were some arenas where he was confident of his expertise. This was one of them.

"I want to make love to you so badly," he confessed.

"Don't," she said on a soft groan.

He raised his head. "What? Speaking is forbidden, as well as touching? You cannot keep changing the terms, Angela."

"No, speaking is not forbidden, you fool."

Ha! I will show her just how much of a fool I am . He kissed Angela then. And kissed her. And kissed her. Long, endless kisses that alternated between gentle and demanding, soft and hard, wet and…well, wet. Mostly openmouthed. And sinfully expressive of his sexual need…and hers, as well. Angela was giving as good as she was getting. Mayhap their kissing bout did not go on for hours and hours, as she had described "making out" as a young girl, but it seemed like hours to him. And she was certainly panting prettily. So was he…though probably not as prettily.

While he was complying with her no-touching order, she was following a different rule. Her hands caressed his shoulders, his back, his buttocks through the thin cloth of his jaw-keys, both sides of his face as if holding him in place for her fervent kisses. He found her touch to be exceedingly arousing, and he would have relished returning the favors, but he did not because of his promise. He was a man who kept his vows.

But who was to say what amounted to touching? He decided that touching meant hands. Therefore he could caress her in other ways…with his mouth, or teeth, or tongue. Even with his legs. Yea, that would be his interpretation.

"Why are you smiling?" she asked.

Like a wolf in the sheep pen, I am. All that is missing is my howl, and that might just come soon . "You make me happy," he replied, which was not really a lie. He began his own assault in earnest then. Moving slowly, so as to give her a chance to protest his interpretation of the rules, he kissed his way along her jaw, down to the pulse point in her neck—and thank the gods it was jumping nicely!—on downward toward her breasts, the points of which were pressed enticingly against his own skin.

He traced the contours of her lovely breasts, first one, then the other, with his tongue. He nudged her from side to side with his cheeks. There was no waiting for permission when he took one of the engorged nipples into his mouth—all the way—and began to suckle rhythmically with the tip hitting against the roof of his mouth.

She let loose a long, high-pitched moan, and at the same time she arched her back upward and put her hands against his nape, encouraging more. He played her breasts then, employing every trick and talent he had developed over the years; in truth, he invented some new ones with Angela, whose breasts were beyond beautiful, and so very responsive. Like the kisses, his mouth-fondling of her breasts seemed to go on for hours. He wasn't sure either of them could stand much more. Angela was keening softly and writhing from side to side. His blood was racing beneath his skin at breakneck speed, and the erection inside his jaw-keys was nigh to bursting.

Without thinking, he rolled himself atop Angela and parted her thighs with his own legs, thus placing his rampant desire against her rampant desire. Even then, he did not touch her. Instead, he braced his arms on either side of her head and began to move against her, simulating the sex act. He could not control the woofing sounds he made as he attempted to control his out-of-control arousal. He would have been embarrassed, but Angela was counter-pointing his woofs with little noises of her own: "Oh, oh, oh, oh…"

They reached their peaks at the same time, his with a triumphant roar, hers with an elongated, "Oooooh!"

It was the best "dry tupping" he had ever had. In fact, it was almost as good as intercourse itself. Almost. He and Angela were well matched for sexplay. Of that there was no doubt.

Magnus started to say, "Thank you," for the gift of pleasure she had given him, but instead, out of nowhere, other words entered his head, and he said, "I love you."

Angela was just as surprised as he was.

Who knew a Viking could rock her world…?

Angela was stunned.

The man—almost a perfect stranger—had just said that he loved her. Well, not a perfect stranger, after what they'd just done. She had to say she knew him intimately now…sort of.

And Magnus appeared just as stunned as she by his unexpected admission.

"Angela," he murmured.

She was about to tell him that he didn't have to ply her with smooth talk. She'd already made it clear from the beginning that theirs would be a no-commitment relationship. She had no chance to say anything, though, because Magnus had other ideas.

"It is my turn now, sweetling." He was leaning over her once again, and the expression on his face could only be described as determined.

"Your turn?" She almost swallowed her tongue.

He nodded. "The no-touching rule is over. Now we play the game my way." Before she could blink, or raise another question, or a protest, if she was so inclined, Magnus placed a big hand on her tummy, then slid his fingers under the waistband of her panties, skimming her pubic hair, and delving right into her cleft.

"Wet," he pronounced with great satisfaction, and smiled at her.

"Well, of course I'm wet. What did you expect?" Mortified, she tried to squirm away from his probing fingers, but he would not allow that. "Oh, no…Magnus!…really, I don't think—"

"Shhhh!" he whispered against her ear. "Let me."

And she did.

Angela had no idea she had the expertise, or the nerve, or the moves. She had somehow turned into a sex goddess. Within moments—way-too-short, embarrassing moments—she climaxed again.

He raised a brow in amusement when she tried once again to squirm away and avoid his scrutiny.

"What can I say? I must be a slut."

He laughed. "Nay, I just have talented fingers."

"No one can accuse you of humility," she said. "It's more likely that I'm just pathetic."

"Perchance we are both pathetic…in our need for each other."

"Whatever," she said.

Magnus threw back his head and laughed. What an odd reaction to such a simple word.

But then she had no more time to think about simple things…like words. Magnus was aroused again. She knew by the way his new erection pressed against her thigh. And he could tell that she knew, as evidenced by his soft chuckle as he rolled over on his back and adjusted her astride him. The change in position was a feat in itself, since the chaise longue was not all that wide.

He had a self-satisfied expression on his face, which she couldn't let stand…although she hated to move away from the delicious sensations created by her crotch resting against his crotch. Still…

She slid her bottom down his thigh, tugged on the waistband of his shorts, and let his penis spring forth. His very huge, very hard penis. Her eyes probably bulged with amazement before she took him in both hands and moved.

"Holy Thor!" he said through gritted teeth. Then, "Holy, holy, holy Thor!"

Before she could move the circle of her hands up and down the smooth column more than two times, Magnus swore again, shoved her hands aside, pulled up his pants, and jerked her up to straddle him again.

"Ride," he ordered.

And she knew just what he wanted. But, golly, she would have thought that she would be the one in control when she'd ordered him not to touch her. Somehow she had quickly lost control. And now, when she'd reversed roles and taken him in hand, she was the one out of control again.

"I want you to be wanton, Angela," he pleaded hoarsely as he put his hands on her hips and showed her the movements he liked. "No inhibitions. Lose control…for me."

Is the man a mind reader, too?

But Angela soon lost the thread of that thought as her control melted like butter under a hot knife, and that hot knife was stabbing at her most erotic places with a delicious rhythm. She imagined that her eyes were rolling in their sockets like a pinball machine. When they came this time, powerful shudders shook them both and she lay collapsed across him like a rag doll.

It was more than sex, more than a physical act. In a way she could not explain, she felt as if some electrical current had zigzagged back and forth between them, burning and bonding them. Aftershocks shook them both.

And they hadn't even had intercourse.

Amazing!

Finally she raised herself up on her arms and stared down at him. He was as solemn and incredulous as she was.

"What just happened here?" she asked.

He thought for a moment and then replied, "Destiny."

The morning after…sort of…

First thing the following morning, Angela was having second thoughts.

Who was that person who bared her body like a horny harlot?

What could I have been thinking?

When did I start engaging in stranger sex? Stranger in more ways than one…

Where can this relationship possibly go but nowhere?

Why has this one man become so important to me?

So what did Angela do about her misgivings?

She had almost-sex with Magnus midmorning against a tree in the empty west vineyard. She would never smell chardonnay grapes again without certain memories.

Then she repeated the almost-sex that afternoon on a picnic table in the orange grove.

That night, not to be outdone, she slipped into Mag nus's third-floor shower with him—wearing panties, of course—after all the kids were asleep. Her knees could barely hold her upright by the time she crawled into her own bed.

She was going to lay down the law…tomorrow.

Tomorrow, tomorrow…tomorrow is another…yeah, right, Annie!

Magnus was having second thoughts. Not just about the constant loveplay of the last twenty-four hours. But about his own feelings.

He had told the witch that he loved her. By thunder! Magnus racked his brain and could not recall ever having told a woman that before. Had she put a spell on him?

As to all the "fooling around," as Angela called it, he had to ask himself certain questions.

Who is she?

What am I doing, tempting myself so dangerously?

When will this sexual yearning end?

Where will I be tomorrow, or next week, in this strange journey I am on?

Why can I not keep my hands off the woman?

Enough was enough! Well, not nearly enough…but enough lest he go insane from an overabundance of nonsex…which came close to nonsense, to his mind. Nonsex, Nonsense, same thing. So he was off to set some ground rules with Angela about this nonsense. No more "making it." Or was it "making out"? Whatever!

But he got waylaid in the kitchen, where Juanita—the goddess of cooking—was whipping up batter for blueberry waffles, his favorite morning feast in this land…next to scrambled eggs, Froot Loops, fried ham, strawberry jam, fresh orange juice, and toasted, butter-dripping muffins, that is. If he was not careful, he would soon lose his fine physique. And wouldn't that be an outrage—a fat Viking?

Until the meal was ready, he decided to crawl under the table and play hide-and-find with Lida. Hamr, Kolbein and Njal were under there with Magnus, pretending to be quacking ducks. It was amazing the way the reticent Kolbein had lost his shyness now that they were at the Blue Dragon. The boyling no longer felt the need to be attached to his father like a bothersome burr. Kirsten and Dagny were doing an outrageous Britain Spear-type dance around the kitchen to some raucous music on the raid-he-oh, trying further to distract Lida. Jow was barking wildly, making sure he was part of the activity. Torolf and Jogeir had aprons on and were helping Juanita serve up the food. Grandma Rose was no doubt off in the downstairs bathing room smoking one of her toe-back-hoe sticks in her usual surreptitious manner, as if she were fooling anyone.

That was when Angela walked into the room. Her eyes practically bugged out at the scene they all presented; then she burst out laughing. But he'd also seen the gleam in her eyes as she'd watched him playing with his children. Angela liked him. She really liked him.

Therefore, Magnus did as any thinking man would do. Or was that nonthinking man? Whatever! He took Angela's hand and discreetly led her off with him to the nearby pantry, where he locked the door behind them. Then, hoping they'd be momentarily forgotten in all the chatter and activity of a huge breakfast, he and Angela engaged in some more nonsex. And that was before he had eaten any blueberry waffles…which was saying a lot.

His resolution to end this nonsense was further thwarted that afternoon when Angela came out to the machine shed, where Miguel was teaching him how to check over the motor of a clanking tractor. She was wearing a white tanking-top over den-ham braies that were cut off practically at her woman parts, and skimpy leather sandals on her bare feet. He wasn't sure which made him randier, the nipples visible through her tanking-top or the pink toenails peeking out of the sandals. Not that it took much to make him randy these days. Randy could become his second name. Magnus the Randy. Aaarrgh! Naturally he and Angela ended up having more nonsex on the seat of the vibrating, still-running tractor when Miguel went off to buy a new car-burr-ate-whore.

That night, he was determined to end this nonsense before he did something really foolish, like break his vow. In fact, it would be more than foolish. It would be dishonorable. That, he would not—could not—do.

His downfall, this time, was a guard-her belt…the most scandalous, tempting garment ever invented by man…or woman. Whooee! The things a man could do to a woman in a black lace guard-her belt with sheer black hose and high-heeled shoes. By midnight, when Angela had left his third-floor bedchamber, the bed linens were in a shambles, his knees were scraped raw, his lips were swollen, his legs were shaky, his cock ached from lack of a female sheath, and his muscles were tense and trembly. In essence, he felt won derful. No wonder he forgot what it was he had been going to tell Angela.

All shook up…

Magnus was shaken the next afternoon, upon returning from his vineyard work, to learn that Angela had gone back to the city where work presumably beckoned her.

Apparently Dare-all had called and canceled his visit for the next day, postponing it till the following Monday. That gave her some free time to go back to work in her office and earn more money, or so Grandma Rose explained. He could have given her any money she needed, he had started to say, but halted himself, knowing Angela was a prideful woman and probably wouldn't accept what she would consider charity from him. If their positions were reversed, he would feel the same way.

It was all for the best, he supposed. They needed some time apart…a resting period during which each could evaluate this irresistible force that drew them into a fiery sexual maelstrom every time they were within kissing distance of each other.

But then Miguel took him up to the old winery, which had been closed down the past few years. That was when Magnus's world came apart with a crash.

Miguel, with tears in his eyes, held up a bottle of wine from the last vintage, six years past, and pointed out the label to Magnus. It read, Blue Dragon Vineyard, Sonoma, California, 1997 .

Magnus was thickheaded at times, 'twas true. So it took several moments for the fact to sink in that the wine label read 1997—supposedly six years past—which would mean that this was 2003. In other words, if he was to believe what he was seeing, an entire millenium had passed since he'd left the Norselands.

"Miguel, what year is this?" he asked, just to make sure.

"Two thousand and three," Miguel said, casting him an odd, questioning look.

"Are…are you sure?"

Miguel nodded. "Magnus, are you all right?"

"Nay, I am not all right," he murmured as he staggered out of the winery and off toward the house.

How was it possible? A thousand years! Impossible! But so many perplexing things about this land began to make sense to him now. Like the turning pages of a book, he saw the modern inventions that he had tried to explain away as just the innovations of a different land and culture, the peculiar manner of speaking English, the intuitive sense he had had all along that there was some puzzle to be figured out. All these things, and more, convinced him that the answers had been there all along, and he had not recognized them.

But if he accepted that he was living a thousand years in the future, then he would have to accept that he and his children had traveled through time. Paradoxical. Wasn't it?

Torolf caught up with him at the pond, where he was sitting on the grass, staring off into space. Miguel must have sent for Torolf, concerned about Magnus's behavior over a mere wine bottle he had shown him.

" Faeir? " Torolf asked, sinking down to the ground beside him and placing a hand on his back. "What is it?"

"We are time travelers," Magnus informed him bluntly.

"What?" Torolf squawked at him.

Ha! He would have squawked at anyone who'd suggested such to him, too, if he wasn't seeing evidence of that fact all around him.

"I have just learned that this is the year two thousand and three. We must have traveled somehow into the future a century and more from our own time of one thousand."

"I cannot credit that notion," Torolf said, shaking his head from side to side. "Oh, I know that the old sagas speak of such, but I always thought they were mere folklore."

"Me, too," Magnus agreed. "Me, too."

"Why? Why would such a thing happen to us?"

Magnus shrugged. "Methinks it is our destiny. All along I assumed that Grandma Rose and her prayer beads cajoled the gods into bringing us to a strange country. Little did I know that her prayer beads could bring us across time."

"But what will we do now that we know?"

"We must bide our time and see what happens. What will be will be," Magnus said philosophically.

"Now that I think on it," Torolf mused, "something Juan told me about one of the greatest inventions of all time begins to make sense. Of course, I did not believe him at the time, but if we have indeed time traveled, mayhap it really is possible."

"What great invention?" Magnus asked with little interest. What did he care about another modern marvel when his world had been turned upside down?

"Birth control."

"Birthing control?" Magnus asked, his interest piqued in spite of himself.

Torolf nodded vigorously. "Not only do they have pills that women can take to prevent conception, but men can wear extremely thin sheaths over their man parts called cone-domes, or men can even have a cutting operation performed that prevents them from impregnating a woman. And none of these interfere with the man's or woman's pleasure."

Magnus literally gaped at his son. "Can this be true?"

"I see no reason why Juan would lie to me."

"As a jest?" Magnus suggested.

Torolf thought a moment, then shook his head. "Nay. At the time, Juan was telling me about his girlfriend, Anna. They are both call-ledge students with three more years to go till graduation. They practice this birth control so they will not have children afore they are able to marry."

The implications of all that Torolf had told him suddenly began to sink in. "She knew! She knew, and she did not tell me!" he exclaimed, standing suddenly in outrage.

"Who knew? And what?"

"Never mind!" he said. But what he thought was, Someone is going to pay for this withholding of information. Someone is going to pay for torturing me needlessly. Someone is going to find out just what it means to be my destiny .

Then he recalled his vow. Even if he had known about this modern birthing control, there was still his vow to be reckoned with.

"Where are you going?" Torolf called after him as he began to walk away, not toward the house, but in the direction of the road leading away from the house.

He turned around and informed his son, even as he was backing away, "I must needs find an expert on vows."

"With all due respect, Father, have you lost your senses?"

"Probably."