His Captive Lady (17 page)

Her heart sank. No, not concern, pride. His pride had been injured. She shook her head. Concern, how wondrous would that have been? Wulf might be half-Norman, and he might be illegitimate, but he was a man. And men, even half-breed Norman bastards, had pride. She would best remember that. This man was first and foremost a warrior and she would be a fool indeed were she to search for any softness in him.

With his thick fur cloak round her shoulders, she listened to the sounds he was making. He was picking up the lantern, striking a spark from his flint. Once, twice. Sparks flew. One caught in the tinder and gathered strength. And soon yellow stars were splashed on the hurdles over their heads, and on each other.

He set the lantern on the floor. His face was covered in dark grime, he was filthy. Noticing her flint in a corner, he picked it up and held it out. 'Yours?'

'Yes, thank you.' She slipped it into her pouch and, frowning, reached for his cheek. 'Soot? Wulf, you're covered in soot!' That reek of smoke was far more than the usual smell of a household fire, and her mouth went dry as the realisation went home. 'The castle, it is burnt?'

He nodded.

'To the ground?'

Another nod.

'And...Thane Guthlac?'

'Refused to surrender.'

Erica bit her lip, she had expected as much. Guthlac Stigandson would die before he surrendered, that was his way. 'And wh...what of Ailric and Hereward? Did...did you see them?'

A hand covered hers, it was dirt black and the knuckles were scraped and bloody, but she drew comfort from it none the less. 'They are unhurt. Since they were imprisoned, they were not involved in the fighting. I made certain they were granted safe custody.'

Some of the tension left her, but worry remained, skirting the edges of her mind. 'Your lord, I had not heard that he was merciful. Will he...will he...?'

'I repeat, Ailric and Hereward are well. They were not bearing arms and they have been given another chance. De Warenne has asked them to consider giving their allegiance to him.'

'My father's men, swear fealty to a Norman?'

'It might be in their best interests.'

'I doubt it.' Questions were forming in her mind; Erica opened her mouth to give them voice, but his dark head shook.

He scrubbed at his face and gave a jaw-cracking yawn. 'Enough, I am beyond weary. We both need sleep, and since it is so cold that only madmen are abroad, we shall not be disturbed.'

'And Normans hold this corner of the fens,' she said, unable to keep the bitterness from her tone.

'They do indeed and that, my sweet Saxon, means that you and I are safe in here.' He tugged off his boots, pushed them to one side and raised a brow at her. 'Do you keep your boots on?'

He reached for her ankle and scowled. 'Lord, Erica, do you lack all sense? Your skirts are soaked.'

'I know, the ferry...there was water in the bottom. I did not realise until it was too--Wulf! What are you doing?'

He had his knife out and, before Erica could blink, had sliced a good foot off the hem. 'There's a sharp frost,' he said. 'We cannot have a fire in here, and you simply must not sleep in wet skirts.'

Mouth open, more astonished than angry, she watched as he tossed the damp fabric towards the entrance. 'But...but...this is the only gown I have with me and you've ruined it!'

The broad shoulders lifted. '
Tant pis.
Too bad. I won't have you catch your death. I promised my lord I would escort you safely to Winchester.' He took her chin and for an instant his eyes flickered to her mouth. 'We will have to share my cloak.'

Silently, she nodded and opened his cloak. He pulled her to the ground and arranged both their cloaks over them, drawing her body into his beneath them. 'Sleep now,' he said, gruffly. 'Sleep.'

The words froze on Erica's tongue. Wulf smelt of soot and smoke and sweat and even, faintly, of blood. The smells of battle, disturbing smells. His growing beard scratched her forehead. But he smelt of Wulf, too, and that was not disturbing, it was...reassuring. Inhaling, Erica focused on his scent, on Wulf. Safe. She blinked at a yellow star on the side of the shelter.

'You are hot as a furnace,' she muttered, as her muscles relaxed into his warmth. 'I am glad you came to find me.'

'Are you, my lady?' A large hand adjusted the cloak, cocooning them in his heat.

'How did you know where to look?'

'Gil.'

The stable boy, of course--he must have followed her. Before sleep claimed her, Erica imagined the gentle press of lips on her forehead. Her thoughts drifted.

The call of a coot rattled through the dawn air. Wulf stirred and reluctantly opened his eyes. Erica lay in his arms, body soft and relaxed as she slept. In the weak light filtering around the door flap, he could just make out her features.

His fingertips traced a gentle line over her shoulder before tangling in a dark skein of hair. Her hand lay on his waist. Gingerly linking his fingers with hers, he lifted it, noting the differences between her hand and his. His fingers were bigger-boned, sturdier, the nails cut straight across, and they were filthy and bruised. Hers were fine-boned, clean and unblemished. She wore two gold rings, one plain and the other bearing some sort of device. As he lifted her hand closer to examine it, her bracelets jingled. Catching his breath, he gently replaced her hand against his chest. He didn't want to wake her.

True, he wanted to get her out of the fens with all speed, but her life as an outlaw had taken her to the end of her tether. In truth, she was so worn out that she had slept like a log every night they had been together; her exhaustion made her forget to hate him.

He looked at her dark lashes, at the smooth lines of her cheek, at the bow of her lips. In his arms. Unconsciously he tightened his hold. When Erica was asleep she forgot her mistrust of men. Of him.

Small wonder she mistrusted men when the politics of her people were such that she felt obliged to offer herself as a sacrifice, and when a fellow Saxon like Hrothgar had been prepared--even eager--to rape her. That damn bloodfeud had much to answer for. Her housecarl Ailric had been the only one to speak out against it. His mouth edged up. Ailric was a man of good sense, even though he had been outnumbered in Guthlac's hall.

Outside the creaky call of a coot regained his attention and his gaze wandered to the entrance, to the light outside. He sighed. He had to get her away from here. God knew he had no wish to see her married to some great Norman lord, but better that than she be forced to eke out her days in this watery world. As an outlaw. A rebel. On the run, and surely prey to more exhaustion than she could bear.

His commander was on campaign in East Anglia, charged by King William to clear the fens of rebels. And while De Warenne had taken a liking to Erica when he had met her at the garrison, that would soon change if he learned she had tried to escape being taken to Winchester. Worse, if De Warenne were to catch so much as a whisper of what Wulf suspected--that Erica was set on urging a band of housecarls to open rebellion--there would be no saving her. And as for the knighthood that he was aiming for--that would be consigned to the devil.

Another cry from the coot had Wulf unwinding himself from his cloak. Yes, De Warenne had the bit between his teeth with regard to Saxon outlaws. He might have acted leniently with regard to Ailric and Hereward, but that had been in the wake of a victory against Thane Guthlac. Wulf would not care to put him to the test again. He glanced at Erica. If matters were to be resolved to his satisfaction in
every
regard, he had much to do.

He dragged on his boots and laced them. Leaving the shelter, he headed for the abandoned smokehouse, scrubbing at his face to chase away the sleep. Lord, look at the grime on his fingers. His face was doubtless equally filthy.

He had no intention of watching Erica marry someone else, but even that would be preferable to seeing her rot in these icy marshes or fall prey to the Lord of Lewes in one of his angry, retaliatory moods. His lord would give her only one chance. For both their sakes, Wulf had to get her to Winchester with all speed. He didn't know what she had hoped to achieve when she had left the garrison yesterday, but, whatever it was, he had to put a stop to it.

His boots crunched through last night's snowfall and he had gone a few yards before he took proper stock of his surroundings. The world was a dazzle of white. Frowning, he broke his step. Snow and ice everywhere. Branches were weighed down with it. Ducks were skittering about on iced-over fen-water. The smokehouse was covered in ice crystals, and icicles hung sharp as daggers from one of the rotting beams.

Ice.
Mon Dieu
, the waterways were frozen. The sky was an unblemished blue and the air was glacial. It chilled his teeth.

Striding to the fire-pit, Wulf found the bundle of wood he had secreted under an oilcloth some days earlier; it was dry enough and he had no fears about who might see smoke this morning. He set about building a fire. There would be no thaw today...which meant they must either wait for the thaw or skate to the London road, because by hook or by crook he must get Erica out of these fens.

Hadn't there been a rubbish pit nearby? Full of discarded animal bones, as he recalled. Yes, he was certain. Once the fire had taken hold, Wulf rose, dusted frost from his knees and went in search of the midden. No, he had no wish to see Erica marry someone else, but he must get her to Winchester before she had a chance to do something his lord would see as treason.

Wulf recalled the snatched conference he had had with De Warenne just after the battle. 'The King has summoned me to Winchester Castle in a sen'night. See to it that you collect the Lady Erica and bring her safely there. With all speed, FitzRobert, we can't have stray Saxon noblewomen providing a focus for more rebellion.'

'Yes, my lord.'

And then De Warenne had looked Wulf directly in the eyes. 'And mind I trust you to bring her chastely as well as safely, Captain.'

'My lord?'

'Lady Erica will suffer no disrespect at Norman hands, you understand?'

'Perfectly, my lord,' Wulf had replied, sick to his stomach at the thought of someone else taking her to his bed. 'Chastely and safely.'

W
hen Erica opened her eyes, the lantern was out and it was broad day. No Wulf.

She pushed his cloak aside and reached for her boots, brow puckering when she saw the state of her skirts, ragged at the bottom where Wulf had sliced off the wet hem. Where was he?

Moments later she was outside with the welcome weight of his fur-lined cloak back on her shoulders. Saints, it was a bitter morning. Bright and--Erica sniffed--woodsmoke! He had lit the fire.

Wulf was sitting on a log by the fire-pit in his other cloak, carving a stick bleached white with age.

'Good morning, Erica--my lady.'

'Good morning.' He had washed the soot from his face and had managed to shave, for those high-boned cheeks were clear of stubble in the fashion that he favoured, the Norman one. Half-Norman, she reminded herself, he is only half-Norman. His bruises were fading. Wulf was, she realised with something of a wrench, a handsome man. Her smile fell away; in truth, he was far too handsome for her peace of mind.

'There is hot water for you, my lady.'

'My thanks.' He had found one of the loaves she had brought from the garrison and had set it next to the hearth to warm. She shot him a glance. A consideration she would not have looked for in him. No. Mentally she rebuked herself, warming the bread was
exactly
the sort of thing Wulf would do.

A pang of guilt made itself felt. He intended escorting her to Winchester, but she could not let him, not when she had to find the Willow and get a message to the housecarls. Straight-backed, she picked her way across the snow-covered ground. Using what was left of the fullness of her skirt as a pot cloth, she reached for the cauldron. Considerate or not, she had to escape him. The warband must be warned that Thane Guthlac had been vanquished by Wulf's lord.

'My lady?' Wulf broke into the train of her thoughts.

Good Lord, he was handing her cloths with which to wash, Erica realised, bemused, as she took one and dropped it into the water. Hot water, wash cloths--this man was rare indeed. 'Yes?'

His expression darkened. 'I know you hired a boat, Gil told me. But I am curious as to why the ferryman left you here.'

She lifted her chin. 'Yes, I did hire a boat to take me...I wanted it to...to help me get away.'

'The thought of going to Winchester was so repugnant?'

'I...I, no. That is, yes, yes, it was.'

He stared at her, eyes bluer than they had a right to be, intense and compelling. She jerked her head away. 'I have no wish to marry a stranger. Also...' she hesitated '...I have responsibilities...elsewhere.' A brow went up and again she could not hold his gaze. 'Wulf, do not press me, I cannot say.'

He sighed. 'Perhaps you could try trusting me? It is possible I might help.'

She sent him a haughty look that hid the longing his words had awoken. If only she could. Lord knew she wanted to. But her loyalties were inextricably tangled up with the loyalties of her father's housecarls while Wulf's were to his Norman
seigneur
. She might want trust to spring to life between them, but that was impossible. 'Help me? I think not.' She frowned. 'What are you doing with that stick?'

He held it aloft, a stick that she now recognised was no stick, but the thigh-bone of a pig. Three similar bones were stuck into his belt. 'This, my lady, is what will help us reach the London road.'

She looked blankly at it. 'I beg your pardon?'

'This, my lady, is a skate.' His dark head jerked towards the mooring and Erica saw that the waterways were blocked with ice.

'Oh, no.' She bit her lip. How could she not have noticed? It was Wulf's fault, her wits became addled whenever he was close. He came a step closer.
'No,'
she repeated. 'I've never skated in my life.'

'Neither have I, but that is not going to prevent us. When you have broken your fast, we are going to skate to the London road.'

'I can't!'

'You can and you will.'

His gaze was fixed on her mouth and Erica had to fight a sudden need to cool her cheeks with the back of her hands.

'For I...' Wulf cleared his throat. 'You will not trust me and I have learned that I may not trust you either. But you must leave these fens. I have sworn to take you directly to Winchester.' He turned away, muttering, and Erica thought she caught the words 'chastely and safely,' but she could not swear to it.

Soon they were out on the ice, not very far out, admittedly, holding hands as they skated in one of the narrower channels. Wulf had tied the hand-made skates to their boots with his spare cross-gartering and, after half an hour's practice and a fall or two, Erica made a discovery.

'I can do it! I can skate!' Erica found herself laughing freely for the first time in years. She grinned at Wulf, tugged her hand free and even managed a mocking little curtsy without overbalancing. 'I like this! And I thank you, sir, for altering my gown. It would be far more tricky in a long skirt.'

Wulf skated doggedly after her, his breath pluming in the air and Erica came to a halt, observing him. Wulf could skate, too, but he was not taking to it as easily as she. He wobbled, steadied himself, and came on again. There was something awkward about Wulf's gait on the ice; perhaps here his strength worked against him. The ice creaked. He was so large. She fiddled with her bracelets as she watched and glanced towards the main waterway. The ice was thick here in the backwater, but it would be thinner on the main channel where the water flow was more powerful.

She narrowed her eyes, measuring the distance. If she could reach that far, and if she skated like a demon, she might be able to give him the slip...

'Enough,' Wulf said. 'We have proved this is a viable means of transport. Wait here while I fetch my pack.'

Nodding, Erica came to a complete stop.
Now. It's now or never.
A cold knife twisted inside her as he reached the bank near the fire-pit where he had left his pack. As he reached for it, it occurred to her that Wulf's fur-lined cloak was something of a handicap. It weighed too much; it would slow her down. Unfastening the clasp, she slung it over an overhanging branch.

Now!

She turned and began skating for the central waterway with her blue cloak streaming out behind her. Beneath her skates, the ice hissed. Her heart pounded. No shout yet, Wulf had not noticed.

Faster, faster, she must go faster. Ahead, a swan was waddling across the frozen waterway, ungainly on the ice where Erica was not as she flew towards it. A goose honked from a nearby islet.

'Erica,
no
!'

A fist clenched in her stomach. Hardening her heart against the anguish in his tone--she must be imagining it--she pelted on.

'Erica!'

She wasted seconds glancing over her shoulder and almost fell. He had flung his pack aside and was skating after her, powerful thighs pumping.

'Erica!'

He was fast for so large a man, too fast. Resolutely, Erica turned her back on him and raced on. If she could only make that main channel where the water flow was stronger. The ice must be thinner there, and Wulf would be forced to stop.

In the back of her mind the memory of an ancient saying was surfacing, she had first heard it when coming to the fens. Here in East Anglia, ice was not entirely unwelcome. True, ice made fishing hard, if not impossible, but the natives did say that travelling became easier. Now she understood what they meant. Not everyone could afford a boat, but
anyone
could fashion a pair of skates as Wulf had done...

Breathless, she sucked in a lungful of cold air and skated on. That saying--if only she could call it to mind...

'Erica, wait!
Erica!
'

He sounded desperate, you really would think that he cared. But Captain Wulf FitzRobert did not care, not for her. He cared about his duty to his lord. He had promised to escort her to Winchester and therein lay his desperation, he did not want to fail in his duty to William De Warenne.

She sped into the main channel. A swift glance upstream and down--no one in sight either way--just Wulf behind her with those strong thighs working as he came after her.

Below her, the ice creaked. Dark ice, black below. Weeds? Fish? There was no time to see. What
was
that saying? She racked her brains. The ice gave a tiny cracking sound, prompting her memory. Ah, yes, she had it--
ice: if she cracks, she bears; if she bends, she breaks
. The ice crackled beneath her, so it would bear her weight. She skated on.

'Erica!'

She looked back and wished she had not. Wulf was hurtling across the ice and out into the central waterway, chips of ice flying from his skates, heedless of his own safety.

'Erica!'

He shot out onto the wider expanse of ice and the ice at her feet creaked. 'If she cracks, she bears,' she muttered, skating furiously. She had to get away, she must get that message to Hrolf and the men, telling them that they were on their own, that it was no good looking to make an alliance with Guthlac. Guthlac, like her father, was dead. Perhaps now, she thought, as she tried for more speed, chest aching with the effort, perhaps it was time for her housecarls to consider making their peace with the Normans. When they had taken up the call to arms, they had left families behind at Whitecliffe--women and children who needed husbands and fathers...

The ferryman's face flashed into her mind. Alfred was an ordinary man, he had sympathy for her cause, and like her he was Saxon. But Alfred was practical. He had not liked to thrust her from his ferry and abandon her--why else had he made a point of mentioning the shelter? But practical Saxon Alfred had his family. Exactly as Hrolf and her housecarls did. Was it time to let them make their own decisions?

Even if it meant them abandoning her father's cause?

Yes, even then.
Cut your losses, daughter.

Another glance over her shoulder. Wulf had gained the widest point where the ice was not properly formed. The surface was bowing, he was too heavy for it.
If she bends, she breaks.
Heart in her mouth, Erica willed him to notice, but his attention was on her. He kept coming.

'No, Wulf, get back!'

Without thought, she turned and began skating like a fury, back the way she had come. Instinct drove her. She hugged the banks, where the water would be shallower, and prayed Wulf would do the same.

'Get to the side!
Wulf!
'

The ice sagged under him.
If she bends, she breaks.

Erica dug in her skates and came to an abrupt halt, frantically gesturing. 'Get to the bank! It's giving way!' She was gripped with a grim vision of that perfect warrior's body still and cold and white at the bottom of the fen. She must lure him to the bank, so that if the ice did give way he would be in the shallows. 'Wulf!'

He turned, was charging at her. He was five yards out...four...three...

She skittered about on the edge of the ice. Two...one...

And then he was upon her, grabbing her arms as he fell.

The ice splintered.

He bore her down with him and they landed in the shallows, half in, half out of the water. Gasping with cold, winded by Wulf, it was a moment before Erica had any breath. The fen-water was freezing, but her feet had yet to feel it.

'You, you...' She struggled for breath.

The bank was hard as rock beneath her. Large hands gripped her by the shoulders, and his big body kept her pinned in place. Chest heaving, he made no attempt to move, but blue eyes glared down at her, glittering with fury.

'You fool, Erica, you might have killed yourself!' His eyes fixed on her mouth, a hand shifted to her chin, and his mouth came down on hers.

Angry. Hard. Not chaste at all. Pressing against her so strongly, she might be bruised when he had done. He tilted his head, altering the angle, and nipped her bottom lip. In a daze, because although this was not a gentle kiss, Erica was not afraid and she could not fathom it, she put her hands on his shoulders and opened her mouth.

His tongue slid between her lips and he groaned. Instantly the kiss changed. His mouth gentled, was no longer punishing. No more bruising, but soft tiny kisses, little nibbles of her lips that encouraged her to touch her tongue to his. Another groan.

'Erica.'

'You fool, Wulf,' she murmured, 'you might have killed
yourself
.'

More kisses, he was showering them over her cheeks, tracing a line to her ear. He nipped it. His breath was hot and flurried in her ear.

Sliding a hand round his head, testing the texture of his short Norman hair with her fingertips, Erica was taken by a most unladylike urge. She wanted to bite his neck...Saints, she
had
bitten his neck!

He pulled back, panting, and they gazed at each other, chests heaving. His mouth came up at the side and he shook his head. 'Lord, chastely and safely indeed, what a commission.'

'Wulf?' She had shocked him, that bite must have shocked him. Ladies did
not
bite. Embarrassed, she tore her gaze from his and fixed it on the silvery-white branches of a nearby alder.

He brought her head back; he was smiling and dropped another kiss on her mouth. She noticed that his tunic sleeve was scorched from the firing of the castle. 'Lord, Erica, the things you make me do.'

She studied him. Wulf did not seem shocked; in fact, his eyes were on her mouth, they were no longer cold and that sudden stillness on his face told her that he wanted
another
kiss. He gave himself a slight shake, and smiled that lopsided smile and she realised that her hand was cradling his head, as though she, too, wanted another kiss and was just waiting for the right moment when she would draw his head back down and---

She snatched her hand away.

He grinned and rolled off her, grimacing at their wet feet. 'I should have tied you up, we're drenched. A couple of water rats.' He lost his smile. 'You were running away. Again.'

'Yes.'

'But you stopped, turned back. Why?'