He shook his head abruptly. “It’s not that. It’s . . .” His voice trailed off. For all his own quite-famous bluntness and directness, Demansk simply could not say what needed to be said. He had never been able to say it; not once, in all the months since Adrian Gellert had returned Helga safely to her family.
“Oh,” murmured Helga. “That.” Her own face was as stiff and rigid as his own.
“Father, please. Do not insult me. For all my occasional sarcasm on the subject of our ‘illustrious forefathers’ and the ‘grandeur of the Confederacy,’ I am a daughter of Vanbert. In the bone, and the blood, and the flesh. And, for damn sure, in the spirit.”
She plumped the baby back firmly on her lap. “I knew from the moment the pirates seized me that you would refuse to pay the ransom. I would have been furious if you had. The rest of Vanbert may have grown soft and corrupt, but not Demansk. Not us! Sophisticated we have become, and literate—and why not? But we, if no other family, are the true Vanbert breed.”
Her green eyes were like two emeralds, as hard and unyielding as they were beautiful. “We do not pay ransom to pirates. We suffer their cruelties, if we must. And then, when the time comes, we wreak our vengeance. And our vengeance, and our memory, is a thing of terror to our enemies.”
Demansk swallowed, fighting back tears. He had known, of course, what would be the fate of his virgin daughter once he refused the pirates’ demand for ransom. Ravished, first, by the entire crew. Then sold into a lifetime of slavery. But—
He, too, was Vanbert. Of the old and true breed, undiluted and pure, for all the magnificence of his library and the glorious trappings of his villas and mansions. However far removed Demansk was in most respects from those ancient pig farmers, in one respect at least nothing at all had changed. He was tough.
The soft feel of his daughter’s hand on his cheek startled him. He had been lost there, for a moment, without his usual soldier’s alertness for motion.
For all their feminine slimness, the fingers were strong. And tough. They moved through the short gray-and-brown bristles as easily as a sharp scythe through wheat. As easily as the fingers of a pig farmer’s daughter did whatever work was necessary. Without flinching, without complaint.
“Stop it.” Her voice surprised him as much as the touch. The curt command was warm, almost humorous. “It wasn’t that bad, Father. Really. A few horrible days, at the beginning. Then—honestly—even worse was the year’s tedium that followed in the hareem. I was bored almost to the point of insanity.”
Again, that demigoddess shrug. “Father, if I had been a son of yours, I would have been expected to serve in the legions. And would have done so, of course, and gladly. Eagerly, in fact. The chances are quite good that, at some point or other, I would have been wounded in a battle. Possibly killed.”
A strong slim finger poked at the cloth covering his midriff, right above a scar. Then again on his lower thigh, where ridged flesh peeked beneath the tunic. And again, tracing the old wound which trailed down his left arm.
“So tell me, Father. When you received these wounds, were you in pain? Was your mind dazed with shock, for a time? Did you whimper—or rather, grind your teeth to keep from whimpering? Did you curse your fate? Did some part of your soul shriek outrage and protest at the universe?”
By then, Demansk was laughing. Softly, but aloud. “Oh, gods—yes! It was all so unfair. I was quite indignant.”
Helga’s laughter matched his own. And, for the thousandth time in his life, Demansk felt himself almost drowning in adoration of his daughter. Adoration—and pride. This too, gods, was my doing. Damn me if you will.
“So why should it be any different for me?” Helga demanded. “Is rape any worse than a blade tearing into your body? In some ways, yes, I suppose. It’s more humiliating, certainly.”
“Don’t be so sure of that,” grunted Demansk. His hand rubbed the scar over his belly. Some part of his mind, idly, was pleased to note the absence of fat. The muscle there was perhaps not as hard as it had been in his youth. But it still felt like a board, at least, if not a bar of iron.