Zarabeth felt Lotti stiffen next to her, afraid at her father’s raised voice. She turned and spoke softly to the little girl. “Nay, sweeting, ’tis nothing to concern you. Here, eat the cabbage, ’tis sweet and tasty.” Zarabeth cut the cabbage into small pieces as she spoke, and handed Lotti a full spoon. When Lotti had eased next to her, chewing slowly and thoughtfully, as was her wont, her attention back on her dinner, Zarabeth turned to her stepfather.
“You are of his kind, Olav, at least your father was.”
“Aye, perhaps, but I’ve lived my life by my wits, not my sword and ax. I don’t raid King Alfred’s shores and kill his people or enslave them.”
“I imagine that you’ve wanted to.”
Olav eyed her closely, but her voice remained bland, her face expressionless. “Perhaps, but that isn’t the point. Tell me, then, that you wish to wait, Zarabeth. You don’t know this man, this Magnus Haraldsson. He could be a raider, he could be as savage as the berserkers.”
She shook her head. “Nay, he isn’t like that.”
“And just what is he like, this Viking of yours you’ve known for two whole days?”
His sarcasm didn’t really touch her. He was worried about her, that was all. But he hadn’t worried about Lotti or her mother, beautiful Mara, whom he’d sworn over and over to Zarabeth and everyone else that he hadn’t killed, beautiful Mara, who nonetheless had been found with her dead lover, her head smashed. Zarabeth shook away the memories. Olav had had the care of her since her mother’s death three years before. He hadn’t berated her overly, but neither had he ever shown any kindness to his own daughter, Lotti. “I’ve told you,” she said now. “He is kind. He would be a good husband. He has said that he will take me trading with him, that we will visit faraway places like Miklagard and Kiev.”
Olav felt rage twisting and roiling in his belly. He saw the Viking covering Zarabeth as a man would a woman, and taking her, and at the same time he saw Zarabeth welcoming him into her body, smiling at him, urging him into her and moaning with the pleasure of it. She had spoken of how kind the Viking was, how good he was. What puke! What she wanted was to have him corrupt her. Olav turned away for a moment until he had gained control again. The expression he presented to her after but a moment was one of gentle concern. He had learned to shield any vigorous emotions he felt from her, for Zarabeth was unpredictable and he didn’t know what she would do if he treated her as he wished to. No, he had come to realize during the last year that she wasn’t a woman of a woman’s expected parts and pieces. She’d grown in different ways, he could sense it, feel it in the way she spoke of things, in the way she freely expressed her opinions around men. She should have been beaten for that, but Olav had been afraid to touch her. She did keep his home, surely, weaving and sewing and cooking and cleaning, doing all those things women were supposed to do. Aye, she did those things, did them well and willingly, but still there was something in her, something wild and as savage as her ancestors in Ireland; something as wild and savage as in that damned Viking.
She would leave him without a backward glance if she wanted to. She didn’t feel the dependence a woman was supposed to feel, even though the world was a capricious place, filled with life one moment and bloody death the next, be it by outlaws, the accursed raiding Vikings, or by nature in a spate of fury. He also guessed she’d leave him if ever he hurt Lotti. He studiously ignored the child as a result, saying nothing to her that would anger Zarabeth. He said finally, chewing on a piece of soft bread, “What if I were to tell you that Magnus Haraldsson is a renegade and nothing more than a barbarian pirate who preys on the traders who ply the Baltic?”
Zarabeth looked at him and smiled. Nothing more; she just smiled.
“Very well, so he isn’t a renegade or a pirate.” Olav poured himself more ale into the beautiful clouded-blue Rhenish glass. “But he could be something worse, Zarabeth.” He sipped it slowly, looking at Zarabeth over the rim to gauge her reaction. There was none, nothing save that superior smile of hers. He had to think, to marshal his arguments. He wouldn’t lose Zarabeth.
“I ask that you make no decision this night or tomorrow. You ar
e not a flighty girl to decide her life in a matter of moments. I ask that you wait, that you spend more time with this man, that you be certain he is what you wish.” He also wanted to demand that she not give her maidenhead to this man, not yet, but he couldn’t find the words.
Zarabeth simply stared at him. She hadn’t expected him to be so reasonable, so caring toward her. She’d prepared herself to do battle. She felt herself warming despite the fact that she knew it was a stupid thing to do. Still, it didn’t matter now. She would be gone from Olav soon enough. “Thank you, Olav,” she said, “thank you. I shall do it. I will make my final decision by the end of the week.”
He nodded, content. That gave him three days to determine what to do to stop this marauding bastard from taking her away from him. At that moment Lotti tipped over her wooden cup, filled to the top with goat’s milk. It splattered on Olav’s fine woolen sleeve before he could jerk his arm away. He felt his face redden with anger at the clumsy little idiot, but he managed to hold his tongue.
Zarabeth patted Lotti’s small hand, then rose. “Let me clean it for you, Olav.” She rubbed his sleeve, but it was likely the milk would stain the fine pale blue wool. He was foolish to wear such finery, she thought as she leaned down, rubbing at the spot, then gently patting it.
Olav stared at her bowed head, at the rich vivid red of her hair and her smooth white flesh, those long slender fingers of hers. Toward the end there, Mara’s flesh hadn’t been as smooth or as soft as Zarabeth’s. In the candlelight, Zarabeth’s red hair was more muted, a deeper autumn-leaf color, and so rich-looking he wanted to bury his face in it. He breathed in the scent of her.
The smell of her was enough to make him hard and ready. To have her so close to him, so close he could hear her breathing, nearly undid him. He looked up to see Lotti staring at him, her small face solemn, her eyes wide and frightened.
The little fool couldn’t understand desire, and he knew that was what she saw on his face. Why was she afraid? He’d never struck her since that time before. Zarabeth nodded her head and straightened.
“There won’t be a stain,” she said, and she blew on the wet wool. He saw her breasts move and he couldn’t bear it. He would take her, he had to, and soon. As soon as the Viking was gone, he would make things clear to her.
He looked over at Lotti and suddenly knew exactly what he would do. Even though he had realized for a long time that Lotti was his only power over Zarabeth, he simply hadn’t really admitted it to himself. But now he did, and now he knew that he would use the child, without hesitation. The time for turning back had come and gone.
There was a knock on the outer door to his shop and Olav pulled away from Zarabeth, jumping to his feet. “I know not who it is, but have more ale ready,” he said over his shoulder, as he walked the length of the room, lifting the thick fur that separated the living quarters from his front shop, and disappeared.
Lotti made a strange sound and Zarabeth whipped about to look at her. The little girl had stuffed her fist in her mouth. Her eyes—a deep golden color—were wide and scared. Her hair was the color of ginger root and wrapped in braids around her small head. Her skin was fair, with a smattering of freckles over her nose.
Zarabeth dropped to her knees beside her sister. She spoke clearly and firmly. “There is nothing to be afraid of, Lotti. Your father won’t ever hurt you, I swear it. You belong to me and I will always take care of you. Do you understand, sweeting?”
The child looked at her, and her look of fear faded. She smiled and patted Zarabeth’s hand. At that moment Zarabeth felt something inside her clench and twist at the look of complete trust on her little sister’s face. No one should accord another such trust and belief, yet Lotti believed in her unconditionally. Zarabeth knew she was but a woman, not trained in weapons to defend either herself or Lotti. Still, it didn’t matter. She would never allow it to matter. She rose slowly, brushing off her gown.
Olav returned to the room, followed by his son, Keith. A man shorter than his father, Keith had dark hair and dark eyes, a sallow complexion, and a thick beard of which he was inordinately proud. He had the habit of stroking his fingers through the coarse strands endlessly. Keith was the image, Olav had always said with just a bit of sarcasm, of his mother. He was well-formed and not unhandsome, despite the slight limp from a broken leg when he had been a boy. There was also a thin scar from his temple to his jaw, but it didn’t disfigure him. He wasn’t stupid, though he hadn’t been able to copy his father’s success as a trader. He had not the talent, but Olav wouldn’t admit it. He was easily manipulated, Olav would say, shaking his head, though he was the one who usually did the manipulating. Aye, poor Keith was easily swayed, by other traders, by the tanner, by the smithy, by the jeweler—the list was endless.
He was twenty-two, married to a woman who pretended subservience in his presence and was a sharp-tongued bitch when he was gone from her. To his credit, he had, for the most part, simply ignored Zarabeth when his father had brought her and Mara back to York, showing neither like nor dislike for her. But it seemed to her that he had somehow changed during the past few months. He came more often to his father’s house, many times without Toki, and she had seen him looking at her while he stroked his beard, pretending to listen to his father’s endless stream of advice. She took care never to be alone with him.
She saw him staring at her now, and nodded, her expression remaining passive.
“Where is your wife?” Olav was asking his son.