CHAPTER EIGHT

The redhead, the one Ragmoose had snatched from the farm, was something, wasn’t she? He hadn't had time to consider it during the night when there hadn't been a star to steer by and the ship had been tossed around like a cork. Now, dawn edged the sky with amber fingertips, the water lapped softly against the prow of the boat though? Yes. She might just be the one to make Snotra jealous, let her know, that while she was queen of his home, his heart was private. Parts of it anyway.

Of course Snotra was queen, had always been, ruler of that kingdom. Probably since the day he first arrived at Uncle Gustruff’s farm, a boy of ten, and there she was chasing butterflies through the meadow, Ari lumbering along in her wake, blond plaits bouncing, big as an elephant even then.

There was no point pretending about Snotra. But she’d burned him. Her and her goat-faced goat of a father between them, because it was another time he just wasn’t good enough. The redhead would be his line in the sand.

The troll was also awake. At least she stirred. He didn’t know if that meant she was awake, or just flailing her arm groggily about in the sleeping blankets he’d flung at her last night. Her face had been as green as pea gruel and she’d had trouble keeping the contents of her stomach from spattering her tunic front. Not the most edifying sight he’d seen in his twenty five years on earth.

“I think she sees herself as the chosen one. But you’d be out of your helmet to take her.” Ari tore two hunks of bread. “Here. It’s damp but edible.”

The chosen one? Dragons would breathe fire around the Raven first. Accompanied by trolls. He chewed a mouthful of bread. “She can think what she likes. I’m not that desperate.”

Especially when it was obvious she was no sailor and any minute . . . any second now . . . Well, at least she didn’t go over the side, largely because Gentle shot her hand out and seized her ankle.

“Potlicker.” Ari handed him an apple. “I told you she’d be better over the side. So, if she goes, you should just leave her.”

True. But cargo, wasn’t she? He tossed the apple aside. Smothering a series of curses he squeezed down the center aisle, shot out a hand and grabbed the sodden back of her tunic. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Oh . . . I . . . I . . . Oh, please forgive me, Drottin to you . . .”

“What?”

“W-what you t-told me to call you.”

“What I told you? Well, apart from the fact it’s just Drottin, I believe that was to sit down and shut up. You’ve no business getting out of those blankets there. Why do you think I stowed all of you here?”

“T-t-to . . . to-ooh . . . Well, to-ooooh . . . Oh God . . .”

What had just blown back in his face was something he didn't want to think about. But so long as he hadn't swallowed it, it was fine. “You were saying?”

“If…” She covered her mouth. ”If you could just give me a moment.”

“Be my guest.”

“Thank you.”

“I wouldn’t want to stand in your way.”

Great wasn't it? How, not only was his tunic fine-sprayed with vomit, the smell of which he was trying valiantly to ignore—hadn’t he eaten that bread after all?--she stuck her head so far over the side, he was forced to haul her back before she went flying over it. But maybe she wanted to die.

“G-G-God.” Was he mistaken? Did she just bat her eye-lids at him? ”This is embarrassing.”

She could say that again. Did some people not have any shame, or what? With a face the color of green gruel and hair like rat’s tails, she hadn't just batted her eyelids, she’d smoothed a strand of hair back from her face.

“I ... I really must apologize. I'm not the best--. Please give me another minute. Thank you. It’s just . . . ” She broke off as if her mouth was full, dipped her head forward, making the most Odin-awful noise, then straightened. “There now. Yes, I'm not the best sailor."

Troll’s teeth, was Ari right about her? She’d become awfully friendly all of a sudden. When not only was Snotra with her sun-kissed, sweet-smelling hair, never a strand out of place, her pretty lips he always tasted nectar on—sensuous lips, curving lips, as far from this bedraggled witch as it was possible to be, she’d never vomited on him. Well sort of vomited on him. Shock edged the ice-cold hairs along the back of his neck.

“Look at the horizon.”

“The, the w-w-what?”

“Over there. The edge of the sea. You’re sick, aren’t you?”

“Oh … Yes… That. Well, the thing is that’s because—well I’ve just said. I tried to warn you yesterday when I asked you about the possibility of putting you—I mean you putting me—. Indeed it is why I am hoping …“

“Vomiting is more like. Eight days.”

“E-eight days?”

“With a fair wind, that’s how long this is going to take, which is why I suggest you get some rest if you’re going to do any better than you’re doing so far. Go on.”

Get round him? He didn’t think so. At least he’d made up his mind about some things. After this session, he’d sooner fail at making Snotra jealous by choosing the gargantuan goat.

***

Eight days. Could this get any worse? As she lay flat out on the deck, looking at the gulls circling endlessly overhead, her doubts that it couldn’t, grew feet, legs and everything anyone cared to name. The tribulations were just too great. Every bone in her body ached. Fists clenched her stomach. Just when she thought she couldn’t possibly be sick any more too.

“Don’t you think you’re the clever one?”

She clutched the woolen edge of the blanket closer. Had she really thought things could get no worse? If only she could go home. Just go to sleep and then, in the morning, wake up in a different place. One where she had never hacked her hair to bits, her clothes too and been dragged aboard a dreadful ship by a dreadful man. She’d just made the biggest fool of herself.

How could she have been sick over the side? Even if it was better than being sick on him? Why did she have to be one of these people whose stomach could churn on a mill-pond? And then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, when her attempt to steal little Miss Bleach-face’s thunder, had failed, her hatched in a second plan to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat while she stood there vomiting, hadn’t just fallen on the deaf ears of a man whose heart must be made of stone, not to see the piteous state she was in, it had sunk to the bottom of the sea.

And she couldn’t even count seagulls to take her mind off it. Not with the carthorse plastering her hot, fetid breath, over her face.

“Do you think we didn’t none of us see what you was up to there? Trying to better Tova?”

So that was the flame haired creature’s name?

“Trying to steal him with your fancy ways. Well, it ain’t going to work Me-lady Poshlugs. You can do all your fancy oh please forgive me, Drottin to you’s and ooh, please do watch I don’t fall over the side, as I throw meself on your chest, as you like, he ain’t yours. He’s mine. I’m having him by fair means or foul. Do you understand that?”

Not exactly. Unless the man had a fondness for carthorses, Malice could have him with no trouble at all. Right now wasn’t exactly the time to argue about it. Not unless she wanted to be flattened further, lying here, on hard boards, trying to stop the contents of her stomach hitting the backs of her teeth. Chance would be a fine thing.

As for trying to steal him? And throw herself on his chest? In her state? Well, she supposed it would have been better if she hadn’t been sick, so what was chucked on his chest, wasn’t herself. What was the woman? Blind? Jealous? Or blindly jealous?

Whatever. The one thing she wasn't, was an option. Mercies, heaven sent remember? At least he'd noticed her.

Even if right now she wished he hadn’t.