Such a stubborn, querulous answer! What had she expected? Apologies to a prisoner?
“Very well, Saxon.” She confounded him by laughing and pushing herself back to her feet. “Never let it be said that a Norsewoman cannot endure.”
Her acquiescence only seemed to arouse his fury more. He shot to his feet, took a step toward her, then stopped himself, spun back around, and stood there at the table, apparently fighting for control again. What would he have done to her if he had not stopped?
Her brows knitted in confusion. What had she done to make him so angry? She had complied. Wasn’t that what he wanted? Or was she supposed to fight instead? Did he not want her subjugation to be so easy? Aye, mayhap he wanted some reason to punish her, to use her as an outlet for his hate, and she was not giving it to him by being so agreeable.
Kristen could not have been more wrong. Royce had been in a quandary ever since she was pushed into his room. He had felt an instant attraction to her, and it was so at odds with what he should have felt that he was totally bemused. She did disgust him. He did hate her and her kind. Yet when he looked at her, his first impulse was to touch her. And when he did, he found her skin as smooth and soft as it looked.
She was too lovely to be real, and Royce was furious with himself that he could desire her, even for a few moments, and worse, that he had let her see that he did. Belittling her was more for his benefit than hers. He had to remind himself what she was. She would sell her body to any man for a price. She had no doubt lain with every man on their ship. She was a Viking whore. No woman could repel him more.
But she didn’t repel him, and that was his problem. She should have been meek and frightened. Any other woman would be in her position. She should have been cowering before his anger and crying for mercy. He could have scorned her then. But she baffled him instead, giving him flippant answers and then grinning when it angered him. Laughing when he degraded her. How could he fight this powerful attraction when she kept surprising him with the unexpected?
“Mayhap I should leave.”
Royce swung around, pinning her with an angry glare. “You will not leave this hall, wench.”
“I only meant your presence, since mine seems to raise your ire so.”
“’Tis not you,” he assured her, the lie slipping easily from his tongue. “But, yea, you may go. Only you will put these on first.”
He picked up the shackles from the table and tossed them to her. Reflexly, Kristen caught them instead of letting them drop to the floor. The chain wrapped around her wrist, and one iron band slapped against her forearm, causing her to wince. In her hands the iron became a weapon, but she didn’t see it thus. She looked at the shackles with loathing.
“You would still make me wear these?”
He nodded curtly. “Aye, so you know your position has only changed, not improved.”
She met his gaze levelly as a flicker of contempt crossed her features. “I did not think ’twas otherwise.” She lowered her arm to let the chain unwind slowly and fall by her feet. “You will have to put them on me.”
“Just snap them on, wench,” he ordered impatiently, misunderstanding her refusal.
“Do it yourself, Saxon,” she retorted sharply. “I will never willingly restrict my own freedom.”
His eyes narrowed at her temerity. His impulse was to crush her defiance immediately, before it broadened. But he suspected it would take more of a beating than he was willing to give to make her back down.
He stalked over to her and swiped up the shackles, then bent down on his knees to carelessly snap them on. Kristen stood motionless and let him, staring down at his bent head, the thick brown hair within a hand’s reach of her. It was really too bad they were fated to be enemies. She would have liked meeting this man under different circumstances.
He glanced up at her. Mistaking the cause of the wistfulness reflected in her eyes, he was suddenly mindful of what he had done to her. “Where are the boots you had?”
“The old woman, Eda, said they were inappropriate for inside the hall.”
“Then you will have to put cloth beneath these bands to keep the skin from rubbing raw.”
“What difference, milord? ’Tis only my skin, and I am lower than the lowest serf.”
He frowned as he stood up. “’Tis not my wish to mistreat you, Kristen.”
That he remembered her name surprised her. She had thought he hadn’t even heard her when she said it, since he had called her “wench” ever since. But his earlier words were riding her hard now that she was shackled again, when she had so hoped he would not actually do it.
“Oh, so I at least merit the same care you would give your animals?”
He understood that she was smarting from his previous remark, but he would not change what he had said, or feel guilty over it. “Aye, the same care. No more, no less.”
She nodded curtly, not letting him see how wretched his words made her feel. She turned to go, but he caught her arm, his hand sliding down to her wrist when she did not stop immediately. Crazily, she noted how warm his touch was. And he did not release her wrist until several moments had passed after she looked back at him.
“Since you cannot sleep in the hall with the other servants without a guard to watch you, you will be given a chamber to yourself that can be locked. With the lock, there is no reason—” He paused, frowning, then finished abruptly: “You do not have to sleep with the chain on. I will give the key to Eda to remove it each night.”
Kristen did not thank him. She could see he regretted the impulse that had prompted him to concede her that much. She gave him her back instead, leaving the room with as much pride as her slow, hobbling gait would allow.
