With nary a splash, the ship slid from the shore and the woman made a keening cry.
“Curses will rain down upon you for this, heathens,” she warned all the men in the boat.
They paid her no heed, steering the craft away from the Wessex keep, out of the reach of Harold Haaraldson. His enemy would be furious when he realized he’d been thwarted in this raid.
Richard of Alchere, the captive’s overlord, would also be greedy for revenge. Would he know to seek Wulf? Or would he think his riches rested with Haaraldson? Nay, Alchere was not the smartest tactician, but the dead watchmen on the keep’s northern gate would tell the story of Wulf’s stealthy scheme. Wulf did not have much time before they would seek him.
Alchere would no doubt seek her, as well.
She was a prize fit for a lord, but he could not imagine she was Alchere’s wife. Wulf found the idea repugnant. She belonged to no one but him from this day forward.
He peered down at her now quieting in his arms though the fury had not left her eyes. Perhaps she had decided to save her strength for a future fight. She must know it would do her no good to gain her freedom only to find herself in the middle of an ocean.
She did not turn green from the motion of the hull slicing through the waves, the way he’d seen some men do. The Saxon mistress had at least some small affinity for the sea. A fortunate thing for a woman who would belong to a seafaring man.
“You have a plan for her now?” Erik asked from his spot at the oars.
The longship held places for twelve oarsmen on each side. This close to the coast, they did not raise the lone sail, preferring to maneuver quickly up the small rivers and estuaries off the sea.
“We’ll separate since Harold will be searching for me. You continue with the rest of the men west. We will lay low for a few days until Haaraldson’s temper passes.” A strand of the maid’s silken hair blew against his neck, a sweetly seductive caress.
“Assuming it ever passes. And what of Alchere? He will surely search for the woman.” This time Erik turned and he missed the downbeat of the rowing altogether. “You bring the wrath of too many at once—”
“Nay. We are faster because we are fewer. If other Danes see you, they will not see her because she will be with me.” The best part of the plan was that he would have her alone. Perhaps she would not fight so hard when she saw there was no one to contend with but him. “There is an abandoned church ruin in a cove around a small bend ahead. Drop me there with the woman while you take the men farther up the coast for a few days’ rest. ’Tis all I need to slake a sudden thirst, and when I finish, I will reward the men’s idle time with a voyage farther west.”
It was a time-honored bribe to seafaring men. The promise of sailing uncharted waters enticed them faster than gold. Besides, they would need to stay well out of Haaroldson’s grasp for a few weeks before they commenced raiding this stretch of shore again.
On his lap, the woman tipped her chin into the spray of the water, some of the tension easing from her shoulders. She had not looked toward him once since they left the shore, her gaze trained on the land as they rowed hard along the coast. He wanted to say something to reassure her, but to do so in front of his men would not be wise. They had been dutiful enough to indulge this fancy of his. They did not need to suffer any more of his personal affair.
“They will come looking for you,” Erik assured him.
“They will not find me.” He would make sure he had time to explore the soft curves of the creature in his arms first. Her every twitch and wriggle imprinted knowledge of her body in his brain, making him all the more hungry to have her.
“Your luck will run out, especially if you insist on besting Harold in raids. He will not rest until he has the revenge he’s sought all year.” Erik spoke a naked truth that wrenched him from his thoughts about the dark-haired captive.
A familiar storm brewed within him, at odds with the clear day. A year at sea had not made the clouds of the past dissipate.
It was true that Hedra Haaraldson—Harold’s sister—had taken her life because of Wulf.
“Hard to shore,” Wulf commanded, earning a grunt from one of his men and a rapid string of oaths from Erik.
He would not think of Hedra. Losing himself between the thighs of the vixen in his arms would banish all other thoughts from his head.
“We have not reached the lodging you wanted.” Despite obvious frustration, Erik pulled his oar up from the water so the rowers on the other side of the ship could steer the craft toward land.
“No. We can travel the rest of the way on foot. The fresh air will be more welcome than speaking of a past I cannot change.” He did not think the old ruins he recalled could be far off. But he could live off the land if necessary.
Besides, the thunder brewing in his head needed release. And the willful maiden who fumed silently in his arms seemed an obvious companion to ride out the storm.
IN THEIR TIME AT SEA, no man spared her a glance save the leader. Wulf, the other man had called him.
Of course, Gwendolyn thought, one of the stony-faced oarsmen might have stolen a glance her way while her gaze had been tipped out to sea. But their backs had been to her as they rowed the ship, and she’d never felt an untoward stare from anyone except the brooding Norseman who held her fast against his hard-muscled chest.
When he’d given the order to head toward shore, she’d sensed the dissension between him and the only other man who’d spoken on the voyage. It seemed her captor had earned the enmity of more than just her overlord. Someone named Harold would be searching for him.
And heaven help him if her in-laws ever found out she’d been taken. They hated the Danes enough without knowing their lost prize had come under the control of the race of men who’d killed their precious Gerald. They would stake their claim to her—and her fortune that King Alfred controlled until her next marriage—with all haste.
All of which should have cheered her. It meant she would not be ruled by this Dane for long. But it only served to hammer home that her life would never be her own. “Rescue” by any of those parties only meant that someone else would have power over her life.
Now, as they navigated around rocks and driftwood into a quiet cove, Gwendolyn tamped down her fears and wondered what happened next. Had she been taken to the middle of nowhere only to be abused by a ship full of marauders?
She’d dismissed the niggling fear dozens of time during the trip since a ship full of invaders would have surely been much happier to ravage a whole village full of women. And the leader had made it sound as if he would be alone with her.
By the saints.
The thought would terrify any woman. But she was not a maid ignorant of the ways of men. She knew that a man’s touch could bring wrenching pain. And that had been in the bed of her husband. What would it be like with a heathen with no legal tie to her?
While the oars lifted from the water, bringing the warship to a crawl and then a halt mere feet from land, the Norseman gave some command to his men. He spoke in the quick, harsh language of the Danes that bore some small resemblance to her Saxon tongue, but not enough for her to comprehend. She’d understood snippets of what he’d said back on the boat, but he’d been speaking more slowly then. Now, she guessed he said something about his thanks and a meeting, but nothing that gave her any clearer idea what he had in mind here.
Then, he stood and allowed her to do the same, apparently trusting her not to pitch herself overboard now that he’d taken her too far from home to swim back. She debated leaping into the sea anyhow, but with a whole ship full of men at the oars, she could hardly outpace them.
“We depart,” he announced in his accented version of her language, then waited.
“I do not understand.” She shook her head, confused. They had not reached a keep or even an encampment.
“You and I are remaining here.” He gestured to the sandy cliffs that rose up from the water and ended in patches of thicket and trees. “I will h
elp you ashore.”
“No.” She edged back, pressing herself against the carved dragonhead at the ship’s bow. The beast’s fierce aspect seemed a fitting figurehead for the sword-wielding heathens who manned the craft.
He frowned, his thick, dark eyebrows swooping low over azure blue eyes. “How are you called, lady?”
Did he truly not guess her name? Indeed, she’d hoped that he had known of her identity prior to arrival at her keep. If he did not know of her and her wealth as an heiress, what reason could he possibly have for taking her? He’d risked his life and his men’s by entering Alchere’s stronghold.
“I am Gwendolyn of Wessex.”
“Very well, Gwendolyn of Wessex, if you will not come willingly, I will be forced to carry you again. I would point out there is no sense screaming since this stretch of your coast is uninhabited.”
“You’re serious.”
He intended for her to disembark here, in the middle of nowhere. He would allow her to choose whether she wished to be toted around like a bundle of hay by him again, or else swim like a dog through waist-high water.
Her father’s journal—still tied to her thigh—could be ruined. It had a leather sleeve of sorts, but she did not trust it to keep the water out of the pages. She wasn’t sure why the journal mattered now when she needed to think of her own neck, but she had so little that was hers alone. As a woman, all the properties and wealth she’d inherited would never really belong to her. They went to her husband. Or the sons she might one day bear.
“I do not wish to depart.” She put the notion out there, hoping perhaps his argumentative friend would use it as a reason to stand up for her. The other man had not seemed pleased that Wulf had taken her.
Would the man protect her?
She braved a look in that warrior’s direction, but the man kept his attention on his oars as did the whole cursed ship full of Danes. Was there not a single chivalrous soul among them? Not to mention a nosy one?
While her head was turned, the Norse leader jumped overboard with a splash. On him, the water did not rise much higher than his knees. And once he had his footing, he reached back for her. He swooped close and, like a hawk plucks a field mouse from the ground, he lifted her high in his arms and carried her toward the shore.
She yelped and flailed in his grasp only a moment before his grip tightened. Fear made her lightheaded.
“Put me down, you overgrown lout.” She could scarcely move once he determined it necessary to hold her tight. “I cannot breathe.”
“Talking requires breath,” he assured her, striding through the water and up onto the sandy shore.
He could have easily set her on her feet then. She would not soak her shoes now that they hit land. But the man built like an oak tree continued to hold her fast, his hands making themselves more familiar with her body than even her husband’s had as the Dane’s fingers cupped the side of her breast beneath one arm.
Heaven knew her spouse had only been interested in the most rudimentary of rutting, so he had not bothered to touch her anywhere but the most crucial of places. And wasn’t that an absurd thought to have now of all times? Panic must be causing her brain to think strange things.
“Honestly, I can walk,” she protested, unsettled as much by being left alone on the beach with the Viking leader as she was by her realization that she’d just compared her captor to her husband.
Not that it was completely off target.
She’d been at the utter mercy of each. She did not dare an escape attempt until she knew there was somewhere to go. She did not think for a moment she could outrun the foreigner. And she could not lose him in broad daylight. Especially not when he could still call back his friends in the longship.
“We can move faster this way. I will lower you when we reach the top of the rise.”
She followed his blue gaze to the hilltop covered in low trees and recalled the steep incline she’d seen from the ship. Dear Lord, the man had already charged up half of it. Leaving her with the rest of his climb to consider her next move as he held her fast to his chest.
“I can pay you to leave me alone,” she realized suddenly. If he had not known her identity, he could not know how much she was worth. “I am an heiress. My overlord will pay well for my safe return. You can barter with him the way your ruler bargains with King Alfred for peace in Wessex.”
“I have enough riches.” His thighs brushed her rump as he climbed, his strides long to climb the hill.
“No man believes that.” Although, now that she thought about it, her father had believed it. He had inherited such extensive lands from his father that just managing them well took much of his time. He’d never wished to acquire more. But since his death, she’d never met another soul—male or female—who thought that way.
“I will accept no price for you.” He glanced down at her then and his gaze stirred a prickle of warning along her skin. Her flesh fairly hummed with it.
Acute awareness traveled through her, a sudden hot warning that she must free herself from his grasp. There was too much intimacy about it. He held her so closely she could feel the warmth of his skin emanating through his tunic. And where his thighs brushed her rump, she could feel the dampness of his braies from his dive into the sea. His tunic and skin both held a scent of some spicy herb he must use to wash. Bergamot or perhaps it was some plant native to his region.
“Release me,” she demanded, arching away from him.
“Almost.” He climbed on, heedless of her struggle. “There is another rise after the first.”
She’d only succeeded in twisting the hem of her gown. A cool breeze fluttered up beneath it, teasing her legs and exposing her calves. Her cheeks burned and she counseled patience. She would simply wait until he set her down. For now, however, she distracted him by asking a question that occurred to her.
“You know my name, but I do not know yours.” She’d heard him called Wulf, of course, but what of a family name?
“Wulf Geirsson.” He turned his head to look upon her and she remembered how close they were. His straight blade of a nose hovered less than a hand’s span away. She watched his hard, sculpted mouth form the unusual name, the primitive sound bringing to mind the fierce beast that shared it.
“Why did you take only me, Wulf Geirsson?”
She feared the answer, yet it had to be asked. And she might never feel so bold with him as she did right now, absorbing the beat of his heart along the side of her chest. A man would not treat her violently after ensuring she did not get her shoes wet while disembarking, would he?
His foot slid in the sandy cliff face, but she never worried he would drop her. She could not imagine a warrior any stronger or more capable than this one. Righting his feet, he chose a more zagging path for the end of the climb.
“I did not intend to take you at first. But I have been forced to roam the sea all year long, with naught but raiding to relieve the boredom.”
“You have tired of defiling churches.” She did not hide the bite in her tone. She’d seen his men hefting the altarpiece to Alchere’s ornate chapel into their longship. But she could not see what his answer had to do with his reasons for taking her. Fear and frustration made her careless with her words.
“I do not defile churches. I merely tire of the endless raiding. When I spied you on the battlements of the keep, I knew I would pursue something besides gold or relics worth a fortune I do not need.”
“Have you found your conscience then?” Perhaps he would repent. But the dark look that turned his eyes from azure to sea-blue did not appear full of remorse for his deeds. If anything, he suddenly had the appearance of a man who wished to devour her whole.
She gulped. Why had she not learned to keep her comments to herself?
“Instead of gold, I have decided to pursue pleasure. And the first pleasure on my list is you.”
3
“PUT ME DOWN.” GWENDOLYN’S icy words suggested she had not appreciated his plan where she was co
ncerned.
Wulf did not break his stride.
“On the other side of the tree line—”
“Put me down!” Her high, thready voice hit an odd note as her heartbeat throbbed in a blue vein at her neck.
He could also feel the dizzying pace of the pulse in that tender curve just below her breast where he cradled her. He seemed to have sent her into a full-blown panic.
Could she be so naive? What else would he take her for if not the wealth he could barter for her return?
Reaching the top of the cliff, he stopped and put her down. No sooner had her feet hit the ground than she tore off ahead of him, as fast as her shorter legs and long, heavy skirts would allow.
As luck would have it, she ran in the direction of the ruins he sought anyhow. But she ran with such heedless abandon, branches snapped and tore at her clothing, surely scratching the delicate skin beneath. Foolish woman.
He gave chase, moving with stealth so he did not scare her unnecessarily. If she fell from a high ledge, all of his effort in taking her would be for naught. He almost had her in his grasp when she stepped on a low patch of earth and tumbled.
“Oh!” Her cry of distress was genuine, but her injury could not have been serious. She sprawled in pine needles and long dead leaves, but then scrambled up again, back on her feet to limp away.
“It is not enough you nearly fell from the ramparts today? Must you throw yourself from the cliffs, as well?”
He caught her easily, locking an arm about her waist. Perhaps, now that she was hurt, she would see the wisdom in following where he led. Briefly, he debated investigating the extent of her injuries since the idea of peeling up her skirts held considerable appeal. But he sensed the fight had not gone out of her yet.
“Where are you taking me?” She winced with the first few halting steps, so he bore a bit more of her weight. “If you sought no more than a moment’s pleasure, you could have taken it on the beach.”
“Perhaps I seek more than a moment.”
“Maybe a moment is all you can afford since I am a prisoner of great worth. My overlord will seek me before he hunts for the altarpiece you stole. We do not have much time.” She peered over her shoulder as if she half expected a rescue to come riding up the cliffs at any moment.
Blaze Historicals Bundle II Page 37