The Captive - By Joanne Rock Page 0,37

and danger. Would Gwendolyn have risked all for him, if given time? The question was pointless and only served to torment him with what he’d never had. And now, thanks to Harold’s relentless demands, never could.

Then, without warning, Wulf sensed a change in the air. It was not necessarily a sound or even the scent of danger. It was more like a cold sensation along his skin, a change in pressure that preceded dark clouds.

Someone approached with stealth.

“Hide,” he told Gwendolyn, dropping his bags at her feet while he reached for his blade. “Do not come out unless I call for you.”

“Do you hear something?” She hesitated, following his gaze toward the northwest trees where they’d just been.

“Hurry,” he shouted, pointing out a place among the tree roots against a cliff’s edge. “There.”

Did Harold’s men come for him already? Had the spy already returned to the settlement in time to orchestrate a war party?

The sound of horses’ hooves built into a steady drum-roll. Trouble descended like a summer storm as riders appeared on the horizon bearing a standard Wulf did not recognize.

There were ten. Fifteen. More. They were Saxons, all of them. Their dark looks and smaller size marked them as such.

Too late, it occurred to him that if they cut him down now, Gwendolyn would be left unprotected. No warrior’s death was a noble one if he left his woman defenseless.

“By the saints. They come for me,” Gwendolyn called to him from her place among the tree roots. “The banner belongs to my dead husband’s kin.”

He listened without acknowledging her, not wanting to give away her presence. No one but him could have possibly heard her above the din of the hooves. He thought they might run him down until the Saxons reined in their beasts at the last moment, sending their mounts’ eyes rolling back as their mouths foamed and dripped.

Wulf did not move, though one of the horses’ pawing hooves tipped his raised blade, making the steel clang with vibrations that echoed up his arm.

One of the riders nudged his horse forward. “I am Godric of Fanleigh, brother to the departed Gerald of Fanleigh. Where is the Wessex widow, Norseman?”

Wulf assumed this man led the group. He’d been first to arrive on the hilltop and his helm bore the most elaborate decorations of any of the men.

“Leave it to a filthy Saxon to lose track of a woman.” Wulf lowered his blade, knowing he would not have a chance to use it against eighteen men.

If not for Gwendolyn, he would have taken as many with him as he could have before they stilled his sword arm for good. But he could not indulge his pride when he had vowed to protect her. He needed to think of her.

“Where is she?” The fat-faced Saxon repeated. Sweat rolled down his head so profusely, he swiped at it with his sleeve. “Alchere had no legal right to the widow once she married my brother. She was Gerald’s bride before that greedy bastard Alchere stole her, and now she will be mine.”

Wulf knew Gwendolyn had not made a sound from her nook nearby, yet he seemed to hear her protest in his thoughts. No man who treated his horse cruelly would treat a woman well.

She must be worth an even greater fortune than Wulf had first suspected for her dead husband’s kin to devote this kind of force to her return. No wonder she had felt controlled all her life.

The idea of this foul-smelling Saxon touching Gwendolyn gave Wulf the urge to run him through despite the overwhelming odds he faced. He would at least take this man to the grave with him.

“Alchere has protected the woman for many moons since your brother died. How can you claim a widow you do not safeguard?”

“A wife has no right to forsake her husband’s family upon his death. She belongs with us. And I will stake my claim the same way you took her.” The Saxon unsheathed his sword and brandished it. “By force.”

Wulf liked his odds of winning against this man who had come with more ambition than skill. But that left seventeen others. While they were mounted, Wulf fought on foot.

He plucked up his axe with his other hand. There was something about the axe that always made Saxons turn a bit green.

“Try it, and you will die painfully.” Wulf let the truth of the statement show in his eyes. He knew how to warn opponents of his prowess. He had