The Captive

by Joanne Rock

  If he thought she might be in real danger, he would have whistled to the horse or intervened another way. Erik watched her from the shadows, as well, his second-in-command helping him protect her. Wulf would have been more amused at the brazen cheek of the woman if his chest wasn’t constricted so tight at the thought of losing her.

  She truly would leave him.

  He hadn’t wanted to believe it after the night they’d spent together. He’d told her things he’d never shared with another living soul, claiming her tender heart for his own after having claimed her beautiful body days ago.

  He needed to wed her. Not just for legal rights to her keep and lands necessary for his battle with Harold, because he could obtain those by force on the battlefield. But he wanted her to bear his name and his protection everywhere she went. By invoking his name, she could send enemies fleeing.

  He wanted her to have that power and that safeguard so that no man would even dream of touching her. But how would he coerce her consent in front of a priest without alienating her completely? Some Danes might force a marriage on a captive, but Wulf would not do that.

  He could think of only one way to convince her, but he was not prepared to offer the tender sentiment she might respond to. Hedra had robbed him of that soft ness, and he would not lie about a love he could no longer feel.

  While he brooded, Gwendolyn somehow managed to get her leg over the beast’s back. Her soft cry of surprise was echoed by the warhorse’s neighing. From the shadows, Erik looked to him, but Wulf was already on his feet to give chase.

  He might not want to wed an unwilling woman, but with a fickle widow trying to outrun him at every turn and putting herself in one kind of danger after another, he might no longer have a choice.

  13

  OF COURSE HE COULDN’T CATCH her on foot.

  She rode a swift horse and she weighed no more than a kitten. But that didn’t mean he would concede defeat. Wulf called off his cousin with a gesture, then ran toward the stretch of woods where Gwendolyn had disappeared. He vaulted dead logs and a wood cart, his eyes trained on a swath of pale skirt whipping in the breeze off the water, ready to use his secret weapon.

  He whistled.

  The high, piercing wail brought his mount to an immediate halt and he hoped against hope Gwendolyn hadn’t been thrown in the process. Memories of the wise woman’s prediction about his children put his heart in his throat. Could Gwendolyn be carrying his babe even now? A child he might have endangered?

  A flurry of mild Saxon curses met his ears before he saw her, the passionate oaths reassuring him she couldn’t be terribly hurt.

  “Gwendolyn.” He called to her through the darkness as he spotted the pale linen of her skirts. “Are you hurt?”

  “Do even the beasts of the field obey your every command, Dane?” She ignored his question to ask her own, her words fired with anger.

  As he approached the horse and its disheveled rider, he could see the fury in her expression. Her dark eyes flashed in the moonlight as she turned to him, her lips pursed in a tight frown. Other than that, she appeared unharmed. Her skirts were muddied and covered with brush and leaves from the unwise dash through the forest. Her sable-colored hair tangled about her shoulders, her veil ripped away by a low branch and still drooping from the offending stick a few feet behind her.

  The clear spring skies had offered her some moonlight, at least. And the mild temperature helped combat the fact that she had not bothered to wear a cloak.

  “Thankfully, the beasts of the fields obey far better than Saxon women.” Reaching her side, he took the reins of his horse and patted the animal’s flank before brushing some of the leaves and twigs from Gwendolyn’s skirts. “You must know the years of training that go into a good warhorse. What I don’t understand is why you chose the biggest of the lot? Didn’t you know he would be the hardest to manage?”

  He held out his hands to her and she hesitated. Did she have another plan in mind for escape? Or was she so mad that his touch was now unwelcome? He was surprised to realize the latter upset him more than the former.

  Either way, she conceded and after a moment, slid into his arms. The feel of her curves against him was a momentary brush with bliss. Her softness molded to him, fitting him perfectly. Then, straightening immediately, she held herself apart from him.

  “I did not think carefully enough. I chose the animal whose neck looked strong and thick enough for me to duck behind in the dark. He is so big that I thought he would keep me safe.”

  “And so he did.” Wulf gave the animal a scrub behind the ears and turned him around to return to the camp.

  Moments later, they walked side by side to the edge of the village and handed off the horse to Erik, who was wise enough to then disappear discreetly. Nearby, men and women lingered in sensual leave-taking that would last until dawn. Some couples had retreated to the tents, but the younger ones—the ones who had not staked a permanent claim to each other—took their goodbyes under the sheltering trees at the wood’s edge or down by the water.

  “Do not let me keep you from joining your friends,” Gwendolyn remarked as she hastened her pace toward his tent. “I will not be warming your bed this night.”

  “Gwendolyn.” He reached out a hand to stop her since she would not have answered him otherwise. His fingers clamped around hers and he tugged her back toward him.

  Her pulse jumped under his thumb when he rubbed it over her smooth skin. The scent of the dried flowers that had been packed around her gown tempted him to lean close and inhale deeply.

  It would not be difficult to seduce her to his will. He knew that as surely as he knew she would resent him for it on the morrow.

  “I have never touched you against your wishes, and I would not do so tonight.” He used the opportunity to slip his thumb into the sleeve of her gown, to skim the tender skin of her inner forearm. “But it may be difficult for either of us to sleep, knowing we did not take this last chance to touch each other. My people believe the gods favor those who live with vigor and passion. That is why the women seek out the warriors as much as the warriors seek them on the eve of battle.”

  For some, it would be the last tenderness they knew.

  Wulf followed Gwendolyn’s gaze to a half-dressed couple straining together under a birch tree a good stone’s throw away. Even at that distance, the pale skin of the woman was easily visible under the glow of a three-quarters moon, her shift up to her waist while her lover’s hips kept a steady rhythm against hers. Backed against the trunk, the maid’s spine arched while her slender thighs gripped the man’s sides, her fingers clenched tight about his shoulders.

  Gwen clapped a hand over her mouth, but could not stifle her gasp of surprise.

  “They do not wish their coupling was more private?” she whispered, tugging her gaze from the couple.

  At her wrist, Wulf could feel the effect the scene had upon her pulse, her blood pumping faster. As did his.

  “Since we embrace passion and virility, we do not feel the need to hide it.” He lifted his other hand to her cheek and stroked the soft skin along her jaw. “But if you have any wish to feel my hands upon you that way, I am happy to keep it private.”

  Her breathing accelerated, and he savored the quick rise and fall of her breasts as they strained the seams of another woman’s dress. His hands itched to cup her full curves and tease the tips to pebbled stiffness before he took them in his mouth.

  “You did not think of our privacy when you dragged me to the soothsayer’s tent to discover your seed would be fruitful.” She clenched her fist at her side. “I am not a mare that you can discuss how well I might breed in front of a tent full of people.”

  He felt the tendons strain beneath his touch.

  “I believe that is a standard blessing she bestows on many supplicants. If she sees health and longevity for a man, she suggests he will have many children.”

  At the time, he had not given that aspect of the woman’s words much thought, foc
using instead on the necessary battle ahead and what it would mean to put the past behind him.

  “I am a noblewoman. I do not wish to be left alone when you go to battle with a babe and no—” she stepped back, away from him “—no legal rights for either a child or myself. It is bad enough that I have no control over my life. I will not pass on that helplessness to a child.”

  Desire and loss burned within him. He could almost taste her on his tongue. The thought of going to bed without her, without her kiss on his lips or her sighs of pleasure in his ears was more than he could bear. Besides, he could not suffer the hurt in her voice.

  The thought of a woman in pain because of him—he would not stand for it again.

  “Then we will wed now. Tonight.” He had planned to wait until he took her keep so that he could marry her in front of a Christian priest. “If that is the assurance you seek—”

  “You only want to wed me to legitimize your claim to lucrative Saxon lands.” Her gaze focused solely on him as if she’d shut out all temptation of the sensual couplings around them. “Why would I be comforted to wed a man who only offers such protection after discovering I am an heiress to a fortune?”

  Anger stirred. He tried to do something for her and she twisted his every word. The Saxon woman used speech the way Danes used their swords—wielding a weapon of language to confound him. Why could they not seize what they wanted with both hands while life offered them the chance?

  “I can take your lands and keep them by the might of the sword, make no mistake.” He reached for her, frustration urging him to show her how quickly she would shed all her clothes for him if he backed her up against a birch tree and settled his mouth on hers. “I have not raided and battled for a decade to rely on some greedy Saxon lord like Alchere to honor a marriage contract.”

  Behind them, a woman called out her pleasure to the heavens, her throaty fulfillment echoing a man’s low voice urging her on and on with a rumble of words.

  Wulf knew the sound affected Gwendolyn, for she relaxed in his grip, as if her attention floated somewhere besides their disagreement. As if her body remembered the kind of decadent pleasure that made a woman moan like that.

  “We should not discuss this here.” She swallowed hard, and he hoped that she could envision herself feeling as fulfilled as the woman who’d just cried out.

  “Come with me, Gwen,” he urged her between clenched teeth, his need crawling up his back with fierce claws. “Tomorrow, I could bleed out on your shores with a Saxon arrow through my gut, and we will curse our stubbornness this night.” He tunneled his fingers through her hair on either side of her head, guiding her mouth to his. “You breathe fast and shallow, like a woman who is aroused. Your tongue darts out to lick your lips like a woman anticipating a kiss. And I would wager all of my gold on two continents that your thighs are pressed tightly together beneath your skirts like a woman who would prefer another sort of pressure there—”

  She rose up on her toes and kissed him before he could finish. Her soft mouth molded to his while she wrapped her arms about his neck and squeezed.

  He wanted to get her back in the shelter of his tent, but she hooked her hands in the front of his tunic and yanked it open, distracting him. The cool sea breeze blew over his body, powerless to chill the inferno burning away his usual caution.

  “Touch me,” she demanded, arching against him so that her breasts tempted him beyond reason. “I want to feel the night air on my skin when you undress me.”

  It was all the concession he needed from her tonight. If she was naked beneath him, she couldn’t steal horses or dive off his ships.

  Lifting her off her feet, he backed her deeper into the woods. Her bare skin would not incite any man’s lust but his when he hauled up her skirts.

  He could not be sure how she’d caught the feverish hunger that affected him, but it burned her up. Her fingers unfastened his belt and tunneled under his tunic, her hands splaying across his chest before descending low along his waist.

  Finding a solid hawthorn trunk, he settled her against it and went to work kissing her neck and the exposed skin of her shoulders. The ties of her tunic were undone in a trice. He pulled it up and off, leaving her in the same shift she’d worn to swim the sea. Her breasts strained the fabric, the tight peaks vying for his attention.

  He wanted to sink to his knees and kiss her through the shift until she begged him for more, but to do so would leave her too exposed. He palmed one of her breasts and nipped the other with his teeth. She cried out, her hands raking through his hair and down his back in silent demand for more.

  Would he ever have enough of her?

  Need rocked him, compelling him to lift her skirt just enough to slip a hand up her thigh. An answering moan filled his ears, setting his nerves on edge and making his shaft throb.

  “Quickly,” she urged, her voice cracking with the same desperation he felt.

  His tunic fell away. Her nails scratched his chest lightly. Her thigh slid up the side of his and she tugged away the extra skirts impatiently so their hips met.

  He sucked in a breath behind his teeth and held it, trying to find a shred of his scattered control. He was used to being in command, to standing apart and issuing orders. Right now, he couldn’t stop himself if he tried.

  Hunger blindsided him. His hands took over, tweaking a taut nipple to a stiff peak, cupping her mound at the juncture of her thighs. A roaring in his ears drowned out everything except the sound of her erratic breathing and the hum of approval deep in her throat. He kissed and licked her, testing her readiness with his two fingers inside her.

  She gasped at the invasion, then murmured a chant of sweet encouragement, her hips bucking against him to take more. He wanted to bring her back to his tent, but they’d waited too late. Too long.

  He kept his body between her and the village, even knowing they were too deep in the forest for anyone to see. Loosening the laces on his trousers, he freed himself enough to position between her legs. Then, lifting her up, he parted her sex and lowered her onto his cock.

  Her nails bit into his back as he plunged into her, but her feminine core pulsed and squeezed all around him as she came. The rush of knowing he’d pleasured her was a primal satisfaction that made him want to pound his chest and roar with possessiveness.

  She was his.

  The feeling was as fierce as anything he’d ever experienced. His release shuddered through him violently, his hips pumping on and on as he filled her with his seed. She clung to him, legs locked around him, the aftershocks of her own orgasm still making her tremble. Or maybe she came again. All he knew was that it was the most perfect union he could imagine—here in the woods against the hawthorn tree with the woman he would make his forever.

  The churn of emotions after years of shutting them off rocked him to the core as much as any release. After Hedra’s betrayal—marrying his brother when she loved him—he’d sworn never to love another. He’d stayed true to that vow when he spurned her attempt to become his wife after Olaf died. But now, here was the fickle widow of Wessex with her hunger for adventure and her passionate heart, tempting him to lose years of hard won control.

  His skin cooled fast in the night air, the sweat drying on his back as he lowered Gwendolyn to the ground and adjusted her skirts. Gathering their clothes, he lifted her in his arms, still reeling from emotions he had no wish to feel.

  “Come.” The old control felt like a rusty thing, his voice unsteady as he used it. “We must rest. The sleep before battle is never long enough.”

  His words were not unkind. However, Gwendolyn must have heard the retreat in them, for the raw joy that had been there earlier quickly faded. Biting her lip, she merely nodded.

  Nothing would bring back the closeness of this night. If they were to have an effective marriage—a practical marriage that would provide comfort and alliance—it would be better if the heedless, raw passion was clamped down into something more manageable. Fondness, perhaps.


  But not love. It was the only challenge this Dane refused to undertake.

  WAS THERE NO ONE WHO could challenge this champion of the Danes?

  Gwendolyn peered around the crowded courtyard of her father’s old keep late the next evening in the aftermath of the battle, wondering how Wulf could send an army fleeing in the course of a few hours.

  Of course, King Alfred’s men had vacated the lands to fight off a Norse invasion elsewhere in Wessex. And Alchere had few soldiers here, not suspecting a battle here at a lesser stronghold than the one he held farther up the coast. So Wulf had triumphed over a small force. Still—he’d wrested away the coastal fortress with precious little bloodshed, the sight of his axe and his broadsword sending hardened warriors scurrying to the four winds.

  Now, as Wulf oversaw the banishment of Alchere’s men and messages dispatched to Alfred and neighboring lords, Gwendolyn wondered how she felt about his easy victory. Proud? Yes. She could not deny rooting for Wulf despite her anger with him the day before. It was not his fault he was raised to make war and raid any more than it was his fault that Hedra had stolen his heart long ago and neglected to give it back when she’d died.

  It was wrong to feel resentment of the dead, but Gwendolyn could not deny that she knew a perverse jealousy of the feelings Wulf once had for someone else. Her death had turned him into the hardened and practical warrior he was today—a man who did not spare time for tender emotions.

  She’d read her father’s journal for comfort on her way to the Wessex keep a few hours after the battle, reminding herself how her parents favored understanding other societies’ customs and never assuming one tradition or religion was better than another.

  And seeing how Wulf’s men strove hard to do his bidding, she suspected he would be a strong and fair leader. But she worried what the victory meant for her. For them, if he truly planned to wed her.

  “He is clean for a Norseman, I suppose.” Lady Margery stood beside Gwen, sniffing the air as if testing the truth of her statement. “No doubt you could have done worse than that one.”