trying to pound me into the ground?” Sarcasm laced his words and the sting of it slashed at her.
Humiliation pulsed through her body, making her heart pound in her chest and bringing the heat of embarrassment to her face. Worse, she felt the burning of tears in her eyes and her throat, forcing her to look away from him.
Why had she thought that she could face down a man, and one such as this one, and get her way? Margriet lowered her head and turned, hoping to walk quickly to some darkened corner of the camp where she could wait until the horror of her actions dissipated or at least until everyone ceased staring. She’d only taken a few steps when his voice stopped her.
“Sister, my thanks for your assistance,” he said loud enough for all to hear. Rurik watched as she stopped, unsure if she would still bolt, as the look in her eyes declared, or if she would remain. He waited and then held out his hand to her. “And my thanks for bringing me food.”
He stepped closer, though not too close, and glared over her head at those who still gawped at her, ordering their gazes away with a nod of his head. Only the little nun still watched, though hers was a look of concerned observation rather than a curious one.
Rurik had not realized his words were as harsh as they were until he saw the horror and embarrassment fill her face. ’Twas the tears he spied in the last moment before she fled that undid him. When she still did not take his hand, he bent over and picked up the cup she’d been drinking from and motioned to Sven for the skin of ale. Once filled, he offered it to her.
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