The Viking's Forbidden Love-Slave. Michelle Willingham

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СКАЧАТЬ taking his eyes from her. His gaze was discerning, as though he were trying to measure her worth.

      "You will be a gift to King Magnus," he said at last. "He has returned to Erin."

      A gift? Her lips tightened at the thought. "And what makes you think he would want another slave?"

      He reached out and took a length of her dark hair, running his fingers through it. Gooseflesh raised upon her neck, her heart hammering.

      "You would not be another ambatt," he said. "A woman such as yourself has more value than that. If you are fortunate, you might warm his bed."

      Words of outrage tempted her lips. I am not that sort of woman, she wanted to shout. But that was what she'd become, wasn't it? Her freedom was gone, stolen away.

      She rubbed her raw wrists, trying to will sensation back into the numbness. The warrior stood before her, and she longed to cut him down for what he'd done. And for what he was about to do.

      "What will you receive in exchange?" she demanded. "Gold? Thirty pieces of silver?"

      His expression chilled. "You should be grateful for your life."

      "Why me? Why not some other woman?" Inside, she wanted to scream. Nervous energy roiled within her skin, trying to claw its way free.

      Tharand shrugged. "You are of noble Irish blood, and that will make you suitable to serve his needs."

      Serve his needs? Aisling gritted her teeth. Not very likely. She wasn't about to stand meekly aside and let herself suffer such a fate.

      But the winter season made an escape even more complicated. She would need shelter, as well as a horse and supplies. She couldn't simply run, not without careful planning.

      Aisling rubbed her wrists again, trying to relieve the pain. Her jaw ached, the skin swelling up. But the discomfort was not only physical. Her imagination had run wild with thoughts of what this raider would do to her. Though he had not forced himself upon her yet, perhaps he was biding his time.

      She needed a weapon. The gleam of steel against the back wall of the dwelling caught her eye.

      "Eat," Tharand interrupted, handing her a wooden bowl. His large frame blocked her line of sight, making her scramble backwards upon the bed.

      At the sight of the salted fish, her stomach rebelled. "No, thank you."

      "I won't have you starving yourself." The command was lined with steel. He dropped the bowl in front of her and folded his arms across his chest. Against her will, she found herself staring at the tattooed runes that seemed to writhe against his skin.

      "It isn't that." She held her breath against the offensive odor. "It's that I don't care for fish. Or anything from the sea."

      And right now, the idea of eating made her stomach twist. She was long past hunger, hardly remembering the last time she had eaten.

      "Prisoners should be grateful for any food at all."

      She drew her knees up, holding them against her chest. "If it's all the same to you, I'd rather go hungry." The soft wool of her overdress had absorbed the heat of the fire, and she tried to keep as much of her body covered as possible.

      Tharand's expression held disbelief. He took the bowl away, frowning as though he didn't know what to make of her refusal.

      She buried her face in her knees, breathing deeply to calm her racing heart. Where were his servants and slaves? His family? She was accustomed to the busy noises of people working, of animals penned outside, and the conversation of family.

      But here, there was no one. It made her uneasy.

      At last, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and tried to stand up. For the first time, she realized Tharand had taken her shoes. The cold ground chilled the soles of her bare feet before her knees buckled. He crossed the room to steady her. The touch permeated her skin, burning embarrassment into her face.

      "I won't stay here." She shoved away from him and strode toward the door, wondering if Tharand would try to stop her. This was her life. Her freedom. She wouldn't cast that away without a fight.

      He sat down upon the bed, seemingly unconcerned. "There is nowhere for you to run."

      The room swayed, and she held onto the door to regain her footing. Defiantly, she opened it, unprepared for the freezing air. The lack of outer clothing imprisoned her as surely as ropes. Her hands and body shook, even as she tried to rub her arms for warmth.

      "You're letting in the cold." Tharand's warning sounded irritated.

      Her response was to walk outside, letting the door slam in his face. Outside, the winter air lashed against her léine, soft flurries of snow drifting. She gritted her teeth against the icy frost beneath her bare feet.

      Although her brain railed at her for venturing out in such weather, this was, perhaps, her only chance to see the Lochlannach settlement.

      Rectangular-shaped thatched houses were set within quadrants. Four homes framed a small, shared courtyard. The two-storey buildings were larger than the circular stone huts she was used to. Each of these dwellings could house two families with no lack of space.

      A stone wall surrounded a ditch that was perhaps eight meters wide. It made her angry to see their defenses.

      Thieving raiders. How dare they live in such luxury, when she and her family had to fight for their own survival? She'd watched them burn her home, the fire searing her possessions into ashes. The desire for vengeance took root within her, gathering strength.

      Outside one of the homes, a young boy picked up a handful of wet snow and aimed the ball at one of his friends. His face was rounded and healthy, a child who had never known hunger like their tribe had endured. Unlike her younger brother.

      Egan. Her heart bled at the memory of the Lochlannach slavers dragging him away. She clenched her fist, remembering his thin face and her eldest brother Kieran, who had gone to try and save him. Were they even alive?

      The anger returned, suffocating her with its intensity. She flexed her fingers, wishing she had a blade to wield. Somehow, she had to leave this place. Gazing around the stone palisade, the longphort seemed impenetrable.

      The door behind her suddenly opened, and she whirled around, half-expecting her captor to drag her back inside. Instead, Tharand drew his cloak around himself, sending her a glance as if daring her to leave.

      She couldn't. Not without warm clothing, a horse and supplies. None of which she was likely to gain without help.

      The warmth of the house beckoned to her as the winter's ice froze her feet. With reluctance, Aisling took a step toward her captor's longhouse. He knew full well that she could go nowhere.

      Tharand strode past the young boy playing in the snow. Terror transformed the child's face, and he dropped the snowball, skittering inside his home.

      The warrior continued walking, as though he hadn't noticed the child's fear. Beneath her false courage, Aisling wondered if she had reason to be afraid.

      Killer. Cursed son of Odin.

      They СКАЧАТЬ