Apple Seeds in the Snow by Helen Rygh-Pedersen

Author:Helen Rygh-Pedersen
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Helen Rygh-Pedersen
Published: 2023-12-12T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 19

The first dance with Margitte was a raucous experience in which the two girls tripped over each other’s skirts constantly. One hand on the other’s waist and one on their shoulder, they galloped down the centre of the ballroom, hearts full of joy and encouraging others to take up the dance. It was just like being back at school, just as if they were fifteen years old again, with nothing in the world to care about other than having fun. That was how it should be.

But too soon, the music of the joyous jig petered out and was lost in thunderous applause. The girls separated, wheezing and laughing amongst trying to catch their breath when the tune changed and the lights in the room dimmed.

The crowd parted, and the king made his way towards them. Ouna raised a hand to her pounding chest as if that would somehow calm it when Olaf looked at her intently and held out his hand.

“Your highness.” His voice was thick with desire and his eyes heavy-lidded as they took in her flushed and quivering form. “I believe it is my turn for a dance now.”

It was not a question. She rankled at his insistence, but smiled politely and slipped her hand into his. The band struck up a sharp cord, and he pulled her into his grasp so quickly that her chest slammed against his and she was winded. Before she could even blink, his other hand was on the small of her back, holding her tightly against him. The tune he had asked of the musicians was low and sultry, allowing him to push her around the floor, first this way, then that, dipping her low and twirling her before snapping her back into his torso with a force that stunned her. The desire in his eyes was contagious — or was it the music that made it appear so? For she felt a stirring in her belly and before she knew it, she was giving in to the music, the dance, his every whim on the dancefloor.

She tried to glance around, but the other dancers had stepped back to watch the overt display of intent and flirtation. She couldn’t see Margitte anywhere, nor L’adu for that matter, but as she whipped her head round in a spin, her eyes were caught by the king’s again and she dared not look away. With every turn, with every spin, he left his hands lingering on her body, snaking round her waist and from time to time, grazing a breast or a buttock with unabashed intent, laying his claim before all. She may have wanted him to do that, but not in this way. Had he no honour? She was scandalised; it was most improper, even if he was a king. He was basically fondling her in public as he would a whore, but she could not step away.

When the music stopped this time, it ended with the pair bowing deeply to each other.

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