She went to her and said only, her voice low, “We will leave when it is possible. You were right last night, there is nothing for either of us here now.”
Entti only nodded. Mirana knew she understood, for she’d seen Rorik speaking to her. She knew that she now belonged to Hafter, that no choice remained to her.
“Perhaps tonight when all of the men are drinking again. The storm has blown itself out.”
“Aye,” Entti said. She looked at her straightly now. “You must take care, Mirana. I am afraid one of them might try to kill you before tonight.”
“I will get my knife from Rorik’s trunk when his parents leave his sleeping chamber. I will steal one for you, Entti. Also, if you can, set food and water aside for us to take with us. It will be a long journey.”
Entti nodded, wondering where they would go. Certainly not back to Clontarf, for Mirana knew what awaited her there. She didn’t ask. Mirana would decide where they would go, and this time they would succeed.
But an hour later, Rorik came to Mirana and said, “Here is a gown that belongs to Asta. It is now yours. Asta says she and Erna will make new gowns for both you and Entti. Come now to the bathing hut. It is very hot in here and your face is red.”
She didn’t want to go with him. She was afraid that when she was naked and vulnerable, when they were alone, he would kill her. Her heart pounded as she walked beside him. But she’d managed to retrieve her knife after his parents had left the sleeping chamber. It was something; she prayed she would be strong enough to use it.
His father and mother had ignored her completely when they’d emerged from Rorik’s sleeping chamber, and she’d set a slave to serving them. There had been no sign as yet of Sira. Rorik’s brother had left the longhouse not to return as yet.
“You have already bathed,” she said, stepping outside into the bright morning sunlight.
“Aye,” he said, not looking at her.
“There is no need for you to accompany me.”
“There is.”
He would kill her. His family had convinced him that she was as evil as Einar, as untrustworthy, as foul. She didn’t want to die, not by his hand, not now. Nor did she want to leave Hawkfell Island.
But there was no choice for her. She wondered if he would choke her or stick a knife into her heart. She knew, too, that she would protect herself, and that brought her more pain than she wished to consider.
When they were in the outer room of the bathing hut, he told two of his father’s men who were there, naked and still wet from their bath, to get out.
Once alone, he said, “I will help you.” She stood quietly while he unfastened the brooches that held her tunic to her shoulders. She stood quietly when he unfastened her belt and held out his hand for her knife. He said nothing about the knife though he must know that she’d gotten it from his trunk. She looked at his hand, then at her knife. In that moment, she knew she couldn’t strike h
im with that knife. She simply couldn’t do it. She handed him the knife. If he killed her, then so be it.
She stood quietly when he lifted her gown over her head. Only when she was naked, did she move. She cried out, seeing him look at her, no emotion in his clear blue eyes, no hint of how he meant to kill her. She ran into the inner chamber and pressed herself against the far wall. Steam rose and she couldn’t see him clearly.
“Mirana!”
She dropped to her knees, pressing herself even more firmly against the wall, her hair cascading down to cover her face.
“Come here and I will bathe you.”
Bathe her? She frowned. So he wanted her to be clean whilst he killed her? Or was it a ruse?
She rose, pushing back her hair, knowing that if he were lulled, she could slip by him and into the outer chamber. Her knife was there, lying on the bench with her clothing. She would grab both and run. Surely there was someplace to hide on the island.
But he wasn’t lulled. He took her arm as if he weren’t aware of her fear, and stood her in front of him. He dumped a bucket of hot water over her, then began to wash her. She was so stiff, so afraid, that she didn’t at first realize that he was also now naked.
When she did, she nearly doubled over with fear. He would rape her, then kill her.
“Nay,” she said, but he was washing her face and she got soapy water in her mouth.
“Nay what?”
“Don’t rape me first.”
Rorik rubbed his soapy hands over her breasts, then downward to her belly and lower to her soft woman’s flesh. His fingers were light and teasing and when he eased his middle finger, thick with soap, upward and high inside her, she jerked back from him, crying out.