Free Lord of Hawkfell Island by Catherine Coulter Page B

for I see him wearing gowns all the time—why then, he now owns one less gown.” He gave her a long thoughtful look. “Though I must say that this particular shade of gray with the white tunic doesn’t match his eyes. Why then, he will surely be displeased for this gown is ruined now. I will tell him what you have said and watch his face turn purple with fury.”
    He strode from the sleeping chamber. She stared after him. She realized a few moments later that he’d been so angry, he’d forgotten and left her unchained. She stood, wiping gobs of food from the skirt of her gown.
    The gown had belonged to Utta’s mother. Now it would need to be washed, vigorously, and hopefully be saved. She walked into the great hall, a folded blanket over her arm, and was again aware that conversation flagged. She could feel the men staring after her, distrust in their eyes, uncertainty, since she was free. She felt only curiosity from the women. Perhaps something more than just curiosity from them. Whatever they were thinking of her, she didn’t feel the chill she felt from the men.
    She looked neither to the right nor to the left. She walked to the front doors. They were pushed wide open. Not a word, not a shout, not a yell from Rorik. She wondered why he hadn’t at least ordered her to stop.
    She went to the bathing hut. There were buckets of water in the outer room. She stripped off the gown and the tunic and washed both garments. She wrapped herself in the blanket, spread the gown and tunic over the benches to dry, and left the hut. She turned toward the palisade wall, just to see what was there, how thick the walls were, what the gates were like, what . . .
    She came face-to-face with Rorik. He held three good-sized silver bass by hooks on a line. Kerzog was standing at his side, his tongue lolling.
    She stared at the fish.
    He looked at her face, then down at the blanket wrapped around her. “What are you doing out here?”
    â€œI had to wash the gown you ruined with the swill. What are you doing with the fish?”
    He looked undecided, then shrugged. “Come with me.”
    She followed him, her blanket held firmly to her neck. He squatted down near the wall at the eastern corner of the palisade, and built a small fire from thepile of twigs and small branches stacked there. Kerzog fell onto his haunches close to the fire and watched his master, his big head cocked to one side, as if in question.
    Rorik motioned for her to sit down. She watched him scale the bass with a small knife as sharp as the one she’d lightly speared into his throat. Then he lifted an iron pan he’d obviously brought from the longhouse, smeared the bass with thick sweet butter, and laid all three of them with near reverence into the pan. He set it over the fire, sat down cross-legged and stared at the pan, as if willing it to heat quickly and cook that fish.
    She laughed, she couldn’t help it.
    â€œI’m starving,” he said matter-of-factly. He continued looking at the fish, now beginning to bubble and spit, and said, “I’ll give you one of them.”
    â€œIt seems fair. I did feed you in your captivity.”
    â€œAye, and you tried to gullet me.”
    â€œHad I wanted to kill you, I could have, easily. You were as helpless as that gutted bass.”
    â€œI am tired of your swaggering. Be quiet. Watch the fish. Do you think this one in the middle is nearly done?”
    It was hissing in the thick butter, darkening nicely, looking quite delicious.
    â€œNo, it is still raw on the inside. Must you feed yourself every night?”
    He grunted. A fat half-moon shone down overhead. The night was clear, the stars vivid in the black sky. The air was warm and still. The birds had quieted for the night. It was so quiet, the water lapping against the rocks sounded faintly in the distance. She saw him quite clearly, the planes and shadows of his face in the firelight. He