Lord of Raven's Peak - Catherine Coulter [49]
In her hand were seven small silver pieces. She closed her fist over them, holding them close. They tingled against her flesh. Perhaps they were enough to buy her freedom and Taby’s and Cleve’s. She said, “I would speak to you, Merrik, perhaps on the morrow. It is important.” Then she was uncertain. She had eleven pieces of silver. Surely that was a lot of silver, but she had no idea what she or Cleve were worth in the slave market. “Perhaps I can speak to you not tomorrow, but later, perhaps in three or four days. Or perhaps I can question you about certain things, about the value of things.”
She’d said nothing about Taby, sleeping soundly, now cupped in one of his arms against his shoulder, and that surprised him. “Your meaning is as clear as a piece of bog ore. Nay, don’t try to confuse me or yourself more. Now, I would have a promise from you. Do you swear you will stay close to the longhouse and to Sarla?” She frowned at him, then nodded, not understanding. He knew she didn’t, but said nothing more.
Early the next morning when she went to relieve herself, she came out of the privy to see Erik standing there, his hands on his hips.
“I have been waiting for you,” he said, and he smiled at her.
“Why?” He frowned and she quickly added, “My lord.”
“That is better. I am the lord of Malverne and you are naught but a slave. It is good you don’t forget that. You are comely, Laren. You are still much too thin, but I shall take care not to grind myself against your bones.”
“Why would you wish to do that?” But she knew what he wanted now, she recognized the lust in his eyes, and his supreme confidence. He wanted her and he would have her, and she recognized the certainty in him. But she would feign ignorance until she could think of something, anything . . .
“Actually, Merrik tells me you are still very thin but you don’t look thin with your gown and tunic covering you. I will remove your clothes, look at you and study you and decide for myself.”
Still, she merely cocked her head to the side and looked at him like a questioning half-wit. “My lord, I will go assist your wife now. I make an excellent porridge.”
“You will assist no one but me, Laren.” He took a step toward her now and Laren quickly took a step back. He frowned. “What are you doing? I am lord here, and if I want to bed you I will bed you. You have no say in the matter. But still, I am a man of handsome parts and there is no reason why you wouldn’t want me to touch you and caress you.”
Ah, she thought, but the parts didn’t add up into a handsome whole. She said hesitantly, looking beyond his left shoulder, “I cannot, my lord. I am Merrik’s slave, his possession. I am his concubine. You must ask him if you wish to share me with him.”
That drew Erik up short. He frowned. “My brother said nothing about keeping you. You haven’t slept with him. By all the gods, he sleeps with your little brother, or alone. You lie, wench. He doesn’t want you. He even told me so. He said he took you only because you were the child’s sister.”
She felt a shaft of pain at his words, a pain so deep she thought she’d strangle with it, but she managed to say calmly enough, “It is my monthly flow. Merrik doesn’t like to touch me at those times.”
“I am surprised my brother would let such a simple thing deter him. As for me, I don’t care.” Erik took another step toward her.
She shook her head even as she eased to her left, toward the longhouse. To her unspeakable relief, one of Erik’s men, Sturla by name, a huge man with arms larger than her legs, bulging with muscle, came striding from the longhouse. He said, “The