Read Online His Captive Lady by Carol Townend - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Carol Townend
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features, but they had been engraved on his mind from the moment he had first seen her: that pale, delicate skin, the dark hair, so dark as to be almost the colour of jet, the straight nose, the freckles, the gentle curve of her mouth, the rosy lips. A beauty.
And brave, too.
He could imagine how her body would feel if he were to draw her into his arms. She would be warm; she would have long, straight limbs and her skin would be smooth and---
Enough! The Lady Erica might have reacted with calm courtesy to the fact of his lowly birth, but he had sworn not to touch her. If he did in truth touch her, doubtless her reaction would be quite different. Wulf must not delude himself, he must remember who he was and what he was doing in this noisome fen. He pulled the coarse blanket tightly about him. How those green eyes would fill with scorn if she discovered his real purpose here, if she knew where his true loyalties lay.
Casting a last look at the figure a few feet away on the floor, Wulf closed his eyes. The lady thought she knew him. In the gloom his lip curled. Lady Erica of Whitecliffe would not exchange the time of day with him if she truly knew him.
Not only was he a low-born bastard, he was a low-born Norman bastard; if that beautiful bundle of womanhood got wind of that, she would no doubt take to her pretty heels and, bracelets a-jingle, run screeching from the room.
Willing his muscles to relax--Saints, lying on these boards was a penance--Wulf's thoughts melted into one another. There was no point worrying what the Lady Erica would think of him once she realised his true role in Guthlac's entourage; there was no point already beginning to dread the look of hatred that would distort that lovely face.
He had come to East Anglia to discover the strength of the Saxon resistance; he had come to win favours for himself and make his way in the world. His gut clenched. Yesterday he had not known of Lady Erica of Whitecliffe's existence. Other men must surely answer to her--other outlaws, perhaps large numbers. Merde. He must find out, it would surely be useful for De Warenne to know. Because of her he had missed the first rendezvous, but, since he had missed it, he might as well make the most of things by discovering what he could about her people, they were rebels, too. That was why he was here; he must focus. And don't forget about those archers, he reminded himself, think about training for the archers...
The next morning on the platform outside the hall, Erica splashed her face in icy water from the butt. Wulf stood like a sentry at her side, wreathed in the clouds made by his breath. With a sinking feeling it occurred to her that she would be hard pressed to tell whether he was there for her protection or to prevent her from attempting to escape. It is still wulf-monath , she reminded herself.
In the bailey below, a long-robed priest was walking towards the wooden chapel, hands folded into the sleeves of his habit against the cold. He vanished inside. Erica eyed the adjacent buildings, one of which was apparently being used as a lock-up for Ailric and Hereward. The hut closest to the chapel had no windows, and guards were posted outside, stamping their feet in the chilly morning. That hut, she thought, that must be where they are.
The portcullis was firmly lowered and, from Erica's vantage point on the walkway at the head of the stairs, it was impossible to see whether their boat was moored at the jetty. The lake had iced over during the night, but a navigable passage remained in the centre of the waterway, a slim dark line dividing the frosted surface in two.
'Good morning, my lady.' Hrothgar's sneering voice broke into her thoughts. Erica's stomach lurched.
Thane Guthlac's second-in-command was leaning his shoulder on a doorpost, arms folded across his chest, watching her with an unsettling air of expectancy. Nodding at him, conscious of Wulf's hand hovering over his swordhilt, Erica dabbed her face with the
And brave, too.
He could imagine how her body would feel if he were to draw her into his arms. She would be warm; she would have long, straight limbs and her skin would be smooth and---
Enough! The Lady Erica might have reacted with calm courtesy to the fact of his lowly birth, but he had sworn not to touch her. If he did in truth touch her, doubtless her reaction would be quite different. Wulf must not delude himself, he must remember who he was and what he was doing in this noisome fen. He pulled the coarse blanket tightly about him. How those green eyes would fill with scorn if she discovered his real purpose here, if she knew where his true loyalties lay.
Casting a last look at the figure a few feet away on the floor, Wulf closed his eyes. The lady thought she knew him. In the gloom his lip curled. Lady Erica of Whitecliffe would not exchange the time of day with him if she truly knew him.
Not only was he a low-born bastard, he was a low-born Norman bastard; if that beautiful bundle of womanhood got wind of that, she would no doubt take to her pretty heels and, bracelets a-jingle, run screeching from the room.
Willing his muscles to relax--Saints, lying on these boards was a penance--Wulf's thoughts melted into one another. There was no point worrying what the Lady Erica would think of him once she realised his true role in Guthlac's entourage; there was no point already beginning to dread the look of hatred that would distort that lovely face.
He had come to East Anglia to discover the strength of the Saxon resistance; he had come to win favours for himself and make his way in the world. His gut clenched. Yesterday he had not known of Lady Erica of Whitecliffe's existence. Other men must surely answer to her--other outlaws, perhaps large numbers. Merde. He must find out, it would surely be useful for De Warenne to know. Because of her he had missed the first rendezvous, but, since he had missed it, he might as well make the most of things by discovering what he could about her people, they were rebels, too. That was why he was here; he must focus. And don't forget about those archers, he reminded himself, think about training for the archers...
The next morning on the platform outside the hall, Erica splashed her face in icy water from the butt. Wulf stood like a sentry at her side, wreathed in the clouds made by his breath. With a sinking feeling it occurred to her that she would be hard pressed to tell whether he was there for her protection or to prevent her from attempting to escape. It is still wulf-monath , she reminded herself.
In the bailey below, a long-robed priest was walking towards the wooden chapel, hands folded into the sleeves of his habit against the cold. He vanished inside. Erica eyed the adjacent buildings, one of which was apparently being used as a lock-up for Ailric and Hereward. The hut closest to the chapel had no windows, and guards were posted outside, stamping their feet in the chilly morning. That hut, she thought, that must be where they are.
The portcullis was firmly lowered and, from Erica's vantage point on the walkway at the head of the stairs, it was impossible to see whether their boat was moored at the jetty. The lake had iced over during the night, but a navigable passage remained in the centre of the waterway, a slim dark line dividing the frosted surface in two.
'Good morning, my lady.' Hrothgar's sneering voice broke into her thoughts. Erica's stomach lurched.
Thane Guthlac's second-in-command was leaning his shoulder on a doorpost, arms folded across his chest, watching her with an unsettling air of expectancy. Nodding at him, conscious of Wulf's hand hovering over his swordhilt, Erica dabbed her face with the
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