THE RELUCTANT VIKING By Sandra Hill

Surreptitiously Ruby reached under the table, dumped her ale in the rushes and filled her cup with the red wine. Her hesir companion looked at her oddly, wondering aloud what she did down in the rushes, but she glared him into silence.

The first cup went straight to Ruby’s head, out to her fingertips and down to her toes. She sipped her second cup more slowly, only gulping larger mouthfuls when she saw Thork doing something particularly distasteful, like touching the girl’s sleeve gently when he asked a question or whispering in her ear when the noise level in the room got too loud. He ignored Ruby totally.

It was a futile battle, trying to get Thork to marry her, Ruby told herself in self-pity as she finished her second cup, touching her lips in wonder. How did her lips get numb? And her eyelashes felt as if they weighed ten pounds each. But, Lord, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this good.

As the tables were dismantled and people milled about in groups, waiting for the entertainment, she poured her third drink, feeling a drunken rush of self-confidence. Maybe it wasn’t hopeless, after all. Maybe she should go right up there and demand that Thork marry her. Better yet, maybe she should get a sword and kidnap Thork. Lock him in her room with her for a week, and, guaran-teed, she’d get a proposal from him or he’d be dead from sexual depletion. She giggled at the thought, getting the attention of her young hesir, who also stood alone.

“Why, you had wine the whole time!” he complained, noticing the jug at her feet. “What a pig to keep it all to yourself!”

“Not a pig. A hog. I have legs like a hog’s skin, don’t you know? Before the butchering.” She giggled again, then hiccuped. After handing the young man the almost empty container, she weaved her way through the crowd toward the head of the hall, her half-empty cup of wine held shakily in front of her.

Dar and all his noble visitors had moved off the dais and were sitting or standing, listening to two young women with harp and lute who sang a soft melody. Ruby got her first close-up look at Thork and choked back her laughter. He wore a burgundy velvet tunic with gold braiding, almost identical to her dress—Dar’s idea of a practical joke, she presumed. Wide gold bracelets gleamed on his tanned upper arms, and a gold pendant on a heavy chain lay against his chest. The hair on one side of his head had been braided and hung off the side of his head and down his back, highlighting the one thunderbolt earring.

He looks like a bloody Norse god, Ruby thoUght, and gulped.

Thork blinked with surprise at their matching clothing, then curled his lips with disgust. He shot an accusing glance at his grandfather who feigned innocence with a shrug. Then Thork stared pointedly at the wine Ruby still sipped as she leaned tipsily against the back of someone’s chair. Anger flashed in his eyes as she raised defiant eyes to his. Thork stood and started to walk purposefully toward her, but Ruby slipped into the crowd and moved to the other side of the room.

When a visiting jarl rose from his chair to go to the garderobe, Ruby sank wearily into it, holding her chin in her hand. Dar gave her a disapproving look, but Ruby ignored the unspoken message that she was not high enough in their stupid class system to be sitting where she was.

Thork stood directly across the circle from her, glaring. Having had enough of his anger and rebuffs and orders, Ruby stuck her tongue out at him and thought his eyes would bug out. It felt so good she did it again and tried to look cross-eyed at him, but for some reason her coordination was bogged down, and her eyes just kind of rolled. But she’d succeeded in turning Thork’s face almost purple by now. He would have vaulted the circle of guests if the skald hadn’t started a long lyric poem.

Under normal circumstances, Ruby might have been interested, but she felt as if she were floating now—a glorious feeling! She let her empty wine cup slip from her fingers to the rushes.