The Captive - By Joanne Rock Page 0,69

aimed at the enemy’s head.

In no time, she felt the silent slide of the rider’s body next to her as he slumped off the animal to the ground. Huge, blessedly familiar hands lifted her from the haunches, cradling her tenderly. She wanted to smile, knowing who held her, but the twine on her gag bit into the corners of her mouth.

“I’ve got you.” The gentleness in his voice—so different than his threat to tear out tongues—was further proof of caring from a warrior who had little to say but would go to any lengths to back up what words he did choose.

He walked a short distance as, around them, the sounds of battle grew more muted. Could Wulf have routed Harold even as he saved her from Godric?

“Gwendolyn?” He tugged at the blanket, but could not unwind the tight material enough to free her without setting her down.

“Clear the bench,” he ordered, and she heard metal clank as bodies hurried to do his bidding. More quietly, he spoke just above her ear. “I will never rest until the men who hurt you pay.”

They were not gentle words, but she understood now that this promise—like the blood oath he’d once made her—was his way of showing her he cared. She had not lost her heart to a man like her father who’d devoted his life to books and words. She’d fallen for a warrior.

Tenderly, he laid her down on the turf bench and she knew by the soft grass under her back that they were in her mother’s garden. The battle must have spread all over the holding.

Finally, the smothering blanket eased. Sunlight warmed her face and made her blink. She heard Wulf cursing before she distinguished his face in the slanted light of the setting sun.

“For the love of Freya, Erik,” he shouted. “Use a smaller knife to cut those bonds. That is my woman’s flesh beneath the rope, not a hare in a trap.”

Wulf’s hands went to the gag around her mouth while others sawed away at the ties on her hands and feet. She attempted to remain very, very still, her eyes never leaving Wulf’s face.

Thank God he was unhurt, though by the rood, he’d been spattered in enough blood to make him appear every inch the terrifying savage.

“Are you hurt?” Wulf spoke softly to her, his big body crowding her on the bench. He eased away the gag and called for water.

She settled for shaking her head as she discovered her mouth would not work. Her toes and hands tingled painfully to life as they experienced the flow of blood again.

All her bonds were free. Her hands shook as she reached for the cup of water that someone brought. Wulf helped Gwendolyn to sit and steadied the vessel for her even as he supported her shoulders. The cool water revived her before she recalled the well might have been tainted.

“Have we won?” she asked, disoriented that so many of Wulf’s men stood about her when there were still sounds of battle in the distance.

“Spoken like a Dane.” Wulf smoothed her hair from her face.

Wincing, she felt the sting of the raw patch on her scalp where one of the brutes had wrenched out her hair.

Wulf frowned as he examined the injury more closely. Erik approached with a wet cloth that Wulf took from his hands to smooth over Gwendolyn’s face.

“The battle is mostly won,” Wulf confided, his blue eyes halting on each scratch he discovered. “Godric’s men met Alchere’s and formed an alliance to attack the same day as Harold. But since the Saxons cannot tell a Norseman from a Dane, let alone one Dane from another, they ended up inflicting more harm on Harold’s men that mine.”

“Serves them all right,” she muttered darkly.

“After we send them on their way, none of them will ever return,” Wulf vowed, his hand stalling just above the corner of her mouth where she knew a fresh cut bled.

Why was it the smallest scrapes hurt most of all?

“After you send them on their way, I have much to tell you,” she confided, taking the cloth from his hands to tend the small wound herself. “I love—”

“My lord!” a man’s voice boomed through the small rear courtyard, cutting off the most significant declaration of her life.

Wulf shot to his feet, shoulders tense.

Scant feet away, a Saxon knight held a chained Dane that Gwendolyn had never seen before. The man’s shoulders spanned nearly as great a width as Wulf’s and his bloodied and