Virgin Slave, Barbarian King. Louise Allen

Чтение книги онлайн.

      Through the open doorway Julia could see the bustle of camp life as the sun began to set. Men were beginning to come back to their home fires, children running out to met them, womenfolk standing up from tending their cooking pots to wave, or to exchange a kiss with the big, long-haired warriors. So fierce, so savage looking, and yet, apparently, so domestic. There seemed real affection there. Julia could not recall the last time she had seen her father kiss her mother, other than with a cool salute on the cheek on formal occasions. She shivered.

      ‘Are you cold?’ Wulfric came up close behind her. He moved very quietly for such a big man and she felt her body stiffen as though ready to run.

      ‘No.’ She must not yield to gratitude for his small gestures of thoughtfulness, let them blind her to the full realisation that she was a captive. That way lay fatal weakness. He was like his wolf, domesticated until roused, then a killer.

      ‘Sure? I can find you a cloak, Una would lend one.’

      ‘No.’ She struggled to suppress another shiver. It was not cold, the air still held the heat of a long hot day, yet her whole body felt chilled to the core and she knew, if she relaxed, she would begin to shake. Shock, she supposed, surprised to find herself able to analyse anything.

      ‘Then what is it?’ he said gently. ‘What do you need, Julia?’

      ‘What do you think?’ She spun round, coming toe to toe with him, so close that she had to tip her head back to look up into his face. ‘What do you think I want, that I need?’

      There was a dangerous flare of anger in his eyes as he answered her. He had hoped to soft-talk me, she thought bitterly. He does not like that thrown back in his face.

      ‘To be free,’ Wulfric answered. ‘But you cannot be free now, Julia—you are mine.’ She took two angry steps away from him, ducking out of the tent to stand at the entrance, arms folded tight across her body to stop the shaking.

      Outside some of the nearer tents children were helping their mothers set up trestle tables, some carrying out stacks of pottery vessels, wooden plates, horn beakers and spoons.

      ‘We will eat outside.’ Julia began to turn, to announce loftily that she did not care where they ate, she was not hungry, when she saw that Wulfric was speaking not to her, but to Berig, who was hefting in a box made of planks.

      ‘Badi,’ he said, pausing when he saw her watching. ‘Bed.’ Julia turned a shoulder. Why should she learn their coarse language? She was not going to be here long enough to trouble herself. ‘People will stare,’ he added, picking up Wulfric’s reference to their meal.

      ‘Let them. Here, help me with the trestle, it is too warm to eat inside. They will get used to the sight of her soon enough, sooner if Una can spare her any clothes.’

      Julia felt something contract inside her. Change her clothes for those of a Goth? It was to lose her identity. Even now, looking around, she regretted her plain braid, so like many of the barbarian women. I am not like them, I am Roman, she told herself fiercely. To cease to look like a Roman was another step down the very slippery slope of accepting what Wulfric was trying to make her.

      If she looked like his womenfolk, would Wulfric still look at her with that hot gaze she saw every now and again, simmering behind the cool green eyes? She must seem exotic to him, perhaps that was an attraction and homespuns would be a protection. But the heat of that look was treacherously seductive, even while it scared her.

      ‘Come, Julia, I will show you where the things for eating are.’ It was Berig, very obviously making an effort to be civil. Julia almost told him that she had no intention of eating, let alone setting a table, then turned back meekly and followed him into the tent. The sooner she became familiar with the tent and everything it held, the sooner she would know exactly what resources she had to hand to help her escape. A knife, for a start, to cut the heavy canvas of the tent side.

      ‘Here.’ The lad was lifting platters and bowls down off a makeshift shelf. ‘The spoons and beakers are there, see?’

      ‘I need a knife for eating,’ she said.

      ‘Oh.’ Berig clapped a hand to his side where his eating knife hung from his belt. ‘Yes, of course you do. Let’s see what is in here.’

      So easy. Julia took the knife with an absent air and added it to the pile of things to carry through. Too much to hope for civilised eating couches, fine linen napery and wine in glasses, of course.

      Berig was carrying folding stools through, which answered at least part of that speculation. But as she began to set out the table, Julia found herself wondering at the skill of the wood turner who had produced the platters. Even the earthenware bowls were not unpleasing with their subtle glaze, СКАЧАТЬ