“You’re a slave, and that is less than a whore. Also, since you are the only woman here, I must make do with you. I would ask you, though, how many men you’ve had before me.”
She stared at him, remembering starkly the man who had professed to care for her, the man who had wanted to wed with her, the man who had held her close and kissed her tenderly and shocked her with his bold speaking. He was well and truly gone. In his place was this hard-faced man whose eyes were cold as the North Sea in the wintertime.
Feeling for him froze within her. She raised her face. “A dozen men,” she said. “Aye, I have had more men than I can remember or count. Once Olav breached me, I could see no harm in it, for he was old and had little to offer me. Aye, at least a dozen various men, all different sizes they were, some hairy and dark, others like smooth polished wood.” She shrugged then, smiling. “Since I am but a woman, counting comes with difficulty, but I do think it was at least twelve different ones.”
She thought he would strike her. She saw the pulse pounding in his throat, saw the rage building in his eyes.
“Do not lie to me, Zarabeth, it angers me.”
“Then do not ask me a fool’s questions, you brainless knave!”
“Very well, then. I will tell you what to do. Pull up your gown. I wish to see your woman’s endowments.”
“No.” The single word sounded strong and arrogant in the close cargo space, and Zarabeth wondered at it, for she was so afraid, she could feel the cramping in her belly.
She didn’t have much time to consider what he would do. She had no time to react. He dropped to his knees beside her, grabbed her wrists in his hands, and pulled her forward. He made no move to kiss her, just pulled her tight against him, hauling her up to her knees. He said inches from her face, “You will do as I tell you. I will have no more of your defiance, no more of your stubborn pride, no more of your lies.” He pushed her roughly onto her back and came down over her, pinning her down, her hands above her head.
He kissed her then, hard, forcing her lips to part. This was punishment and dominance and she wouldn’t accept it. She began to struggle against him, heaving and arching her back, twisting to the side, but he was twice her size and had twice her strength. She felt him rear back, easing off her so that he was on his side, and he was looking down at her, at his hand that was jerking up the skirt of her gown.
“No!” She twisted her head toward him and bit his forearm. He made no sound, just sucked in his breath at the pain. In the next moment he grabbed both her wrists in one hand and jerked them again painfully over her head.
“No more fighting me,” he said, and he was breathing hard and his voice was raw and she knew that he was going to take her, force her, as she knew some men hurt women. “Why do you care? I am just one more man to have you.” She felt his member hard and pressing against her thigh and knew that he would do to her what Olav hadn’t been able to.
“Magnus, please don’t hurt me.”
He laughed then, just laughed, and she felt humiliation fill her craw, for she had begged. She knew such hatred for him that had she been free, she would have sliced him with the knife at his belt.
He was smiling now, a cruel smile, and he looked into her face as his hand smoothed over her breasts, downward to her belly, then further again to the hem of her gown. Slowly, his eyes never leaving her face, he began to pull the gown upward.
He saw the humiliation in her eyes, the pain of what he was doing to her, the immense anger that filled her, and it pleased him. He would break her, this woman who had rejected him to wed with an old man, this woman who had murdered to satisfy her greed.
His hand touched her inner thigh, and for an instant he closed his eyes over the intense feelings that coursed through him. He didn’t want these feelings toward her, didn’t expect them. Then he touched her soft woman’s flesh and thought he would spill his seed.
He could bear no more. He knew his men were aware of what he was doing, knew they would hear her cry out when he thrust into her, but he didn’t care. She was naught but a slave; her only purpose was to be what he wanted her to be.
He ripped her gown open, baring her to the waist, and rolled over on top of her, freeing himself. “Now,” he said, his breathing harsh and raw and ugly. “Now. Hold still. Don’t fight me now, Zarabeth, it will do you no good.”
12
Zarabeth stared up at him, watching his eyes darken, his expression become more intent, color stain his cheeks. But he wasn’t looking at her face, he was staring down at her naked belly, at the fiery red curls, as vivid and bright as the hair of her head. Strangely gentle, as if uncertain of himself, he lowered his hand and his fingers lightly skimmed through the curls to find her.
She couldn’t believe he was touching her like this, couldn’t accept it. She felt such shame, such fear, she thought she would choke on it. When his fingers slid between her legs, she cried, out, bucking wildly upward to dislodge his hand. But instead of defeating him, she felt his middle finger push slowly into her, widening her.
She cried out.
Magnus closed his eyes against the onslaught of feeling. It was just lust he felt, nothing more, just lust for a woman’s body, any woman’s body, but the heat of her and her smallness were overwhelming, and he knew his finger was hurting her, stretching her, for she was narrow and dry, her body fighting him. He pressed with difficulty further into her. She was crying now, twisting madly to get him away from her, but she couldn’t move him, couldn’t make him stop. She reared up suddenly, freeing one of her hands from his grasp, and struck him on the mouth as hard as she could. He simply thrust his finger further into her and watched as she gasped with pain, her eyes going blank, all movement frozen in that instant. Their eyes met in that moment and he cleared away all expression and stared at her. He smiled at her as he shoved his finger in more deeply. He pushed her back down, holding her there with his palm splayed on her belly. She was striking him, but he felt no pain, felt nothing but the heat of her body, the softness of her, the pain—no he wouldn’t accept that, he wouldn’t care about that. What she felt mattered not to him.
By Odin, he couldn’t believe her still a maid, yet her passage was so narrow, so tight, he thought she must be. He felt his member swell and harden; he was in such need he knew he must come into her now or he would spill his seed.
He withdrew his finger suddenly, wanting to retain his control. He felt her flinch as he did so, but she didn’t quieten, but only increased her struggles against him. He paid her no heed. He said nothing, merely jerked her legs apart and rolled over on top of her, pressing himself against her. He reared up then to free himself from his loincloth, his hand trembling, his body quivering with the pulsing need that was filling him to overflowing. Suddenly, his hair was being yanked off his head. He heard a shrill mewling sound and he felt small fists pounding at his shoulders.
With an animal growl, fury blinding him, he jerked about to fight off his attacker. It took him a moment to realize that it was Lotti, trying to save her sister.
From his rape.
He didn’t believe it was happening, but it was, and he was both enraged and bewildered. He heard Horkel then, saying from without, “Nay, go not in there, Tostig. Magnus will deal with the child. It is not our business.”
“Aye, but we should have stopped her! By Thor, he will not be pleased about this.”
