Harper George - Enslaved by the Viking

She set the bowl aside and leaned back against the wall to watch the men as they ate and talked. It had just occurred to her to wonder why there were no women—women who weren’t servants or slaves—when Eirik got to his feet. Her heart leaped, as it had a disturbing habit of doing every time she thought he might address her, but he didn’t look her way as he left the dais and headed outside.

Her mouth went dry as she looked around the room. She didn’t like being left alone in the hall without him. Despite her earlier fears of him, he was all that stood between her and them, and he did make her feel safe. She was contemplating making her way back to the bedchamber when the jarl called Hilla over. It was clear they were talking about her from Hilla’s glance her way.

That fear was confirmed when Hilla came over and knelt beside her. ‘Merewyn, you must go attend to Lord Eirik. Jarl Hegard commands it.’

‘Where is he?’

‘The baths.’

* * *

Merewyn worried the inside of her bottom lip as she struggled to find the courage to open the door. The wind was cold, as Hilla had made her take off her woollen dress so now she wore only her linen undershift, and her feet were bare. Shoes were not allowed in the baths. But the cold did not spur her to enter, even though she could feel the heat from inside seeping through the door. She was too afraid of what she would find there.

‘Go!’

She grimaced as she glanced to where Hilla stood tending the cook fire, which was a good thirty paces away from the bathhouse, but the woman watched. Taking a deep breath, she reminded herself of Eirik’s vow to not harm her, then pushed the door open and stepped inside. It took a long moment before her eyes adjusted to the meagre lantern light that penetrated the steam. Her skin was immediately wet with it, but it was a pleasant warmth after the cold.

Empty benches lined two walls, and a third held a long hearth where flat stones had been laid upon a smouldering fire. Casks of what she assumed to be water sat near it, the source of the steam. She didn’t see Eirik, but she heard someone just on the other side of a partition that quartered the room, so she stepped in that direction.

His deep voice filled the silence. He’d spoken a command, but it was in his own Norse language, so she was certain he hadn’t realised that it was she who had joined him. Had the jarl really sent her without Eirik’s knowledge? But the moment she rounded the corner, her ability to speak and alert him to her presence fled as quickly as any modesty she might have possessed. He had just stepped out of his trousers, his last garment, so he stood there gloriously naked before her, though facing away from her.

Hard muscles worked beneath the golden smoothness of his skin as he folded the garment and placed it on a bench. Merewyn couldn’t help but notice how wide and powerful his shoulders were. His back was long and lean where it led to a tapered waist. It was marred by a patchwork of scars that she assumed were from battle. Perhaps from the nicks of the many blades he must have fought over the years. There wasn’t a spare inch of flesh on him. Even his buttocks were chiselled with muscle. He exuded strength and confidence. It was then she admitted that under other circumstances she might have found him handsome. If Alfred had presented him to her as a potential husband, she would have encouraged his suit—had he been Saxon.

But Alfred would probably never present a suitor to her now, and it was all because of this Dane before her. The thought made her angry, so she was standing there with clenched fists when he turned around. She caught a glimpse of male flesh framed in dark blond curls before she pulled her gaze away, her face flaming.

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