The Captive - By Joanne Rock Page 0,64

I ask safe passage away from Wessex to King Alfred. He holds the majority of my wealth and will see me wed to my satisfaction, a task better overseen by him than by the man who held me captive.”

The collective gasp from the table suggested she’d gone too far. But the cold fury in Wulf’s eyes told her in no uncertain terms that she had crossed a line.

It did not surprise her to discover that in wounding him, she felt an echo of the hurt herself. But if he would play so cavalierly with her heart, it was best the battle lines were drawn now. He needed to know where she stood.

She certainly recognized his position when she spied him with the Saxon widow this night.

“You dare too much,” he accused, his voice a lethal whisper the entire hall heard.

She did not have time to consider how to argue the point, however, as the guard from the watchtower bellowed from above.

“War ships approach, my lord!”

15

FEMALE SHRIEKS ECHOED up into the high rafters of the great hall. Trestle benches scraped back in unison as the men rose to take up positions on the walls.

Gwendolyn froze. A cold chill spread over her body that had nothing to do with her damp hair.

“You come with me.” Wulf’s voice vibrated in her ear a split second before his big arm wrapped about her waist and he lifted her against him like a sack of grain.

“I will walk,” she protested, trying to wriggle free. “Go lead your men or sharpen your axe or—”

“I will see to your safety first.” His grip stayed iron-clad, never relaxing when he climbed steps or pushed through heavy doors.

“I will be safer if you are out there, turning aside an attack.” She knew this to be true, yet she worried to think of the consequences. She remembered well that last night at the Dane’s village when the women had gifted the men with passionate encounters in case the next day’s battle marked their last. Walking away from a fight unscathed was never a given. “I will look to my own safety.”

“The last time warships appeared on your shores, you stood on the parapets like a battle prize waiting to be claimed.” He changed her position in his arms as they reached a narrow passage leading to the innermost section of the keep. Scooping up her legs, he cradled her against his chest, though he never slowed his pounding stride. “You will not have that opportunity this time since I will deliver you into a guard’s hands personally.”

His obvious anger with her—over what transpired in the hall or because she’d been too much trouble for him from the day they’d met, she wasn’t sure—did not scare off the fears that lodged in her throat as they neared the keep’s stronghold.

Women and children ran beside them to take shelter from the oncoming ships. Somewhere below in the courtyard, grindstones scraped and hissed as they sharpened weapons. Men’s boots thundered on the ground, ominous warning of the trouble to come.

“I’m sorry I asked to go to the king,” Gwendolyn whispered, her voice diminished because of the breathless panic that swamped her for Wulf’s sake. He was a brilliant warrior—she knew this. Yet managing a keep came new to him. He usually fought from the water, raiding and leaving with deadly swiftness. How would he fare on the other side of such an attack?

“You show a warrior’s skill at finding a man’s vulnerable parts and slicing deeply.” He tossed off the comment in anger, his hard footsteps jostling her as he maneuvered through the crush of people to deliver her to the safety of the innermost sanctum—the secure central tower keep at the heart of the structure.

Did he really mean those words? Did he believe she held any power to hurt him?

Regret nipped hard.

“I was wounded to see Margery held close to your chest like your newest conquest.” She lowered her voice as they entered the high stone chamber, windowless save the light-giving open roof many feet overhead. Wooden rafters there provided small protection against the rain.

“The cloying widow? I could not hear her voice, which is thin as a child’s. I had to rope her closer just to decipher that she found the mead too strong.” Wulf set Gwendolyn on her feet in front of one of his guards—a thickset man he introduced as Osbert. “You will remain here until I retrieve you personally. Do you understand?”

She still reeled from the news that