To Love Again - Bertrice Small [194]
She shook her head in the negative, but he only smiled, and reaching back, found her little jewel with his fingers and began to pinch it cruelly. Cailin cried out with the pain, and beaten, began to comply with his desire.
“Ahh, yes, my little fox vixen,” he groaned as she stirred up his lust. “You’re skilled beyond any I’ve ever known!” His eyes closed with his pleasure.
Cailin stealthily moved her arms back over her head even as she continued to tease her captor with her tongue. One hand began to surreptitiously feel beneath the feather bed in the straw. She moved carefully, slowly, terrified that she might attract his attention to what she was doing. Where was it? Had he found it himself?
“Enough!” roared Ragnar Strongspear, drawing his engorged organ from her mouth. “This randy fellow wants to seek his proper place!” He began to slide himself down her body so he might couple with her.
She couldn’t find it! Cailin’s fingers sought desperately. It had to be there! She must delay him in his intent. “Ohhh, my lord,” she pleaded prettily with him, “Will you not give me a bit of the same pleasure I have given you? Ohh, please! I must have it!”
Laughter rumbled up from his chest. “Then you shall have your desire, my russet-haired little fox vixen! I will not disappoint you!” Yanking her legs apart, he almost dove between them.
Cailin attempted to block the feel of his wet tongue on her flesh. Frantic, she dug into the straw beneath the feather bed, and just when she was certain that he must have found it and removed it earlier, her hand was sliced slightly by the blade she sought. Relief pouring through her, Cailin grasped the weapon, ignoring the pain of her wound. “Ohhh! Ohhh!” she cried, remembering he would expect something of her for his obscene efforts. “Oh, it is good! I am ready for you, my lord!”
Wordless, Ragnar Strongspear positioned himself.
“Ohh, kiss me!” Cailin cried to him, and when he leaned forward to cover her mouth with his, she plunged her knife several times into his back. With a surprised grunt, he rolled off of her onto his back. He was wounded, but not mortally so, she saw. “Bitch!” he growled at her. “You’ll pay for that!”
Cailin quickly straddled him, grasped his head by the hair, and yanking it back, swiftly cut Ragnar Strongspear’s throat. The look of total amazement in his eyes faded so rapidly that she wasn’t even certain she had actually seen it. She scrambled off of him and stood shivering, staring down at the dead man, not even sure he was really dead. She was afraid for a long moment that he would jump up, but no. He was dead. Very dead. She had killed Ragnar Strongspear. She had killed a man.
Cailin began to weep softly with relief. When at last her sobs subsided, she became aware of the fact that she was covered in blood. His blood. She shuddered with distaste, and forcing herself to function, moved across the solar, poured water into a basin and washed, washed, washed, until finally she was clean again. Being clean and having fresh garments seemed to help a little. She avoided looking across the room to the bed space where Ragnar Strongspear lay sprawled in a widening pool of his own blood. Instead she sat down by her loom, eventually dozing with exhaustion, until the birds, twittering excitedly in the predawn, roused her. Starting awake, Cailin remembered what had happend the previous night.
What was she going to do? When Ragnar’s men discovered that she had killed their master, and they certainly would, they would kill her. She would never see Wulf and their children again. Nervous tears began to slide down her pale cheeks. No! She would not allow herself to be slaughtered like a frightened rabbit.
Perhaps she could escape Cadda-wic before Ragnar’s body was discovered. It was very early, and no one was stirring in the hall. She could climb down, and then she would hide the ladder to the solar. Everyone would assume Ragnar was sleeping off the excesses of his night’s sport. She would rouse the