“You are looking at this from the wrong angle.”
“How so?”
“The right man would relish your independence. The right man might want to protect you from the dangers of solitary travel or trading in a risky manner, but he would find ways to cooperate with you in your endeavors. Compromise—that is the key to a good husband-and-wife relationship methinks, and thus far you have not considered budging even the slightest bit.”
“So it’s my fault?”
He laughed. “Just a little.”
“You’re saying I need the right man to husband me and father my child, and I need to compromise my too-high standards?”
He gave her a one-armed squeeze. “That about sums it up.”
Was Vagn saying he could be that man? Was that what this was all about? Oh, she had to admit the prospect filled her with foolish hopes. But she waited a good long time, and he said nothing more. He must be thinking of some other right man for her.
Ah, well, ’twas what she had expected. Time she changed the subject lest she burst into tears, as was her wont of late.
“Well, my wordy Viking, now that you have awakened me from my near-slumber, methinks ’tis time to try another of Rona’s tricks.”
“I thought you had tried all of Rona’s tricks already, numerous times,” he said with a chuckle.
“There is one more. ‘Tis called the Butter Churn.”
He laughed outright.
“You see,” she said, swinging her legs so that she straddled his thighs and taking his hardening penis in her fingers, “the trick is in the grip, like the pole of a butter churn, two hands, up and down. The skin will move thus.”
“Holy Thor!” Vagn said within seconds. “I will show you what this pole can do when it does its own churning.” And he did.
Unfortunately… or fortunately… there was no more talk of marriage or babies that night.
And then the other boot drops…
Vagn knew that Helga was pregnant, but she did not tell him, and it hurt him deeply.
Obviously, she wanted him to play no part in her life or that of the babe. His heart wrenched at the thought. No wonder he held off telling her of his growing affection for her. She would no doubt interpret it as directed toward his child and not her… which was far from the truth, although he did feel almost weepish whenever he thought of a child of his loins. Where these newfound paternal feelings came from, he had no idea—possibly from his love of the mother.
There was only one thing of which Vagn was certain. He would marry Helga, come hell or high water. They would raise this child together, no matter what notions of independence she held close to her heart. His son or daughter would know both parents. That was a fact she would have to accept.
How this would fit in with his plans to search for his brother, he had no idea yet. First of all, he had to make absolutely certain that Toste was really gone to the Other World. Once they returned from Ravenshire, he would settle everything. He could wait that long before making his proposal to Helga, and her father.
In the meantime, Helga could keep her secret if she wanted. And she could churn his butter all she wanted. He didn’t mind one bit.
Daddy dearest…
“Helga, this has got to stop,” her father said sternly.
He was standing in her sewing solar, being fitted for a new tunic. It would be black wool, embroidered with a hem of silver briars in honor of Briarstead. Everyone was getting at least one new garment for the trip to Ravenshire, including Vagn, who wore fine raiment like he was born to it, which he was.
“What has to stop?” she asked distractedly as she let out the seams to make more room for her father’s massive girth.
“Your diddling with Vagn.”
She gasped. Did her father know about their clandestine lovemaking? Did everyone know?
“You cannot tease a man so and not expect him to want something from you. Like marriage.”
She breathed an inner sigh of relief. By “diddling” her father meant teasing, not… well, diddling.