Authors: Catherine Coulter
Ingunn was furious at the woman's insolence. Her hands trembled. “All you do is look at that foolish little girl! You will work, slave, else I will have you whipped!”
At that moment Egill, angry because Lotti had taken the thrown ball not intended for her, bellowed
and threw himself upon the child. Lotti, not hearing him, had no warning, and Egill knocked her flat.
Zarabeth cried out and ran to the children. She lifted Egill and threw him off Lotti. When she turned the child over, she blinked in mute surprise. Lotti was grinning and pointing at Egill.
She shouted in her slurred yet perfectly recognizable way, “Egill! Fun!”
To Zarabeth's further astonishment, Lotti scrambled to her feet, shouting again, “Egill!” at the top of her lungs, and hurled herself at the boy. They went down together, arms and legs tangling, buffeting each other.
The children watched just for a brief moment; then they paired off and four different fights began.
Magnus, through sheer strength, pressed Jon's sword beside his face. “Do you cry âEnough,' little brother?”
“Aye, but only until next time, Magnus!”
The men laughed and sheathed their swords. Then Magnus looked up to see all their audience turned away. And he saw the children wrestling, fighting, yelling, and his first thought was of Lotti. He felt a coldness in his belly. “Quickly!” he called to Jon, and ran toward the children.
To his surprise, there was Lotti, sitting astride Egill, her small hands fisted in his hair, yanking and laughing and bouncing up and down on him. As for his son, Egill was pulling at the little girl, trying to jerk her off him, but Lotti's legs were strong and she wasn't ready to give up her advantage. Magnus realized quickly that the boy was doing his best not to hurt her, and it pleased him. He saw soon enough that Egill was also trying not to laugh.
Magnus saw Zarabeth lean over and grasp Lotti beneath the arms and lift her. Zarabeth was laughing and kissing the child's dirty face. The sound was sweet and magical and it lighted up her face. He swallowed,
turning away. It was the first time she had laughed since . . . No, he wouldn't remember that. It had all been a lie, all of it.
He wanted her. He bided his time all during the long day. He went hunting with his men, taking Egill with them. He watched her throughout the evening, working and serving, and always, she watched Lotti. He wanted to tell her that every adult in the house was aware of every child, but he didn't. She wouldn't believe him. The hours passed, and still he watched her. He had dismissed Cyra, had finally told Ingunn that Zarabeth had worked enough. He saw that his sister wasn't pleased at his interference, but she nodded, saying nothing. Still, he waited. He watched her pick up Lotti and carry her off to bed.
He waited another half-hour. Horkel began a song of Magnus' father, the hero in a sea battle of some twenty winters past, and how he had captured twenty slaves and several casks of gold and silver.
At last, when others were yawning, Magnus rose and bade his good-nights. It took him not long to realize that Zarabeth wasn't in the longhouse. He went to the slave hut. She wasn't there. He found her speaking to one of his guards who sat at his post atop the northern palisade. Magnus felt rage and jealousy flow through him until he realized with pain at his own weakness that the man was Hollvard, an old man, wizened, toothless, and with frailty in his muscles.
He walked quietly to them and stopped.
“Aye, mistress,” Hollvard was saying in his slow precise way, “there be outlaws in the mountains, and so many places for them to hide. Aye, even a man with six other men must take care. 'Tis not always easy, this time or this land.”
“Zarabeth,” Magnus said, and placed his hand on her shoulder. He felt her stiffen, but she made no sound.
“Magnus, I was telling the mistress of our lands and customs.”
“Aye, I heard you.” He gave her a bitter look. “You were telling her it would be stupid for her to try to escape from Malek?”
“Nay, she didn't ask me about that. I was merely telling her of the dangers here.”
“She asked you for a reason, Hollvard, doubt it not.”
Hollvard shook his head, uncertain of his master's mood. Magnus said to Zarabeth, “Come now, 'tis time to go to bed.” She looked up at him for the first time, raising her face for him to see her clearly, and he saw the fear there, the defiance, and it made his belly twist. He said, his voice steady and calm, “Do not look at me that way. Come.”
And he took her hand, nodded good night to Hollvard, and led her toward the longhouse. The night was warm, touched with a sliver of moonlight.
He stopped and pulled her very slowly, very gently, to him. “Look at me, Zarabeth.”
She looked up and he studied her features. Gently he touched his fingertip to her lips, to her jaw, up the bridge of her nose. He smoothed his fingertip over her brows. Then he leaned down and kissed her. Her lips were cold and set tightly together. He fancied he could taste her fear, but he refused to acknowledge it.
He only smiled. “Nay, sweeting. Part your lips for me. You did once, remember?”
He wasn't expecting it, and thus when she wrenched away from him, striking him with her fists, he didn't react quickly enough. She was running from him toward the gates in the palisade.
He started to yell at her, then thought better of it. He could just hear the men telling of how the female
slave escaped him and he was calling after her like a fool.
He covered the ground quickly but she had managed to lift the wooden shaft and fling open the gates. She was through them before he could reach her. Hollvard was staring blank-faced after her. He'd done nothing to stop her. Magnus saw her ahead. She wasn't running down the path to the water, she had turned and was running toward the narrow paths through the barley field. He realized she wanted to make the pine forest. Then she could hide from him.
He caught her just as she reached the first line of trees.
He had no anger at her; indeed, if he had been able, he would have thanked her for coming here, for he fully intended to take her here, under the soft dim moonlight, in the shadow of the pine trees.
“I won't hurt you,” he said, holding her tightly against him. She shook her head, but he grabbed her chin in his fingers and began kissing her. She jerked her face away, breathing hard, and he kissed her ear and her cheek. He grabbed her head and held it between his palms. “Now,” he said. “Now.”
He simply jerked her off the ground, and, cushioning the fall with his own body, came down on the soft ground beside her, her head on his arm. “Zarabeth, I won't hurt you. I am going to take you, and I don't wish you to fight me.”
She looked up at him, looked into the face of the man she had loved, the man she now feared, and said very calmly, “Once you have taken me, will you return to Cyra and your other women? Will you leave me alone then?”
He could only stare at her, fury mixing with pain at her words.
“You do only wish to punish me, do you not? To make me submit to you, to prove you are the stronger,
to prove you are the master? Once you have done that, you will be tired of it, will you not? You will no longer care, and you will leave me alone?”
He said slowly, his voice clear as the night air, “Even if I do not take you every night, you will sleep beside me every night of my life and you will awaken in the morning beside me.”
“Why? I am nothing to you! You hate me, you believe I lied to you, betrayed you. Why?”
He had no answer to that himself. He felt her squirming beneath him and quickly held down her legs with one of his.
He slowly began to pull apart the lacing over her breasts. He didn't look away from her face even as he parted the soft wool. His eyes flickered when his fingers touched her bare flesh, but still he looked at her intently.
She felt his fingers, callused and hard, touching her nipple, and she whimpered. “Do you not like that, Zarabeth? You are so soft, so very soft.”
His palms were rubbing back and forth from one breast to the other, and still he watched her face, watched her every expression. She couldn't make him stop. All she could do was bear it. She withdrew into herself. He saw it. “No, you will stay here, with me, and you will feel me, Zarabeth, you will feel me touching you and I will see your pleasure grow in your eyes. You won't retreat from me, I won't allow it.”
He leaned down then and kissed her. Her lips were slightly parted and he forced them a bit more and his tongue slipped into her mouth. He felt incredible warmth surge through him. Warmth and tenderness, and he didn't fight it. He couldn't fight it. He let it flow through him and build and build. His need for her was great, beyond anything he'd ever known, but he would not savage her. He continued kissing her, not demanding, just giving, wanting her to know that
he would go easily with her, and his hands kneaded and caressed her breasts.
She was holding herself perfectly still. Then his tongue thrust more deeply into her mouth and he felt her shudder, felt the heaving of her breast in his hand.
“Zarabeth,” he said against her open lips. “Feel what I am doing to you.” Everything in her froze in anticipation as his hand pulled apart the lacings and his palm was flat now on her belly, his fingertips touching her pelvic bone and massaging gently. Lower, she knew she wanted his fingers to go lower on her, it was there, those feelings, but she didn't really understand. To her utter humiliation, she moaned. She moaned from pleasure, but more from a need she did not understand but recognized to be there, deep inside her.
He raised his head and smiled down at her. His fingers remained still on her belly. “Again, Zarabeth.” And his hand came down lightly over her woman's mound and his fingers found her.
She stared at him, and there was fear and excitement in her eyes, and growing anticipation, and he was pleased with himself and with her. Slowly, so very slowly this time, he began to caress her with his fingers. She didn't move. He saw the surprise, the embarrassment in her eyes, and said softly, “Nay, this is what a man does to give a woman pleasure. Tell me it pleases you, Zarabeth. Tell me.”
She shook her head even as she whispered, “Aye, but it hurts as well . . . hurts . . .”
He lifted his fingers and felt her suck in her breath. He kissed her as he eased his middle finger inside her. By Odin, she was small, but her passage was moist now, for she was coming to her excitement. He thought to bring her to pleasure before coming into her, but he knew if he didn't come into her now, he would spill his seed. He hurt, and his sex was swelled
and hard and ready. He gritted his teeth, but it didn't help.
He jerked up her gown and pressed her legs apart. Her eyes were no longer vague with growing excitement. There was only fear now, and he smiled, though it hurt him to do so. He positioned himself between her legs, then bent her knees. “Now, hold still. I won't hurt you.” Slowly he guided himself into her. The heat from her body nearly sent him into oblivion, but he held on, held to control, and eased slowly, ever so slowly, into her. She was tight, her muscles squeezing him. He closed his eyes. He felt her fists pounding at his chest, his shoulders, but he didn't stop, couldn't stop.
She was crying. It wasn't supposed to be like this. She was lying there beneath him, letting him do as he wished with her. He was butting her maidenhead now, and the pain was building. He came over her, holding himself still, and gently kissed her cold lips. “Zarabeth, look at me.”
She shook her head, her eyes tightly closed.
H
e didn't move, didn't allow himself to give in to the incredible desire that was prodding at him. He told himself again and again: She is just a woman who is a maid and I am her first man. That is the only pleasure there is from this mating. My possession of her. There can be nothing more.
“Look at me,” he said again, his voice lower and rougher this time.
“No,” she said, infinite pain in her voice.
And he said the words before he could stop himself. “Please, Zarabeth, I want you to look at me when I come fully into you.”
Never in his life had he requested anything from a woman whose body belonged to him. He waited. Slowly she turned her face and opened her eyes.
She moved slightly under his weight, and Magnus groaned with the feelings it brought him.
He pushed forward just a bit and felt her tense. “That is your badge of maidenhood, a bit of skin that I will tear. Just a moment of pain, Zarabeth, then there will be no more.”
“And then you will leave me?”
He smiled painfully, willfully misunderstanding her. “Aye, but I shall try to pleasure you before I do.”
He grasped her wrists in his hands and pulled them above her head. He was stretched his full length on top of her, and he looked at her closely as he pushed
slowly forward. He felt the skin stretch. He felt her trying to pull away from him, her flesh flinching and tightening around him, and he kissed her. “Slowly, sweeting,” he said into her mouth. Then, suddenly, he reared back, and he looked into her eyes as he drove through her maidenhead and came to the mouth of her womb.
She cried out, unable to hold it in, and he covered her mouth with his. “No more,” he said again and again. “Hold still and become used to me.”
“It hurts,” she said, and he felt the wet of her tears on his face. “I didn't think it would hurt like that.”
“I'm sorry for it. I wish I could have spared you that.” But there was no regret in his voice. On the contrary, his voice was filled to brimming with pride and satisfaction, and to Zarabeth's ears, filled with a man's triumph. She lay there silently, feeling him moving deep inside her. It was over now; he'd taken her; he'd won.
The pain was receding but she was still stretched to hold him. When he began to move, she felt the fullness of him, the slick hardness. It didn't matter, she told herself as he moved within her, it didn't matter. He had won, but she wouldn't let it matter. When he was done with her, he would be tired of her and leave her alone. Her maidenhead was gone now and he had been gentle with her, and for that she was grateful, she supposed. She was glad she hadn't fought him more than she had. It would have gained her naught but more pain. She felt nothing now save the stretching and fullness inside her and the revulsion for this man grunting over her, this man who was inside her body, who was doing to her precisely as he wished to do.
She listened to his breathing quicken, deepen. He moaned then, a raw deep sound, drawing back, and then he was pushing into her harder and harder still,
and he was groaning wildly. Suddenly he froze over her, his head thrown back, and he gave a muted yell. She felt the wetness of him and knew that he had filled her with his man's seed.
He grew quiet. She accepted his weight, for she had no choice. She felt incredibly tired, yet oddly relieved that it was over and it hadn't been so horrible after all, this mating, this taking that men did of women's bodies. And he hadn't touched her, not really, not the part of her that was silently and wholly her.
He released her wrists and came up on his elbows to relieve her of his weight. He was still deep inside her, yet she didn't feel so full of him now.
“Did I hurt you again?”
“Aye.” She saw too late that his additional sign of her innocence pleased him, and she wished she had lied.
“But you don't hurt now, do you?”
She shook her head, closing her eyes against the intentness of his gaze, wondering what was in his mind now.
“In a moment I will give you pleasure. I truly wish you hadn't had to suffer me before I could bring you to joy.”
Her eyes flew open. He smiled down at her, enjoying her utterly bewildered expression, her disbelief at his words. He dipped his head down to kiss her.
“You will see.”
Slowly he pulled himself out of her, feeling her flesh stretch more as he did so. But he didn't regret it, no, not ever would he regret taking her and knowing that he was the only man to come into her body. He came up to his knees between her spread thighs. There was blood on her thighs and on his member. He sat back on his heels and stared at her. In the dim night light he could see her clearly; her white thighs, widespread
now, their flesh so soft to his touch that it made his breath hitch, and the vivid red curls that covered her. It drew him, that red hair of hers, and he touched her now, very lightly, just to see his long fingers on her and to know that she was watching him as he looked at her. She drew in her breath and he raised his head. Her breasts drew him now, flesh as white and soft as her belly and thighs. And he thought: She should be lying beneath me as my wife, not my slave. But she wasn't. He remembered that day when he had first seen her and he had known, actually
known,
that he would love her and only her and that she would be generous and warm and his. But she wasn't. He had been wrong in everything, except in the feelings that persisted for her deep inside him. He closed his mind; he would not deal with those myriad feelings, at least not now. He wanted to bring her to pleasure, he wanted to hear her cries when she burst into her climax. He had to have this final dominance over her.
He came down on his side to lie beside her. He looked down at her gown, bunched at her waist, at her belly, at her breasts, pale in the dim night light. He watched his hand caress her belly, watched his fingers find her through the red curls that covered her. When his fingers touched her, he looked into her eyes and saw the beginning of awareness there, of surprise, and of fear. Fear of him? Although he had no intention of hurting her, he supposed he could not blame her. He smiled at her even as his fingers found their rhythm. Her eyes widened with shock, with embarrassment, and she jerked away from him.
She curled up, her back to him, and he saw the shaking of her shoulders.
“Nay,” he said. “Trust me, Zarabeth. Come, let me show you what it is to have a woman's pleasure.”
She curled up more tightly and he felt near-pain in his loins at the sight of her buttocks and long white
legs. He grasped her arm and pulled her onto her back again. “You will do as I tell you. You won't pull away again.”
His words sent her over the edge. “You want to bring me pleasure, yet you play master to my slave with great enjoyment and ease. You want to dominate, Magnus, to subjugate, nothing more.”
He ignored the bitterness in her voice, acknowledged that she spoke the truth, and shook his head. “Hold still. I won't tell you again.” He laid his palm flat on her belly even as he gave her the order. His other hand went down her, finding her, and again his fingers delved deep and sure, and began a movement that was slow, then fast, so light, then deep as the very feelings in her soul. She closed her eyes against the humiliation of it. He was touching her and looking at her face, wanting to see her expression, knowing that she hated this probing of her body, this final seal of his victory over her.
Then, suddenly, there was an answering deep inside her and she froze, not at first understanding. He sensed it and quickly deepened the rhythm of his fingers. “You begin to respond,” he said, and there was pleasure in his voice. He sounded proud of her, as if she were a dog performing tricks he told her to. Then, without warning, the answering changed, intensifying and fanning out as flames under a bellows, exploding into a pleasure so intense, so shattering, that she moaned with it and wanted to die because she had moaned. She was beyond humiliation now, for he was there watching and judging his efforts. She heard her own cries, soft and torn from her throat. The pleasure built inside her. She knew there was more, that there was something beyond the pressure and the fullness that was ever increasing now, and she knew too that she would be alone when it came to her. She never doubted that whatever it was would happen, for he
was controlling her, not sharing with her. He was completely apart from her.
Magnus leaned over her, his warm breath on her cheek, encouraging her, telling her to lift her hips, to move against his fingers, to kiss him, yea, to kiss him and let her tongue touch his. And he watched her, watched her closely, and he saw when she could no longer control it, could no longer hold back from him or from herself. When her pleasure came, he kissed her deeply and took her cries into his mouth, deeper still, into his soul.
“ 'Twas well done of you,” he said when her breathing calmed a bit. “To have a woman cry out with pleasure makes a man feel quite proud of himself.”
She felt desolate. She looked up at him, saying nothing, and saw the anger build in his eyes.
“You had no chance. Aye, you fought against it, Zarabeth, but you had no chance. Admit it now, you enjoyed yourself.”
She shook her head. “It merely happened, that is all, nothing more.”
His mouth was a grim line. “It will happen whenever I wish you to have those feelings. You won't ever pull away from me again, Zarabeth.”
“What will you do?” she asked without interest.
“I don't know,” he said, surprising himself at his immediate honesty with her.
She looked up at him for a very long time. Finally she whispered, “What do you want from me, Magnus?”
The slave collar glittered in the hazy light. He drew a deep breath. “Question me not further, woman. You are disobedient and insolent. Just don't press me, Zarabeth.”
Again she said, “What do you want from me?”
“Come,” he said abruptly as he rose. “What I want is to have you in my bed.”
She stood slowly, starkly aware in that moment of
what had happened between them, for her body was sore and her legs were weak, and there was still a gentle pulsing deep inside her, a reminder of what he'd done to her, of what he'd made her feel. Aye, she felt a softness and a warmth, she couldn't deny it, yet at the same time she wished she could have lain there beside him whilst he had touched her and felt nothing, nothing save her hate for him, which wasn't hate and never had been, but now she felt raw and exposed and helpless and there must be hate for him, for he had brought her to it. She submitted silently as he straightened her clothing, then laced up the front of her gown. He smoothed the skirts on her legs and pushed back her tangled hair from her face. “You no longer look like a maid,” he said, and grinned down at her.
“It matters not,” she said, and shrugged. “I knew you would force me. I also knew that you could not really touch me, only my body. I expect that my body would react thus to any man's touch.”
He had told her not to press him, but she had. She waited, watching the pulse in his throat, saw the tight lock he had on his jaw. His eyes were cold now as he stared down at her, and he seemed to be struggling with himself. Finally he merely took her hand and pulled her with him. He shortened his step to match hers. Neither said another word until they reached the palisade.
All was silent in the longhouse as he led her to his chamber. He still said nothing, just motioned her to remove her clothing. She turned away from him, refusing to let herself care, and slipped out of her clothes and under the wool blanket. He continued silent, merely stripped and came into the bed beside her. He drew her into his arms, ignoring how she stiffened against him. Magnus awoke toward morning and reached for her. She wasn't there. He was
instantly awake. He roared out of bed, paused to gain control of himself, then walked quietly to the children's small chamber. She was there, sleeping soundly, Lotti wrapped against her.
He awoke her with hesitation, but quietly, so as not to awaken the children, and led her back to his bed. He jerked off the linen shift, but didn't stop to look at her. He wanted her too badly, both his anger and his desire blending together. He wanted to punish her and he wanted her to yell again when she reached the pleasure he granted her.
He began kissing her and didn't stop even when he came inside her and she moaned into his mouth, whether from the pain of his entry or from pleasure, he didn't know. Nor did he care at the moment. He rode her hard and quickly took his release. The chamber was dark as a cave, and for that he was thankful. He was afraid that if he saw her face he would hate himself. He knew he would see the emptiness in her eyes, the desolation that ground him down. And he knew, deep down he knew that her moan was from pain. He'd been rough, not preparing her.
He pulled away from her, and without a word, without pause, he came down on her and parted her legs to fit himself between them, and stroked her with his mouth. She fought him, outraged and frightened and disbelieving. But he wouldn't stop. When he felt the tension building in her, he loosened his hold. He smiled, for she no longer fought him. He tasted her and probed her with his tongue and caressed her with his mouth, and he could feel the building tension in her, and when the first cry broke from her mouth, he put his fingers over her and let her scream against them, muting the noise, giving her the freedom to yell her release.