The Captive - By Joanne Rock Page 0,50

over her, needing to be inside her. He’d passed the point of tenderness about two kisses ago. “But that has to wait until I’ve had you multiple times in a night and I’m exhausted beyond thinking, and even then—”

He urged her legs apart and found her as ready as him. Thank the gods. He couldn’t remember what he’d been saying. His only thought was to have her now.

Her fingers clenched his shoulders as he entered her. He moved slowly, not wanting to rush her any more than he already had, but the blood roared in his veins with the hunger to take and conquer, to tame and possess. He cupped her breasts together and kissed them in turn, drawing on the tight buds that beckoned for his attention.

She wrapped her legs around his hips and locked her ankles together, anchoring herself to him. He released her breasts to grip her thighs, steadying her as he drove deeper. Hotter. Faster.

Release rushed through him like a rogue wave, tossing him around until he’d poured everything into her. Sweat slicked his back and washed over him like a Christian baptism.

Something had shifted between them tonight. Both in bed and out of it. He’d revealed things to her he’d never confided to anyone else. In turn, she’d shown him a level of physical trust that humbled him after what she’d experienced with her husband.

She’d been right all along. Gwendolyn of Wessex wasn’t the kind of woman he could take as a concubine. He wanted more than that from her, and he wanted the guarantee that came with a public declaration in front of witnesses. In no uncertain terms, he wanted sole rights to this woman forever.

He knew this as she shuddered against him with the aftershocks of her own release. He understood it all the more as he stroked her hair while she slept.

By dawn, he recognized the path to claiming her wouldn’t be easy, especially with a dark past hanging over his head and tainting his future. He wanted Gwendolyn. But in order to have her, he would have to vanquish the ghosts of the past.

12

GWENDOLYN CLUTCHED HAPPINESS to her chest like a secret.

She held it tight as she walked through the dirt paths of the Danes’ small encampment, guided by Wulf’s cousin Elsa, Erik’s sister. Gwen probably had no business feeling so glad when Wulf’s people were openly suspicious and resentful of her. Elsa had looked at her as though she would rather tear out her own hair than allow Gwendolyn to borrow a gown, as Wulf had requested.

Apparently, Wulf’s people viewed her presence here as inappropriate in any capacity other than a slave. Her ties to King Alfred were not appreciated since the Danes had battled long and hard to establish a presence in Alfred’s kingdom.

But with the memories of the tenderness Wulf had shown her the night before to comfort her, Gwendolyn could not be discouraged today. The effects of the pleasure were long lasting indeed, for she felt a new wellspring of joy within her whenever she remembered the delights they had shared.

“Thank you again for the garments,” Gwendolyn remarked, undeterred by Elsa’s dark glare over one shoulder. “They are very fine. I can trade you a ring for them when I recover my things from Wulf.”

Elsa stopped her hurried step to confront her head-on. Almost a head taller than Gwen, the Dane was broader of shoulder and appeared strong as a weaver. Her flaxen hair was harnessed by an unforgiving braid straight down her back.

“The rings that were once yours already belong to us.” She spoke clearly in Gwendolyn’s native tongue, though the words were heavily accented. “And you are as much our possession as the rings. That is the way of the Danes.”

Not even Gwendolyn’s relentless good mood could brush off those comments. She wished Wulf did not have to call a meeting of his most important advisers this day. He had assured her the matter was of some urgency, even intimating he might devise a plan for dealing with Harold, so Gwen had agreed to put herself in the women’s care for a few hours.

“You’ve taken my things? The way of the Danes is to steal things without asking?” She fumed to think of strangers touching her mother’s rings. And she could not even fathom the loss of her father’s journal. Had she risked so much to keep them safe, only to lose them now? She should have left them behind at Alchere’s keep.

“Woman.” Elsa drew