The Captive - By Joanne Rock Page 0,58

his back as he plunged into her, but her feminine core pulsed and squeezed all around him as she came. The rush of knowing he’d pleasured her was a primal satisfaction that made him want to pound his chest and roar with possessiveness.

She was his.

The feeling was as fierce as anything he’d ever experienced. His release shuddered through him violently, his hips pumping on and on as he filled her with his seed. She clung to him, legs locked around him, the aftershocks of her own orgasm still making her tremble. Or maybe she came again. All he knew was that it was the most perfect union he could imagine—here in the woods against the hawthorn tree with the woman he would make his forever.

The churn of emotions after years of shutting them off rocked him to the core as much as any release. After Hedra’s betrayal—marrying his brother when she loved him—he’d sworn never to love another. He’d stayed true to that vow when he spurned her attempt to become his wife after Olaf died. But now, here was the fickle widow of Wessex with her hunger for adventure and her passionate heart, tempting him to lose years of hard won control.

His skin cooled fast in the night air, the sweat drying on his back as he lowered Gwendolyn to the ground and adjusted her skirts. Gathering their clothes, he lifted her in his arms, still reeling from emotions he had no wish to feel.

“Come.” The old control felt like a rusty thing, his voice unsteady as he used it. “We must rest. The sleep before battle is never long enough.”

His words were not unkind. However, Gwendolyn must have heard the retreat in them, for the raw joy that had been there earlier quickly faded. Biting her lip, she merely nodded.

Nothing would bring back the closeness of this night. If they were to have an effective marriage—a practical marriage that would provide comfort and alliance—it would be better if the heedless, raw passion was clamped down into something more manageable. Fondness, perhaps.

But not love. It was the only challenge this Dane refused to undertake.

WAS THERE NO ONE WHO could challenge this champion of the Danes?

Gwendolyn peered around the crowded courtyard of her father’s old keep late the next evening in the aftermath of the battle, wondering how Wulf could send an army fleeing in the course of a few hours.

Of course, King Alfred’s men had vacated the lands to fight off a Norse invasion elsewhere in Wessex. And Alchere had few soldiers here, not suspecting a battle here at a lesser stronghold than the one he held farther up the coast. So Wulf had triumphed over a small force. Still—he’d wrested away the coastal fortress with precious little bloodshed, the sight of his axe and his broadsword sending hardened warriors scurrying to the four winds.

Now, as Wulf oversaw the banishment of Alchere’s men and messages dispatched to Alfred and neighboring lords, Gwendolyn wondered how she felt about his easy victory. Proud? Yes. She could not deny rooting for Wulf despite her anger with him the day before. It was not his fault he was raised to make war and raid any more than it was his fault that Hedra had stolen his heart long ago and neglected to give it back when she’d died.

It was wrong to feel resentment of the dead, but Gwendolyn could not deny that she knew a perverse jealousy of the feelings Wulf once had for someone else. Her death had turned him into the hardened and practical warrior he was today—a man who did not spare time for tender emotions.

She’d read her father’s journal for comfort on her way to the Wessex keep a few hours after the battle, reminding herself how her parents favored understanding other societies’ customs and never assuming one tradition or religion was better than another.

And seeing how Wulf’s men strove hard to do his bidding, she suspected he would be a strong and fair leader. But she worried what the victory meant for her. For them, if he truly planned to wed her.

“He is clean for a Norseman, I suppose.” Lady Margery stood beside Gwen, sniffing the air as if testing the truth of her statement. “No doubt you could have done worse than that one.”

Gwendolyn’s nemesis had taken up residence at her father’s old keep after the raid on Alchere’s stronghold. Apparently, all the widows had been transferred here while repairs were made on Alchere’s walls.

Gwendolyn kept silent,