Jarl also made a quick survey of the familiar items in his tent, trying to find something suitable to restrain her to. He hadn’t thought of anything appropriate on the ride, but had hoped seeing things would reveal something he had missed. It didn’t. His tent was not set up to hold a prisoner. Now what? He knew he should call the guards and have them take her to the prisoner compound; she was just a captive after all. There were a hundred more just like her. He glanced at her profile, partially obscured by her tousled dark hair. Well, maybe not just like her.
The image of his men groping at this proud beauty, bound and unable to defend herself, flashed through his mind. Cursing under his breath, Jarl grabbed a short coil of heavy braided rawhide leather and began dragging her toward his furs. Her struggles increased in earnest now, first jerking away from him, then unexpectedly changing direction and slamming into him with her shoulder, trying to knock him off his feet. She almost succeeded. Using both of his arms, Jarl held her tightly against his chest while he continued toward the bed. She grunted and panted as she fought against his grip and kicked at his shins.
The exertion, the violence of her struggles, and her closeness were exhilarating. He could feel every inch of her body straining against him. Traces of the exotic scented oils in her hair wafted up, teasing his nostrils. So caught up was he in the experience, Jarl almost changed his plan. No one would know. No one would care. And even if they did—no one would dare to interfere with him.
He shook his head and pushed her face down onto the bed, then threw himself on top of her. Her scream of rage was muted in the thick furs. He loosened his grip slightly and waited for her to react. It only took a split second. She pushed up with her whole body, arching her back, trying to turn to face him. Jarl pulled at the same time. Using her momentum, he rolled her in a complete revolution, trapping her legs inside a wrap of heavy deer hide. He sat up, straddling her, then removed his hands to test the results. With her legs and lower body ensnared within the fur, and her hands still tied behind her back, he was able to keep her pinned face down with just his legs and the weight of his body.
Finally able to use his hands for something other than her restraint, he formed two new stronger bindings from the coiled rawhide leather and attached one to each of her wrists. He paused and took a deep breath before cutting the original leather thong. He let go of one of her arms. She squirmed beneath him, using the arm he had released for leverage to twist her body around until she was face up. Her freed hand lashed out to claw his face. Jarl ducked sideways, grabbed it, and tied her wrists together, in front of her this time.
He jumped from the bed platform, dragging her behind him toward the heavy center tent support pole. Her legs were still tangled in the fur, and it took a few seconds for her to kick herself free. That was all the time he needed. Reaching up with one hand, he took the lamp down from its hook on the pole and set it on the floor. As she staggered to her feet, he yanked her arms up over her head and secured the new bindings to the iron loop where the lamp had been.
“There. That should keep you for a while,” he said as he grabbed the lamp and stepped back away from her. She jerked against the bonds several times, then stood motionless, breathing hard, looking at him with hate-filled eyes. Safely out of her reach, Jarl stopped to admire her while he caught his breath.
With her arms over her head, her breasts pressed against the thin soft leather of the front of her dress. Her dark hair spilled over her shoulders like a wild beast—a beautiful wild beast with vicious eyes. Her only adornment was a gold arm band clasped above her left elbow below her tattoos. Jarl felt the tightness in his groin growing. Dor women affected him so much more than the fair-colored women of his lands in the North—more than any other women he’d encountered anywhere on his travels, and this one….
“What’s your name?” he asked, his voice hoarse from earlier battle cries and now the added thickness of desire. She said nothing. He doubted she understood him, but he didn’t speak Dor. He looked back to his furs. He could not believe the power of the temptation, even still, to cut her down and drag her back to them. He shook his head to clear his thoughts, turned on his heel, and went to the tent flap.
“Bring Altene,” he commanded one of his guards. “And tell her to hurry.”
The guard nodded and raced away. Jarl dropped the flap, filled an oxhorn cup with wine and drained it before unlacing his leather armor. He shrugged the armor over his head into a pile on the floor in the corner, then poured himself another cup. He drained it, too. Dammit, what was taking her
