curve of her cheeks,
and her full, rosy lips. His chest pinched, and he felt a stirring between his
legs.
It was going to be a
long sennight’s voyage back to Dalgaard.
Chapter Seven
Laurel scrubbed the
back of her forearm over her brow, trying to keep the sweat out of her eyes.
She rolled her neck from side to side to ease the ache, but moving her head
like that only brought on the seasickness again.
She’d slept uneasily last
night, though she was grateful to get to rest unmolested. Grimar hadn’t made a
move toward her during the night, which was a small blessing in these otherwise
nightmarish conditions.
When he’d risen and
kicked her legs to wake her, however, the blessing seemed small indeed. He’d
put her to work all morning and throughout the hot afternoon.
First he had her drag
his sea chest to the bow, which was now their apparent residence on the ship—as
far away from the stern as possible, where she spied Eirik standing so
frequently at the tiller. The sea chest was so heavy and large that she’d had
to get on her hands and knees and push it with her shoulder one painful inch at
a time. Of course, this had drawn chuckles of derision from her master.
Then he’d forced her to
polish each and every last piece of loot he’d stashed in the chest. With
trembling fingers , she’d scrubbed the golden
candlestick holders and bejeweled crosses that had once adorned Whitby’s
chapel. When a particular spot wouldn’t come out of a silver platter, Grimar
had snatched it from her and spit on it. She’d had to hold back tears of rage
and frustration at the sacrilege of his actions. Her tears would do her no
good, however, so she bowed her head and forced them back.
Now she was on her
knees yet again, but this time to scrub the deck at the bow. Grimar had guided
her roughly to the middle of the ship and indicated that she get to work
cleaning the deck, but then he and Eirik had exchanged words that crackled with
animosity. Apparently Grimar couldn’t order her to clean the entire ship, just
the corner he’d been banished to at the bow. So he’d had her scrub the small
triangle of decking over and over for what must have been hours by now.
The hot sun beat down
on her unprotected head, and she swiped her arm over her face again. She’d long
ago finished the water skin that the female Viking had given her, and besides
the heel of flatbread Grimar had tossed her that morning, she’d had naught else
to eat. Despite being on this accursed ship for nigh two days, her body still
rebelled at the motion of the rolling sea. She’d already dry-heaved once today,
and she could feel the bile rising in the back of her throat once again.
Suddenly a shadow
blocked out the sun overhead. Laurel’s relief was short-lived, for when she
glanced up, she saw Grimar looming over her.
He said something to
her in his language. She shook her head, uncomprehending. He pointed to his sea
chest, which sat a few feet away, then pointed to the middle of the ship where
she’d pushed it from that morning.
“Nay,” she said, her
heart sinking. “Not again.”
Grimar’s frown deepened
and he pointed once more to his sea chest, barking out what sounded like a
command.
Laurel dropped the rag
she’d been using to scrub the deck and crawled to the chest, too exhausted to
resist him. She was used to hard work, and to taking orders from those above
her, yet never in her life had she been treated like this—like less than the
lowliest of farm animals. But when she tried to fight him, he was quick to knock
her to the deck, kick her, or twist her arm until she yelped in submission.
This was as low as a human could stoop—this monster used her weakness, her
pain, and her fear to enslave her.
She put her shoulder to
the side of the sea chest and pushed it with what little strength she had left.
It nudged forward a few inches. She took a deep breath and pushed again, this
time gaining only an inch. Bracing herself, she
and her full, rosy lips. His chest pinched, and he felt a stirring between his
legs.
It was going to be a
long sennight’s voyage back to Dalgaard.
Chapter Seven
Laurel scrubbed the
back of her forearm over her brow, trying to keep the sweat out of her eyes.
She rolled her neck from side to side to ease the ache, but moving her head
like that only brought on the seasickness again.
She’d slept uneasily last
night, though she was grateful to get to rest unmolested. Grimar hadn’t made a
move toward her during the night, which was a small blessing in these otherwise
nightmarish conditions.
When he’d risen and
kicked her legs to wake her, however, the blessing seemed small indeed. He’d
put her to work all morning and throughout the hot afternoon.
First he had her drag
his sea chest to the bow, which was now their apparent residence on the ship—as
far away from the stern as possible, where she spied Eirik standing so
frequently at the tiller. The sea chest was so heavy and large that she’d had
to get on her hands and knees and push it with her shoulder one painful inch at
a time. Of course, this had drawn chuckles of derision from her master.
Then he’d forced her to
polish each and every last piece of loot he’d stashed in the chest. With
trembling fingers , she’d scrubbed the golden
candlestick holders and bejeweled crosses that had once adorned Whitby’s
chapel. When a particular spot wouldn’t come out of a silver platter, Grimar
had snatched it from her and spit on it. She’d had to hold back tears of rage
and frustration at the sacrilege of his actions. Her tears would do her no
good, however, so she bowed her head and forced them back.
Now she was on her
knees yet again, but this time to scrub the deck at the bow. Grimar had guided
her roughly to the middle of the ship and indicated that she get to work
cleaning the deck, but then he and Eirik had exchanged words that crackled with
animosity. Apparently Grimar couldn’t order her to clean the entire ship, just
the corner he’d been banished to at the bow. So he’d had her scrub the small
triangle of decking over and over for what must have been hours by now.
The hot sun beat down
on her unprotected head, and she swiped her arm over her face again. She’d long
ago finished the water skin that the female Viking had given her, and besides
the heel of flatbread Grimar had tossed her that morning, she’d had naught else
to eat. Despite being on this accursed ship for nigh two days, her body still
rebelled at the motion of the rolling sea. She’d already dry-heaved once today,
and she could feel the bile rising in the back of her throat once again.
Suddenly a shadow
blocked out the sun overhead. Laurel’s relief was short-lived, for when she
glanced up, she saw Grimar looming over her.
He said something to
her in his language. She shook her head, uncomprehending. He pointed to his sea
chest, which sat a few feet away, then pointed to the middle of the ship where
she’d pushed it from that morning.
“Nay,” she said, her
heart sinking. “Not again.”
Grimar’s frown deepened
and he pointed once more to his sea chest, barking out what sounded like a
command.
Laurel dropped the rag
she’d been using to scrub the deck and crawled to the chest, too exhausted to
resist him. She was used to hard work, and to taking orders from those above
her, yet never in her life had she been treated like this—like less than the
lowliest of farm animals. But when she tried to fight him, he was quick to knock
her to the deck, kick her, or twist her arm until she yelped in submission.
This was as low as a human could stoop—this monster used her weakness, her
pain, and her fear to enslave her.
She put her shoulder to
the side of the sea chest and pushed it with what little strength she had left.
It nudged forward a few inches. She took a deep breath and pushed again, this
time gaining only an inch. Bracing herself, she
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