Читать книгу Enslaved by the Viking - Harper George St. - Страница 14

Chapter Eight

Merewyn had awakened to the Northman’s screams in the night. They had been so terrifying, she’d been convinced there was a demon attacking him until she’d risen to verify he was unharmed. Then she’d watched in fascination as he’d fought against something she couldn’t see. It had occurred to her to try to calm him lest he hurt himself, so she’d reached out cautiously to touch his forehead. His screams had quieted, and the moment his struggles had ceased, she’d moved back to her pallet. It had seemed better to not let him know she had witnessed his nightmare, so she’d pretended to be asleep until he’d left.

But real sleep had proved elusive. She’d lain there as her mind had relived the previous days. Every time it was quiet, Merewyn would hear Blythe’s words echo in the silence. She still didn’t know what had possessed her actions. After a while, the door opened and Merewyn closed her eyes, unwilling to face the day. She opened them when it was quiet again to see that someone had placed a pitcher of water inside the door—Hilla, she imagined—so she made use of it to clean herself. She managed it as discreetly as possible, afraid that the door would open at any moment. But it didn’t. She finally ventured out when her stomach began to grumble.

The first person she saw was Hilla, who directed her to an empty bench where she broke her fast surrounded by some of the men from the day before. She managed to remain unnoticed, so she slipped back to the bedchamber when she finished, where she was left alone until the evening meal.

* * *

Hilla was the one to retrieve her. This time the hall was considerably less full as she was led to the dais. Most of the men had probably left for their homes. Eirik sat eating, but didn’t even glance her way as she took her place on the floor behind him, though once she was settled he handed her a bowl filled with bits of food from his. Famished again, Merewyn ate without reservation and finished it all.

She set the bowl aside and leaned back against the wall to watch the men as they ate and talked. It had just occurred to her to wonder why there were no women—women who weren’t servants or slaves—when Eirik got to his feet. Her heart leaped, as it had a disturbing habit of doing every time she thought he might address her, but he didn’t look her way as he left the dais and headed outside.

Her mouth went dry as she looked around the room. She didn’t like being left alone in the hall without him. Despite her earlier fears of him, he was all that stood between her and them, and he did make her feel safe. She was contemplating making her way back to the bedchamber when the jarl called Hilla over. It was clear they were talking about her from Hilla’s glance her way.

That fear was confirmed when Hilla came over and knelt beside her. ‘Merewyn, you must go attend to Lord Eirik. Jarl Hegard commands it.’

‘Where is he?’

‘The baths.’

* * *

Merewyn worried the inside of her bottom lip as she struggled to find the courage to open the door. The wind was cold, as Hilla had made her take off her woollen dress so now she wore only her linen undershift, and her feet were bare. Shoes were not allowed in the baths. But the cold did not spur her to enter, even though she could feel the heat from inside seeping through the door. She was too afraid of what she would find there.

‘Go!’

She grimaced as she glanced to where Hilla stood tending the cook fire, which was a good thirty paces away from the bathhouse, but the woman watched. Taking a deep breath, she reminded herself of Eirik’s vow to not harm her, then pushed the door open and stepped inside. It took a long moment before her eyes adjusted to the meagre lantern light that penetrated the steam. Her skin was immediately wet with it, but it was a pleasant warmth after the cold.

Empty benches lined two walls, and a third held a long hearth where flat stones had been laid upon a smouldering fire. Casks of what she assumed to be water sat near it, the source of the steam. She didn’t see Eirik, but she heard someone just on the other side of a partition that quartered the room, so she stepped in that direction.

His deep voice filled the silence. He’d spoken a command, but it was in his own Norse language, so she was certain he hadn’t realised that it was she who had joined him. Had the jarl really sent her without Eirik’s knowledge? But the moment she rounded the corner, her ability to speak and alert him to her presence fled as quickly as any modesty she might have possessed. He had just stepped out of his trousers, his last garment, so he stood there gloriously naked before her, though facing away from her.

Hard muscles worked beneath the golden smoothness of his skin as he folded the garment and placed it on a bench. Merewyn couldn’t help but notice how wide and powerful his shoulders were. His back was long and lean where it led to a tapered waist. It was marred by a patchwork of scars that she assumed were from battle. Perhaps from the nicks of the many blades he must have fought over the years. There wasn’t a spare inch of flesh on him. Even his buttocks were chiselled with muscle. He exuded strength and confidence. It was then she admitted that under other circumstances she might have found him handsome. If Alfred had presented him to her as a potential husband, she would have encouraged his suit—had he been Saxon.

But Alfred would probably never present a suitor to her now, and it was all because of this Dane before her. The thought made her angry, so she was standing there with clenched fists when he turned around. She caught a glimpse of male flesh framed in dark blond curls before she pulled her gaze away, her face flaming.