Guilt and shame had dried her mouth. 'I don't know,' she managed hoarsely. She tried to clear her throat. 'It was just something that happened between us. We'd both been drinking, and the beer was drugged and…'
'I know all that.' He dismissed it brusquely. He still did not look at her. 'Ophelia told me all that, when she warned me. I didn't want to believe her.'
Althea lowered her face into her hands. Warned him. The sudden gaping loss gutted her. She suddenly doubted that Ophelia had even liked her. 'How long have you known?' she managed to ask.
He sighed heavily. 'The night she urged me to kiss you, and I did… she told me later. I suppose she felt, oh, I don't know, guilty. Afraid that I might get hurt, if I fell too deeply in love with you, and then found out you weren't… what I expected.'
'Why didn't you tell me before this?'
She lifted her head to see his lop-sided shrug. 'I thought it wouldn't matter. It bothered me, of course. I wanted to kill the bastard. Of all the low things to do… but then Ophelia told me that you might have feelings for him. Might even be a bit in love with him?' It was a halfhearted question.
'I don't think I am,' she said in a low voice. The ambivalence in her own voice surprised her.
'That's twice,' Grag observed bitterly. 'You know you don't love me. But you aren't sure about him.'
'I've known him a long time,' she said lamely. She wanted to say she didn't love him. But how could you know someone that long, be friends with someone that long, and not feel some kind of love for him? It was not that different from her relationship with Davad Restart. She could despise the Trader's actions, and still recall a kindly, avuncular bumbler. 'For years, Trell was a friend and a shipmate. And what happened between us doesn't change those years. I…'
'I don't understand at all,' Grag said softly. She still heard the undercurrent of anger in his voice. 'He dishonored you, Althea. He compromised you. When I found out, I was furious. I wanted to call him out. I was sure you must hate him. I knew he deserved to die. I thought he would never dare return to Bingtown after what he had done. When he did, I wanted to kill him. Only two things held me back. I could not do so without revealing the reason for challenging him. I didn't want to shame you. Then, I heard he had called at your home. I thought, perhaps, he was going to offer to do the honorable thing. If he had and you had refused him… Did he offer? Is that what this is about, do you feel some sort of obligation to him?'
There was desperation in his voice. He was struggling so hard to understand.
She stood up from the table and went to stand beside him. She, too, looked into the darkened forest. Shadows of twigs and limbs and trunks tangled and obstructed each other. 'He didn't rape me,' she said. 'That is what I must admit to you. What happened between us was not wise. But it wasn't violent and I was as much to blame as Brashen.'
'He's a man.' Grag spoke the words uncompromisingly. He crossed his arms on his chest. 'The blame is his. He should have been protecting you, not taking advantage of your weakness. A man should control his lust. He should have been stronger.'
She felt struck dumb. Was this really how he viewed her? As a weak and helpless creature, to be guided and protected by whatever man happened to be closest to her? Did he honestly believe she could not have stopped Brashen if she had wanted to? She felt first a rift, and then a building anger. She wanted to rip him with words, to force him to see that she controlled her own life. Then, as swiftly as it had come, the anger fled. It was hopeless. She saw her liaison with Brashen as a personal event that had involved only the two of them. Grag viewed it as something that had been done to her, something that must change her forever. It affronted his whole concept of society. Her own shame and guilt had not come from a sense of wrongdoing, but from a fear of what the discovery could do to her family. The two views seemed radically different to her. She knew, with a sudden deep certainty, that they could never build anything together. Even if she could have given up her dreams of a ship of her own, even if she had suddenly decided she wanted a home and children to cherish, his image of her as a weak and defenseless woman would always humble her.
'I should leave now,' she announced abruptly.
'It's dark,' he protested. 'You can't go now!'
'The inn isn't far, once I'm past the bridge. I'll go slowly. And the horse seems very steady.'
Finally, he turned back to look at her. His eyes were wide, his face vulnerable as he pleaded, 'Stay. Please. Stay and talk. We can resolve this.'
'No, Grag. I don't think we can.' An hour ago, she would have touched his hand, would have wanted to kiss him good-bye at least. Now she knew she could never get past the barriers between them. 'You're a good man. You'll find a woman who is right for you. I wish you all the best. And when next you see Ophelia, give her my best wishes also.'
He followed her back into the circle of dancing light from the cut-tin lanterns. She picked up her wine glass and drank the last swallow from it. When she looked around, she realized there was nothing further to do here. She was ready to leave.
'Althea.'
She turned to the bereft tone of his voice. Grag suddenly looked very boyish and young. He met her eyes bravely and did not try to hide his pain. 'The offer stands. I'll wait until you come back. Be my wife. I don't care what you've done. I love you.'
She searched for true words she could say to him. 'You have a kind heart, Grag Tenira,' she said at last. 'Farewell.'
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Consequences
SERILLA HAD NOT LEFT THE CAPTAIN'S CABIN SINCE SHE HAD BEEN dragged there. She ran her hands through her bedraggled hair and tried to decide how long that had been. She forced herself to review the events in her mind, but her memories would not stay in proper order. They jumped and jiggled about, the moments of terror and pain leaping up to demand her attention even as she refused to think about them.
She had fought the sailor sent to bring her. Serilla had wanted to go with dignity, but found she could not. She had held back until he dragged her. When she struck him, he had simply picked her up and slung her over one wide shoulder. He stank. Her efforts to strike and kick him had amused not only him, but also the other members of the crew who had observed her humiliation. Her screams for help had been ignored. Those of the Satrap's party who had witnessed her abduction did nothing. Those who had chanced to see her kept their faces carefully expressionless, turning away from her plight or closing the doors they had peeped out. But Serilla could not forget the expressions on Cosgo and Kekki as they watched her hauled away. Cosgo smiled in smug triumph, whilst Kekki roused from her drugged stupor to watch in fascinated titillation. Her hand had lingered on Cosgo's thigh.
Her captor had borne her into an unfamiliar part of the ship. He shoved her into the captain's darkened cabin, then latched the door behind her. Serilla did not know how long she had waited there. It seemed hours, but how could one measure time in such circumstances? She had cycled from rage to despair to terror. Fear had been with her constantly. By the time the man actually arrived, Serilla was already exhausted from shouting, weeping and pounding on the door. At his first touch, she physically collapsed, near fainting. Nothing in her scholarly upbringing or days at court had ever prepared her for anything like this. He easily overcame her efforts to push him away. She was like a spitting kitten in his hand. He raped her, not savagely, but matter-of-factly. The discovery of her virginity made him exclaim in surprise, and curse in his own language. Then he went on with his own pleasure.
How many days ago had that been? She did not know. She had not left the cabin since then. Time was broken up into when the man was there and when he was not. Sometimes he used her. Other times he ignored her. He was impersonal in his cruelty. He did not notice her in any other way; he made no attempt to win her affection. He showed her the same courtesy he gave to the chamber pot or spittoon. He never spoke to her. She was there to use, when he felt the need. If she made it difficult, with resistance or pleading, he would hit her. He delivered the open-handed blows casually, with a lack of effort that convinced her his intent strength would be far greater. One slap loosened two of her teeth and left her ear ringing for hours. The lack of malice with which he struck her was more frightening than the blows. Hurting her was of no concern to him.
At some early point in her captivity, she had contemplated revenge. She had rummaged about in the
