And more, not to react to the sight before her.
It took her a moment to adjust to the light of the fire. When she did, she beheld two men as huge as Thorbrand. Both of them obviously warriors. And Northmen like him. One was as dark as Thorbrand, with eyes like ice and a scar across his cheek. The other was fair with red hair in braids, his gaze pitiless.
She had been afraid out there in the road. But this was worse. This wasn’t a story she told herself about what might happen. What could befall her.
This was Aelfwynn all alone in a winter wood with three Northmen who towered there like mountains.
She looked wildly around the clearing, as if the fire they’d made or the few shelters that stood near the fire, linen tents stretched over wooden poles stuck into the ground, were sufficient evidence that they were human. When surely they must be monsters, to be so large and terrifying. Would that save her if they all planned to use her as men used their slaves?
Women must endure, Mildrithe had told her long ago. A sentiment Aelfwynn’s mother had echoed in her own way. But it was Mildrithe who had spoken plainly of these things. Men die quickly. Women live, and the ballads will not tell you this, but it is a harder path.
Aelfwynn had not understood those words until this night.
Any kingdom can be taken, her mother had always warned her. Any queen can become a slave. A wise woman imagines how she will survive long before she is called upon to do so.
Aelfwynn understood then, as Thorbrand turned back to look at her with those dark eyes of his relentless and far too knowing, that her imagination had in no way been sufficient.
He kept his gaze trained on hers. Then he slid his hands around her waist, his grip battle-roughened and strong. He lifted her as if she weighed as much as a cup he might hold aloft during a night’s drinking. Still he watched her, intent and demanding, as he took her from the back of her horse to set her on the frigid ground before him.
“Can you stand unassisted?” His voice was that dark rumble that she could feel within her though her back was no longer pressed tight to him. It was darker than the night all around or the way his men watched her.
“Th... Thank you,” she managed to stammer out, though she knew not how to answer his query, for her legs seemed unequal to the task of holding her upright.
She forgot about the cold. The snow that had made it past her headdress and had turned to trickling cold, wet tendrils down her neck. She should have been blue with the chill. Yet instead she felt overwarm, as if she’d been stuck too close to the fire all this time instead of riding through this lonely wood to the mournful sounds of the wolves in the distance.
Something in his gaze shifted, and that hard mouth of his crooked, but slightly.
Why should that dance in her like flame?
“Lady Aelfwynn,” he said, turning her to face the men who stood by the fire, both of them staring at her with faces like the stone that rose behind them, “may I present Ulfric and Leif, who are both kin and sword brothers to me?”
She did not miss the mocking tone he used. As if they were standing about in her uncle’s court, rather than out here in all this wilderness, where the truth of who she was could only be a weapon used against her.
But then, she had her own weapons.
“Be you well,” she greeted them prettily and properly, with a demure smile to match. “I am bound to trust in your honor as I have your kinsman’s, who has carried me here without harm. For it is said no one can have too many friends. Is that not so?”
CHAPTER FOUR
Kemst þó hægt fari.
You will reach your destination, even though you travel slowly.
—Old Norse saying
Thorbrand took no small pleasure in Aelfwynn’s clever boldness. Well did he like that she could think quickly and better still, soften what he would have seen as an unacceptable challenge from a man. Even if this was too like the courtly games he despised, it intrigued him that she could play them with such ease.
Well too did he like the reaction from his kin. Ulfric eyed her with a new interest, as if she were a riddle he was not best pleased to solve. Or perhaps as if he was trying to see how it could be possible that a wispy Saxon princess could have dared to address them thus. Leif’s reaction was similar, though Thorbrand could see at once that his cousin—who only this morning had pounded him on the back and given Thorbrand his condolences for the duty he was bound to perform for their king—was considering the matter in a different light. She was that comely.
Thorbrand had spent the long ride into the woods astonished by his body’s response to the woman he’d held before him. The snow had fallen all around them, yet she had been warm in his arms. His cock ached still from the press of her soft flesh against him. And as he watched, instead of lifting up her chin or in any way signaling some measure of the defiance he had heard in her words, Aelfwynn instead lowered her gaze and looked nothing but meek.
Was she meek in truth? Or was she bold as she sometimes acted? How was it she seemed to be both at once? Thorbrand could not recall ever having found a woman hard to comprehend before. He should not have permitted it in this woman who was his captive.
Yet he only stood as he was and let his brother and cousin look long at this Mercian lady they would be duty bound to call their kin soon enough. He knew not if he was testing them—or her.
“Does a woman question a man’s honor where you come from?” Ulfric asked her, his voice a low rasp to match the scowl that never left him. Not since the concubine slave he’d bought when they were last in Dublin had marked his face with his own blade, then run off.
“I would never dream of such a question,” Aelfwynn murmured. “I meant only to commend you.”
“A pretty answer,” Leif said, his gaze moving over Aelfwynn’s graceful form in a manner Thorbrand found he did not like. He did not lower himself to glare at his cousin, gods knew, but he misliked that he had the urge to not only glare but follow up with a fist. Was he a callow boy?
For his part, Ulfric only made a low noise that sounded like disapproval.
Thorbrand ignored his brother. He turned Aelfwynn away from the pair of them and brought her closer to the fire. It was built on earth cleared of snow beneath one of the trees. When he looked up to check out of habit, he saw the branches above had been rightly rid of any snow buildup so as not to tumble down and douse the flames. Better still, the snow itself had stopped falling.
High above, the stars were beginning to come out, the gods reminding Thorbrand that his course was true.
“Warm yourself,” he ordered his captive gruffly. “We stop here tonight.”
He thought she might protest, but she made no sound. Only moved, the picture of obedience, to stand near the fire. He could see the way her lashes fluttered there against her cheeks, soot and shadow. He could see the line of her jaw, reddened from the cold wind—or perhaps for other reasons. Her fur-trimmed cloak billowed out, still glistening with the leftover traces of the snow, like she was made of stars herself.
It was harder for Thorbrand to leave her there and join his kin near the horses than he chose to admit to himself.
“The captive does not look ill-treated,” Ulfric said in Irish as he stripped Aelfwynn’s pouches from the old nag and heaved them in Thorbrand’s direction. Thorbrand caught them easily, testing their weight, then hung them over his shoulder. “Or anything but resigned to her fate. Did she embrace her new future so easily?”
They had learned Irish in their childhood in Dublin and found it useful when they wished to speak freely around these Saxons, whose native tongue had grown tangled with that of the invading Danes and Norse since Lindisfarne—allowing them to understand each other better than many might like in these times of border disputes and territories forever claimed and taken, lost and won. Thorbrand watched her closely to see if she reacted. But all Aelfwynn did was ho
ld her hands to the fire and stand as close to the flames as she could, letting the snow melt off her cloak and hood.
“You look at your ease too, cousin,” Leif observed. He laughed. “Was it a battle or a nap?”
“I did not so much as draw my sword, yet her uncle’s men abandoned her.” Thorbrand forced himself to look away from the lady by the fire. “It was as we thought.”
Their Tamworth spies had kept them well-versed on Aelfwynn’s movements and once her wretched King Edward had made his wishes known, all they’d needed to do was wait. They had seen ten men leave a day before, riding out hard. Leif had followed them to their position on the road and had doubled back, talking of an ambush.
Then they’d followed Aelfwynn’s own progress early this morn, her men none the wiser. They had ridden like shadows through the trees, pacing the small procession and then passing them. They had found a defensible place to camp, far from the road. Then Thorbrand had gone to face his duty at long last.
He still could not entirely believe it had been that easy.
Cowards, he thought in disgust.
“Do we teach those men a lesson?” Ulfric asked. “It is unlikely they have gone far. The next village along the road, I’d wager, assuming they outran the wolves. And the soldiers who wait even now to ambush the lady—surely they would enjoy a taste of our steel?”
Thorbrand knew well that his brother wanted nothing more than to swing his sword. The more blood, the better. It was part of what made him the fearsome warrior he was. Ulfric dreamed not of peace, but a battle never-ending until the Valkyries came to claim him. But he shook his head. “They must all explain themselves to their king, and I do not envy them the attempt. They do not deserve the side of your sword.”
The other men both grunted an assent. Ulfric’s the more grudging.
“Have you told her what awaits?” Leif asked.
Thorbrand shrugged. “She will know in time. Better, I think, to allow her to worry over her fate as she will.”
“Christians worry well indeed,” Ulfric said darkly. “Lamentations worthy of a lyre.”
And then, aware that he was grinning, Thorbrand went to take his place beside her at the fire. Ulfric melted off into the trees to take the first watch. Leif took charge of the horses, leaving Thorbrand to take stock of his captive.
“Come,” he said gruffly. “You will sit and break your fast. The road is long, both behind you and ahead.”
Aelfwynn’s eyes flashed to his, her cheeks looking redder still than before. Though from cold or not, he could not tell. He led her to his tent, then watched as she hurried to seat herself in the opening, half on and half off the furs he’d piled inside. Lest she suffer his hands upon her, he would warrant.
She amused him. He was tempted to think it a trickery on her part, but he doubted she knew it. Far too busy was she in the contemplation of the fire, staring fiercely at the flames as if she thought them alive.
He took her pouches from his shoulder and set them at her feet. To Thorbrand’s surprise, she smiled.
“I thank you,” she said, in that serene voice of hers that seemed to fill up the dark, cold night as surely as the fire shed light and heat. “I did not bring much with me, for what need could a nun have for worldly goods? But those pouches are all I have, nonetheless.”
She reached out a hand to touch the bag nearest her, a wistful expression on her face. Thorbrand found it tugged at him. It made him...want things he could not name.
But there were more practical matters to consider this night than nameless wantings.
He squatted down, reaching into his tent to pull out his own pouch with the easy, portable food he always took on journeys. Particularly while traveling at sea, or, like tonight, through an inhospitable winter with no time to hunt and a high chance of failure even if he tried. He took out a portion of the smoked meat, salted fish, and hard cheese he’d packed, then offered it to Aelfwynn. She hesitated only a moment before she took it.
Because whatever else she was, he suspected she was far wiser than he’d expected.
And he ignored the way that seemed to tilt through him.
Thorbrand settled down beside her, taking up perhaps more room than necessary in the mouth of the tent. First she stiffened beside him. Then, gradually, as he did naught but eat and keep his eyes trained on the fire, she began to breathe normally again. After some time, she began to eat the food he’d given her.
It made an odd sensation move in him, not so simple as a hard cock and a draught of lust. Thorbrand knew what to do with those.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked softly when she finished eating.
He did not look at her. “North.”
She shifted as if she meant to speak, yet did not. He wondered if this might be when she brought forth her womanly tears, but a glance proved she only gazed into the fire as he did. And though his cloak and hers touched and tangled, his thigh very nearly brushing against hers, she did not recoil.
But then, she had felt his touch as they rode, more slowly than he had ever ridden in his life. Each step of the old nag a torment as much as a temptation.
Thorbrand had never set out to gentle a woman. Such a game never interested him. He preferred his women bold and lusty, with strong thighs to cradle him and large breasts to bury his face in. He liked his pleasure as loud as it was long.
Yet the woman beside him was no tavern hōra.
She sat as she had stood, all grace and fragility. When he’d given her a portion of his food, his hands had seemed twice the size of hers. And yet despite how slight she seemed, she had not quailed before him. She had not fainted. He did not think she had let so much as a single tear escape.
This Mercian princess pleased him, and well did he know the folly of it. It mattered not if she pleased nor repulsed him, for the end would be the same. She was his—until such time Ragnall had use for her. Such was his duty and his duty was his true pleasure. More, it was all he had. Bare was the back of a brotherless man, as the saying went.
He let the power of the fire move in him. It could be any night, any fire, any stretch of this cold land. He had spent his life dreaming of longhouses while he waited at campfires, with battles both behind him and ahead. And yet, cooped up in those same longhouses, he dreamed of fires in the open air. A dark night in a darker wood, the thick of it pressing in, giving cover to enemies and animals alike.
But he knew Ulfric was out there, eyes sharp and sword ready.
Aelfwynn finished her meal, but did not speak. Nor pull her gaze away from the flames. Thorbrand sat a while longer, until he became aware that she was trembling.
“Your cloak is wet,” he said gruffly “Remove it.”
Her gaze was startled as she looked toward him, then away. “I thank you, but I am well.”
“What good will you be to me if you are frozen through?”
And again, she did not wilt before him, though his voice was blunt. He found he studied her with new eyes. For if her sometime meekness was a mask, that meant she wore it with purpose. Was the daughter of the Lady of Mercia only pretending to be weak? Had the rumors about her been entirely false all along?
It intrigued him to imagine that the useless creature he had expected she was might have been naught but a ploy all along. Because that meant that there was far more to Aelfwynn of Mercia than it seemed.
Thorbrand liked that very much.
He moved further into the tent and then waited. He watched, once again, the rigid line of her back as she sat there, half in and half out. Holding herself still. Staring at he knew not what.
But he was well trained in the art of waiting.
He did not ask her to remove her cloak again. Or to join him within. Yet he saw the moment she chose to obey him. The way her shoulders shook and, for a moment, almost seemed to collapse. But then in the next breath, she turned and crawl
ed toward him, into the embrace of his furs.
Then she knelt before him, and he was glad of the firelight that penetrated inside so he could see how gold those eyes of hers were. Wide now, no small part wary, she beheld him.
Thorbrand wondered idly what she saw.
Whatever it was, she reached up, slowly, and unfastened her cloak. Then, with a great delicacy that was out of place in a tent in the woods, she set it aside.
He could see her better now. Without the bulk and fur trim of the thick cloak, or the hood over her head. Her ivory headdress looked damp, especially in the front. He reached up from where he sprawled beside her to tug on the pin that held it fast. A pin that would have told him who she was, with its fine metal and jewels, if he had not already known. “This too.”
She swallowed, hard. He understood she did not wish to expose herself to him, yet it only made him wish to see her all the more. Thorbrand could have assured her that she would come to no harm, no matter what pleasures they might indulge in this night. He could have eased her worry and assured her he was not interested in hurting her.
He could not have said why he did not do so.
Perhaps he wished to see what she would do. When he was the only safety on offer.
But again, Aelfwynn did not argue. She slowly unwrapped the fabric from her head, revealing hair an impossible shade of gold. It was more like sunlight, braided in a circle at the crown of her head.
It was the dark of winter, far from any hope of summer or even a thaw. And yet, for a moment, Thorbrand looked at her and forgot.
He thought she could make a man forget anything.
But he did not intend to succumb to such witchery.
“Take off anything else that is wet or cold, Aelfwynn,” he directed her, more sternly than before. “Unless you wish to bring yourself to harm. It will disappoint you that I have no intention of leaving you behind, whether the cold takes you or does not.”
Harlequin Historical May 2021--Box Set 2 of 2 Page 30
