A few hours later. The atmosphere in Elaine's small, private tent was thick.
It was heavy with unspoken dread, with the musky, lingering scent of Alaric's conquest, and with the vibrating, nervous energy of two terrified women.
Eleanor and Elaine were huddled together on a small, uncomfortable sofa, both wrapped in simple silk robes. They were a picture of opposites.
Eleanor was vibrating like a plucked string. She was terrified, yes, but underneath that fear was a feverish, itching horniness. Alaric's rejection had been a physical blow, and she was desperate to do anything to get back in his good graces, to feel his touch again. She was jealous of her mother, horrified by her mother, and yet, here they were, bound together in this nightmare.
