Chapter Twelve
Kristen’s whole outlook on her adventure-turned-disaster took an abrupt turn the day she entered Wyndhurst for the first time.
No longer did she only have to worry about keeping her mouth shut and her hair hidden.
Now she faced the problem that she had only tried to avoid before: How would these Saxons see her as a woman?
Would she be an abomination to them because of her height and the fact that she was their enemy?
Or would they find her as desirable as the men at home did?
The Saxon lord had said she offered no temptation to his men.
If this was his opinion, then she could assume that a man would not want to make love to a woman who was taller than he was, because he might feel inferior and less in control.
Very well, that left her safe from all but two men that she had seen in this place.
The one she hoped was dead. The other was the lord himself.
Kristen had mixed feelings about Lord Royce.
She had seen little of him this past week, and when she did chance to see him, she had avoided looking directly at him.
But she could not forget her first sight of him either.
He had looked like a young god riding into the yard so straight and proud on that powerful steed, so self-assured, so in command of himself and all those around him.
Boldly he had come up to sixteen hostile men who were huge and powerfully built themselves, and let them see his loathing for them.
There was no fear in the man. Again today Lord Royce had shoved his way through the Vikings to snatch Kristen from their protection. The men did not know what to make of the way he approached them without weapon in hand.
Ohthere thought he was a fool to be so careless. Thorolf thought he tempted them purposely, that he begged for an excuse to slay them. Kristen favored Thorolf’s opinion, for she remembered the look in his eyes that first day, and his cold, merciless order to have them killed.
She had feared him because of that. But Kristen couldn’t stop herself from admiring him, too.
She had always enjoyed watching strong, well-proportioned male bodies.
Just that last night of the feast at home, her mother had caught her staring overlong at Dane, Perrin and Janie’s younger son, as he arm-wrestled, and Brenna had teased her by asking if she was sure no one there would do for a husband.
A strong, handsome body was a feast for the eyes, and her mother had taught her not to be ashamed that she thought so.
And the Saxon lord had not only a superb body but a very handsome face as well.
Aye, to be truthful, she enjoyed looking at him.
But she did not want him looking at her with the same appreciation.
With the hate he bore her and the others, it could not be a pleasant experience, being made love to by him.
As long as he did not want her, she would be safe, even though she was now separated from the others.
Her goals were still the same. She would work and keep a low profile until the opportunity for escape came.
Only now, the question was at hand: How would he see her as a woman?
The women had scrubbed her with a vengeance, no doubt intentionally, rubbing her practically raw. She bore it only because she wanted to cause no more trouble with them that might bring the Saxon back.
The clothes they gave her were laughable.
They had nothing to fit her tall frame, even with hems lowered.
She might be slim in proportion to her height, but compared with them, she was large.
The sleeves of the white chainse they gave her were too tight to fit over her wrists.
An argument ensued on whether to cut the sleeves and lace them for now, or to go ahead and sew in an insert.
Kristen solved the problem by ripping the sleeves away.
Her own summer gowns at home were sleeveless, and she would have been too hot with the sleeves anyway.
No one approved of this, but they were as loath to argue with her as she was with them.
They did not want more of the lord’s displeasure either.
The chainse, which was supposed to hide a woman’s feet, fell far short of Kristen’s ankles.
And the gray gown they gave her to wear over the chainse came only to her knees.
But at least it was sleeveless, too, and was split up the sides so that she could shape it as she liked with the rope girdle they gave her.
She chose to wear the rope loosely, even though it let the gown fall away from her sides, revealing the form-fitting chainse, which was much too tight.
Since she was not going to be able to hide her figure no matter what she did, this style at least distracted a little from her curves.
They took away her boots, giving her a pair of soft-soled house shoes, which would have been fine, except that they meant to put the shackles back on her, and the shoes did not cover her ankles.
She was not going to wear that iron against her bare skin again without a fight, and she told them so.
The older one, Eda, chose wisely to let a higher authority decide, and simply carried the shackles with her as she and two others escorted Kristen upstairs.
Though she could not say why exactly, Kristen was nervous now that she knew she would be seeing Lord Royce again. She did not think he would approve of her in any way, yet there was still that tiny possibility that he might, now that she was washed and groomed.
He was seated next to a small table honing a long, double-edged sword when Eda pushed Kristen into the room. Without explaining why Kristen was not wearing the irons, she simply placed them on the table and left, closing the door behind her and leaving Kristen standing in the middle of the room.
It was a large, uncluttered chamber. Besides the low post bed off to the left of the door and the large coffer at the foot of it, there was the small table with four chairs around it in the center of the room.
Directly opposite the door, another coffer with a lock on it sat between two opened windows like a bench.
There was another, larger window on the other side of the bed that looked out over the front yard.
There were no tapestries to brighten the room, or rugs on the floor, but the wall on Kristen’s right was hung with an assortment of weapons.
She had yet to look directly at him, though she could feel his eyes on her.
She waited for him to speak, but long moments dragged by and he did not.
She had perused everything in the room and had nowhere else to look.
She was not in the habit of meekly casting her eyes down at the floor.
She had only done so outside because Thorolf had warned her that her eyes were too long-lashed for a boy’s and she should not draw attention to them.
She started at his boots, moving slowly up his body until their eyes locked. Now she could not look away even if she wanted to. She saw no hate. Surprise was what she found.
“Who are you?”
The question seemed torn from him in bewilderment. What could he have been thinking to be so confused?
“What exactly do you want to know?” she countered “My name is Kristen, but I think you would seek more than that.”
The way he stood up and moved toward her made her think he hadn’t heard a word she said.
His expression was still more surprised than anything, though there was something else there now that she couldn’t quite define.
He didn’t stop until mere inches separated them, and then his fingers rose to trace the expanse of one creamy cheek.
“You hid it well, this beauty.”
Warily Kristen stepped back. “You said I was no temptation.”
“That was before.”
She groaned inwardly. Aye, that was desire lighting the green depths of his eyes as they moved over her face and then down the length of her.
She didn’t fool herself that she might be able to match her strength to his.
Not his. He wore a long-sleeved tunic today, and the muscles that she remembered bulged against the thin linen of it.
He could crush her with his large hands.
He could have her lying beneath him in a matter of moments.
And there was no one in this whole land who could stop him from having her, for she was his enemy, defeated, and he could do what he wanted with her.
“You will not find it easy to rape me,” Kristen said in a soft, warning tone.
“Rape you?” He changed before her eyes, dark fury etching the lines of his face now. “I would not demean myself to rape a Viking whore!”
Kristen had never in her life been so insulted.
It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him so, but she stopped herself as logic began to analyze his words.
He had spoken with such disgust. And it was not so farfetched that he should think her a whore.
It could be one explanation for her sailing with an all-male crew.
He had returned to his seat and would not look at her again.
He seemed to be grappling with his anger, to bring it under control.
She wondered briefly what had caused him to hate Vikings so, for she did not think for a moment that it was herself in particular that he hated, but her people as a whole.
“Would you have such scruples if I were a Viking maid?” She had to know.
“’Twould be a fitting justice were I to have a Viking maid at my mercy. I would take pleasure in dealing with you as your men deal with Saxon women.”
“We have never been to your shores before.”
“Others like you have!” he bit out caustically.