The Captive - By Joanne Rock Page 0,16
knees where she sat.
Stalking toward the hearth, he tended the fish, adjusting their height over the flames. She sat in her corner, heart beating wildly, her skin burning from a stranger’s impudent touch.
“How dare you.” She spat out the accusation with careful deliberation. “You have no right to touch me.”
The big brute tugged one fish off the line and downed half of it in one bite. Then he gathered up the rest of their dinner and brought it toward her.
“You are mine. I will touch you when I like.” He unwound a leather strap from his shoulder and pulled free a second wineskin. The scent of mead made her mouth water along with the smoked food. “But for now, it pleases me to wait until you desire my touch.”
“You have no honor.” Mortification crawled up her cheeks. His hands had roamed all about her knees as if they were wed.
He shook his head and his sculpted mouth frowned.
“I have honored your wish. You said you did not want pleasure and I did not provide it for you,” he reminded her, his voice calm and low, a deep undertone beneath her shrill nervousness. “But I think you need it.”
Her thoughts reeled. Mutely, she shook her head, unsure how to address this arrogant suggestion.
“Have some mead.” He offered her the wineskin, and when she did not immediately reach for it, he took her hand and placed it about the vessel. “Perhaps you need to learn to indulge yourself in small ways first.”
She scarcely heard the last bit, her mouth watering at the scent of sweet clover and honey, spiced ginger and the warm, yeasty fragrance of the fermented brew. Lifting the skin to her lips, she drank not just because her belly grumbled for more sustenance than water, but because the complex bouquet of scents reminded her of sweeter times. Before her parents perished, before Alchere had taken control of her father’s vast holdings, Gwendolyn had known a life of learning and study. The family keep held a library full of important works and men of education traveled from far-off lands to read the tomes and speak with her father about art and architecture, math and music, philosophy and nature.
Gwen did not often think of those times, the sting of missing the people she loved best in the world too sharp to dwell upon the past. But something in the fragrant mead called to mind the exotic scents that clung to the robes of the foreign men and the spiced dishes her mother would order for their visits. Her parents would have understood the differences between a Dane and a Saxon. They did not know the same boundaries in life that had kept Gwendolyn locked close to Wessex.
“Thank you.” She locked gazes with Wulf, passing back the wineskin while her lips still sang with the subtle blend of flavors.
“You enjoy this.” He nodded at the wineskin without taking it from her, his gem-colored eyes watching her as if he knew all her secrets. “Take more.”
Already, she could feel the effect of the potent brew in her bloodstream. Perhaps it had been a mistake to sip so greedily when she had not eaten all day, but she found it difficult to regret the delicious languor that spread through her limbs. Between the haze of smoke lulling her senses and the steady regard of a commanding Dane, she dutifully lifted the skin to her lips once more and drank.
Sweetness rolled over her tongue. Fire tripped pleasantly through her veins, warming her inside and out. When she lowered the container to the pallet at her side, she wanted to ask Wulf where he had obtained such a delectable brew. But something about the expression on his face stopped the question.
He peered at her peculiarly. Then again, the mead might have dulled her senses enough where she simply could not read the look upon his face. The wine at her husband’s keep had been of such poor quality she avoided it still, memories of the stale taste ruining her appreciation for the brew even now. But this—ah, she’d forgotten how delicious mead could be.
Her tongue darted to her lips to wet them, her mouth gone dry after the loss of the libation.
Wulf’s gaze tracked the movement, his close attention rousing a sleeping heat inside her that had nothing to do with the mead. Prickly and warm, the sensation stirred awareness of the man before her, a womanly interest she’d never felt for her husband. No matter