Free The Love Slave by Bertrice Small

interesting, and easy.
    Upon a rise within the town they stopped before a structure erected from both stone and wood. Gunnar Bloodaxe rapped sharply upon the large oak doors of the building with the hilt of his sword. Within moments the door was opened a crack and a small dark face peered out curiously. Then the visitor was recognized, and the door opened wider to admit him and the two girls.
    “Greetings, Abu!” Gunnar Bloodaxe boomed in his rasping tones. “I see the Gods still allow you to live on in the house of Donal Righ.”
    “I survive, Gunnar Bloodaxe,” a high, piping voice responded.
    “I never saw anyone so small,” Morag whispered to Regan.
    “What kind of a man is he?” Regan asked Gunnar.
    “He’s a pygmy,” came the answer.
    Regan did not understand, and she shrugged at Morag, who was equally confused. They were in a courtyard enclosed by the building’s walls. It seemed overcrowded with goods and bales of all sorts and shapes. Gunnar turned about, gesturing to them to keep up as they followed Abu into a separate section of the building.
    “Wait here,” Abu ordered them, then hurried on short legs through a door. But a brief moment later he popped back out and called, “Come! My master will see you, Gunnar Bloodaxe.”
    They entered the room. Both girls were astounded by what they saw. The walls were of polished wood, hung with silk tapestries. The floor was of polished stone. There were no windows in the room, but a neat fire pit burned applewood, lightly scenting the air, and taking the chill out of the cloudy day. Lights such as they had never seen—tall, of metal, and footed—lit the room. There was a dais. Seated upon it in an armed chair with a leather seat was a man with light brown skin. He was a very round man, from his body to his smooth polished pate, and his hairless face resembled nothing more than a benign full moon. He was the most foreign-looking creature either of them had ever laid eyes on, yet when he spoke, his accent was familiar.
    “What have ye brought me, Gunnar Bloodaxe?” he demanded, wasting no time on amenities. He wore a wonderful robe of silk, striped in purple, red, blue, and yellow, and his pudgy fingers were richly beringed.
    “A nobleman’s daughter, Donal Righ. Plucked from her convent on the Scots coast of Strathclyde,” Gunnar Bloodaxe replied. Reaching out, he pulled Regan’s mantle from her, revealing her face and long pale gold hair, which was loose. “This maid is worth a fortune. The other girl is her servant.”
    “She is a virgin?” Donal Righ demanded.
    “Alas, my lord, she is not,” Gunnar answered him. “She was sent to the convent for taking her sister’s husband for a lover.”
    “And you tried to be certain her virtue was indeed lost,” Donal Righ said dryly. He shook his head. “Half her value is gone, Gunnar Bloodaxe. You know that.”
    “If she were any other girl, perhaps,” Gunnar argued. He gestured at Regan to remove her tunic, pulling at it to hurry her along. “
Look at her, Donal Righ!
”
    Regan now stood naked before the man, her long golden hair her only covering. Her belly was flat. Her breasts, though small, were mounds of snowy flesh, each topped by a deep pink berry of a nipple. Her legs were slender, tapering to slim ankles and high-arched, narrow feet. At the impatient prodding of GunnarBloodaxe’s thick finger, she turned slowly, revealing the graceful sweep of her back, leading into the firm, rounded twin moons of her buttocks.
    “Hmmmmmm,” Donal Righ considered, his gaze carefully assessing the woman before him. She might not be a virgin, but there was a delicious freshness about her.
    “She is a jewel beyond price!” Gunnar Bloodaxe enthused.
    “What is your name, girl?” Donal Righ asked her.
    “Regan MacDuff, my lord,” she told him.
    “How many men have you known, Regan MacDuff?” he said.
    “I lay wi’ Ian Ferguson one time, my lord; and Gunnar Bloodaxe forced me once when I said I was