THIRTY-FOUR
As Sativa settled into the king's bed – without the king, for Reidar slept outside the tent, as he insisted her honour demanded – she let out a sigh of contentment. She'd washed away weeks' worth of salt and dirt as best she could with just a cloth and basin of water. She'd eaten a meal worth tasting for the first time in weeks. And she now wore a tunic without holes, as fine as Melitta's had once been before time and trouble had worn it to rags.
She was safe. Whatever happened next was for Reidar to worry about, not her. No more pirates or perilous voyages or pea straw or pigs. Ever again.
She remembered the l**t in his eyes, not unlike the look every man wore when he looked at a beautiful woman. What would it feel like to surrender to such a thing? Not the cruel hands of
