The Captive - By Joanne Rock Page 0,23
as many days, Wulf Geirsson had treated her with noble restraint, releasing her even though he’d told her more than once he wanted her.
You please me.
If that was the case, he walked away from her so that she could make her own decision about whether she wanted him or not. Whether she wanted to find out if there could be more to the marriage act than the pain she’d known previously.
The kisses she’d shared with him assured her she had missed out on the most magical aspects of lovemaking. But how could she give herself to a perfect stranger, even if she was admittedly curious about the way Wulf made her feel?
She would not be the kind of woman that Gerald had kept on the fringes of his hall—a concubine. And what else could she call herself if she allowed this heated curiosity to capture her imagination?
Rising from her pallet, she folded her blanket and watched Wulf through the door, her gaze following his every move while he took his axe to a dead tree. Each swing vibrated with the power of his strength, his expression ferocious. Did he work off frustration over her? Or was this punishment to the tree related to those cryptic words before he’d left the cottage?
It is never too late for a man to redeem himself.
What kind of redemption did Wulf seek? From the way he swung the blade, Gwendolyn guessed that his time of reckoning must be approaching.
THE HEAT WAS ON.
Wulf stoked the fire outside the ruins that night, hoping the blaze would help ignite warmth in his captive. Thoughts of her had plagued him all day.
From the moment he’d woken with his arm full of womanly curves, he’d wanted her. Memories of the way she’d arched back into him, instinctively seeking the kind of fulfillment she didn’t seem to have ever experienced, rolled through his head like endless waves battering the shores of his restraint.
Why had he chosen this widow of Wessex for his foray into indulgence? Other women would have been more easily seduced. His standing among his people would have made him a natural target for female attention anyway, but even as a younger man, he’d known that women found him pleasing. Yet he’d been drawn to a widow who’d learned to fear sex, someone who did not even possess the innate curiosity of a virgin since Gwendolyn thought she knew exactly what happened in the marriage bed.
He stoked and ruminated, turning logs in the fire pit until a blaze lifted half the height of the crumbling stone hut, the wavering flames dancing in a spring breeze as dusk fell. Behind him, he sensed Gwendolyn’s arrival by the soft drift of subtle fragrance—a soap she used, perhaps, or a floral herb she packed in her wardrobe.
“How is your knee?” He did not turn around to face her yet, requiring more time to steel himself for the powerful draw of her.
“Almost ready to dash for help.” She faced him across the fire, placing herself where he could hardly ignore her. “How far could it be to the next farm or village? Surely any Saxon will take pity on a woman on the run from a Dane.”
“You will not run away.” He needed to be clear on this point. “The dangers are too great. We are far from civilization here.”
“I tried to escape you before.” She folded her arms. “Why do you think I would be scared to try again?”
“Not scared.” He put down his stick near the pit and pointed out the seat he’d arranged for her by dragging a log out of the woods. “But you are too wise to flee food and shelter for the hardships of the wilderness. Thieves and beggars pose far more dangers to a lone noblewoman than a Dane who has treated you fairly.”
Settling herself on the log, she tucked her skirts about her legs as if to keep away the bugs or perhaps to stay warm. She eyed their dinner with obvious interest, her gaze alighting on the array of fresh fish roasting on a wet hickory plank he’d split.
“In your defense, you haven’t let me go hungry.”
Clearly, this counted for something in Gwendolyn’s accounting.
“It is my intention to take excellent care of you.” He would put her worthless husband to shame. No matter what soothing words he’d used to ease her mind about the man’s untimely passing, Wulf felt naught but cold anger for any warrior who would use his might to harm a