Obviously he’d say that. Anything to knock her into her place. With the meat mallet at that. When in fact he should be so fortunate as to get to look.
Well, maybe his eyes were silvered with disdain, but he didn’t fool her. Not in the slightest. Of course he was going to look. Men always looked. So the Strictly girls said anyway.
The thing was in some ways, she was one of these girls and she would rather swallow a shark than act perturbed. “Fine.”
He made a twirling gesture. “Then go on.”
Lifting her chin—doing her best to anyway—she turned round. How her hands managed to yank the tunic clean over her head was a feat of enterprise that ranked with the day she founded Strictly. Perhaps if she did this he wouldn’t ask for any more?
Actually, the door was there, right in front of her, lit by a solitary candle stub flickering in a blackened aperture between the bricks. Suppose she ran for it? And in this ridiculous maelstrom she found herself in, what if Cyril was on the other side? London was on the other side? And, even if they weren’t, the signal it would be to Snotra, to him, that she’d die rather than be his bed slave was worth risking everything for. If she got a nice job ploughing fields, or looking after the pigs, that would be all right, wouldn’t it?
She cleared her throat. The trick was to choose her moment. “Is this to your satisfaction?”
“Well, that depends.”
She was clutching the tunic fit to tear it. The best thing was to put it on the floor, then she could consider bolting to the door. “What on?”
“Malice, I may not be the kind of man to put a thrall’s collar around your neck.”
A what?
“But I don’t want you thinking of escaping.”
Oh really? She would see about that.
“You give me grief, you’ll be beaten. Then, of course, there’s the fact I can kill you if I want. Or any of my family, or friends, can. They would have to pay me recompense of course. There’s a lot of them about in the yard right now. A lot of them about in all the neighbouring homesteads too. So . . .”
How nice of him to tell her. Was that why he’d let her face the door, the only way out of here since she couldn’t detect a window, to spell out his mastery of her? Why she heard him take a step towards her?
“The rest of the clothes, Malice.”
Her heart tightened in her chest. She undid the top button on her bodice. “But—but of course.”
After all, her only her option was to tell him the truth. Was that an option really? Suppose this particular boot was on his foot and he’d sailed up the Thames on the Raven? Well?
Some women might like it. He was very handsome, after all. The fact remained that if he started pillaging the ballrooms, the chances were he’d be arrested, then he’d be incarcerated. He might not be stoned, or threatened, or hung, but people were vicious to things they didn’t understand. If she told the truth she would be branded a witch, or worse.
She straightened. She’d unpeeled the bodice, she might as well toss it on the floor. Get this over with now. “There.”
At least she still had her corset and her drawers, although standing in them, in the silence of this hot place, still sent shivers spiralling up her spine. Down them too. As for her legs? They felt like paper. Blotting paper. Soaking up every shred of alarm. How could she stand on them? Especially when his footfall sounded right beside her.
“What the Freya fingered hell is that?” Naturally he didn’t just bend, he grabbed her bodice. “Some kind of . . . hair shirt?”
Her semi-best bodice? All right, not exactly. All right so that dress, or rather what now remained of it, wasn’t exactly a favourite. Excuse her all the same, for being so tasteless as to wear a shimmering blue satin thing edged with black lace, instead of one of Madam Faro’s best, but must he hold it at arm’s length, by his fingertips, peering at it this way and that in the dim light, as if he’d never seen the likes?
Actually he probably hadn’t. As she’d already seen her clothes differed significantly from the Saxon women’s rags, tatters and sack cloth. Perhaps this was her chance? She moistened her lower lip.
“I was not a sister.”
“Really?”
“No. I am from London. A very good family. A rich family.” Speaking was an ordeal, given what thudded along her veins in that second. Still it was an ordeal she would sooner swallow a shark and its fossilized Aunt Sally, than fail to endure. “One who would be certain to pay you a king’s ransom for me if you could see it in your way to take me back to that convent.”
“Really?”
She nodded, determined to hide her irritation and shock at his surprise that anyone would pay anything for her. Hadn’t he paid? “Yes. You being a raiding man should surely understand the value of my suggestion.” Out the corner of her eye she was aware his gaze flicked her, flicked so it wasn’t just her veins that thudded. Flicked, so she’d never felt more obliged in her entire life to say, “Why would I lie? To you of all people? Well?”
“Hmm? You tell me, Malice?” The bodice flumped to the floor. Very deliberately too. A sort of discarded toss from his fingers. Right in front of her. He tore his sword belt over his shoulder and any hope that he was going to keep standing at her side vanished when he stepped beside the bodice. “You’re worth more to me here.”
She must be, because that belt was followed by the one fastened around his waist. His tunic, the indistinctive brown one landed on the floor. What was obviously some kind of undershirt of mail clinked on top of it. The leather wristbands, held together by fine laces, were next.
Malice found it difficult to stop her jaw from dropping. She had frequently imagined what the male body looked like. She had on occasion fantasized about how it was to be with it too. On these occasions she had treated herself to a new pair of shoes.
It did not seem possible she was about to find out, that the answers to all her questions were on hand. Here. Now. That he was going to do this. End her need for shoes. Whether she agreed to it or not. Because she hardly had a choice in the matter, did she? Was it any wonder her heart flumped worse than her bodice just had? Her mind reeled?
Her stupefied gaze ran over his shoulders. Despite everything, she was forced to admit her imagination had fallen short somewhat on how a man’s body should look. His handsome face was one thing, this . . . fascinating mixture of tanned skin, of flat, rippled abdomen, of shaped biceps, destroyed her ability to breathe. Bending down he gathered up her tunic and bodice. “The rest.” His voice was quite hurried, certainly more rushed than usual. “Hurry up.”
What?
“I won’t look if that’s what’s troubling you.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.”
Somehow Malice’s fingers located the tiny hook fastenings at the front of the corset, although the thought flashed that looking was surely part of the deal. Was he more of a gentleman than she’d thought? She was still drinking in her astonishment when he stepped past her. She paused mid unhook.
He held out his hand. “Have you done yet?”
She inched her way down the hooks, her cold, faintly iced skin beneath her fingertips. Skin, she’d never been more aware of, or the tiny droplets of perspiration beading her forehead. Why hadn’t she thought to wear a chemise? She’d reached the end of the row of hooks. Taking a deep breath she edged her arms free, keeping her fingers curled over the front of her breasts. “I . . .”
“There’s a cloth on the edge of the pool over there, if you want to cover yourself.”
Cloth? Pool? She jerked her gaze around. So there was down a small set of stone steps. In fact there were several perfectly innocuous pieces of folded white linen, dotted around a circle of stones. This was some kind of bath house. She’d just been a bit too taken up to notice the steaming pool of translucent azure water, the torch
es flaming at irregular intervals in the wall sconces opposite either, two of them spilling their light on the steps. Her eyes widened. He was being really considerate, wasn’t he? For a Viking? Much more considerate than Cyril. Perhaps, he didn’t intend to bed her? And he meant what he said about not looking?
“Then you can take off these trouser things and get in the pool.”
“Yes.” She edged a foot down the step. She would sooner go up the step but that wasn’t an option.
“It should be warm enough.”
How could it be cold when the place was steamed, so steamed, perspiration trickled between her shoulder blades? But a rush of cold air bathed her breasts as she reached for the towel. Was it because she was only wearing her drawers? Or . . . because somehow the door had creaked open, letting sunlight shaft across the floor?
“Snotra, I thought I told you . . .”
Snotra? Please don’t tell her the woman couldn’t wait a moment to tear out Malice’s eyes, just as she’d pulled her drawers down too. She tugged the towel tighter around herself. He had told her to get in the pool but that might be asking for a drowning if Snotra marched in here.
“Yes you did, Sinarr, but I just wondered if you . . .”
“I know what you wondered and you’re not coming in here.”
Well, thank God for that, although Snotra’s voice was contrite, nothing like earlier. Actually, now shock had stopped raking Malice’s scalp, she realized Snotra hadn’t barged in here. He’d opened the door to her, as if he knew she was who was standing there, had tried to barge inside a second ago.
“Of course. I understand that. I just thought you might need these clothes for her, Sinarr.”
“Clothes?”
“Yes.”
Actually, the little gulp, the tiny tear of breath . . . Snotra was more than contrite. Hadn’t she ever seen his bare chest before?
“I mean . . . I mean . . . I just thought—”
Obviously Snotra hadn’t. Any more than he hadn’t the faintest idea what the sight of it did to a woman.
“Clothes? Well, that’s good of you, Snotra.”
“I would not have it said I hadn’t come to see sense. About you. About her.”
Sense? Oh, this was a worm around, wasn’t it?
“I meant it was good of you to come by. It saves me sending these away with Gentle.”
These? Was that why the bastard wanted Malice’s clothes, so the fact he had them, or rather she didn’t, could be rubbed beneath Snotra’s nose?
“Are you in that pool yet, sweeting?”
What? Sweeting? Malice almost dropped the towel. Was he speaking to her? In tones that dripped honeyed sweetness too? Of course he was. While she did not like to judge men as a rule she couldn’t help feeling the absolute arrogance of this one, left a great deal to be desired. She would have liked to tell him so, but she hesitated to bandy words with a half- naked man. Especially one with the betrothed from hell.
One who’d just swung his gaze around. Oh God. Then back. Then back again. One whose open stare nearly made her drop the towel down around her ankles. “I—”
“I need you to get my back. After I’ve washed yours.”
When she was stark naked beneath the towel, he dared say these things to her? And what was worse, there was no saying what he might need her to get next, what she might get too, if he stepped naked into this pool—that body of his that was already on display was bad enough. What was wrong with her?
No. Much as she’d sooner swallow Noah along with the ark, this was her chance to get in the pool, grab a bath and then get out again, while he talked to Snotra. Only a fool would fail to take that chance. Did he think she didn’t see exactly what a cheap trick this was?
“Of course, Drottin.”
Holding her breath, she edged her toes into the steaming blue cloud at her feet. Very odd. But not unpleasant. In fact, now she set her foot down so the water lapped around her knee, it was warmer than the copper tub at home. She wrinkled her nose. What was more, she did smell. She smelt like mouse droppings. She could keep the towel sort of wrapped around her.
In all probability Snotra would have her eyeballs on skewers for this but sooner her eyeballs on skewers than he plunked himself down in here with her. She grabbed what appeared to be the soap. At least it was small, square-shaped and smelt . . . Chestnutty. It smelt chestnutty. Not so nice as Madam Fantooshka’s exotic Shades of Violet, her Water of Pearl, but for a Viking dump like this was, heady all the same. And it lathered up nicely on her hands. Smelt even nicer when it had. Imagine? She hadn’t thought the Vikings as advanced as this. But she wanted to wash her face with this.
“Sinarr . . .”
“Sorry, Snotra?”
“Sinarr, will you stop looking at her?”
What? Malice nearly toppled over. Pitched head first into whatever the hell this water was. My God, he wasn’t, was he? She really didn’t want to lift her head and see, but what swept up from her toes, chilling her skin and causing her heart to skip beats, was too strong.
No. Snotra was right. Oh, the bastard wasn’t just a bastard, he was an accomplished one, wasn’t he? Why, anyone would have forgiven him for thinking he didn’t want to look but he just couldn’t help himself.
“Sinarr!”
“Hmm . . . Sorry, you were saying?” Even the way he leaned his hand on the doorjamb, so his shadow lengthened across the hard packed floor, showed a certain difficulty in pulling himself together.
“I am who you should look at. Who should be in there with you.”
“I know that, Snotra but when we’re not married, that would be unseemly. Do you really want people talking about you more than they do already?”
“You are who they will be talking of. Bringing trolls into our house. To put in our bath.”
“My bath, sweeting, which reminds me I was going to say if you see Mother Bede about, can you tell her I don’t need her?”
“Mother Bede? You also wanted Mother Bede? Sinarr . . . I . . . I . . .”
“What was it you said just now about clothes, Snotra? You mean you don’t need these?”
“Sinarr, this is - -.” A huge sigh and then, “This . . .”
Snotra was getting angry, wasn’t she? Not that Malice blamed her. Except that Snotra whether angry, or getting that way, was not something to encourage here. Not when this was her chance to step further into this pool. To immerse more than her knees. To slip the towel off and soap as much of herself as she could, water splashing as she rubbed under her arms and between her breasts. To scoop water over her hair. Luxurious warm water, bubbling from some kind of underground spring. Water that trickled down her face taking her breath away. Water she didn’t mind tasting on her lips. Heavenly water she sank into that made her feel clean.
It did, didn’t it? And while she didn’t want Snotra’s clothes, it would be better than her own quite disgusting ones. The ones she heard him shaking out.
“On second thoughts, the kind of things Malice wears, I don’t know she’d want these.”
“Not want? Sinarr, she’s a slave.”
“Maybe so but I don’t know I’d want to see her in them either. Have you seen this? What Saxon women are wearing these days?”
No, Snotra hadn’t. At least she didn’t claw his face because she hadn’t. At least the toes she stubbed on whatever stones she kicked all the way across the yard, were her own. At least she didn’t rage in here and kick Malice.
My God. She was alone here, covered in no more than soap suds.
With him coming towards her.
Odin’s beard, he hadn’t just seen the likes so seldom, the hairs on his forearms stood up, he’d never seen the likes. Snotra in a dudgeon, this woman in what was almost a dudgeon, were nothing to one fact. He hadn’t just been playf
ul there—since Snotra first refused him and maybe even before that, playfulness was another country, a world away from where he stood now—he’d enjoyed being playful, like the boy he used to be. He couldn’t be playful. Could he? Not when concerns sat like leaden weights on his shoulders. Odin’s breath, he didn’t want this woman getting wind of the fact he was playing games with Snotra because he was desperate and using it to her advantage.
“Drottin, I—“
He threw the clothes into the corner where spiders probably scuttled and dust lay like blow weeds on the floor. All the time he kept his gaze hardened, focussed, immune to the woman who jerked her head up and held the water around her wet, naked breasts, with her soapy hands, as if it was a towel.
“I said I was hardly going to look at you and I’m not. Very much . . . I mean, not now anyway.”
And hopefully, not very much, in the future either, if she was going to look like this. His gaze hardened? Who was he kidding? Just when he finally had Snotra where he wanted her—at a cost to himself that could be counted in the loss of twenty raids—his gaze wasn’t the only thing that had hardened. If he’d thought her clothes were strange, he wasn’t prepared for this. He’d chosen this ivory-skinned goddess to be his bed slave. Was he mad? The fact was Snotra couldn’t have chosen worse looking clothes if she’d tried. She could wear them if she chose, he didn’t want this exotic woman in them. At least he hadn’t then.
He bent down, turning his back. “In fact if you’ve washed you can come out of there.”
Before I do something really stupid, I will only regret.
“Yes, Drottin.” She swept a shining tendril of hair back from her lips. “If you would just be so kind as to pass me my clothes?”
No. He most definitely wouldn’t. Not when that bodice did things to him. Imagine her wearing that and nothing else. His body certainly did. His heart slammed worse pounded worse than Thor’s hammer against his ribcage.
THE VIKING AND THE COURTESAN Page 9