The Captive - By Joanne Rock Page 0,61
together despite the obvious obstacles—his lack of love for her, his impending battle with Harold, a possible claim from Godric for her hand.
Yet how could she ever knowingly place herself in a situation like what she’d experienced with Gerald, where a man came to her bed solely to father children? That the coupling did not hurt her body did not take away the fact that it would steal a piece of her soul every time he left without saying the words she longed to hear.
“I want to choose my next husband.” One who wouldn’t hurt her body or her soul. She did not meet his gaze. Instead, she plucked a dandelion where it grew on the bench beside her. “My last lord suggested I could do as much, but then you arrived and took me away before I was granted that privilege.”
Wulf observed the dirt-streaked face of the noblewoman before him, wondering if this was the same female who’d gazed out over the battlements like a queen when he’d landed on her shore less than a fortnight ago. She puttered in the flowers like a gardener, never claiming her rightful place in the great hall, remaining out of sight as much as possible.
Did she hope he would forget her if she eluded his notice? Or had their explosive night together shaken her as much as it had him? Perhaps she sought distance to resurrect control in the same way he had.
That did not mean she could choose her husband. Thor’s hammer. Did she seek to make every development in their relationship as difficult as possible?
“You wed no one but me.” He planned to make that abundantly clear. About this, there would be no misunderstanding. “I have given you more freedom than any captive ever to sail away in a longship. I delayed saying our vows to show you that I choose you freely—with no regard to your political value or wealth.”
He waited for her to appreciate the magnitude of this. To recognize how much he touted her worth to him by taking her for no other virtue than that he wanted her.
Yet she scowled at him with thinly disguised fury, her dark brows arcing down like a farmer’s plough, her eyes flashing with simmering emotion.
“A woman is not a battle prize.” She rose from the bench, scattering the dandelions she had absently yanked from the turf. “I am not an object to which you can assign high value or little. And I am not an ornament for your bed to toy with when you please. No matter that I find pleasure with you or not, my heart wishes to offer more than my womb to my future husband. If all I give you is release in the marriage bed, then I would not be any more useful in this marriage than I was in my last.”
Wulf attempted to follow her thinking, but he was distracted by her abrupt, stomping departure. He had injured her when he meant to honor her.
“Gwendolyn.” He held out a hand to her, hoping to understand how to fix it, but she spurned his touch and ran.
The same way she’d run from him the first day he captured her and she’d injured her knee. The same way she’d sought escape by diving off the bow of his ship. And stolen his horse.
Why did he attempt to hold a woman so intent on being free of him? The thought angered him too much for him to chase her just now. He had too many other problems that needed his attention with Harold’s army spotted just up the coast.
Besides, it was dangerous to confront a woman when angry. He’d learned to control himself better than that time long ago—when Hedra had chosen to wed Olaf instead of him, the man she claimed to love.
He had been angry, said hurtful things, and probably ensured she did not rethink her choice of the cooler-headed older Geirsson brother. Now, Wulf knew better than to give vent to his hurts. He tried not to have them, of course, but it seemed the fiery Saxon woman was full of surprises.
Although one thing was abundantly clear. She would never wed another. He had that power over her, unlike with Hedra. Just the thought of her with any other man…
His fists clenched at his side. Red-hot fury crawled over his head and burned bright. Muscles tensed and tightened. Spinning on his heel, he punched the nearest object in reach—a tall, weed-choked rose trellis. The rotted