His Captive Lady (14 page)

A stable hand was making his bed in one of the stalls. Looking pointedly at him, Erica raised a brow. 'You call this privacy?'

His grin broadened. 'More than would be afforded in the barrack-hall, I can assure you.'

Cheeks growing hotter by the second, Erica flung her veil over her shoulder and set her foot on the bottom rung. She had no desire to sleep amid a troop of Norman soldiers.

A warm hand settled on her waist. 'Can you manage?'

'Yes, thank you.' The hayloft was pitch dark. At the top, she scrambled to one side while her eyes adjusted.

Wulf muttered to the stable lad below and followed her up, lantern in hand. The light showed a steeply sloping roof with beams mere inches above his head. Several bales of hay were stacked in the gable end.

Wulf hung the lantern on a nail and tossed down his bundle. Blankets. Erica's heart began to beat in thick, heavy strokes. Straw rustled. Blankets, bales of hay...slowly Erica's gaze went from the hay to the man, as it occurred to her to wonder whether Wulf had bothered to find 'private' accommodation for the night because he had changed his mind about not touching her.

No, no. De Warenne had commanded that Wulf keep her chaste. Could he be trusted? Almost, she wished that he could not. What if he planned on taking what he had not taken when Guthlac had given her to him? In a stable. He was a man, after all, a strong, healthy, young warrior and strong, healthy, young warriors were--she could well recall Ailric's tavern wenches--not entirely reliable. Erica shivered. Thank Heaven Wulf could not read her thoughts. For he
was
reliable, but her thoughts, it seemed, were not. They were wanton thoughts that did not belong in the head of a thane's daughter. They must be dismissed, immediately.

'H
ere, my lady.' When Wulf took her hand, Erica almost jumped out of her skin, but he merely led her farther to one side, away from the trapdoor. He booted it shut with a thud and released her. 'That's better, don't want you to fall through in your sleep.'

Sleep? He thought she could sleep in the heart of a Norman garrison? He thought she could sleep when his lord had ordered that she be sent to Winchester to marry one of these...invaders?

He had a dagger out, the blade winked in the lamplight. Another new weapon; William De Warenne had been generous. Wulf sliced through the twine that held a bale together and set about strewing straw on the floor, making a bed.
Their
bed? The blood drummed in her ears. He would not dare. He had not touched her in Guthlac's castle, so why should he now when his lord had ordered him to take her safely to Winchester? Where she must marry someone fitting.
Fitting?
Saint Swithun, save her.

'There you are, my lady.'

'Th...thank you.' Mind awhirl, Erica sank onto the straw.

Where was he intending to sleep, with her? And there it was again,
another
unladylike thought--where were they coming from? When Wulf produced another blanket and used it to make up a second bed a few feet from hers, her breath released on a sigh. Kicking off her boots, she loosened her girdle and removed the blue veil. Her hands were trembling. Taking slow, deep breaths, she made herself fold the veil neatly and set it to one side. She was easing the tightness of her braid when Wulf, ensconced on his own makeshift pallet, paused in his preparations and glanced across. There was an arrested expression in his eyes.

'Wh...what?'

The dark head shook, his lips curved. 'Nothing, my lady, I was merely struck by your beauty. I thought I would grow accustomed to it, but it seems that time has yet to come.'

Truly? He thinks I am beautiful? It is more likely he seeks to flatter because he wants...he wants...

Wulf leaned forwards, eyes gleaming in the lamplight. He was so close she could feel his breath on her cheek, warm and fragrant with good Frankish wine. His gaze dropped briefly to her lips and back to her eyes. Erica might lack experience in matters of the flesh, but there was no mistaking that look. His hooded, dreamy eyes warned her that Wulf did not simply covet her gold, her former lands. Her stomach tightened and it was not an unpleasant sensation, it was more in the way of...anticipation? She bit her lip. Surely not?

Callused fingertips reached for her cheek, touching her in a light caress before falling away. Erica couldn't breathe. Her mouth was dry and it was definitely not from fear--the shocking part of it was that she was attracted to Captain FitzRobert. And worse, this was not the simple attraction of one friend for another, for they were enemies, this was the more complex attraction a woman felt when a man...when
her
man...no, no,
no
! Wulf might have asked his lord if he could take her in marriage, but that was because he coveted her land and her riches. He did not love her. He was simply a young man, and like other young men he had hot blood when it came to the pleasures of the flesh...

With more of an effort than she liked, Erica wrenched her gaze from his. How could she? He was Norman,
Norman
--her father would never forgive her. She had to fight this attraction, it had come from the devil. Wulf might ask for her hand in marriage, but she would never marry him. De Warenne would not permit it.

'Goodnight,' came the soft murmur, and that light touch was back at her temple, turning her face to his.

Again she saw that swift downward glance to her mouth; she noted also a dark slash of colour on his cheeks--clean-shaven cheeks, cheeks that she longed to touch, to test their texture. Purely on grounds of curiosity, naturally.

Erica had not touched many men and certainly not in
that
way. Noblewomen were not encouraged to do so, their purity must be unimpeachable, which was why Guthlac had chosen to have her disparaged. It was a particularly terrible fate for a high-born woman to lose her innocence, especially one who was unmarried.

As a child Erica had bounced on her father's knee and pulled his beard; she had touched Ailric that once when he had tempted her into kissing him behind the stable. Ailric's beard had been soft and silky, the touching had been minimal and the kiss a disappointment, he stank of the tavern. But Wulf--if she were to touch his face...why, the thought alone heated her blood...what would that lean cheek feel like?

And if Wulf were to
kiss
her?

Wulf leaned in, slid his fingers round to the back of her neck, and then they
were
kissing. Or rather, Erica thought wildly, as warm lips covered hers and the clean male scent of him surrounded her, he was kissing her. His kiss was subtle, surprising, a gentle but relentless assault on her senses.

She did not move, not to draw him close nor, to her shame, to repulse him. She sat stunned on her pallet while Wulf FitzRobert's fingers slid back and forth, caressing her cheek, her ear. Her cheek and ear burned. His touch had that effect on her, it seemed. Hot. Kissing Wulf made her hot. He melted her bones. And then his fingers were at the nape of her neck, holding her firmly in place as though he feared she might attempt to break free and he did not wish her to. But why should she? Escape was the last thing on her mind. It was no disappointment, kissing Wulf.

She forgot to breathe. As Wulf's tongue touched hers, a sinful heat wound through her and her thoughts were confused with something that Erica very much feared was lust. There was a peculiar swooping sensation in her belly, she ached to press herself against him, to reach blindly for those broad shoulders. Her eyelids fluttered shut. Almost she could wish that De Warenne had agreed to their union, almost she could wish...the devil, she thought, these unladylike feelings have come from the devil...

'Erica.' His voice was hoarse. He drew back and pressed a kiss on her nose. 'We must be chaste, but I will fight for you, my lady, I will not give you up.'

Breathless, she opened her eyes. He was still very close, too close for a Norman captain she would never marry, and his eyes were no longer blue, they were black. They were watching her with that careful attention she had noticed in him. Spy's eyes. Someone fitting? It could not be him, it could not. An illegitimate Norman captain? Such a match would never be countenanced, even by Normans.

'Wulf...' She swallowed. She had no idea what she had been about to say.

He smiled, so befuddling her that it was some seconds before she noticed his fingers were in her hair, finishing the job of loosening her braid.

'No,
no
.' Her voice was appallingly weak, unconvincing, even to her ears. The man had bewitched her.

'One more kiss,
ma belle
?'

His mouth, clear-cut and tempting, seemed to draw her, it made her want to drift back towards him, to lean against that strong chest.

His lips curved. She clenched her fingers into fists to prevent herself from reaching out, but when he brought his head closer she placed her palm on the centre of his chest.

'No.' Her face was on fire. 'I...I cannot.'

'
Ma belle
, I am only asking for a kiss.'

That repeated endearment, that
French
endearment, brought her to her senses. 'N...no, no more.'

Another smile. Careful fingers were drawing circles on the nape of her neck. Her skin burned. More burning, everywhere he touched. Again he caressed her ear and still it burned.

'Are you trying to seduce me?'

A dark brow lifted. 'Would I succeed?'

She looked away, shaking her head, but he brought it back to him. He was determined when he wanted to be.

'All I am asking for is another kiss, a simple kiss that would not damage your purity. I have sworn to keep you chaste and that I will do. Neither am I so great a fool as to assume that Erica of Whitecliffe would welcome a Norman and a bastard into her bed, or...' he paused, the light fading from his eyes '...into her body.'

There it was again, that wealth of bitterness and hurt in his tone. Erica did not like to hear it. She did not like it either when he sighed and his hand fell away. He backed onto the bed he had made for himself and busied himself unwinding his leg-bindings, rolling them into a neat coil and setting them carefully under the eaves. Something about the gesture caught her attention, but she could not say why that was. Her heart ached.

'Wulf?'

'Mmm?'

'I...I thank you for your care of me.' She almost blurted out the truth--that part of her longed for another kiss. She wanted to be able to tell him that she would have married him, if his lord had agreed. A sigh escaped her for that, of course, was the last thing that she could do. 'Wulf?'

'Aye?'

'I have been wondering--how is it that you speak English with such fluency?' By the fisherman's shelter, Erica had been so shocked to learn that Wulf was Norman that her mind had frozen. But it was dawning on her that for him to speak English like a native, he must in part be Saxon...

'My mother.' He indicated the coils he had made of his leg-bindings. 'My mother was Saxon, we lived in London where she made braid for leg-bindings. Hence my name.'

She blinked, murmuring, 'Brader, I see. So your Saxon name is a true name.'

'Yes, but I have a Norman name, too. I am known as FitzRobert to my lord.'

'Yes, but you are half-
Saxon
.' Erica gazed at him, wondering what it must be like--his conscience must be troubled by divided loyalties. 'Does your mother live in London?'

The dark head shook. 'She died when I was in my eighth year.'

'And did you really meet King Harold?' she asked, wondering if there was any truth in what he had told her in the rebel castle. It could not all have been lies, else Thane Guthlac would not have recruited him as part of his warband.

'Aye, as I said, in Southwark. He was Earl Harold then.'

Wulf's leg-bindings were blue, Erica had noticed them at Guthlac's castle because they made a vivid contrast with the rest of his attire, which was plain and unadorned. His Saxon mother must have made them; for Wulf to have hung on to them over the years, he must have loved her. 'Your mother made those,' she said, touched, struggling to imagine Wulf as a small boy who had lost his mother. 'And after her death?'

'My father came for me, he took me back to Honfleur to live with his
legitimate
family.'

That slight stress on the word 'legitimate' hinted at the difficulties Wulf must have encountered when he was thrust upon his father's wife. Had the woman welcomed him into her household, or had she hated him, a permanent, living reminder of her husband's liaison with a Saxon mistress? Wulf's stepmother would have had to possess an unusual strength of character not to have taken her jealousy out on him. 'Honfleur?'

Wulf's mouth twisted. 'A Norman port. My father is a wine merchant.'

'But you are part-Saxon.' Erica's heart was lighter. She frowned. Why did this please her? It should not please her; Wulf remained half-Norman, and he answered to a Norman overlord.

'Aye.' Wulf must have sensed her ambivalence, for his mouth came up at one corner and he leaned towards her. 'Does someone who is half-Saxon merit that second kiss?'

'Certainly not!'

He shrugged and reached for the lantern shutter. The light dimmed and he rolled into his cloak amid a rustle of straw.

Thoughtfully, Erica settled herself. So, Wulf FitzRobert was also Wulf Brader. He had been born in England, but his father had taken him to live in Normandy. What must life have been like for a small Saxon boy, being taken away to a foreign land? What had it felt like for him in Guthlac's hall, torn by old loyalties and by new? It could not have been easy. 'Wulf?'

His voice floated back through the cold semidarkness. 'I cannot talk all night. Go to sleep, my lady, there is much to be done in the morning.'

Erica woke with a start at the first cockcrow, blinking into a grey light. The lamp on the hook had burned out, and daylight was leaking through cracks in the thatch and the planks at the gable end. It took a moment for her to remember where she was, namely in the stable loft of the Norman garrison at Ely.

Wulf lay on his back a sword-length away, with one hand flung over his eyes. Still sleeping. Swallowing, Erica drew her head back to look at him. Against all the odds, she had had another good night's rest at his side. It would seem that the only time she slept properly in East Anglia was when this man was close.

Biting her lip, she studied the hand--his right--that covered his eyes and hid the worst of his bruises. It was relaxed, the fingers curled slightly, and the strengthening light fell on the calluses on his palm. They were the calluses of a warrior, a Norman. Wulf might be part-Saxon, but he was sworn to De Warenne, sworn to uphold the claims of the Norman King against his Saxon countrymen. Regret was a sharp pain in her belly.

She estimated him to be in his early twenties, but he had the self-containment of a more seasoned man. His sense of honour was strong, as strong as that big body. She now realised that the nervousness she had felt at the thought of sleeping with him again had been excitement, not fear. Wulf would never dishonour her. Her gaze lingered on his wide shoulders, it travelled up and down his long length--Wulf would never use his strength against her, as Hrothgar would have done. No, here lay a man--the one man--who, if he were wholly Saxon, might have tempted her into wanting marriage, for reasons that had nothing to do with politics...

No, no,
no
. That road was not to be walked upon. Wulf was--or he would have been--her father's enemy. He had lied to her. Despite this, she felt no hatred towards him, Wulf could never fill her with hate or fear. Her teeth continued to nibble at her lower lip. He was so very large and solid, she liked that about him. Was it that which made him appear dependable? And warm, he was warm, too. A smile escaped her. Wulf's size and warmth had in no small measure contributed to the soundness of her sleep.