7. Cherine

Chapter 7

Cherine

I felt like I was drifting away on an iceberg in the northern seas, a chill seizing my body so deeply, I could feel it in the marrow of my bones. It was dark on this iceberg, and I prayed to my forsaken God that I could find peace in the darkness, that the cold would finally go away.

God answered in the form of a warm hand on my shoulder, gently shaking me awake.

“Cherine,” I heard God say. “Cherine, you must eat or you will die.”

Am I not dead? I thought lazily, noticing how easily I had accepted it.

I heard something scraped along stone, and a wavering light flickered in from behind my closed lids, making them glow faintly red. The sound of water being poured followed by the clank of metal echoed in my head.

Warm hands were on me again, this time at my mouth. A trickle of lukewarm water spilled over my lips, and I opened my mouth involuntarily. I hadn’t taken any water for what felt like forever, and it flowed down my throat like a foreign object, nearly choking me.

“Come, sit up,” came the gruff yet gentle voice. I knew now it wasn’t God at all, but Erik. Strangely, for the first time in the week he had been visiting me, I wasn’t afraid of him. I reasoned it was because I was too close to death to care.

I allowed him to raise me until I was sitting up, and my coughing subsided. I felt his large, gentle hands under my chin, tipping my head back. He offered me more water, and the more I drank, the thirstier I became.

“Slow now, dear maiden,” he whispered, his voice somehow omnipresent in the dark. “You don’t want to make yourself sick. Will you eat for me today?”

I couldn’t find the strength to shake my head. He cleared his throat, as if he knew exactly what I was thinking. “If not for me, eat for yourself. Please.”

Then, a soft piece of bread was at my lips. After a moment’s hesitation, I opened my mouth and took it in. My jaw ached as I chewed, but I complied and swallowed. The bread tasted like nothing, but already, I felt warmer from the digestion.

“Please,” Erik said softly, cupping my delicate face in his hands. “Look at me.”

I wanted to keep my eyes closed out of spite, but something compelled me to open them. Erik’s strong, beautiful face was inches from mine. I wondered when I began to think he was beautiful, or if perhaps I had always thought so, and my hatred of him just clouded my judgment. I could see the length of his dark eyelashes, how they framed his icy eyes. Behind him, a few torches glowed brightly, and I could make out a large tub with steam escaping from it.

“You need to drink more,” he said, his voice rich, his Norse accent apparent as he navigated French with ease. “You need to eat more. Then, I must bathe you.”

A small shudder rocked through me.

His eyes softened with concern. “The bath will warm you,” he explained.

I wanted to tell him that I didn’t shudder because I was cold but because I was afraid again. It was a peculiar kind of fear—not for my life or my sanity, but for my pride.

He handed me back the jug, trying for my hands. I grasped it, eager to prove I wasn’t as weak as he thought, but even raising the jug to my mouth was a struggle. Still, I did it, and he watched me like a hawk.

After I had my fill of water and had chewed an entire slice of rye bread, Erik reached for my shoulders and helped me to my feet. I couldn’t stand on my own, so I leaned against the hardness of his side, marveling at how tall he was, how firm his muscles felt. I was utterly helpless, and I had to swallow my hatred of it.

“I would undress you,” he said slowly, and I felt him peering down at the top of my head, “but we can do that later.”

He led me to the bath then picked me up as if I weighed nothing before slowly lowering me into the steaming water.

My pulse quickened as I hung in his arms, dangling above the bath. But the minute the warmth lapped around me, making my filthy shift float like a cloud, all my muscles went slack. I finally felt something other than cold, and it seemed to warm me from the inside out.

With just my head above the waterline, I leaned back against the edge of the metal tub and watched warily as Erik reached into a smaller bucket, pulling out a bar of soap and a long stick with stiff boar bristles at the end.

He gave me a small, apologetic smile. “I’m going to clean you. You need it.”

“Don’t you dare put your hands on me,” I said, my voice narrowing in my throat. The threat was weak, but my eyes burned with fury.

“But I dare, dear maiden. I promise not to get too much pleasure from it,” he said. If I thought he was capable of it, I might have assumed he was making a joke.

He placed the bar of soap and the brush into the water with me and then tugged at my shift. I struggled as much as I could, which wasn’t much. The last thing I wanted was for this Viking, my captor, to see me naked, but I couldn’t fight him off; I could only squirm helplessly. Erik ended up tearing my shift in half underneath the water, exposing me from my buoyant breasts to the short, fine hair that covered the spot between my legs.

He tried not to let his eyes linger on my body for too long, but he was a Viking, not a saint.

I watched him with cold eyes. “Do you like what you see?” There was no humor in my voice.

Erik’s eyes flitted to mine. “Yes,” he said, his tone matching mine.

He reached into the tub and scooped up the soap and brush. I flinched as he neared me, the water sloshing over the edge of the tub and splattering onto the stone floor.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked quietly as he began lathering the soap in his strong, tanned hands. I watched as the bubbles foamed and frothed. A heady aroma of lavender and roses filled my nostrils, and I wondered where a Viking would get such a civilized-smelling soap.

“I’m doing this because you haven’t had a bath in a week…and who knows how long before that.” He started agitating the bubbles until the water was covered in a thin layer of foam.

I stiffened at his comment. “And here I thought you barbarians were the ones who didn’t bathe.”

He looked at me from the corner of his eye. “Oh, we bathe. In Norway, you have waterfalls everywhere. The cleanest, clearest, purest water you can find.”

Suddenly, the image of a naked, wet Erik standing beneath a waterfall filled my mind. I clucked at my dirty thoughts in disgust.

Erik pretended not to notice. “We might be barbarians to you, but I can promise you, we live better lives than the peasants here did.”

“Only because you steal from others to do so.”

He stopped lathering and let the soap drift away from his fingers.

“Our lives are more complicated than you think.”

I looked away, not wanting to be swayed by the earnestness in his eyes. “I don’t care. My family is dead because of you. Nothing you have to say means anything to me.”

He studied my face until I had to meet his eyes. I wished he was uglier; if he was, I could hate him much easier. The fact that he had been coming down to see me every day, bringing me clothes, blankets, food, and water—even books—had made me relax around him, but I had to keep reminding myself that he was the enemy. He deserved nothing but my scorn and a painful death. It was why, despite his offerings, I hadn’t touched any of them.

“Then I won’t say anything more,” he answered. He picked up the soap and gently placed it on my shoulders, sliding the bar down my arms.

“I can bathe myself,” I protested. Still, he kept going, knowing the task would tire me too quickly.

I watched as he worked, and when watching became too much, I closed my eyes and tried to pretend I was somewhere else. I thought of Marc doing the same—running a slick bar of soap slowly down my arms, pulling my fingers apart, letting the lather get in—but my thoughts couldn’t place him anymore. I just thought of Erik and decided I might as well watch as it happened.

When he was done with one arm, he did the same to the other. My breath deepened and slowed as I realized he wasn’t going to shame me. To be honest, I almost liked the act. I’d never had someone, man or woman, tend to me this way. Every bath I’d ever taken was in a bucket half this size, in freezing cold water, with a sad piece of saddle soap I’d stolen from the livery.

He touched the back of my neck and gently pushed me forward so my back was exposed. Instead of gliding the soap down my sore, stiff muscles, he used the brush and slowly ran it up and down the length of my spine. I shuddered from the sensation.

“Are you all right?” he couldn’t help but ask.

“Yes,” I whispered back, my face hidden by my wall of dark hair. I wouldn’t tell him how much I enjoyed the feeling, like he was rubbing me raw, making me feel clean.

Erik cleared his throat. “We’ll be on the move soon.”

I tensed, and he continued to push the brush down. “We? Where?”

“To Saint Martin. Have you ever been there?”

“I’ve never been outside of this place. I’m still in Criolium, aren’t I?”

“Yes. Your lord’s manor.”

I paused, peering at the bubbles just inches from my nose. “I thought it would be warmer here.”

“You’re in the dungeon. I imagine this is where he kept the disobedient peasants.”

“Do you fancy I’m disobedient?”

“Not yet.” He stopped scrubbing and gently pushed me back, urging me to straighten from my hunched position. “I shall do your front now.”

I swallowed hard, my stomach in knots. “Shall you?”

He grunted in response and ran the brush down from my collarbones to the start of my breasts. I flinched first and then froze for a few beats, unsure how to react to the change, until I reluctantly relaxed and leaned back, opening up to him.

He struggled as he worked, straining to remain detached from the sight of my slick breasts, my nipples hard and rose pink. He cleared his throat. “I don’t know how long we’ll stay in Saint Martin or where we’re going next. I just want to make sure you’ll survive the journey.”

“Why?”

He paused and took his hands away from me. “Why?”

My skin felt cold without his touch, and I looked away from the intensity in his eyes. “You’re taking care of me, keeping me alive, and I can’t figure out why.”

Erik bit his lip and then slowly resumed brushing, taking extra care around my protruding collarbones. “I have a loyalty to Rolf. He wants to keep you safe.”

I looked up at him curiously. “Who is Rolf? Your chieftain?”

“Our leader, yes.”

“You answer to him. Who does he answer to? Your king?”

I could have sworn a small smile danced across his lips, but when I looked again, he was as stone-faced as ever. “Rolf answers to no one but himself.”

I nodded and fell into a silence that wrapped its heavy arms around us. My captor was right next to me, brushing my naked, weak body, and I was almost enjoying his company. There were so many things wrong with this situation, I didn’t even know where to begin.

“I thought maybe you were keeping me alive because you thought I was beautiful,” I remarked, watching the brush move up and down, wondering when it would go lower. A small part of me wanted to feel the bristles on my breasts, perhaps his strong hands on my nipples. Just to see if I’d like it. Just to see if he’d like it.

“That is also true,” he told me.

I studied his handsome face, so close to mine—the sharp planes of his cheekbones, the masculine cut of his jaw. So elegant, so noble, so cold. And yet, there was something else there, something that wavered in his eyes. It was lust, buried deep but impossible to hide.

“You’re not taking advantage of me,” I pointed out, my voice little more than a whisper.

The corner of his mouth lifted, and I knew he wasn’t all stone. “No.” He paused. “Not yet.”

A spell seemed to pass over us, locking our eyes together, filling the air with the weight of words unsaid and actions undone. Then, Erik placed the brush and soap on the ground and straightened.

“We better get you out of there before it gets too cold,” he said, gesturing to the water as he leaned down to help me out. Now that I was warm and supple, I was able to step out of the tub on my own. Erik quickly wrapped me in a few blankets, his arms circling me. I briefly closed my eyes at the contact until I felt him move away. I wavered a bit on my feet and opened my eyes to steady myself to find he was heading toward the door.

“I brought you a fresh dress a few days ago,” he said without turning around, his voice unusually tight. “I suggest you put it on. There’s still a lot of bread and water. I suggest you have those too.”

“Is there anything else you suggest?” I called after him.

He stopped at the door and then turned his head slightly to give me an unreadable glance. “I suggest you prepare yourself.”

And with that, he left the room, locking the door behind him. The sound was so final in the stone-walled chamber, making me feel strangely abandoned. I gripped my blanket tighter.

Prepare for what?