GWENDOLYN CAME AWAKE SLOWLY.
She remembered sleeping fitfully through the night, a spring chill waking her frequently so that she’d been forced to burrow deep into the straw pallet and yank the wool blanket she’d been given more tightly about her. She’d been aware of Wulf beside her, but not close enough to touch. That had been fortunate, certainly, although occasionally she’d gazed upon him as he slept and thought about how much warmth his large, muscular frame must emit.
And wouldn’t she be so much more snug if she could slide a bit closer to that natural source of heat?
Right now, however, as the first purple hint of dawn slid into the high windows of the cottage, Gwen realized she was warm. At some point during the night she had apparently solved her problem of a persistent chill because at this moment, she felt cozy and toasty, her body cocooned at just the right temperature.
At first, she assumed Wulf had given her another blanket. But as the dreamy haze of sleep receded, she began to realize the warmth at her back was alive and breathing.
Wulf’s expansive chest fit tight to her spine.
The discovery was so startling, she had to stifle a squeal. She put her hand to her lips to keep in the sound while her brain cataloged the rest of this new situation.
If Wulf had not slept, she would have wrenched away immediately. But since they must have lain this way peacefully for some time, she could not resist the chance to inventory every facet of the warm arrangement that had kept her so comfortable despite the chill.
A thick, strong arm wrapped around her, his hand flat upon her belly. Hard, male thighs backed up to hers, her buttocks nestled into Wulf’s lap. What shocked her most was the sword-straight ridge of his manhood pressed tight to the curve of her bottom, the tip of which nudged the base of her spine.
She was familiar with male anatomy, obviously. But since her husband had never achieved this condition without exercising it immediately—at least not that she was aware—she found it intriguing that the Dane slept beside her so peacefully.
Realizing his mood could become dangerous upon waking, she planned to extricate herself from his arms soon. But she could not deny the sense of warm contentment she knew here. And surprisingly, she experienced the same stir of feminine interest that she had during his kiss. The urge to arch back against him went against all reason, yet it persisted.
Carefully, she shifted her hips, following her instincts while it remained safe to do so.
“Do. Not.” The Dane’s voice growled low in her ear.
Yelping in surprise, she scrambled away from the seductive heat to the other side of the pallet. She yanked a blanket with her, clutching the wool to her breasts. She peered back at him over her shoulder, then flipped around to keep an even closer eye on him.
“Good morn to you, Gwendolyn.” Her warrior captor remained still and seemingly in perfect control of himself. “I cannot ever recall waking so pleasantly.”
A predatory smile fired her blood, but he did no more than watch her. He looked like one of his pagan gods, his dark hair cascading to his shoulders, his massive arms strong enough to take on the world.
“It must not have been all that pleasant since you chased me away.” Her cheeks heated to consider he’d been awake while she’d experimented with him, learning the feel of his body.
“I know my own limits as a man.” He rose up on one elbow, the pendant of a hammer about his neck sliding along a leather thong as he straightened. “Given what you went through in your marriage, I thought you would appreciate knowing them, too.”
She eyed him curiously. She never would have guessed he neared his limit since he lay so still.
“I am grateful.” Unable to will herself out of bed, she cradled close the feelings of that morning. Wulf’s scent remained on the blanket. The memory of his body pressed to her back burned in her thoughts. She could recall the shape of each muscle and the outline of every inch.
And the memory was not unpleasant in the least.
“I will recover soon. Perhaps you can distract me until then.” His crystal-blue eyes seemed to catch all the light in the room, glinting brightly despite the dimness. “You can tell me how you became a widow.”
“I’m sure it wouldn’t surprise you to know that my first husband—Gerald—died in a raid by your people.” She had not seen the fighting, but his men had told her of the skirmish on the beach and the damage done by the Danes.
“Where?” Wulf appeared distracted now, the story capturing his interest as he sat up the rest of the way.
“Gerald’s keep is called Fanleigh on the eastern shores.” She had hated her life there, from the cold, incessant rains to the illiterate war-mongers who filled the great hall. “And although he did not treat me well, he gave honor to his name in death by defending one of the village women from being carried off by a party of marauders in search of Saxon slaves.”
She took some small comfort from the knowledge that his final deeds may have redeemed a soul dark with other stains.
“In a way, he died defending you, as well.” Wulf tossed another blanket over her legs. “By protecting that one woman, he ensured the safety of many others.”
“I never thought to look at it that way.” Had Gerald’s willingness to die for that woman’s safety discouraged the invaders from taking other women? The idea helped soothe old resentments she still carried about her marriage. It also demonstrated a kindness on Wulf’s part that she had not anticipated. “Thank you.”
She tugged the blanket up to her chin, her skin cooling quickly now that she’d pried herself away from his warmth.
“It is never too late for a man to redeem himself.” His eyes glimmered with new fierceness.
She wanted to ask why he said it with the passion of the damned, but he rose to his feet and stalked out of the ruins.
Apparently, that discussion had ended. And for the second time in as many days, Wulf Geirsson had treated her with noble restraint, releasing her even though he’d told her more than once he wanted her.
You please me.
If that was the case, he walked away from her so that she could make her own decision about whether she wanted him or not. Whether she wanted to find out if there could be more to the marriage act than the pain she’d known previously.
The kisses she’d shared with him assured her she had missed out on the most magical aspects of lovemaking. But how could she give herself to a perfect stranger, even if she was admittedly curious about the way Wulf made her feel?
She would not be the kind of woman that Gerald had kept on the fringes of his hall—a concubine. And what else could she call herself if she allowed this heated curiosity to capture her imagination?
Rising from her pallet, she folded her blanket and watched Wulf through the door, her gaze following his every move while he took his axe to a dead tree. Each swing vibrated with the power of his strength, his expression ferocious. Did he work off frustration over her? Or was this punishment to the tree related to those cryptic words before he’d left the cottage?
It is never too late for a man to redeem himself.
What kind of redemption did Wulf seek? From the way he swung the blade, Gwendolyn guessed that his time of reckoning must be approaching.
THE HEAT WAS ON.
Wulf stoked the fire outside the ruins that night, hoping the blaze would help ignite warmth in his captive. Thoughts of her had plagued him all day.
From the moment he’d woken with his arm full of womanly curves, he’d wanted her. Memories of the way she’d arched back into him, instinctively seeking the kind of fulfillment she didn’t seem to have ever experienced, rolled through his head like endless waves battering the shores of his restraint.
Why had he chosen this widow of Wessex for his foray into indulgence? Other women would have been more easily seduced. His standing among his people would have made him a natural target for female attention anyway, but even as a younger man, he’d known that women found him pleasing. Yet he’d been drawn to a widow who’d learned to fear sex, someone who did not even possess the innate curiosity of a virgin since Gwendolyn thought she knew exactly what happened in the marriage bed.
He stoked and ruminated, turning logs in the fire pit until a blaze lifted half the height of the crumbling stone hut, the wavering flames dancing in a spring breeze as dusk fell. Behind him, he sensed Gwendolyn’s arrival by the soft drift of subtle fragrance—a soap she used, perhaps, or a floral herb she packed in her wardrobe.
“How is your knee?” He did not turn around to face her yet, requiring more time to steel himself for the powerful draw of her.
“Almost ready to dash for help.” She faced him across the fire, placing herself where he could hardly ignore her. “How far could it be to the next farm or village? Surely any Saxon will take pity on a woman on the run from a Dane.”
“You will not run away.” He needed to be clear on this point. “The dangers are too great. We are far from civilization here.”
“I tried to escape you before.” She folded her arms. “Why do you think I would be scared to try again?”
“Not scared.” He put down his stick near the pit and pointed out the seat he’d arranged for her by dragging a log out of the woods. “But you are too wise to flee food and shelter for the hardships of the wilderness. Thieves and beggars pose far more dangers to a lone noblewoman than a Dane who has treated you fairly.”
Settling herself on the log, she tucked her skirts about her legs as if to keep away the bugs or perhaps to stay warm. She eyed their dinner with obvious interest, her gaze alighting on the array of fresh fish roasting on a wet hickory plank he’d split.
“In your defense, you haven’t let me go hungry.”
Clearly, this counted for something in Gwendolyn’s accounting.
“It is my intention to take excellent care of you.” He would put her worthless husband to shame. No matter what soothing words he’d used to ease her mind about the man’s untimely passing, Wulf felt naught but cold anger for any warrior who would use his might to harm a female. Especially a woman whom he’d sworn to protect in front of his god and witnesses.
“That is what I am beginning to fear,” she admitted, turning her dark brown gaze toward him in a twilight quickly fading to black. Her eyes glittered at him, sincere and anxious.
“You worry I will treat you so well you won’t want to leave?” He liked this idea more than he should. He could not even pull into a port of his homeland without risking bloodshed. What would he do with Gwendolyn if he found he could not part with her at the end of three days’ time? Still, he did not know if her heart might soften toward him, but he found he wanted that very much. Thoughts of her giving herself to him willingly were as addictive as good mead.
“I worry that your idea of treating me well involves things I am not ready for.” She spoke so quietly—as if she feared his reaction—that it made him furious anew with the man who had taught her such reticence.
“Gwendolyn.” He withdrew the blade he’d just sharpened that afternoon and—once he had her attention—he drew it quickly across his palm. A thin, red line appeared. “By my blood, I swear I will never hurt you.” He reached for her hand and held it in his, allowing his life force to seep into her skin along with the vow. “On my life, I will protect you.”
He had shed blood for far less. But she looked at him as though he’d lost his wits, her eyes wide with mild horror. Then, perhaps as the words he’d spoken settled in, he thought he glimpsed a fleeting moment of understanding. Appreciation?
She nodded jerkily and he wondered at the emotions that ran beneath the surface of the bold face she showed the world.
“I will hold you to your word, Viking.” Her thumb smoothed across the place where he bled. “And I thank you for it.”
A momentary hoarse note in her voice told him his gesture had not been wasted. They sat together, hand in hand before the warmth of the blaze, a new promise binding them as surely as any touch. The temptation to kiss her ran hot through him, the need to erase all memory of her cursed husband pushing him hard. But since intimacy seemed to make her more nervous than excited, he opted to seduce her another way.
Easing their palms apart, he leaned toward the fire to check the fish.
“Hungry?”
GWENDOLYN’S BALANCE FALTERED like a just born colt, her heart and mind unsettled by the new facets she’d uncovered of her conqueror.
Wulf Geirsson had vowed to protect her with a blood oath that had all but moved her to tears. Not even on her wedding day had Gerald promised her anything with such earnest passion.
Wulf had also shown her he could retreat when aroused, something that Gerald had suggested a man was physically incapable of doing. Clearly, it depended on the strength and will of the man in question. Wulf, she was discovering, seemed a man with a limitless supply of both.
Yet he’d made his desire for her obvious and forthright, something that—as she considered it rationally and not from a place of fear—was actually very flattering. In truth, she had thought about his kisses and touches all day long, her body assailed with vivid, sweet memories at the oddest times.
And it wasn’t just her mind that traveled back to sensual moments they’d shared. Her whole body recalled the way Wulf made her feel, surprising her with heated flushes and tingling in unmentionable places. Her daydreams had been wildly inappropriate and wickedly delicious at the same time.
“I’m starving.” She searched for the eating knife he had given her eagerly, grateful to pry her thoughts away from Wulf and the fluttery feelings he inspired. “I fear my appetite may match yours this eve.”
She did not miss the predatory gaze he cast upon her.
“It does not even come close.” Raw, masculine interest lit his words. “But I can always hope.”
He turned back to serve them, leaving her shaky and breathless, but not frightened in the least. Something about that promise he’d made gave her a new security in being around him. She would bet the whole of her wealth that Wulf Geirsson had never broken an oath before.
They ate in silence, chasing down bites of succulent fish with the fresh creek water. Later, as she licked the last of the meal from her fingertips, an unexpected thought occurred to her.
“It seems strange to me that just yesterday, I threw my embroidery down and complained heartily over the mundane boredom of such pursuits while the men stood on the walls and prepared for battle.”
“Maybe you have a warrior’s heart.”
“Nay.” She shook her head, understanding herself better than that. “I have an adventurer’s spirit like my mother and father. They wandered far and wide while I’ve been tethered tight to my overlord’s home or my husband’s home my whole life. Yet now, I sit outside under the stars, far from home, experiencing exactly the kind of thing that I longed for then.”
“You are having an adventure.” Wulf poured himself a cup of mead from his wineskin and raised the vessel. “Here’s to new quests and safe voyages.”
“You are quick to toast my exploits, but not as fast to share your strong potion tonight, I notice.” Her mouth watered at the memory of the taste. “Is that part of your vow to protect me, I wonder?”
She did not know what madness prompted her to ask when his potent libation had kept her spellbound through his kiss the previous night.
“You are in charge of your own adventure.” He handed her the cup, the scent of clover and honey intoxicating her before she even took a sip. “And I do not think a bit of mead will do you any harm.”
His deep voice wrapped around her in the dark, the sound as pleasing to her ear as the dinner had been to her tongue. She had been surrounded by the high chatter of unhappy women who did not really like her for so long that Wulf’s rich tone, punctuated by periods of total quiet, soothed her.
“Thank you.” She sipped carefully, respecting the power of the brew after the experience of the night before. Still, the spicy magic infiltrated her veins quickly, infusing her blood with sweet warmth. “I am surprised you have so much left. I thought we drank more last night.”
He must have packed his supplies well, in fact, because he possessed more of everything than she would have guessed they could carry. Then again, Wulf had carted her, her bag and his bag the whole way. The Dane was so hearty and strong she almost wondered if he’d wandered out of Valhalla itself.
“The joy of strong mead is that a small amount goes a long way.”
“I have learned this well.” Grinning, she took one more sip before passing the cup back to him.
His hand brushed hers as he took it, and the charge that ran through her felt like a lightning strike. This was not an effect of the mead, she knew. Although the fact that her fingers remained there a bit longer than necessary could probably be attributed to the drink and the way it made her blood run thick in her veins like the sweet honey it had been made from.
“Tell me about your family.” Wulf joined her on the log, bringing a blanket with him and tossing it over her legs as the night turned fully dark. “You are an only child?”
“Yes.” She tucked her hand beneath the blanket to limit the possibility of more accidental touches. As curious as she might be about Wulf and her reaction to him, she was not ready to explore such tumultuous feelings with a man who could offer her no future. “My father was born to a maid of Byzantium, though he was the son of a Wessex lord. He lived there for almost ten years while his father established trade for the king, and he grew up with a fine education. When he returned to his father’s home, he sought the best monastery schools to study with the monks and won acclaim for his math and healing. But he was most sought after for his translations. He spoke, read and wrote in many languages.”
“What of your mother?” Wulf pointed out a shooting star in the clear night sky as he spoke.
Idly, she wondered if the sight was so common to him that it hardly bore remarking. For her part, she’d never seen the like and her eyes lingered on the spot where the bright flare of light had disappeared.
“My mother told me all of those things about my father’s past,” she explained, drawing on vivid memories of the woman who had been such a strong force in their home. “She was quick to tout her husband’s brilliant mind and abilities, as he was frequently lost in his studies for days on end and was more apt to talk about his latest reading than himself. She was the daughter of a wealthy Mercian house and knew the nobles who patronized my father’s work.”
Gwendolyn could not recall the last time she’d told their stories and promised herself that she would do so more often in the future. Like the shooting stars, her parents’ lives had left blazing trails that should be remembered.
“They sound well suited,” Wulf remarked, causing Gwendolyn to wonder if he’d ever thought of taking a wife.
For that matter, didn’t the Danes keep wives and concubines at the same time? Gerald had certainly believed that to be so, claiming he’d learned the custom from them.
“Are you married?” she blurted, unable to wait another moment to find out. The thought of touching a man who belonged to another was abhorrent to her, no matter how well-accepted the practice might be in their culture.
“Of course not.” His denial was immediate and heartfelt, yet it seemed tinged with an emotion she could not read. Regret? “I have not set foot on my native soil for a year. If I had a wife, I am sure she would be most ill-disposed toward me by now.”
“But it would not bother you to keep a wife and take another woman to bed?” She had never been a woman to mind her tongue, a fact that had been pointed out to her repeatedly by her overlord, her husband, the other widows…well, everyone.
But Wulf had been forthright with her thus far. Why should she concern herself with social convention?
“I would never wed a woman unless I wished to touch no one but her for the rest of my days.” He retrieved the mead and finished the contents of the cup. “So there would never be a question of wanting another.”
He replaced the cup in the dirt and stared into the flames. She assumed his thoughts were far away until he turned that clear blue gaze toward her. Then she realized his thoughts were very much here. With her. About her.
Her mouth went dry. Her own thoughts vanished.
Swallowing hard, she finally found an answer.
“That is a noble sentiment.” She liked his sense of honor and his passionate avowals.
Indeed, she liked many, many things about Wulf Geirsson.
“My thoughts are for one woman at a time, Gwendolyn.” He leaned closer to make his point. “And lately, all my thoughts are of you.”
Her breath hitched at the idea of him thinking about her. From the mead in her blood and the blanket around her that held his scent, her world narrowed to him.
“I fear I cannot give you what you seek.” As much as she had resented her marriage and the need to bind herself to a man, at least marriage came with a certain amount of respect in the eyes of the world. As a Dane’s concubine, she had no assurance of a protector, no legal claim to Wulf. He could simply trade her away when he tired of her…“As a noblewoman, I was not raised to be some man’s pleasure thing. My overlord will come for me and then I will remarry—”
“And you could end up with someone just like Gerald. What stops you from finding pleasure—adventure, if you will—with a man who has vowed never to do you harm?”
He had struck a nerve. The idea that she might be living the same life as Margery—dutiful and dry, more worried about well-stitched wedding garments than finding joy in the world—stopped Gwendolyn cold.
“You are an enemy to my king and my people—”
“But not an enemy to you. You know this.” His eyes darkened to a deeper blue as he spoke. His jaw had grown shadowed with the bristle of his unshaven face. He looked even more dangerous than when they’d first met and yet—not. She knew him better now. “And you must know your Saxons will assume you have suffered the touch of a Dane whether you return to them as pure as the day you left or not. Why cling to someone else’s notion of how you should conduct yourself when you have been denied passion your whole life?”
Her heartbeat sped along with the rise in his voice, her feelings soaring in time with his speech. In truth, she did not know why she let anyone else’s expectation dictate her behavior when she was in the middle of the woods with a compelling stranger whose kisses roused the sweetest fire she had ever known.
What harm could it do to see where another kiss led when she knew he could stop himself anytime? When he had sworn he would never hurt her?
“It is difficult to remember my reasons just now,” she admitted, lured to follow her heart and her instincts.
“Where is the woman I spied on the battlements? The woman who refused to hide during an invasion while her companions cowered in a locked hall?” Gently, he brushed a finger beneath her chin and tipped her face toward his.
The call of passion was too great. In him. In her. In the spring night lush with new life and ancient promise.
“Perhaps she merely waited for the right battle cry.” Tentatively, her hands sought his chest, his strength and daring that spoke to her own. Her eyelids grew heavy and fell to half-mast, the intoxication she felt owing everything to the powerful effect of the man, not the mead. “In my case, I think that might be a kiss.”