Lord of Hawkfell Island (Viking Era 2)

He shrugged. “None know, even Einar. He pretends it is your beauty and your purity, but there is no belief when he says it. Once he even tried to convince me it was because he was your half-brother that the king wanted you.”

“Since it is a fact, I suppose there is no reason why we must understand it as well. There is really little hope, is there?”

“I will think of something,” Gunleik said. He glanced down at the whistle from one of his men. “It is Ivar. We must go.” He paused a moment, then added, his voice low, “Do not give up, Mirana.”

28

SIRA WAS STRADDLING Lella, her breasts smothering him as she stretched forward to jerk and twist his wrists above his head. He was throwing himself upward, arching madly, striking her back with his knees. She slapped him hard, but befor

e he realized he was free, she’d grasped his wrists again, then dipped down and bit his cheek.

He shrieked. She bit him again, on his other cheek. The boy stopped struggling. He was whimpering.

“Ah, at last you will be quiet, you wretched little fool. Don’t dare try to hit me again else I’ll rip your pullet’s throat out.”

Sira looked up to silence. There was Mirana staring at her, Gunleik at her side. Einar was there also, and he was smiling, stroking his long fingers over his chin, watching, saying nothing, merely watching. For how long?

“There is blood on your lips,” Einar said to Sira.

“I know, and it is a foul taste, for it comes from this little savage.”

“Is that what you are, Lella?” Einar said, coming down to his haunches to stare at the boy whose eyes were overflowing with tears. “Are you in truth a little savage?”

The boy looked up at his master, his lover, and his tears streaked down his face, running in crooked rivulets over the bloody bites on his cheeks. “She marked me,” he whispered. “She has ruined my beauty.”

“Get off Lella,” Einar said to Sira. He offered her his hand and pulled her to her feet. “Now, tell me what brought this to pass.”

Lella started to open his mouth, but Einar shook his head, and turned to Sira. “Tell me.”

“This smug little bitch told me she would kill me if I tried to seduce you to my bed. I told her, my lord, that I wasn’t a whore like she was, that I am a virgin, that I am a cousin to Harald Fairhair, the king of Norway. I told her I wouldn’t willingly seek your bed until you married me.”

There was utter silence following Sira’s words. Every eye was on Einar, waiting for his reaction. Would he whip the new slave right now, his eyes darkening to near black when she screamed from the bite of the oil-soaked leather strips? Or would he shove his knife into her breast and watch as she bled to death?

Einar looked at Sira, at her hair—ah, that beautiful hair, thick and long and almost silver—now disheveled and spilling wildly down her back and over her shoulders. He looked at the passion in her pale blue eyes, at her full mouth, open now for she was panting from her exertions, and her heavy breasts, pushing against her gown that Lella had ripped. He saw the line between her breasts. There would be bruises soon on her white throat, for Lella had gotten a few good hits before Sira had beaten him. He knew Lella was strong; it pleased him that this new slave was stronger, that she hadn’t hesitated to retaliate, and viciously. By the gods, she’d bitten Lella on his cheek twice, and he was bleeding, and there was blood on her mouth, and she had as yet made no move to wipe it away. He didn’t disbelieve her for an instant—oh aye, she was a virgin and she was kin to the king of Norway. How odd that she would also be kin to Rorik Haraldsson, a stupid man whose honor would one day most likely kill him.

Lella had scrambled away and now stood on Einar’s other side, waiting for his master to turn to him, waiting for his master to strike the new slave. But he wanted to be the one to kill her, perhaps beat her until she was pleading with him to stop, but he wouldn’t, oh no, he surely wouldn’t. There wasn’t much blood on his cheeks, but the bitch had actually bitten him. He knew a bolt of fear that seared deep in his belly, for Einar was still holding himself silent, that intense look again on his face. Lella feared that look, for it went beyond what should be in Einar’s mind, it went deeper, into that puzzling blackness. He saw Mirana standing back, Gunleik at her side. She was paler than her white flesh; he saw the revulsion clear in her eyes. He hated her more in that moment than he feared and hated Sira. He plucked at Einar’s tunic.

“My lord,” he said, his voice soft, so very soft, just the timbre he used when he was bringing Einar to his release, encouraging him with all the words that old Dublin merchant had taught him. Einar didn’t say anything nor did he turn to Lella to reassure him, to kiss him perhaps, as he’d done many times in front of his people, warriors as well. He hadn’t kissed him since Mirana had returned, but he would, he had to, and he had to do it now. He had to prove that he loved his Lella still, Mirana watching, that bitch Sira watching.

“My lord,” he said again.

Einar turned to him and gently caressed his chin with his fingers. “Take off your clothes, Lella.”

He jerked back as if Einar had struck him.

“You heard me. Remove your clothes this instant or I will beat you witless.”

Lella quickly pulled off the tunic, the gown, the soft shift beneath. He stood naked, head down, his rich golden hair thankfully hiding his face. He was humiliated and defeated. He couldn’t bear all their eyes on him, all their sneers.

Sira stared at the boy. Then she looked at Einar, her head cocked to the side, and then she laughed, a deep rich laugh that rang out, filling the longhouse. She gasped on her laughter, then stopped when Einar took her arms and shook her.

“Ah, my lord, this bit of offal thinks you want him?” She laughed again, the blood smearing on her mouth, and Einar said nothing now, merely waited.

“He does believe that,” Einar said finally.

“He is wrong. I am the one who will hold you, my lord.” She smiled at Einar, then rose on her toes and kissed him full on his mouth, and he tasted the sweet coppery taste of Lella’s blood. He didn’t move.

Lella shrieked and threw himself on Sira’s back. His hands were around her throat and he was squeezing with all his strength. Einar calmly turned and nodded to one of his men, a huge man with grizzled red hair, Malle by name, a man who hated the little pederast. He grabbed Lella by his neck and lifted him off Sira. Malle held him in the air, dangling, his face turning red then washing to blue as his air was cut off, then he grinned, shook Lella once more, and said, “What do you want done with the little beggar, my lord?”