The Captive - By Joanne Rock Page 0,31
to transfer the hot coals indoors.
When he returned, Gwendolyn had laid firewood in the hearth and swept the ashes. In fact, the entire cottage had been straightened and neatened at some point that day. He had not noticed earlier, but she must have tended those things while he chopped wood in an effort to quell the need for her that had ridden him all day. Could she have been as desperate for distraction as he’d been?
“Do you think it is safe to let the fire burn?” She sat on the pallet, ensconced in blankets and his fur. She toyed with a small leather pouch he had not seen before. It must have been something she’d brought from her keep.
Something she’d concealed?
“There is no sense hiding from one who has already seen us.” He hoped it was a hungry outlaw searching for food. Or even Alfred’s army. Wulf would find a way around either. But if Harold had discovered him at last, there would be a reckoning.
He’d paid the wergild, man-price, for Hedra to her brother, even though Wulf had not taken her life. It had been a peace offering to Harold and his people since they held him responsible. But Wulf had always known the day would come when Harold’s honor demanded Wulf’s death. And Wulf, tired of endless seafaring and raiding, had hastened that day yesterday by stealing treasures right under his nose.
Meeting Gwendolyn made him regret rushing Harold’s justice. Wulf would not die at Harold’s hands in a fair fight. But if Harold attacked at night with his followers?
No warrior could overcome such odds.
“You think someone else follows us.”
He looked up sharply at her where she sat calmly, tying the straps of the satchel to a ribbon under the hem of her kirtle. The garment appeared to have been made specifically to hide things. Apparently, whatever was in her pouch was valuable to her.
“Why do you say this?” He stoked the fire enough to keep the cottage dry and insects at bay.
She made a neat knot, looping the tie of the pouch through the ribbon sewn above her hem. Then she flipped her skirts back into place, so that you’d never know she hid things there.
He crouched at the foot of the pallet, hands clasped between his thighs. Waiting.
“You do not seem concerned if outlaws discover us and you know Alchere’s pursuit is highly unlikely, yet I can see you are anxious about whatever—whoever—is out there.” Her fingers splayed over the fur the same way she’d touched him earlier.
Did he dare let his guard down enough to take her tonight? To return to the pleasures they’d only just begun to explore?
Curse the fates. If his window of time with her was shrinking, he would make the most of every second.
“A Dane is never anxious.” He reached to touch her ankle just below the hem of her skirt. Her stocking covered her skin, but there was something sweetly forbidden about touching her there. He ringed her ankle with his fingers like a manacle, then tugged her down the length of the pallet. Closer to him. “But if I give the matter additional thought, it is only because I have a woman in my care to consider. I take that guardianship seriously.”
Not allowing her time to think, he stalked her. He stretched out over her, liking the way she did not show the least bit of hesitation.
If anything, her eyes narrowed in sensual speculation, as if she tried to calculate what might happen next.
“You must take good care of me,” she demanded, her fingers lifting to the ties of his tunic and loosening them. “I agree completely.”
The desire for her that had been interrupted earlier came roaring back tenfold with no more than the soft brush of her fingertips against his chest.
No matter what the future held for them, countries and worlds apart, he planned to have this night with her—together—to remember forever.
GWENDOLYN COULDN’T UNDRESS him fast enough.
The scare they’d had had given her new perspective on her time with Wulf. It might not last long. If she didn’t act now, tonight, she might lose the chance to be touched with tenderness and passion. Why should she not enjoy every moment?
Her hands fumbled awkwardly at ties and clasps, her inexperience apparent. But when she freed him of his tunic, her reward was stark masculine beauty that she would have appreciated even without the glow of the low fire in the hearth.
She recalled an illustration her father had shown her once