Edin's embrace (10 page)

She continued to look at him as if he were a savage, however, and that made him feel savage. He folded his arms over his chest and glared at her. He said loudly, almost violently, "Take off your clothes."

That at least made her avert her eyes.

"I could do it for you," he said when she didn't obey him. She
would
obey him, by Thor! In this savage mood, he thought,
She will obey me or—

She didn't look at him, but began to unbuckle her belt —his belt. Her hands were unsteady, but she got it off, then took the hems of her dress and undershift together and pulled them off in one motion. Briefly her arms were raised, and he saw her body completely uncovered, her waist stretched, her torso taut, her breasts lifted. His chest was rudely shaken by the rapacity of his heart. Then her face emerged; she brought her arms down and stood with her clothes clutched before her. Her hair fell around her like a cloak.

She'd obeyed; she'd made herself accessible to him. But it had been done so guilelessly, so modestly, that his temper was softened. And further softened by the way she stood trembling —no, shaking hard —as if she were near to freezing, though the night was not that cool. He'd seen her as she'd removed her clothes, however, and it'd had the effect on him of drinking fire. His jaw was still clenched.

He gathered his control. Holding his breath, still shocked, he approached her, the way he might approach a wild creature, cautious in case she startled. He allowed himself only the touch of one fingertip; he traced it down from her shoulder to the upper slope of her breast. "Where did you get this bruise?"

She said nothing.

"I know about my mother's wooden spoon. She did this?"

Again, nothing.

Yet there must have been something conciliatory in his tone, because her head turned —in short jerks because of her great fear —and her eyes lifted, to his chest, his beard, his mouth, nose, finally to his eyes.

Such terror! It crashed against him with the force of a storm-lifted wave. He remembered well why he'd brought her in here against all the arguments of his reason: because he
wanted
her. Norsemen were never ashamed about their needs. For a man with a need to take a woman without a protector was as natural as a hungry man slaying a stray sheep. And he had a huge need. His body's almost uncontrollable passion amazed him, unnerved him —and thoroughly galled him. He wanted her —yes! But not like this. He found he was disgusted with the idea of forcing her, frightening her more. Surely she would just die; her heart would just stop. He remembered capturing a bird once, as a boy, and feeling its heart throb in his hand . . . throb . . . and then just stop. It had died of fright.

Fear so terrible must be put out of the way; there was nothing else for it. With a great gust of emotion, he turned from her. His eyes were wild to find some way out of what he'd begun. He saw the sheepskin rug, and lifted it and flung it into the corner farthest from the door. Then, quickly, he stripped a quilt off his own bed and turned back to her.

Everything about her drew his gaze and held it. Girding himself, he swirled the quilt around her, encasing her, covering her nakedness. She seemed startled. He pointed to the sheepskin. "You'll sleep there."

She didn't move.

"Do as I say!"

She sidled away from him, clutching the quilt closed with the same fingers that were clutching her pathetic clothes. Her face was full of questions as she stepped onto the sheepskin. There she stood, with the veering yellow lamplight scattering over her hair, her small body trembling beneath that bright formless quilt.

"Lay yourself down."

She went to her knees —so doubtful!—half-reclined. He turned away and went about his own undressing, fumbling unnaturally with the silver buttons of his tunic. Was she watching him? He'd never felt such a thing as shyness in a woman's presence before and refused to feel it now. Firm and unflinching, he stripped off his tunic, his shirt, his boots, and long pants. He went about it quickly, his back to her, tossing each item haphazardly into the chair.

But then he had to turn to blow out the lamp. Her eyes stared directly at his erection, and went round as plates. His hand moved involuntarily to his turgid manhood, to shield it from her awed gaze. At the same time her head jerked sideways, as if she'd been struck.

Then the lamp flame was out. He found his bed in the dark.

It took him a moment to regain his attitude. He said, "I sleep with my ears open and my hand on my knife handle, Saxon. Don't so much as move in the night or I may gut you by reflex alone."

There was no answer from her corner.

"Do you hear me?"

"Yes." A watery whisper, laden with unshed tears.

Minutes crept by, accumulated, formed an hour. He knew exactly when she believed he was safely asleep, for that was when he heard a sound, buried into her hair and covered by her quilt, a sound like the cracked, forlorn cry of a seagull.

Her stifled sobs went on for a long time, but eventually her breathing grew steadier, rounder, deeper. Her rest was still occasionally sob-broken, but she was asleep. Her mind had simply had enough. She didn't rest deeply at first; her sleep was fitful, and she started up out of it often. It wasn't until the darkest hours that exhaustion finally pulled her down into a truly unguarded repose.

The room became stone-quiet then. Thoryn lay sunk in his big feather bed. He didn't think about the steading, or about hunting or fishing or tool-making; he didn't think about building ships or repairing buildings or raising sheep or cattle or goats. He thought about the fact, the tantalizing, troublous, inescapable fact, that this piece of womanhood was his, that he could do with her whatever he liked.

Her face flashed up in his mind's eyes; he abhorred its beauty.

Whatever you like!

He'd thought the decision was made: He would sell her and earn eight half-marks of pure gold. But now he saw that he'd never made a decision at all, never really considered the two sides of the scales. He'd simply pointed to the side weighted with gold and totally ignored the possibilities of the side weighted with her. Now the choice had to be made all over again. He could have eight half-marks of gold in his money chest ... or he could have her beside him in this bed, beneath him, to do with as he liked.

***

Everywhere on the steading, sleep was giving way to waking, dreams to being. In the longhouse, in the jarl's chamber, a voice whispered to Edin, a pleasant, velvety voice. She resisted waking, however. Waking had become too hard. The ultimate disappointment. Still, she opened her eyes —to find the giant Viking leaning over her.

She looked blankly into his face, studying his beard and the bulging muscles of his bare shoulders. She wasn't sure this was real; his features seemed to drift through opaque swathes of dream-mist. She was still warmly encased in her sleeping sack. How could she be lying beside him?

She moved her head just enough to see that she was not in her wall cubby. It was early morning in this place. A small window hole in the outer wall was open to the fresh sea air, to the first pale-silver wash of light. The shepherds would be going out. In a moment she would have to wake up and start her weary workday.

She was tired, tired in a deep, dull way that had nothing to do with physical weariness.

Her eyes returned to the Viking and met his eyes. Eyes like the grey water on an overcast day. At last his features coalesced from the morning mists. He was there; she was awake— not in her sleeping sack but wrapped in his quilt —and he was really there above her. She was staring up into his eyes while he rested on his elbow and looked down into hers. She felt a stab like a blade in her heart.

She remembered everything, and guessed the rest — that he'd carried her here to his feathered bed while she was still asleep. Now he meant to rape her. Tired, dazed, she resolved to bear it, to let it happen rather than fight it and be hurt all the more.

Because she found she was determined to somehow live through it.

Because, as she'd discovered belatedly, her love of life remained.

With an effort he could never have fathomed, she looked up at him with level calm eyes and said, "All right, Viking."

"All right?" he said. His face changed. Before, it had held no expression at all that she could discern, but now —what was he thinking? "All right?" he repeated.

She didn't answer; how could she? She wondered if he could hear her heart pounding.

She jerked when a frantic knock started at the door. He rolled away from her and leaned up on his other elbow, so that she was faced with his broad, bare, muscled back and buttocks. He roared something in Norse, in a voice that frightened her.

Inga's voice came back through the thick wooden planks, a spew of Norse like breakers of sea bursting into white blossoms of rocky cliffs.

Edin saw the Viking's back heave with a breath of patience, but his answer was as fierce as before.

"Thoryn!" Inga called, pleadingly.

His answer was two words that even Edin understood:
Leave us!

She sat up, holding to her quilt tightly. He rolled back, swinging his arm around to catch her. She flinched; he was so enormous. For an instant, with his anger still on his face, she perceived his resemblance to his mother, only, as always, he seemed infinitely colder. There was about Inga's mouth a feminine curve that might once have been called sweetness. There was no such thing about his.

"Where do you go, Shieldmaiden?" he asked, in an altogether different voice than the one he'd used to frighten Inga off. He seemed different, relaxed. They were both sitting up. She steadfastly kept her sight lifted above his alarming lap. She needed to hear him speak again. Silent, he was completely alien. She firmed up her shoulders and asked, "What did she say?"

"She called you the doxy of demons and the scourge of men." He seemed to consider her. "Are you?"

He began to toy with her hair. He pulled it out from her quilt, freeing it to flow loosely down her back. Meanwhile, the fine, clear morning light rained over his body. His arm around her pushed her back down into the feather mattress, where he could lean over her once more. "What did you mean when you said a moment ago, 'All right, Viking'?"

Again she refused to answer.

He regarded her for a moment. And then —he smiled. It didn't last long, but the man had a smile like a sunset!

"Come. What does 'all right' mean?"

Her mouth was dry; she needed a drink of water badly. Beneath his gaze, his wide shoulders, his massive chest, she felt completely defenseless. "I have work to do, as your mother knows." Her voice sounded thin and reedy. And never did she think she would yield to the posture of servant so eagerly! She made an attempt to rise.

His arm over her tensed. "Wait —before I let you go-"

Was he going to let her go, then?

" — it means that you won't fight me, doesn't it? You won't answer that, nor can I blame you. Yet it satisfies me that you realize I can take you —now, or an hour from now, or the next time the moon rises full —and that you'll be better off not to resist me."

"Please . . ."

His face grew sterner. He was once again an arrogant giant of a Viking. "'Please,' again?"

"I promise I'll never bring myself to your attention again."

"It's too late for that —if ever it were possible. I've spent this night thinking —oh, yes, and listening to your weeping, as lonely as winter wind — and I've come to the conclusion that I have no choice but to take you as my bed-thrall. You'll come here to me each night — or whenever else I require you, early or late — "

"No." It was wrenched out of her.

" — and you will open your arms and attend me as your master. During the day, you'll perform whatever domestic services are assigned to you, unless I want you-"

"No!"

"Aye. It will be to your benefit as much as mine, because now that my men believe you're no longer a maiden, I can't guarantee that any one of them might not take it into his mind to sample you. Only if I cast my claim over you completely, will they leave you be."

"No!"

His voice sharpened with irritation. "I don't like it when a thrall says no to me. You must not battle against some things in life, Saxon. You can't battle against me, take my word for it. Nothing is more pitiful than to see a brave female struggling against a man twice her size and strength. I've seen it, and it's pathetic."

He paused, mayhap to see if she would make the same mistake-say not to him-yet again. She didn't. His hand went to the quilt. She clutched it tighter. Let go," he said.

The Viking said, "You think I mean to take you now? Fear not. I have things to see to this morning —and I want to take my time with you. For now I just want to examine my plunder. Let go of the quilt."

He sighed when she still refused. "A bargain then. Let me see you, and you have my word I won't take you this morning."

Did he think she would trust him?

"I may be many things, but I'm a man of my own word."

She considered that, and thought it true to the best of her knowledge. She also thought it best not to anger him again. She loosened her hold on the quilt.

Then she let silence gather around her like a secret protector as he folded back one side, and then the other, laying her breasts bare to the cool morning. She felt her nipples tighten. His eyes seemed to devour the sight; but he didn't touch her, not yet. Instead, he opened the quit more, uncovering her belly, her thighs.

Now, his open palm —it was cool and rough with calluses —cupped her waist. His hand slid down the curve of her hips; his thumb stretched to the curls bracketed by her thighs. Then his hand came up quickly to take a breast. The touch was like a cool flame and made her wince.

He gathered the breast, shaping it so it stood up in his hand. She watched his face with mixed anguish and fear, biting her lower lip to keep from crying out at this intimate handling, this manipulation.

The movement of her mouth was not missed. He lowered his head to kiss her. She jerked her head aside.

"Saxon," he said to her, in a gentle and somehow thrilling tone.

Her face was to the wall. He still had her breast.

"Saxon," he repeated softly, without impatience, his voice husky, "a bargain."

His hand left her breast, took her face, and turned it. She glared at him, accusing, "You said you wouldn't!"

"I'm only going to kiss you."

She bore it. Somehow she bore it. His lips were warm and surprisingly soft. And his beard and mustache were fleecy against her cheek and chin. Nonetheless, her hands stole to his chest and pushed at him.

He lifted his head—how slumberous his eyes were now! — and he caught her right wrist. When she tried to free it with her left hand, he also caught that wrist, both in his one huge hand, and he pulled them over her head, pinning them amid the nest of silk cushions there. Then he leaned into her mouth again.

Nothing separated her breasts from his bare chest. His matted hair rubbed her nipples while his mouth nudged her lips open. And then he touched her tongue with his own.

He murmured against her opened mouth, "It's as I expected; you're brimful of sweetness and spirit."

He deepened his next kiss. Though she pulled her tongue far back in her mouth, he tracked it, until her mouth was filled with him. Overwhelmed, she arched to get away — and felt a shock of sensation as her breasts were flattened against his hard, hard chest.

Another shock hit her as he threw his leg over hers and she felt his hot flesh hard against her thigh.

Panic rose. He had her pinned. She should never have trusted him! Just when she was sure of her doom, he lifted his head. His eyes were hooded, his breath a little quicker and heavier. "I want you, Shieldmaiden."

"We have a bargain!"

"Aye, for now. But tonight . . ." He lifted himself up, to bare her breasts to his gaze again. He pondered her, caressing her again. "Tonight there will be no one hammering on my door, and you will be reconciled, having had the day to think through the alternatives." His fingers were toying at the bottom of her belly. "Tonight, I will finger these yellow parsley-curls at my leisure —and when I tire of that, I will have you."

She looked at him; she felt confused by his masculinity. She whispered, "Have I no choice at all?"

"One —to struggle or not. Since I'd prefer not to see any more bruises on you, if you struggle, I might feel it necessary to bind you. Will you make me do that? . . . Ah, you feel you have to consider your response." It seemed he was trying not to smile again. It seemed there was a big smile wanting to break out of him, and then ... it did! She got the impression he wanted to do more, to laugh outright. That he didn't do. But he said, "Well, take the day to make your decision; should you attempt to extend your time beyond that, however, the choice will become mine." She thought he was teasing. Could he be? Did he know what teasing meant?

The amusement she'd glimpsed vanished. His expression went stern and smokey again. "Don't look so solemn and frightened. I want you unafraid —leastways in this bed. Look at me," he said in that low, velvety, unfamiliar voice. He paused, as if he had something hard to say. "I will do you no harm here, Saxon. Surrender yourself to me and I swear you this: I will do you no harm."

He left the bed, unmindful of his nudity. Or was it his plan to make her used to the sight of him? Whatever, he walked boldly to the washstand. Seeing him still aroused, she thought,
He's going to invade my body with that! How can he not hurt me, rend me?

She pulled her quilt back about her and slid to the edge of the bed. She found her clothes still lying where she'd slept last night. He picked up his trousers and stepped into them. She felt somewhat more at ease with his manhood tucked out of sight. Now her eyes caught on the matted blond hair on his chest, an expanse of chest so deep and so broad —surely his weight would crush the breath out of her!

"Get yourself dressed," he said.

She stood in the quilt, pleading in her eyes.

"I've seen you naked, and you've seen me. There is no use in modesty between us."

His eyes were the color of a gentle dusk, which reassured her a little. Still encased in the quilt, she shook the garments in her hand. Bits of rush-straw fell out. She tossed the sacklike dress onto the bed and in jerky, shy movements dropped the quilt and slipped on her undershift, then the dress. Without looking at him, she immediately began a search for her belt.

He went ahead with his own dressing, though she had the feeling he was aware of everything she was doing. Proof came when she raked at her hair with her fingers. He said, "There's a comb," gesturing to the washstand.

She hesitated, then crossed to it. As she began to comb her long hair, swishing it over one shoulder and then over the other, he said, "I'll see that you get some footwear — and better clothing."

"Truly, I don't mind this. It serves me well."

"As protection?"

She was surprised that he would grasp that, and reminded herself never to take him for a fool.

"From now on you'll need no other protection from my shieldmen than my claim. And I intend to speak to my mother. If I see any more bruises on you, I'll . .

She frowned thoughtfully. "You'll what?"

"It would depend on the offense — and on the provocation. If you don't do what you're told, you're welcome to the beating you get. You're still just a thrall."

She made her face go blank.

He finished tying his legging lacings and stood. Stepping past her, he said, "I have to visit the smithy about an anchor, and then see to an ox. Straighten the bed before you leave."

She didn't turn. She heard the door open. From the hall came a
thunk-thunk-thunk
. That was Inga, encased in disapproval, knocking her wooden spoon against the rim of the porridge pot —
Wishing it were me
, Edin thought.

When the sun was well up and the first chores of the day had been seen to, the men filed into the longhall for their breakfast. Edin was kept busy among the iron cauldrons and grills. The other female thralls chittered together as they spooned out parched barley porridge, excluding Edin. Rolf ambled to his place next to Thoryn's high-seat. Thoryn met his gaze with a stony stare, and Rolf was wise enough to lower his head to his meal.

The men were somewhat sobered, sensing that their jarl was not pleased with how they'd goaded him last night. They spoke quietly and looked from the Saxon to him. He said nothing, but simply let the questions and speculations buzz.

The maiden went about her work in an anguished distraction. Inga reprimanded her again and again — for offenses real or imagined —yet her spoon didn't strike, however much she glared with sparks and embers at the girl.

Thoryn ate slowly, forcing the porridge, the cheese, and the herring down. Only an iron will kept his eyes from lingering on the woman. Others conversed in quiet tones, trying not to disturb him or catch his attention. Only Rolf had the nerve to ease closer and ask, "How does the day go?" He was casual, picking his teeth with his knife blade.

Thoryn nodded perfunctorily.

"Something troubling you, friend?"

"Nothing I can't take care of."

Rolf's eyes sprayed enjoyment, waterfailing his pleasure. "The matters you can't take care of are few, Oh Hammer of Dainjerfjord. Just as you took care of that small matter last night."

Thoryn looked at him for a long while. "Soft, friend. You've had your way; now you'd best not remind me of how I was prodded to it. Even Rolf Kali must have a caution now and again."

"Mayhap I'm too stupid to be cautious."

"Mayhap," Thoryn agreed dryly.

But Rolf's curiosity was too irrepressible. "Was your performance magnificent?"

Thoryn made a sound in his throat. "Indeed."

"Ah, to be a brisk lad again. Yet the lass has left you uneasy. Does she weave spells on a man?"

"Spells or curses, I can't decide which."

She'd studiously refused to look at him all through the meal. Her head snapped up now, however, when he suddenly yelled, "Saxon!"

She froze in the middle of pouring a man a cup of buttermilk. Slowly she straightened and turned —still without actually looking at him. She stood there like a small statue, waiting.

The murmur of conversation died away. Thoryn felt himself break out in a sweat. "Well?" he said. "Come to me!

She came slowly, reluctance in her every step, which made more than one man smile and nudge his bench mate. They thought he'd ravished her thoroughly. Ottar, laughing in his throat, murmured to Rolf, "Looks like she can't scamper so fast today."

At last she was before him and stood in the common stillness.

"Put your pitcher down and come sit on my knee."

Now her eyes met his. He had to harden his heart to do this to her.
Was
he spellbound? Or was he as she saw him: a fire-and brimstone-breathing monster, with scales and claws?

"Come!"

She put the buttermilk on the table and stepped up onto the dais of his chair. His hands went to her hips, pulling her in between his legs. "Sit," he urged quietly.

She tried to keep her legs stiff, but his arms conquered her. Her joints gave all at once, and she fell onto his thigh. Immediately his arms gathered her, then his hand lifted her chin. He felt passionate and distant at the same time. When she saw that he meant to kiss her —here, before one and all —she began to struggle.

But it was no use. She mewed as his mouth took hers. The sound was lost in the cheer that went up in the hall. He held her hard, grinding her bones together between his arms and his chest. He knew he was hurting her, yet his purpose demanded it. He wanted there to be no question in any man's mind: He was claiming her as his own.

He wanted
her
to feel his claim as well. He kissed her deeply, holding her in bondage to that fierce, hot delight she'd kindled.

When finally he lifted his head, he caught sight of Inga, pale and stiff, her eyes closed against what was happening. Not letting the maiden go, he said in Norse, "All of you in hearing of my voice behold: This woman is mine —and mine alone! Is it understood?"

The rugged men, with their fair mustaches and beards, shouted as one: "Aye!"

He whispered to her, "Don't look so frightened, Saxon. Dragons are monsters of the dark, and it's full light outside yet. Save your fear for the night." He clutched her to his chest again and kissed her again, burning with a desire that seemed fiercer than any flame.

When he looked up at last, he saw Inga again. A blank shadow had fallen over her face, and he knew she was seeing things again that no one else could see.

Thoryn went out with the others, and Edin was left to try to gather her wits. She ached for someone to confide in. He seemed more dangerous now, more terrible more. . . . She couldn't define her feelings with any degree of precision. But the things he'd done to her! And what he intended to do to her tonight! Every time she thought of his huge, muscular body, his awful, silky voice, she felt a painful fear like a rake of claws through her insides. If only he weren't so horribly unapproachable, so forbidding. She swallowed repeatedly, an involuntary reflex, and her situation ran dark down her throat.

Her mind searched frantically for some way out of this nightmare. There was only one answer forthcoming: Her panicked mind screamed,
Run! Hurry! Get out of here before it's too late!

Inga worked her hard in the kitchen all morning. In the afternoon she was set to shoveling the ashes from the fire pit. Even a second's pause caught Inga's blue-crystal eyes and brought her wrath down. She kept her wooden spoon in her hand, and though she didn't use it, Edin expected to feel it on her shoulder bones constantly.

Her ash buckets were full for the third time. As she started for the door, she saw Inga heading for the dairy. A numbing calm stole over her.

She left the hall. At the midden, she dumped the ashes. Then, apparently casual, she looked about at the quiet bare fields. The only people she saw were the shepherds up on the fell, Arneld among them, and around them the pleasant mill of sheep and goats, the jangle of one or two bells, and the light bark of a dog as it urged a wanderer back into the group. No one was watching her.

She was barefooted, with noting but the clothes on her back, wholly unprepared and unarmed —but what choice did she have? She put the buckets down and walked toward the southern rim of the valley. No one stopped her. Once she was safely over the lip and out of sight of the steading, her urge to flee overpowered every other instinct.

The first hour was the worst, not knowing when her absence would be discovered, wondering what searches would be begun, what punishment would be meted out if she were caught. The jarl was no sleepy dragon; he would come after her himself. Fear of his vengeance jarred her and spurred her on. She thought of the times she'd seen him angry, the leashed violence in his eyes, his awesome, predatory control. What had he said about seeing a woman battle unsuccessfully against a man of twice her size and strength? He was a man who had seen and done all sorts of terrible, grim things. She imagined him following her with silent sureness, the muscles of his iron arms swelling as they reached out, grasped, and closed around her with astounding force, the straps of his neck muscles distending as he felled her and— Her mind would go no farther than that, but with every instinct she possessed, she ran on.