Hearts Aflame Page 8

  Kristen had mixed feelings about Lord Royce. She had seen little of him this past week, and when she did chance to see him, she had avoided looking directly at him. But she could not forget her first sight of him either. He had looked like a young god riding into the yard so straight and proud on that powerful steed, so self-assured, so in command of himself and all those around him. Boldly he had come up to sixteen hostile men who were huge and powerfully built themselves, and let them see his loathing for them.

  There was no fear in the man. Again today Lord Royce had shoved his way through the Vikings to snatch Kristen from their protection. The men did not know what to make of the way he approached them without weapon in hand.

  Ohthere thought he was a fool to be so careless. Thorolf thought he tempted them purposely, that he begged for an excuse to slay them. Kristen favored Thorolf's opinion, for she remembered the look in his eyes that first day, and his cold, merciless order to have them killed.

  She had feared him because of that. But Kristen couldn't stop herself from admiring him, too. She had always enjoyed watching strong, well-proportioned male bodies. Just that last night of the feast at home, her mother had caught her staring overlong at Dane, Perrin and Janie's younger son, as he arm-wrestled, and Brenna had teased her by asking if she was sure no one there would do for a husband. A strong, handsome body was a feast for the eyes, and her mother had taught her not to be ashamed that she thought so. And the Saxon lord had not only a superb body but a very handsome face as well.

  Aye, to be truthful, she enjoyed looking at him. But she did not want him looking at her with the same appreciation. With the hate he bore her and the others, it could not be a pleasant experience, being made love to by him. As long as he did not want her, she would be safe, even though she was now separated from the others. Her goals were still the same. She would work and keep a low profile until the opportunity for escape came. Only now, the question was at hand: How would he see her as a woman?

  The women had scrubbed her with a vengeance, no doubt intentionally, rubbing her practically raw. She bore it only because she wanted to cause no more trouble with them that might bring the Saxon back. The clothes they gave her were laughable. They had nothing to fit her tall frame, even with hems lowered. She might be slim in proportion to her height, but compared with them, she was large. The sleeves of the white chainse they gave her were too tight to fit over her wrists. An argument ensued on whether to cut the sleeves and lace them for now, or to go ahead and sew in an insert. Kristen solved the problem by ripping the sleeves away. Her own summer gowns at home were sleeveless, and she would have been too hot with the sleeves anyway. No one approved of this, but they were as loath to argue with her as she was with them. They did not want more of the lord's displeasure either.

  The chainse, which was supposed to hide a woman's feet, fell far short of Kristen's ankles. And the gray gown they gave her to wear over the chainse came only to her knees. But at least it was sleeveless, too, and was split up the sides so that she could shape it as she liked with the rope girdle they gave her. She chose to wear the rope loosely, even though it let the gown fall away from her sides, revealing the form-fitting chainse, which was much too tight. Since she was not going to be able to hide her figure no matter what she did, this style at least distracted a little from her curves.

  They took away her boots, giving her a pair of soft-soled house shoes, which would have been fine, except that they meant to put the shackles back on her, and the shoes did not cover her ankles. She was not going to wear that iron against her bare skin again without a fight, and she told them so. The older one, Eda, chose wisely to let a higher authority decide, and simply carried the shackles with her as she and two others escorted Kristen upstairs.

  Though she could not say why exactly, Kristen was nervous now that she knew she would be seeing Lord Royce again. She did not think he would approve of her in any way, yet there was still that tiny possibility that he might, now that she was washed and groomed. He was seated next to a small table honing a long, double-edged sword when Eda pushed Kristen into the room. Without explaining why Kristen was not wearing the irons, she simply placed them on the table and left, closing the door behind her and leaving Kristen standing in the middle of the room.

  It was a large, uncluttered chamber. Besides the low post bed off to the left of the door and the large coffer at the foot of it, there was the small table with four chairs around it in the center of the room. Directly opposite the door, another coffer with a lock on it sat between two opened windows like a bench. There was another, larger window on the other side of the bed that looked out over the front yard. There were no tapestries to brighten the room, or rugs on the floor, but the wall on Kristen's right was hung with an assortment of weapons.

  She had yet to look directly at him, though she could feel his eyes on her. She waited for him to speak, but long moments dragged by and he did not. She had perused everything in the room and had nowhere else to look. She was not in the habit of meekly casting her eyes down at the floor. She had only done so outside because Thorolf had warned her that her eyes were too long-lashed for a boy's and she should not draw attention to them. She started at his boots, moving slowly up his body until their eyes locked. Now she could not look away even if she wanted to. She saw no hate. Surprise was what she found. "Who are you?" The question seemed torn from him in bewilderment. What could he have been thinking to be so confused? "What exactly do you want to know?" she countered. "My name is Kristen, but I think you would seek more than that." The way he stood up and moved toward her made her think he hadn't heard a word she said. His expression was still more surprised than anything, though there was something else there now that she couldn't quite define. He didn't stop until mere inches separated them, and then his fingers rose to trace the expanse of one creamy cheek. "You hid it well, this beauty." Warily Kristen stepped back. "You said I was no temptation." "That was before." She groaned inwardly. Aye, that was desire lighting the green depths of his eyes as they moved over her face and then down the length of her. She didn't fool herself that she might be able to match her strength to his. Not his. He wore a long-sleeved tunic today, and the muscles that she remembered bulged against the thin linen of it. He could crush her with his large hands. He could have her lying beneath him in a matter of moments. And there was no one in this whole land who could stop him from having her, for she was his enemy, defeated, and he could do what he wanted with her. "You will not find it easy to rape me," Kristen said in a soft, warning tone. "Rape you?" He changed before her eyes, dark fury etching the lines of his face now. "I would not demean myself to rape a Viking whore!" Kristen had never in her life been so insulted. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him so, but she stopped herself as logic began to analyze his words. He had spoken with such disgust. And it was not so farfetched that he should think her a whore. It could be one explanation for her sailing with an all-male crew. He had returned to his seat and would not look at her again. He seemed to be grappling with his anger, to bring it under control. She wondered briefly what had caused him to hate Vikings so, for she did not think for a moment that it was herself in particular that he hated, but her people as a whole. "Would you have such scruples if I were a Viking maid?" She had to know." "would be a fitting justice were I to have a Viking maid at my mercy. I would take pleasure in dealing with you as your men deal with Saxon women." "We have never been to your shores before." "Others like you have!" he bit out caustically. So that was it. Vikings had raided this place before. Kristen wondered whom he had lost to make him so bitter that he would not touch a whore used first by those he hated, but would spend his own hate on an innocent virgin simply because she was a Viking woman. God's teeth! That he thought her a whore was going to keep her a maiden!

  Kristen nearly laughed aloud as that realization came to her. It was incredible. But if this was the only means she had to protect herself, then she would make use of it. Only how did a whore behave? "You wanted to ques
tion me?" she reminded him, feeling much more herself now that her main worry was put to rest. "Yea. What do you know of the Danes?" "They like this land of yours?" she offered, then couldn't help grinning when he frowned at her impertinence at forming the remark as a question. "You think it amusing?" he demanded sharply. "Nay, I am sorry," she said contritely, although she was still grinning to belie the point. "It's just that I do not see what you think I might know of them. We come from a different land. The only Danes I have ever met were merchants like—like many of my people are." She would have to be more careful. If she had told him her father was a merchant, then he would have wondered why she found it necessary to whore. Better he not know her parents lived, or that she had any family at all. His thoughts were running along the same vein, making her aware that he was still thinking of her personally. "Why would a woman with your looks sell her favors so cheaply?" "Does it really matter why?" "I suppose not," he replied rather curtly, then fell silent for the moment. It was telling, what he thought of her, to keep her standing while he sat, with three empty chairs around him. She had worked all morning, been whipped in the afternoon, undergone a grueling bath that was very much like torture, and now was being made to stand here and go through this interrogation. Mischief-making Loki must be laughing at her troubles. Well, she could still laugh at them, too, and the devil could take standing any longer. She sat down cross-legged on the floor and watched his expression darken again. "By God, wench, have you no manners at all?" "Me?" she gasped. "And where are your manners to keep me standing while you sit?" "Mayhap you do not realize it yet, but your status here is lower than the lowest serf." "So this lowest serf can sit, but I cannot? Is that what you want me to understand? I am so reviled that I cannot even expect the commonest courtesies?" "Aye, you have it right!" Such a stubborn, querulous answer! What had she expected? Apologies to a prisoner? "Very well, Saxon." She confounded him by laughing and pushing herself back to her feet. "Never let it be said that a Norsewoman cannot endure." Her acquiescence only seemed to arouse his fury more. He shot to his feet, took a step toward her, then stopped himself, spun back around, and stood there at the table, apparently fighting for control again. What would he have done to her if he had not stopped?

  Her brows knitted in confusion. What had she done to make him so angry? She had complied. Wasn't that what he wanted? Or was she supposed to fight instead? Did he not want her subjugation to be so easy? Aye, mayhap he wanted some reason to punish her, to use her as an outlet for his hate, and she was not giving it to him by being so agreeable. Kristen could not have been more wrong. Royce had been in a quandary ever since she was pushed into his room. He had felt an instant attraction to her, and it was so at odds with what he should have felt that he was totally bemused. She did disgust him. He did hate her and her kind. Yet when he looked at her, his first impulse was to touch her. And when he did, he found her skin as smooth and soft as it looked.

  She was too lovely to be real, and Royce was furious with himself that he could desire her, even for a few moments, and worse, that he had let her see that he did. Belittling her was more for his benefit than hers. He had to remind himself what she was. She would sell her body to any man for a price. She had no doubt lain with every man on their ship. She was a Viking whore. No woman could repel him more.

  But she didn't repel him, and that was his problem. She should have been meek and frightened. Any other woman would be in her position. She should have been cowering before his anger and crying for mercy. He could have scorned her then. But she baffled him instead, giving him flippant answers and then grinning when it angered him. Laughing when he degraded her.

  How could he fight this powerful attraction when she kept surprising him with the unexpected? "Mayhap I should leave." Royce swung around, pinning her with an angry glare. "You will not leave this hall, wench." "I only meant your presence, since mine seems to raise your ire so."

  "Tis not you," he assured her, the lie slipping easily from his tongue. "But, yea, you may go. Only you will put these on first." He picked up the shackles from the table and tossed them to her. Reflexly, Kristen caught them instead of letting them drop to the floor. The chain wrapped around her wrist, and one iron band slapped against her forearm, causing her to wince. In her hands the iron became a weapon, but she didn't see it thus. She looked at the shackles with loathing. "You would still make me wear these?" He nodded curtly. "Aye, so you know your position has only changed, not improved." She met his gaze levelly as a flicker of contempt crossed her features. "I did not think 'twas otherwise." She lowered her arm to let the chain unwind slowly and fall by her feet. "You will have to put them on me." "Just snap them on, wench," he ordered impatiently, misunderstanding her refusal. "Do it yourself, Saxon," she retorted sharply. "I will never willingly restrict my own freedom." His eyes narrowed at her temerity. His impulse was to crush her defiance immediately, before it broadened. But he suspected it would take more of a beating than he was willing to give to make her back down. He stalked over to her and swiped up the shackles, then bent down on his knees to carelessly snap them on. Kristen stood motionless and let him, staring down at his bent head, the thick brown hair within a hand's reach of her. It was really too bad they were fated to be enemies. She would have liked meeting this man under different circumstances.

  He glanced up at her. Mistaking the cause of the wistfulness reflected in her eyes, he was suddenly mindful of what he had done to her. "Where axe the boots you had?" "The old woman, Eda, said they were inappropriate for inside the hall." "Then you will have to put cloth beneath these bands to keep the skin from rubbing raw." "What difference, milord? 'Tis only my skin, and I am lower than the lowest serf." He frowned as he stood up. "'Tis not my wish to mistreat you, Kristen." That he remembered her name surprised her. She had thought he hadn't even heard her when she said it, since he had called her "wench" ever since. But his earlier words were riding her hard now that she was shackled again, when she had so hoped he would not actually do it. "Oh, so I at least merit the same care you would give your animals?" He understood that she was smarting from his previous remark, but he would not change what he had said, or feel guilty over it. "Aye, the same care. No more, no less." She nodded curtly, not letting him see how wretched his words made her feel. She turned to go, but he caught her arm, his hand sliding down to her wrist when she did not stop immediately. Crazily, she noted how warm his touch was. And he did not release her wrist until I several moments had passed after she looked back at him. "Since you cannot sleep in the hall with the other I servants without a guard to watch you, you will be given a chamber to yourself that can be locked. With the lock, there is no reason—" He paused, frowning, then finished abruptly: "You do not have to sleep with the chain on. I will give the key to Eda to remove it each night." Kristen did not thank him. She could see he regretted the impulse that had prompted him to concede her that much. She gave him her back instead, leaving the room with as much pride as her slow, hobbling gait would allow.

  She deserved this. She deserved all of it for defying her parents and rushing thoughtlessly into this tragic adventure. She felt so helpless of a sudden, so alone, separated from the others. Selig would have known what to do if he were here. He would have given her hope before she was taken into the hall. But Selig was dead. Oh, God, Selig!

  She gave into her grief now that she didn't have to hide it any longer. She did it quietly, alone, collapsing where she stood, halfway between Royce's chamber and the stairs.

  Tears coursed down her cheeks, a luxury her pride would allow only this once. A portion of her grief was for herself.

  Chapter Thirteen

  .Even from her position in the far corner of the hall in the cooking area, Kristen could see the four large carts leaving the yard through the open doors at the other end of the hall. Two of the carts contained the prisoners, another carried their guards, and the last was empty. All four carts would carry back loads of the big stones from the old ruins where they were going. If not for a qu
irk of fate that had made the Saxon lord think she was their leader, Kristen would be going with them today.

  And today might be the day they would escape. There were only nine guards for sixteen men. Something could happen, the chance they needed, and then they would be gone from here. And she would be left behind to suffer the consequences.

  She had told them not to worry about her, that the Saxon lord would not kill her. She had said he was angry because he had whipped a woman. But what else could she say to force them to think of themselves first? To say that it was just as likely that he was angry because he had made a fool of himself in thinking she was their leader would make some of them hesitate to leave her behind. And with her separated from them, they would lose their chance if they tried to free her to take with them. They had to go without her.

  Kristen was feeling rather sorry for herself as she watched the gates close on her friends. She had spent a wretched night in a dismal little room on a hard pallet. She should have been delighted, since it was such an improvement over the cold ground, but she was miserable instead, and lonely. Hardship was much easier to bear when shared.

  Not that she had such hard labor to do now. She had never minded helping to run the household at home. In fact, when the worst storms came in the winter, the servants were not expected to venture from their warm quarters by the stables. Kristen and her mother did the cooking and the cleaning for their family. Well, more Kristen than her mother, because her mother had never liked what she called "women's work." Brenna would laugh and wink, and swear she used to think she was a boy. But Kristen didn't mind "women's work." It was the sharp, terse orders that she minded at Wyndhurst, given by servants who looked down on her. "Does it hurt very much?" Kristen glanced to the side to see a little girl now sitting at the end of the long table she had helped to set up for the morning meal. The child was at least six feet away from the table where Kristen was forming pastry crusts for the strawberry tarts to be served later. She had a pretty little face, all clean and pink, and two neat braids of dark brown hanging over small shoulders. Large green eyes met Kristen's, so she assumed the question had been directed at her. "Does what hurt?" "Your ankle. Tis bleeding." Kristen looked down at her ankles. Sure enough, blood was dripping into the shoe on her left foot. She was annoyed with herself, for it was a thoroughly stupid thing for her to have done, to stubbornly refuse to put cloth under the iron bands this morn. A childish thing, done with the express hope that she might make a certain Saxon lord feel a small measure of guilt when he saw that her skin was wearing away from his cursed shackles. Whom did she hurt but herself? He certainly wouldn't care, for they were his shackles, after all.