Keeping her hand unobtrusively near the dagger’s hilt, she came back to the door, careful to make some noise as she opened it. When she came in, Rory was sitting on the bench fiddling with his boots, and old Mhari had laid her head back on the pillow and was asleep, or pretending to be. As Romilly came in, Rory said, “Would you give me a hand wi’ my boots, young fellow?”
“Gladly,” Romilly said, thinking fast. If he had his boots off, at least he could not pursue her too quickly. She knelt before him, putting both hands to the boot, and hauled it free of his foot; bent forward to the other. She had both hands on it, and was tugging hard, when Rory bent forward, and she saw the glint of the knife in his hand.
Romilly acted without thought; she pushed hard on the leg with the boot, sending it up so that Rory’s knee slammed into his chin, with a loud crack. The bench went over backward, with Rory tangled in it, and she scrambled to her feet and ran for the door, snatching up her cloak as she ran. She fumbled at the latch-string, her heart pounding, hearing Rory curse and shout behind her. A quick glance told her; his mouth was bleeding, either the blow had knocked out a tooth or cut his lip. She was swiftly through the door and tried to thrust it shut with her shoulder, but he wrestled it open behind her and then he was on her. She did not see the knife; perhaps he had dropped it, perhaps he meant to use only his huge hands. Her tunic ripped all the way down as he grabbed her; he pulled her close, his hands closing around her throat; then his eyes widened as he saw the ripped tunic and he tore it all the way down.
“By the Burden! Tits like a very cow! A girl, huh?” He grabbed Romilly’s hand, which was clawing at his eyes, and held her immobile; then whirled her about and marched her back into the little kitchen.
“Hey, there! Granny! Look what I found, after all? Hell’s own waste to hurt her – haven’t I been after a wife these four years, and not a copper for a bride-price, and now one comes to my very door!” He laughed, jubilantly. “Don’t be frightened, wench, I wouldn’t hurt a hair of your little head now! I’ve something better to do, hey, Granny? And she can stay with you and wait on you while I’m out at the farming, or away to the mill or the town!” Laughing, the big man squeezed her tight in his arms and mashed a kiss against her mouth. “Runaway servant girl to the gentry, are you, then? Well, pretty thing, here you’ll have your own kitchen and hearthfire, what do you say to that?”
Paralyzed by this torrent of words, Romilly was silent, filled with terror, but thinking faster than she had ever thought in her life.
He wanted her. He would not hurt her, at least for a little while, while he still hoped to have her. His mouth against hers filled her with revulsion, but she concealed the crawling sense of sickness and forced herself to smile up at him.
“At least you are no worse than the man they would have had me marry,” she said, and realized as she said it that she was telling the absolute truth. “Old, more than twice my age, and always pawing at helpless girls, while you, at least, are young and clean.”
He said, contented, “I think we will suit well enough when we are used to each other; and we need only share a bed, a meal and a fireside, and we will be as lawful wedded as if Lord Storn himself had locked the catenas on our arms like gentlefolk! I will build up the fire in the inner room where there is a bed, and you can get about cooking a meal for us to share. There is flour in the sacks, and can you make a loaf with blackfruit? I do like a good fruity bread, and I’ve had nothing but nut-porridge for forty days and more!”