naught but a stranger in this place. Isabel's steps slowed. She turned around, her arms clasped at her waist.
As a girl she had known every nook and cranny of the burh. But now, she felt lost. Where did she go from here?
From behind, footsteps sounded, heavy upon the damp pathway. Her heart beat frantically in her chest. The Danes had followed her. He had followed her.
She turned to confront her pursuers. Three men stood there, bleak-faced Saxon men. Their sturdy bodies blocked the path down which she had come. The largest stepped forward, his meaty fists clenched into cudgels.
He taunted, "Why dost thou run, Princess?"
Isabel's blood ran cold.
Another sneered, his yellowed teeth gleaming like tallow in the mid-morning light. "Whore! Has your lover cast you out now that he has taken what he wants?"
The third man shouted, "Aye, our homes and our dead sons." His voice broke with emotion. "Traitoress."
The first man lunged. Isabel fell back, only to feel the hands of another man clench upon her waist. He pushed her to the ground so forcefully, breath forsook her lungs.
She tried to stand, but someone shoved her down again. Stones gouged her palms and her knees. In the periphery of her vision, a door opened. Light footsteps approached. Those of a woman? Surely a woman would offer her refuge.
"Bitch!" Something soft and wet struck the side of her face. The remains of a decaying onion fell to the ground. "My man is dead because of you."
Hands slapped her buttocks, yanked her hair. Toes and heels jabbed her sides. Laughter and curses flooded her ears. Isabel dug her fingers into the ground, and felt the jagged edges of crushed mollusk shells press into her skin. Amidst the clamor, someone sobbed, and she realized it was herself. She clamped her teeth shut, just as a stone struck her side. She deserved this. Mud splattered onto her back.
A shout pierced the haze of Isabel's misery. A woman screamed. Footsteps retreated. Isabel lowered to crouch against the earth. Why could she not sink into it and disappear?
Two large hands touched her.
"No." She flinched. But the hands pushed her hair from her face, and moved over her back and sides. Men spoke the Norse tongue, in lowered voices.
He lifted her against his chest and for one astonishing moment she felt protected from all who threatened her. She did not need to look to know who held her.
His presence had become as familiar as her own.
Chapter 7
Kol kicked the oak plank shut in the faces of his guards, who clustered at the doorway to his chamber, doing their best to attain a glimpse of the princess. She curled like a sleeping child in his arms. He had held her once before like this.
As a girl, she had exuded innocence and light; whereas now, as a woman, her soul seemed cloaked in shadows.
How heartily he wished for her to cry, to curse him or even claw at his eyes. Instead she remained motionless, her face hidden against his chest.
He lay her on the bed. Though the chamber fire dwindled, her skin shone vivid against the furs. Tears glimmered on her lashes, but her eyes remained shut.
"Art thou injured?"
She made no response, save to lift her arms and cross them over her face. Kol diverted his gaze from the generous swell of breast, revealed by her damp, clinging gunna. At her knees, her skirts bunched haphazardly, and beneath, her stockings were torn. He pulled her hem down to cover her ankles, more for his comfort than hers.
"No scarlet slippers this day," he mused.
Instead she wore finely wrought leather boots, cut to display the delicate form of her ankle, the arch of her foot.
He much preferred the slippers. Perhaps because they offered a vision of Isabel he might never be allowed to see for himself. A vibrant young woman, with joy in her eyes, and laughter on her lips.
Had she been that woman before he'd loosed destruction upon her world? Having blazed so instantly and violently into her world, he knew not what assumptions to make. His gaze ascended the
As a girl she had known every nook and cranny of the burh. But now, she felt lost. Where did she go from here?
From behind, footsteps sounded, heavy upon the damp pathway. Her heart beat frantically in her chest. The Danes had followed her. He had followed her.
She turned to confront her pursuers. Three men stood there, bleak-faced Saxon men. Their sturdy bodies blocked the path down which she had come. The largest stepped forward, his meaty fists clenched into cudgels.
He taunted, "Why dost thou run, Princess?"
Isabel's blood ran cold.
Another sneered, his yellowed teeth gleaming like tallow in the mid-morning light. "Whore! Has your lover cast you out now that he has taken what he wants?"
The third man shouted, "Aye, our homes and our dead sons." His voice broke with emotion. "Traitoress."
The first man lunged. Isabel fell back, only to feel the hands of another man clench upon her waist. He pushed her to the ground so forcefully, breath forsook her lungs.
She tried to stand, but someone shoved her down again. Stones gouged her palms and her knees. In the periphery of her vision, a door opened. Light footsteps approached. Those of a woman? Surely a woman would offer her refuge.
"Bitch!" Something soft and wet struck the side of her face. The remains of a decaying onion fell to the ground. "My man is dead because of you."
Hands slapped her buttocks, yanked her hair. Toes and heels jabbed her sides. Laughter and curses flooded her ears. Isabel dug her fingers into the ground, and felt the jagged edges of crushed mollusk shells press into her skin. Amidst the clamor, someone sobbed, and she realized it was herself. She clamped her teeth shut, just as a stone struck her side. She deserved this. Mud splattered onto her back.
A shout pierced the haze of Isabel's misery. A woman screamed. Footsteps retreated. Isabel lowered to crouch against the earth. Why could she not sink into it and disappear?
Two large hands touched her.
"No." She flinched. But the hands pushed her hair from her face, and moved over her back and sides. Men spoke the Norse tongue, in lowered voices.
He lifted her against his chest and for one astonishing moment she felt protected from all who threatened her. She did not need to look to know who held her.
His presence had become as familiar as her own.
Chapter 7
Kol kicked the oak plank shut in the faces of his guards, who clustered at the doorway to his chamber, doing their best to attain a glimpse of the princess. She curled like a sleeping child in his arms. He had held her once before like this.
As a girl, she had exuded innocence and light; whereas now, as a woman, her soul seemed cloaked in shadows.
How heartily he wished for her to cry, to curse him or even claw at his eyes. Instead she remained motionless, her face hidden against his chest.
He lay her on the bed. Though the chamber fire dwindled, her skin shone vivid against the furs. Tears glimmered on her lashes, but her eyes remained shut.
"Art thou injured?"
She made no response, save to lift her arms and cross them over her face. Kol diverted his gaze from the generous swell of breast, revealed by her damp, clinging gunna. At her knees, her skirts bunched haphazardly, and beneath, her stockings were torn. He pulled her hem down to cover her ankles, more for his comfort than hers.
"No scarlet slippers this day," he mused.
Instead she wore finely wrought leather boots, cut to display the delicate form of her ankle, the arch of her foot.
He much preferred the slippers. Perhaps because they offered a vision of Isabel he might never be allowed to see for himself. A vibrant young woman, with joy in her eyes, and laughter on her lips.
Had she been that woman before he'd loosed destruction upon her world? Having blazed so instantly and violently into her world, he knew not what assumptions to make. His gaze ascended the
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