Someone pulled her free of her protective little prison. Shrieking, the woman found herself surrounded by enormous Irishmen, all leering down at her. In a panic, she scrambled to run but the man who initially captured her grabbed her around the waist and carried her over to the far end of the table where a small group of men were gathered. Roughly, he tossed her to the ground.
The men laughed when she sprawled on the floor. Terrified, the woman picked herself up and, on her knees, pushed her hair from her eyes to see what was happening. Her gaze fellon a massive man seated at the head of the table, partially illuminated by the light from the flickering hearth. She couldn’t see him very well, but she could tell he was looking at her.
“What is this?” he asked, flicking a finger at the woman, his Irish brogue deep and rattling.
The man who had captured the prize beamed with satisfaction. “I am not entirely sure, m’lord,” he said. “I found her on board one of the ships. I do not think she is one of the usual crew.”
“So you bring her to me?”
“A gift, m’lord. A reward after your decisive victory.”
The men around them cheered and the woman shuddered in fear, pulling her wet tunic more tightly about her slender body as if it could protect her from the enemy. The enormous man at the head of the table was watching her steadily and she inspected him in return; even in the dim light, she could see that he dressed in a well-made leather tunic and pieces of mail. He sat upon a very big chair, like a throne, and a dark bird of prey perched ominously on the high back of the chair. The man’s hand, gripping the wooden cup, was as big as her head.
He had milky-pale skin and a big red mustache that blended into a neatly bearded chin. The rest of his pale face was shaved and smooth. He wasn’t old, nor was he particularly young, but seemed to have that wise and ageless countenance. When he shifted in the firelight, she could see his chiseled and handsome face. He didn’t look like the rest of the filthy barbarians around him. The eyes, glittering, stared at her.
“Who are you, lass?” he rumbled, as if he had no patience for such a thing.
The woman met his gaze nervously, defiantly. “I will not tell you.”
The men snickered as the big brute who had captured her lashed out a foot and shoved her, hard. She yelped and fell over.The man was going in for another kick but the enormous man in the chair stopped him.
“Kick her again and you shall answer to me,” he rumbled, watching the man back off before refocusing on the woman. “I asked you a question. Who are you?”
The woman pushed herself off the floor, meeting his gaze. Resistance was written all over her. He could see it in her expression as well as her manner. After a moment, she simply turned away and closed her eyes. A lone tear trickled down her face but she made no move to wipe it away.
The enormous man stared at her without making any move to punish her for her insolence. She was a little thing, no doubt, with ashen and creamy skin. Her features, from what he could see through the mussed hair, were fine and clear. Certainly not the features of a whore or servant.
After a moment, he set the cup down and stood up, moving to where she was huddled on the floor. He loomed over her, carefully inspecting her. He was, if nothing else, an extremely observant man and the five words out of her mouth and the accent that delivered them told him something of her background and breeding. He eventually crouched beside her, snatching one of her hands to him. As she yelped and tried to pull away, he examined her palm.
“Not a mark on her flesh,” he said, looking at the very fine flesh of her tender arms. “This woman has not accomplished a day of work in her life.”
By this time, the woman was shrinking from him, quivering from fear. Their eyes met and he lifted his free hand, brushing back the damp hair from her face. She tried to pull away from the hand near her cheek but he was undeterred. He seemed rather passive about the whole thing. Sapphire-blue eyes studied her fine features.
“Tell me your name,” he asked quietly.
She looked at him with eyes the color of the sea. They were pure and crystal clear, an unnatural shade of bluish green under delicately arched eyebrows. Her nose was pert, straight, and her lips were lusciously full and pale. She was, upon close inspection, absolutely exquisite. He’d never seen such soft and delicate beauty. He was in the process of lingering on her flawlessly pale complexion when she shook her head.
“I will not,” she whispered.
“Why not?”
She didn’t like how close he was to her, the heat from his big body scorching her tender flesh. She tried to pull away.
“Because I will not tell you Irish hounds anything,” she said. “You are all animals. Filthy, barbaric animals!”
The calm expression on his face faded and he stood up, yanking her off the floor and throwing her over his shoulder. As his men cheered his brutal move, he hauled his squirming, fighting quarry out of the great hall and into a very narrow stairwell near the entry. With his considerable size, it was difficult to maneuver, made even more difficult with her struggling. At one point, he turned sharply and she hit her head, causing her fighting to wane as she saw stars dance before her eyes. But the lull in her twitching allowed him to take the top of the stairs without dropping her, moving into the only chamber on the floor and slamming the rotting door behind him.
She was still dazed when he threw her down onto a mattress, stuffed stiff with old and smelly straw. Realizing he had put her on a bed, she began to scratch and kick, knowing this position only meant pain for her and she was frantic to get away from him. It was cold, wet and dark in the room, her fearful grunting mingling with the sounds of the storm outside the open lancet windows.
He easily trapped her flailing arms with one massive hand, using the other to pull at her tunic. When she violently twistedaway from him in an effort to dislodge his hold, he simply threw his body down to trap her. Ensnaring her with a body that was nearly three times her size, he ripped the wet tunic down the front, exposing a soft linen sheath beneath.
He could see the shape of her figure outlined in the damp fabric.
With her body sufficiently pinned beneath his big one, the woman stopped trying to fight him. She was horrified, exposed, and frightened beyond measure. She resorted to the only tactic she had yet to employ.
She began to beg.
“Please,” she pleaded. “Please… I beseech you. Do not do this. Do not…”
