He wore nothing but a leather tunic, spokein an ancient tongue . . . and he was standing in Professor Meredith Foster's living room. The medieval historian told herself he was partof a practical joke, but with his wide gold belt,callused hands, and the rabbit roasting inher fireplace, the brawny stranger seemed so . . . authentic. Suddenly Meredith was mesmerized by hisbronzed, muscular form, and her bodysurrendered to the fantasy that Geirolf Ericssonreally...