city of York into the hands of Saxon rebels and their Danish allies.”
His smile faltered, and though he tried to prop it up with the laughter of one who must explain something obvious to a dull wit, she glimpsed uncertainty in eyes seeking to remain focused on her.
“That was also a great accomplishment and possible only because Saxon rebels who thought themselves warriors had our swords and axes between them and death.”
Even greater was her disappointment he spouted what were surely his sire’s words. Though fairly certain drink was responsible and she told herself to let it be, she could not.
Halting before him, she swallowed hard over an unwashed body that smelled of sweat, smoke, and ale. “If that is so, Bjorn, why did those under your sire’s command depart upon learning Le Bâtard rode to take back York? Why did they sail away from their allies, refusing to engage William in open battle?” She raised her eyebrows. “Those Saxon rebels, many of whom were trained by Vitalis of Wulfen, are the reason York was taken. Aye, your warriors aided, but because of the Danes, the Normans reclaimed the city.”
As Nicola had only a moment to realize a drunken Bjorn was far from a sober one, she managed only a single step backward.
Gripping her arms in places made tender by his sire days past, he thrust his face near hers. “Danes are the greatest and most powerful warriors, fearing no enemy’s sword. Thus, it is not weakness to refuse to engage the enemy, it is wisdom to know the best time and place to lead men to victory with the least amount of bloodshed.”
Certain these were also the earl’s words, Nicola longed to argue, but the one before her was nearly unrecognizable. Mouth dry, she tried to moisten her lips.
But Bjorn seemed to think that an invitation. Dragging her onto her toes, he crushed his mouth to hers, muting her cry of fear.
The powerful scent of alcohol stinging her nostrils, the blood of a cut lip springing onto her tongue, Nicola strained away and turned her head aside, but as she drew breath to scream, he released one of her arms, gripped her jaw, and once more pressed his mouth to hers.
Pained by teeth grinding against her lips, she twisted to the side. Success was had a moment later, allowing her to loose a scream, but it was not truly success—merely this unknown Bjorn putting space between them to maneuver her onto the bed.
She thumped down, and when he followed, his mouth inhaled her next scream. Though she feared her protest wasted since the men outside her room had no care for the preservation of her virtue—might even enjoy what happened on this side of the door—she bit Bjorn’s lip, and when he jerked back, screamed again.
She did not expect him to cease and feared he might strike her, but whatever shone on her face as she refilled her lungs gave him pause. Then the wildness about his eyes flickering, the red of his face beginning to crawl back down his jaw, he clamped a hand over her mouth.
A trickle of blood sliding into the dip beneath his lip, he said with the desperation of one entreating another to throw him a rope, “Pray, be silent, Nicola. I would not hurt you. I vow I would not. Be still, and I shall release you.”
She did not want to be silent nor still, though screaming to be heard above the celebrants was likely of no benefit since none would care were she being murdered let alone ravished.
It seemed the Bjorn she knew was repentant for what the Bjorn she did not know had done, but she wanted to kick him in his man’s place as had been impossible due to his greater strength and weight. Nearly as much, she wanted to slap herself for being unprepared for an assault that had rendered her incapable of defending herself as taught by Lady Hawisa.
“You will be silent?” His slur was less obvious than the quiver in his voice.
When she bobbed her chin, he eased the pressure on her mouth and cautiously lifted his hand. “See, naught to fear.” He smiled apologetically. “I—”
“Get off me!” she hissed.
“Nicola, I did not mean to—”
A woman’s angry voice sounded from the corridor, and as Bjorn snapped his chin around, the door opened and Vilda shot inside. “What do you?” she demanded.
However, the one who sprang in after her wasted no words on learning what excuse Bjorn might