Fires of Winter by Johanna Lindsey Page B

forgetting you lost your only legitimate daughter because of his sons?” Hugh hissed.
    “I am not forgetting. As Odin is my witness, the others will pay one day as Edgar did. But there will be no sneak attacks, no foul play. ’Twill be done with honor.” Anselm rose from the tub and was quickly wrapped in a woolen robe by the pretty slave girl. “I trust two of their cows were also found dead?”
    Hugh grinned and relaxed. “They were.”
    “Good,” Anselm replied. “So ’tis again their move. And now that Heloise can find no fault with me, I will dress and meet you at the hall.”
    “I was told you returned with captives.”
    “I did. Seven in all.”
    “I am curious,” Hugh continued. “They say one was a small man with very long black hair. You have enough male slaves. Why bring this one?”
    Anselm chuckled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “The one you speak of is also a woman. In truth, she is the one they would have wed to your brother.”
    “Eh? The Lady Brenna? I am eager to see that one.”
    “She had courage like I have never seen in a woman. She fought us with sword in hand, and wounded Thorne. Her spirit was magnificent to watch.”
    “I want her.”
    “What?”
    “I said I want her,” Hugh replied. “Garrick hates women, and you have Heloise. My wife is timid, as are my slaves. I want a woman with spirit.”
    “You have not even seen her yet, Hugh,” Anselm remarked, his lips turning slightly upward. “This little beauty has more spirit than you would want. She is viciously hostile, filled with bitter hatred.”
    “Her spirit can be broken,” Hugh said, his eyes lighting in anticipation. “I still want her.”
    “Her spirit need not be broken,” Anselm said harshly. “It is my wish to give her to Garrick. She is what he needs to end his own bitterness.” He did not add that she was still a virgin, for then Hugh would surely want her, and as first born he had the right. “There is a flame-haired wench with spirit who would be more to your liking. She is better curved, as you like them, and more pliable.”
    “And if I choose the Lady Brenna?”
    “’Twould please me if you did not, Hugh,” Anselm warned.
    “We shall see,” Hugh replied noncommittally as they left the bathhouse.
     
    The door flew open. Dust swirled, then floated gently in the shaft of sunlight that fell on the dirt floor of the small house. When the prisoners were led out into the yard, all of them shielded their eyes from the glaring sun. They were escorted to the main house, pushed through the open door that allowed the smoke from the fires to escape, and left to stand in the center of the crowded room.
    Linnet recognized the men seated at two long tables and on benches against the walls. They were from the ship. Many were gathered at the end of one table, where a board game was being played. A large man she had not seen before was examining a fine gray horse that had been brought into the room with the women. She gasped when she saw that it was Brenna’s horse, Willow. If Brenna saw that, there was no telling what she would do. Luckily, she did not. She was staring with undisguised loathing at Anselm the Eager, and did not even glance at the horses when they were led from the room.
    Anselm sat at the head of one table. He was served by young girls dressed in rough, undyed wool—slaves, no doubt. Beside him was a woman not much older than Linnet, regally gowned in yellow silk. Next to her was another woman, young and plump, with the same blond hair that most of the people here had.
    The tall man who looked Willow over now came to where the prisoners stood. Pushing Linnet aside, he stopped in front of Brenna. He lifted Brenna’s face to examine it, just as he had done moments earlier to the horse, but she knocked his hand away with her bound wrists, the fury in her eyes defying him to touch her again.
    Brenna smelled the maleness of him, the smell of sweat and horses. He so resembled Anselm the Eager