Thorbrand had spent the long ride into the woods astonished by his body’s response to the woman he’d held before him. The snow had fallen all around them, yet she had been warm in his arms. His cock ached still from the press of her soft flesh against him. And as he watched, instead of lifting up her chin or in any way signaling some measure of the defiance he had heard in her words, Aelfwynn instead lowered her gaze and looked nothing but meek.
Was she meek in truth? Or was she bold as she sometimes acted? How was it she seemed to be both at once? Thorbrand could not recall ever having found a woman hard to comprehend before. He should not have permitted it in this woman who was his captive.
Yet he only stood as he was and let his brother and cousin look long at this Mercian lady they would be duty bound to call their kin soon enough. He knew not if he was testing them—or her.
“Does a woman question a man’s honor where you come from?” Ulfric asked her, his voice a low rasp to match the scowl that never left him. Not since the concubine slave he’d bought when they were last in Dublin had marked his face with his own blade, then run off.
“I would never dream of such a question,” Aelfwynn murmured. “I meant only to commend you.”
“A pretty answer,” Leif said, his gaze moving over Aelfwynn’s graceful form in a manner Thorbrand found he did not like. He did not lower himself to glare at his cousin, gods knew, but he misliked that he had the urge to not only glare but follow up with a fist. Was he a callow boy?
For his part, Ulfric only made a low noise that sounded like disapproval.
Thorbrand ignored his brother. He turned Aelfwynn away from the pair of them and brought her closer to the fire. It was built on earth cleared of snow beneath one of the trees. When he looked up to check out of habit, he saw the branches above had been rightly rid of any snow buildup so as not to tumble down and douse the flames. Better still, the snow itself had stopped falling.
High above, the stars were beginning to come out, the gods reminding Thorbrand that his course was true.
“Warm yourself,” he ordered his captive gruffly. “We stop here tonight.”
He thought she might protest, but she made no sound. Only moved, the picture of obedience, to stand near the fire. He could see the way her lashes fluttered there against her cheeks, soot and shadow. He could see the line of her jaw, reddened from the cold wind—or perhaps for other reasons. Her fur-trimmed cloak billowed out, still glistening with the leftover traces of the snow, like she was made of stars herself.
It was harder for Thorbrand to leave her there and join his kin near the horses than he chose to admit to himself.
“The captive does not look ill-treated,” Ulfric said in Irish as he stripped Aelfwynn’s pouches from the old nag and heaved them in Thorbrand’s direction. Thorbrand caught them easily, testing their weight, then hung them over his shoulder. “Or anything but resigned to her fate. Did she embrace her new future so easily?”
They had learned Irish in their childhood in Dublin and found it useful when they wished to speak freely around these Saxons, whose native tongue had grown tangled with that of the invading Danes and Norse since Lindisfarne—allowing them to understand each other better than many might like in these times of border disputes and territories forever claimed and taken, lost and won. Thorbrand watched her closely to see if she reacted. But all Aelfwynn did was hold her hands to the fire and stand as close to the flames as she could, letting the snow melt off her cloak and hood.
“You look at your ease too, cousin,” Leif observed. He laughed. “Was it a battle or a nap?”
“I did not so much as draw my sword, yet her uncle’s men abandoned her.” Thorbrand forced himself to look away from the lady by the fire. “It was as we thought.”
Their Tamworth spies had kept them well-versed on Aelfwynn’s movements and once her wretched King Edward had made his wishes known, all they’d needed to do was wait. They had seen ten men leave a day before, riding out hard. Leif had followed them to their position on the road and had doubled back, talking of an ambush.
Then they’d followed Aelfwynn’s own progress early this morn, her men none the wiser. They had ridden like shadows through the trees, pacing the small procession and then passing them. They had found a defensible place to camp, far from the road. Then Thorbrand had gone to face his duty at long last.
He still could not entirely believe it had been that easy.
Cowards, he thought in disgust.
“Do we teach those men a lesson?” Ulfric asked. “It is unlikely they have gone far. The next village along the road, I’d wager, assuming they outran the wolves. And the soldiers who wait even now to ambush the lady—surely they would enjoy a taste of our steel?”
Thorbrand knew well that his brother wanted nothing more than to swing his sword. The more blood, the better. It was part of what made him the fearsome warrior he was. Ulfric dreamed not of peace, but a battle never-ending until the Valkyries came to claim him. But he shook his head. “They must all explain themselves to their king, and I do not envy them the attempt. They do not deserve the side of your sword.”
The other men both grunted an assent. Ulfric’s the more grudging.
“Have you told her what awaits?” Leif asked.
Thorbrand shrugged. “She will know in time. Better, I think, to allow her to worry over her fate as she will.”
“Christians worry well indeed,” Ulfric said darkly. “Lamentations worthy of a lyre.”
And then, aware that he was grinning, Thorbrand went to take his place beside her at the fire. Ulfric melted off into the trees to take the first watch. Leif took charge of the horses, leaving Thorbrand to take stock of his captive.
“Come,” he said gruffly. “You will sit and break your fast. The road is long, both behind you and ahead.”
Aelfwynn’s eyes flashed to his, her cheeks looking redder still than before. Though from cold or not, he could not tell. He led her to his tent, then watched as she hurried to seat herself in the opening, half on and half off the furs he’d piled inside. Lest she suffer his hands upon her, he would warrant.
She amused him. He was tempted to think it a trickery on her part, but he doubted she knew it. Far too busy was she in the contemplation of the fire, staring fiercely at the flames as if she thought them alive.
He took her pouches from his shoulder and set them at her feet. To Thorbrand’s surprise, she smiled.
“I thank you,” she said, in that serene voice of hers that seemed to fill up the dark, cold night as surely as the fire shed light and heat. “I did not bring much with me, for what need could a nun have for worldly goods? But those pouches are all I have, nonetheless.”
She reached out a hand to touch the bag nearest her, a wistful expression on her face. Thorbrand found it tugged at him. It made him...want things he could not name.
But there were more practical matters to consider this night than nameless wantings.
He squatted down, reaching into his tent to pull out his own pouch with the easy, portable food he always took on journeys. Particularly while traveling at sea, or, like tonight, through an inhospitable winter with no time to hunt and a high chance of failure even if he tried. He took out a portion of the smoked meat, salted fish, and hard cheese he’d packed, then offered it to Aelfwynn. She hesitated only a moment before she took it.
Because whatever else she was, he suspected she was far wiser than he’d expected.
And he ignored the way that seemed to tilt through him.
Thorbrand settled down beside her, taking up perhaps more room than necessary in the mouth of the tent. First she stiffened beside him. Then, gradually, as he did naught but eat and keep his eyes trained on the fire, she began to breathe normally again. After some time, she began to eat the food he’d given her.
It made an odd sensation move in him, not so simple as a hard cock and a dr
aught of lust. Thorbrand knew what to do with those.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked softly when she finished eating.
He did not look at her. “North.”
She shifted as if she meant to speak, yet did not. He wondered if this might be when she brought forth her womanly tears, but a glance proved she only gazed into the fire as he did. And though his cloak and hers touched and tangled, his thigh very nearly brushing against hers, she did not recoil.
But then, she had felt his touch as they rode, more slowly than he had ever ridden in his life. Each step of the old nag a torment as much as a temptation.
Thorbrand had never set out to gentle a woman. Such a game never interested him. He preferred his women bold and lusty, with strong thighs to cradle him and large breasts to bury his face in. He liked his pleasure as loud as it was long.
Yet the woman beside him was no tavern hōra.
She sat as she had stood, all grace and fragility. When he’d given her a portion of his food, his hands had seemed twice the size of hers. And yet despite how slight she seemed, she had not quailed before him. She had not fainted. He did not think she had let so much as a single tear escape.
This Mercian princess pleased him, and well did he know the folly of it. It mattered not if she pleased nor repulsed him, for the end would be the same. She was his—until such time Ragnall had use for her. Such was his duty and his duty was his true pleasure. More, it was all he had. Bare was the back of a brotherless man, as the saying went.
He let the power of the fire move in him. It could be any night, any fire, any stretch of this cold land. He had spent his life dreaming of longhouses while he waited at campfires, with battles both behind him and ahead. And yet, cooped up in those same longhouses, he dreamed of fires in the open air. A dark night in a darker wood, the thick of it pressing in, giving cover to enemies and animals alike.
But he knew Ulfric was out there, eyes sharp and sword ready.
Aelfwynn finished her meal, but did not speak. Nor pull her gaze away from the flames. Thorbrand sat a while longer, until he became aware that she was trembling.
“Your cloak is wet,” he said gruffly “Remove it.”
Her gaze was startled as she looked toward him, then away. “I thank you, but I am well.”
“What good will you be to me if you are frozen through?”
And again, she did not wilt before him, though his voice was blunt. He found he studied her with new eyes. For if her sometime meekness was a mask, that meant she wore it with purpose. Was the daughter of the Lady of Mercia only pretending to be weak? Had the rumors about her been entirely false all along?
It intrigued him to imagine that the useless creature he had expected she was might have been naught but a ploy all along. Because that meant that there was far more to Aelfwynn of Mercia than it seemed.
Thorbrand liked that very much.
He moved further into the tent and then waited. He watched, once again, the rigid line of her back as she sat there, half in and half out. Holding herself still. Staring at he knew not what.
But he was well trained in the art of waiting.
He did not ask her to remove her cloak again. Or to join him within. Yet he saw the moment she chose to obey him. The way her shoulders shook and, for a moment, almost seemed to collapse. But then in the next breath, she turned and crawled toward him, into the embrace of his furs.
Then she knelt before him, and he was glad of the firelight that penetrated inside so he could see how gold those eyes of hers were. Wide now, no small part wary, she beheld him.
Thorbrand wondered idly what she saw.
Whatever it was, she reached up, slowly, and unfastened her cloak. Then, with a great delicacy that was out of place in a tent in the woods, she set it aside.
He could see her better now. Without the bulk and fur trim of the thick cloak, or the hood over her head. Her ivory headdress looked damp, especially in the front. He reached up from where he sprawled beside her to tug on the pin that held it fast. A pin that would have told him who she was, with its fine metal and jewels, if he had not already known. “This too.”
She swallowed, hard. He understood she did not wish to expose herself to him, yet it only made him wish to see her all the more. Thorbrand could have assured her that she would come to no harm, no matter what pleasures they might indulge in this night. He could have eased her worry and assured her he was not interested in hurting her.
He could not have said why he did not do so.
Perhaps he wished to see what she would do. When he was the only safety on offer.
But again, Aelfwynn did not argue. She slowly unwrapped the fabric from her head, revealing hair an impossible shade of gold. It was more like sunlight, braided in a circle at the crown of her head.
It was the dark of winter, far from any hope of summer or even a thaw. And yet, for a moment, Thorbrand looked at her and forgot.
He thought she could make a man forget anything.
But he did not intend to succumb to such witchery.
“Take off anything else that is wet or cold, Aelfwynn,” he directed her, more sternly than before. “Unless you wish to bring yourself to harm. It will disappoint you that I have no intention of leaving you behind, whether the cold takes you or does not.”
Her golden gaze gleamed. “You are naught but good and merciful.”
And he had never wanted to get his mouth on a woman more, to taste that cool tone that made her words a neat thrust of a dagger. Such a pretty little sting.
Mutely, Aelfwynn unwrapped the bindings around her ankles and took the shoes from her feet. When she was finished, Thorbrand shrugged out of his own cloak and hung it across the opening, the better to block what light penetrated the linen flap. Then he took her wet things and hung each bit of fabric there too, so the fire could warm it through the night.
When he turned back to face her, she was still in the same place he’d left her. And now, with only the faint glow of the firelight falling over her from outside, he could see not only how truly lovely she was, but the truth of her royal blood, though her garments were not ornate. They were simple, yet fine. And the necklaces she wore were far beyond the reach of any common woman.
All this and she was his.
He could not wait to do his duty in full.
Thorbrand stripped off his own wet layers and went about adding them to what hung, leaving them in the dark of the tent together. He left on only the wool shirt and leggings he wore next to his skin in cold weather.
And as he shed his garments and moved around the small tent, Aelfwynn followed his every move with those wide, gold eyes.
Thorbrand knew enough of women to know that the way she watched him had less to do with fear than with longing. Her gaze dropped to his chest. Then lower.
When her gaze jerked back up to his, she looked scandalized. Whereas he was almost painfully hard.
“You may thank me, Aelfwynn, for saving you from a life of dreary toil and endless prayer.” He enjoyed the way his voice made her shiver, and the fact she clearly tried to hide it—yet couldn’t. The way her lips parted slightly and made him long to lick his way within. She would taste of honey. He knew it. “I do not think you are well suited to it.”
“You mistake the matter,” she said softly, though she couldn’t seem to keep from dropping her gaze again. “Had the choice been mine, I would have given myself to God long since.”
He stretched out beside her, amused, and watched her color rise. “What can possibly be the appeal?”
“Peace,” Aelfwynn said at once, her voice quiet.
He told himself that she had been too sheltered to know what war really was. That the peace she claimed she wanted bore no resemblance to the shameful dreams he’d had of the same.
Even so, that she should say the word that haunted him made his bones ac
he.
It was the December cold, he assured himself.
“Yet I have seen your monasteries,” he said. He had sacked a few, though he did not deem it necessary to share that fact with her now, lest she take it ill. “Bells forever ringing out the hours. Roman words and mortification of flesh. I would not call that peaceful.”
“Every day is the same,” she said, and the wistful look he’d seen earlier was there again, and it was different from the meekness she took on and off as it suited her. It made him remember happier days, and the songs his mother had sung as she worked. He set his teeth against it. “The nuns do their work, they eat and they sleep, and above all they pray. It is a simple, worthy life. There is no traveling around, trailing after the royal court, forever at the whim of whatever word last reached a king’s ear. There is order and rhythm.”
Thorbrand laughed at that. “There is no safety behind abbey walls, Aelfwynn. Only a tale told of safety, easily breached by any warrior who dares. And what do you imagine your order of women could do to protect you?”
“They would grant me peace enough to face what comes with equanimity, I dare hope.”
And there it was again, that bold gaze of hers, the gold challenging him. Enticing him. Tempting him almost beyond control.
Better still, washing away that wistfulness that disarmed him.
“Do you think, truly, that you can hide behind your prayers and yet hold off an army?” he asked.
“I cannot answer you,” she replied, bowing her head and concealing the look in her eyes. As if she knew too well what he might see there. “The walls of the abbey I intended to hide behind are lost to me now. Is that not so?”
“It is not your fate to serve your god as a holy woman, Aelfwynn.” He wanted to reach for her, to tumble her down into his furs and show her far better ways she could serve, but he did not. He wanted her to look upon him favorably and perhaps even do the choosing, though he found it hard now, with her scent all around him, to remember why he’d decided that was the smarter path. It had made more sense out there in the woods than it did now, when she was in far fewer clothes. “Though this may distress you, I promise you, there will be pleasures enough to make up for it.”
Kidnapped by the Viking Page 5