His Captive Lady (8 page)

Hell, Wulf thought, as he turned to go. This is the last time I shall accept a questionable commission. Back in King William's barrack-hall at Westminster, he had thought he could not afford to turn it down, but today he was beginning to think he would in some way be impoverished if he completed it. He wanted to help Lady Erica of Whitecliffe and he could not, it was as simple and stark as that. Unless...

'Would you eat, if I brought you food?'

'No.'

'And I cannot persuade you to join your men?'

'No.'

'Goodnight, then.'

'Goodnight, Guthlac's man.'

Erica awoke some time between midnight and dawn, wondering what had disturbed her this time. Both the rush lights and the sanctuary light had gone out and the chapel was as black as ink made from an oak gall. Nothing, she could hear nothing, she was back to sleeping badly again, it seemed. And in the dark, which she hated. But she must be safe, surely, in God's house?

As she dragged the vestments more closely about her shoulders and tried to convince herself that she was not afraid and that the dark was not total, she heard a quiet laugh and the murmur of male voices. The guard that Guthlac had stationed at the chapel door must be talking to the guards outside Ailric and Hereward's lock-up.

Shuffling deeper into her makeshift bed, Erica was telling herself it was safe to close her eyes when another, more alarming sound reached her. The chapel door was fixed on leather hinges so they did not creak, but a soft scraping told her someone was lifting the latch. The hairs rose on the back of her neck.

Quiet footsteps approached.

'Who's there?'

No reply. The blackness was impenetrable. Childish fears crowded in on her, fears that peopled the chapel with monsters, monsters usually conjured by poets reciting in her father's hall, but which now emerged dripping from the lake outside. Long talons reached towards her...Grendel, Grendel's mother...

The blood drummed in her ears. With fingers turned into thumbs, Erica groped for a candlestick she had hidden under the covers and gripped hard. It was a poor weapon, but, since her dagger had not been returned to her, it was the only one to hand.

Biting her lip, straining eyes and ears, she fought to control her breathing. Something fell with a clunk on the beaten earth and she heard a muttered curse.

Gripping the candlestick for all she was worth, Erica ignored the ice in her belly and the goose-bumps on her arms. She prayed for courage.

There was a swift whisper of sound, a faint huff of cold air as a shadow whisked round the altar and then the inky dark seemed to fly at her, more solid than it had any right to be.

A small whimper betrayed her position before she had time to prevent it.
Idiot!
she told herself, even as a hard hand clamped round her mouth.

'Be silent!'

The voice was male, and harsh. Blindly, she flailed out with the candlestick and connected with...something.

Her assailant grunted and shook her like a terrier with a rat. 'Stop that!' The candlestick was ripped from her grasp. It thumped to the floor and rolled away.

Erica sank her teeth into that suffocating hand and a metallic taste burst on her tongue.

A grunt. Another jaw-rattling shake, but he did not release her. A cloth was forced into her mouth. She kicked out, stubbed her toe, let out a muffled squeak and choked. The pressure on the gag eased, enough to give her breath, but not enough to let her break free. A violent jerk snapped her head back and the gag was pulled fast. Ruthless fingers caught painfully in her hair. Tears stung her eyes.

What was happening? Was she about to be raped? Had Guthlac honoured the custom of sanctuary only long enough so that lack of food would weaken her? Was she about to be disparaged in truth?

Her arms were forced behind her. Tied. The bonds cut into her wrists.

She was whirled back to face her assailant, and then felt another whisper of air as he bent closer. She thought she heard the words, 'Forgive me', but knew she had imagined it because in the next moment something--scratchy, like sacking--was dragged over her head.

The gag stopped her screaming, but she heard a pathetic gurgle and to her shame knew that it was she who had made the sound. She was lifted, held by arms that gripped like iron bands.

Blindly, unable to scream, scarcely able to draw breath because of the sacking over her head, cold to her bones with terror, Erica fought to keep her wits about her.
Control
, she told herself,
control. He has not really hurt you.
Her mind was skittering all over the place, like a child slipping on ice. Would she be killed? Tortured to reveal the whereabouts of her camp?
Control, Erica, control. Concentrate.

Somehow she kept the monsters at bay. Her captor was carrying her, taking purposeful strides, she could hear his boots striking the earth floor. He seemed to bend down, she was shifted, and then bent double. He had thrown her over his shoulder.

The door latch clacked. Icy night air fingered the back of her neck, reaching her skin through a gap in the sacking. More goose-bumps. Breathing hard, he took quick strides.
Serves you right
, Erica thought, with a flash of grim humour,
I am no featherweight
. Her bosom was squashed against his shoulder.

He strode on, paused, shifted to one side. An owl hooted. And then he was moving again, his boots making a different sound, ringing hollow as if on wood. The jetty? Erica fought to breathe through the itchy sacking. If only there was more air; if only her hands were free.

The side of her head cracked against something and she let out a muffled cry.

A hand steadied her head, rubbed the spot. 'I am sorry.' His voice was low, unrecognisable. He was
apologising
?

He was out of breath. He grunted and altered his grip and somehow she was in his arms and for a couple of seconds he was holding her so close she could hear the pumping of his heart. Another grunt and she was deposited--dropped might be the better word--on the ground.

Except that the ground was rocking. A splash. He cursed under his breath. More rocking. She was trussed up like a chicken in the bottom of a boat and he was joining her...

Wood knocked against wood. The boat swayed, less violently. And then came the softer sound of oar blades dipping into fenwater, the scraping of oars in rowlocks and, farther off, the hushing of the wind in the reeds.

Catch your breath
, she told herself.
Make the most of the time
, think.
Thane Guthlac cannot be behind this.
Her abduction from the chapel where she had claimed sanctuary was nothing less than sacrilege. And her father's old enemy would not break sanctuary. As Thane Eric's daughter, she was no longer in any doubt that Thane Guthlac loathed her and negotiations with him were out of the question. But would Guthlac risk his immortal soul by breaking her out of sanctuary? Never. Guthlac Stigandson's sense of honour would not permit him to commit such an act. For someone to break into sanctuary and steal her away, they would have to be utterly without honour, they would have to be utterly beyond the pale.

A pair of charcoal-ringed blue eyes flashed vividly into her mind. Saewulf Brader? He had not been long of Guthlac's number and he was a bastard, and that, in most people's eyes, put him well beyond the pale.

The ribs of the boat pressed hard against her cheek. Icy water had pooled on the planking, it was seeping into her clothes. Shivering, Erica twisted, testing the ropes that pinioned her arms. They held firm. She let her muscles go slack; it was pointless wasting precious energy with futile struggle. Wulf had been right in that regard, she thought ruefully, she had little strength after her fast. Perhaps if she had let him bring food she might have been able to break free.

Erica cast her mind back to the moment when her abductor had come into the chapel. He had used stealth, which implied further that Guthlac was not behind this. Yes, he had been quick to silence her and quick to bind her, but her abductor was no thief, he had made no attempt to strip her of her finger-or arm-rings. Not yet, at any rate. He had not set out to hurt her either, not deliberately, for when she had cracked her head, there had been that hand that had rubbed her throbbing scalp through the sackcloth, that gentle hand. Perhaps she had not misheard that muttered apology.

Wulf, her abductor had to be Wulf. The man was a mass of contradictions. He was no noble, yet in his dealings with her he had been innately gentle, innately courteous. In the short time that she had known him he had shown himself to be more considerate of her feelings than most men. Relief flooded through her as the certainty gathered power, Wulf Brader was her abductor. Though why he should do this when he answered to Guthlac was a mystery. She tried to speak, but through the gag it was impossible.

Wet and uncomfortable, Erica lay in the bottom of the boat while her captor rowed.
Please, God, let it be Wulf
, she prayed,
let it be Wulf
. Surrendering to the motion of the boat, an almost imperceptible swaying, she wished he would remove the hood--it itched like the plague. Her skin crawled. And her boots were back in the chapel; her feet were freezing, her toes going numb. Shivering, she thought longingly of the great fire at Whitecliffe Hall, and blinked back a rush of tears. Gone, those days were gone and would never return. Her tears soaked into the sacking.

Half an hour passed, perhaps an hour--she lost track of time. Then, without warning, the boat juddered. More splashing. The boat tilted, there were various creakings and grunts and she was urged to a sitting position.

She mumbled into the gag. The sacking was snatched from her head and an intense cold bit at her cheeks and ears. Starlight--no, not stars, but light leaking from an iron lantern, which had stars cut into the shutter. A broad-shouldered figure crouched beside her. She was pulled unceremoniously against a wide chest and quick fingers untied the gag.

S
pitting out bits of sacking, Erica jerked back and rubbed her cheek on her shoulder to get rid of stray threads. 'Wulf!' Relief made her weak, and angry. 'What in hell are you doing?'

'Rescuing you, I think.'

There was amusement in his tone, damn him. How
dare
he laugh at her--did he not realise how much he had frightened her? 'Rescuing me?' Shuffling round on her knees, she presented him with her bound hands. 'Did you have to bind me so tightly? Release me, for pity's sake.'

In a moment her hands were free and she was facing him again, rolling aching shoulders, rubbing sore wrists. 'Why?'

Dark brows drew together. 'I did not trust Guthlac with you.' He sounded guarded, but a wave of his hand had her focusing on her surroundings rather than his tone. 'You are free now.'

The sky must be overcast, for the only stars that Erica could see were the stars shining from the lantern. There was no moon and a cold wind was shaking the reeds. She shivered. 'In breaking me out of sanctuary, you imperil your mortal soul.'

His shoulders lifted. 'There were...more important considerations.'

'More important than the state of your soul? Father Agilbert would take issue with you there.'

Another shrug. 'There are many who would say my soul is of little account--I am damned by my birth, remember. Besides--' his voice warmed '--I did want to see you out of there.'

'You felt impelled to be my champion? Why? Thane Guthlac will have you flogged when he finds out.'

'Thane Guthlac would do more than that if he knew the whole,' came the cryptic response.

Erica did not have the first idea what he was talking about. She peered into the night, but the light from the starry lantern did not reach far and she could only make out a shrubby shoreline fringed with ice, and a dark shape that might be a fallen tree. 'We seem to have run aground.'

'Aye.' Wulf shoved his hands through his hair. 'Damn waterways are like a maze, especially in the dark.'

'Lost your way, did you?'

'I know where we are, at least I hope I do.' With a sigh, he rose and the boat shifted. He picked up a bundle and offered her his hand.

He was dressed for travelling, with those wide shoulders swathed in a fur-lined cloak Erica had not seen before and sturdy knee-length boots that hid most of his cross-gartering. And he was armed--when his cloak parted, she glimpsed the hilt of his sword. A pair of gloves was tucked into his belt.

'Come, my lady, let us see if we can find shelter. If we are where I think we are, there's a hut nearby. Take the lantern.'

Slowly, for her stockinged feet were clumsy with cold, Erica let him help her scramble out of the boat. He looped the mooring rope round an overhanging branch, gripped her free hand, and led her inland.

After a couple of minutes of stumbling through trees and of tripping over rocks, a tree root and Lord knew what else, he came to a halt. 'Here it is.'

Erica's toes were so numb she could barely stand, her fingers throbbed. Lifting the lantern, teeth chattering, she saw what at first glance seemed to be a couple of reed-thatched hurdles lashed at an angle to each other. A leather flap took the place of a door. 'This?' She fought to keep the scorn from her tone. 'I would think twice before keeping swine in it.'

His face became closed, the grip on her hand relaxed. 'It might not be what you are accustomed to, my lady, but it is all we have.' He waved her in. 'Ladies first.'

She did not like it, but since she could barely move she was disinclined to argue. Wulf's 'shelter' was nothing but a hovel, but surely it would keep out the worst of the frost? Ducking her head, keeping careful hold of the lantern, she kilted up her skirts and scurried inside.

The earth floor was covered in hide and the roof was so low that the only place you could sit without bowing your head was at the centre, beneath the apex.

Wulf followed, crowding her in the confined space before settling down cross-legged. Erica placed the lantern on the hide between them and hoped he couldn't see her shivering. The lantern made starry patterns on his tunic and cloak, on the shadow of his growing beard.

His gaze ran over her, and he swore softly. 'Lord, my lady, I forgot your feet!'

Her stockings were in ribbons. Erica made a half-hearted attempt to pull her feet out of sight under her skirts, but a swift hand reached out and her protest was ignored as he pulled them onto his lap and began chafing them.

The warmth stung at first, but Wulf's capable warrior's hands continued chafing, chafing, infusing warmth back into her and then, gradually it became heaven. She ought to protest, she really ought. It was not fitting for Wulf's fingers to be moving over her in this way. It was too intimate, far too intimate, but the intense cold seemed to have stolen her will. And his hands...so firm...so careful. Warm. What heaven. Erica curled her toes into his palms until, blushing, she recalled herself. This would not do. Not only was Wulf a stranger, he was one of Guthlac's housecarls...

This time when Erica made to draw her feet back under her, Wulf let her have her way.

'I did bring your boots, you should have reminded me,' he said.

'And when might I have done that?' Embarrassment made her sharp. 'When you shoved a gag in my mouth perhaps, or when you dragged a sack over my head? Should I have spoken
before
you carted me out of the chapel? Against my will, I might point out.'

'I had to gag you, you would have brought the guards down on us.' Wulf reached into the bundle and tossed her boots at her. 'Here, my apologies. I forgot about them in the rush to escape.'

Escape?
What an interesting choice of word. But Wulf's hands had found her feet again, snapping off the tenuous thread of her thought, as he resumed kneading the life back into them. As the cold eased, Erica bit back a moan of pure pleasure. 'Ladies don't generally sleep with their boots on,' she muttered. In a minute, she would tell him to stop. In a minute...

'They do not?' His teasing voice. Their eyes met and he smiled and Erica did not quite understand it, but much of her embarrassment seemed to dissipate. 'I am glad to know this,' he went on softly. 'My experience of...ladies...has been somewhat limited, I fear.'

Something told Erica that while Wulf Brader's experience of ladies might be limited, his experience of women in general was far from limited. Though why such a ridiculous distinction should interest her was beyond her. Wulf Brader's experience or lack of it with women of any station was none of her business.

Mercifully releasing her feet before Erica shamed herself completely by melting into a puddle of bliss, Wulf reached into the bundle and produced a woollen blanket. 'Wrap this round you. And since you are no longer in sanctuary and are out of Guthlac's hands, I thought you might enjoy these.' He drew out a smaller bundle and passed it to her. 'Unless you have any more objections, that is?'

Erica tore off the cloth. 'Bread!' Her mouth watered. 'Cheese! And...oh, Wulf, roast chicken, I don't remember when I last had chicken!' Her stomach growled; it was shamingly loud. On impulse, she leaned forwards and pressed a swift kiss to his cheek, catching, as she did so, the subtle fragrance of soapwort, mingled with the musky male scent that was Wulf. 'Thank you!'

He drew back, touching his cheek as Erica sank her teeth into the bread. Soft wheat bread, fresh-baked that evening if she were any judge. She could hardly chew quickly enough.

With a crooked smile, Wulf set a wineskin in her lap. 'I need to beat the bounds outside, I won't be long,' he said, lifting the leather flap that served as a door.

With her tongue savouring the rich flavours of chicken roasted with chives and wild thyme, Erica nodded.

Wulf gave her time to finish eating before he returned.

'It is only I,' he said, lifting the entrance flap and ducking his head through the opening. 'There is a fire pit out here and I have got a small fire going.'

Erica had put her boots on and the blanket was draped about her shoulders on top of her cloak. No, Wulf reminded himself, he must not think of her as Erica. She was
Lady
Erica.
Lady Erica of Whitecliffe.
He must keep his distance from her. And, for his own peace of mind, he must keep her out of his thoughts as much as possible, even though it was coming home to him that, since he had freed her from Guthlac, he was honour bound to consider her welfare.

Her face was pinched with cold, but her eyes brightened. 'A fire? Is there hot water?'

The question disconcerted him. 'My lady, this is not a hostelry.'

'I had noticed.' Bringing the lantern with her, she crawled to the entrance. Outside, she gathered up her purple skirts and began marching in the direction of the boat.

'Not that way!' Wulf snatched the lantern from her, closed the shutter and steered her away from the water. 'Please be careful, my lady, the light may betray our position.'

'Who are we hiding from? Thane Guthlac or the Normans?'

Wulf grimaced. He did not think anyone had followed them from the castle; the guard he had relieved would not have returned for some time, and he had rowed like the very devil. But when Guthlac discovered that Saewulf Brader had removed Erica of Whitecliffe from his clutches...there was no knowing how the man would react.

'In any case the lantern is small,' she said, eyes downcast as she picked her way through the murk. 'And you said you had lit a fire--surely that will act as a beacon?'

'The hearth is in the remains of an ancient fire-pit, my lady, the flames are concealed by the pit walls. I think the fisherman whose hut we are...borrowing must have used it as a smoke-house. If ever there was roof, it has long gone, but--'

'Show me,' she said, imperiously, using tones that only a thane's daughter would use.

Flicking open the shutter, Wulf angled the lantern so the light fell onto the path in front of them. Taking her hand, bitterly aware that if she knew he was a Norman captain she would refuse to speak to him, let alone touch him, he led her into the clearing where the fire-pit was. He did not know what it was about this woman, but she gave him the most inappropriate ideas. Warming her feet like that had been a bad mistake. Most inappropriate, but she had been so cold. And now he was noticing that her fingers were like ice, just like ice, and he had to quell another inappropriate impulse. He wanted to chafe them, too.

When Wulf had taken Lady Erica from the chapel he had remembered to pick up her boots, but her gloves--Lord, they might be anywhere.

Her quick eyes were scouring the area. 'The fisherman has left his cooking pot behind.' She pointed at a three-legged cauldron lying on its side by the trunk of a leafless willow. Blackened with use, it all but blended into the night. In its pit, the fire glowed like a sunset; it sent out a surprising amount of heat.

Despite himself, Wulf's lips twitched; it was not hard to guess the trend of her thoughts. 'Hot water,' he murmured. 'I see you are set on it.'

Nodding, she stood at his side, hair bedraggled and unravelling, dishevelled by the sack he had flung over her head, but in some mysterious and ladylike way maintaining her dignity. Her gown was dark with water at the hem, and her eyes were enormous in the light of the lantern and very green. 'Wulf,
please
.' Bracelets chinking, she reached for the cauldron. 'Three days in sanctuary, three days without water to drink, let alone to wash in. Surely you would not deny me hot water?'

Shaking his head at the foolishness of a Norman captain who could not resist a request from a woman who had sworn to rid England of all Normans, irritated beyond measure at how pleased he was that she was again calling him Wulf rather than the more formal Saewulf, Wulf took the cauldron and trudged back to the fen to fill it for her. Women, he mused, they are the same the world over, Norman, Saxon, it matters not. Water slopping over the sides, he returned to the clearing and set the cauldron on the fire. 'I will be back in a moment.' He reached for the lantern.

She sent him a sharp look. 'You would not leave me, not here?'

On impulse, he picked up her hand and dropped a kiss on the back of it. 'Never.' It was best to ignore the way his heart lifted when she did not repulse him. 'I have some soap and a comb in my pack, I thought you might care to use them.'

When she stared at him, a pleased smile lifting the corners of her mouth, it warmed him to his core.
Merde.
Abruptly, Wulf turned and strode back to the hut, leaving her to toast herself by the fire while the water heated. He shook his head.
Wrong, wrong, this is wrong, she is your sworn enemy.

On his return, Wulf stood guard with his back to her while she washed and tidied herself to her satisfaction. He was surprised that she did not take long, not half as long as he would have expected a thane's daughter to take. Notwithstanding, in the short time that she had been out of the hut, the ground had frozen. White crystals gleamed in the lamplight, and as they made their way back to the shelter, hoarfrost crunched underfoot.

After the glow of the fire, the fisherman's hut seemed twice as damp and dark as it had before, but there was a roof, which was a blessing. It was cold enough for snow. Tempting though it might be to sleep by that fire, they could not risk lying out in the open.

Shivering again, Erica--no, damn it--
Lady
Erica took up her position on the floor, hugging her cloak about her like a shield. Her re-braided hair hung loosely over one shoulder. 'I...you...there is not enough room.'

Wulf's eyes narrowed. 'There is plenty of room, my lady. Surely you are not afraid I will...take advantage of you?'

A beringed hand fluttered towards him and was still. 'No, of course not, I recognise an honourable man when I see one. You are not like Thane Guthlac or Hrothgar. It is simply--' she eyed the scant inches between them '--there is less space than there was in Guthlac's storeroom, and to lie so close to a man who is not of my blood, I...I am unaccustomed.'

Wulf jerked his head at the leather flap doing duty as a door. 'If you think I intend to freeze my boll...backside off out there, you have another think coming. Here, you had best take charge of this.' He passed her the lantern.