Caragh led her back towards a small partitioned room that contained a wooden trunk. She opened it and sorted through garments until she chose a green gown. ‘Here. This might fit you.’ She held it out, but Breanne was reluctant to take it.
‘It’s too fine,’ she argued. ‘I cannot accept something so beautiful.’
‘You may wear it until you are home again,’ Caragh said. ‘And then send it back to me.’ There was no other choice, so Breanne accepted the woollen gown. The stitching was delicate, and she had no doubt it would be warm and comfortable.
Caragh led her back outside towards a different longhouse that was partially finished. On the way, she caught the attention of a young man and gave him orders in the Norse language. Then she took the gown from Breanne. ‘I will send you a maidservant to tend your bath. I will give her the gown, and she can help you dress afterwards.’
Breanne thanked her, and Caragh brought her towards the far end of the longhouse. Another partition hid the wooden tub from public view. It was not large, but the idea of warmed water was a luxury that she welcomed.
While they waited for the servants to fill the tub with the hot water, she told Caragh of her foster father’s ringfort where she had grown up. A hollow feeling seized her inside. Had anyone searched for her? Or had they given up, believing she was dead or ruined? It hurt to imagine that Feann had turned his back on her and discarded her as a foster daughter. But it was a real possibility, one she had to accept. She was not of his bloodline. An ache settled within her heart at the thought of being forgotten and alone.
After the tub was filled with hot water, Caragh added scented oil to the bath. A young maidservant joined them, and Breanne allowed them to strip off her garments before she settled into the steaming tub.
The warm water consoled her, and she kept her knees drawn up, sinking down as low as she could to immerse herself. She leaned back, dipping her hair into the water, and the maid gave her soap for washing. She scrubbed away the dirt, wishing she could scrub away the memories of captivity so easily. Her wrists and ankles burned from the sores made by the manacles and the ropes. The maidservant brought a linen drying cloth, but before she could help her out of the tub, the Lochlannach returned.
She covered herself and glared at him. If he had come here intending to glimpse her naked body, it would not happen. ‘Get out,’ she ordered.
His blue eyes stared at her, but instead of leaving, he turned around. ‘If you want to return home, you must learn to obey.’
It was the first time she had heard him speak her language. The sound of his words had a foreign cast to them, and she suddenly realised that he had kept silent on purpose. She motioned for the drying cloth and the maid brought it to her. In a swift motion, Breanne shielded her body and wrapped the drying cloth around herself, before she stepped out of the tub.
‘I have no reason to obey,’ she countered. ‘And I am not afraid of you.’ It was a lie, but she spoke the words with mock confidence, hoping he would believe them. It unnerved her to realise that he had understood every word she had spoken.
‘What is your name?’ she demanded, wanting to hear it for herself.
‘Alarr Sigurdsson,’ he answered. ‘Of the kingdom of Maerr.’
‘I am Breanne Ó Callahan,’ she answered. ‘My foster father is King Feann MacPherson of Killcobar.’
‘I know who he is.’ He turned at that moment, and his gaze fixed upon her. ‘I recognised you the moment I saw you. And you are worth more than a slave.’
‘How could you possibly know me?’ she demanded. ‘I would have remembered you.’ Heat flared in her cheeks when she realised what she’d said. But it was too late to take back the words. Breanne tightened her grip upon the drying cloth, and in that heated moment, she grew aware of his interest. He studied her face, his gaze drifting downward to linger upon her body. There was no denying that he wanted her.
But worse was her own response. She was caught up in his blue eyes and the dark hair that framed a strong, lean face. There was a slight scar on his chin, but it did nothing to diminish his looks. The Lochlannach warrior was tall and imposing, his physical strength evident. Only the slight limp revealed any weakness.
‘What do you want from me? A ransom?’
He reached out and cupped the back of her neck. It was an act of possession, but instead of feeling furious, his sudden dominance made her flesh warm to the touch. His blue eyes stared into hers as if he desired her, and she was startled by the unbidden response. Though she tried to meet his gaze with resentment, her imagination conjured up the vision of his mouth descending upon hers in a kiss. This warrior would not be gentle...no, he would claim what he wanted from her. Heat roared through her, and she thought of his hands moving down to pull her hips against his.
That might be what he wanted from her, after all. She was well aware of how female slaves were used as concubines. The thought shamed her, but another part of her was intrigued by this man. She could not deny the forbidden attraction, and she had the strange sensation that his touch would not be unwelcome.
As if to make his point, Alarr stroked the nape of her neck before releasing her. ‘You will remain with me at all times, obeying everything I ask. If you do this, then I will remove your bindings.’
‘When?’ she demanded.
‘When you have earned my trust. Not before.’
His arrogance irritated her. Was he expecting her to become a slave in truth,
