of his belt while he spoke, as if for luck, or answers.
“English.”
“It can’t be. I speak both Norse and English, which are much alike, and your words come from neither.”
“Like what words?” Geez, this guy’s games wore thin. Okay, he seemed knowledgeable about shipbuilding, but did he have to keep up the pretense of being a Viking? “Give me an example.”
“Like profess-whore. I can hardly credit you as a whore.”
“I beg your pardon,” she bristled. “Professor is another name for a teacher.”
“Call-ledge?”
She frowned, then laughed. “You mean college . That’s a school…usually for young men and women between the ages of eighteen and twenty-two.”
“Now I know you speak pure drivel. Men are long past the age of schooling by eighteen. Either they tend their own estates or fight their king’s wars. And women…women are well into breeding by then.”
“Give me a break! Listen, Rolf, I have too many problems to continue with this charade of yours. So, knock it off, and—”
“What is this made-heave-all you prattle about? Did you say you teach made-heave-all? Earlier this evening, you called yourself a dock-whore, and now you claim to be a profess-whore…a woman teacher? I think not.”
Dock-whore? Oh, he means doctor . She should refuse to answer any more of his absurd questions, but his furrowed brow appeared genuine. Meredith was getting alarmed. He really might be a mental case. Even so, taking a deep breath, she explained, “Medieval refers to the period from the sixth to the sixteenthcentury. My specialty is tenth-to twelfth-century Britain.
He made an incoherent sound, which she interpreted as the usual reaction to her devoting her life to such a dull subject.
She raised her chin defensively. “I come from a family of scholars. My grandfather was an expert in early Nordic culture. My parents are famous for late—Middle Age social customs. My brother Jared is an archaeologist who has worked on the Coppergate dig in York and is currently in Norway excavating a Norse farmstead. My sister Jillian makes Jelling-style jewelry.”
Rolf raked his fingers through his hair in confusion. “’Tis puzzling to me.”
“Why?”
“Well, I could accept learned men studying the past, but how can they study the future?”
“What do you mean…the future?”
He threw his hands out impatiently. “Anytime after this year, 997, is the future, is it not?”
She tsked her disgust. “No, the period after 997 is not the future. Listen, why don’t I just show you my grandfather’s blueprints for the longship, and let’s start from there?”
A few moments later, she stood in her small den, gathering together the oversized sketches.
“God’s teeth and Odin’s breath! ’Tis impossible!”
She jumped, not having realized that he’d followed so closely. Glancing back over her shoulder, she saw him gaping at the bookshelves that lined three of the walls. The fourth wall had huge casement windows that opened during the daytime onto a spectacular view of the Atlantic Ocean.
He touched one of the leatherbound volumes with reverence. “You must be very wealthy to afford so many precious books,” he said in an awestruck voice. “In my world, even kings often own only one book or two.”
He opened a volume carefully. Tracing a fingertip over the glossy page, he sighed. “The paintings are remarkably lifelike. And the writing is strange. Not the usual ink scratchings of the monkish scribes.”
“Hardly.” This guy was a fantastic actor. To what purpose, Meredith couldn’t imagine. But, if she didn’t know better, she’d believe his fascination with books to be genuine.
“It’s incredible. I understand your words when you speak, but I cannot fathom the language in these books. Is it English?”
Meredith nodded. A thread of panic caused her to back away slightly, although he did nothing menacing, other than stand there, shirtless, drooling over a book.
“Tomorrow you
“English.”
“It can’t be. I speak both Norse and English, which are much alike, and your words come from neither.”
“Like what words?” Geez, this guy’s games wore thin. Okay, he seemed knowledgeable about shipbuilding, but did he have to keep up the pretense of being a Viking? “Give me an example.”
“Like profess-whore. I can hardly credit you as a whore.”
“I beg your pardon,” she bristled. “Professor is another name for a teacher.”
“Call-ledge?”
She frowned, then laughed. “You mean college . That’s a school…usually for young men and women between the ages of eighteen and twenty-two.”
“Now I know you speak pure drivel. Men are long past the age of schooling by eighteen. Either they tend their own estates or fight their king’s wars. And women…women are well into breeding by then.”
“Give me a break! Listen, Rolf, I have too many problems to continue with this charade of yours. So, knock it off, and—”
“What is this made-heave-all you prattle about? Did you say you teach made-heave-all? Earlier this evening, you called yourself a dock-whore, and now you claim to be a profess-whore…a woman teacher? I think not.”
Dock-whore? Oh, he means doctor . She should refuse to answer any more of his absurd questions, but his furrowed brow appeared genuine. Meredith was getting alarmed. He really might be a mental case. Even so, taking a deep breath, she explained, “Medieval refers to the period from the sixth to the sixteenthcentury. My specialty is tenth-to twelfth-century Britain.
He made an incoherent sound, which she interpreted as the usual reaction to her devoting her life to such a dull subject.
She raised her chin defensively. “I come from a family of scholars. My grandfather was an expert in early Nordic culture. My parents are famous for late—Middle Age social customs. My brother Jared is an archaeologist who has worked on the Coppergate dig in York and is currently in Norway excavating a Norse farmstead. My sister Jillian makes Jelling-style jewelry.”
Rolf raked his fingers through his hair in confusion. “’Tis puzzling to me.”
“Why?”
“Well, I could accept learned men studying the past, but how can they study the future?”
“What do you mean…the future?”
He threw his hands out impatiently. “Anytime after this year, 997, is the future, is it not?”
She tsked her disgust. “No, the period after 997 is not the future. Listen, why don’t I just show you my grandfather’s blueprints for the longship, and let’s start from there?”
A few moments later, she stood in her small den, gathering together the oversized sketches.
“God’s teeth and Odin’s breath! ’Tis impossible!”
She jumped, not having realized that he’d followed so closely. Glancing back over her shoulder, she saw him gaping at the bookshelves that lined three of the walls. The fourth wall had huge casement windows that opened during the daytime onto a spectacular view of the Atlantic Ocean.
He touched one of the leatherbound volumes with reverence. “You must be very wealthy to afford so many precious books,” he said in an awestruck voice. “In my world, even kings often own only one book or two.”
He opened a volume carefully. Tracing a fingertip over the glossy page, he sighed. “The paintings are remarkably lifelike. And the writing is strange. Not the usual ink scratchings of the monkish scribes.”
“Hardly.” This guy was a fantastic actor. To what purpose, Meredith couldn’t imagine. But, if she didn’t know better, she’d believe his fascination with books to be genuine.
“It’s incredible. I understand your words when you speak, but I cannot fathom the language in these books. Is it English?”
Meredith nodded. A thread of panic caused her to back away slightly, although he did nothing menacing, other than stand there, shirtless, drooling over a book.
“Tomorrow you
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