The Captive - By Joanne Rock Page 0,70
mud-spattered garments were heavy with patches of fur and metalwork. Over his chain mail hung a silver brooch outlined in vivid blue stones that must have come from a far-off land. His helm listed to one side as he limped, but the horns on either side of the headpiece had to have come from the biggest boar any man had ever killed.
“Harold.” Wulf’s pronouncement confirmed Gwendolyn’s only guess.
“One of your men captured him in battle, but asked me to bring him to you.” The Saxon knight did not sheathe the sword he’d used to prod along the Dane, and he appeared grateful to hand off his sizable prisoner to Erik.
Gwendolyn held her breath, not knowing what to expect. Would the two warriors battle to the death here? Now? Had she dodged captivity with Godric only to see Wulf cut down or forced to kill a grieving man? Both options were impossible. Both outcomes too horrible to contemplate.
Not sure what else to do, she reached for the only part of Wulf close enough to touch—his hand—and squeezed.
WULF HAD NEVER FELT the silent, empathetic touch of a woman so close to a battle.
That wordless brush of her fingers said more to him than any conversation could have, and he appreciated the humanizing connection at a moment when he wanted every enemy to fall to his knees. Arriving at the inner tower to find his men struck down and her gone, all he had thought of was the wise woman’s warning that he would pay a grave price to defeat Harold. Seeing Gwendolyn wrapped up like a dead body had hacked more years off his life than any encounter with a skilled opponent. Fury flamed hot at all those who played any role in bringing her to harm. Harold had conspired with the Saxons to attack him from all sides, hadn’t he? By rights this king should be groveling for his life.
Yet Gwendolyn’s steady touch—those soft but strong hands that opened him up to a world of feelings beyond any he’d imagined—helped Wulf to see the aging ruler behind the fierce helm. To see the man who’d lost someone he loved.
“Are you ready to pay homage to me and put this feud behind us?” Wulf asked, his hand coming to rest on his sword.
“You have turned into a war machine,” Harold declared, rattling his chained hands as if to remind Wulf he had not been freed to fight. “You rebuffed the combined efforts of three enemies between the course of one sunrise and one sunset.”
“That is not an answer, old man,” Wulf taunted, refusing to lose focus. He did not think for a moment that Harold respected his war-mongering skills or the stubborn Dane would not have launched a campaign at so great a cost.
“I would gladly give my life to avenge Hedra. But if I win, I take your Saxon prize for a keepsake.” The warrior cast lustful eyes on Gwendolyn and it was all Wulf could do not to end it then and there—even with his enemy’s hands chained.
“Do you bait me in the hope I end your life quickly?” He would not allow Gwendolyn to further be harmed.
“Do I bait you?” Harold lifted a shaggy blond eyebrow that had long ago been bisected by an enemy’s blade. “I thought I merely bartered terms.”
Wulf said nothing, unwilling to discuss Gwendolyn with his enemy. Perhaps if he kept Harold talking, the battle would be won decisively and there would be naught to do but send him back to Daneland on one of his ships.
All Wulf wanted was to carry Gwendolyn to his bed and tend her wounds. Care for her until she understood there would never be anyone else for him but her.
“I have never known the hard-hearted Wulf Geirsson to admit such weakness for a female,” Harold pressed, watching Wulf like a hawk as though it was he who stood in chains and Harold who had all the power here.
All around them, Wulf’s men gave them room to fight if they chose, while Erik held Harold’s sword and the key to the man’s manacles.
“She is not your concern.” Wulf wanted the discussion over and Harold gone. He gave the sign to Erik to free his enemy so the battle could begin. “You may have your sword if you wish to claim vengeance, but you will not look upon my woman again.”
Despite a grievously wounded leg and a legion of men lost, Harold Haaraldson stretched his mouth in what could only be