Lord of Hawkfell Island (Viking Era 2)

“I will rape you if you force me to,” he said, his finger tingling from the feel of her, the heat of her body. He wanted her now. “Come here.”

He felt violent; unreasoned rage flowed through him; he could feel the savage heat of his blood. He also felt more uncertainty than he’d ever felt in his life. He felt as though he were dying, not of wounds valiantly gained, but from deep inside him where there was naught but emptiness and pain and regret and guilt. He hadn’t been there to save Inga or his babes. He hadn’t succeeded in killing Einar. Nay, he’d wedded Einar’s sister, a foul creature who’d worked her wiles on him. He had watched her withdraw from him, watched her blank her expression, watched her pull completely apart from him. She’d remained hidden the previous night, leaving him to deal with the uproar she’d caused. It was then he smelled her fear. She deserved the fear.

“Come here,” he said again, and his body was pulsing with lust, his heart was pounding in his chest, and he was near to panting with need. He was on the edge of violence. He wanted her now, and he would have her.

She didn’t move, just stood there, trying to cover herself, shaking her head.

He grabbed her hand and dragged her to the bench against the wall. She was still covered with soap and very slippery. She jerked away from him, but he caught her and slammed her against the wall beside the bench. He pulled her hard against him, forcing her legs to straddle his thighs. He thrust two fingers up into her and felt her flinch with pain. But she didn’t make a sound. He was swelled hard, painfully full, and he didn’t wait. The violence in him erupted. He lifted her, then violently forced her down onto him, impaling her, pushing into her, his hands digging into her hips, until he was touching her womb, and it was easy, this powerful entry of his, and he didn’t hurt her, for she was slick with soap. Then he clasped her to his chest. He worked her, but it wasn’t long, just a few strokes of his sex deep inside her, for his lust was part of his violence and he couldn’t contain either. He yelled his release, feeling his own pain and fury, the grinding helplessness of it, all pouring out of him.

He lifted her off him. He dropped his hands from her hips as if he couldn’t bear to touch her more. He staggered away from her, sat on the bench and leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes. His breath was harsh, deep and raw. He felt the drain in his body, the easing in his mind. But still his heart pounded so fiercely he wondered if he would die. No woman had brought him to such violence before. He hated himself for it, and her, hated her for who she was and what she’d brought him to. There was no fairness in what he had done, but he didn’t care. He was, in these few moments, beyond guilt and thought, emptied of violence and savagery.

Mirana, free of him, stumbled, nearly falling, as she turned to run. She stopped suddenly. She felt his seed on her legs, could still feel the pounding of him so deep inside her. She grabbed more soap and scrubbed him out of her body, scrubbed herself until her flesh was raw. Then she took buckets of hot water and rinsed herself thoroughly. She looked up then to see him staring at her. There was no smile on his mouth, no expression in his eyes, languid now, even dazed. Then he slowly straightened. He would kill her now. He raised his arm, thick with muscle, deadly with strength. She cried out and raced out of the inner chamber.

Rorik didn’t move for a very long time.

The afternoon was warm, the sun bright overhead, the storm but a memory now. Mirana sat outside the longhouse, in the shade of the overhead beams. She looked to see Tora, Rorik’s mother, walking toward her. She was a tall woman, hair so blond it shone nearly white beneath the bright afternoon sun. She was deep-bosomed, her face once lovely, but now there were bitter lines scarring the flesh about her eyes and mouth. She looked hard and unforgiving.

Tora’s shoulders were squared, her step firm, her lips thin in their meager line. Mirana drew herself up, knowing that she was to be attacked, but knowing too there was nothing she could do about it. She set down the gown she was stitching. It was a pale blue wool and she thought the material beautiful, a present from Old Alna, who’d been hoarding it for herself for more years than she could count.

Mirana stared at Tora, wishing she could make her believe she wished her or her family no harm, wishing she could convince her that she was innocent of her brother’s crimes. She opened her mouth, but Tora forestalled her. The woman stood in front of her, blocking out the sun.

“I have come to warn you,” she said, nothing more, just those few stark words.

Mirana merely nodded.

“Sira will kill you, very soon now. I cannot stop her.”

“You warn me so that I will leave?”

“Aye. Leave. Now. If you die, my son will feel but more guilt. He is innocent of any evil. He is a good man and I don’t want him hurt more or beguiled by a woman with no honor.”

Mirana looked away from Tora, out over the water, which was a glittering blue-green under the bright sun, and calm, for there was little wind today. For an instant she smiled, for there were pinwheels spinning and diving over the water. “Do you now believe that I didn’t trick Rorik into wedding with me?”

“Of that crime, you are innocent. Rorik said that you came to him a virgin, and that on the night of your wedding. No, you are not a slut, more’s the pity. Sira still refuses to believe it. Leave, Mirana, else she will kill you. Or you will kill her because you must save yourself. To kill her would destroy Rorik. He has known her all her life, has known that she loves him and wanted to wed him, but he wed you and thus he hurt her badly. It would force him to seek but more vengeance were you to kill her. Stop it, Mirana. Leave now.”

“Very well.”

The woman looked stunned. “You agree?” she said, uncertainty and surprise in her voice.

“I want no more pain for Rorik. He doesn’t deserve it.”

“No he doesn’t.”

Then there was a shadow behind Mirana and she turned, afraid it was Sira, a knife raised, but it was Merrik, Rorik’s brother. He was broad-shouldered and tall, and would become as large as Rorik when he gained his full man years. He was hard, no warmth in his eyes, no giving in his mouth.

“Don’t accept her lies, Mother,” he said, so much rage in his voice that Mirana knew in that moment that his family would never change, that there would never be any hope for her, for Rorik.

“She will leave, Merrik. She has agreed to.”

Merrik looked around quickly, then said, “I’m pleased that Rorik isn’t here. I don’t know what he would do if he heard she was willing to go. But I don’t trust her, Mother. She probably lies. She will go to Rorik and plead and cast her woman’s spells over him and make him forget what he owes to Inga, to his dead babes, to us.”

“What does he owe to them, Merrik?” Mirana said, her voice low, steady.

“He owes them vengeance!”

“I agree. But why do you think I am deserving of punishment as well?”

“You will be quiet, you damned slut! You have torn my brother apart with your lies and your promises and your false understanding.”