Lord of Hawkfell Island (Viking Era 2)

SHE RAISED A very sharp knife, gently touched it to his bare throat, and pressed inward. “It is I who could kill you. Don’t think me unworthy as an enemy. Don’t think me soft and weak, Viking, with a woman’s feeble strength. I could kill you quickly and easily, slice your throat with as little effort as I would a chicken’s.” Men, she thought, they were filled with bravado, even when they lay flat in their own helplessness. She admired him greatly in those moments.

“You’re naught but a girl,” he said, but he didn’t move because the tip of her knife was sharp against his flesh. He felt it prick his skin. “You are worth naught save what you have between your legs and how well you use it.”

The knife tip slid easily into his throat, not too deep, but he felt the sharp sting, felt the hot stickiness of his own blood.

“I think you should keep your tongue behind your teeth, Viking. You push me to anger. It is unwise of you. ’Tis I who have fed you and who bathed the fever from you.”

“You are very young,” he said abruptly, looking up at her. She was very close, the dark green of her eyes clear to him in the dimly lit chamber.

“Not so young. I am eighteen, an age most girls are wedded and suckling their own babes. Since I have no need for a husband, why then, I’m still free.”

“Einar will wed, and when he does you will have naught of anything. He will be pleased to release you to any man who would pay him a large enough bride price.”

She merely smiled and shook her head. “I don’t think so. We will see. Until that time, I am mistress here and free to do as I please.”

“No man wanted you? That is the truth, isn’t it? You with your knife and your ill-fitting pride and your foolish bragging? Or perhaps you are Einar’s whore and he will keep you close until he is bored with your endowments.”

She laughed again and he felt the knife tip ease from his flesh. “You need to measure your words more carefully, Viking, particularly since you are flat on your back. Your tongue is as smooth as the sharp spines on an eel’s back. I cannot believe you have managed to hold to your life this long. You must have a legion of enemies, all clamoring to slit your throat. I could slit it now, and it is wise of you to realize it. Do not be a fool and underestimate me. It is

a mistake many men make, to their grief. Cease your insults. How old are you?”

“I’m twenty-five.” For a moment, he looked surprised that he’d answered her. Then, “I spoke only the truth to you. Your hands are soft as is your voice, but you are blooded with that vile bastard. Aye, you’re no whore, I’ll believe you. I would rather you were his whore; then I could pity you. No, you have his blood in you. You have filth in you. It’s possible I will kill you after I send him to a soulless pit.”

“You may try,” she said, and there was no expression on her pale face, no hint of feeling in her voice.

He frowned. “You have healed me. It was your hands on me with the wet cloth to cool my fever. It was your voice I heard. As you said, it was you who fed me when I barely knew I was alive. Why?”

“I don’t know.” How could she tell him that if she’d done nothing, she wouldn’t have survived it herself. She’d had no choice but to help him, but she couldn’t say that to him.

She saw that he would insult her again, and said quickly, shrugging, “I dislike to see animals suffer.”

She saw the cords in his neck swell with his anger. It made her smile and made the cords swell even more, made his skin flush. “You want me to strike you, lady? You want me to kill you now?”

He felt the damned knife again, caressing the flesh of his neck. He felt a slick of his blood trickle slowly over his throat. Let her feel herself in control, he thought, not moving. Let her feel superior and confident in her foolish bravado. She would learn. He wouldn’t mind being the one to teach her. Ah, but she was Einar’s sister. She was fouled with his blood.

“You won’t kill a mouse unless I give you leave to do it,” she said. “You will lie here and I will tend you unless you would prefer one of Einar’s whores. They are comely, submissive as sheep, for my brother prefers women who have nothing in their heads except flattery for his prowess. They undressed and bathed you. They much enjoyed themselves. I heard them speaking of how finely you were made, how your man’s rod was thick and how it swelled to a wondrous size as they bathed you. I believe they compared you to Einar and deemed you the more appealing. Of course, they are stupid.”

“I have no memory of this,” he said, and frowned. He realized then that he was naked beneath the woolen blanket. “You did not touch me?”

“I bathed you, yes, but not below your waist. I have no interest in you like those other two who slavered even whilst they spoke of you later.”

“No interest in men? Are you indeed a witch?”

“It doesn’t matter. Now you will sleep. My brother returns tomorrow. Then you are his prisoner, no longer mine.”

“I will never be a woman’s prisoner,” he said. She merely shook her head. The knife withdrew from his throat. He watched her pick up the damp cloth, clean the tip of the knife, then wipe his blood from his throat. She was thorough.

“You will pay for that,” he said.

She laughed. She walked quickly to the opening to the chamber then turned. “Your talk is a man’s bluster. It is piteous. You were stupid to come here. I was stupid to keep you alive. Now you will die for your stupidity and for mine.”

He lay there unmoving for many minutes, deep in thought. How many times had she told him that Einar was returning on the morrow? Surely more than was necessary. Surely.

It was dark as a well in the sleeping chamber. He could hear no voices, no noise from the outer hall. It must be very late. He lay there, still and quiet, but his breath was coming in mewling gasps, and he cursed his body for betraying him. He would wait a few more minutes then exercise again. He was hungry, but he knew that he must pretend to sleep or unconsciousness should anyone come in. Especially to her he must appear weak and helpless. Let her gloat. Let her believe him feeble, powerless even against her and her silly little knife. Still, he had a slit in his neck from that knife. He unconsciously touched his fingertips to it. No woman had ever done such a thing to him in his life. Then he smiled, a smile that held both amusement and promise.

After some time, he gritted his teeth and swung his legs over the side of the box bed. Pain sliced through his shoulder, but he withstood it. He had no choice. He cursed softly, then stood. His legs held him. He smiled into the darkness. He walked to the entrance of the sleeping chamber and pulled the bearskin aside. He smelled smoke from the now banked fire pit. He heard men snoring. He heard one man and woman giggling, then he heard her moan in her release.

Suddenly he heard a whisper to his right. He smiled into the darkness. Aslak had not failed him.