The Captive - By Joanne Rock Page 0,40
out! Your men have—”
“They are not my men.”
She could not make sense of what was happening. The hiss and whistle of fresh arrows sailing through the sky sent her stomach plummeting to her feet. The deadly downpour pummeled the ground nearby.
Above her head, a shot landed so forcefully that Wulf’s arms bent from the blow. Gwen gave silent thanks for chainmail. And then, eerily, there was a scant moment of quiet.
“Come on.” Wulf had her hand in his, dragging her back into the cover of the trees where their attackers already hid.
“Godric’s men are in there,” she warned, her legs burning with the strain to keep up and the desire to escape the next lethal shower.
Even the sack on Wulf’s back had been pierced by the wooden shaft of an arrow. The feathers on the end fluttered as he ran.
“They are long gone,” Wulf assured her, his grip so tight on her arm she feared he would drag her behind him if she could not keep up. “We have more to fear from Harold’s men.”
Her knee screamed in protest where she had recently twisted it, but she kept running.
“Harold?” She knew he meant the Danes. The enemy from his native lands, it seemed.
“Hedra’s brother.” Wulf peered back and, perhaps seeing her fall behind, paused to scoop her into his arms before continuing. “He seeks vengeance for his sister’s death.”
The death Wulf felt responsible for. A shiver turned her insides to ice, but she squelched the feeling to focus on survival.
“I can run,” she protested, peering over his shoulder, but seeing no one in pursuit.
Later, she would ask him about what happened with his brother’s widow. Right now, she just wanted to be somewhere safe—for both of them to live long enough for him to give her those answers.
“Not as fast as I can.” He veered sharply back in the direction of the sea, his hands cradling her close against a chest full of rippling muscle, reminding her of his strength.
“What are you doing?” She wanted to hide, not confront these arrow-flinging Danes all over again.
“My men will have tracked Harold’s movements. They will know to come for me.”
“They weren’t exactly helpful back there.” Ducking a tree branch, she could not think about those moments when Wulf had been risking his life for her without shivering. “Perhaps they resent your abrupt departure with me.”
“They would risk any danger for me.” He veered sharply to one side, plunging them into the thickest of undergrowth. “They would have taken cover in a cove or inlet if they saw Harold’s men.”
She noticed he’d slowed his pace though he paused now and again to be sure they were not followed. Perhaps he thought the enemy Danes would not bother to chase them overland.
“It must be nice to think your friends are so loyal.” Her own household was too full of widows vying for every wealthy nobleman in sight. The women were only too happy to cut one another down if it meant stealing more male attention for themselves.
“Treasure-givers attract many followers.” He turned sideways down a sharp grade where the sand fell away from his feet with every step.
Tightening her hold on his neck, she realized how natural it had become to rely upon him. Trust him. Did she make a grave mistake to give herself so easily into his care? But then, what choice did she have at the moment?
“Are you suggesting you have bought all that loyalty?” Her skirts caught on a thorny bush and he tugged them free.
The sensation of his hands skimming over her ankles tempted her as much as the strong arm braced under her thighs.
“Not all, but most.” His blue eyes bored into hers. “I can be very generous.”
Her breath vanished at the thought of his particular generosity toward her. She felt heat flood her cheeks and knew they flamed bright.
He chuckled at her expense, clearly enjoying her embarrassment. She wrenched her gaze away from his to peer out along a cliff’s edge overlooking an inlet, unwilling to amuse him further.
“You are a peculiar man to entertain such teasing when a whole tribe of war-hungry Danes seek vengeance on you.” His steps lengthened as he moved downward to the water.
Around them, the ground grew slick with moss and muck. The scents of spring turned damp and earthy, peppered with the smell of rotting logs and decaying leaves.
“All the more reason to laugh and make merry if your days are numbered.” He pointed downstream as they moved closer to the