Breath held, the clatter of swords and footsteps grew close. The stickiness on her palms increased and she smoothed them over her gown. Her chest constricted. Someone approached down the narrow corridor leading out of the kitchen and to the rear of the keep. Her escape was blocked.
She clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle a cry. Shouts sent a shiver through her, the fear clawing up her throat making it almost impossible to breathe. Shadows slithered across the walls, distorted by the few lit torches. How had the Norsemen found the secret passage? Should she go back into the kitchen? Nay, if she did, she would lead them directly to the rest of the household. Her only choice was to confront the invaders.
Trembling, she edged away from the door and followed the curve of the passageway. It seemed to Catriona that a wild, brawling mass of limbs and armour had plunged into the small space. She no longer had trouble breathing but her body failed her—left her frozen. She stood as still as prey beneath a hawk while the stench of sweat and blood assaulted her.
His foreign appearance, the long hair and unusual clothing startled her and a hand clenched around her arm, snapping her out of her daze. A squeak escaped her, a noise that should have been a scream should her throat have cooperated. Body shaking, she dragged her gaze fearfully up to meet the cold blue of the Norseman’s eyes. Was it horror playing with her mind or was he truly the size of a giant?
He thrust her against the wall, causing her head to crack against the stone while he muttered something in his foreign tongue. Catriona noted the blood on his hands had transferred to her gown. The blood of the soldiers of Bute. How bad had the slaughter been?
His blood slickened hand travelled up to her face to curl around her cheek. A cry threatened to spill from her mouth but she held it at bay. She failed to supress her shudder as his rancid breath washed over her. Reluctantly, she dragged her gaze to his. Mayhap if she begged…? But, nay, the frigidness still lingered in his eyes. She only hoped he ravished her and left her be. She steeled her resolve. The sea of nausea in her stomach ebbed.
“Do what ye will,” she whispered, closing her eyes.
The clang of his sword on stone rang in her ears, the rattle echoing against the walls—and through her mind. The Norseman rubbed his thumb over her cheek. Catriona felt the smear of blood from his hand and whimpered. He thrust his other hand under her hair and held it tight, forcing her head back and sending shooting pains through her scalp.
“Du er vakker,” he growled and she drew open her lids.
Her breaths grew ragged as her mind whirled. Was there any way to get away from the huge man? She had no weapons, no great fighting skill. If she could just catch him at a vulnerable moment, could she escape? She wriggled against the hold on her hair and winced as he yanked it harder. Nay, there was no escaping him now. She had to wait. The attention she garnered had always made her uncomfortable but she knew well how to fend off advances with teasing and bold words. If she played the temptress, mayhap there would be opportunity for escape.
This thought—this idea that she could be in control—sent up a wall around her heart, but would it give way as softly as the stone of Bute Keep? Her fear drained away. Was this what warriors felt before war? Warmth entered her limbs, her bones may have been made of steel. She stood strong and met his gaze.
A grin twitched on his lips. “You would like a Viking between your thighs, nei?”
Catriona only managed to nod slowly, not trusting her voice to work. She clenched her hands into fists, barely concealing a tremor, as he pressed his lips to her neck. Dampness trailed over her skin, unwelcome hands clutched her gown, the odour of sweat and pungent breath reeled about her.
In and out. She focused on breathing. In and out. Coarse fingers came to the neckline of her gown and tugged. When the Norseman kissed the curve of her breast, her breaths quickened. The brush of prickly beard and the sight of his fair head upon her chest began to chip away at the wall. Slowly her defences were crumbling—like that of the castle. The realisation that she could not survive this raider invading her body made her palms damp, her blood soar through her veins. The pounding of alarm through her urged her to flee or fight.
She managed to rein in her terror long enough for him to drop to his knees and hoist her skirts. Those blood-tinged fingers pinched the flesh of her thighs as they slithered their way to her juncture. Unable to bear it any longer—and silently praying this moment would be her salvation—she brought her knee up into his face with all the strength her panic-ridden limbs could muster.
A sharp shout came from the man—a word that sounded like a curse, and he dropped back and clutched his nose. Catriona flitted her gaze desperately around while blood seeped from between his fingers and his eyes hardened. She could not flee until the man was rendered senseless. He still stood between herself and escape. But she had nothing with which to defend herself.