The Forlorn(20)

Her potential role models were rather limited. If she pretended to be an aristocrat's daughter it would suggest she had some value, and might be ransomed. The fellow would certainly tie her up . . . It would have to be someone from the lower orders then. A maid perhaps? She had always been attended by maids. She knew that there were also parlor maids and kitchen maids, but she'd never given much attention to any of them. They just were, in the way that air was. You didn't notice what they did, or how they behaved. They were trained to be inobtrusive. If they weren't they . . . went.

She could only think of three women of the lower classes to whom she'd truly paid attention. Firstly, her herbal poisons instructress, who had been positively ancient—at least fifty—and who, despite her resemblance to the bad ones in the fairy tales, one very carefully didn't call a witch. Secondly, the two high-class whores who had taught her about bed arts. She didn't think a young poisoner would be well received, so—she'd be a young whore. After all, she knew the theory, and she'd have him in thrall very rapidly.

She dropped her chin forward, cocked her head sideways, and raised her eyebrows coquettishly, "Bella, handsome. What's yours, then?"

"Hur! Best if yer don't know, sweetie." He was standing over her now. She was aware of just how big and coarse he really was.

He reached for her, and she steeled herself not to shrink. He pulled her to her feet, fondling her breasts as he did so. Shael decided to change roles very rapidly. The theory was one thing; even watching the practical demonstrations from her hidden vantage had been all right. She knew how she was supposed to respond. Her body just wasn't ready to cooperate.

She pulled away from him, struggling to get free of the thick arms, "Please . . . please don't. You'll get a good ransom for me if I'm, uh, not . . . not hurt. Please, can't you just let me go and . . . give me something to eat."

Her reaction only made him hold her more tightly. The struggle seemed to excite him. He laughed, pushing her down onto the thick mat of grass and sedges. "Don't gi' me that crap! It won't hurt you, ducky, and I'll give yer something fine to eat . . . afterwards." His knee forced her thighs apart. He imprisoned both of her frantically clawing little hands in one of his large powerful ones. With the other hand he tore her skirt and underclothes away. His stinking breath was hot on her face. As he fumbled at his own belt, Shael decided that the theory was absolutely and totally unlike the practical experience.

And suddenly anger, wild searing anger, ripped through her, replacing the panic and fear. She was a Royal Princess. She was Cru, dammit, not some peasant trull to be abused like this! His fumbling hand was trying to open her, to guide his blindly thrusting manhood. She spat up into his face. Then again into his half-closed eye, and then, as he turned his face away, she lunged up and bit his neck with all her strength. She felt her teeth meet as he pulled away from her. She tried to roll away from the buffeting slap. "You fuckin' bitch!" It made her head reel, but despite this she knew what she had to do while she had the chance. As he'd slapped her, his one knee had come off the ground. Her leg had slid under it. Her thighs were well-trained and strong, and she lifted her knee with all the force she could muster.

The would-be rapist reeled back, his grasp on her hands slackening, as he put a sheltering hand over his testicles. He'd fallen half sideways, off her. "I'll kill yer for this!" He bellowed in pain. As he spoke, a raking set of claws stabbed at his eyes . . . and she was rolling away. He dived at her, but she had had time to pull her knees up under her chin. There was no science in it, but the double-footed, instinctive kick caught him in the solar plexus. The force of the kick, plus his own momentum, emptied his lungs with an explosive whuf! and sprawled him sideways next to her. The stream was beside them. And it was full of rocks. She seized one with both hands, and brought it down on his head as hard as she could. He lay still, blood sluggishly oozing through his dirty hair. For a moment Shael was still too. Then she pounded his head several more times, before dropping the rock, her hands shaking. Only then did she spit out the piece of his flesh that she still had in her mouth.

"That," she said, after a long, long moment, with her voice quivering, "is what you get for trying to rape the daughter of the Tyrant, you . . . you . . ." Words failed her. The best she could manage was "pig!"

The anger that had carried her through her furious defense was over now, and the fear was beginning to steal back. She'd been lucky. If . . . if she hadn't won, he'd probably have killed her . . . afterwards. After a few moments her self-possession came back. He'd dropped his bag as he'd advanced on her. She walked over to it and opened it. Looted tawdry bits of silk; a few scraps of ornamental silver, probably stolen from a temple somewhere; a bone-handled dagger with a broken tip and . . . a pie. She stood, pie and knife in hand, when she heard a groan from behind her.