The Captive - By Joanne Rock Page 0,7

his sister’s death. Truth be told, Wulf blamed himself, so he’d never protested the exile. But after a year of seafaring and raiding, never pausing in one place more than a week or two, Wulf knew he would have to face Harold’s wrath one day. Perhaps that had been part of the reason he’d tweaked the Danish king’s pride today by stealing away the wealth from his raid. Now a confrontation was inevitable.

“Give her to me,” Wulf commanded, unwilling to tie the lady to the ship and hoping he could subdue her instead. He would not allow her to jump overboard while they were out to sea. One woman’s death on his hands was enough.

“Get off me, you toad-licking lout!” the Saxon shouted, lunging toward the water as Erik passed her to him.

Both men were forced to reposition their footing, rocking the boat.

“She is trouble,” Erik warned. “And since when do we take captives?” He’d raised his voice over the woman’s shouts for help and curses upon the Danes.

A few of the men at the oars chuckled appreciatively as her oaths turned more colorful, involving swines’ asses and sheep dung. Though how one could sensibly follow the other, he was not certain.

“I will have this one.” He made the rules before the raid. Typically, they did not take prisoners without planning well for them in advance. They traveled leaner than most Vikings, so they could not provide for captives often. “Drop the oars in.”

By now all the men had returned. No head count was needed since every man had a seat at the oars save him. He took a turn to relieve Erik on longer journeys, but not this one. Not when he was eager to reach land with the woman. Her breasts rose and fell rapidly from her efforts, drawing his eye to linger on her shapely form.

With nary a splash, the ship slid from the shore and the woman made a keening cry.

“Curses will rain down upon you for this, heathens,” she warned all the men in the boat.

They paid her no heed, steering the craft away from the Wessex keep, out of the reach of Harold Haaraldson. His enemy would be furious when he realized he’d been thwarted in this raid.

Richard of Alchere, the captive’s overlord, would also be greedy for revenge. Would he know to seek Wulf? Or would he think his riches rested with Haaraldson? Nay, Alchere was not the smartest tactician, but the dead watchmen on the keep’s northern gate would tell the story of Wulf’s stealthy scheme. Wulf did not have much time before they would seek him.

Alchere would no doubt seek her, as well.

She was a prize fit for a lord, but he could not imagine she was Alchere’s wife. Wulf found the idea repugnant. She belonged to no one but him from this day forward.

He peered down at her now quieting in his arms though the fury had not left her eyes. Perhaps she had decided to save her strength for a future fight. She must know it would do her no good to gain her freedom only to find herself in the middle of an ocean.

She did not turn green from the motion of the hull slicing through the waves, the way he’d seen some men do. The Saxon mistress had at least some small affinity for the sea. A fortunate thing for a woman who would belong to a seafaring man.

“You have a plan for her now?” Erik asked from his spot at the oars.

The longship held places for twelve oarsmen on each side. This close to the coast, they did not raise the lone sail, preferring to maneuver quickly up the small rivers and estuaries off the sea.

“We’ll separate since Harold will be searching for me. You continue with the rest of the men west. We will lay low for a few days until Haaraldson’s temper passes.” A strand of the maid’s silken hair blew against his neck, a sweetly seductive caress.

“Assuming it ever passes. And what of Alchere? He will surely search for the woman.” This time Erik turned and he missed the downbeat of the rowing altogether. “You bring the wrath of too many at once—”

“Nay. We are faster because we are fewer. If other Danes see you, they will not see her because she will be with me.” The best part of the plan was that he would have her alone. Perhaps she would not fight so hard when she saw there was no one