Presently they came to a place where the spoor was clear and the hounds were loosed. The riders followed, turning into the trees. It was ancient woodland, where the branches of oaks and beech met overhead in a green vault that shut out most of the sun save for occasional dappled patches of light. Then the hounds found the scent and the hunters were away. Elgiva touched Mara with her heels and felt the mare shift from a standing start to a canter. Leaning forwards, she guided their course through the trees, ducking low boughs and weaving to avoid the branches that slashed at them. The horse stayed for nothing, leaping the fallen logs in her path, the flying hooves thudding over the carpet of leaf mould beneath the great trees. Once Elgiva thought she glimpsed the hounds, running swift and silent ahead of her. Around her she could hear the voices of the men calling, urging their horses on to greater speed.
The boar had been following a direct line, but now veered away down a steep, open slope. This last was largely covered by dense blackthorn. The pig plunged into the thicket where it was much harder for the riders to follow. Elgiva drew rein, thinking fast. If they followed into the thicket, she and Mara would be scratched to ribbons, for she knew the place of old. Her father’s men had once brought down a boar nearby. The slope ended in a stream with more woodland beyond, and she guessed the quarry would make for it, trying to throw the hounds off the scent. She knew a path that skirted the slope and came out by the stream further on. Turning Mara’s head, she touched the horse with her heels once more, cantering off on a tangent. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Wulfrum’s stallion and grinned. Thus far he had not let her out of his sight. They would see now whether his mount was the equal of hers for speed and stamina. Elgiva held to her course, hoping her guess had been right. Off to her right she could hear the men shouting and picked up curses on the wind. It seemed they had found the blackthorn. As the path curved, she glimpsed the stream and then the dogs. She was right. Her grin widened triumphantly. As she neared the place she saw other riders breaking from the thicket, urging their mounts across the stream. Elgiva slowed Mara a little and splashed through after them. The hounds were milling round, trying to pick up the scent again. A few moments later Wulfrum drew up beside her, grinning broadly.
‘You know the land well, my lady.’
‘I have ridden over it many times. My father hunted here very often and I with him.’
‘So I see.’ Wulfrum couched the great boar spear and sat back in his saddle, observing her. ‘You follow your own path.’
‘Where it is a better path, lord.’
He glanced at his men and the scratches they sported on face and hand, even on the tough leather hunting clothes, and he laughed.
‘In this case it was a better path. I have no love for blackthorn.’
‘Nor I.’
Just then the hounds picked up the trail again and the hunters pressed on. Elgiva urged the mare on and felt the little horse leap forwards to a gallop, hurtling down the narrow path, twisting and turning through the trees. Elgiva bent low over her neck to avoid the branches that clawed at her, thankful for the protection of her stout clothing. As they raced through the green gloom beneath the tree canopy, she thought she could see a pool of light up ahead and headed towards it. Before her lay a clearing, a grassy glade, edged by great trees and, between, dense thickets. Somewhere to her right she could hear the sounds of the other horses but she could no longer see them. Glancing left, she could see nothing there, either. That look was a mistake for she failed to see the low bough until she was almost on it. Swift reflexes saved her and she ducked, throwing herself low along the near side of her mount, and the branch that would otherwise have smashed into her body caught her right knee instead. It lifted her out of the saddle, pitching her clear off the horse. She landed hard and for a few dazed seconds lay still, fighting to regain her breath while the branches spun crazily overhead. Eventually, when her breathing steadied, she sat up cautiously to ascertain that there was no serious damage. All seemed well enough. However, when she managed to get back on her feet, she was immediately aware of the protest from her knee. She glanced at it ruefully. No doubt it would sport a magnificent bruise on the morrow. Still, it could have been much worse and there was naught to do but thank fortune for a lucky escape.
Her horse was grazing some yards away and Elgiva began to hobble in that direction. She was only feet away when Mara suddenly threw up her head and snorted. Elgiva spoke quietly to calm her, but the mare did not respond, staring instead across the clearing to the edge of the thicket. Following the horse’s gaze, Elgiva looked to see what was spooking her. Then she froze. There, part shadowed by undergrowth, stood a huge boar. The red eyes glinted with menace and its tusks gouged out great chunks of turf as it tossed its head this way and that. With trembling hand she reached for the trailing reins, but Mara bolted, shouldering her violently aside. Elgiva lost her balance and fell backwards. Attracted by the movement of the fleeing horse, the boar made a short charge in that direction. Elgiva screamed. The boar stopped short, sensing another quarry. Then it turned towards her, sniffing the air. She screamed again, edging away, an icy knot of fear in her gut. If it reached her, the creature would rend her limb from limb. She had no spear, no weapon save one small belt knife, worse than useless against such a foe. She was dry-throated with terror as her eyes scanned the nearest tree, but even if she could have got that far the branches were too high to reach. The boar moved forwards a few paces and pawed the ground, sending dirt flying. Elgiva swallowed hard.
Then there came another sound, the thud of galloping hooves, and a great black horse hurtled into her line of vision. It came to a sliding stop on its haunches just a few yards away. Then she heard a familiar voice.
‘Don’t move, Elgiva. As you value your life.’
With leaping heart she saw Wulfrum dismount, the great spear already in his hand. Then he moved across the clearing, all his attention on the animal in front of him. The boar discovered a new enemy and turned in his direction. Without warning it charged. Elgiva’s hand flew to her mouth, stifling a cry of terror as in slow motion she saw Wulfrum drop into a crouch to brace the end of the spear in the turf, but the pig was upon him. She saw him throw himself to one side and watched in horror as the animal hurtled past, one of its tusks tearing a great rent in the sleeve of his hunting tunic. He rolled up on to one knee in an instant, bracing the spear fast as the boar spun round like lightning, coming at him again, squealing with rage. Ashen faced, Elgiva watched the great beast hurl itself on to the spear point, hearing its fury and pain as it charged full to the cross piece, burying the barb deep in its breast. Hot blood sprayed over Wulfrum’s arms and chest, dyeing his leather gauntlets and tunic as he wrestled with the enraged creature, vicious and deadly even in its final moments. The squealing and the struggle went on for what seemed a horribly long time until at length the brute rolled over in its death throes. Almost rigid with fright, Elgiva watched the struggle between man and beast, hardly daring to breathe until the great boar lay still. Wulfrum got to his feet, breathing hard.
‘Are you all right?’
Elgiva nodded, fighting faintness, unable to speak. He drew her to her feet and then his arms were around her and he was holding her. He could feel her shaking.
‘It’s over. The beast is dead.’
Weak with relief, Elgiva took refuge in that close embrace and closed her eyes, feeling the fierce pounding of her heart and the sickness in her stomach from her brush with death. She was aware that he was speaking to her softly, as he might to a child, quieting her fear. It was his gentleness that brought the water welling into her eyes and then caused it to spill over as all the tension of the past weeks found its outlet. Wulfrum realised then that he had never seen her cry. Through every trial her courage had borne her triumphant, but even courage has its limits. He heard in her sobs the stresses she never spoke of, the fear and the hurt that she kept hidden, and his arms tightened about her. For some moments they remained thus until, gradually, as the t
error subsided and the sobbing ceased, some of her colour returned. Wulfrum smiled.
‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘You’re safe now.’
Elgiva looked into his face. ‘Oh, Wulfrum. If you hadn’t come…’
‘I would never let harm come to you.’
He spoke as if it were an everyday occurrence to slay a boar single-handed, but she knew he had put his life on the line for her.
‘Thank you,’ she said. It sounded so inadequate to her ears but he heard the sincerity in those simple words.
For a moment neither one moved. Then, very gently, her hands reached up and drew his face down to hers and she kissed him full on the lips. In stunned surprise he stared into the amber eyes, not quite daring to believe what he saw there. Elgiva kissed him again. Then his arms closed around her, crushing her to him, his mouth seeking hers in a lingering passionate embrace that encountered no resistance. Rather he felt her arms around his neck, her soft mouth yielding to his as she pressed closer. He had dreamed of this so often that even now he was unsure whether he woke or slept.
Just then he heard voices and several horsemen appeared through the trees. With a rueful smile Wulfrum slackened his hold on Elgiva. She returned the smile and reluctantly let her hands slide from his shoulders. As they did so they encountered torn leather and the stickiness of blood. She glanced down, frowning.
‘Wulfrum, you’re hurt!’
‘It is slight. The beast caught me with his tusk on that first rush.’
‘Let me see.’
He extended the arm to reveal a ragged gash. It wasn’t deep, but it had bled copiously, staining the shirt and the leather tunic.
‘That must be cleaned and bound when we return,’ she said, ‘lest it should fester.’
Wulfrum didn’t argue, for in truth the wound was beginning to ache. Looking at it, Elgiva was reminded again of how much he had risked for her sake and what she might have lost.
Further reflection was denied her by the approach of the oncoming riders. The huntsmen halted a few feet away, led by Olaf Ironfist. He looked at the waiting pair and then at the dead beast.
‘By Odin’s beard, a fine boar,’ he observed. ‘He must have put up a worthy struggle.’
‘Worthy enough,’ acknowledged Wulfrum with a wry grin.
The two men exchanged a few words about the transportation of the dead pig, then, having seen the instructions carried out, Ironfist went to retrieve the horses now grazing quietly a few yards off. Wulfrum turned to Elgiva.
‘Come, my lady, it grows late. We should return.’
It was a considerable relief when Ravenswood came into view half an hour later. As soon as they had dismounted Elgiva drew Wulfrum aside and led him indoors, calling to the servants to fetch hot water and cloths. Once in their chamber, she helped him unfasten his belt and remove the leather tunic. The shirt sleeve beneath was soaked in blood. With great care she removed that garment too, her practised gaze assessing the damage.
‘You were lucky, my lord,’ she said then. ‘It isn’t deep, but it does need cleaning.’
Wulfrum vouchsafed no comment, but seated himself as she prepared the things she would need. He had seen her tend others so many times but had little thought he would one day be the subject of her ministrations. He watched as she worked, her expression intent on the task, her small, deft hands cleaning the blood away from the wound, moving gently across his skin. The ride had brought the fresh colour to her cheeks and loosened tendrils of hair from her braid to form a halo round her face, a face whose contours were so familiar to him now he could summon them with his eyes shut. He could remember all too clearly the touch of those lips on his, the taste of her mouth, the subtle erotic scent of her flesh.
Elgiva broke into his thoughts. ‘A boar’s tusks are dirty, my lord. This cut must be washed with wine, but…I’m afraid it will hurt.’
‘I’ll live.’
The level tone suggested indifference, but the sudden sharp intake of breath as wine met torn flesh told a different tale.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
Wulfrum set his jaw against the pain and made no reply, but the sudden pallor of his cheek spoke louder than words. Unwilling to prolong the agony, she worked fast and, having sluiced the wound clean, prepared a poultice of herbs. These too would help prevent infection. Having slathered the mixture over the gash, she bound it firmly.
‘That should stay on for three days. Then I’ll change it.’
‘As you will.’ Wulfrum flexed his hand. ‘It eases already.’
Seeing some of his natural colour returning, she smiled. ‘I’m glad.’
He looked up and met her gaze. ‘Thank you.’
‘It was the least I could do.’
He rose from his chair and took her hand in his, pressing it to his lips. Every fibre of her being thrilled to that touch, for the memory of the earlier scene in the forest was etched on her consciousness. Supremely aware of his nearness, of his warmth, of his scent, she knew only that she wanted him. If he kissed her now…Closing her eyes a moment to steady herself, she felt him release her hand. Then he moved past her to the door. Elgiva bit her lip. She heard the door close and then the soft thud as the bar dropped into place. For a second its significance escaped her. Then she was very still, hardly able to breathe, hardly daring to hope—until she felt his hands on her shoulders.
‘I would thank you properly, Elgiva.’
Very gently he turned her to face him and then his arms slid around her waist and shoulders. For a brief moment he looked into the face tilted up to his before his mouth closed on hers. He felt her quiver, felt her mouth open beneath his, tasting again its honey sweetness on his tongue. Elgiva shivered, but not with fear, her body surrendering to the embrace, relaxing against him, answering his kiss with her own. She felt his hands move to her waist, felt him unbuckle her belt and heard it fall before he turned his attention to her tunic, unlacing the fastenings and sliding the garment down over her shoulders. The shirt followed a moment later. Then he loosened her hair from its braid, running his fingers through its silky length, twisting a hank around his hand to draw her head back. A longer, deeper kiss ensued. He bent and slid an arm under her knees, carrying her to the bed. There he drew off the rest of her clothing before removing his own.
His love-making was tender and passionate, he controlling his desire in order to increase hers. He had waited too long to spoil this with haste. So he prolonged the exploration of her body, whose beauty he already knew, and, paradoxically, knew not, relearning the curves of breast and waist and hip, stroking, caressing and arousing, by turns both tender and insistent. Elgiva’s pulse leapt, her flesh burning beneath that knowing touch, every sense alive to the lithe power of the body pressed so close against her own. Wulfrum moved lower, exploring the warm hollows of throat and collarbone and thence to her breast, lingering there, teasing the nipple to tautness, sending a thrill of pleasure along her flesh. She felt his knee move between her thighs, felt the answering slick warmth. Deep within, the sensation intensified, growing, mounting until it seemed that blood became fire. Every last defence overcome, she knew only that she wanted him. Her breathing quickened. She felt his weight shift and then the hardness of him as he entered her. The pressure increased and there was a moment of exquisite pain. Then it was past and he moved deeper in a slow rhythm that stoked the fire laid down before. Elgiva gasped, closing her legs round him, drawing him into her, yielding all of herself, moving with him as the rhythm became stronger, building to its shuddering climax. She heard Wulfrum cry out, felt the surge of energy between them in a moment of heart-stopping delight.
For a while afterwards neither one spoke, too shaken by the intensity of the experience to find the words. She felt his arm draw her close, holding her in the hollow of his shoulder. Beneath her hand she could feel his heartbeat and the sheen of sweat along his skin. He glanced down and smiled.
‘I’ve wanted to do that from the first, but I never imagined it would be so p
erfect.’
She looked into his face but saw only truth there.
‘I was afraid,’ she replied. ‘First of you, and then of myself.’
‘You have no cause to be afraid, Elgiva. I would never hurt you.’
He propped himself on one elbow and looked into her face, tracing a finger lightly along her cheekbone to her lips and chin and throat as if he would memorise every part of her. Even now he could scarcely believe what had happened. While he knew her nature to be passionate, its depths had astonished and delighted him. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined such a magnificent surrender, and he had dreamed of it often. Yet even as the knowledge sank in, he found other thoughts intruding, thoughts he could never have imagined before he met her. Elgiva had yielded her body, but what of her heart? It had never mattered before. Women had satisfied a need. While he had ever treated them with gentleness, their thoughts and feelings were of no interest. This was different.
Unable to fathom his thought, Elgiva had yet to own to surprise. She heard that men were brutal or indifferent after making love. Wulfrum was neither. He had been gentle too, more than she could have hoped or imagined. For all that, his handling of her spoke of a man experienced with women. They held no secrets for him. Was she just another woman to him? Even at the height of their passion he had not said he loved her. Why should he? She was his wife, married by force out of political necessity. He had not prosecuted his right before because he had no need to. As he had said, time was all on his side. A consummate strategist, he had intended to have her submission and he had won. And yet it had not seemed like defeat. What manner of man was he, this enemy who could make surrender taste so sweet? More than that he had shown her what lay in her own heart. Wulfrum might have died today in the forest. A few short months ago the notion would have been most pleasing, but somehow a shift had taken place—there was no trace left of the hatred she had once felt. It had been replaced by something far worse. She could no longer evade the awful truth that she did care for him. It was bad enough that he was the enemy of her people, a conqueror, who had taken her as a prize of war. Now, in spite of her best efforts, he was stealing her heart, as well, and her case was perilous indeed, for who knew what was in Wulfrum’s mind, or in his heart?
The Viking's Defiant Bride Page 18