Wulfgar Read online

  Wulfgar

  by

  Goldie McBride

  © copyright by Goldie McBride

  Cover Art by Jenny Dixon

  ISBN 1-58608-381-3

  New Concepts Publishing

  Lake Park, GA 31636

  www.newconceptspublishing.com

  Chapter One

  Alinor had never traveled beyond her father’s holdings in all her short life. Under other circumstances, she would have been enthralled, would have studied everything they passed with keen interest. She was so sick with trepidation, however, that she could not find it in herself to have any interest in her surroundings.

  She was not a child. She had matured into womanhood nigh two years past, reached the age when her menses began and she was ripe to bear children for the man chosen for her. She should have left all childish things far behind. And yet, she found that she had nursed the childish hope that her own wishes would outweigh the arrangement that had been made for her, despite the fact that her mother had done her utmost to drum it into her head that, for people of their class, marriage was not an estate to be entered into blinded by emotional attachment. It was a binding together of wealth and power, and most ideally, of superior bloodlines.

  Jean-Pierre was by far the most illustrious of those who had offered for her hand. In truth—as they had pointed out to her—she should have been grateful that her parents had chosen a man in the prime of his life when it could easily have been otherwise, particularly since Jean-Pierre was considered by most to be an exceptionally handsome man.

  Unfortunately, the beauty of his exterior hid a black soul—one she alone, apparently, could see, but then he had almost seemed to glory in revealing to her his darkness, which he kept carefully concealed from all others.

  She had been cold to her parents when she departed. She regretted it now, for it seemed unlikely she would see them again in this lifetime.

  Jean-Pierre, no doubt drunk on his newest conquest, had arranged their marriage and sent an escort for her to transport her across the channel to England. Whether it was their usual manner, or Jean-Pierre had given them orders to that effect, they had traveled at a grueling pace, reaching the coast in little more than a day and half. They rested there only a matter of hours and then took ship.

  The crossing had been like nothing Alinor could have imagined in her worst nightmares. It was nearing winter, and the channel was treacherous with storms. She had been too terrified by the crashing waves even to fight them when her escort had whisked her aboard, and too sick and fearful afterwards to do more than cling frantically to the nearness support and pray for a quick death, expecting momentarily to meet it.

  She had been so weak when they reached the coast of England at last and she was carried ashore that she could not even hold herself upright. The moment the man had set her down, she had collapsed in an ignoble heap on the wet sand. Not so much of a stitch of her clothing had been dry, but neither had she had a more thorough soaking than the one she received when she sank to the sand within reach of the crashing waves, which immediately reached for her and tried to drag her out to sea once more.

  Their leader had waded into the water cursing, dragged her out and tossed her onto the back of the horse that had been brought for her. More miserable than she had ever been in her life, Alinor, her jaw locked to fight the chattering of her teeth, had looked around dully at the strange land that would be her new home.

  On the cliffs above them, she had seen a solitary rider. His hair, long, falling well past his shoulders, and as dark as a raven’s wing, fluttered around a face that was featureless at this distance, but she had the impression that he was relatively young—no youth from his build, but certainly not old. His bare chest and shoulders seemed broad, deep—massive. Around his shoulders a cape was flung almost carelessly. Of a color somewhere between a deep red and brown, the color alone seemed almost a challenge to those below to notice his presence.

  Something about him had caused her heart to leap in her chest. His stillness, the tension in every line of his body had convinced her that it was not mere curiosity that held him enthrall, watching as the small party that had met them brought forth fresh horses for the men who’d accompanied her thus far.

  She didn’t know why she hadn’t called attention to him. She had told herself that she was simply too surprised; that she was too ill and miserable to think of it; that the others would probably have noticed him, as well—that he might even be a part of the party who’d come to escort her to Jean-Pierre.

  She knew better.

  She had glanced around, instinctively, after she’d spotted him, to see if any of the others had noticed him. When she’d looked again, he’d disappeared.

  She’d told herself there was little point in saying anything then, but she had caught a glimpse of him again, late in the day, had known that he must be following them—and still she’d said nothing.

  * * * *

  Alinor found that, despite her exhaustion from traveling, she could only sleep fitfully. Tomorrow, or no later than the following day, she was to be presented to her groom, Jean-Pierre. He’d assured her parents that the wedding had already been arranged and that the wedding festivities were poised to proceed the moment she arrived.

  That thought alone made sleep impossible. With the best will in the world, she had not been able to convince herself that he was not as she remembered, that she had only imagined the cruelty she sensed in him. She could not, despite her mothers efforts, and indeed certainty, that it was no more than natural maidenly fears of the marriage bed.

  She would almost have preferred to face her wedding night in ignorance. She knew her mother had been well intentioned, but her careful instructions had been far worse than the ignorance that had frightened her before. It was impossible, in any case, that she could have grown up with no knowledge at all of the act of mating. The dogs that roamed the keep mated with a complete disregard for the size, or discomfort, of their audience. For that matter, she had stumbled upon the men-at-arms and maids on more than one occasion and though she’d fled immediately, she had seen enough to have a fair notion of what it was all about.

  Her mother’s helpful instructions had left nothing at all to the imagination, however, no room to convince herself that it couldn’t possibly be nearly as degrading and revolting as it looked.

  A whisper of sound distracted her from her mental ramblings and Alinor stiffened, listening. She sat up abruptly when it came again, her heart hammering in her chest.

  She was seized abruptly, one hand gripping her chest in a bruising hold that flattened her breasts, the other large hand clamped tightly to her mouth to muffle any cries she might have the presence of mind to make. That hand covered near the whole of her face and seemed likely to smother her if the man did not relent in short order.

  As he shifted his hand to allow her to draw a decent breath, she closed her eyes, willing the fear to abate, willing her mind to calmer reflection. Panic would gain her nothing but a swifter death.

  Her first, instinctual, fear had been that one of the men sent to escort her had crept into the tent and meant to violate her, but no man of Jean-Pierre’s, she knew, would dare to touch her. Jean-Pierre would make him beg for death before he granted it. The man who held her so tightly could not be a member of her party.

  Had he come to rob? To rape? To kill?

  Despite the fear those thoughts evoked, there was almost a sense of hope, as well, the sense that it might be over for her quickly and she would never have to endure marriage to Jean-Pierre. After her first, instinctual, effort to free herself from the bruising grip, she subsided.

  A blade was pressed threateningly to her throat. She closed her eyes, waited, hoping the pain would not be unbearable. After a moment, to her surpr
ise and something curiously akin to alarm, the blade was removed. The hand covering her mouth eased its pressure and then was cautiously removed.

  Despite her fear, it leapt instantly to mind that silence was all that ensured life for either her or the man. She would die if she so much as gasped for breath, she knew. He had not had to speak the command to assure her that he was deadly serious. His actions were clear enough.

  In a moment, the hand was withdrawn completely and a rag took its place, was bound tightly around her mouth to muffle any sound she might think to make that would alert the soldiers outside her tent. It smelled strongly of animal and she realized that it was not a rag of cloth, but a thin piece of scraped hide. The odor was almost overwhelming given that she had not really recovered from the crossing and she had to fight the bile that rose in her throat to choke her.

  A rustle of sound came again as the man moved around her. Despite the darkness, she could make out a darker form among the shadows, could see well enough to tell that he wore no armor—and was still massive. He was not a knight then—nor merely a peasant either. Peasants, half starved for the most part, rarely grew into such giants.

  She realized abruptly that it must be the rider she had seen trailing them since they’d left the coast, though she’d caught no more than a glimpse of him either time. This, then, was his purpose—to steal her away. The question was, why?

  Ransom, almost certainly had to be the motive. Would Jean-Pierre pay? And, assuming he did, what would he do to her once he got her back? Her captor would almost certainly dishonor her. If she survived it, Jean-Pierre would blame her no matter how hard she fought—if she fought.

  That thought stunned her for several moments until she realized that she would almost welcome being deflowered by anyone but Jean-Pierre—it was almost inconceivable that it could be worse--and still shame filled her for such wicked thoughts.

  She wondered, if Jean-Pierre paid, if man would return her. Or would he merely use her to rob Jean-Pierre, to taunt him, and then slay her?

  Such speculation was useless at this point. It seemed unlikely that he would win free of the camp with her. Jean-Pierre’s men surrounded them. Big as he was, and no matter how competent a fighter, he could not hope to best them all.

  Pulling her to her feet, he produced a length of rope and bound her wrists, so tightly she couldn’t contain a moan of pain. He stopped abruptly, studying her, she knew, in the darkness. Her heart skipped several beats while she waited see what he would do and he, apparently, waited to see if she would try to sound the alarm. To her surprise, he loosened the bonds slightly. Gratitude filled her, and hope. He could not, surely, use her cruelly if he could show concern over so slight an injury?

  When he’d finished binding her wrists, he picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder. The impact of connecting with his hard shoulder knocked the wind from her. She stiffened as she fought for breath, but he did not appear to notice her distress. Turning, he tossed something onto the pallet he had pulled her from and then made his way toward the back of the tent. Emerging through the slit he’d cut in it, he paused, almost seeming to sniff the wind for the scent of the men who lay sleeping on their pallets.

  After that brief hesitation, he struck off toward the tree line, moving as silently past the sleeping men as a wraith.

  * * * *

  "Je suis Alinor d’Arrus," Alinor told him who she was in little more than a whisper when at last her captor removed her gag. They had traveled miles it seemed through the woods before they had come at last upon a small clearing where a horse had awaited. Without a word, he had tossed her up onto the front of the saddle, climbing up behind her while she struggled frantically to maintain her balance. Settling, he caught her as she lost the battle and righted her, holding her snugly against his hard belly with one hand and gathering the reins in the other. Almost as an after thought, he had tugged the gag down so that she could breathe more freely.

  He did not respond to her tentative effort of communication, except by a grunt, which allowed a good deal of room for interpretation. Alinor wondered whether he hadn’t really heard her—since she had been afraid to speak too loud for fear of angering him—if he did not understand her language, or if he was simply not of the frame of mind to allow her to draw him into any sort of conversation.

  She frowned. Her mother had thought it imperative that she learn to speak at least enough words of the peasantry of England to direct the servants, but there had been little time to learn once she had located someone who claimed knowledge of the Saxon tongue.

  The moon had risen above the tops of the trees before she reached a point in her mental search that she was fairly certain she had recalled the correct words to ask the questions she desperately needed answers for. With an effort, she swiveled around to look up at her captor.

  Her heart seemed to jerk to a halt as she looked up at him. His face, concealed by the night as much as revealed by moonlight, was a terrifying mask of harsh planes and angles. His eyes, deep set beneath his straight, black brows, were nothing more than black pits. The first thing that leapt into her mind was ‘devil’. "Oo are you?" she gasped in a frightened whisper.

  Instead of answering immediately, he pulled the horse to a halt, grasped the gag that he’d pulled down around her throat earlier, and tugged it up once more until it rubbed the underside of her nostrils.

  "Wulfgar," he growled as he kicked the horse into motion once more.

  Chapter Two

  Alinor was too weak with fear even to feel a great deal of shock when the man pulled her gag up once more. Anger finally supplanted it, that he’d gagged her again when she had made every effort to speak quietly, but she was hardly in a position to argue the matter even if he had not made it impossible to complain.

  She faced forward again, sitting stiffly erect. He allowed it all of two seconds before pulling her tightly against his chest once more. Briefly, she struggled to pull away, but her anger had not routed fear altogether and, in any case, she soon saw the gesture was useless. In a physical battle of wills, there was no contest.

  Slowly, the tension she’d tried very hard to retain slipped away as weariness set in. She relaxed and, to her surprise, slept. It was still dark when she woke, but the black had given way to a deep gray and she thought it must me nearing dawn.

  She sensed that the man who called himself Wulfgar was gathering himself to dismount and braced herself, but the moment he withdrew his support she began to slip sideways, lost her balance and fell off the horse.

  He made a grab for her and managed to break her fall, but the jolt sent pain flooding through her just the same. This time he didn’t bother to toss her over his shoulder, he merely encircled her waist with one arm and carried her by his side as he might a bundle. Draped across one forearm, Alinor could see little in the dimness beyond the dead leaves of the forest floor.

  He knelt finally and half pushed, half dragged her into a shelter of some sort. Alinor could tell nothing about his expression and thus nothing about his mood or intentions. She was not left long to worry the matter, however. As soon as he’d settled her, he bound her feet, turned and left.

  Alinor stared indignantly at the opening for some moments, wondering if he would return. With surprise and a good deal of dismay, she heard him mount his horse and ride off again.

  That puzzled her far more than anything else that he’d done.

  She’d been given an opportunity to escape, she realized … but how much of an opportunity was it, really?

  She was bound hand and foot now, weak, numb from both the cold and from being bound so long, and she was in a strange land that she knew nothing of.

  It occurred to her after a little bit that he might have abandoned her for good. Perhaps he didn’t have the stomach to slay a helpless female outright and had simply decided to leave her and allow nature to take its course?

  Well, she was of no mind to simply lie still and allow herself to grow weaker until she hadn’t the strength to
free herself. She began working at her bindings, twisting her wrists and hands until the stickiness of blood convinced her that she’d loosened the thongs. If she had, it was still not enough, however, for, try though she might, she could not pull her hands free.

  It occurred to her finally that he had not tied the gag tightly as it had been before, but had merely pulled it up to cover her mouth, and she began trying to nudge the gag down her face. She was sweating with effort by the time she’d managed it and dizzy from exhaustion. She gnawed at the thong that bound her wrist for a time but weariness finally got the best of her and she dozed.

  She woke to bright day. Though she had no notion of how much time had passed, her body screamed for attention. In desperation she managed to struggle upright and began to work on the bindings around her ankles. She was nearly weeping before she managed to untie the knots with her numb fingers and struggle to her knees. With an effort, she grasped the hem of her gown and crawled on her knees through the opening.

  She found that she was not in a clearing as she’d thought. The shelter was little more than a box made of branches and covered with leaves and moss, blending in so completely with its surroundings that it was almost invisible before she’d taken a half dozen steps from it. She was of no mind to go far, however, only far enough to ensure a little privacy to relieve herself.

  It was not an easy task to accomplish with her hands still bound before her, but finally she managed to situate her shirts.

  When she’d finished, she looked around the forest, trying to remember which way she’d come so that she could retrace her steps.

  To her dismay, she realized that she’d been so filled with need that she’d paid little heed. No matter which direction she turned, she could see nothing that stood apart from anything else. Finally, deciding upon a direction, she gripped her skirts in her fist and carefully picked her way through the woods. After traveling perhaps twenty paces, she looked around again.