Ywain nodded. “Well answered. And now—what about me? Will you have me flogged and chained to an oar? Or will you kill me here?”
He shook his head slowly, answering her last question. “I could have let my wolves tear you if I had wished you killed now.”
Her teeth showed briefly in what might have been a smile. “Small satisfaction in that. Not like doing it with one’s own hands.”
“I might have done that too, here in the cabin.”
“And you tried, yet did not. Well then—what?” Carse did not answer. It came to him that, whatever he might do to her, she would still mock him to the very end. There was the steel of pride in this woman.
He had marked her though. The gash on her cheek would heal and fade but never vanish. She would never forget him as long as she lived. He was glad he had marked her.
“No answer?” she mocked. “You’re full of indecision for a conqueror.”
Carse went around the table to her with a pantherish step. He still did not answer because he did not know. He only knew that he hated her as he had never hated anything in his life before. He bent over her, his face dead white, his hands open and hungry.
She reached up swiftly and found his throat. Her fingers were as strong as steel and the nails bit deep.
He caught her wrists and bent them away, the muscles of his arms standing out like ropes against her strength. She strove against him in silent fury and then suddenly she broke. Her lips parted as she strained for breath, and Carse suddenly set his own lips against them.