The Barbarian Read Online Free PDF

guilt—could be
ascertained, but the hut's most common use was to hold the drunk and unruly in
custody until they came to their senses. Perfect.
    He leapt down and
dragged the woman over his shoulder.
    "Now
what?" she cried, her long braids slapping him in the face as she twisted
about, trying to see where he took her. "Now where—? Put me down! I
insist, you filthy barbarian!"
    " You insist? I am the master here, woman.
You do naught but obey."
    Stryker tossed her
onto the heap of straw inside the hut, slammed the door and locked it with the
large ring of keys he kept on his belt. Speaking through the small barred
window in the door, he assured her, quite calmly, that she could remain there
until she showed some humility and gratitude. He would not even look at her
again until she complied, he assured her.
    "Good,"
she yelled through the door.
    He rubbed his sore
thigh where she'd bitten it. "When you cool your temper, woman, apologize
for the wounds you gave me this day and grovel for my forgiveness, I will let
you out. Then we can be married and you may enjoy more of what I gave you this
afternoon."
    A curt laugh cut
through the crisp wintry air. "Be still my heart."
    Why bring hearts
into it, he wondered. Theirs had no chance of being a love match so he hoped
she wasn't the romantic sort. Stryker had endured his fill of being in love. It
left him abandoned before, made him a laughingstock. "You will comply,
shrew, or stay there under lock and key."
    "Excellent. I
know already my choice."
    Unfortunately,
Stryker Bloodaxe, product of a long line of reckless adventurers, was not well
known for thinking a plan through. A creature of instinct, he had a tendency to
act on a situation the moment an idea entered his mind, even when it was not
fully envisioned and assessed for potential problems. Having been criticized
for this before, he was sadly aware of it, but that resemblance to a charging
bull also made him completely unable to change his ways.   Besides, as Stryker took every opportunity to
remind his foes, he had strong Norse blood in his veins. A descendant of Danish
King Harald Bluetooth and therefore kindred to the proud race of Viking
warriors, he had inherited a force of will that seldom failed to triumph. At
least in his own stories.
    But as he strode
away from the hut and heard her yelling that he could wait until the cows came
home, he realized that until he let her out there could be no wedding. Which
meant no bride purse—an item that would be sent only when her uncle had proof
of the ceremony safely completed. It also meant no wedding night until he let
her out. And his cock ached with need to spill inside that sweet cunny he'd
tasted.
    His prisoner could
very well hold him to ransom.
     
    ****
     
    Perhaps it was no
surprise that the first things she'd noticed about him were the breadth and
solidity of his thigh muscles. After all, she was thrown face down over them
before she could see anything else about her captor. Then she was on the
ground, on her back, partially blinded by rain, her other senses addled by the
cruel tricks he played with his fingers and his devilish tongue. Once she was
finally allowed up the right way, there was barely a moment to let her brain
settle, before she was tossed into a dark shed and imprisoned. Only as she
peered through the bars of a small window in the door, and watched him walk
away, did she finally get the complete picture. Stryker Bloodaxe was long and
sturdy as a great oak, with a shock of fair hair that gave him the appearance
of a tall church candle. So he was not old. Certainly he was full of good
health, vitality and had all his limbs in working order. He was also
large-boned, empty-headed and possessed all the manners, charm and courtesy of
a wild boar.
    Before he left her
there, his gaze had briefly pierced her through the bars, like a shower of
arrowheads. Ami had never seen a man with eyes that intense, that thorough. In
just those few seconds she was