Free Viking Heat by Sandra Hill Page A

eyes.
    It was a woman, but she was unlike any either of them had seen before. And it wasn’t just her wild, flame red hair. Or that she was nigh naked, except for scraps of white cloth over her breasts and nether parts. No, her uniqueness lay in the odd, jerky movements she made around the auction platform. Raising a leg high. Kicking out sharply at the men who tried to subdue her. Hitting some of them, painfully, it would seem by their yelps. And she was making chopping motions toward them with the raised heels of her hands, as if they were weapons. The whole time she was making guttural noises that sounded like “Kee-yup!” or “Hie!” when she was not spouting coarse Saxon curses.
    And then, no longer distracted by the thin garments she wore, they homed in on her breasts. And a well-rounded rump that would scarce fit in a big man’s hands.
    Erland’s mouth was gaping open.
    Arnis was momentarily speechless.
    Then they both looked at each other and grinned. “Brandr,” Erland said.
    And Arnis nodded.
    Both of them chuckled.
    They had found the perfect gift for Brandr.

Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it’s off to the Black Sea we go . . .
     
    “Okay, joke’s over. Ha, ha, ha! Untie these freakin’ ropes.”
    Ever since a man had shouted, “Cast off!” immediately followed by “Out oars!” and they’d begun this ludicrous voyage, Joy had experienced one amazing debacle after another. In fact, her life had become one bleeping debacle.
    Joy was sick of complaining to her “captors,” if that’s what these bozos were. And they were sick of hearing her complaints, more than one of them had said.
    They weren’t Arab terrorists, that was for sure. Mostly tall and blond, the men more resembled ancient Vikings. That idea was reinforced by the dragonship they were riding across icy Black Sea waters.
    “This is no jest, wench,” one of them, obviously a captain or something, said.
    “Call me wench one more time, and you’ll have black and blue balls when I’m free.”
    “Milady then, though I know few ladies who would discuss manparts in public.” The jerk grinned at her. “Brandr is going to enjoy taming you.”
    “Who is Brandy?”
    “Brandr,” he corrected her. “Our brother. That is my brother Erland.” He pointed to another blond-haired male on the other ship, which rode low in the water beside them. Erland was supervising the sixty-plus rowers sitting on sea chests that lined both sides of an immense longship, just like theirs. Their creaking oars hit the water with wet, rhythmic slaps, for hours on end.
    She had to admit the vessels were impressive with their carved prows and red and black checked sails and flags showing white bears rampant against black backgrounds edged in red. Colorful shields were arranged over the sides. “Are you with that model village at Hedeby? Is this some kind of half-baked reenactment? If so, you better release me right away, or you are going to be in big trouble with Uncle Sam.”
    “Huh? Uncle who?”
    “Read my lips, bozo. Un—”
    “My name is Arnis, not Bozo.”
    “Aaarrgh!” she said and would have pulled at her own hair if her arms weren’t tied behind her back and around a mast pole. “Read my lips, Arnis . Untie. Me. Now! ”
    Arnis just smiled. “Read my lips. Nay!”
    “Tell me again why you’ve captured me.”
    “We did not capture you. We purchased you at the thrall auction to take back to Bear’s Lair.”
    “Oh, that’s just great. You’re taking me to a bear’s cave.”
    “What? Oh. You missay me. Bear’s Lair is the name of our family estates in the Norselands.”
    “Well, that’s explains everything. Not!”
    “You were purchased and will be a bond slave to Brandr. Those thralls over there,” he pointed to a group of young women huddled together, “now they are captives. We captured them, and some others that we already sold, on a raid of Saxon lands. Once free, they will now be thralls.”
    “Why?”
    “Why what?”
    “Why did you