Truly, Madly Viking

By Sandra Hill

“The Vikings are back! Once again the ingenious Ms. Hill brings a megadose of humor to her captivating and fun-filled time-travels. Another winner!” —Romantic Times 

His boat off course, distracted by a randy she-whale whose infatuation had somehow thrust him into the twenty-first century, Jorund Ericsson thought he’d found heaven when he caught sight of the comely wench with the man-hair and the kiss-some lips. The lovely doctor, however, simply thought Jorund insane—even as she drove the befuddled Viking crazy with her enticing figure.

He leapt from the water and into Maggie’s life, all sinewy muscles in a flawlessly proportioned body, a swath of long blond hair swept back from his brow. His claim to be a Viking from the tenth century made her smile. But it wasn’t laughter that caused her stomach to flutter when the Hercules look-alike claimed her lips. And soon he had her believing his story and questioning her own sanity—though the psychologist realized there was another possibility. They were, neither of them, truly mad . . . simply truly, madly in love.

“A wacky and oh-so-sexy tale of how a misplaced Viking finds his way in the twenty-first century . . . and into a lonely woman’s heart.” —ReaderToReader.com

“This book is a keeper. It will make the reader laugh, cry, and rejoice as Jorund and Maggie fall truly, madly in love. Highly recommended!” —Paranormal Romance Reviews

“This book made me laugh and it made me cry. I literally could not put it down.” —Romance and Friends

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Feb 4, 2014
• ISBN: 9780062343857

Sandra Hill

Sandra Hill is a graduate of Penn State and worked for more than ten years as a features writer and education editor for publications in New Jersey and Pennsylvania. Writing about serious issues taught her the merits of seeking the lighter side of even the darkest stories.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

AUTUMN, 998 A.D.

BEYOND ICELAND

A whale of time! . . .

"Look, Jorund, look! There she blows . . . again. Hmmm. Mayhap that is the fair Thora’s way of blowing kisses at you. Dost think—"

Magnus, Jorund Ericsson warned his brother with a disgusted shake of his head. I have heard more than enough of your nonsense today. I suggest you go take a seat at one of the oarlocks and row off some of your excess vigor.

He was standing at the rail of his longship, Fierce Warrior, honing the blade of his favorite sword, Bloodletter. Magnus was standing next to him, honing his tongue. Unless Magnus had a plow in his hands, or a mead horn in his mouth, or a wench in his bed, he tended to think it was his mission in life to bedevil his brother. It was no exaggeration to say that Magnus had an opinion on every bloody topic in the world.

Now, now, do not be overmodest, little brother, Magnus advised, puffing his chest out, which was a sure sign he was about to expound at length . . . on some triviality. His long, blond hair was pulled off his face with a leather thong tied at the nape, which drew attention to his uncommonly large ears. For years, Magnus had claimed that his large ears were a sign of other . . . well, attributes that were equally pronounced, but Jorund could hardly credit that.

And what did he call me? Little? In truth, he and Magnus were of the same immense height, though Magnus was bullish in stature, being a farmsteader by trade, while Jorund carried the leaner-muscled body of a fighting man. And they were a mere nine months apart in age. So little hardly applied. For the love of Odin! What importance is there in whether my brother deems me big or little? My mind must be melting in this unseasonably hot sun. And that is another thing . . . who would think the sun could be so hot in Iceland? Perchance we have strayed farther than—

One and all can see that the fair Thora has developed a passion for you, Magnus blathered on. And not just the blowing of kisses. You must admit she has been following you about for a sennight and more. Wagging her tail at you like a Hedeby whore. Besotted she is, for a certainty.

He sliced a glare at his brother. What makes you think she is blowing kisses? He knew that it was a mistake to react to any of Magnus’s jibes. Still, he blundered on, Mayhap she is just blowing air.

Like breaking wind? Now there’s a thought. Magnus grinned. "Mother always told us when we were growing up that females do not break wind, leastways not in public . . . just old men and bad boys. Ha! I suspect Mother was laughing behind our backs with that mistruth. Either that, or I warrant she was never in close quarters with Fat Helga, the goatherder, after a night of eating gammelost." He tapped his chin with exaggerated pensiveness.

Jorund groaned. When will I ever learn? I can predict what he is going to say now.

Do females make a habit of trying to attract you with farts?

I was correct. What a ridiculous notion! Jorund snarled, then realized that Magnus was chuckling under his breath. Aaarrgh! he said. Carrying on a conversation with Magnus was like talking with one of his dumb cows. His coarseness knew no limits, his earthiness coming, no doubt, from his dealing so much with . . . well, earth. Not that Jorund was unaccustomed to coarseness, being surrounded as he was by soldiers whose every other word was apt to be an expletive of the foulest nature. He’d uttered a few himself.

But, really, his brother had fallen into the most annoying habit of late—teasing him. Holy Thor! Who ever heard of grown men engaging in such youthful games? Life was too serious—and fleeting, as he well knew— and their mission was too important for frivolity. It was probably boredom, or frustration at being lost at sea. Well, not quite lost, just a mite off course.

Ignoring his brother’s smirking face, he looked off into the distance, where the magnificent killer whale the sailors had named Thora was indeed performing her ritual dance. It was to her that Magnus had attributed blowing kisses, of all things.

Just now, her sleek black-and-white shape leaped into the air with a spectacular flourish, a maneuver that had come to be known among seafarers as breaching.

The whale, at the height of her impressive leap, gave the false appearance of standing on her tail fins on the surface of the water for several long moments. Then she twisted her sleek body into a perfect arc with an agility remarkable for her size and dove back into the salty depths to swim swiftly beneath the waves she had created. If she followed her previous routine, she would be repeating the performance another two or three times, ofttimes varying the act with backflips, all accompanied by boisterous squeals and chirps and rapid clicking noises, before swimming off a short distance to watch and follow their sailing vessel.

There was no escaping the killer whale. They had tried to elude their unwelcome companion by rowing fast with a strong wind at their backs, and still she kept up. Surely the killer whale must be the fastest animal in all the oceans.

They knew it was a female because of her comparatively small size to the male of the species, though this friendly beast was still nigh as big as his dragonship. Well, perhaps that was an overstatement. At the least, she had to be four times his body height from mouth to tail.

There was no question in Jorund’s mind—though he would never acknowledge it to his brother—that it was himself the animal had developed an affection for. The whale had been shadowing them for more than fourteen days, coming closer and closer. But that wasn’t how Jorund knew that the whale was following him. He knew because the whale was talking to him. Amazing as that sounded, even if only to his own ears, Jorund had taken to communicating with a killer whale. He talked to the whale in his head. And the whale talked back to him.

Languages of other countries had always come easily to him. And not just Norse and English, the language of the Saxons, which were very similar. He was also fluent in the tongues of Frankland, Byzantium, Baghdad, Rome, and Cordoba. But never had he been known to speak with animals. No one did, that he knew of, except perhaps the gods. And he was no god.

Where did this voice in his head came from?

When it was late at night and his men were asleep, he would stand at the prow of his longship and converse with a killer whale, of all things. Good thing Magnus was unaware of this insanity, or he would really have something to tease him about.

Was he going mad? Were the events of the past year too much for his brain to bear? Or was it the cumulative effect of years and years of bloodshed finally crushing down on him? Stronger men than he had gone berserk.

How can this be? he had asked Thora yestereve. It was an indication of his sorry state that he sought advice on his mental condition from an animal.

Click, click. Squeal, squeal. Click, squeal, click, squeal, the whale had answered him in ever-changing patterns. In other words, Men question too much. Listen with your heart; speak with your heart, my friend.

I ask for help, and you give me riddles, he’d wailed silently. I don’t understand. He need not speak aloud for the whale to hear him—another amazing happenstance.

With her usual clicks and squeals and chirps, Thora had told him, You will; you will. Then, just before the whale had swum off, she’d added, Open your heart, man. Only then will there be no barriers of country or animal . . . or time.

Time? What has time to do with this?

Jorund, has your mind gone awandering again? Are you all right?

Jorund blinked and reined in his thoughts. His brother’s big paw of a hand was resting on his shoulder with concern.

Am I all right?

Nay, I am not all right.

I’m fine, he said.

But he was not fine, he soon found out.

Bam! Bam! Bam!

"Bld hel! he and Magnus exclaimed at the same time, then repeated, Bloody hell!" A number of his sailors, who followed both the Christian and Norse religions, were making the sign of the cross on their broad chests. All of them stared gape-mouthed out to sea.

Bam! Bam! Bam!

Thora was using her huge tail fins to whack the far side of the longship.

Bam! Bam! Bam!

She must be playing with them—some kind of strange killer whale game—for it was clear she was not employing full force; otherwise the vessel would have tipped over. Even so, the impact of the powerful tail hitting the wood sides was enough to set the boat rocking side to side. A little harder and the wood might splinter.

Jorund tried to listen in the way the whale had taught him. There was a loud, grinding noise in response, almost like a rusty door closing, and he thought he heard her say, It is time, Viking.

Time? What time? Jorund asked.

Huh? Magnus tilted his head in question.

Jorund realized that he must have spoken aloud and felt his face heat with embarrassment. Magnus would make great mock of him if he even suspected his brother was communicating with an animal.

The whale swam off a short distance and floated atop the water, just watching him with her big, beady eyes. And the groaning noise continued.

Jorund? Are you all right? Magnus repeated with concern.

He nodded.

Something odd is happening here, Magnus contended. You have not been yourself since learning of Inga’s and the girls’ deaths.

I do not want to speak of that, he said icily. Best we pull anchor and get rid of this bothersome whale. If we cannot move quickly enough to lose her, then we must kill the beast.

He thought he heard a squealy voice in the distance say, Ha! I would like to see you try.

Closer at hand, Magnus was not about to drop the subject. Some people think a man must talk of his heart-pain, lest it eat away at his innards . . . turn him mad with grief.

Are you implying that I have gone berserk?

Magnus pursed his lips and tugged at one of his big ears pensively. Mayhap. Leastways, a little barmy.

Jorund grunted with disgust.

Oh, I know you harbored no great affection for Inga, but your daughters . . . well, ’tis clear they held a special place in your soul.

Have a caution, Magnus. You go too far, he warned.

But as always, his brother failed to heed sound advice and blathered on. I know that I would surely tear out my hair in mourning if I lost my son . . . or daughter.

And which son—or daughter—would that be? Jorund asked with a hint of humor. It was hard to stay angry with his well-meaning brother.

Any one of my sons . . . or daughters, Magnus answered, lifting his chin defensively. His brother followed the old custom of more danico and had two wives, in addition to three current mistresses . . . or was it four? All told, his seed had produced eight sons and five daughters . . . all with big ears.

Jorund made a tsking sound at his brother, whom he loved dearly, despite his nagging ways.

I will work out my own problems in my own time and way, he told Magnus. For now we must make haste and try to outrun this killer whale. They had anchored offshore in a small cove the night before so that they could draw fresh water from a stream on a nearby island. There were no human inhabitants that they could see. Still, they had slept aboard ship as a precaution.

Turning away, he gave orders to his crew to pull up the anchor and man their sea chests. His longship, built by his brother Rolf, was not an overlarge vessel. There were thirty-two oar holes on each side, manned by as many men who sat on their own personal sea chests rather than benches. Next to them were another thirty-two seamen, who would relieve them when their arms grew weary.

It won’t come up, a seaman soon informed him. The anchor must have caught in some seaweed when the whale bumped us.

In the meantime, the whale was back to prodding the ship with its tail fins and snout. Enough of this nonsense!

Jorund said a foul word and began to remove his clothing—mantle, tunic, skin boots, braies—knowing he was going to have to dive below and try to loosen the tangled anchor. He could have sworn he heard a high-pitched peal of laughter, but when he glanced about the longship, he saw naught but his sailors staring back at him with worry.

Becalm yourselves, men, he told them. We will soon be on our way. I am an excellent swimmer and have great fame for holding my breath underwater. Leather-lunged, my father used to say of me. He was not boasting, merely stating a fact to put them at ease.

Once he was naked, except for his sheathed sword, which was attached to a wide belt at his waist and secured to his thigh with a leather thong, he dove into the water. It was surprisingly warm near the surface. Though the sea became colder the deeper he went, it should have been frigid near Iceland. He would have to ponder that puzzle later. Even so, ’tis icy enough to shrivel even the grandest cock into a nub, he thought with a shiver.

And what makes you think yours is so grand? he heard the whale remark with a laugh.

Oh, gods! You again? Jorund commented dryly to himself as he sawed with his sword at the seaweed wrapped around the rope and anchor. He soon discovered that there was no way he could disentangle the metal anchor from the grassy tentacles. The more he tossed aside, the more seemed to appear in their place. He would have to cut the rope.

Stealthily, the whale had swum underwater and was watching his endeavors with interest.

For some reason he felt no fear . . . just disgust that this animal was causing him so much trouble.

Putting his sword back in the scabbard, he swam to the surface and took several deep gulps of air.

Magnus and all the seamen were staring over the side rail at him. Seabirds were whirling overhead in anticipation of some tasty morsel. He hoped it was not him.

Is it free? Magnus asked.

Jorund shook his head, still breathless. When he was able to speak, he informed his brother, It’s that special seal rope that Rolf insists on using. It will take me a little longer. Many ship owners bought the prized seal rope in the markets of Birka and Hedeby. Known for its sturdiness, it was cut in one single strip, like a spiral, from the hide of a seal or walrus. Unfortunately, it was difficult to slice through with a sword.

With one last deep inhalation of air, Jorund dove under the briny depths again. As expected, the whale was waiting for him. This time, as he sawed away with haste, the whale began a new game—butting Jorund’s bare arse with its big nose. That was all he needed . . . a randy she-whale!

Finally the rope broke free. He sheathed his sword and was about to swim back to the surface when the whale shot forward and took him in her mouth, his head sticking out one side of her mouth and his flailing legs out the other side. He could feel the whale’s massive teeth pressing against his stomach and buttocks, but Thora must be holding him with extra gentleness, for the teeth did not pierce his skin.

Unteeth me, you lackbrain whale.

The only response was a chirping laugh.

He should have been mortally afraid. He was not.

At first he laughed silently at the great trick. The skalds would be telling this saga forevermore. No doubt there would even be a praise-poem honoring Jorund, the warrior who rode in the cradle of a killer whale’s mouth and lived to tell the tale. Soon his mirth disappeared, however, when he realized that he could not hold his breath much longer and that the whale was swimming at great speed . . . away from the longship. Once, when the whale came to the surface briefly, Jorund noted with distress that the longship was already far away . . . much too far for him to swim back. Unless the whale returned him.

But no. Thora had other plans.

With a squeal and a chirping noise of glee, the whale submerged again, and all of Jorund’s silent screams and flailing limbs could not dissuade her.

Soon water rushed into his nostrils and all the orifices of his body. He could no longer hold his breath and took in great swallows of seawater. As his long hair came loose from its queue and swirled about his face, blinding him, a lightheadedness overtook him, which was not altogether unpleasant. And he thought, So I will break the raven’s fast thus—by sea, rather than battlefield? So this is how it ends?

Not quite, the whale answered. The Fates have other plans for you, Viking.

CHAPTER TWO

GALVESTON, TEXAS

If only dreams really could come true! . . .

"Star light, star bright,

First star I see tonight,

I wish I may, I wish I might,

Have my wish come true tonight."

Maggie McBride was about to enter the bedroom of her daughters, Suzy and Beth, when she heard them reciting, in unison, the childish rhyme. She’d already tucked them in and given them their customary good-night kisses, accompanied by the usual tickle. It wasn’t surprising that the minute she’d departed, they’d jumped out of their beds, up to some harmless mischief . . . and it was no big deal, really. Maggie had learned to pick her battles when it came to her kids.

With a smile, she stepped back into the hall, then peered around the doorjamb to see them leaning out their bedroom window, gazing at an especially bright, flickering star. Their young, nine-year-old voices carried a breathy tone of wistful belief in the magic of the constellations as they repeated the old nursery rhyme.

Was I ever that innocent? Did I ever believe in miracles?

Shimmying their tummies back on the windowsill, they stood and adjusted their respective nightshirts— Suzy’s a shocking pink image of Justin Bieber, and Beth’s a rendition of Shamu, the killer whale—no less an idol to her than her sister’s rock star du jour. Aside from their opposite personalities and interests, the girls were identical twins, both flashing brand-new shiny braces on their teeth and both sporting long mops of naturally curly hair, which was braided for sleep now into single tails down to their shoulder blades. They’d inherited their bad bites and honey blond locks from a father they’d never met—Judd Haskell. Maggie’s hair was coal black and straight as a pin . . . and thanks to a recent hair adventure gone awry, G. I. Jane short. But they did have her cornflower blue eyes.

"My wish was that Mom would finally find a husband," Suzy confessed to her sister. They still hadn’t noticed her standing in the hallway.

Beth nodded gravely. Mine, too.

Maggie cringed. Not again!

"I am not spending one more Christmas at Grandpa Haskell’s farm, I’ll tell you that, Suzy declared vehemently. All he does is give us sermons on how bad it is here in the city, and how we should come live with him and Grandma. As if! And no disrespect or nothin’, but I’m tired of all those stories about our dad before he died in that skydiving accident. What was a doctor doing skydiving anyhow? You’d think he was a saint the way Grandpa talks. ‘If your father was alive, this . . .’ Or, ‘If your father was alive, that . . .’ Sheesh!"

If he was so wonderful, Beth pointed out, how come he never married our mom?

Right, Suzy agreed.

Maggie barely stifled a gasp. How did they know that Judd had refused to marry her when he found out she was pregnant? Having a wife and family never would have fit into his high-risk, free-as-a-bird lifestyle. She prayed God they were unaware of an additional fact: that he’d wanted her to get an abortion. No, there was no way they could find that out. She’d never told anyone. Soon after that horrible meeting, Judd had died, the result of one of his never-ending adventures.

And Grandma is no different, Suzy went on. She keeps harping on single mothers, as if it’s Mom’s fault she had to raise us alone.

I know, Beth said with a groan. Last time, Grandma was quoting statistics she heard on some TV commercial about how daughters who are raised without a father often don’t finish high school, and lots and lots of them get pregnant before they’re sixteen.

Beth and Suzy exchanged a look at that last bit of information. Gross! they both exclaimed at the same time. Boys weren’t even of interest to them yet, let alone sex or anything leading to babies.

But, you know, Beth offered thoughtfully, "I betcha we could make Mom search for a dad a little harder if she believed all that stuff. She keeps saying school is so important."

And I betcha we could stay home this Christmas if there were a dad in the house, Suzy added.

Yep, a dad wouldn’t let them badger Mom into giving in. He’d tell them—here Beth’s voice dropped into a low, masculine tone—"‘Sorry, folks, but the girls can’t come for Christmas this year. We’re a family now, and we need our girls to stay home for a family Christmas. My girls have gotta help me go out into the forest and chop down a tree. Maybe we’ll even chop us a load of firewood to bring back in the pickup truck.’"

That would be so perfect, Beth commented, especially if there was snow. A dad, a real tree, a fire with our stockings hanging on the mantel, and snow!

The audible sighs that followed were poignant with dreaminess.

As distressed as Maggie was over this wistful conversation, she had to smile. There were no forests in their neighborhood. An artificial tree had done them nicely for nine years now. They had no fireplace for that truckload of wood or the stockings. Nor was her driveway big enough for her Volvo and a truck. As for snow in Galveston for Christmas . . . Forget it!

Despite her half smile, she felt like weeping.

Mom keeps saying she’s happy the way things are, Suzy complained.

I am. I am. Oh, it gets lonely on occasion, but let’s face it: I’m thirty-two years old, and I’m not about to give up my hard-earned independence at this late date. It’s taken me too long to get where I am now. Besides, I gave up on the Prince Charming dream a long time ago. If only my two munchkins would give up on the perfect-dad dream.

"But I’m not happy, you know. Not one bit."

Me neither, Beth agreed.

Maggie’s heart went out to her two precious daughters. There was a hole in their lives without a father. She knew that. But sometimes no father was better than a bad father. And Judd would have been a terrible father, no doubt about it. Besides, she’d done a darn good job playing mommy and daddy to them, and raising herself up by the bootstraps as well to the point where she could now proudly proclaim herself Dr. Margaret Mc Bride, psychologist.

Mom is so beautiful. Just like Demi Moore, Beth added. Everyone says so. Even with that haircut. And especially since she got that rad belly-button ring. I still can’t believe she did it. She could get any man she wanted.

Maggie didn’t know about getting any man she wanted, especially since she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a real date. But she was with the girls on one thing: she couldn’t believe she’d gotten the belly-button ring, either. It was so out of character for her.

When Maggie was a young girl, she had developed earlier than her friends and was the brunt of many taunts from adolescent boys based on the mistaken belief that big breasts meant hot babe. Of course, the rest of her body had eventually caught up with her breasts—though she was far too curvy for her taste, despite constant dieting— but she’d never gotten over the habit of overcompensating for her endowments with full-cut clothes and an almost prissy social lifestyle. Until recently, that was.

The haircut had been her idea . . . a breaking free of the old when she’d received her doctorate degree last spring. Who knew the beautician would go so wild?

The belly-button ring, on the other hand, had not been her idea. It was the price she’d had to pay for losing a bet with her daughters, who had amazingly come through with straight As for two semesters, and completed a daily regimen of household chores. Dr. Spock would have been horrified at her lack of parenting skills in using a bet to motivate her daughters. It was worth it, though. Not because of Beth, who loved school, but because of Suzy, who usually cruised along, content with C grades. And having the dishes done and the laundry folded without an argument had been nine months of heaven.

The belly-button ring could be removed.

Yep, Suzy agreed.

Huh?

"Mom is so beautiful she could get any man she wanted," Suzy continued.

Oh. That.

Even Justin Bieber.

The two girls giggled at that outlandish prospect: Maggie the psychologist and Mr. Teenage Heartthrob.

The only thing is, Suz, remember our matchmaking effort last year with the assistant manager of Shop ’n’ Save. Whooee! It was a disaster from the get-go, Beth reminded her. "I thought Mom would like a younger man. She is cool . . . for a mom. And Spike was, you know, major cute! Go figure."

But eighteen? Suzy grimaced in remembrance. Mom about swallowed a bird. She was soooo mad!

Maggie clamped a palm over her mouth to keep from laughing out loud. Spike—the little snot—had taken one look at her belly-button ring and invited her to the drive-in. Ha! Not in this lifetime!

That fiasco came right after we tried to fix her up with Rita’s vet, Suzy remembered.

Rita was their ten-year-old, twenty-pound Persian cat. This was the same vet who’d made an astute observation about Rita one day; Your cat doesn’t stray far from her food dish, does she?

Who knew Dr. Cheswick was gay? Beth whispered the last word.

I did. The minute I saw him.

And then there was the state trooper who visited our school.

Yeah. Beth sighed. He had the neatest buzz cut.

It was an attractive haircut. And George was handsome as all get-out. Too bad his political views on guns and minority groups had clashed with hers on the first meeting.

Suzy giggled at some remembrance. How about the priest you brought home for dinner?

How could I know he was a priest? Sheesh! He was wearing a jogging suit, Beth said defensively, and to-die-for Nike Shox.

Now, that one was hugely embarrassing.

Well, Christmas is only three months away. She leaves us no choice, Suzy asserted, straightening her narrow shoulders with resolve. If she can’t find a dad for us on her own . . . well, maybe—she motioned her head toward the heavens outside their window—God can help.

Beth brightened with understanding. Right. How can Mom get mad at God?

Exactly. She couldn’t possibly blame us. Suzy blinked innocently at her sister.

Maggie thought about stepping into the room and setting the girls straight, but somehow she couldn’t burst their bubble. They had plenty of time to learn that dreams came true only in the movies.

Before hopping into their beds, they each took one last look at the wishing star, then gasped. Maggie stifled a gasp, too.

It almost seemed as if the star winked at them.

Then their attention was diverted elsewhere.

Oooh, Suz. Look. Look at that new formation of stars over there. Doesn’t it resemble a . . . a whale?

Suzy smiled widely at Beth from her matching poster bed. That has to be a good sign.

When Maggie entered her own bedroom a short time later, she couldn’t help herself. Drawn to the large, double-hung windows, she glanced up at the sky.

The new stars were gone.

THE NEXT DAY

Don’t judge a man by his cover . . . uh, hair . . .

Mother! He’s bald! Suzy exclaimed the moment Dr. Harrison Seabold was out of hearing range. With a grimace of distaste, she added, Your first date in, like, forever, and you had to pick a baldy?

Susan Marie McBride! Shhh! Maggie cautioned her daughter and darted

Reviews for Truly, Madly Viking

[mom2lnb · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Sandra Hill is a mischievous author who has a talent for blending comedic elements with some great romance and sensuality. She is very good at creating play-on-words that lead to lots of hilarious misunderstandings, and she also has a penchant for funny t-shirt slogans that don't make much sense to a tenth century Viking. Truly, Madly Viking had many humorous moments that had me smiling and even laughing out loud, but it also had very tender moments that had me misting up. The story got off to a bit of a slow start for me, but about 1/3 of the way through, I was pretty well hooked. I think the slow start was because there wasn't quite as much of the “fish out of water” feel to this book as there was in the first book of the series, The Last Viking. I was also somewhat disappointed that Ms. Hill seemed to recycle some jokes and minor plot points and characterizations from the previous novel, as well as repeat some things throughout the book, but in the end there was enough new material to hold my attention. The characterizations were very well drawn. Jorund at times seemed a bit too perfect for my taste (I have a personal preference for the more imperfect heroes) and a little too chauvinistic, but it wasn't overdone to the point of being annoying. Underneath it all he had a loving, tender heart of gold toward both Maggie and her daughters, and best of all, he really respected Maggie, so it was pretty easy to see why she would fall for him. I also enjoyed Jorund's attitude toward public service, and his realization of how much personal satisfaction he received from helping others. I loved Maggie with all her insecurities and inhibitions (What woman can't relate to that?), but Jorund had a way of making her feel truly beautiful. Maggie's daughters, Beth and Suzy, seemed a little beyond their years at times, and I found them to be most endearing when they were just being little girls. The mental hospital patients were a hoot, yet the reader could really sympathize with them in their individual situations. Truly, Madly Viking is the second book in a series about a time-traveling trio of brothers. In this book, readers are treated to a reunion with Rolf and Meredith, as well as a few secondary characters from book #1, The Last Viking, and given a look at what their lives are like now. We are also introduced to the third brother, Magnus, who becomes the hero of book #3, The Very Virile Viking. Ms. Hill's 2nd Viking series actually contains a total of six books basically written in two trilogies, with books #4-#6 being Wet & Wild, Hot & Heavy, and Rough & Ready. Truly, Madly Viking had some weaknesses and admittedly isn't the typical romance fare that I tend to like the most, but overall, there was enough originality, humor, and tender, heartfelt moments to make this an enjoyable read for me. If you're looking for a lighthearted romp with lots of laughs then look no further.