The Captive

by Joanne Rock

  Stalking toward the hearth, he tended the fish, adjusting their height over the flames. She sat in her corner, heart beating wildly, her skin burning from a stranger’s impudent touch.

  “How dare you.” She spat out the accusation with careful deliberation. “You have no right to touch me.”

  The big brute tugged one fish off the line and downed half of it in one bite. Then he gathered up the rest of their dinner and brought it toward her.

  “You are mine. I will touch you when I like.” He unwound a leather strap from his shoulder and pulled free a second wineskin. The scent of mead made her mouth water along with the smoked food. “But for now, it pleases me to wait until you desire my touch.”

  “You have no honor.” Mortification crawled up her cheeks. His hands had roamed all about her knees as if they were wed.

  He shook his head and his sculpted mouth frowned.

  “I have honored your wish. You said you did not want pleasure and I did not provide it for you,” he reminded her, his voice calm and low, a deep undertone beneath her shrill nervousness. “But I think you need it.”

  Her thoughts reeled. Mutely, she shook her head, unsure how to address this arrogant suggestion.

  “Have some mead.” He offered her the wineskin, and when she did not immediately reach for it, he took her hand and placed it about the vessel. “Perhaps you need to learn to indulge yourself in small ways first.”

  She scarcely heard the last bit, her mouth watering at the scent of sweet clover and honey, spiced ginger and the warm, yeasty fragrance of the fermented brew. Lifting the skin to her lips, she drank not just because her belly grumbled for more sustenance than water, but because the complex bouquet of scents reminded her of sweeter times. Before her parents perished, before Alchere had taken control of her father’s vast holdings, Gwendolyn had known a life of learning and study. The family keep held a library full of important works and men of education traveled from far-off lands to read the tomes and speak with her father about art and architecture, math and music, philosophy and nature.

  Gwen did not often think of those times, the sting of missing the people she loved best in the world too sharp to dwell upon the past. But something in the fragrant mead called to mind the exotic scents that clung to the robes of the foreign men and the spiced dishes her mother would order for their visits. Her parents would have understood the differences between a Dane and a Saxon. They did not know the same boundaries in life that had kept Gwendolyn locked close to Wessex.

  “Thank you.” She locked gazes with Wulf, passing back the wineskin while her lips still sang with the subtle blend of flavors.

  “You enjoy this.” He nodded at the wineskin without taking it from her, his gem-colored eyes watching her as if he knew all her secrets. “Take more.”

  Already, she could feel the effect of the potent brew in her bloodstream. Perhaps it had been a mistake to sip so greedily when she had not eaten all day, but she found it difficult to regret the delicious languor that spread through her limbs. Between the haze of smoke lulling her senses and the steady regard of a commanding Dane, she dutifully lifted the skin to her lips once more and drank.

  Sweetness rolled over her tongue. Fire tripped pleasantly through her veins, warming her inside and out. When she lowered the container to the pallet at her side, she wanted to ask Wulf where he had obtained such a delectable brew. But something about the expression on his face stopped the question.

  He peered at her peculiarly. Then again, the mead might have dulled her senses enough where she simply could not read the look upon his face. The wine at her husband’s keep had been of such poor quality she avoided it still, memories of the stale taste ruining her appreciation for the brew even now. But this—ah, she’d forgotten how delicious mead could be.

  Her tongue darted to her lips to wet them, her mouth gone dry after the loss of the libation.

  Wulf’s gaze tracked the movement, his close attention rousing a sleeping heat inside her that had nothing to do with the mead. Prickly and warm, the sensation stirred awareness of the man before her, a womanly interest she’d never felt for her husband. No matter that Wulf Geirsson was a raider with highly questionable motives, there was a commanding strength about him that any woman would notice.

  Any woman would respond to.

  As those sea-blue eyes of his loomed nearer, she thought she should pull away to break that enigmatic spell. But her traitorous body did not heed the warning.

  When his mouth descended on hers, all thought of retreat vanished.

  4

  SHE KISSED LIKE AN INNOCENT.

  Wulf had not spent much time on the more subtle aspects of lovemaking this past year, his needs fierce but quickly sated by women of both Dane and Saxon blood. Even so, there had been enough kissing to recall that experienced women quickly joined the sensual mating of tongues, their movements sleek and knowing, designed to remind a man what lush rewards could be obtained by a deeper union. But Gwendolyn’s advances bore an awkward sweetness, her stillness in his arms suggesting unawakened sensuality more than frozen protest.

  He would think about that later. Right now, he absorbed every sweet sigh from her lips as she tilted her chin to allow him better access. Hungrily, he accepted the invitation without ever touching her, unwilling to startle her away now that she offered him such a delectable gift. She’d been so panicked before, when he assessed her injury, that he counted her soft acceptance now as a major victory. A sign he’d been right to choose her for this foray into indulgence.

  She tasted like honeyed mead and dark, sensual promise. He stroked her tongue with his and then eased back to capture her lower lip between his. He charged and retreated in this way for long moments, until a soft mew of pleasure hummed from her and she opened to him for a full, deep kiss.

  Arousal stirred so fast it made him dizzy. The hard, heavy weight of his want pulled him closer, his heart slamming against his chest with primal desire. He’d taken her for this reason—to test the boldness of the woman on the parapets, to see if she’d fulfill the invitation he’d glimpsed in her brazen eyes. He could find out now. Tonight.

  There was no doubt about her willingness. The way she allowed him to lead her, tilting her head where he wanted, her tongue following his while her breasts brushed his chest. He could feel the tight points of her nipples through the thin fabric of her gown.

  Why hold back? Whatever reservations she’d had, she’d obviously gotten over them. His muscles hurt from the effort to go slow with her. By now, his head was on fire with images of coupling, her breasts bare, her skirts lifted, his braies open as he sank into her fully.

  With the heat of that vision firing him on, he reached for her, his hands molding to the indent of her waist. And even though he’d carried her in his arms before, this was the first time he’d allowed himself to dwell on how she felt. He’d purposely not thought about the womanly shape of her hips before, unwilling to torment himself like that before he could do anything to ease the desire. Now, he pressed her to him and felt the soft give of high, full breasts beneath his chest.

  He reached for the shoulder of her gown, searching for a way into the garb so he could feel her skin. But she twisted aside, eluding that touch even though he still held her.

  “Release me.” She whispered the request so softly he almost didn’t hear it until she told him again, louder. “Release me.”

  He had every intention of following the request. He’d spoken truthfully when he told her he’d not taken a woman against her will. But making his hands follow the command of his brain took time.

  “In a moment.” He dragged in harsh breaths, trying to ignore the scent of honeyed mead and female desire. “First tell me, why do you deny us both something we want?”

  “Now.” She wriggled against him with a roll of her hips that would have brought a lesser man to his knees. “Let me go now.”

  “Woman, you do not help your cause,” he gritted between clenched teeth. Still, he managed
to relax his grip if only to save himself from the torment of her undulating form.

  She scrambled to her feet in the dim lodging. She tried to hurry away from him, but the hem of her skirts caught on the hilt of his sword and she had to wait until he freed her.

  With any other woman, he would have enjoyed the moment to tease a caress up her bare calf, but he heard Gwendolyn’s rapid breathing and saw her tense stance. He would retreat, for now.

  “You must eat,” he ordered, pointing her back to the pallet as he moved away from it. “I will feed you fish while you explain why a widowed woman kisses like an untried maid.”

  The words were a cold splash on her overheated body. Gwendolyn wished to evade the inquiry altogether.

  In Richard’s keep, none of the other widows—not even Margery—would have presumed to question her first marriage. But if ever the other women took their criticism to an uncomfortable level, she knew if she ignored them long enough, they would cease. And in her husband’s home, she’d simply disappeared from his sight, avoiding the hall and locking her bedchamber.

  Now, with her thoughts scattered and her skin tingling from Wulf’s kiss, she couldn’t begin to think of an answer to his query. Here, in this tiny space with just the two of them, there was nowhere to hide and no way to ignore him.

  He had her dinner, after all.

  Her legs trembled as she walked toward the pallet where she would sleep tonight. There was no fear in her quivering this time. Any man who could pull away from the kiss they’d shared—that was a man with serious self-control. As much as she wanted to hate Wulf for taking charge of her life like it was his right, she no longer feared him.

  “If you did not enjoy my kisses, it is just as well.” She dropped to the pallet in a billow of skirts and rushes, then tucked the hem of her dress about her legs to keep it secure. “I am no camp follower to entertain you in that way.”

  She peered up at him expectantly, ready to eat. Her belly growled.

  “I did not say I didn’t enjoy it.” He retrieved the fish from the bed of fresh grasses where he had laid it. Now, flaking off a bit from the center, he steered the morsel toward her lips. “I will never forget the feel of your mouth.”

  Gwendolyn had no intention of discussing it. She simply nipped the fish from his fingers, careful not to graze his flesh.

  “Mmm.” The rich flavor surprised her. “It is very good despite the lack of spices.”

  Safer to speak of the meal than the interlude that had preceded it. He stared at her for a moment as if deciding whether to press the matter, then seemed content to let her change the subject.

  “Spoken like a Saxon,” he scoffed, scooping up another bite. “All of your spices usually hide the taste of bad fish. If your men were not too lazy to hunt every day, your cook would not need to salt away the flavor.”

  Gwen took another bite and another, liking the way the slightly crisp outside hid a tender interior. Her senses were all heightened, her body still simmering with awareness.

  “Who would have guessed a fierce warrior chieftain would prepare better fish than a keep’s cook?” She sipped the water he’d brought in earlier, wondering if it was only her hunger that made the meal taste so good.

  “A warrior provides for himself every day he is not seated in his hall.” Wulf held another piece of fish at the ready for her, but this time, he did not offer it. He reached forward with his other hand and gently brushed something from her lower lip.

  Warmth glowed inside her like a hearth fire turning to embers.

  “Then I will not fear starvation under your care.” She tore her gaze from his and focused on the morsel that awaited her. “Although you do not dole out the portions as generously as I might like.”

  She had only meant to tease him into feeding her. She had not anticipated the sudden stillness that came over him or the slow, deliberate stroke of his finger down her cheek to caress her jaw.

  “I will provide all that you wish when you are ready.” His voice steamed along her senses, the deep tone vibrating through her skin and making her most secret places hum.

  Slowly, she understood his meaning. He referred to the carnal intentions he had toward her. With incredible masculine arrogance, he seemed to think she would one day welcome his touch even though they were enemies. Even though he held her against her will. Even though she had never enjoyed coupling.

  As much as she did not wish to discuss the topic they danced around, perhaps she needed to make her position clear so there were no misunderstandings.

  “I will never be ready for—” she struggled for words “—what you want from me. I realize the kiss might have been misleading, but it only happened because…” She did not want to have this discussion, but in light of their situation and because Wulf did not strike her as an entirely unreasonable man, she told him the truth. “I had never kissed a man.”

  The revelation did not appear to surprise him.

  “Your husband did not consummate your marriage?” He fed her more fish as he asked the question and she appreciated the small distraction from the embarrassing discussion.

  “He consummated it.” The morsel soured in her mouth. Her wedding night had been a nightmare she would never forget and she’d been very aware of the moment in which her virginity had been torn from her. “But he never kissed me as you did. In fact, he never gave me anything resembling a kiss, so I was caught off guard earlier by…what we did.”

  She had been overwhelmed by Wulf, actually. The sweetness of it had been such a surprise, she’d felt immobilized, unable to pull away from an experience that should have been hers as a married woman. Indeed, she’d wondered if Margery’s husbands had used their mouths so sweetly and if that accounted for the widow’s haste to return to the altar. Of course, Gwen could not see how even the sweetest of kisses would make up for the pain of the marriage act.

  “Your husband was unkind.” Wulf stated it as if he knew it as truth, though Gwen had told him no such thing.

  “I was to be a peace-weaver between warring clans, but I and my husband never saw eye-to-eye despite my efforts.” And they had been numerous. “Instead of weaving peace, I served as a reminder of how much my husband despised my overlord.”

  As she took the last bite of fish to tide her over for the night, she hoped that now Wulf would understand her reluctance to engage in the bedroom games other widows apparently found enjoyable.

  She watched as he washed his hands and scrubbed a damp linen over his face now that her meal was finished and his had been consumed long ago. If she had not known the brutish acts men were capable of, she might have been swayed by Wulf’s harsh masculine appeal. The firelight played over his bare upper arms, glinting off the silver arm torque and exaggerating the dark shadows in the hollows beneath his muscles.

  And, as he stood to make room for his bedroll in the small space, she remembered how large he was. He’d sprawled beside her pallet for much of the evening, his size masked by the lounging.

  Besides that, he did not use his size to frighten her. She understood this well after being wed to a man who did just that. Wulf would have dwarfed her husband, and yet he did not lord his strength over her.

  “Gwendolyn.” He knelt on his bedroll now, his tunic loosened but not off. “You did not mention your mother. Did she not tell you how it should be between a man and a woman?”

  There it was again—that warm glow deep in the pit of her belly, a sensation different from anything she’d felt before save with her captor. Neither fear nor pleasure, the tingling awareness felt more like anticipation or perhaps wariness.

  “My parents died on the road to Rome the summer I turned thirteen.” She had not been such a restless soul before their deaths, but afterward, she found herself wondering about the lives they’d led and adventures they’d had. “They were well-read and well traveled. They invited scholars to our home to read my father’s books and study with him. My mother was more inclined to speak to me about the culture of the Greeks th
an my future marriage. Of course, I was still a girl when she left.”

  As Gwendolyn laid her head upon a pile of fresh straw, it occurred to her that her mother would have never spent a moment of her time stitching rose petals on bridal garb. The thought made her smile as she remembered how she’d been all but imprisoned with the other widows this morn. Despite her fears and discomforts today, at least she was not stuck indoors, ducking verbal barbs from women who did not like or understand her.

  “If your mother had lived until your wedding day, she would have told you that coupling should never be painful.” Wulf’s voice traveled the short distance between them, bridging a few hands’ span so that it sounded like he rested right beside her. His words were so intimate and so unseemly that she closed her eyes tight to shut out the awkwardness of hearing such a thing from the barbarian leader who’d stolen her.

  “If she had told me that, I would have only learned the truth soon afterward.” And wouldn’t that have been all the more wretched? To think mating would bring pleasure only to find out it was fraught with pain?

  Weariness overtook her as the firelight died and fresh night air blew through the shelter. She breathed deep, liking the clean smells that were so different from the ancient, musty dampness of her overlord’s keep.

  “One day, you will know otherwise,” Wulf continued, though he seemed content not to argue for now. “One day, you will discover that the pleasure of a kiss is only the beginning.”

  The smoky promise in his voice called to mind the way she’d felt when he brushed a hand along her cheek or thumbed a crumb from her sensitive lower lip. The kiss he’d given her had awakened feelings she’d not thought possible. But where could it lead? Only to more hurt.

  She had to think coupling with a man of Wulf’s size would harm far more than it had with her husband.

  “Gwendolyn.” He had a habit of speaking her name as if he enjoyed the sound of it. “When the day comes where you are ready for more, you will see that the pleasure of a kiss is but a small thing compared to the knee-buckling bliss of what I can give you.”