The Captive

by Joanne Rock

  Gwendolyn’s nemesis had taken up residence at her father’s old keep after the raid on Alchere’s stronghold. Apparently, all the widows had been transferred here while repairs were made on Alchere’s walls.

  Gwendolyn kept silent, wishing she’d suggested they banish Margery along with the outgoing soldiers.

  The widows had been called out to the courtyard in addition to the Earl of Alchere’s steward and one of the king’s envoys who’d remained behind until Alfred’s proposed return in a fortnight. Wulf would make arrangements for all of them before he allowed his men to take their ease in the great hall and celebrate their victory.

  It was impressive to see them assemble there, some still bleeding from the short skirmish that won the day, not moving a muscle until Wulf released them. Of course, Gwendolyn now understood how important that tight rein was for Wulf. She had seen a hint of his control slip last night and she felt his regret afterward like a tangible thing. Would he ever show her that wildness again?

  Watching him now, his face expressionless even as he gave his men permission for a victory cheer, she could not imagine it.

  “So?” Margery prodded, leaving the word hanging in midair for a long moment after Wulf signaled everyone to attend him in the great hall. “Was the Dane a brute or did he—eh—stir the pot before diving in?”

  Gwendolyn blinked, then shuddered at the image.

  “I have no wish to speak of my time away.” She could not help that her eyes followed him even though she’d told herself he would only break her heart.

  Part of her feared he already had.

  In spite of herself, she had opened her body to him and in doing so, she’d somehow opened her heart. It was a sly path to a woman’s soul, but ever since he’d cut open his hand to prove his gentle intentions toward her, she had felt a growing tenderness for Wulf.

  How could she not when he’d treated her so much more kindly than any other man ever had?

  “Then you will not mind if I sit beside him at sup?” Margery asked, her voice all veiled sweetness and wicked intent.

  At that moment, Gwendolyn recalled her fate was no longer in the earl’s hands. Would Gwendolyn reign here as lady? Or would she remain little more than a concubine, succumbing to the heat he stirred within her even as her heart warned her it would lead to more hurt for her. Indeed, given her feelings for Wulf, she wondered if he could end up hurting her worse than Gerald had. Bruises healed. A broken heart…Well, just look how thoroughly the condition had wounded Wulf.

  And heaven help her, didn’t her heart already ache every time she thought of him?

  “If so much as your hem touches the Dane,” she warned, turning on Margery and whispering low, “I will show you what the Vikings taught me about the use of an axe.”

  Just as Wulf had explained to her once, Saxons truly did turn green at the mention of the Dane’s weapon of choice. While it was probably crude of her to take some small pleasure in that fact right now, Gwendolyn had the feeling it would be the last pleasure she would know for a long, long time.

  Because although Wulf had proposed a practical union between them, he would never offer her what she craved most from him. And what pleasure could there be in his touch, knowing she would never incite the feelings in him that he had in her?

  While Margery huffed and puffed her indignation alongside her, Gwen couldn’t help but think her days of adventure had landed her right back where she started—under a man’s thumb and as much a prisoner as ever.

  Only this time, much as she’d like to think otherwise, she’d brought a broken heart along with her.

  14

  TWO DAYS HAD PASSED since Wulf took over the keep. Gwendolyn knew this well, for she had marked the time on a sundial in her mother’s old garden.

  She worked there now, taking out her frustrations on an overgrown bed of betony and daisies, foxgloves and hyssop. All around the coastal holding, the Danes labored to implement strategic changes to the walls and battlements, protecting the lands against attack by water—the tactic most likely to be used by Harold’s men.

  On the first night back home under Wulf’s rule, he had not come to her bedchamber after the victory feast, making her think he had only wanted her in the first place to secure his hold on the lands. When she’d seen him briefly the next day, he’d told her that his presence and visibility was extremely important now that he’d claimed the keep—both for her people and for his men. Gwendolyn had understood the plan also worked well for a man attempting to distance himself from her.

  From any tenderness he may have felt for her.

  She might have dreamed the flicker of connection between them that night before they sailed for the keep. But she could have sworn something monumental had happened when they’d made love in the wild. And the fact that Wulf seemed to withdraw from her ever since only supported her theory, since his experience with Hedra seemed to have hardened his heart to women for all time. Gwendolyn was frustrated at the unfairness of having to pay the toll for another woman’s misdeed.

  Then again, Wulf Geirsson could simply be an un-communicative, hard-hearted Viking who only lusted for wealth and lands, and Gwen had merely imagined the tenderness that night in the wishful regions of her heart.

  Spearing a thick ball of roots with a rusted spade, Gwen cursed the rock wall of Dane pride. Did he think he showed weakness to care for another? Or was she deceiving herself that he had ever cared? Perhaps she truly was his temporary diversion—a pleasurable dalliance—for a man who had no intention of ever giving his heart away again.

  She was so intent on her labors that the deep voice—now so familiar—caught her off guard.

  “Do you wish to uproot all the flowers or just the prettiest ones?”

  Dropping her spade, she startled back from where she knelt near the overgrown bed.

  Wulf opened the old hazel wattle fence that ringed the garden, the wood creaking with age. He cast a long shadow over the flowers as he neared. Gwendolyn drew off her gloves and dropped them by the spade, but even though she relinquished the gardening tools, she scurried to arm her heart with more subtle weapons.

  “It is past time I took up the lady’s mantle here.” Too late, she realized how that sounded. “Not that I wish to have a place beside you,” she hastened to explain. “It’s just that the keep has grown dismal in my absence and I would like to take up some of my family’s old projects. A valuable library is in disarray. The garden contains plantings from across the continent, yet they are now hidden under hearty native plants strangling the more delicate varieties—”

  “I want you to move into the main bedchamber with me.” He did not blink as he studied her in the high noon sunlight.

  He didn’t quite command her. A sennight ago, he would have simply said, You will move into the main bedchamber. Of course, he didn’t ask her, either.

  She swiped a humming bee away from her shoulder, knowing she was as ill-equipped for this conversation as she was to battle the bee. She’d already told him she would not be his concubine.

  “I do not think that is wise.” Turning from him, she pointed to an empty space on the far side of the garden. “Perhaps when you are done reinforcing the outer walls, you might consider building a loggia there. My mother talked of resurrecting one when they returned from Rome.”

  Gwen hadn’t thought of the loggia or the gardens in a long time. Maybe it had been easier for her not to think about anything that reminded her of her family when she missed them so much. Now, after so much time, she found she wanted to remember them. To honor their lives and what they’d worked to accomplish.

  What would they think of her Norse lover?

  “Then we must move up our nuptials so you will feel comfortable sharing sleeping quarters.” His blue eyes were like the calm sea. Unhurried. Unruffled.

  “Nuptials?” Her heart ached to think he would mark this order as some sort of proposal. Was this how a Dane came to marriage—with no declaration of gentle feelings, but a comman
d to his bed?

  “We will wed with all haste now that we have returned to your home.” He tucked an arm about her waist and nudged her toward a raised turf-covered bench. “I have won the keep without the help of negotiating a marriage, so I have eased your concern about wedding you for political purposes.”

  Dropping onto the sun-warmed grass covering the bench, Gwendolyn tried to regroup the scattered defenses of her wayward heart and failed. Wulf truly expected her to be pleased about marrying him, even though he had maneuvered her exactly where he’d wanted her, making her feel as powerless as ever.

  Truth be told, part of her wanted to simply agree to the marriage and hope they could come to find happiness together despite the obvious obstacles—his lack of love for her, his impending battle with Harold, a possible claim from Godric for her hand.

  Yet how could she ever knowingly place herself in a situation like what she’d experienced with Gerald, where a man came to her bed solely to father children? That the coupling did not hurt her body did not take away the fact that it would steal a piece of her soul every time he left without saying the words she longed to hear.

  “I want to choose my next husband.” One who wouldn’t hurt her body or her soul. She did not meet his gaze. Instead, she plucked a dandelion where it grew on the bench beside her. “My last lord suggested I could do as much, but then you arrived and took me away before I was granted that privilege.”

  Wulf observed the dirt-streaked face of the noblewoman before him, wondering if this was the same female who’d gazed out over the battlements like a queen when he’d landed on her shore less than a fortnight ago. She puttered in the flowers like a gardener, never claiming her rightful place in the great hall, remaining out of sight as much as possible.

  Did she hope he would forget her if she eluded his notice? Or had their explosive night together shaken her as much as it had him? Perhaps she sought distance to resurrect control in the same way he had.

  That did not mean she could choose her husband. Thor’s hammer. Did she seek to make every development in their relationship as difficult as possible?

  “You wed no one but me.” He planned to make that abundantly clear. About this, there would be no misunderstanding. “I have given you more freedom than any captive ever to sail away in a longship. I delayed saying our vows to show you that I choose you freely—with no regard to your political value or wealth.”

  He waited for her to appreciate the magnitude of this. To recognize how much he touted her worth to him by taking her for no other virtue than that he wanted her.

  Yet she scowled at him with thinly disguised fury, her dark brows arcing down like a farmer’s plough, her eyes flashing with simmering emotion.

  “A woman is not a battle prize.” She rose from the bench, scattering the dandelions she had absently yanked from the turf. “I am not an object to which you can assign high value or little. And I am not an ornament for your bed to toy with when you please. No matter that I find pleasure with you or not, my heart wishes to offer more than my womb to my future husband. If all I give you is release in the marriage bed, then I would not be any more useful in this marriage than I was in my last.”

  Wulf attempted to follow her thinking, but he was distracted by her abrupt, stomping departure. He had injured her when he meant to honor her.

  “Gwendolyn.” He held out a hand to her, hoping to understand how to fix it, but she spurned his touch and ran.

  The same way she’d run from him the first day he captured her and she’d injured her knee. The same way she’d sought escape by diving off the bow of his ship. And stolen his horse.

  Why did he attempt to hold a woman so intent on being free of him? The thought angered him too much for him to chase her just now. He had too many other problems that needed his attention with Harold’s army spotted just up the coast.

  Besides, it was dangerous to confront a woman when angry. He’d learned to control himself better than that time long ago—when Hedra had chosen to wed Olaf instead of him, the man she claimed to love.

  He had been angry, said hurtful things, and probably ensured she did not rethink her choice of the cooler-headed older Geirsson brother. Now, Wulf knew better than to give vent to his hurts. He tried not to have them, of course, but it seemed the fiery Saxon woman was full of surprises.

  Although one thing was abundantly clear. She would never wed another. He had that power over her, unlike with Hedra. Just the thought of her with any other man…

  His fists clenched at his side. Red-hot fury crawled over his head and burned bright. Muscles tensed and tightened. Spinning on his heel, he punched the nearest object in reach—a tall, weed-choked rose trellis. The rotted wood shuddered and cracked. He yanked his fist back through, the splintered wood raking open his skin as he did so.

  “Save it, my friend.” A deep voice called to him from the other end of the garden. “You have far more dangerous enemies than the trellis, you know.”

  Turning, Wulf saw Erik enter the wattle gate to the garden. The last thing Wulf wanted was a lecture on his temper. He swiped the blood from his knuckles onto his tunic and flexed his fist, stinging but not broken.

  “I do not need you to tell me who to count among my enemies.” Since taking over the Wessex keep, he had heard that Godric—the brother of Gwendolyn’s dead husband—had been gathering forces to mount an attack. Wulf knew there were enough foes to go around.

  “She is not happy to see you installed as the new lord?” Swiping at loose dirt with his boot, Erik covered the roots of some flowers Gwendolyn had been separating.

  A practical and thoughtful gesture that Wulf rather wished he had thought to make. Perhaps his skill with women had vanished long ago.

  “She asked me to let her choose her own husband.” Wulf was unsure why he admitted as much. But as his family, Erik would not share the tale.

  “A bold lady, that one.” Erik shook his head and appeared to fight off a grin. “You think she has someone in mind?”

  “I will cause him no end of pain if she does,” he muttered darkly.

  “Perhaps she merely wishes to be given the right, even though she will choose you.” Erik handed him the spade and pointed to another clump of hyssop that apparently needed to be thinned while he went about pulling weeds from a thick border of daisies. “I gather some women do not enjoy being ordered about like oarsmen on a ship.”

  Wulf dug apart the green stems in question, though his mind was hardly on the task. He had to prepare to fight Harold Harraldson and the considerable resources he would bring to bear on the coastal keep.

  Still, as he shook the dirt from a shovel full of roots, he recalled Gwendolyn’s words to him that first day after he’d taken her.

  Leading a woman requires discussion.

  “That’s it.” Wulf recognized the solution to his problem, a practical way to fix the unhappiness Gwendolyn had been feeling toward him. “I will put the matter in her hands and let her choose me.”

  It seemed abundantly clear under the unrelenting rays of the noontime sun. He needed to give Gwendolyn some say in her future and trust she would make the wise decision—the only possible decision. Because like it or not, Gwendolyn’s feelings had become a matter of importance to him even though he’d promised himself he would never care deeply about a woman again. As long as she did not know the power she wielded, all would be well.

  Yet as he stalked from the garden to find her and make things right, he could not ignore the vague uneasiness that settled over him like a cloud and shadowed his every step.

  COMBING HER DAMP HAIR before the looking glass in her bedchamber, Gwendolyn thought perhaps she had overreacted when she walked away from Wulf earlier.

  After leaving the garden that afternoon, Gwendolyn had spent hours in her father’s library putting books in their proper places and reading bits from volumes she recalled from her childhood. She’d smiled to find the old ink drawing of a Titan, the picture she’d once thought about while gazing u
pon Wulf.

  And as always, the thought of her parents’ counsel gave her peace. Patience. Perhaps Wulf had not intended to cut her to the quick with his easy assumption of marriage. He simply did not understand how she carried the hurts of her union with Gerald even now. The thought of being so powerless again—of letting a man dictate her every move—frightened her deeply. The very strength of will in Wulf that she admired, that would keep her people safe, could also make him a difficult man to live with.

  Now, drawing a heavy silver comb through her hair to help it dry after her bath, she reminded herself that Wulf was not Gerald. The Dane was a far better man. Because of that, he had far more power to hurt her in ways Gerald could never have. She’d already lost a piece of her heart to him and seen how little he returned her caring.

  How deep might the hurt be if she fell all the way in love with the arrogant, infuriating man who had vowed to protect her? Too bad his oath did not safeguard her heart the way it protected the rest of her.

  Giving up on drying her hair, Gwen rose from the looking glass to join the others in the great hall. She did not know what her answer to him would be, yet she was determined not to lose her temper again. Or at least, they could set aside their dispute until they both settled down.

  She hurried toward the hall for the extra meal. The laborers from the village toiled over the battlements until the sun dipped below the horizon, and Wulf rewarded their efforts by providing a lavish repast after sundown. The special sup would not last long—another sennight, perhaps. A costly yet clever way to win the hearts of her people.

  The Viking had not lied when he said he was wealthy beyond her imaginings.

  She departed her bedchamber, savoring the feel of rich fabrics against her clean skin after the days of rough wool and muslin while she traveled with Wulf. The whisper of silk on her thighs called to mind how long it had been since Wulf had visited her bed. Who would have guessed she would miss a man’s touch after she’d feared it for so long?