“And what will you do about it, you slut?”
Zarabeth tried to fling herself off the horse at Ingunn. Orm was taken by surprise and nearly missed grabbing her in time. She was flushed and breathing hard with fury, he realized, not with fear. “Hold still, else I will strike you again!”
“My little sister is—”
“Was, Zarabeth, was! She’s dead!”
“As dead as Egill! Do you mock him, Ingunn?”
Ingunn hissed breath out. “Say you nothing about Egill. He was a fine boy, he was Magnus’ heir, not a pathetic little slave with no blood ties to him, to any of us—”
Again Zarabeth tried to pull free of Orm and fling herself upon Ingunn. Orm held her. He watched, his expression mocking, as Ingunn pulled her mare some distance away.
“A slave shouldn’t have such passions,” he said, his breath warm against Zarabeth’s cheek, and he wrapped a thick tress of her hair round and round his hand until he was pulling her head back against his chest. “Now, you will be silent. We have some way to go yet before we make camp.”
Ingunn kept her distance.
Orm called a halt for the night when they reached a small copse of pine trees hidden from view near the base of a snow-covered mountain. “In another day or so we will reach the Oslo Fjord and my vessel, the Wild Tern.”
Zarabeth was desperate to know where he intended to sail, but she kept her mouth shut. She realized, dispassionately, that she was afraid of him and that she had to tread warily around him. She couldn’t begin to imagine what he would do, how he would react, from one moment to the next. She was told to gather firewood. The man Kol stayed with her, doing nothing himself, merely watching her. He was dark, his face pockmarked, and he was so silent, even when he moved, that she found herself continually looking over her shoulder to see where he was. He didn’t try to touch her, merely watched her with that silent look of his until she wanted to scream.
She didn’t realize how hungry she was until Orm handed her a charred piece of roasted rabbit. It was delicious, even the black burned flakes. She wanted more.
He held a piece just out of her reach. “What will you give me for another piece?”
His voice was soft and teasing, not at all the voice of a vicious killer. He stood over her, his legs parted, and he waved the piece of rabbit in her face.
“I have nothing to give you.”
“Perhaps not,” he said, and to her surprise, he handed her the other piece. Her stomach settled and she felt waves of tiredness hit her then. She was asleep within minutes.
Orm stood over her. She’d quietly fallen to her side, her legs drawn up, and her cheek was pillowed on her palm.
He picked up a blanket and covered her with it. He looked up to see Ingunn staring at him.
“Come, Ingunn,” he said, and rose, stretching out his hand to her.
Her cheeks flushed, for he’d spoken in a normal tone of voice, and both Kol and Bein looked up. Both of them knew what he intended. She felt shame at his blatant use of her body, and she was not yet his wife. Still, what else could she do? She had come to him, trusting him, and if she stopped trusting him, why, she would have nothing.
She rose, pretending to adjust the skirt of her gown, pretending that they were going for a walk, perhaps to discuss their future together.
She heard one of the men snigger. It was Bein, and she hated him for the way he looked at her and the way he spit when he looked away.
“How would you like me to take you, Ingunn?”
“They are listening! Say not such things!”
Orm laughed, and in sight of his two men, in the sight of the other woman, who was a pathetic creature, he pulled her against him and kissed her soundly. Then he pushed her back, still holding her with one arm, and let his fingers trail over her throat downward until his palms were brushing across her breasts.
She cried out in mortification, and he laughed, releasing her. She ran from the camp, knowing that he would follow, knowing that he would not even lower her to a soft blanket, but push her against a tree and jerk up her gown. It was how he punished her. He had done it several times now when he thought her unwomanly in her speech to him.
He pushed her against a tree this time as well, and she was crying silently during the long minutes when he was grunting against her. When he was finished with her, she pulled down her gown and wished she was dead. “You must bathe, Ingunn, your sweet woman’s scent is gone. I like my smell on you, but not the sweat of the horse.”
She nodded, walking away from him, saying nothing, for there was nothing more to say.
She fell asleep finally, only to awaken when he pressed against her back. “Hush,” he said, and kissed her ear. “Forgive me, Ingun
n. I hurt you and it angers me that I did so. I will make it up to you now.”