The Captive - By Joanne Rock Page 0,14

close to her own. At other times, shivers shot through her when he lifted her against him to carry her over a treacherous patch of earth. Yes, he’d been oddly solicitous for a man who had the power to harm her. She’d spent most of the trek wondering if he truly believed in this idea of shared pleasure.

A foolish notion. She resented him for planting the concept in her brain when she needed to be thinking about escape.

Considering that she’d been so aware of every moment of the journey to a dilapidated structure near old church ruins, it surprised Gwen that she couldn’t guess how long it had taken them to arrive. Now, she sat before a fire in a dusty hearth where Wulf had made short work of starting a blaze.

That had been his first order of business upon arrival. While Gwendolyn searched the small hut for a weapon or escape routes to use once he fell asleep, Wulf then ensured no rats had made a home in an old pallet and settled her among the rushes. The scent of sweet straw and dry wildflowers wafted about her when she moved and she guessed someone must have used the weather-beaten lodging the previous fall.

She’d never spent a night outside a powerful keep before, so she was briefly charmed to think that her pallet had been employed by others. Then, recalling Wulf’s reasons for bringing her here, she went back to plotting her escape. Was it foolish to leave in the dark when she had spied no houses on the way?

For now, she decided yes. She had already traveled so far today and it seemed wise to eat before she made another trip. And Wulf barely left the ruins. Even when he caught two slippery silver fish, she noticed he kept his eye on the lodging for all but the moments it took him to plunge his arms into the nearby stream.

Her heartbeat sped up, the same reaction she had every time he neared. Fear? Yes, and yet, she could not fool herself that this was fear she would be raped and left for dead. He could have done that long ago on the beach or forest floor. And he had saved her life from the first.

If he’d not appeared on the wall when he had—as if Fate had intervened—she would not be alive right now full of anxiousness and emotions too confusing to name.

Lesser men might indulge petty violence. Wulf Geirsson was a leader of men, and a wealthy one at that. He could have commanded far more beautiful women to his bed. For that matter, he could have persuaded many women to do his bidding simply because he was strong and handsome, his compelling azure eyes enticing a woman to comply with his every whim…“Gwendolyn?”

Her cheeks heated and she thanked the saints for the soft, orange glow of the fire that would hide her discomfort. Had he spoken before now and she missed it? She’d been wrapped up in that disarming gaze so at odds with everything else about him.

“Hmm?” Why was she thinking about other women he’d been with? Why would she care?

“Does your knee still hurt from your fall earlier?” He’d set down near the hearth. Now, he threaded the fish on a thin stick that he mounted between rusting iron brackets that must have long ago held a cauldron.

“No.” She tucked her skirts closer to her sides, all-too aware of his nearness. His attention was on her legs even though her skirts covered them completely. “Why?”

What would a brutish Viking care of she bruised her knee? The assortment of scars on his arms suggested he’d taken far worse abuse in his lifetime.

“We might have to move quickly if anyone follows us, and I would not have an injury slowing us down.”

She’d forgotten about Alchere. And Wulf’s Danish enemy, Harold. Then, there was the threat of her in-laws who still sought control of her fortune through her. To face the in-laws at least, she thought she might prefer to have a merciless, hulking Norseman at her side.

Wulf’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

“You will drink.” He had dipped a small wineskin into the stream; now he handed it to her.

“Perhaps it is confusion between our languages,” she started, wondering where he’d learned his manners. “But we tend to ask people ‘will you drink?’ as opposed to telling them they must.”

She took the wineskin and squeezed water into her mouth, the icy liquid not doing anything to quell the