Bitter is the Wind by Hal Cariad

Author:Hal, Cariad
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Blushing Books Publishing
Published: 2022-09-06T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 18

The fire was roaring and the old boathouse was fiery hot. Smoke curled up to the hole high above, struggling to find a way out. Thorstein stretched out, his feet almost in the embers. She dared to feel easy, being with him, knowing that he wanted her there, protecting her, and no one near to wish her harm.

“Tomorrow I'll clear that hole before we choke,” he said, leaning forward to throw on a log, coughing with the puff of smoke belching out.

She hugged herself and tried to stifle a yawn.

“Tired?” he said, catching her.

She nodded. “I haven’t felt this warm for so long.”

“Take those skins off,” he said, waving his hand.

“I can’t do that,” she said, uncomfortably. “I have no other clothes, remember? No night tunic or…”

He groaned. “It is no more than good sense, woman. You cannot wear those heavy skins in this heat. Take them off and crawl under the bed skins, if you wish.”

He was right. Come the cold morning, she would need them. Scrambling to her feet, she went to the bed and turned to make sure he was not watching her. She could not trust the ways of men. Quickly, she pulled them off, dropping them to the earthen floor and slipped naked under the heavy bed skins. They were cold without the blood of the wolf and reindeer running through them. She pulled them tighter around her, with a shiver, burying her nose in their musk, watching him at the fireside.

“Why are you not wed?” she asked, suddenly, in a small voice. Instantly, she was shocked that she should ask him such a thing and pulled the skins over her mouth.

He swung around to look at her, frowning.

“I’m… I’m sorry. It’s not for me to…” she began, afraid to have affronted him.

“It is nothing,” he said, dismissively. He got up to kick a falling log into the fire. “What makes you think I am not?”

He looked at her. There was darkness in his eyes, pain, sadness and anger. She could see it. She could feel it. She had angered him.

“Are you?” she asked. “I can listen. There is little I can do, but I can listen.”

He ignored her, gazing up to the rafters. Was he so angered or his pain so deep that he could not speak to her?

She had dared to risk his displeasure by giving herself but felt cast aside. “Is this where my status as slave becomes relevant to you? I’m not good enough or able enough to listen? You have given me protection and comfort, but I am not to give it to you? In some small way?”

“Abria,” he said, with a groan. “You know, or should realise by now, that I hold you in higher regard than a slave.”

“But what am I?” she asked. “I am not a slave or seen as your noble equal. Am I your servant?”

He shook his head. “I do not see you as a servant.”

“Then, what?” she persisted, sitting up straight. “Tell me.”

He walked about, thoughtfully.

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