He pushed the gown lower on her hips. He didn’t know why he’d done it, for he knew that Thrasco’s whip hadn’t struck that low on her body.
He just wanted to see her, see how much flesh she’d added during the weeks she’d been with him. He could still see her ribs, but there was a woman’s softness there now as well and her white hips were full enough, and he thought he’d spill his seed.
From laughter to such lust he thought he’d yell with it. Quickly he pulled her gown back to her waist and rose. He put the cream on the floor beside the bed.
He would sleep in the same bed with her, next to her, he had to, else he had no doubt that his brother would be there in an instant. He would not allow Erik to rape Taby’s sister. It was that simple. Nor would he allow himself to seduce Taby’s sister.
He said very quietly, “I am going to pull your gown off you and your shift. I will lay one of my clean tunics over your back. All right, Laren?”
She said nothing, merely nodded. Her hair had fallen over her cheek so at least she knew he couldn’t see her face, nor she his. She’d felt exposed and she’d felt excited. She didn’t understand why she hadn’t yelled or hurled curses at him when he’d pulled her gown to her hips, but she hadn’t said a word, hadn’t made a single sound. And now she felt like a fool, a blind, quite stupid fool. Her back and leg were beyond ugly, and she’d forgotten that. She was still too thin. Aye, about as appetizing as a goose carcass. He’d wanted her only as long as he’d forgotten what she really looked like.
She felt tears sting her eyes again, but these weren’t tears that had built and built inside her for two years. These were tears that showed how miserable she felt right at this moment, with this man who didn’t want her, in this hopeless situation.
She let him strip off her clothes. She felt the soft tunic spread across her back. Then, very quickly, she felt him smooth a wool blanket over her.
When he eased down beside her, he said, “I won’t do that to you again.”
And she knew what he meant. She said, her voice devoid of all feeling, “It is because I am so very thin and ugly.”
“No,” he said. “It is because of Taby.”
And again, she knew what he meant.
He knew he hadn’t spoken the truth. No, it was not just because of Taby. He had no intention of shaming her and that is what would happen if he took her. Ah, but let Erik believe she was his concubine, let him listen, hoping to hear moans from her to prove that she was. Erik had to believe it. He didn’t want to have to face the situation that would result from any doubt.
The following day passed quickly. At every opportunity, Merrik was giving her food, standing over her until she’d eaten every morsel he’d dished out.
Taby was playing with the other children now. Kenna, the eight-year-old son of Erik’s concubine, Caylis, was a particular hero. He followed Kenna everywhere. Kenna, a handsome lad who didn’t seem to have his father’s meanness or arrogance, treated Taby with good-natured tolerance. The other children followed his lead.
Cleve was the one in an odd position. He was a slave, yet he didn’t sleep in the slave hut, nor did he perform menial tasks. Merrik kept him with him and his men when they hunted that afternoon.
Laren counted her silver coins. She now had eighteen. Soon now, she would ask Merrik. She’d forgotten to speak to him the previous night. Too much had happened, far too much, and she knew she and Taby and Cleve had to leave soon. In weak moments, like right now, she didn’t want to leave Merrik any more than Taby did, but she had to get them away from here. Neither of them belonged here.
She cooked that evening, making a stew from boar meat that brought satisfied nods from Merrik’s men and grunts of surprise from the Malverne people. After the meal, Erik looked at Laren, and there was lust and meanness in his eyes. He said, “We won’t have the girl continue her foolish tale tonight. I have other matters I wish to see to.”
So Laren would gain no more silver pieces that night. She assumed that Erik believed he was punishing her. She didn’t care. Sarla touched her sleeve. “The stew was the best I have ever eaten. You must teach me, Laren, you must.”
Sarla had spoken sharply, urgently, and Laren turned to her, frowning. “It is simple, truly. Your cooking is just as good, mine is simply different.”
“Nay, you must show me.”
Laren looked at her closely, very closely, and for the first time she saw the faint bruise that was beneath Sarla’s right eye. Fury curdled her belly. “By all the gods, he struck you!”
“Hush! Be quiet, Laren, please just be quiet. It’s nothing of anything, truly. It doesn’t hurt, and you can’t see it unless you look very closely. Be quiet.”
“Why did he strike you?”
Sarla said nothing. She merely shrugged.
“Why?”
“Erik doesn’t need reasons for his actions. I displeased him and he hit me.”
“Has he hit you before?”
Sarla looked at her then, and there was pity in her fine gray eyes. “I seem to displease him more and more as the days and weeks go by.”
Laren knew that men hit women—their wives, their concubines, their slaves, it didn’t seem to matter. But Sarla was so quiet and kind. How could she possibly displease anyone? And then she knew why Erik had struck his gentle wife. It was because he’d been thwarted; he’d wanted her, Laren, and Merrik had forestalled him.
