12
Zarabeth stared up at him, watching his eyes darken, his expression become more intent, color stain his cheeks. But he wasn’t looking at her face, he was staring down at her naked belly, at the fiery red curls, as vivid and brigh
t as the hair of her head. Strangely gentle, as if uncertain of himself, he lowered his hand and his fingers lightly skimmed through the curls to find her.
She couldn’t believe he was touching her like this, couldn’t accept it. She felt such shame, such fear, she thought she would choke on it. When his fingers slid between her legs, she cried, out, bucking wildly upward to dislodge his hand. But instead of defeating him, she felt his middle finger push slowly into her, widening her.
She cried out.
Magnus closed his eyes against the onslaught of feeling. It was just lust he felt, nothing more, just lust for a woman’s body, any woman’s body, but the heat of her and her smallness were overwhelming, and he knew his finger was hurting her, stretching her, for she was narrow and dry, her body fighting him. He pressed with difficulty further into her. She was crying now, twisting madly to get him away from her, but she couldn’t move him, couldn’t make him stop. She reared up suddenly, freeing one of her hands from his grasp, and struck him on the mouth as hard as she could. He simply thrust his finger further into her and watched as she gasped with pain, her eyes going blank, all movement frozen in that instant. Their eyes met in that moment and he cleared away all expression and stared at her. He smiled at her as he shoved his finger in more deeply. He pushed her back down, holding her there with his palm splayed on her belly. She was striking him, but he felt no pain, felt nothing but the heat of her body, the softness of her, the pain—no he wouldn’t accept that, he wouldn’t care about that. What she felt mattered not to him.
By Odin, he couldn’t believe her still a maid, yet her passage was so narrow, so tight, he thought she must be. He felt his member swell and harden; he was in such need he knew he must come into her now or he would spill his seed.
He withdrew his finger suddenly, wanting to retain his control. He felt her flinch as he did so, but she didn’t quieten, but only increased her struggles against him. He paid her no heed. He said nothing, merely jerked her legs apart and rolled over on top of her, pressing himself against her. He reared up then to free himself from his loincloth, his hand trembling, his body quivering with the pulsing need that was filling him to overflowing. Suddenly, his hair was being yanked off his head. He heard a shrill mewling sound and he felt small fists pounding at his shoulders.
With an animal growl, fury blinding him, he jerked about to fight off his attacker. It took him a moment to realize that it was Lotti, trying to save her sister.
From his rape.
He didn’t believe it was happening, but it was, and he was both enraged and bewildered. He heard Horkel then, saying from without, “Nay, go not in there, Tostig. Magnus will deal with the child. It is not our business.”
“Aye, but we should have stopped her! By Thor, he will not be pleased about this.”
He wasn’t pleased; it was a vast understatement. Magnus wondered just what he was to do with a writhing woman beneath him, a sex that hurt him so that he thought he would die with it, and a small girl striking him with all her strength. He suddenly laughed, at himself, at the ridiculous situation. He gave it up; his need dwindled as the ashes on a summer hearth. He released Zarabeth and quickly rolled off her, coming up on his knees, quickly covering himself.
Zarabeth hadn’t at first understood. Then she saw Lotti and realized that the child had thrown herself on Magnus. Lotti drew away from Magnus now, her eyes on her sister, tear streaks down her dirty cheeks. The child was terrified, but still she stood her ground between Zarabeth and Magnus, her mouth quivering, her small shoulders squared.
Zarabeth wanted to weep at the loyalty of her little sister. “Come, sweeting,” she said quickly, scrambling to her knees and holding out her arms, “ ’tis all right. I’m all right. Nay, don’t weep, and don’t be frightened. Magnus and I were just playing, aye, that’s it, playing, wrestling the way boys do, but he wanted to show me some of the moves he knew, nothing more. Come and let me hug you.”
She gathered the child to her, and soothing Lotti calmed her. She pressed the child’s head to her shoulder and looked up at Magnus, who sat cross-legged not two feet from her. He was still breathing heavily, but had himself well in hand now. She watched a strange smile curve his lips as he said, “Aye, wrestling. Naught but a game, just as you told the child. Aye, but a game you will lose, Zarabeth, for I am your master in all things.”
“You are an animal,” she said clearly, and was surprised at the calm of her voice. “ ’Tis no game to you, but a savage contest of might. You are the stronger, so you think you can take what you want from someone weaker. You disgust me.” She looked away from him and continued stroking Lotti’s back and whispering soft sounds to her.
His mouth tightened and he felt the familiar burning anger at her twist in his belly. But now wasn’t the time. He waved his hand at the child. “What is wrong with her? She makes strange noises. Is she half-witted?”
“No, she is without hearing.”
Magnus looked disbelieving. Suddenly he reared up on his knees and clapped his hands loudly at the back of Lotti’s head. The little girl didn’t move. He looked perplexed, then sat back again.
“Was she born this way?”
“Nay, Olav struck her when she was but two years old. She was unconscious for two days after, and when she awoke, she was without hearing.” She paused, remembering her fear, her fury at Olav. “I wanted to kill him for what he’d done, for he didn’t even care. She could have died and it wouldn’t have touched him. To excuse what he did, he pretended she was a half-wit, and that is what he told others.”
“You did get your revenge on Olav,” he said, then immediately added, “She says your name, but it’s in a slurred way.”
“Aye, she could say several things before he hit her. And since she knows some sounds and some meanings of things, with patience, she can learn to speak more words.”
“You should have told me this.”
She stared at him, amazement, contempt, writ clear on her face. “Why? So that you could have planned your brutality with more craft? So that you would have but another weapon to use against me?”
“I would not use a child against any man.”
“Aye, but I’m not a man, merely a woman.”
“Nay, you’re a slave first, and then a woman.”
She looked down, not responding to him. What was the use? She patted Lotti and spoke quietly to her, pulling away so she could see the child’s face. It was as if she no longer recognized that he was there. She’d simply retreated from him, withdrawn into herself. It enraged him.