Edin's embrace Read Online Free PDF

raised her hands over her head, joined them into one fist, and went for him, went for his bearded face with all her strength.
    He merely lifted his free hand and caught her doubled fists in fingers of steel. At the same time he jerked her forward so that she fell against him. It was like falling against a stone wall. There was no give in his stance, no give in his hard chest beneath his metal war shirt. She tried to arch away from the shocking contact, but now his hand was around her waist. Her face lifted beneath his chin. She shook her head to throw the wisps of her hair out of her eyes and saw him staring down the nosepiece of his helmet at her. She felt her will waver, then crumble into fear.
    His smile was thin, his voice soft, soft: "Even the dullest thrall knows never to strike her master."
    Part of her mind absorbed that he'd spoken this in Saxon, and part of it absorbed what the words meant. She struggled again, now with strength born of terror. Her hand went to his face, really hoping to scratch his eyes out so that she might escape him.
    As if impatient with such puny resistance he simply shoved her away. She stumbled back, tripped over the dead Viking's legs, and fell. For a moment she was wrapped in her hair. When she got it out of her eyes, she paused. She dared not look at Cedric, at that open dark hole his mouth made in his dead face. Nor did she dare look at the standing Viking. She felt relieved when he turned his grey, unflinching gaze to the door. He bellowed, "Rolf Kali!"
    In a moment, a third Viking entered, big, as evidently were all their breed, showing reddish hair beneath an iron helmet decorated with copper and red rubies. He looked about him, his roving gaze ending with the Viking on the floor. The two spoke; their jaws seemed to chew the unintelligible Norse words like gristle. Then the newcomer looked at Edin. A droll little grin escaped his mouth.
    Cedric's murderer approached her. She tried to scramble away, but he caught her arm in a grim grip and pulled her up. She raised her hands over her face, anticipating a blow, but he only spun her around so that her back was to him, and wrapped his arm around her rib cage beneath her breasts. Thus he lifted her right off her feet. She was held with her back to his chest. She struggled again, tore at his arm, kicked. Since her feet were bare, she knew he hardly felt her heels beating against his legging-wrapped shins, yet he growled at her, in Saxon again, "Don't take on so."
    She
would
take on. She must. If she surrendered, her vulnerability and helplessness would rush at her.
    He gave her ribs a squeeze. "Still you don't learn! A man would be dead and stark already for what you've done."
    She gasped for breath — then went on writhing under his forearm. His hold, and her straining, served little by little to draw up her shift, so that the whiteness of her upper legs flashed. She heard his icy voice again, speaking in Norse to the redheaded Viking who stood watching with that grin dancing around his face. The giant seemed to be issuing an order, something severe and unsparing—then he paused, as if listening. The redheaded man turned a little, also listening. Among the garrulous, loud voices coming up from the hall, Edin now heard a terrible battle laugh.
    The two men looked at one another. They spoke again, briefly, while Edin went back to twisting in the giant's grip. His arm didn't give a bit, though she was becoming exhausted; her movements were jerky, puppetlike.
    Then suddenly her wriggles brought her breast into the palm of his hand. Her heart jumped up into her throat and nearly throttled her. As if he too felt something akin to an uprushing flame, the Viking all but threw her at the man he called Rolf.
    Rolf let her put her bare feet on the floor before he pulled her from the room. After the dimness of her chamber, the sudden torchlight was strong. When her sight adjusted, she beheld the ruin of the manor hall.
    The place was all alight. The