The Captive (15 page)

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?

Music from the great hall greeted her ears before she turned the corner into the space. Minstrels from Wulf’s temporary encampment to the west had arrived at the keep with the women and children today, transporting the whole of that rough village to her doorstep.

His doorstep. She had to remind herself she was as much a guest at his mercy as anyone.

Turning the corner, she felt the bright torches of the great hall bathe her in warm, golden light. The scent of roasted meat and fresh bread wafted toward her, making her stomach groan appreciatively.

Then she saw him.

Wulf sat in the lord’s seat on the dais, a massive ram’s horn in one hand and the other draped along the shoulders of Gwen’s least favorite widow.

Margery.

Gwendolyn blinked, hoping when she opened her eyes again they would show her a more favorable picture. But she got the exact same view the second time around. The cursed husband-hunter simpered up at him, drooling like a child viewing a sugared fig.

Gwen told herself she had no right to be angry, and
she repeated the lie several times over on her approach to the cozy-looking couple. When she stood there, like a supplicant before the lord on the wrong side of his mighty table, she found she could not hold her tongue.

“My lord.” She curtsied prettily, less out of respect than from a need to capture the Dane’s attention.

Even through lowered lashes, she could see him remove his arm from her wretched rival’s back. The gesture proved small comfort. And by the saints, was that a lump forming in her throat? She would never forgive herself if she shed a tear in front of Margery.

“My lady.” He greeted her politely. Warmly. He stood. “We have been holding your seat. We were just discussing—”

“I seek an indulgence,” she told him quickly, her eyes still burning with the threat of ridiculous, ill-placed tears. “A favor in exchange for the time I spent as your captive.”

He owed her nothing. They both knew as much. Still, she recognized the politics of the moment. He was busy playing the generous lord and would not wish to deny the keep’s former lady a favor, especially when his abduction had robbed her of much marital worth.

What man wanted a bride who’d been the sexual plaything of a Dane? Even if he had never laid a finger upon her person, that was the reality of her reputation the moment she’d sailed off in his longship.

Wulf eyed her warily. He knew her well. Beside him, Margery arranged herself prettily on the trestle bench, straightening her posture and leaning subtly close to the man who’d clearly become her new romantic quarry.

“You may ask,” he told her, taking his seat again.

The confrontation attracted attention from all around the hall. The minstrels played on, though conversation
nearby halted. The villagers pointed their way and whispered behind their hands.

On the other end of the dais, Erik and Elsa watched them closely.

Which was just as well. Wulf would have a more difficult time refusing her in front of so many witnesses. So, in a last ditch effort to save her heart anymore shredding, she made a perfectly reasonable request.

“Because you are not my true overlord, I ask safe passage away from Wessex to King Alfred. He holds the majority of my wealth and will see me wed to my satisfaction, a task better overseen by him than by the man who held me captive.”

The collective gasp from the table suggested she’d gone too far. But the cold fury in Wulf’s eyes told her in no uncertain terms that she had crossed a line.

It did not surprise her to discover that in wounding him, she felt an echo of the hurt herself. But if he would play so cavalierly with her heart, it was best the battle lines were drawn now. He needed to know where she stood.

She certainly recognized his position when she spied him with the Saxon widow this night.

“You dare too much,” he accused, his voice a lethal whisper the entire hall heard.

She did not have time to consider how to argue the point, however, as the guard from the watchtower bellowed from above.

“War ships approach, my lord!”

F
EMALE SHRIEKS ECHOED
up into the high rafters of the great hall. Trestle benches scraped back in unison as the men rose to take up positions on the walls.

Gwendolyn froze. A cold chill spread over her body that had nothing to do with her damp hair.

“You come with me.” Wulf’s voice vibrated in her ear a split second before his big arm wrapped about her waist and he lifted her against him like a sack of grain.

“I will walk,” she protested, trying to wriggle free. “Go lead your men or sharpen your axe or—”

“I will see to your safety first.” His grip stayed iron-clad, never relaxing when he climbed steps or pushed through heavy doors.

“I will be safer if you are out there, turning aside an attack.” She knew this to be true, yet she worried to think of the consequences. She remembered well that last night at the Dane’s village when the women had gifted the men with passionate encounters in case the next day’s battle marked their last. Walking away from a fight unscathed was never a given. “I will look to my own safety.”

“The last time warships appeared on your shores, you stood on the parapets like a battle prize waiting to be claimed.” He changed her position in his arms as they reached a narrow passage leading to the innermost section of the keep. Scooping up her legs, he cradled her against his chest, though he never slowed his pounding stride. “You will not have that opportunity this time since I will deliver you into a guard’s hands personally.”

His obvious anger with her—over what transpired in the hall or because she’d been too much trouble for him from the day they’d met, she wasn’t sure—did not scare off the fears that lodged in her throat as they neared the keep’s stronghold.

Women and children ran beside them to take shelter from the oncoming ships. Somewhere below in the courtyard, grindstones scraped and hissed as they sharpened weapons. Men’s boots thundered on the ground, ominous warning of the trouble to come.

“I’m sorry I asked to go to the king,” Gwendolyn whispered, her voice diminished because of the breathless panic that swamped her for Wulf’s sake. He was a brilliant warrior—she knew this. Yet managing a keep came new to him. He usually fought from the water, raiding and leaving with deadly swiftness. How would he fare on the other side of such an attack?

“You show a warrior’s skill at finding a man’s vulnerable parts and slicing deeply.” He tossed off the comment in anger, his hard footsteps jostling her as he maneuvered through the crush of people to deliver her to the safety of the innermost sanctum—the secure central tower keep at the heart of the structure.

Did he really mean those words? Did he believe she held any power to hurt him?

Regret nipped hard.

“I was wounded to see Margery held close to your chest like your newest conquest.” She lowered her voice as they entered the high stone chamber, windowless save the light-giving open roof many feet overhead. Wooden rafters there provided small protection against the rain.

“The cloying widow? I could not hear her voice, which is thin as a child’s. I had to rope her closer just to decipher that she found the mead too strong.” Wulf set Gwendolyn on her feet in front of one of his guards—a thickset man he introduced as Osbert. “You will remain here until I retrieve you personally. Do you understand?”

She still reeled from the news that she’d behaved like a foolish, lovesick maid to confront Wulf so rashly in the hall. Nay. More than that, she staggered from his remark that she had wounded him. What woman could wound a man lest he cared a bit for her?

“Yes.” Nodding, she planned to agree with whatever he said. She only prayed she would have the chance to make this right with him after a victorious end to the battle. “I will not move until you come for me. May your gods and mine fight on your side.”

Arching up on her toes, she kissed his jaw, which was as high as she could reach without some aid from him. He peered down at her strangely, as if he did not understand her at all.

By the saints, she’d made a mess of things with him. In protecting herself, she’d behaved no better than the last woman who had trifled with his heart—and left him with a wound he still carried.

“Aye.” He nodded, a terse gesture that revealed nothing. His blue eyes were like the sea before the storm,
churning uneasily with cloudy color. “We will discuss your options for marriage afterward.”

With that, he turned on his heel and left, effectively dumping her in the holding cell for women and babes. Pandemonium reigned as tears flowed from worried mothers and wives. Osbert and the other two Danes charged with guarding them appeared unmoved, their gazes turned away from the chaos to monitor the sole entrance to the structure.

She watched Wulf’s broad shoulders turn sideways through the door to fit through the stream of villagers’ wives and kitchen staff now joining the ladies and children in the keep. Gwendolyn fought the temptation to chase down the Dane for another kiss, but hadn’t she sworn to stay put? Ignoring the lure of what Wulf would call her “passionate nature,” she remained dutifully inside the keep though she hated knowing she would be ignorant of what went on outside the gray walls.

She had a bad feeling about the battle, an uneasiness in her gut that she struggled to ignore. Perhaps she was merely upset about the words she’d exchanged with Wulf in the hall after she’d vowed to keep her temper.

Taking a seat on the floor beside the baker’s wife and young daughter, Gwendolyn offered to hold the baby to give the mother’s arms a rest. Everyone suffered from overheating after the scramble of running to the innermost keep. Fear added another sticky element to the packed bodies.

At least when Margery came in, she sat on the opposite wall. Though Gwen noticed she’d lingered at the doorway bidding farewell to a man Gwen did not recognize. Just how many prospective husbands did she have?

With an effort, Gwendolyn ignored her and the pit
of anxiety churning through her belly to focus on the shred of hope she’d savored from her conversation with Wulf. He’d given her reason to believe he had a heart beneath the warrior armor.

That alone would ensure she played the role he wanted for her in this battle. Captive no more, Gwen found she was more bound to the Dane than ever.

T
HE BATTLE DID NOT FEEL RIGHT
from the beginning.

Wulf swung his sword with a wide, wild arc as he repelled Harold’s men on the battlements. Sweat stung his eyes and blood from a cut on his head distracted him, hampering his vision when he needed to see clearly. He did not tire; nay, he welcomed the chance to finally meet Harold’s vengeance with a year’s worth of frustrations. But something bothered him about the encounter.

Harold’s men fought like they wanted to conquer the keep, not just win Wulf’s head on a pike. They mounted ladders to scramble over the walls, attempts that so far had been foiled by Wulf’s men. But if even a few of Harold’s warriors succeeded, would the Saxon villagers recognize one Dane from another? What havoc might Harold’s men wreak within the walls if they were mistaken for Wulf’s people?

Dispatching his latest opponent, Wulf reached to push the newest wooden ladder aside from the walls. An arrow stung his hand, landing in the narrow space between his thumb and forefinger to stick between the rocks of the parapets.

Odin’s beard.

Desperation tinged the air in ways he had not expected. The loss of life on both sides would be detrimental to all. Could Harold not see that? Had he ceased to be an effective leader?

Swiping away more blood and sweat, Wulf turned from the shouts and oaths of the men who rode the falling ladder backward to the ground. He moved down the battlements to another area at risk for climbing Danes when Erik appeared at his elbow.

“Wulf, the watchtower guards say there are attackers by land on the other side.” Erik’s sword arm hung awkwardly at his side, though that hand now clutched his axe. His sword he brandished with the less dominant arm. “There is some talk it could be a troop raised by Godric to take Lady Gwendolyn. Perhaps he made an alliance with Harold—”

“Go to the keep where the women are locked up.” Everything rattled inside at the thought of harm coming to Gwendolyn. “You are worth ten of Osbert and I need to be sure they are safe.” He had not wanted to leave a Saxon in charge of the women, but with his own forces so thin to defend the large keep, he had no choice.

“I can still fight,” Erik argued, his shoulders tense for battle. “Do not banish me into the keep for an injury that is less than naught—”

“I send you because I will unleash the wrath of the Christians’ hell if any harm comes to Gwendolyn, do you understand?” He started running, passing men in the heat of battle, clubbing two enemies seeking a foothold on the parapet.

She’d kissed him before he left her, and he had not even returned the gesture. No wonder the world thought him a barbarian. Would he commit the same mistake again—to care for a woman and horde the sensation for the sake of pride? He had not forgiven the wound Hedra had inflicted when she wed Olaf and they had both paid a terrible price for it. Could he be so blind and stubborn again to hurt Gwendolyn when he prized
her so dearly his chest ached at the thought of Godric getting his hands on her?

He tore up one staircase and down another to reach the battlements on the far side of the keep. Only a few guards—Saxon villagers who had been willing to swear an oath of loyalty—were still here, the vast majority of his manpower having been assigned to fight the battle in progress to the south end of the structure. These men were huddled together in deep conversation, their attention trained over the lands to the north.

“What news?” Wulf could already see the riders at the woods’ edge, a war party that could be fifty men or hundreds, depending what was hidden beyond the tree line.

“We saw activity there early this morn,” one of the men began, his eyes shifting to his companions as if to validate his story. “But they were obviously Saxons and we did not think they were a threat.”

Were they so stupid? Or had he been betrayed from within that the guards had not alerted him earlier?

“The first few were not dressed for war,” one of the others clarified, his gaze equally shifty while his hands alternately clenched and flexed around his crossbow. “We thought it a traveling party, or a group that might approach to seek shelter.”

That one was nervous, Wulf decided, though whether it was about his incompetence or for his backstabbing treachery, he could not be certain.

“You do not decide what warrants my attention. If a rabbit pisses within a stone’s throw of these walls, I hear about it.” Wulf picked up the nearest man by the collar and yanked him up to eye level. “If you have betrayed me, your life is already forfeit.”

These Saxons could have previously slipped someone
inside the gates, taking advantage of Harold’s invasion. Which meant Gwendolyn could already be in danger.

Dropping the man unceremoniously to the ground, Wulf vowed to replace every Saxon in sight with a Dane loyal to him and no other. He would not risk Gwendolyn’s safety in the hands of more beef-witted louts and gold-seeking schemers.

He just prayed he wasn’t too late to save her from the enemies converging upon them on all sides.

T
HE EERIE QUIET OF THE CROWDED
chamber unnerved her.

Gwendolyn sat among more than a hundred women and children, yet except for the fitful cry of one tired babe, no one made a sound. As one, the group strained to gauge the battle outside by the din of clanking steel weaponry, the shouts of the commanders and the harrowing gurgles and moans of the dying. Could each woman distinguish the sound of her man’s voice?

Heaven knew Gwendolyn could differentiate Wulf’s voice from any other. She longed to hear it now, any sign that he yet lived precious beyond bearing.

For her part, Gwendolyn had rocked her small charge to sleep soon after they’d been secured inside the keep and now she handed the snoozing child back to her mother’s arms. She did not know how she would withstand the idle hours of waiting, but she prayed this battle would win Wulf peace for many years. A strong warrior deterred enemies by reputation alone and once Wulf turned back Harold, Gwendolyn could not imagine any other would dare approach this keep while he ruled.

Now, while Osbert eyed the door with a watchful intensity that would freeze any intruders in their tracks, Margery rose from her place along the far wall to offer
one of the other guards a drink from the well that ran beneath the structure. Between the fresh water supply and the permanent food stores maintained here, people could take shelter in the keep for weeks if necessary. The thought of being shut in for so long made her shudder.

It was while Margery flirted with the guard and made a show of giving him some water that the bar on the entrance shifted. Could it be news from the battle?

“Open up, Osbert.” A muffled voice sounded through the door. “’Tis Erik. Wulf wants me to assist you.”

Gwendolyn would not have heard the exchange if she had not been seated so close to the guard—just where Wulf had put her. She thought Erik’s request strange, but then the battle sounded worse—and closer—than what she’d imagined. Perhaps it did not go well for Wulf’s men.

“You guard the door from without. I will remain within,” Osbert said reasonably, his brow thick with sweat though he had done no more than safeguard the door these last hours.

In the meantime, Margery wove her way through the crowded keep to offer another drink to a second man-at-arms. Did the woman have to throw herself at every male old enough to wield a sword?

“Treachery is afoot,” Erik shouted from the other side of the door. “Wulf would have me guard his lady.”

The claim must have sounded as plausible to Osbert as it did to Gwendolyn, for he reached to open the door with one hand while waving forward his men with the other as back-up.

Two of them did not respond with any speed, their steps slow and unsteady as if they’d spent the day swilling strong mead. It was the same two men for whom
Margery had just fetched water. Could the drink have been tainted?