The Captive (2 page)

But right now, she needed to see what was really happening outside the keep to form her plan. As she climbed higher toward the ramparts, Gwendolyn’s pouch of rings swung against her leg. The scent of the sea wafted toward her along with smoke from the forgery
and the metallic
ting
of the blacksmith’s arts. The smells of weaponry and battle.

Creeping quietly to the small tower parapet where no guard sat watch, Gwendolyn suppressed a shiver. From the coming danger presented by the Danes? Or the potential for greater dangers outside these walls? Leaving Alchere’s protection could invite pursuit by her in-laws if they ever found out. They had been furious to lose their lucrative heiress when Gerald died, but Alchere insisted they were not entitled to keep her lands and wealth when their union had not produced an heir.

Nervousness churned her stomach. One thing was certain, however. The boats pulling up to the shore beneath the outer walls were unlike anything Gwendolyn had seen before.

Low and sleek, the arriving Norse ships were simple affairs packed with oars and men. Carved wooden figureheads peered proudly from the front of each ship, the fierce angle of the heads marking them as dragons or some other fantastical creature even from this distance. Between Gwendolyn and the oncoming ships—twenty, perhaps—the courtyard below hummed with activity. Warriors hauled weaponry to the walls from storerooms in the keep. Quivers full of arrows appeared from the protective nooks where they were normally kept to keep their feathers crisp. Cauldrons had been set over a bonfire, no doubt boiling some substance to be dumped upon anyone foolish enough to climb the fortifications.

Would it be enough to keep the marauders away?

Gwendolyn sensed the fear in the air. Alchere had boasted enough about his impregnable keep, but he had not fought the scourge of the north, the Norsemen who
burned abbeys after raiding the relics and ravaging the women.

The swift boats were landing even now, gliding silently onto the beach all around. Why weren’t Alchere’s men firing on them? Had she been correct to assume they would give these raiders anything they asked to keep them at bay? From up here, she could see no way out of the keep, let alone a clear path to travel if she could reach the stable and secure a horse. Crouching low on her way to the farthest corner nook, she avoided notice from Alchere’s men who congregated on the southern facade, closest to where the Danes gathered. She leaned out over the wall on a vacant section of the ramparts to see the invaders for herself.

The Norsemen were barbaric-looking. Large men, their stony visages reflected their warlike disposition. Their leather braies stretched over muscular thighs, while their light tunics snapped in the breeze against massive chests. This race that had conquered half of Britain was every bit as fearsome as she’d imagined.

Holding down her veils to keep them from flapping in the wind, she tried to staunch the panic rising up in her throat. She could not afford to be taken by these men. Not as a pawn in some misguided bartering by Alchere, and not as a battle prize by marauding brutes. These men would hurt her as Gerald had hurt her. Or worse.

Panic bloomed in her belly. She spied her overlord riding out to meet the assembled throng of warriors. Wasn’t that the action of a man prepared to negotiate peace instead of fight for it?

By God, she would not serve as a peace offering to some lustful Dane.

Backing away from the edge of the wall, heart
hammering her chest, she thought about where to hide. Bits of stone broke beneath her feet and skittered down the wall. Nowhere was safe. She needed to—

Her veil caught on the rocks in the wind, the fine silk snagging. Hands shaking, she reached to untwine it. She’d been foolish to wear it. She should have tied it about her waist, but it had not occurred to her she might really need to leave—

“Ow!” She winced as she yanked her hair in her haste and still did not free the veil. Stepping closer to the edge of the wall, she lifted the fabric straight up to dislodge the snag. Just as the material came loose, a few rocks gave way beneath her feet.

Her foot slipped. She gasped, her arms wheeling round, but finding naught but air to steady herself. In one gut-wrenching moment of clarity, she knew she would fall and break her neck on the rocks below.

But at the last moment, strong arms belted about her waist, snatching her back from the edge as she pitched forward.

Impossible. A miracle! Her brain could not comprehend what happened as limbs thick as tree trunks wrapped about her and hauled backward on her rump, dragging her to safety on the parapet wall.

Relief burst through her like giddy laughter. She’d been saved from certain death.

Turning toward her savior, her veil ripped and hanging limply to one side, she discovered a sight that led her to wish she’d flung herself to the beach below. Because the man who had saved her was no proud Saxon warrior, but the most terrifying enemy she could imagine.

She’d been rescued by a Viking.

A
SCREAM ROSE TO HER LIPS.

Somehow, with the same lightning-fast reflexes that had saved her from falling off the wall, the invader guessed her intent and clapped a mighty hand over her mouth to stifle it.

“Quiet.” Speaking a halting Saxon tongue, he growled the word low into her ear as he tugged her back against his chest and drew her to her feet in front of him. “You do not want your men to fire upon you in their haste to kill me, do you?”

Her heart pounded so hard she felt dizzy and lightheaded with it. She would have fallen to her knees if not for one thick arm pressed to her waist and the other pinning her shoulders. Her impressions of him were disjointed, it had all happened so fast. He was big even for a barbarian. Broad in the chest, thick in the arms. But his hair was dark like a Saxon’s. It was his size and blue eyes that marked him for a Dane. That and his absurd manner of dress—the cross-gartered braies and the cut of the heavy fur cloak that swung carelessly down his back.

He moved with her now, this nameless wall of
muscle, pushing her toward the most remote stretch of the parapets.

Unbidden, her hands reached to pull his fingers off her mouth. She dragged her feet and scratched him, desperate to be free. He would take her captive. Abuse her. Pass her along to his men. Her belly clenched and she thought she would be sick.

“Be still,” he commanded softly, swinging one leg over the castle wall as if he would kill them both by jumping to the beach. However, he paid no heed to her efforts to free herself. She would have never guessed he even noticed them if not for the quiet order in her ear.

Now, he lifted her in his arms to cradle her like a child while he clambered down a crumbled staircase that led to an outer bailey. She’d forgotten this passage off the wall even existed, but then it had been in disrepair ever since she’d arrived here as a girl. The Dane must be mad to tread his heavy foot upon such faulty stonework.

Praying fervently someone would notice them before he escaped the keep all together, Gwendolyn rubbed the back of her head along his arm while he climbed, hoping she could free some of her veil to float in the breeze like a silken flag. Perhaps the jewels and the color would catch someone’s attention as they descended onto the ground floor of the castle.

When that did not work, she twisted her head hard to one side. Escaping his confining hand, she screamed. Far better to risk one of Alchere’s archers shooting her in the leg than to submit peacefully to a heathen who would brutalize her.

“Son of a swine!” she shouted, her mind blank of better insults in the face of her fear. “Rot in Hades, you sheep-loving maggot!”

Too soon, he replaced his hand over her mouth and bent low to speak in her ear.

“There is no one.” The heavy accent of his homeland made his words difficult to distinguish even though he spoke a Saxon language for her sake. “The lord of the keep is too busy flexing his might on the southern side to spare a man for the north. He is a strong fighter and a stupid tactician.”

Was it true?

Sweet, merciful heaven, it must be. How else would this iron-fisted demon be able to breach the fortifications? Why did no one come when she’d called? The heathen moved quiet as a cat, even with her in his arms. Panic bubbled higher.

This time, she bit his hand to free her mouth.

“Danes within the walls!” she shrieked, her sole outburst before he wrenched her tighter, his fingers digging into her cheek as he clamped her lips once again. She tasted his blood on her tongue, and this time she could not move.

As he neared a small gate intended for wood carts and other supplies, Gwendolyn realized the watchtower was empty and other Danes were slipping in and out the entrance, shouldering expensive pieces of the chapel altar and heavy chests that spilled coins on the courtyard stones.

The heathen and his men robbed Alchere blind while her overlord thought he conducted negotiations with them.

And just like her worst fear, she would be part of the war spoils. A captive to the most fearsome man she’d ever seen.

W
ULF
G
EIRSSON HAD HARDLY
thought anything could tempt him on the raid of a Wessex stronghold held by
one of King Alfred’s strongest knights. He didn’t need more riches, after all. As the most successful Viking raider to sail on the coast of Britain, he had more wealth than he’d ever dreamed. He hadn’t even organized the attack on this keep today, but when his small band of men had spied the troop of Danes congregating on a nearby shore to plot the battle the night before, he hadn’t been able to resist the opportunity to thieve the raid from under their noses. He’d planned to simply flaunt his skill before his enemies and make off with the biggest prizes simply because he
could,
not because the riches tempted him.

But, enjoying the feel of the woman in his arms, he realized he could not have been more wrong. He’d been tempted when he’d least expected it.

The sweetly scented captive fighting tooth and nail against his hold was an unexpected boon. When he’d spied the audacious Saxon beauty climbing up to look out over the castle walls in the hour before battle, he’d been struck first by her dark, exotic look. Brown locks flowed in a glossy stream down her back, dark eyes lit with glints of gold as she narrowed them in the sunlight. Assessing the enemy?

He did not know what she’d sought on the ramparts when all the other women were surely locked safely in the castle’s innermost sanctum. This maid alone had not hidden in the face of a Norse raid, and that snagged his attention more thoroughly than any surface beauty. When was the last time he’d found a female so brazen? Maids who cowered throughout a raid held no appeal. He did not brutalize women.

But fire and spirit in a female? This intrigued him. He’d made up his mind he wanted her—that he would take her—even before she’d nearly fallen off the parapet.
The fact that he had surely saved her pretty neck only made him more certain he’d been destined to have her.

Now, he sprinted away from the keep with the woman in his arms, ready to meet his men and depart before Alchere learned they’d been there. Before the other Danes who led the invading party discovered his men had taken their spoils while they wasted time with talk down on the beach.

“Only a little farther,” he assured the woman, feeling her shaking against him. Of course, she would be frightened now, no matter how bold she’d appeared earlier. “Our boats are hidden nearby, just through these trees.”

He could have set her on her feet, but he suspected she would not move quickly enough for his liking. He did, however, remove his hand from her mouth so that he could balance her weight more evenly in his arms.

“A curse upon you!” she screamed immediately, nearly deafening him as he reached the longship already packed with three quarters of his men. “You rank and craven boar! Reeking devil’s spawn!”

“By Thor’s beard, Wulf, can you not gag her?”

Wulf’s cousin, Erik, waited in the bow of the boat, his gaze darting in the direction of the other invaders on the shore close to Alchere’s keep.

“A lone, shrieking woman will hardly draw notice during a Norse raid.” In his experience, there were generally a handful of females in every town who screeched from the moment the longships were spotted until the last boat had taken its leave.

Wading through the shallows to the ship, Wulf debated handing her over to Erik while he boarded. There was no choice, really. If not for Wulf’s iron grip on her,
the writhing maid would have flung herself into the sea or cracked her skull on the side of the ship in the attempt, so settling her on the deck without someone restraining her was not an option. Still, the thought of Erik’s hands on the captive sent a surge of possessiveness through him.

Resettling her in his arms, he was able to keep her cradled while replacing a hand over her mouth. Her screeching halted at the same time he paused at the side of the ship.

She looked less like a haughty noblewoman and more like a trapped animal. Trembling all over, her eyes wide with fright, she felt cold to the touch even though sweat beaded along her brow.

Strands of dark hair and golden ribbons trailed over her cheek, everything askew from her struggle. Pink color flamed along her creamy cheeks and neck. She weighed nothing at all, her skirts and cloak accounting for most of the bulk in his arms. But her strong will was evident in the way her elbow still rammed his chest and her hips twisted for freedom despite his superior strength. Many women fainted at the sight of a marauding army.

Not this one.

He could already imagine the feel of her surrender beneath him. And it would not be the momentary satisfaction he normally took from lying with a woman. A bold wench who climbed castle walls to look out on the battlefield would present a challenge that appealed to the tactician in him. He would enjoy this.

“We will not be at sea for long,” he confided, his words soft for her ears alone. Erik would think he’d lost his wits to comfort a captive. Indeed, he could not say for certain why he bothered. But something about the
woman had enthralled him from the first. “This ship is built for speed and can take us where we are going quickly.”

“Hand her over, Wulf,” Erik bit out through gritted teeth. “We should make haste before Harold finds out his spoils have been stolen out from under his men.”

Cursing the need to let anyone save him touch her, Wulf deposited the woman in Erik’s arms while he lifted himself out of the surf and into the ship. Seawater clung to his braies, the cooling effect welcome after the way the nameless Saxon lass had set fire to him.

She screamed more insults about their mothers, their gods and their resemblance to various animals in the moments when no one had her mouth covered, but Wulf’s men were too well trained to comment on his unwillingness to gag her. The Danes who sailed with him were an elite force of men who’d worked together ever since he’d been old enough to command his own ship. These were the men who’d remained loyal to him when he’d been driven from his homeland by Harold Haaraldson.

Harold held Wulf responsible for 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 to contend with but him. “There is an abandoned church ruin in a cove around a small bend ahead. Drop me there with the woman while you take the men farther up the coast for a few days’ rest. ’Tis all I need to slake a sudden thirst, and when I finish, I will reward the men’s idle time with a voyage farther west.”