Read Online Pleasurably Undone! by Christine Merrill - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Christine Merrill
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noticed the child’s fear. Beneath her false courage, Aisling wondered if she had reason to be afraid.
Killer. Cursed son of Odin.
They had called him worse, Tharand supposed. He was accustomed to it by now. But as much as his own people shunned him, they revered him in battle. Like one of the gods, he slew anyone who threatened them. During battle, he’d killed upon his king’s command, the guilty and the innocent alike. And for each life he’d taken, he’d carved a rune upon his own skin. Flesh for their flesh.
Tharand didn’t bother glancing back at the longhouse where he’d left the prisoner. Beautiful, she was, filled with fire and courage. Years ago, he might have pitied her. Stolen from her family and about to be gifted to a king, her fate was one many a maiden feared.
And he felt nothing. Only a sense that he’d sunk even lower. That there could be no redemption for what he was about to do.
Sacrifices had to be made for those he loved. Even if it meant handing over an innocent.
As he continued through the longphort , the folk averted their gaze. They knew he had a female prisoner. Let them think what they wanted. The woman would not be his for long. After he gave her to King Magnus, she was no longer his responsibility. For now, she was the spoils of war.
And though tradition demanded that he punish her, conquer her body as any prisoner deserved, he intended to save her for the king.
When he reached a dwelling at the far side of the longphort , he pounded on the door. After it opened, he removed a golden band from his upper arm and handed it to Asgaut. The male warrior grunted and tested the weight.
“Prepare supplies and a horse for my journey. Send a message to Ludin that I am bringing a slave with me. We’ll need shelter there.”
“You’re going to Magnus.” It was not a question. Asgaut’s face grew taut.
“I am.”
“Jóra is likely dead, Tharand.” The accusation in Asgaut’s tone was unmistakable. “It is too late to save her.”
He made no excuses. He’d been a commander for years, his sword bringing justice and death to those who had earned it.
“Send the message,” he repeated. Without another word, he turned his back on Asgaut.
Aisling warmed her feet near the glowing embers upon the hearth, biting back the pain. Think, she cautioned herself. This was not a game; this was survival.
Know thine enemy , her father had always said. She shivered, remembering Tharand’s wide palm against her spine. The way he’d unwrapped the linen from her head, as gentle as a lover.
The single room contained the bed where she’d been bound, and a low table. Two chests made of oak were on the opposite side of the room.
Upon the back wall, she saw weapons. So that was the gleam of steel she’d noticed earlier. Battle-axes and swords, spears and knives hung in neat rows. One small ax head, slightly larger than her hand, was inlaid with silver wire. Twisting swirls resembled a dragon, while a single row of points outlined the center. Not a speck of rust marred the iron, nor any blood. Each blade was honed and polished.
The executioner’s hut, she thought dryly. But no, he was a warrior, so it made sense for him to have so many weapons.
What didn’t make sense was his lack of servants or people to tend the house. Where were the women? Her memory hearkened to the young boy’s terror at the sight of Tharand. Perhaps no one wanted to be near this warrior.
Herself included.
Aisling chose two blades, a small dagger and a knife the length of her hand. She contemplated tearing the hem of her gown, needing a scabbard for each blade. But then, why should she destroy her léine ? Tharand should pay the forfeit. After searching through one of the chests, she found a man’s linen tunic. Within moments, she cut a long strip of cloth and bound up the weapons, tying them to her thigh and calf.
She lowered her skirts, half expecting the warrior to stride in at any moment. When he
Killer. Cursed son of Odin.
They had called him worse, Tharand supposed. He was accustomed to it by now. But as much as his own people shunned him, they revered him in battle. Like one of the gods, he slew anyone who threatened them. During battle, he’d killed upon his king’s command, the guilty and the innocent alike. And for each life he’d taken, he’d carved a rune upon his own skin. Flesh for their flesh.
Tharand didn’t bother glancing back at the longhouse where he’d left the prisoner. Beautiful, she was, filled with fire and courage. Years ago, he might have pitied her. Stolen from her family and about to be gifted to a king, her fate was one many a maiden feared.
And he felt nothing. Only a sense that he’d sunk even lower. That there could be no redemption for what he was about to do.
Sacrifices had to be made for those he loved. Even if it meant handing over an innocent.
As he continued through the longphort , the folk averted their gaze. They knew he had a female prisoner. Let them think what they wanted. The woman would not be his for long. After he gave her to King Magnus, she was no longer his responsibility. For now, she was the spoils of war.
And though tradition demanded that he punish her, conquer her body as any prisoner deserved, he intended to save her for the king.
When he reached a dwelling at the far side of the longphort , he pounded on the door. After it opened, he removed a golden band from his upper arm and handed it to Asgaut. The male warrior grunted and tested the weight.
“Prepare supplies and a horse for my journey. Send a message to Ludin that I am bringing a slave with me. We’ll need shelter there.”
“You’re going to Magnus.” It was not a question. Asgaut’s face grew taut.
“I am.”
“Jóra is likely dead, Tharand.” The accusation in Asgaut’s tone was unmistakable. “It is too late to save her.”
He made no excuses. He’d been a commander for years, his sword bringing justice and death to those who had earned it.
“Send the message,” he repeated. Without another word, he turned his back on Asgaut.
Aisling warmed her feet near the glowing embers upon the hearth, biting back the pain. Think, she cautioned herself. This was not a game; this was survival.
Know thine enemy , her father had always said. She shivered, remembering Tharand’s wide palm against her spine. The way he’d unwrapped the linen from her head, as gentle as a lover.
The single room contained the bed where she’d been bound, and a low table. Two chests made of oak were on the opposite side of the room.
Upon the back wall, she saw weapons. So that was the gleam of steel she’d noticed earlier. Battle-axes and swords, spears and knives hung in neat rows. One small ax head, slightly larger than her hand, was inlaid with silver wire. Twisting swirls resembled a dragon, while a single row of points outlined the center. Not a speck of rust marred the iron, nor any blood. Each blade was honed and polished.
The executioner’s hut, she thought dryly. But no, he was a warrior, so it made sense for him to have so many weapons.
What didn’t make sense was his lack of servants or people to tend the house. Where were the women? Her memory hearkened to the young boy’s terror at the sight of Tharand. Perhaps no one wanted to be near this warrior.
Herself included.
Aisling chose two blades, a small dagger and a knife the length of her hand. She contemplated tearing the hem of her gown, needing a scabbard for each blade. But then, why should she destroy her léine ? Tharand should pay the forfeit. After searching through one of the chests, she found a man’s linen tunic. Within moments, she cut a long strip of cloth and bound up the weapons, tying them to her thigh and calf.
She lowered her skirts, half expecting the warrior to stride in at any moment. When he
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