Sin was in no hurry to marry Snotra, so Malice put her off him. In that way she cemented her position. Simple really. For the time being anyway. As yet Malice was unsure about the advantages to Snotra in the ceremony being delayed. But the light had shone. It had shone as it had not shone for weeks. To keep them apart meant she could stay here, the sole object of her existence, until she found an escape.
After all, she might as well stop kidding herself he was never going to want Malice.
So what she did was sit here quietly in the warmth of the fire, doing her best to look pained. All in all, that bit of it was not difficult. The rest though? Since Sin Gudrunsson was off doing whatever he did in the mornings, pillaging a few neighbouring fiords, what he wouldn’t hear, would hardly harm him.
“Yes.” She bit her lip. “He threatened to whip me too.”
“Malice, I cannot believe—” The stool went over as Snotra paced to the far end of the darkened floor. “No. It cannot . . . I cannot . . . He did that? Good Gna.”
Who was this Gna exactly? Whoever he was, when shoes were now unimportant, how could Gna be?
“If ‘e did, it’s no more than you deserve,” Gentle muttered, slopping even more ale into Malice’s already brimming cup.
Malice kept her gaze fastened on the scratched table top. Of course, since ‘deserve’ had nothing to do with this, the cart-horse would have to side with Snotra. Was there also horse-spit in the jug of ale? The disgusting mush she’d heaped onto the plate she said was cabbage and turnip, that smelt of anything but cabbage and turnip?
Cooked for the sisters? Had Malice ever told such lies?
Maybe.
She just wasn’t going to roll about the floor in a quarrel about it. Not here. Not now. She edged her gaze sideways. “Don’t tell me it was you on the ladder yesterday?”
At least, she was sort of not going to quarrel about it.
“No. It were ‘er. ‘Er bossyship.” Gentle spat unobtrusively in her bossyship’s direction. “Jeez, though. Are you tellin’ me he—”
“I’m telling you different.”
“Whot?”
“That he’s never touched me at all.”
How could she help but stare so she felt that her eyes bored holes in the table top? This had nothing to do with Gentle. How the woman quietly spat after people, then sloshed ale into their cups, and everything to do with how Gentle kept going regardless. It was a book to take a leaf from, or Malice would fail to whisper. “So if you have any tips to impart?”
“Malice.”
By Freya, or whatever goddess Snotra worshipped, she had to interrupt. “Of course this is bondage. You are a slave. But, I can look forward to being tied up and whipped? Is that what you are saying? Because, good Gna, I . . . I could not bear to be mistreated.”
“The definition of someone who don’t.” Gentle reached across the table for an empty cup. “But beats the bejesus out of everyone else.”
How true. Still the highway was a bitter place, especially when you did not mean to walk it. Malice could not afford to get this wrong, not when Snotra’s interruption was so fortuitous. She tilted her chin, endeavouring to look modest. “I am but a bed slave. To do with what he likes. Being his wife, you might find him different.”
“Being his . . . I do not think I wish to be his wife. No. No. Not if he should take a stick to me. Malice, you cannot mean this. All these years I have known Sinarr, he has never once shown the desire to take a stick to me.”
“’e must have been alone in that.” Gentle set the cup down on the table.
“To . . . to anyone.”
Yesterday Snotra couldn’t wait to hear what he was like in bed. Now she did. Her face was so stark Malice expected to see her sink to the earthen floor. “No. I cannot believe it. I will not believe it. You’re lying.”
Obviously. Sweat dampened Malice’s palms. Snotra packing her things and Snotra sweeping about the floor apropos of a broom, saving Gentle the trouble might please Gentle. Unless Malice offered Sin Gudrunsson solace, showed, loving woman that she was, that she was as good as the next on a dark night, it was not going to please Sin. It was all the more reason to tread with gossamer shoes, even if their threads might fail to stick to her soles. Or fall a little thin.
Fall a little thin? When—forget the fact he could come back in here at any time—she might be put out of here and never get home? Lying? When she had lain awake all last night planning this?
Malice’s breath tightened in her lungs. Lying? She raised her chin, lowered her eyelashes. “Perhaps.”
“I knew it! I know the trouble you are trying to cause.” The chair, the one that stood immediately between her and Malice, careered across the floor. Snotra’s feet thundered towards her. And Malice had thought Gentle was heavy on hers? “You—”
“I meant, perhaps that is why he wants me as his bed slave.”
“Giving me such nonsense. Bed slave? That is not why he—”
Not that Malice had much hair left to tear but she thought the time had come to raise her chin. “So he can act out these urges. Beat me. Tie me up.”
Snotra’s feet ground to a halt. “You think so?”
It wasn’t whether Malice thought so, was it? It was whether Snotra did. Whether Malice had said enough to convince her. If that was why Snotra’s face, her shoulders, even her soft cream dress sagged.
“Absolutely.” Malice nodded. She had the advantage after all. She might as well press it. In some ways this woman was as desperate to secure her position as Malice. “Didn’t you know? Men are like that.”
“Like what?”
“That. Even ones you think you know can hide the darkest secrets. I would not press him about the wedding.”
“The—”
How the realization dawned. So long as the sun also set on it before Sin Gudrunsson came back in here? It gave Malice all the more reason to say.
“Unless you want to share these secrets?”
Snotra swallowed. She swallowed several times. “No. Of course not.”
“I would give him, give me, time to examine all his urges.”
“Yes.”
“And, of course report on them to you.”
The nod? The nod was so definite, even Gentle’s jaw dropped in admiration. In many ways this was a foregone conclusion. After all, where could Snotra go when she had no home and an arthritic father to support?
Provided Malice could continue to walk this fine line, she might become mistress of this situation, for the first time since landing in that convent. There was however one more thing.
“Only he mustn’t know, because if he does, then not only is there no saying what he might do to both of us, I’m not going to see his true colours, now am I?”
Moaning betrotheds did not trouble him as a rule but how Thor-toed fine was this, rolling home from a noggin, or two of ale—all right, three—at Ari’s house to find Snotra gagged by the fire? All right not gagged exactly. Snotra was not exactly the sort you would gag. Feel like it? Yes. Do it though? No. Wasn’t she his betrothed?
That she sat like a mouse was more than he’d hoped for and a peace he had not felt in weeks, becalmed his veins. His body too, which was why the first few steps of the ladder presented such a problem, it took three tries to find the bottom rung. And five, the one after, with all the dignity he could muster of course, first glancing over his shoulder to make sure he was not observed.
Did Odin give blessings? Not just a word about weddings, not a word about the fact he was drunk either. That was like sweet rain falling on his parched lips. Like turning his face upwards and feeling the sun kiss it. Like . . . things he was too befuddled to care about right now, so long as he got up the dragon-breathed ladder.
The main thing? Snotra silenced. What more could a man des
ire? Whatever Troll’s Teeth had said to her about him . . . well, he could kiss Troll’s Teeth for it. Of course he wasn’t really going to. For one thing he was drunk. For another he would have to like Troll’s Teeth for that. Although these lips of hers . . . They were succulent weren’t they?
Reaching the top of the ladder, he did his best not to plummet to the floor beneath. Thor’s hammer, his goat driven chariot too, had he really got her that green material from Skankpants the weaver? A damn fine bargain it was if he had. And not just the cloth.
As she looked up from the stool wedged beneath the eaves, where she sat, working quietly away with some piece of cloth between her fingers, she was a bargain. Enough to make him furrow his brows, his heart give this clatter, his throat tighten. With her hair combed so it lay like silk on her head—instead of sticking everywhere—shone like it too in the flickering candlelight, he had to ask, who was this woman?
“Good evening, Drottin.”
It was, wasn’t it? The voice, silky as her hair, the look of complete subservience. What more could a man want? Except to lie down. Four noggins was a lot. Or was it five? However many it was, that look of subservience wasn’t quite right somehow. He couldn’t rid himself of the feeling that this scene of calm domesticity, though nice, was staged. He’d telegraphed his coming and she’d leapt onto that stool before he was half way up the ladder. Bed was the best place for him until the effects of the ale wore off.
He swaggered across the floor and sat down. The mattress sank. Snotra needed to hear a noise, the ones being made by his ‘slave’ weren’t exactly satisfactory, so he kicked off his boots. Then he tore off his tunic. Breeches though? Breeches were staying on. Did this woman think he didn’t note that appraising glint? Read the starving thoughts on her face? At least he thought there were starving thoughts on her face. He had had quite a bit to drink –all right six noggins – so he wasn’t in a position to say for sure. Just that six noggins was sufficient to make a man stare back, just as hungrily. Crease his lips a little. Tilt his jaw. Flicker his eyes over her.
It wasn’t as if he was going to do anything about it. That would be cheating. Although the thought of doing something about it, easing his hands beneath that green dress to see what was underneath? Maybe even do more than see? Maybe even get the dress off for example? That thought made his palms sweat. He’d chosen this strange beauty for a bed slave? Was he out of his mind?
Did she guess? Yesterday when she’d reached around him for the door handle, she’d made more than his palms sweat. Her breasts had brushed him and . . . it was lust, wasn’t it?
“It’s very nice. The dress.”
Her eyes darkened, her lower lip looking fuller, her face freezing in the shadows cast by the candlelight.
“Now, take it off.”
Faen take it and her. I want to come home to you forever in that dress, were words he’d never say. Not when he’d even removed his boots, his tunic, for her, like a husband and she was here in his chamber, like a wife. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. It didn’t matter what hung in the still air crackled.
Snotra he loved. Snotra he felt . . . honourable about. Snotra . . . he desired. Snotra . . . didn’t quite give him that instant hot flare. So obviously it was lust and offering this conniving piece of Saxon goods that knowing stare was stupid. Yet there it was. She lowered her eyelashes and he wanted to say these words about coming home? Was he meant to believe that him telling her to take the dress off was a surprise to her though? When the belief she was patently engineering something shot through his veins? What if she now took the damn dress off?
“Here.” He reached for the sleeping gown she must have draped over the pillow. “Put this on if you’re so damned worried.”
He accepted that probably made him sound like he was the one who was worried. If only he was a little more like his usual self. He wasn’t. Suppose she refused to put on this shapeless sack? Then what?
“But . . . but of course.”
What? Wasn’t that a turn up for the Norse sagas? He offered insults. Or rather, he returned this to the situation as he knew it, the situation she’d had such trouble accepting, he’d twice had to wrestle her to this bed, and she agreed? Up to something? With horns on.
“Even if I did want you, I’ve had too much ale. It would take a far prettier face than yours to waken the dead.”
“But of course.”
Oh come on. How much was she dying to jab that needle into him? He knew by the hardening of her jaw. The one thing he’d noticed was she liked being insulted as much as he did. Which was not at all.
“Here.”
He tossed the sleeping gown across the floor. “I’m not going to look at you.”
“Really?”
Not that he cared but it landed in her lap, although she stared. She stared for what seemed an eternity. First at the gown, then at him. “Well, then. Close your eyes.”
“Close my eyes?”
Oh, this was good. Was that the best she could do? Imagine that? When she was his thrall and as such he could just have that dress off her in two seconds. He would. He swung his legs back off this bed, got to his feet.
She tilted her chin. “Unless you want to see me naked?”
Want to see her naked? Of course he wanted. Especially when her cool challenge sent heat scorching up his spine. What was more it was his right. His right to do what he damned liked with her too. Right here. Right now. His balls throbbed so he was forced to take a long breath in the hope of icing his brain, to make that smile curve his lips, in the hope of alarming her into submission. Closing his eyes on this dazzling apple green vision would give her the upper hand. Was this what he got for drinking eight noggins of ale?
“Only if you want me to, sweeting.”
Anyway she was hardly going to stand here stark naked . . . was she?
“Me?”
She was going to stand. At least she stood up.
“I don’t have desires. I’m not allowed them. It’s why I’m asking you . . . About yours.”
Right. But if he thought about that right now, he’d ruin this. Already he’d lied through his teeth about her counterfeiting of ecstasy. He’d had to. All he could think was of her moaning like that for real.
Maybe, after all, the other noises, the ones she made about getting back to England were noises he should listen to? Either that, or he should sell her. What he knew was at no cost could he keep her here. Now she fixed him with that liquid, turquoise stare, the knowledge that he was managing—just—to resist her was too large a hammer in his brain.
“Well then, get that on and come to bed. That’s as far as my desire goes for now.”
“I said—”
“How the hell did your husband put up with you?”
He had to ask. Turn onto his back too and shut his eyes. The room spinning behind his eyelids wasn’t as bad as the sweating torture of imagining her methodically drawing that gown over her head.
“My husband?”
That flump . . . that was the dress being tossed on the floor wasn’t it? So now . . . now unless she’d these trousers on . . . What were they anyway? Saxon girls’ pants? Better to think that than of these shapely damned legs of hers in them. Better to lie down. Face the wall. He did.
“Your husband.”
“Cyril? Oh, Cyril put up with me very well.”
“Isn’t it heartening some man did? Now how about you go to sleep?”
“Sleep?”
Odin and all the trolls, did she have to clamber over him? So her thighs brushed him and her scent smothered his skin? So she smothered his skin. Soft and warm as a spring day. Scented as one too. So his desire was to clasp her waist. Clasp her thighs. Drag himself up and kiss her and having done that, fill her, take her. He fought to breathe. Sleep waited like a dark river in the shad
ows and he needed to plunge into it. Not into her.
“But don’t you want me to make a noise, Drottin?”
He rolled onto his other side. “Malice, what I’d like, after eight noggins of ale—”
“So I have something to tell Snotra in the morning?”
He should get up. Walk about. Go down the ladder and out into the cool night air where the gulls called and the stars shone. With what tightened his groin though? Not a chance. “I don’t know I want you telling her anything.”
“But—”
“And I don’t know I want you making noises. Unless they’re of the best and yours—”
“That’s because I’m having to imagine it.”
He flicked one eye open. No. He wasn’t mistaken about this. Her fingertips softly caressing his chest either.
“Malice . . . that is your name isn’t it?”
Malice stared into the caverns made by the guttering candles, every coarse-clad, sleeping gowned inch of her barely able to suppress her amusement. He knew her name, surely?
“Yes, Drottin.”
“Malice, this is an arrangement. If it’s not to your liking, if what you desire is to be a real bed slave . . .”
A real bed slave? Well, she could. When it came to not knowing things, she did not know how her hand had come to be on the warm flesh of his bare chest, her arm around his waist, only that the distance from his waist, down over the hard wall of his stomach, to where it could be next, was short. Was this the reason Aunt Carter had gone to such lengths to keep her away from the human populace in general and men in particular, with the exception of Cyril? Because her fingers tingled with the desire to travel that length. Heat coiled in her stomach.
THE VIKING AND THE COURTESAN Page 13