Only a day and a half more.
Then he could get on with his life.
When life seems to be all lemons . . .
“So that’s it,” Emory Davis, FBI agent, said to the roomful of police, Homeland Security operatives, SEALs, and family members Friday morning, after everyone had spoken.
“To sum it up: We now know the person we’re looking for is Jamal Udeen, thanks to the intel from his brother. He is looking for revenge on the Denton family . . . in particular Lydia Denton and her son.”
Lydia shivered in her folding seat between her mother and father, even though she’d known this since last night. Thorfinn was standing against the far wall with his cousin Torolf and the SEALs. He nodded to acknowledge her glance, his face grim with fury. Over and over, he kept telling her that he would protect her and Mike, but she didn’t see how he could keep such a promise.
“He’s been camping at two hillside sites overlooking the Denton and Hartley farms. He was efficient in cleaning up after himself, but not clean enough, thanks to a few bloodhounds.
“Jamal is armed and highly dangerous. You all have pictures, but keep in mind he will no doubt be in disguise. Although we don’t know his specific plan, we suspect it involves the memorial service tomorrow.
“Only those carrying invitations will be allowed within two blocks of the town square. In addition, this is a small town where everybody knows everybody; so, we have volunteers patrolling all the streets with walkie-talkies, ordered to report anyone they don’t recognize. Even out-of-town newshounds who might have smelled a story. They’d better have invitations with photo IDs, or they won’t be allowed in. State troopers are handling the permit situation.
“They found Jamal’s computer at the dump, hacked to a pulp. Still, we have our electronics geeks at work trying to see if they can get any clues as to what he’s up to.
“In the meantime, everyone go on as usual, but be very, very careful. That’s all. Good day!”
What a mess! Lydia thought they should have cancelled the event. Dave wouldn’t have cared. But his parents and the authorities convinced her to carry on. Once you gave in to a terrorist, it would snowball. Besides, they needed to nab this guy ASAP.
Once outside, Thorfinn gave her a one-armed hug to his side, leading her to the SUV rental. “Enough of all this gloominess. Come, let us go spend time with our son.”
She should have corrected him then.
But she didn’t.
One more, for the road . . .
Thorfinn was disgusted. Every suggestion he made to occupy their time, and take their minds off the villain, got a blunt “No!” from those in charge of this mission, meaning the fibbies, the local law men, and JAM, who was the SEAL leader here.
JAM was usually the one delivering the communal refusals.
“Lydia, Mike, and I would like to ride some horses over to a waterfall.”
“No!”
“How about the old mill and pond? That’s not so far.”
“No!”
“Can we drive into Farmdale and watch a move-he?” He had seen several whilst staying with Torolf and Hilda, who had phoned him several times to give him advice on how to behave around Lydia and her son. He’d cut Hilda off last time mid-tirade.
“A new Disney movie is playing,” Lydia had added.
“No!”
“Mr. Hartley wants to show us how his new hay mower works in the south pasture.”
“No!”
“Can we go over to the Denton farm and help rebuild the barn?”
“No!”
“I want to go out in the barn and play with Lydia.” She had been standing nearby when he’d asked that one, thus curbing any crudity he might have considered using.
“No!”
“Can I twiddle my thumbs?”
“Very funny.”
“Mike and I are going to go watch cows get babies with a hand up their arses.”
There was a resounding silence, then, “No!”
So, in the end, Thorfinn set up acceptable entertainment for them all in the clearing between the farmhouse and the barn. He invited the three uncles, plus Torolf and Ragnor, to Mill Pond Farm, after which they gathered every wooden handle or short pole they could find, much to the consternation of Lydia’s parents. Broom, mop, rake, shovel, tomato stake, bamboo fishing rod. He also invited the Hartleys to come over to get away from the stress. They were going to show these fibbies and overweight local law men, not to mention a few full-of-themselves SEALs, how Vikings played.
And, truth to tell, he wanted to impress his son.
With interchanging guards all around the farm, thus began the “games,” so to speak.
The three women prepared an outdoor feast of hot dogs, which were not really made of dog meat, and catsup, which was not really cats’ blood, and various other foods and sweets. So much chicken that he would not be surprised to see the raven flag of death flurrying over the hen house. Boiled and pickled-red eggs. And deviled eggs; he shuddered to think what they might be. Again, those poor chickens!
Delicious slabs of beef, called steaks, were cooked to juice-dripping perfection over an open fire. Especially appreciated by all the men. Everyone knew that animal blood, like boar, in small doses gave a man vigor, except for pig blood, which just gave a man running bowels, in his experience.
Various breads, but not a manchet round in sight. Not that he was missing that tasteless staple of the Viking and Saxon table. And homemade churned butter, which had a much stronger taste than the store-bought kind.
Even the Gammelost, or old cheese, that Magnus had brought was on display, though much avoided, he noticed. With good cause. ’Twas said some Viking warriors went berserk after eating that horrid stinksome cheese. Magnus insisted that it reminded him of the Norselands. He did not eat it, either.
He especially liked Mistress Hartley’s berry pies and, of course, Mike’s favorite, chocolate-chip cookies, which his very own Lydia had baked afore coming here. Mistress Denton had brought fresh strawberries from her garden, which were served with cream from this farm’s very own milk.
Magnus and Jogeir were in farm heaven, or, rather farm Valhalla . . . if there was such a place.
If the Dentons were not hovering about him, wheedling information from him, which they sadly hoped would prove he was their dead son inside this big Viking body, then the dog Whiskey trailed him with adoration. It was enough to put a Norseman off his mead.
But he would not let that spoil his day. He was here with his son. And Lydia. Life was good, as it had not been for him in many, many years.
He got up from where he had been sitting on a blanket with Lydia and Mike. “Well, Miklof, are you ready to see the Viking spear trick I told you about?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” his son said, jumping up and down, his shoes flickering lights with each bounce. In truth, the boy rarely sat still for more than a moment. “Why do you call me Meatloaf?”
Lydia shot him a glance of alarm.
Ignoring her caution, he said, with a smile, “Not meat-loaf. Mick-loff. Miklof is just another form of Michael, or Mike. I had . . .” He coughed to clear his suddenly tight throat. “I have a son named Miklof.”
“You do?” The boy’s eyes went wide with wonder. “Where is he? Can I play with him?”
“This conversation is getting out of hand,” Lydia interjected. “Mike, go in the house and tell Grandma and Nana to come out and watch a certain Viking show off.”
Mike giggled and ran off.
Thorfinn glowered at her. “I do not show off.”
She grinned. “We’ll see.”
Soon, Thorfinn was in his element. They had two “teams.” He, Jorund, and Rolf on one side. Torolf, Ragnor, and Magnus on the other. With laughter and jeers, they lobbed the makeshift spears at each other, fielding the “attacks” and turning them back on the assailants. More than a few Saxons and Franks had met their deaths due to this particular talent. His uncle Jorund, though more than fifty, was t
he best of all; even today in the Norselands the old ones spoke sagas about his renowned prowess on the battlefield. Today he ran a business much like Lydia’s, but he taught only folks crippled in mind and body how to exercise their muscles. In the end, to much cheering, Thorfinn’s team was declared the winner . . . due mostly to Jorund.
Sinking down to the blanket next to Lydia, he said, “Art thou impressed, sweetling?” He nuzzled her neck. Today, she was wearing a blue-flowered white dress, which could only be described as a short, knee-high gunna, or gown, but the arms and shoulders were exposed to the sun. I wonder if she is wearing any smallclothes. Also exposed were her crimson-painted toes in skimpy barely-there white leather shoes. It looks like her toes are bleeding.
She pushed him away with a laugh and replied, “Very.”
“Dost want to sneak inside and do a bit of sw . . . making love?” See, I can be suave.
She laughed again. “I said I was impressed. Not that impressed.”
“Liar,” he said, but he laughed, too. I am laughing on the outside, but not on the inside. If I laugh on the inside, my you-know-what hurts.
Taking her hand in his, he turned back to watch the next bout of “talent.” In the process of turning, he noticed Mistress Hartley watching him. She must have seen him kissing Lydia’s neck because she looked first at him, then Lydia, then back to him . . . and smiled.
No doubt she and her husband were back to the business of him being Dave and them wanting him to run their farm. Which was not going to happen. Bloody hell! ’Twas past time for everyone to let Dave rest in peace.
One of the Hartleys’ farmworkers was demonstrating how to lasso a steer with a long, looped rope, except that the steer was actually a wooden post. He was very talented, and soon had others wanting to be taught that particular skill.
“I cannot see what circumstance would require a SEAL to lasso,” he commented as Sly failed with his third attempt.
“Well, they might need to lasso a tango,” Lydia replied. “You know, making do with the weapons or materials at hand.”
“Or one of the webfoot warriors might need to lasso a shark. Ha, ha, ha,” Thorfinn added. That is not even funny. What a clodpole I have become!
“That’s not as funny as you think,” his uncle Jorund said, sinking down to the ground beside them. “Did I tell you how I traveled here to the future? On the back of a killer whale. I jest not!” At the look of incredulity on Lydia’s face, he explained. He had somehow landed in a hospitium for demented people, called a mental clinic, because of his claims to have time-traveled. As a result, everyone who had come thereafter never mentioned the outrageous happenstance of how they had arrived.
Thorfinn had heard Jorund’s story before, but enjoyed watching Lydia hear it. Mike was sitting on his lap now, listening intently, which Lydia must have decided was acceptable since the little boy would just think it was a tall tale. In the end, Mike sighed. “I wish I could ride a killer whale.”
“Maybe we’ll go to Sea World sometime,” his mother promised. “Remember how you liked the orcas there?”
Next, Cage demonstrated his guitar-playing talents, singing some Cajun songs. The music was lively and the lyrics fun. Begrudgingly, he had to admit that the SEAL had talents, even if he did enjoy annoying him with his attentions to Lydia.
Everyone was subdued that evening after dinner. He came downstairs after listening to Lydia read five books to his son, and kissing him good-night himself. Still a new, heart-tugging experience for him. He’d given Lydia a kiss, too, before she had a chance to duck his embrace. Mike had thought it hilariously funny that he would want to kiss his mother.
Now, with Mike, Lydia, her mother, and her father asleep, the men in the living room were breaking down and inspecting their weapons. He was honing his sword. Magnus was snoring on a low sofa, his broadaxe across his massive chest. Sleeping bags were scattered across the floor. No one said much. The night before a mission was much the same anywhere, at any time. Anticipation. Dread.
He, for one, would be glad when it was all over, and he could get on with his new life . . . whatever that would be.
’Twas the middle of the night when he awakened, his back aching from lying on the hard floor. By the light from the kitchen, he could see all the various bodies at rest, most on the floor, like him, except for Magnus on the sofa, and two men in reclining chairs.
He stood and made his way toward the stairs. Quiet as he was, Torolf whispered, “Is everything okay?”
“Yes,” he whispered back. “I just want to check on Miklof.”
Torolf chuckled.
Once upstairs, he was alarmed at first to see Lydia’s bed empty, but he found her curled up with Miklof in his sleeping bower. His heart swelled with deep emotion at the sight.
So exhausted were Lydia and Miklof, or so adept was he, that neither awakened when he picked Lydia up and carried her back to her own bed. He laid her gently on the bed and slid under the bed linens behind her. Lying on his left side, he spooned against her back, then placed one arm on the pillow over her head and the other lightly on her hip. Soon, drugged by her body warmth and floral scent, he fell asleep, too.
In the middle of the night, something awakened him. He was a light sleeper, as a warrior must always be. Listening, he heard nothing, but then he realized that the rhythm of Lydia’s breathing had changed. She was awake.
And his manpart was hard and long, riding the crease of her buttocks. Bloody hell, can you not behave this once? Oh, that is it! I am finally over-the-edge barmy . . . talking to my cock.
And his hand was caressing her breast. Well, no wonder you are misbehaving.
And her nipple was engorged, its point pressing into his palm like an erotic signal. See, it is her fault, not ours.
“Lydia,” he whispered, not wanting to awaken others in the house. They were both on their sides, still spooned together, very tightly. Did she just wiggle her arse against me? Or was that you? He was still talking to his manpart, for Frigg’s sake!
“How did I get here? What are you doing here?”
“I was lonely.”
Me, too.
That is just wonderful. IT talks back, too.
He could feel her silent laughter.
She likes me, she likes me.
Oh, shut up!
He began to caress her breasts in earnest with his one hand. Massaging. Running fingertips over them, up and down, in a washboard fashion.
Her soft gasp encouraged him to do more. Torolf may think he knows everything about bedsport, but I know that gasping is a silent signal from females.
He kissed her ear and used the tip of his wet tongue to stimulate her there, at the same time pinching and tweaking and fluttering her nipples.
She groaned softly and put a halting hand over his. “We can’t . . . what if someone hears?”
Groaning is a signal, too. “We can. If you are quiet.” But not too quiet.
His left hand, which had still been resting on the pillow above her head, moved down and under her so that both hands were now touching her bare breasts under her sleep shert. If he were not so intent on her response, he might have missed the whimper. Only then did he move his right hand down, sweeping over her abdomen, the slight swell of her belly, to her woman hair, where he soon discovered her moistness.
“You want me,” he whispered against her ear.
“No kidding.”
Tugging her backward, he inserted his knee betwixt her thighs, separating her folds. Turning her head to the right, facing her shoulder, he kissed her, catching her cries as he brought her to ecstasy with a few expert strokes to her slick bud.
And he grew harder and longer, undulating several times against her crease, then stopped himself. Not yet. Not yet.
“Remember when I showed you the Viking S-Spot?” he mused, back to her breasts.
She nodded, unable to speak just yet, he assumed.
“Well, I saw a book with pictures at the commander’s house that shows wher
e the G-Spot is.” I wonder where I could purchase that book for myself. “Can I practice on you, sweetling?”
A gurgle that tried to be a laugh escaped her lips. He took that for assent. So, I add gurgle to gasp and groan. With the heel of one hand on her nether bone, he inserted a middle finger inside her, under that bone, searching for the knot which would give her more pleasure, presumably of a different kind. She jerked when he found the spot. He began to massage her then, from inside and out. Her body began to jerk wildly with a never-ending rhythm of peaking.
Giving her no chance to recover, or change her mind, he pressed her right knee up to her chest, then he plunged into her still-convulsing channel.
“Are you trying to kill me?” she asked.
“Shhh.” He remained still for a moment, wanting to calm down his enthusiasm, and make sure they hadn’t awakened anyone else in the house, like her father. Then he began the age-old strokes in and out of her tight sheath, at the same time working her breasts again with his left hand. With his right, he found that she was incredibly wet and slick. Her woman dew coated his fingertips, which he used to torture her relentlessly. He wanted her to want him more than any other man . . . more even than the dead husband. He wanted this night, and this sex, to become a need to her, like thirst and hunger. He was unrelenting in his use of her. Plunging, retreating, stroking, ’til they peaked together . . . a peaking that was longer and more intense than he had ever experienced.
In the aftermath, he realized that he was the one who would want her more than any other woman. He was the one who would thirst and hunger for her. He was the one lost.
Chapter 18
A blast . . . just like the past . . .
Lydia was as nervous as a kitten at a dog show.
She and Mike, adorable in his little suit and tie, were seated on the platform, along with Dave’s parents, the mayor, JAM, acting as representative for the SEALs, and various other dignitaries. Dave’s life-size bronze statue was to the back of them on a high marble cube. She couldn’t bear to give it more than a passing glance, so much did it look like her husband. Even when Mike craned his little neck to look behind him and asked, “Is that my daddy?” she stared straight ahead.