Chapter Four

Two days later…

"How was school today?" Maggie asked her girls as they sat down at the kitchen table to eat a late dinner.

It was a nightly ritual that Maggie insisted upon, even though their eating habits were divergent, to say the least. Rita, their ten-year-old, twenty-pound, white Persian cat, sat queenlike on the floor between Suzy and Beth, just waiting for a scrap to fall her way.

"Great," they both answered through mouthfuls of food.

"Didn't you have a math test today?" she asked Suzy.

It was Beth who responded. "I got a ninety-five."

Maggie sent Suzy a motherly glower, and Suzy sent Beth a sisterly glower.

Suzy colored and tried to change the subject. "How is he today?"

Maggie didn't need a name to know who Suzy was referring to.

"You know I can't talk about my patients," Maggie replied firmly, but she wasn't about to let Suzy escape so easily. "How did you do on the math test, Susan Marie?" Her daughter knew she meant business when Maggie used her full name.

"I got a seventy-two," Suzy admitted. "Sheesh, who cares about percentages anyhow?" Then the little imp added, "Maybe we need a new bet to make me study harder."

"Yeah, the house has been looking a little dingy since Suz and I stopped helping out," Beth contributed. "Yep, another bet would do the trick."

Maggie raised her eyebrows skeptically. "What? So I can be forced to get tatoos—or something worse—this time?" Maggie asked with a little laugh.

"Nah, we had something else in mind," Suzy said, exchanging a meaningful look with her sister.

Something else?

"There are some things in life worth getting dishpan hands over," Beth pointed out woefully.

Some things? Like what?

"Or homework fatigue," Suz added with an exaggerated woe-is-me expression.

Suzy didn't have to tell her what that "something else" entailed. Maggie already knew. The "something else" was roughly six-foot-four and bone-meltingly gorgeous.

"Nurse Hatcher said he hasn't talked at all in the two days he's been at the hospital. She calls him a stud muffin." Beth giggled as she relayed this information.

Gladys Hatcher…our head nurse…calls him a stud muffin? Maggie gasped. "Nurse Hatcher has been talking to you about a hospital patient?" As good a nurse as Gladys was, this constituted cause for dismissal.

"Oh, she didn't tell me ," Beth was quick to correct. "Suz and I overheard her talking to another nurse this afternoon when we were waiting for you to leave work. The bench we were sitting on was right outside the nurse's lounge, and the window was open, and, well…" Beth shrugged as if she'd been helpless not to eavesdrop in such a situation.

Maggie was going to have a talk with Gladys about this breach, even if it was unintentional. Anyone could have been passing by, including representatives of the Medic-All Corporation, which was currently in negotiations to purchase Rainbow.

"Mom, we've been talking, and, well…" Beth glanced at Suzy, then took a deep breath before continuing. "We think you should let us talk to him."

Maggie went slack-jawed with incredulity. But only for a second. "Absolutely not! No way! Don't either of you even think of approaching this man."

"But Mom," Suzy pleaded. "You already told the police he's not dangerous…just a little mixed-up."

"That's beside the point," she declared indignantly. "In fact, you girls stay away from the hospital until further notice. If I'm late picking you up at school, you stay in the after-school day-care program till I arrive."

"Day care!" they cried simultaneously. "We're not children."

"You're not adults, either. And while we're on the subject, there will be no more fixating on this stranger as…as…"

"A dad?" Beth offered.

Maggie put her face in both hands and groaned.

"Or a husband?" Beth added with a dramatic sigh.

Maggie groaned a little louder. She knew her little girls like a book, and she had to put a stop to this nonsense— now . "He is not ‘the one,'" she told them emphatically.

She didn't have to look up to see they weren't buying it…not one bit.

Five days later…

"How are you feeling today? Hmmm? Are you ready to talk?" a female voice inquired sweetly. "Now don't be afraid. We just want to help you."

Afraid? Who's afraid? A soldier's fear is his doom…I need no—

Jorund cracked his eyes open to mere slits.

The wench with the man-hair and sex-voice was back. Again . The one responsible for his current dilemma. And she was speaking to him in the same slow-paced manner he'd become accustomed to this past sennight, as if he were a child…or a lackbrain.

He had thought for one insane moment back at the whale place that she might be his personal Valkyrie. Ha! He'd soon rid himself of that foolish notion. It was more likely he'd landed in Nifl heim, and this was the beginning of his eternal damnation.

He'd spoken a few words on first setting foot in this foreign land, but not once since. They could question him till all the warriors went home to Valhalla, but his lips were sealed. A fighting man knew to hold his silence in the enemy camp…leastways till he assessed his foe's strengths and weaknesses. Thus far—for seven whole days and nights—he'd managed to remain mute under the torment of their endless questions.

He was waiting till they removed his ankle restraints and the peculiar shert that forced his arms to wrap around his body. They put the restraints on him when anyone entered his cell only because he was deemed dangerous. Sharp thinking there . And it took four good-size men to hold him down every time they put that binding shert on him…a sadistic torture device, if he'd ever seen one.

He had learned much in the prolonged period of quiet, but there were still so many questions. He supposed he would have to talk soon.

"What's your name?" she persisted in the husky voice that could turn a man's bones to butter and his thoughts to…well, certainly not butter.

The wench pulled a short stick from her pocket, which she used to write on a stack of parchment on her lap. Glancing sideways, he was able to discern some of the letters she formed, thanks to this mystical capacity he seemed to have developed for understanding her language. Silence syndrome .

It was hard to concentrate on the meaning of the words or the magic stick, however, when his eyes were drawn to her crossed knees, where sheer hose covered nicely formed legs, exposed from thigh to oddly enticing, high-heeled shoes. Vikings had long held a tradition of attaching descriptive words to a name, like Gustov Tree-Feller, or Sigurd the Beautiful, or Halfdan of the Wide Embrace. So, to his mind, she was the wench of the man-hair, sex-voice, and comely legs.

A shoe dangled from the toes of one foot, which swung up and down rhythmically as she wrote. Was she nervous? Or deliberately trying to disconcert him? Or—and he felt a jolt in his lower belly—was she excited by him?

When he failed to answer, she tried a new approach…one he'd heard dozens of times from her. "My name is Dr. Maggie McBride."

Muck-bride? Did that mean she was a soiled bride? Soiled in what way? Well, of course she was soiled. She proudly proclaimed herself a dock whore. He smiled to himself. Some men might be put off by that, but Jorund preferred women with a bit of tarnish on the gilt.

He was still confused by the bride name, though. Was she a recent bride, or hoping to become one? Ha! Aroused or not, soiled or not, she would not snare him into the bonds of matrimony. He'd made that mistake once already.

And there was another curious thing. While this wench called herself a dock whore, the other women who came into his cell, big as you please, without even knocking, called themselves Norse. There was Norse John-son, Norse Fill-ups. Some men also took on that Norse appellation. Oddly, none of them had any of the characteristics he would usually associate with the Norse race—blond hair, height, or exceptional appearance. Even stranger, they were all dressed in white, right down to white shoes that squished when they walked. No true Norseman would wear foot coverings that announced his arrival. It would be like shouting, "Here I am. Lop off my head."

But then, there was the wench's reference on the parchment to silence sin-drone. He had no idea what a sin-drone was, precisely, but he was fairly certain it was not a desirable trait. Everyone knew a drone was a male bee. And he'd noticed a flower garden below his window one day, teeming with honey bees. Mayhap this was a land of bees, just as there were said to be god-lands of bears and wolves—and, yes, even killer whales. The gods of this land must favor the buzzing insects. But sin-drone…sinful bees? That was hard to comprehend. How did one know when a male bee had erred? When it pricked the wrong queen bee?

There was much to puzzle over in this new land.

He pressed his lips together more tightly and cast the wench his fiercest glare.

She just smiled.

She must be simple. Or exceptionally daring. Either way, Jorund was contemplating the best way to kill her…assuming that he was not already dead. He was still uncertain whether he had landed in some new mortal land, or the otherworld.

He had narrowed his mental list to some particularly creative extermination methods after a full seven days of being held prisoner in her dungeon. At least, he assumed it was a dungeon with its barred window and locked door, though its white walls and metal fixtures resembled no torture chamber he'd ever seen. No actual physical tribulations had been levied yet, except for the Norse people pricking him on occasion with a needle and taking his blood in a little glass vessel, but there had been indignities aplenty. The most outrageous of these involved a metal trencher slipped under his bare buttocks on a regular basis for the relief of certain bodily functions. The white-uniformed dragon who performed this function had the face of a battle-ax. Her name was Norse Hatch-her, not Hatch-it; still, an appropriate name.

What was not appropriate was her other name…Glad-ass. Norse Glad-ass Hatch-her. Now, he had met a few women in his time for which the appellation would fit—like that high-priced strumpet from Cordova with the pretty heart-shaped arse. But Norse Hatch-her had a backside the size of a warhorse. He could not fathom anyone giving her the glad-ass description.

Every time Norse Hatch-her came into his chamber, she asked with a snide grin, "Does the stud muffin have to tinkle today?" After hearing the din of his piss in the metal trencher, he could pretty well guess what a tinkle was. But the other…What was a stud muffin? On occasion people referred to horse droppings as horse muffins, and for a certainty, some horses were put out to stud. Was the dragon calling him a horse's arse?

At first he felt a rise of anger at the insult. But then, it wouldn't be the first time he'd been called such.

Norse Hatch-her may have been the one to shove down the loose braies that covered his lower half, forcing the cold metal object under him, but a good warrior knew that, in the end, the leader was responsible for his soldiers' actions. It was this brassy female sitting before him now who would bear the brunt of his anger…in good time. It was she who had instructed the guardsmen at the whale place to bring him here.

"Can't you at least tell me your name?" the wench urged.

Jorund refused to answer.

"Well, can you tell me why you were nude in a public amusement park? I really don't think you came there with violence in mind, despite your sword, but there has to be a reason for your…well, exhibiting yourself before a crowd at Orcaland. If you'd only talk with me about your nude display, perhaps we can…"

On and on the dimwit female blathered, with most of her words unfathomable to him. Still, one message came through to him: She thinks I'm a pervert .

He heard the sound of his own grinding teeth.

"Most psychologists sit back and listen while the patient talks. It's hard to do that when you won't cooperate."

Sigh-colic-jest? Another big word for Jorund to add to his list for later unraveling. How could the wench be a dock whore and a jester at the same time? Was she a humorous strumpet?

The whole time she talked and he pondered, the magic stick continued to skim across the parchment, leaving foreign scribblings in its wake. He would like to examine the sorcerer's instrument at a later date.

While she wrote, he used the opportunity to study her lips, which were full and wantonly kiss-some, especially with that rose-colored, glossy substance that glistened on them. Oh, that is just wonderful, he chastised himself. Now he would have to think of her as the wench of the man-hair, sex-voice, comely legs, and kiss-some lips. Said lips were pursed now as she tapped her witch-stick on the parchment, perusing something she had written.

Aaarrgh! What difference did the temptation of her lips make? He was going mad with all this inactivity. Concentrate, Jorund. Concentrate .

He half-reclined on the bed, his head supported by down pillows that were softer than any he'd ever rested upon, even in the Eastern harems. His posture was relaxed, but inside he was poised to pounce at the first opening. Unfortunately, he'd tried once with Norse Hatch-her. Thus the ankle restraints, in addition to the seamless shert . Who knew a female could be so strong? Or could spout such foul language? Grudgingly, he admitted that the Amazon would make a good warrior in battle…not only wielding a battle-ax, but a pike and a battering ram as well.

The woman sitting before him now was another matter. He could break her slim wrists with a snap of his fingers. He could lift her by the waist and toss her over his shoulder. He could press her to the bed, and…Well, he could do things to her.

Her eyes caught his then, as if she sensed his carnal thoughts. The air nigh sizzled between them, like heat flashes in a lightning storm. He was aware of an intense attraction to her…something far beyond her physical attributes. He could tell she was attracted to him, as well…and was just as puzzled as he.

He shook his head to rid it of these alarming thoughts. And she did the same.

Focus on something else. Do not be diverted. A weak link in a man's armor can be his undoing . Jorund noted that at least the wench was alone today— Thank the gods! Sending a defenseless maid into his chamber was akin to sending a paltry kitten into a wolf's lair, assuming he could finally manage to break free of his restraints. Missing today was her comrade-in-arms—the man with the bald head covered oddly with his swath of side hair. The man was a dock whore, too—Dock-whore Sea-bold. Jorund refused to contemplate what a man would be doing as a dock whore, and on the bold seas, no less. He reminded Jorund of Dagfinn the Dumb, one of his soldiers who'd once tried to braid his nose hairs…all for the sake of male vanity.

Jorund thought he had it figured out. After watching for hours on end that black box in the corner with the illuminated face, he was coming to understand the language of this land rather well, even down to reading some words, as he had those on the Lady Muck-bride's parchment. People here spoke English, though vastly different from the Saxon English with which he was familiar. More important than teaching him the language, the box was giving him views into many other worlds…Genoa City, Cross Creek, Springfield, Port Charles, Pine Valley. Then there were Sesame Street, Nashville, Mayberry. Speaking of the latter, Jorund was more than a little amused to realize there was a man—or was he a god?—named Barn-knee Fife with ears as big as his brother Magnus's. His brother was twice the size of the Mayberry world's guardsman, but they were both bumbling idiots.

Every time a Norse came into the room, she turned a tiny wheel on the box, which gave him a peephole of sorts into a different world. He kept watching, hoping that one of these times he would see his own Vestfold.

It was surprising, really. Norse legend said that when a fighting man died, he went to Valhalla, hall of the gods in Asgard. Apparently there were many other worlds, and many gods he'd never heard of…like Victor New-man and Bill Clintown.

Surprising, too, was the way in which the gods could view what was happening in other worlds. He had always pictured Odin or Thor—even the Christian One-God—gazing down from the heavens to observe what mortal beings were doing. But apparently they must all have these magic boxes to do the job for them. Amazing!

"Well, since you're not talking, I guess that ends our session for today." She stood and ran a palm swiftly over the front of her garment, presumably to smooth out the wrinkles, but what she accomplished instead was the jarring of another memory: a belly ring…that was it. Jorund suddenly recalled seeing a gold ornament piercing her navel the first day he'd encountered her at the whale place. With an inward groan, he amended her name list. So now she was the wench of the man-hair, sex-voice, comely legs, kiss-some lips, and naughty navel.

Releasing a long sigh, presumably at his stubborn silence, she tossed her shoulders back, as if to show that two people could be stubborn. But her posture caused her breasts to jut out against the white silk of her shert , and they were magnificent, round and uplifted; he even imagined he saw the hard points of her nipples. Oh, it was too much! Soon her name list would require a skald of exceptional memory to recite, as in the wench of the man-hair, sex-voice, comely legs, kiss-some lips, naughty navel, and magnificent breasts. Mag-he Man-hair. Dock-whore sex-voice. Mag-he of the kiss-some lips. The combinations were endless.

She noticed the direction of his gaze and tsked her disapproval as she folded her arms over her chest, hiding her breasts from his view. It was a useless exercise, really, because the image was already planted in his head. "I'm really disappointed in you…whoever you are," she informed him sadly.

He tried not to look guilty. Men throughout time had been viewing women's physical attributes with appreciation. Why should she make him feel as if he'd failed her in some way by noticing she was a voluptuous woman?

"My daughters are the ones who begged me to help you," she told him in that low, raspy sex-voice that he was growing overly fond of. "They still ask about you every day. You've touched them in some way." She sighed again. "I can't even tell them your name." Spinning on her high heels, she then proceeded toward the door.

A fierce constriction took place in the region of his heart. The twin girls, who resembled his own daughters, had interceded on his behalf? They had been touched by him just as he had been touched by them?

Finally, he was beginning to see some reason for his deliverance to this strange land.

Was it not possible that these girls had called to him…that they needed him for some reason? Mayhap— Oh, please! —he was being given a second chance to make up for failing his own twin girls. That prospect tantalized and terrified him.

"Wait!" he called out suddenly.

She turned slowly, surprise showing on her face at his first word in a whole sennight.

"My name is"—his eyes darted between her and the black box in the corner, still distrustful of speaking and revealing too much—"Alan Spaulding."

"I see." She murmured something that sounded like "Celebrity delusions, too." She quickly made some words on her parchment before addressing him again, this time with a smile. "And you come from Genoa City, right? How do you feel about that?" Despite her recognizing his lie, she sat back down and waited expectantly for him to talk.

"Mayhap that was a slight mistruth."

"You mean a lie?"

He shrugged with resignation. "My name is Jorund."

She smiled widely, and somewhere deep inside him, he felt a melting sensation.

"Well, it's so nice to meet you, Mr. Rand. Do you object if I call you Joe?"

Joe? He glanced back over his shoulder before he realized that, of course, there was no one else in the room. "Am I your prisoner?"

"Prisoner?" Her eyes went wide, but then she must have realized that it was a natural assumption on his part, considering he was in a torture shert with ankle restraints and bars on his windows. Possible bondage fantasies , she wrote on her parchment.

He raised his chin indignantly, though secretly he wondered exactly what a bondage fantasy was. It brought up mental images that were…well, fascinating.

"Of course you're not a prisoner, Joe. You'll be released once we're certain of your safety."

Hah!

"How do you feel about that?"

How do you feel? How do you feel? I feel rotten . "I'll tell you how I feel. Captive I may be, for now, but I want you to know, I won't be a slave to any man…or woman."

"A slave?" she sputtered. "What would I do with a slave?"

"Precisely," he answered. But then the mischievous god Loki whispered in his ear, and a tantalizing idea tugged at him. With as much casualness as he could garner, he remarked, "Except in your case I might consider being your…" He deliberately let his words trail off.

He wasn't really serious. Leastways, he did not think he was. Jorund was a man little bent toward humor. And the teasing taunt he'd thrown out to the wench was so out of character it fairly boggled his already boggled mind. It must be the confinement, and the shock of his death or whatever the hell had happened to him, even the influence of his frivolous brother or the damned orca. Or mayhap the blame could be laid on the first temptation he'd felt in a long, long while.

"What?" she prodded finally. "I want you to be free to speak your mind, Joe. Nothing is out of bounds in the psychologist/patient relationship. So tell me. You might consider being my…what?"

"Love slave."