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)
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.