Taming the Barbarian

2

Three days and nights came and passed, Tess was locked in the hull, alone and forced to share lodgings with the ship’s plundered livestock. She was trapped in the dark the only light from the day filtering through the cracks of the floorboards above her. She saw no one outside of the Norse guard who brought her bread and water in the morning and after dusk.

            She passed the time listening to the voices above, trying to discover their plans for her to no avail. The heavy footsteps and loud voices above a constant reminder that she was in a hopeless predicament. Was she meant to serve one of her captors, or had she been taken for the slave market? Why had she not been harmed or violated? Had the man who had taken her staked his claim to her that first night or was a defiled prized worthless on the purchasing block?

It did not matter really; either fate was as distasteful as it was unavoidable. Marriage to Lord Barmen no longer looked as devastating on reflection of her present situation. Late in the afternoon of the third day, the guard came for her. Tess screamed and scurried about trying to flee. A futile effort, but she could not help herself. She cried out when he grabbed her arm and yanked it hard to pull her to him. Draping her over his shoulder, he carried her with ease topside.

The sun blinded Tess, her eyes sensitive to the light after days in the dark. The ship docked on a beach she did not recognize. A Norse camp was less than a quarter-mile inland. She has carried off the ship with trunks of cargo that had remained on deck for the short voyage. He roughly dropped her onto a wagon along with the ship’s cargo. The guard barked what sounded like orders, and the wagon lunged forward.

            The rough dirt road shook the wagon, and Tess swayed to the motion of the wheels on the bumpy terrain. The wagon rolled up the hill through the camp. Its occupants are glancing up from their daily tasks to greet the returning warriors and their booty happily. The fires were burning, and she could smell the welcoming aroma of smoked meat. She was famished; three days of bread had not been enough to satisfy her hunger.

            The women were gutting fish and scrubbing hides and tunics in water barrels. The men were carving oak and forging iron nails. There were no children in sight which didn’t surprise Tess. It was likely this was just a temporary camp and when the snow fell the Norsemen would load up their ships and sail back to their heathen home to wait out the winter.

The wagon reached a small lodging in the center of the camp; Tess was forcefully removed from the back of the wagon and ushered, along with a large chest, into the small tent. There was a small washbasin on a wooden stool by the entrance and a bed of straw and furs. Firewood was piled off to the side to heat the small space when it got cold, and a small ring of rocks formed a fire pit in the center of the tent with a corresponding hole in the roof of the tent to allow the smoke to escape.

            She sat quietly at the far end of the limited primitive space, her knees brought up to her chest, and her arms hugging her legs. She could make a run for it. The tent flap was unguarded, but she had surveyed the residents of this camp on her way in, and she did not dare venture outside. If she was under the protection of one, she did not wish to risk that protection. If she was to cause trouble, he might give her to the others. Dealing with one was more favourable than dealing with dozens.

            She listened to the voices outside for the rest of the day. It was not until after dusk that Tess saw another soul. She inhaled a steadying breath and exhaled as the tent flap moved aside, and the large warrior from the raid entered. He carried his helmet under his arm, his battleaxe in one hand, a plate of meat and bread in the other. A fresh dress draped over his arm.

            He was scruffy and dirty, and every bit as intimidating now as he had been in her bridal chamber. His long pale blonde hair tangled from the wind, and the full shabby beard hid all but his ice-blue eyes; those eyes that seemed to be the only gentle characteristic of the huge barbaric man before her.

            Placing his battleaxe and helmet on the ground by the entrance, he approached her slowly, and she flinched as he held his hands out to her, offering the food to his starving captive. Tess hesitated for a moment, but the hunger consumed her and cast aside proper edict she snatched the food from the plate with both hands and bit into the meat.

            The Norsemen took a large dirk from his belt, and Tess paused with fear. He knelt beside her and in one swift motion sliced her bounds. He then placed the dirk on the stool with the washbasin. Satisfied that he would not be killing her, Tess returned to the food she held in her hands. He returned and knelt on the straw bed, removing the clothing he had brought in from his arm. Laying the wool garment at her feet, he walked over to the washbasin once more.

            His fingers worked the large gold and silver brooch that fastened his heavy fur cloak around his broad shoulders. He tossed the cloak over the furs on the straw bed and tucked the brooch into a small leather sack he had laced to his belt. His long fingers un-strapped the leather belt that held his weapons and money purse. The belt dropped to the dirt floor. The dirty tunic was lifted over his head and tossed aside to reveal a chain-linked byline he wore beneath. He carefully removed the thin protective layer, and the thick dirty white shirt underneath was quick to follow.

            He stood by the entrance stripped to his hide breeches. His tanned skin glistened with sweat from his heavy wardrobe. His chest and arms were large and hard with defined masculine structure, his arms and torso covered with battle scars some fresh and others years old. It was clear he had seen many battlefields in his lifetime. The muscles in his shoulders and upper back flexed with the movements of his body as his hands scooped up the cold water and drizzled it over his torso, washing away the layers of dirt and perspiration.

            Tess watched in awe at the flexing muscle as her captor cleaned the weeks at sea off his powerful body. Never in her eighteen years on this earth had she seen such an intoxicating sight. A warm tingling sensation coiled slowly from her stomach down to the unusually pulsing tissue between her thighs. Flushed with embarrassment, Tess turned her eyes to the dirt floor. Modesty, it would seem, was not a virtue of these people. He retrieved his dirk from the stool, and Tess found her eyes wandering back to the man before her.

            Tess watched as the man placed the blade to his face. With great care and a practiced hand, he dragged the sharp blade across his jaw. The coarse hair slowly shed from his face and fell to the ground. After each stroke, he would dip the blade in the basin to remove the lingering hair before repeating the process.

            His hairless jaw was solid. He then lifted the blade to his hair and taking the long locks he pulled the hair taut and cut away the length letting the remainder of his hair rest on his collarbone. He tossed the fistful of severed hair outside, then reaching into the sack he had placed the brooch in he removed a single-piece comb fashioned from bleached animal bone. He carefully dragged the comb repeatedly through his matted locks, smoothing his pale hair. Placing the comb back in the pouch, he removed a long thin piece of leather and tied what was left of his hair back.

            The demonic-looking brute that had captured Tess had transformed in front of her very eyes. Had she not bore witness to the act herself, she would not have thought the handsome man that stood before her now to be the same terrifying warrior that had sacked her home. Stripped of his weapons and balky garments, he seemed less intimidating almost kind and civilized.

            “Den kjolen er for deg.” He spoke for the first time as he pointed to the clothes, he had brought her laying on the furs. Tess looked at the clothes and back at him. What did he want her to do? When she did not move, he came to the makeshift bed, picked up the woollen garment and forced it into her hands. “Den kjolen er for deg.” He repeated slower, like talking slower might help her understand him.

            “I don’t speak barbarian.” She hissed, handing the clothes back.

            He sighed, exasperated, and then he held the garment up so she could get a better look. It was a heavy gray wool dress. “For deg, satte den på.” He said forcefully and then placed the garment on the floor beside her. He then took a fistful of her ruined gown. “Dette er ødelagt må du endre.”

            “You want me to change?” She asked, watching his expression closely. She could almost see the understanding in his eyes, and he nodded with a disarming smile. “Ja… ch-an-ge.” He said with a thick accent. Had he just spoken in English?

            “You speak his majesty’s English?” She confirmed more than asking.

            He sighed and looked thoughtful as if trying to find the words he needed to communicate with her. “I… sp-ea-k,” he made a big gesture with his hands as if to say something great, big, or maybe many? She wasn’t sure. “M-uch… words?” Then he frowned, that wasn’t what he had wanted to say.

            “Language?” She offered him the word that escaped him.

            He smiled and nodded, yes. “Much language.”

            “Many languages?” She corrected.

            He nodded again. “Trade… many languages.” He moved toward her and Tess tensed with apprehension. The bread and meat still clenched in her fists. He stopped, as if understanding her fears, he sat cross-legged on the dirt floor and kept his distance. He placed his hand over his chest and said, “Dax.” She just stared at him blankly; she had no idea what he had just said. Then he patted his chest and repeated himself. “Dax.”

            Oh, it was his name. Tess pointed at him and spoke softly. “Your name is Dax?”

            He nodded and pointed at her. “Hva er ditt navn?”

            She assumed he was asking her name. “Lady Tess of Barmen.” She said, thrusting her chin out like he knew what she was saying. “When my family hears of my husband’s death and my abduction, they will send an army to retrieve me. I suggest you spare yourself the battle and let me return home.”

            Dax smiled; he did not believe her for a moment that much was clear. Few of her pathetic countrymen dared to confront, let alone seek out, his people. There would be no one coming for her, and they both knew it. "Inntil de gjør det, frue, jeg tror jeg vil holde på min spoils og risiko kampen.” She wasn’t sure what he had said but the way he had said it sent a shiver of dread down her spine when she recognized the word spoils. He had no plans of releasing her. “Tess?” He asked as if trying to filter her name out of all that she had said.

            Tess took another bite of the food in her hand, chewed, swallowed and raked her eyes over his masculine body. None of the English men she had known looked the way he did. Most were pale and thin, few worked on the farms and even those paled in comparison to the darkly bronzed barbarian warrior that sat only feet away. Something was compelling in his gaze though, something commanding yet lenient. “Yes… Tess.” She confirmed quietly.

            She was understandably on edge. Dax had widowed her and taken her prisoner all in one night; she had been alone and frightened for days during the voyage. Suddenly he came to his feet and pointed at the dress by her feet. “Change.” He ordered, his towering frame making him a giant in her seated position. Dax picked up his fur cloak and draped it around his shoulders as he pulled back the tent flap.

            “Am I to be sold on the slave market?” She bluntly asked, needing desperately to know what was to become of her. Her fate hung in the balance. She had heard all the horror stories. The tales of what became of captives and slaves.

            Dax paused briefly, his smile almost charming. "Du tilhører meg. Jeg holder det jeg drepe." That answered her question in no way. Without another word, he exited the tent and once again, she was alone. She picked up the sleeve of the heavy grey dress he had brought her. Her bridal gown was in tatters; she supposed changing would be in her best interest.

            After all, she had been a little cold. She only wished he had left her some fresh washing water. She finished her meal and then got up and walked to the washbasin. The water was dirty with hair and dirt. She certainly couldn’t use it to clean up. How was she going to get out of her gown without a lady maid?

***                             

            Dax strolled through the gathering of his people as he waited for his English prize to change. She was timid and needed to be approached with care. Like taming a wild animal, it would take skill and time to coax her out of her shell. Dax decided to join his shipmates. They ate and drank while exchanging tales of their weeks away, adding another chapter to their sagas. He sat next to Helom, a longtime friend and a fierce warrior. They had fought in many battles together, side by side in the glorious flames conquering the lands they explored. Helom had taken over the responsibility of teaching Dax after his father had been lost at sea when Dax was merely six.

            Helom had sailed under Dax’s father when he was a young man, they had fought together, drank together, bled together; they were the best of friends. Dax to this day still remembered the sight of Helom walking up the stone path to their hut that night when the ships had come home. He carried his father’s shield bringing it back to his widow. Dax had stood at his mother’s side; she stood tall with no tears in her eyes. She was strong like his father had been. She had accepted the shield. Helom had smiled under his scruffy blonde beard, his eyes crinkled at the edges but full of pride. “It was a good death.” Was all he had said. Then he had tussled Dax’s hair and headed back down the path.

            Dax had become the man of the house that day, responsible for his mother and sisters. He had to shoulder his father’s reasonability. An honourable quality that had inspired Helom to guide him into manhood, to make him the warrior he was today. 

            Dax took a pint of ale offered to him by Hilda, Helom’s only daughter. A sturdy fair-haired girl is coming into womanhood. She had eyes for him since she could walk and Helom had always teased that one-day Dax would take his daughter and become the son he had always wanted. Dax, however, kept his distance, he had no interest in settling down, and he wanted no bride to leave behind. Hilda looked very much like her father, a pretty young thing nonetheless but paled in comparison to the dark-haired beauty cowering back in his tent.

            “And what of you how were the seas for the Demon Dax?” Hilda smiled and sat beside him, her attention focused on Dax as he drank his ale.

            “The seas were fair; Odin was generous with his blessings.”

            Helom laughed out loud and boisterous, his large body rocking back and forth as he slapped his knee. “Generous is an understatement. In the last raid alone, you doubled your wealth. You should have seen it, my child, as he descended from the ship and stalked through the village, wielding his mighty battleaxe.” Helom began his tale. “The damned Englishmen ran screaming like children; they thought he was sent by their devil to send them to the afterlife they did… and so he obliged.” He let out another hearty laugh drawing amusement from those who listened. “His death toll is greater than mine now.” The forty-year-old man praised his prized pupil.

            He beamed like a proud father. Helom had never been blessed with a son of his own, and he had taken great joy in being responsible for the training of such a capable apprentice as Dax. When Dax achieved glory in battle, it was a testament to Helom’s skill. He took great pride in reminding everyone that he had taught the boy everything he knew.

            “As I said, Odin was generous.” Dax emptied his mug. The ale burnt a path down his throat. He was not interested in telling tales this evening; he had other amusements planned. Tess had been in his thoughts since they had set sail three days ago. He had been patient enough; tonight, he would enjoy his prize. She was afraid of him. After all, he had killed her husband and her countrymen, Dax had his work cut out for him. Unlike some of the other men, thrall or not, Dax preferred a willing participant. Though most men did not feel a thrall deserve kindness or consideration Dax disagreed. He had never forced himself on anyone, but he believed the act had to be much more satisfying when one did not have to worry about restraining a woman.

            Hilda ran her palm over Dax’s smooth jaw. “You have shaved.” She observed. He often came back from the sea in need of grooming as did any man. The beard protected his face from the harsh elements while away. When he returned from sea, he would shave and groom himself. Few of the men would groom to his extent as often as he did, claiming it was too much trouble to woo a woman when they could take what they wanted regardless of her protest. Dax kept himself well-groomed and clean when possible, which explained his success with the opposite s*x.

            “He must have plans.” Her father cast Dax a knowing smirk. “I do not know why you bother. Put the girl in her place and take what you want, she is a thrall why waste your time?”

            Dax placed his empty mug aside and stood up. “Because I detest being bitten and scratched during amusements old man.” He said slapping Helom on the back.

            Helom laughed loudly. “It lets you know you are alive.” The men around the circle cheered. “Bring on the wenches.” He hooted, grabbing the closest passing woman and pulling her into his lap, spilling his ale as he took a kiss.

            Dax smiled; wiping the dirt from the breeches, he nodded good-bye. He retrieved himself two mugs of ale to take back to his tent. After some food in her belly and a pint in her system, Tess may relax. When he returned to his tent, Tess had changed her clothing, and the food was gone. She stood beside the bed, the dress he had brought her was still far too big for her tiny structure, but it had been the smallest he could find.

            The waist was wide enough to fit a bucket in there with her. The length of the heavy wool skirt was at least a foot too long. The hem trailed far behind her; she would trip if she tried to walk. He would have to have a garment tailored for her. Tess was so much smaller than the women he grew up with. The women of his people were much larger, stronger, and capable of tending a farm, even fighting as well as some men in battles. Tess, however, looked as if a strong wind would knock her over.

            She was more than a foot shorter than him and so thin she looked the same size as most of their older children. Her dark, chestnut hair hung down her back in a thick dark braid that eventually rested on her firm bottom. She stood with her back straight and ridged. Her expression grave, trying to mask her fear. Dax grinned at the sight of her attempt to manipulate him. The way she carried herself suggestive of her life of noble living. The weeks to come would be a shock to her. Her station in life had changed drastically.

            “I think you should reconsider releasing me. If you let me go now, I am sure I can convince my family to recall the army and let you live.” She threatened in English, once more trying to sway him. He understood more than he was capable of speaking. It had been some time since he had traded in English; it was difficult to recall it all, but with some time and practice, he was sure they could communicate.

            Dax approached her slowly. He handed her a mug and drank from his own, throwing his cloak to the bed. He didn’t respond to threats. Dax piled some wood in the center of the tent and started a fire to heat the small area for the night.

            “Did you hear me? I said…”

            “I… heard… you.” He interrupted her, finding the changing back and forth from his language to hers trying. He would have to see that she was schooled in his tongue. A small fire now burned in the center of a ring of rocks. Dax reached up and stood stretched out to open the small flap in the roof of the tent to allow the smoke to ventilate properly.

            “Then you know…”

            “I know… as well as you do… that no one… is coming for you.” He managed it was coming back to him with some work. No one would come for her, nor would they find her if they did. She ought to make the best of it. “Re-lax.” He ordered in a slow, soft tone walking toward her. Tess retreated, backing into the wall of the tent until she was cornered. Dax stood so close he felt the warmth of her body even though the thick wool layer between them. His hand touched her shoulder. Heat spread through his body from the point of his touch. His fingers traced down her arm and over her elbow to her wrist. The slightest pressure of his finger moved Tess’ hand upward bringing the mug she held to her face. “Drink,” he said, struggling for the right words, “it will… calm… you.” His face was low to hers as he spoke.

            An overwhelming urge to touch her consumed him. He had never known such a powerful impulse. His fingers twitched as his hand came up from his side slowly; no, he had to resist. Dax abruptly walked away from her. He drank as he dropped his sizeable frame onto the straw bedding. His long muscular legs stretched out, one arm folded under his head as the other held his half-empty mug. She should have felt relieved by the distance, but instead, Tess only looked confused. Dax could tell by her eyes that he both excited and frightened her.

            “How many years… um…” he paused, searching his brain for the right word, “old. How… old… are you?” Dax inquired, not caring but in need of some topic of conversation to fill the time until the timid woman relaxed. He gestured to the end of the bed for her to sit. She paused and then reluctantly seated herself at his feet, sipping the beverage in her small hands. A sight that brought a smile to his face. She coughed and made a twisted face at the taste. She must be very young; she was still fresh to liquor, its effects would soothe her sooner than he had anticipated, perhaps he would not have to wait as long as he had first wagered. As his eyes studied her innocent demeanour, he wondered what else she might be fresh too.

            “Eighteen,” Tess answered when she regained her ability for speech. The burning path down her throat still choking her words.

            Eighteen… she was barely a woman. “Young.”

            “Do not patronize me. I am considered an old maid by many standards; many girls younger than I are happily made mothers twice over.”

Yes, he supposed that was true. He recalled she had referred to the old man he had killed as her husband. He must have been more than thirty years her senior, also not unheard of. She could not have been married long if she were only eighteen. A few days, a season or two tops. “Were you…” Damn it what the word he was looking for was? “Mated? Matched?”

“Married?” She suggested.

            That was it. “Married long?” Dax asked, not wanting to upset her but curious all the same.

            She shook her head. “You interrupted my wedding night? Hence the white gown you so callously ruined.” Tess said coolly as she took another sip.

            Her lack of emotion surprised him. Most brides would have been devastated and yet she seemed indifferent to her husband’s death, she seemed less put out by his decapitation than the state of her tattered dress. “Sorry,” Dax said without genuine remorse; he was polite.

            “Do not be, he was a disgusting, vile little man, and I would have killed him myself if given a chance.” Tess smiled wickedly as she took another sip. “This is very good once you get past the taste.” She added with a tiny burp. “Oh, dear.” Tess blushed and brought her fingers to her lips. Her eyes cast down with embarrassment.

            She was drinking the ale rather fast for someone so new to the drink, her face was already flush, and her body appeared more relaxed. “If you hated…. the man…why…?”

            “Marry him?” She finished for him, so he didn’t have to search for the words. “It was against my will I assure you. I was as much his prisoner as I am yours. My father gave me to Lord Barmen to settle his debts.”

            And they called him barbarian. At least his people do not sell their children.

            “I must know am I to be a slave?”

            Her assessment was bang on they did keep thralls. “Would… you… ra-th-er… I killed you?”

            “Some say death is preferred to being a Viking captive.”

            Surely, she must prefer his company to death? He had harmed her in no way. “I’m… good… to you?”

            “But… I am not free to go.”

            “No.” She had him on that point. Dax grinned, his handsome mouth curved suggestively. Her skin was flushed; she was feeling the effects of the ale. Tess turned her gaze down to the half-empty mug in her hands. She was realizing now that she had drunk too much too fast. Her nerves were working against her.

            Dax’s position shifted. He now sat cross-legged beside Tess the fabric of his breeches resting against her heavy skirt. Tess lifted her gaze, her eyes staring up at him through heavy lashes. Dax reached one arm around her and untied the ribbon from her hair. His fingers worked the tightly knit braid loose and let her silky tresses hang in waves over her shoulders. His fingers brushed her face as Dax stroked Tess’ hair. The point of contact felt like fire, and she became exceedingly restless.

            Tess was like no woman he had been with before. So small and fragile, he was afraid she would break. Her pale ivory skin contrasted his own darkened by the sun and the harsh sea air. Tess did not flinch…did not pull away, he noted. She was. Still, her gaze steadily held his own. Her breathing had altered, her flesh blushes pink from the combination of ale and arousal. In his time on earth, Dax had been as successful with women as he was on the battlefield. He could read a woman’s body the way he could navigate the stars.

            “You are…” an exceptional beauty. He wished he had the words to tell her so. He could certainly understand his Lordship’s desire to have her. “… comely?” Was that the word he wanted?

            “It is a curse. It has made me a prisoner of two men, and in this place, I am sure there will be others.” Tess reflected barely above a whisper. Dax knew she must worry. Would he share her once he was through with her? Would the others be as patient and take as much care to make her feel comfortable as he did? “Will you force me?” She whispered, afraid to upset him. Afraid of how he may react. Afraid of the strange sensations he, a stranger, invoked deep inside her.

            Dax leaned into Tess his mouth hovering over hers, so close he could almost taste her sweetness. “No.” The word rolled from his tongue, thick and husky. His raw masculine senses, like a moth to a flame Tess, was drawn to him. Swaying the slightest distance her lips met his in a soft, shy brushing sending a ripple of sensation through him.

            “Then, I am not interested.” She said her voice shaky with desire. How did she expect him to believe her when she clearly could not even convince herself? She clenched her knees together tightly trying to dull the pulsing that intensified by Dax’s proximity. His mouth curved slightly in a smug grin, taking the mug from her trembling hands, he placed it on the ground along with his. His fingers closed around hers and drew her hand toward him.

            Tess sucked in a breath of shock when Dax held her hand over the ridged bulge of his breeches. It was long and solid, a thick column that filled her palm. A smart person inspects the merchandise before denying a deal. She may change her mind. His hand guided hers back and forth over the length of him, and she watched in awe as he grew under her touch, straining the laces of the already snug fabric. He released her hand once he felt it move under its own will. Her fascination piqued. He closed his eyes and marvelled in the gentle, teasing friction. If she was inexperienced, she was a quick learner.

            Realizing her improper behaviour, Tess pulled her hand back only to be stopped by Dax’s fingers gripping her wrist. “Please.” She pleaded, embarrassed by her shameless behaviour. “It was disgraceful and unladylike, unfitting of a woman of breeding. I never have…” She stopped unable to say the words, blushing and lowering her eyes to the ground.

            “Been with a man?” He finished her thought. If it was true, she had a natural talent… one he desperately wanted to explore. She nodded, not lifting her eyes. “Would you… like to… see me?” He encouraged her interest and kissed a trail of butterfly kisses down her neck and up again.

            Tess closed her eyes against the pleasurable tingling that spiralled from his lips downward. He asked his voice soft in her ear again, and she replied so softly he almost did not hear her. “Yes.”

            Dax twined his finger around the leather lace that held his breeches closed. Pulling slowly, he loosened the laces and slid his breeches down his hips. Dax removed the last of his clothing and tossed them beside the bed. He placed two fingers on Tess’ chin and tilted her face toward him, bringing his manhood within eye level. “Look at me.” He ordered. She opened her eyes and released the breath she had been holding.

            Dax unfastened the clasps on her shoulders that held the woollen dress up. The heavy garment dropped around Tess’ waist. He slid the white linen chemise down her arms, exposing her superb bosom. Pushing her softly back against the straw, Dax leaned over her drawing a rosy pink n****e into his mouth, suckling and nibbling until it formed a firm peak. His hand moved up the silky skin of her thigh, moving her skirt aside in a slow upward motion.

            Tess melted under his seductive strokes. Dax kissed her lips, tasting her, sweeping her tongue with his, and when she kissed him back, he moved his hands to her disarrayed dress so he could strip it from her body. Tess whimpered with fear. “Please,” she whispered, coming to her senses as his lips brushed over hers, “I do not think I can do this.”

            Dax wanted her, and it was too late to stop, he was not sure he could control himself should she ask him to stop. She was wet, and her skin hot and flushed. She wanted him as badly as he did her; he could sense it. She would not take much convincing. Her body seemed willing.

            “I cannot do this.” She snapped, pushing against him. He pressed his body firmer against hers, and she closed her eyes against the marvellous sensation. He was willing to do everything if he must. “No, please… I cannot… it would be an affront to my god. Please get off me; I cannot allow it.” She snapped, hitting him.

             It was as if she had doused him with ice water. There was anger in his eyes. If it purges her soul of responsibility, she could take comfort in the fact that she no longer had an option. With heated lust and fury Dax bunched the fabric of the skirt in his hand and lifted it about her waist. Enraged, he wanted to punish her. Dax trapped Tess’ small wrists against the bed with crushing strength, preparing to rip away her virtue and claim his prize. She screamed with pain, her fingers outstretched as she attempted to slip her small hands through his grasp.

            The English and their demandable prudish spiritual convictions. Anger spread through him. Who the hell did she think she was? She was the same as all the others, viewing him and his people as animals, as a lesser life than her, on her high platform of English wealth and nobility. A bloodline that meant little out here in this rugged bitter terrain. Did she honestly believe she still had any power or influence in this place? She was nothing now, a nobody in his world. A thrall… his thrall, to do as she was told and keep him happy. The sooner she came to terms with her new status, the better.

            Tears rolled down Tess’ cheeks, and he found himself feeling guilty. Dax held deathly still staring at the woman beneath him, it was their way, but he had never been able to follow through with it. He had no problem taking what he wanted unless it came to women. It was something about the act that made his stomach churn. “I am sorry.” He said softly, kissing away her tears, ashamed of himself, never had any women reduced him to rape; and he would not allow Tess to be the first, though such actions were both common and acceptable among his people he felt them be dishonourable. If a man could not convince a woman, she wanted to give herself to him. She was not worth taking.

            Rolling away, Dax reached for his breeches. He pulled the hide over his bottom and laced the front. Draping his fur cloak around his shoulders, Dax grabbed Tess by the arm and pulled her to her feet. She clutched the fabric of the dress to her bosom to hide her indecency as he dragged her to the tent flap.

            Tess panicked and struggled against him, but her efforts were futile. He was far stronger than she could ever be. They could hear the commotion raging outside.

Dax threw open the flap of his tent and dragged Tess outside. Around them, his countrymen were enjoying themselves, drinking and brawling and partaking in more brutal vices. Tess instinctively fell against Dax trying to hide against him.

            Dax took her by the shoulders and carefully shook her, forcing her to look at the events around her. Would she prefer this fate? “You… are… mine.” He snarled, and she would be wise to tend to his wishes as if her life depended on it because it did. There were worse fates them him. He shoved her back into his tent. His carnal urges are unsatisfied for the moment. Instead, he now would take part in his second favourite amusement… drinking himself into a stupor.

***

            Tess sat alone, straightening her dress. The heat of his body gone she felt nothing more than shame and guilt. She and an English noblewoman had been reduced to a common brothel wench. It shamed her that she had wanted him if only for a short time. God forgive her weakness and give her the strength to resist him. How was she to survive?