He was on her before she could move. He slapped her hard. She staggered against a tree, lurched forward, and slumped down to her knees. He stood over her, looking down at her, rubbing his hands together.
She pushed her hair from her face. Her breathing was harsh; her cheek felt raw. She should simply let him take her. She shouldn’t struggle against him. She should endure.
But something deep inside her rebelled. She didn’t want to be passive; she didn’t want to submit. She didn’t want to force herself to endure, to silently suffer whatever he would mete out to her.
She raised her face then and said, “If I do not kill you, Magnus will.”
He raised his hand again, fisted it, then very slowly lowered it back to his side.
“I am as brave as Magnus but far more daring, as you know yourself. I am as strong as Magnus. As boys one of us would always win in wrestling and weight lifting. But he took one path, doing what his father demanded of him, wedding with that silly girl his family had selected for him, taking his grandfather’s homestead, Malek, becoming naught but a farmer and a trader, whereas I... I wanted to...” He frowned as if waiting for the words to come into his mind. He was silent for many moments; then he shrugged. “I have known more women than Magnus. I would pleasure you more than he does. You come from the Danelaw. I will return you there, to your home, and you will live well with me and not know any want. There is no reason for you to fight me.”
“There is every reason. Magnus is my husband. He is kind and loyal and he loves me.”
“He has deceived you, you stupid bitch. And those are words one would say of one’s father. They are not the words a woman should say of a man who gave her passion. Kind? He is weak and looks not to himself to take what he wants. Loyal? Aye, Magnus is loyal, for his brothers would kill him were he not. He is part of them, not a man separate.” He saw that his words were having no effect. It infuriated him, but still he smiled, saying easily, “Like me, Magnus enjoys a variety of women. He will not hesitate to take them in front of your nose, be you wife or no. Did he not take Cyra with you there, watching? Did he not mock you with her presence?”
“I thought you said you knew more women than Magnus.”
His mouth tightened with irritation. “Of course I do, ’tis just that Magnus will take whatever female lives at his farmstead. He never ventures away for a woman as I have done.”
She whispered, “Ingunn... do you not plan to wed her? Do you not plan to keep me as your slave?”
He laughed and rubbed his knuckles over the thick reddish-blond stubble. His look was cunning. “If you come to me willingly, I could make Ingunn your slave.” He leaned down then and began to wrap a thick tress of her hair around his hand. “I would breed a babe off you with hair this color. A man who would command men, a man strong and powerful, a man who would rule all of Norway, all of England, a man who would make King Alfred’s sons look like puking infants.”
“I would kill any child of yours.”
She had pushed him too far. His eyes glittered dark and wild. She knew it, but still she wasn’t fast enough. He grabbed her arms and pulled her to her feet. He did not strike her again, merely ripped the front of her gown to her waist. She was wearing a shift beneath it, and he ripped it as well, baring her breasts.
His belt lay on the ground, the sword in its scabbard still hooked over the leather. She didn’t struggle yet, knowing instinctively that if she did, he would strike her again, and perhaps this time she would lose consciousness. She had to be alert, she had to act when she found the chance. She was stiff in his arms, but nothing more. His breathing was ragged and deep, and within moments her clothing was in rags around her bare feet.
“By Thor, you are more than I expected.” His hands were rough on her breasts as his mouth came over hers.
His hands pressed against her belly, and he was trying to wedge her legs apart. With a growl of frustration he pulled back and began to yank and pull at his tunic. When he was naked to the waist, he pulled her against him, moving his chest against her breasts, and he was groaning.
He released her for a moment to jerk off his trousers and rip off the cross-garters from his soft leather boots.
Zarabeth leapt for his sword. She had it in her hands, was trying to jerk it from its scabbard, when he was on her, his hands wrapped around her hair, and he was pulling her inexorably backward, and she was crying with the pain and with the bitter taste of failure.
He jerked the sword from her hand and threw it some feet away. He was naked now, over her, and suddenly he threw himself between her legs. He was smiling down at her and his eyes were filled with triumph.
He reared up to position himself. She lurched up, her fists pounding into his face. Her nails scored his cheeks and she felt the flesh tear away, felt his blood well over her fingers. He roared with anger and pain. His hands were around her throat and his fingers were squeezing hard and harder still and she felt pain in her chest, building and building, and she knew she would die now. He was cursing her and there was madness in him and now the madness was him.
Suddenly his hands fell away from her throat and air surged into her lungs. She coughed frantically, sucking in air.
“Hurry, Zarabeth!”
It was Ingunn. She stood over an unconscious Orm, his sword in her hand. She had struck him hard from behind with the sword handle.
“Is he dead?” Her voice ripped out, a curious croak, and the pain of it made her shake.
“No, no. We must hurry.”
Zarabeth pushed him off her and jumped to her feet. “I’m naked,” she said, staring down at herself dumbly.
“Here!”
Zarabeth caught Orm’s tunic. She pulled it over her head. It came to her knees. It smelled of him.
“Horses, Ingunn. We must get the horses, else we won’t have a chance!”
