Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 59320 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59320 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
Rolf chuckled, a deep, rolling sound. “Because killing should be an art. It should be an event. It should be fun. It’s what Odin wants for us, why Valhalla awaits us. You know, I miss those days when I could see the passion in your eyes. My gods, you were quite the sight, Erik. You were something else.”
He was someone else.
“I am sure this will be an event,” Erik conceded. “So, what is our strategy?”
And with that deft change of subject, Erik got Rolf focused on something else. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much strategy to this attack. There was no sneaking or hiding or spies or Trojan horses. They were going to ride up on their horses and attack. And unlike the way the French rulers fought, Rolf would be at the very front, battering down the manor’s front door.
When Erik returned to Cherine, she was huddled by the log, looking put out. As soon as she saw him, she jumped to her feet and ran over to him.
Her delicate hands clasped around his arm, and his heart warmed at her touch. “I thought you had left! I didn’t know what happened to you.”
“I was just talking with Rolf.”
“You left me alone,” she went on, still panicked, perhaps even annoyed. “I could have been attacked.”
He smiled. “I didn’t leave you alone. I had someone watching over you this whole time.”
Erik looked to the trees and waved his arm. Cherine peered over, and a strapping young man came out from behind a tree.
He was a year old than Cherine and had messy black hair that waved around his forehead and stopped at the nape of his neck. Though his attempts at a full beard never took, he sported a goatee and mustache that made his young face look more rugged while his hazel eyes glowed with youth. He was not only a good-looking young man, but an eager one as well, and Erik held him in high regard.
“Cherine, this is Knut,” Erik introduced them.
She raised her brows while Knut did a small bow.
“Knut is one of the few men I trust,” he explained. “He grew up down the road from me in Møre, his mother and my mother very good friends. He doesn’t understand a lick of French, so I’m afraid he won’t be good for conversation. However, he will take care of you during the battle.”
Her eyes widened to emerald pools, fear palpable in them. “Battle?”
“Yes, battle. Saint Martin should only be a few more hours, and then we must take over. You understand.”
“You know I do not.”
“Regardless,” he said, turning from her and placing his hand on Knut’s shoulder, “you will be in Knut’s care. You’ll both stay with the carts, watching over them and each other. And I’m sorry, but…”
Erik reached down and picked up the rope. Before Cherine had a chance to react, he had grabbed her by the arms and pinned her wrists together.
“You bastard,” she sneered, trying to do serious damage with her eyes. “Why are you tying me up again?!”
“Because I don’t trust you with Knut. I also can’t risk you running off to join your fellow countrymen, perhaps even trying to warn them. If you did that, you’d end up killed in some way.”
“Are you going to be the one to kill me?” She glared at him as he finished the knot.
“Now that you’re tied up? No.”
She was back to hating him, and he wondered how long that would last. It didn’t matter, though; the ropes were for her own protection. If she tried to run off—and he knew she would the moment she saw another Frenchman—the others would try and kill her on the spot.
And knowing Rolf’s twisted sense of justice, he knew he’d be the one forced to do the killing.
Chapter 11
Cherine
Ihad never been so angry. I was angry not only at Erik for tying me back up, but at myself, for thinking he was interested in anything more than just keeping me as a sexual slave.
Oh, well, I suppose I was also upset that I was starting to like the idea of being his sexual slave.
Now that we were approaching Saint Martin, I was at the back of the rear cart, perched uncomfortably between a sack of grain for the horses and a stack of slaughtered chickens. When I wasn’t waving the flies away with my bound hands, I was glaring at Knut, who was sitting across from me. I had thrown a bunch of French obscenities his way, but Knut had only smiled in response. He was no dummy, though. He just enjoyed my vivacious company.
When the constant creak and rocking of the cart came to a stop, I knew we had reached our destination. I tried to get a good look at the village of Saint Martin, but I couldn’t see beyond the massive line of horses in front of me. The only thing I could see were rolling farm fields with a few peasants working in them. As soon as they spotted us Vikings, their small forms darted across the fields. In minutes, the whole village would know we were at war, if they hadn’t known already.