Lord of Hawkfell Island by Catherine Coulter Read Free Book Online Page B

painful spasms.
    Rorik looked at her, his frown building. “Finish it.”
    She looked up at him, holding the blanket tightly over her breasts. “It tastes like pig swill. There is so much grease on the top that it has hardened.”
    She thought he would burst with rage but she didn’t care. If he struck her, perhaps he would kill her. At the moment, it didn’t matter, nothing mattered.
    He seemed to get control of himself. He lifted the bowl and took a bite. It was bad, he thought, very bad. Worse than it usually was, though that was usually bad enough of late. Even the women who prepared food well seemed to have forgotten over the past weeks. It was Entti, he thought, the women had given the task again to Entti. He sighed, but he didn’t give in, he was still too furious with her. She was his prisoner, less than a slave, and yet she dared to speak her mind as if she were the mistress here. She dared to show her disgust for him and for his farmstead. She dared to scorn the food that only a halfwit would eat. She dared to allow Kerzog, the dog he’d raised from a pup, a very small pup, just watch her but make no threatening growls or moves. He said, “You will consume it as you would a feast. Every bite. If you don’t, then you may go hungry, I care not. You can starve.”
    â€œI can’t eat it,” she said, and knew immediately that he would indeed not give her anything else to eat. “I won’t eat it.” For how long? Would he let her starve to death? “No one could eat it.” She looked at him, at the closed expression, at the anger in his eyes. She didn’twant to starve. She fancied it wouldn’t be a very pleasant way to die. It would be far too slow even though she was already so hungry she’d believed she could eat anything. She’d been wrong.
    Drowning would have been better. She would simply have to escape, that was all, and then when he caught her, as she was certain he would, for it was an island, after all, he would kill her. It would be over.
    She smiled at him. “Give me the comb.”
    He tossed it at her, then left the chamber without another word.
    Â 
    Mirana knew it was late at night because the loud voices that had filled the silence for hour upon hour were now silent. Nearly everyone must be asleep. She’d slept most of the afternoon, but she’d awakened, hungry and alone, and laid there. Her stomach churned and clenched and growled. No one had come. She’d had no desire to rise and go into the huge outer room.
    She wondered where he was. This was his sleeping chamber, she was sure of it. Where was he?
    As if conjured up by her mind, he came into the room. There was a fresh bandage of soft white linen wrapped around his shoulder. He was clean and dressed in a fresh tunic belted at his waist. He was big and powerful, his hair thick and blond on his head, his eyes the light blue of a Viking whose blood wasn’t tainted, as was hers. He was clean shaven. He was a magnificent animal, she supposed, but she didn’t care. She wished she’d killed him. Her fingers itched for her knife.
    He held a rush torch light in his right hand. He held it high and looked at her. “You’re awake, are you?”
    She said nothing.
    â€œGood. Now I shan’t have to rouse you and listen to your endless complaints. At least I had the foresight to have you bathe.”
    He was going to ravish her. She held perfectly still, preparing herself for his attack. She wouldn’t give in to him easily. She would fight him until he was forced to strike her, perhaps kill her. She waited, her muscles tensed, ready. If only she had her knife, if only.
    He doused the rush torch light. She heard him removing his clothing. He sat on the far side of the bed, so close to her really, and she pictured him taking off his boots.
    Then he rose and she knew he was coming to the other side of the bed, to her. Her heart thudded hard and