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 surprise 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. 	
There was no sign of the shelter. 	
* * * *	
A sense of triumph and anticipation sustained Wulfgar throughout the arduous pace he set himself as he crossed and re-crossed his tracks, led the men on his trail in a wide circle that doubled back upon itself, then zigzagged into nowhere. They tracked him doggedly throughout much of the day, but, as he’d expected, they reached a point of frustration at last when they realized they would not be able to retrieve the woman without help. At last, they abandoned the hunt and rode off to inform their master that they had lost his bride.	
He grinned wolfishly, envisioning his enemy’s face when the news was brought to him. 	
When the men-at-arms had disappeared, he turned his weary mount around and wove another round-about trail to the place where he’d concealed the woman. The moment he thought of her, however, an image of her rose into his mind’s eye and he frowned. 	
When he’d heard his enemy had sent for a bride, he had not seen beyond the chance the gods had given him to avenge his loss—a bride for a bride. He’d imagined taking the nameless, faceless woman and violating her as that pretty faced French spawn of Satan had taken and defiled his own bride. He’d envisioned the tragedy playing itself out in reverse, where he had crushed the heart from Jean-Pierre, duc de l’Cran as his own heart had been crushed when he had discovered the lifeless body of his beloved Freda. 	
An outlaw now in his own land, he had returned from the great battle, nigh as dead as those he’d left behind on the fields, only to discover that the Norman devils had taken all that had once been his and crushed those who stood in their path. 	
And his gentle Freda, whom he had taken to wife little more than a week before he’d been called to fight, had been so cruelly used by Jean-Pierre and his men that she had taken her own life.	
The burning need for revenge was all that had kept him alive in the time since.	
He would let no one deprive him of tasting it at long last.	
Yet, he could not banish the sense of uneasiness that had begun to creep insidiously through his mind. The woman was nameless and faceless no longer. She had told him she was Alinor of Arrus. She had gazed up at him in terror through the eyes of a frightened doe—huge in her small, pointed face, soft and full of innocence—and painfully young.	
His gut clenched. Determinedly, he summoned the feel of her womanly form. Slight as she was, she was soft and rounded enough to please any man. To his relief, his body responded instantly to the memory of her soft bottom pressing against his groin, to the feel of her plump, pliant breasts resting against the arm he had held her with. 	
The anxiety, hardly acknowledged, that he would not be able to follow through with his plan receded. In its place, a new urgency grew. He had not lain with a woman since he had lost Freda. He would take the Norman bitch and use her to slake his lust and appease his need for revenge. She was no more to him that any other possession of the duc, an object only, and, as his possession, an extension of the duc himself.	
Frustration, fear and rage filled him when he arrived back at the place where he had left the girl and discovered her gone; fear because it had leapt immediately to mind that she had fallen victim to some wild creature, or some two legged animal had stumbled upon her; frustration because he had intended to see the deed through before she could further corrupt his resolve; and rage because he had been thwarted by a mere slip of a girl.	
There was no sign, however, that she had been savaged-- no blood, only the discarded binding, and signs indicating that she had crawled from the lean to. Kneeling, he searched the ground carefully and finally discerned the direction she had taken.	
She had not gone far and she looked so relieved to see him that he felt his rage abandon him in a sickening rush. 	
"Monsieur!" Alinor gasped when Wulfgar appeared, so relieved to discover that she hadn’t been abandoned in what appeared to be an unending woodland that she had to fight the urge to burst into tears of relief. "I became lost," she added a little uneasily when she saw that he was flushed with anger. 	
He strode toward her, bent at the waist and pressed his face so closely to hers that they were practically nose to nose. Alinor looked back at him wide-eyed, but unflinching. "I will bind you better next time," he said through gritted teeth.	
Alinor blinked, looked at him blankly, but he’d spoken far too quickly for her to grasp what he’d said. In any case, she was captivated by his eyes. They were the color of emeralds. "Monsieur!" she gasped. "You ‘ave beautiful eyes!"	
He looked disconcerted for several moments. A dark flush stole up his neck to his hairline and he straightened abruptly, studying her face carefully. He could see no sign that she was being deliberately provocative—either to test his temper or in a flirtatious manner. Nor did she appear to be short on wit. Her eyes did not have that blank look of the slowwitted. They gleamed with intelligence. 	
After a moment, he grasped her upper arm without another word and began marching her back toward the temporary encampment. 	
Alinor did her best to keep up, but his stride was far longer than her own and she found she had to run to keep from being snatched off her feet. Belatedly, embarrassment set in. Her mother had beaten her many times for her thoughtless tongue—much use it had done her for she had never mastered ‘thought before speech’ and feared she never would. 	
It might well be the death of her.	
He was angry, she realized abruptly, because he had been kind enough not to leave her bound too tightly and she had taken them off and wandered away. She’d known he would be angry if he discovered she had removed them. In point of fact, it had been her intention only to relieve herself and return and replace the bindings so that he would never know that she’d left. 	
She would have except that she had not been able to find her way back. She had a bad feeling, however, that even if she could explain something that complicated in his own tongue he would be no happier with it. "I did not run," she said a little breathlessly.	
He didn’t so much as glance in her direction.	
"I had need," she added a little desperately.	
He halted abruptly, looked her over frowningly.	
She gestured a little helplessly toward the woods. 	
Something flickered in his eyes, understanding, she thought, but in the next moment he was moving again. 	
They reached the tiny clearing surrounding the encampment within moments, a disconcerting indication that she had wandered all around it for hours when she had practically been upon it the entire time. She had no time to feel embarrassment for her incompetence, however. 	
He pushed her none too gently onto a pile of furs and followed her down, shoving a hand under her skirts. Alinor gasped, a shock running through her as his hand moved up her thigh and cupped her femininity. Something hard and long, like the root of a tree, was pressed brusingly against her thigh.	
She had known this would come. She had battled all day between the certainty that she must prepare herself for this and the certainty that she would be far better off if she could simply not think of it at all.	
Fear seized her, but she closed her eyes and her mind to it, bracing herself. Abruptly, her stomach, which had demanded sustenance off and on throughout the day, once again voiced complaint. 	
When the man stilled, she opened her eyes to look up at him. 	
He was frowning. The hard root that had been pressing into her seemed to have vanished. He rolled off of her and lay staring up at the trees for some time. 	
Finally, he got up and moved away. Hesitantly, Alinor sat up, as well, pushing her skirts down, studying him warily as he moved to the pack on his horse and withdrew something from it. 	
When he returned, he squatted down beside her and opened a leather pouch. Withdrawing something dark and withered looking from it, he tore it in half and handed a piece to her. She took it, looked it over and finally sniffed it. It appeared to be meat of some kind, dried to the consistency of leather. She wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do with it until he put the piece he still held to his mouth, tore off a piece with his teeth and began chewing.	
"Merci!" she said gratefully, and cautiously bit down on the piece she held. She discovered it didn’t just have the appearance of leather. It also had the consistency. Struggling for several moments, she finally managed to pull off a small piece and began chewing. At first, it was about as flavorful as chewing on leather, but it was not an unpleasant taste and the longer she chewed the softer it became. Her stomach, stimulated by the possibility of appeasement at long last, began clamoring once more in delighted anticipation. Finally, she decided she’d chewed it sufficiently and tried to swallow. It took several, convulsive efforts, but she finally managed to get it down.	
When she looked up at him her eyes were watering with the effort. Wulfgar, she saw, had returned to the horse for a wine skin while she was working on the piece of dried meat. Without a word, he handed the skin to her. She thought she saw his lips twitch, but when she glanced at him, he was frowning and she decided she’d imagined it.	
She had been almost as thirsty as she was hungry, and she took the skin eagerly, but she was not accustomed to drinking from a wine skin and discovered very quickly that there was a trick to it. Her first attempt resulted in a squirt of wine in her eye. Squeezing her stinging eye shut, she tried again. About half of the second squirt went up her nose, but she managed to get some of it in her mouth.	
Wulfgar snorted, rose abruptly and strode toward his horse once more. She peered at him suspiciously for several moments after she’d wiped the wine from her nose, eye, chin and neck, but although his shoulders shook slightly, he didn’t appear to be laughing at her. Dismissing it, she returned her attention to her feast. 	
It was easier to get the wine than to chew the dried meat. Moreover, she’d been very thirsty before she’d tried to chew up the meat and that had only made her more so. She focused primarily upon the wine, therefore, although, in truth, she had never had wine that tasted any worse. Her head began to swim before it occurred to her that she should pace herself more carefully.	
Apparently, Wulfgar noticed she’d been imbibing rather too freely at about the same time that she realized it, for he took the skin from her. Shrugging, she returned her attention to her meat and took another bite. A sense of well being settled over her and she smiled at Wulfgar in a friendly way. He returned her smile with a suspicious glare. "Do you not speak French at all, Monsieur?" she asked him in her own language. 	
He merely stared at her.	
After a moment, she sighed. It was going to make things very difficult if he couldn’t speak her language, because she didn’t know much of his at all. "You are like a grumpy bear," she muttered. His eyes narrowed at the comment, but she had turned her attention to her surroundings and didn’t notice. "I wonder if we will stay here until Jean-Pierre pays the ransom?" she speculated out loud.	
"No ransom!" Wulfgar said sharply, drawing her attention back to him. 	
Alinor looked at him in surprise. "If you have not taken me for ransom, then why?"	
He said nothing and she decided he had not really understood as she’d hoped, but had merely recognized the word ransom. She searched her mind for some time, but discovered that she simply could not come up with any idea of how to frame the question in his own tongue. "Ransom, no?" she prodded.	
He refused to be drawn into a discussion on the matter, however, and Alinor wasn’t certain what to think of it. She wasn’t particularly perturbed either. She thought about it several moments, wondering if it was the wine and finally decided that there was some possibility that the wine had dulled her anxieties. 	
She wondered if the wine was responsible for the fact that Wulfgar didn’t look nearly as threatening to her as she’d originally thought. In fact, quite the opposite. Now that she’d had a chance to look him over at close range, she saw that he was quite well favored. The sharp features that had seemed so unnerving when his face was shrouded by night, seemed, in truth, rather predatory, but they also made for a face that was quite fascinating. She thought he was probably not much, if any, older than Jean-Pierre. Certainly, he could be no more than thirty. 	
She sighed, wiped her hands on her gown and looked up at him expectantly. "I am ready, Monsieur. You may ravish me now."	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
Chapter Three	
	
Wulfgar scowled at her. "You are drunk," he growled.	
Alinor giggled, but sobered immediately at the look he gave her. "No, Monsieur!"	
Bending, he grasped her by both her arms and pulled her to her feet. She stood a little uncertainly, swaying slightly, watching him curiously as he snatched the furs from the ground, rolled them up and moved to tie them to the rump of the horse.	
His movements as he gathered the few personal objects strewn about were jerky with irritation. 	
"You do not want to ravish me?" she asked a little uncertainly after she’d watched him stalk angrily about the campsite for several moments.	
He didn’t so much as glance at her and she frowned, wondering if she’d used the right words. "I say thees wrong, yes?"	
Having finished packing the horse, he strode toward her. Alinor watched him advance with a mixture of unease and anticipation. She was disconcerted when he merely grasped her arm and dragged her toward the beast. Placing his hands around her waist, he lifted her, settling her on the front of the saddle. The moment he released her, Alinor fell backwards. Fortunately, the ground broke her fall. It also knocked the breath out of her and she was still lying stunned on the ground when Wulfgar circled the horse and dragged her to her feet once more. Hiking her skirts to her waist, he sat her on the horse once more, straddling it this time, then placed her hands on the pommel. "Hold on," he said slowly, as if to a half wit, his teeth gritted in annoyance. 	
Alinor nodded, gripping the pommel tightly while he mounted. She glanced back at him when he’d settled himself. "There ees no time for ravishment now?"	
He glared at her in tightlipped annoyance for several moments, then reached for the gag she still wore around her neck and pulled it up.	
Alinor looked at him blankly for several moments before her own irritation surfaced. She pulled the gag down. "If you do not want me to speak, Monsieur, you need only say so. I do not like that nasty thing. It stinks."	
Wulfgar tugged the gag over her mouth once more.	
After glaring at him for several moments while he pointedly ignored her, she faced forward once more, sniffing to allow him to know that she thought he was very rude. Grasping her around the waist, he hauled her back against him and kicked the horse into motion. 	
Grateful for the support, Alinor didn’t even put up a token resistance. She settled herself comfortably and looked around at the forest for a while, but there was nothing of any real interest to see and she found herself drowsing. It was nearing dusk, she saw when he shook her awake. Groggily, she sat up as he thrust her away and dismounted. She reached for him as he turned to help her down and fell into his arms. It was when he set her feet on the ground and released her that she discovered her legs had lost much of their sensation. She managed to take a few uncertain steps, but when Wulfgar tossed the bundle of furs at her, it was all that was needed to finish her off. She staggered back several steps and sat, hard enough it brought tears to her eyes. When the pain subsided, she realized that she was expected to help set up camp. She crawled to her knees and then finally stood and looked around. Wulfgar stopped what he was doing long enough to point out a spot. 	
Alinor nodded, but the moment she took a step it was born in upon her that her legs were not merely numb from having ridden so many hours. Her inner thighs protested screamingly over the fact that she’d spent so many hours riding the animal astride. Unconsciously, she rubbed the protesting muscles as she lugged the furs over to the spot Wulfgar had pointed to and began spreading them out. When she’d finished, she studied the pallet for some moments and finally decided it would be more comfortable if she gathered enough leaves to put under it to give it a little padding. She’d gathered her second arm load when Wulfgar strode angrily toward her and knocked them from her arms. She stared at him openmouthed, wondering what she’d done to so thoroughly anger him, feeling her own anger surge forth as he began to scatter the leaves once more. 	
It occurred to her after watching him for some moments, however, that the other encampment had been so carefully concealed, the area around it left as undisturbed as possible, that he was expecting they would be tracked by Jean-Pierre. If Jean-Pierre had good trackers, no doubt they would still discover the encampments, but he was determined not to make their task easy. 	
She was still angry. If he had only told her that she was not allowed to do anything that might disturb the ground, she wouldn’t have touched the leaves. After a moment, she stalked over to the furs and sat down, folding her arms over her chest and glaring at him while he attended the horse. 	
They’d stopped, she realized, near a tiny brook. She’d been too preoccupied to notice the trickle of water before—for it was little more than that and choked with leaves. Her interest caught as Wulfgar led the horse to the water and she got up and followed, squatting along the edge and pushing the floating leaves out of the way to scoop water into her hand. It was cold, numbing her fingers, but it tasted quite good and quenched her thirst. 	
When he’d allowed the horse to drink his fill, he led the animal from the stream and tethered it. He returned after a moment and stood staring down at her until, noticing, Alinor looked up at him questioningly. He pointed to the water. Alinor followed the direction of his pointing finger and then looked at him again. He couldn’t, surely, mean what she thought he meant. 	
Glaring at her, he gave her a nudge toward the water with the toe of his boot.	
Alinor scurried out of reach, certain now that the man was insane. It was cold and the water was colder still. She was well aware she was probably in need of a bath. Save for being thoroughly drenched when she’d come ashore she hadn’t had an opportunity to do more than dab at herself with a handkerchief—but there was no way she was going to get into that freezing brook. "Non!" she said, shaking her head vigorously.	
"Oui!"	
She might have appreciated his usage of her language at any other time. She wasn’t presently in the mood to, however. She held up her half frozen fingers. "Cold!"	
His face hardened. He reached for her. Alinor shrieked, leapt to her feet and fled.	
It was inevitable that he would catch her. Alinor had had no clear destination in mind and she was hampered by her stature, the gown tangling around her ankles, and the residual stiffness from days in the saddle. She had not gone far before he swooped down upon her, grasped her around the waist and hauled her back to the water. Wading in with her until he was in the middle, he released her. The brook was just deep enough to completely submerge her. It snatched her breath right out of her chest. She came up, struggling for air, swinging wildly. Stepping back to avoid her swing, Wulfgar lost his footing and hit the water so hard it covered Alinor in a fresh avalanche. Enraged, she dove for him. Straddling his middle, she grasped his hair and shoved his head under. He pried her fingers loose and bucked her off. When she came up again, he’d already gained his feet. Reaching down, he grasped her wrists and hauled her from the water. 	
Dropping her onto the mossy bank, he caught his breath and began to struggle out of his wet clothes. Wrapping her arms around her knees and hugging them to herself, Alinor watched him in teeth chattering resentment for several moments. 	
He ignored her, wringing the water from his tunic and spreading it over branches to dry. Removing his boots after a great struggle, he upended them. A small fish hit the ground. Alinor stared at it a long moment and snickered. In the next moment, however, he began to loosen the lacing on his breeches. Gasping, Alinor covered her face with her hands, listening to the rustle of soggy clothing as he calmly removed them, rung the water from them and moved across the small clearing to toss his breeches over the bushes beside his tunic. He was gone for some moments. When he returned, something soft plopped into her lap. 	
Alinor peeked through her fingers. It was a length of linen, damp already from his body but far dryer than the clothing she was wearing. Stiffly, she got to her feet, intent on heading for the brush to remove her own wet clothing. He caught her, held her until she ceased to resist and began to loosen the lacings down the back of her gown, his hands as impersonal as a maid’s. She remained still, watching as he wrung the gown out and hung it up, wondering what his ultimate intentions were. He stripped her, layer by layer, hung each article to dry with care and then returned, took the linen from her and buffed her skin dry. When he was done, he scooped her into his arms and strode to the furs with her and, kneeling, crawled among them, covering the two of them from neck to foot, tucking her bare back against his chest. 	
Slowly, Alinor’s shivering subsided and warmth began to seep into her. He shifted, pushing her to her back. When she would have covered her breasts with her hands, he grasped them, bearing down until her arms were manacled against the ground on either side of her head. Her heart leapt, and began to gallop away. Her breath caught in her throat. Slowly, he relaxed his grip on one wrist and slid his hand along her arm until he reached her breast, cupping the mound than trembled with her pounding heartbeat, massaging it. 	
Alinor stared down at his large, dark hand on her pale breast, torn between fear and fascination. Her mother had explained that it would be painful her first time, but less so if her husband took the time to help her to relax and ease his joining with her. She wasn’t terribly clear on what it was that he must do to help ease the joining, but knew that she must relax and accept whatever he did or cause herself more pain. 	
It took an effort to remain perfectly still when it felt so very strange to have someone touch her in such a way. Her breath caught in her throat as he grazed the nipple with the pad of his thumb, rubbing it back and forth while her nipple tightened and reached out to him, almost like a sunflower following the path of the sun. When she looked up at him, she saw that he was studying her face, his eyes dark, heated. 	
Slowly, he lowered his head, closing his lips around her nipple. Startled, Alinor stiffened, but strangely exciting sensations began to move through her as he tugged gently at her nipple and then suckled it. She gasped as the warm heat of his mouth covered her. Fire seemed to flow outward, trickling along tiny pathways through her breast, spreading even to the breast he had not so much as touched until it throbbed and ached. 	
Alinor squeezed her eyes shut, following that trail in her mind with a mixture of curiosity and pleased surprise as it ebbed and flowed, washing along her ribs to her belly until it finally reached the core of her femininity, pooling there with growing warmth as if it had found a tidal basin to collect the molten fire. 	
She had not thought that anything could feel so good and yet so disturbing at once. She felt, oddly, as if she’d drank too much wine--warm, lightheaded, breathless.	
He was breathing heavily when he lifted his head, his face flushed, his eyes dark and gleaming. Holding her gaze, he released her breast and slipped his hand downward, over her belly, the rough pads of his finger tips causing her flesh to twitch reflexively. When his fingers tangled in the thatch of hair just above her nether lips, Alinor gasped, feeling her body tighten in anticipation. 	
He lowered his head once more, took the peak of her other breast into his mouth, sucking hard as his slipped his hand between her thighs, urging her to part them. Distracted, enthralled by the sensations rushing at her from both points, Alinor was barely aware of moving her legs to accommodate his hand. His finger explored the moist crevice of her femininity and discovered a tiny nub of flesh that seemed to focus all that she’d been feeling into one point. 	
She gripped his upper arms, digging her fingers into them, panting, wanting to pull away from that intrusive finger and move closer at the same time. Something was building inside of her, excitement, the certain knowledge of something else just beyond her reach. She felt, as in a dream, that she was struggling hard to reach it but could not race toward it. She could only fight to move forward inch by agonizing inch.	
Releasing her breast, Wulfgar pushed her thighs wider, insinuating his knee between them.	
When she opened her eyes, she saw that he was watching her once more. He moved over her, spreading her legs wider still, settling his hips between them. Something hard nudged the place where his fingers still teased her. She gasped, felt it pressing harder against her flesh. Abruptly, her flesh parted, and that hard, heated part of him breached the opening. 	
She panted, willing her body to adjust to the intrusion, fighting the tension of fear than began to creep through her, chasing the thrill of excitement further from her reach, but he continued to press into her, filling her, stretching her until she began to feel as if he would rip her apart, felt a welling of panic that he simply would not fit. 	
He paused, breathing raggedly, beads of sweat breaking from his pores. Brushing the drying hair from her cheek, he lowered his head and began to tease her lips as he’d teased her nipples. Surprised, captivated by the gentle brush of his lips, by the warmth of his breath, she held still, allowed her mind to focus on the taste of him, the exquisitely pleasurable merging of their mouths. The flick of his tongue startled her, but it sent something hot and sweet rushing through her. She felt the muscles in her femininity tighten around his flesh, embracing his intrusion. 	
He groaned as if in agony, thrusting his tongue fully into her mouth, and the heat and taste of him were like wine, dizzying, disorienting. 	
She felt him gathering himself to thrust past her maiden head. With an effort, she parted her thighs wider, breathed deeply and suckled his tongue as he had suckled her breast. 	
He shuddered, thrust hard, breaching her maidenhead and burying himself so deeply inside of her she felt as if she had been mortally wounded. She could not contain the groan of pain when he possessed her fully, but she sensed that he was oblivious to it now, oblivious to anything but the drive to complete what he’d begun. He had lost all semblance of control and with it the gentleness that had gone before. Groaning, he began thrusting inside of her hard and fast, burying himself deeply, withdrawing only a little and thrusting forward once more in a mindless sort of frenzy that was both thrilling and frightening at once. Within minutes she sensed a gathering inside of him such as she’d felt before the pain, his body tensing all over in anticipation. 	
He threw his head back, releasing a long, low, growl of agony or pleasure, or both, his body shuddering, pumping into her convulsively. Something hot spilled inside of her womb, and then he went perfectly still, collapsing on top of her as bonelessly as if he had passed out. 	
Alinor lay perfectly still, wondering if it was over, feeling chaotic emotions rush at her from no where. She felt the urge both to cuddle him tightly and to thrust him away. 	
She had missed something, and she felt that it was something momentous. Many minutes passed and she was beginning to think he truly had lost consciousness—might have thought him dead except for the harsh rasp of his breath and the thundering of his heart against her squashed breasts. Finally, he shoved himself upwards and rolled off of her. 	
Something uncomfortably sticky trickled between her thighs. She wiggled uncomfortably, wishing she could cleanse herself. 	
As if he read her mind, he thrust the furs aside, rose and moved away. When he returned, he held something white in his hands—the linen, she thought. Pushing the furs aside, and her efforts to thrust him away, he nudged her thighs apart and wiped the stickiness from her. Humiliated, she could do nothing but endure until he’d finished. When he sat back on his heels, he held the cloth up, examining it. 	
It was her pantaloons, covered now in her blood and his seed. He turned to look at her, his face an expression of triumph. Tossing the pantaloons onto the ground, he climbed into the furs once more and pulled her tightly against him despite her efforts to pull away. Finally, she desisted, knowing it to be a useless effort. 	
His arm tightened around her waist. "Sleep," he said gruffly. "We must leave in a few hours."	
Alinor glanced at him in surprise, for he’d spoken French with no apparent effort at all.	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
Chapter Four	
	
"Lord Wulfgar?" From the man’s voice he sounded as if he suspected a wraith had appeared at his door. 	
"Aye. I have come for news."	
The rough plank door was opened wider. Wulfgar’s hand tightened on Alinor’s arm and he tugged her into the faint light spilling through the doorway of the tiny cottage, pushing her before him as he ducked his head and entered. 	
Alinor blinked, dazzled momentarily by the light, though there was little enough of it. Her eyes felt as if they had been coated with sand, and the smoke that filled the room did not help a whit. Her eyes watered, and she blinked rapidly, trying to focus her eyes as she glanced briefly around the single room. When Wulfgar released his hold on her, she moved closer to the fire and sat on the floor near it, ignoring the stares of perhaps a dozen pairs of eyes.	
In one corner was a cot. A woman lay in the middle of it, surrounded by small children. More slept on a pallet on the floor near the cot, squirming sleepily like a litter of pups, all staring with a mixture of fear, awe, and curiosity at the two strangers. 	
She heard the scrape of chairs against the hard packed earthen floor as Wulfgar and the man took a seat at a rickety wooden table near the only door the cottage boasted. 	
"The soldiers pass through every few days searching for the Norman’s whore. He has torn the land apart searching for her. It is not safe for you here, my lord."	
Wulfgar’s face tightened with anger. "The Lady Alinor is not the Norman’s whore. He will not live long enough to make her his whore," he said coldly.	
The man paled. "Beg pardon, my lord."	
Wulfgar studied him a moment longer and finally nodded. "Tell me what you have heard."	
"Word came that the party sent to fetch the Norman’s … lady had been set upon by a band of men and the woman taken. But when Lord John questioned them, the man who had been set to watch—the one you left tied to a tree—confessed that you were alone and that you had challenged Lord John to meet you in single combat. He put the man to the sword afterwards and placed a bounty upon your head. When they found the woman’s clothes in the woods, torn and bloodied, we were told that you had slain the woman and fed her to the beasts of the wood.	
They gave him the wolf pelt you left in the woman’s tent. He knows it is you, my lord."	
Wulfgar nodded in satisfaction, but then frowned. "I had thought he would answer my challenge before now."	
The man looked at Wulfgar fearfully. "He calls you a low born outlaw, my lord, and says you are not worthy of his sword."	
Wulfgar came up from the table with a roar that shook the walls of the mud and daub hut. 	
"Mercy, my lord! I have only told you the slander he has put about!"	
Wulfgar turned and studied Alinor for a long moment through narrowed eyes and her heart clutched in her chest fearfully. "He will meet me," Wulfgar said through gritted teeth, "or I will slit his throat while he sleeps. One way or another, I will have my revenge."	
Alinor rose nervously as he strode toward her, flinching involuntarily at the look on his face. He merely grasped her wrist and hauled her behind him as he quitted the cottage, however. 	
Grasping her skirts, Alinor lifted them out of her way as she struggled to keep up with the furious pace he set. Despite her best efforts, she stumbled several times, but he scarcely seemed to notice. 	
When they reached the place where he had tethered the horse, he grasped her around the waist and lifted her wordlessly onto the saddle, mounted behind her and kicked the horse into a gallop. He did not touch her, did not hold her closely as he always had before, and Alinor clutched the pommel in a death grip, expecting to hit the ground and be trampled by the great horse’s hooves at any moment. She had no idea how long he pressed the horse, but finally, when she thought that she could not hold on another moment, he slowed the foam flecked horse to a less breakneck pace. They halted at last when they emerged from the forest on a rise. In the distance, Alinor could see a huge manor house behind the partially constructed stone wall of a fortress. 	
Dragging her from the horse, Wulfgar led her to a tree at the edge of the woods and tethered the horse. Pulling a length of leather rope from the saddle bag, he pushed her against a tree nearby and began to bind her tightly to it. 	
Alinor found that she was more terrified than she had been at any time since Wulfgar had stolen her from her tent a sen’night earlier, so frightened she couldn’t think of anything to say. She didn’t know which frightened her the most, the fact that it appeared that he was leaving her for Jean-Pierre, or the certainty that he was going to meet his death. 	
"Why?" she finally managed to ask him when he had finished tying her and it appeared that he would leave without saying a word to her.
He paused and turned to look at her. "If I do not return before dawn, they will find you."	
She supposed it was meant as a reassurance, but it was hardly that. She’d heard what the man had said and although she had not been able to understand all of it, she had understood enough to know that Jean-Pierre had said that she was dead. Somehow, she felt that he would not be happy to find that she lived still—dishonored by his enemy, perhaps even now carrying the child of his hated enemy. "Jean-Pierre will kill you if you go there," she said quickly. 	
His eyes narrowed. "Mayhap … and mayhap I will kill him."	
"But … why, monsieur? I don’t understand why you must do this."	
He stepped toward her, leaning close, he teeth clenched in fury. "Because your precious Jean-Pierre has crushed all that I held dear. I will avenge their deaths--- or die."	
Alinor swallowed with an effort. "Your wife?" she said faintly as understanding dawned at last.	
Something flickered in his eyes. "For my beloved Freda," he gritted out and, turning, strode away. Pulling his sword and pack from the horse, he moved swiftly into the darkness, disappearing from sight within moments. 	
The urge to weep swelled in Alinor’s chest as she strained to catch a glimpse of movement, feeling, somehow, that as long as she could see him he would come to no harm. She had no idea whether the urge to cry was for herself, for those who had perished in the battle for England, or for Wulfgar.	
What he had told her and what she had overheard in the cottage explained much, and yet it left almost as many questions unanswered. 	
She had told herself from the first that she could not allow herself to believe that she was anything more than a pawn in some struggle between Wulfgar and his enemy, the man she had been sent to wed. Wulfgar had been so gentle in taking her, though, that she had nursed a secret hope that whatever his intentions had been originally, he had come to see her as more than that. 	
He had not touched her since. She had been relieved at first, for she had been so tender that she had dreaded coupling with him again, but many days had passed since that time and he had shown no interest in her at all. It had worried at the back of her mind. 	
She should have known his lack of any interest in coupling with her was indication enough that she was less than nothing to him. If she had, in truth, been no more than a common whore, he would have used her for his needs. It was painfully obvious that he could not even stomach her. 	
She should be relieved that her ordeal was nearing an end. She was weary to the point of dropping where she stood. She had scarcely been off the back of a horse for more than a few hours in weeks now, even sleeping in the saddle when she reached a point of exhaustion where she could no longer stay awake. 	
Wulfgar had kept them on the move and had not once built a campfire—knowing they were being hunted—and thus she had had nothing to eat since she was captured but dried meat, moldy cheese, sour wine and bread so hardened that it crumbled to dust in her mouth. The dunking in the brook had been her only bath until they had come upon another some three days later. She was dirty, ragged, her hair hanging in rat tails, and, even to her, she looked almost skeletal.	
Her gown scarcely touched her now. It was small wonder he could not stomach bedding her. 	
A tiny spark of anger surged through her, supplanting the self-pity she had been enjoying wallowing in. It was a woman’s lot in life, she knew, always to be pawns in the games that men played, but it was grossly unfair. She had done nothing! She didn’t deserve to be punished for something someone else had done!	
She could not escape it, however. Just as Wulfgar had used her to punish Jean-Pierre for the death of his beloved wife, Jean-Pierre was bound to punish her for living after Wulfgar had soiled her, for not having fought to the death to defend her honor. 	
In truth, she had not fought at all. She could be grateful that Jean-Pierre could not know that. She was amazed now at the naiveté that had led her into thinking that yielding to Wulfgar would be her secret revenge upon Jean-Pierre for taking her to wife when she wanted none of him—that it might even persuade him to denounce her and send her home. He would take her anyway, for it was her dowry that was of interest to him and her dowry could only be had if he wed her. Most likely, she would meet a tragic end once her dowry was his—might have in any event, but most certainly he would not want to keep her now. 	
The worst of it was that she very much feared hell would be hers before he granted her release.	
* * * *	
Despite what he had told the cotter, Wilhem, Wulfgar was of no mind to allow Jean-Pierre to die quickly. He had challenged the worm to mortal combat, and he would have it before he was done. 	
A prickle of uneasiness scratched at the back of his mind, however, as he swiftly and silently made his way to the keep, moving like a shadow among shadows as he crept closer and closer to his goal. He had still been caught in the grips of fury when he had left Alinor tied to the tree, unable to think much beyond the need to strike out at Jean-Pierre and to allow him to know that he could not sleep easily so long as Wulfgar lived. 	
He should not have left her so vulnerable. No doubt, if he were slain tonight, Jean-Pierre would find her come daylight as he had intended—but she was exposed, easy prey for any beast brazen enough to hunt so near the keep. 	
He almost turned back when that thought occurred to him, but he had already slipped past the guard. It could take little more time to see his deed through and return than to simply turn back and leave it undone. 	
Dismissing her from his mind, he focused on his objective. There were two guards stationed near the rear entrance of the manor. Wulfgar studied them for some moments, formulating a plan. Finally, he moved behind the small shed at the rear of the manor, where the cooking was done, looked around until he found a small stone, and scraped it against the side of the building.	
"What was that?" one of the guards said in a harsh whisper. 	
"Nothing—some stray animal most likely."	
"We should check it out."	
"You check it out. Jean-Pierre will have both our heads if we leave this door unguarded."	
For several moments Wulfgar wondered if his ruse had worked at all. He was on the point of trying again when he heard one of the men stride purposefully across the yard. He moved down the wall and rounded the corner, placing his back against the wall as he waited, listening intently as the guard crept along the wall, pausing every few steps to listen. As the man rounded the back corner, Wulfgar slipped a meaty arm around the man’s shoulders, covering his mouth, and sliced his throat. Blood gushed in a fountain of deep black. The man went limp. Easing him to the ground, Wulfgar left the dead man sitting propped against the shed wall and slipped around the other side. 	
The other guard had left his post by the time Wulfgar rounded the end of the shed. Uttering a mental curse, Wulfgar moved quickly down the building, hesitated at the corner and listened to the sound of gravel crunching under the man’s feet as he walked half the length of the building and stopped. After a moment, he whirled and headed back toward his post. Wulfgar caught him as he had the first guard, dispatching him, as well, leaving him propped in a sitting position as he had the first. 	
He had already turned away when a thought occurred to him. He turned to look at the body speculatively a moment and then, with a wolfish grin, lobbed the man’s head off. 	
He moved swiftly then, through the door, up the stairs and into the master’s chambers. Laying the wolf pelt he’d brought with him at the foot of the bed, he sat the guard’s head upon it, turning it so that the guard’s vacant stare could greet Jean-Pierre when he woke. 	
He had covered less than half the distance from the keep to the forest when the alarm sounded. He abandoned stealth then and sprinted for the woods. He was winded by the time he reached the concealment. He hadn’t been spotted, despite the fact that he’d made no attempt to keep to the shadows. He had headed straight for his goal, but he knew that would matter little. They would be rushing to saddle horses even now to give chase. 	
When he reached the rise, his gaze went at once to Alinor. Gritting his teeth, he turned away and ran to his horse, sheathing his sword, snatching the reins free and leaping into the saddle. 	
She had served her purpose. She would be better off if he left her. She would slow him. If he left her, the men searching for him even now were bound to find her and take her to safety.	
Against all logic he found he couldn’t abandon her. Whirling the horse, he returned for her, drawing his sword even as he leapt from his saddle, hitting the ground at a run. She cringed as he swung the blade, falling to her knees as he sliced the bindings cleanly. Grasping her around the waist, he half carried, half dragged her back to the dancing horse, shoved his sword into its sheath once more and tossed her up onto the saddle. She grabbed frantically for purchase as he mounted. Slipping an arm around her waist, he held her tightly against him as he turned the horse into the woods.	
He had no hope of outrunning the party that would be coming for him. Light as she was, Alinor was nevertheless an added burden and would slow him dangerously if he headed for the open road. 	
He knew the woods as few others could claim, however, for he’d hunted them from the time he had learned to use his first bow. He would lose them and then he would take Alinor to a place of safety. If the challenge he had left upon Jean-Pierre’s bed did not goad him to meet him in honest combat—He would torment the man until he had no choice but to meet Wulfgar or to admit his cowardice. 	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
Chapter Five	
	
Alinor did not know what to think of the fact that Wulfgar had not abandoned her as she had fully expected he would. Truthfully, it didn’t even occur to her to wonder at first, for she’d been so certain when he came at her with his sword that he would slay her that she had not been able to think of anything for quite some time afterward. By the time it did cross her mind, she was far too weary from the arduous pace he set to be in any state to consider it with any logic.	
He headed north when he was satisfied he’d thrown off pursuit. After a time—Alinor had no idea of how many days had passed—they began to move westward. They came at last to a homestead in a green valley, but Alinor had passed her limit long since. When Wulfgar dismounted, she simply fell off, unconscious.	
Before Alinor was even fully conscious, she sensed blissful comfort; softness beneath her; the scent of freshly aired linens; warmth; stillness. It felt so good that she was reluctant to give it up. She merely stretched, winced when her muscles complained and snuggled deeper. She would’ve drifted away again, but her movements seemed to set off a chain reaction of movements. Someone nearby gasped—a woman—then spoke to her in a language she didn’t recognize. She opened her eyes to peer around cautiously just as a door banged closed. 	
She stared at the door for several moments and finally allowed her gaze to wander from the door to the room around her, striving for a sense of recognition. Alarm touched her when she neither recognized the room where she found herself, nor could track any memory of having gotten where she was. 	
With an effort, she pushed herself upright and explored the room further, but it didn’t become more familiar. Vaguely, she began to recall little snatches of things, however—of being pushed and pulled as someone removed her clothing, of being bathed—fed. She must have been ill, she decided, but she couldn’t remember feeling ill. She couldn’t remember anything except being tired to the point that she was beyond caring whether or not she fell off the horse.	
A heavy tread outside the door distracted her at that moment—the tread of a man, coming closer. 	
She gasped as the door was abruptly thrown open, staring blankly, and with more than a little alarm at the strange man who filled the doorway. Slowly, recognition dawned.	
"Wulfgar?"	
He looked her over searchingly. "You are well?"	
"I was sick?" Alinor countered in surprise.	
He frowned, nodded, slowly closing the door behind him. 	
Alinor thought it over, but found she still couldn’t remember being ill. "Where are we?"	
"Wales—the home of my mother’s brother."	
That explained the strange speech. It didn’t explain that Wulfgar had suddenly developed the ability to speak to her in French. His accent was difficult, his speech halting, as one who had to think many moments to find the words—or one who was mentally translating from his own language into another—but plainly he had some knowledge of her native tongue. 	
He had seen her as his enemy and had refused to reveal his knowledge before. Did that mean he no longer saw her as his enemy? Or simply that he had brought her to a place where he felt he wouldn’t have to watch his back?	
It seemed absurd that he could have seen her as any threat at all. She would not have been a match, or any threat, to a much smaller man that Wulfgar … and there were few men of his stature, or breadth or strength in all of France, or even in England that she had seen. She was further disadvantaged now, huddled in someone else’s nightclothes, so weak it was an effort even to hold herself upright, among strangers in a strange land. The brief intimacy they had shared seemed to belong to another lifetime—someone else. 	
"What happened?" she finally asked, as much because she had little memory of it as because she felt the need to distract him from looking at her so piercingly.	
His face hardened immediately with anger. "I issued a challenge to your betrothed that he can not ignore unless he wishes to be known as a coward."	
It was said accusingly, thrown down at her as a challenge—as if she were responsible for Jean-Pierre’s honor, or lack of it! She felt color wash into her cheeks. "It was not by my choice that I was betrothed to him," she said angrily. "I wanted none of him!"	
His eyes narrowed. "And yet I saw no sign that you were held captive."	
Alinor gaped at him, but she felt her anger rise a notch higher. "I suppose you think I should have killed myself rather than yield to my parents’ wishes?"	
"Freda took her own life because he had sullied her!" he said harshly.	
"She took her life because she loved you and feared you would hate her otherwise!" Alinor snapped angrily. She was almost immediately sorry she’d allowed her tongue to get away from her, for she saw that she had struck bone deep with her sharp retort.	
He moved away from the door, pacing. "You know nothing of it—you did not know Freda," he snarled, but his disclaimer lacked conviction. 	
"I know the way of the world. I know what it is to be a woman."	
He snorted. "You are a child yet!" 	
If he had slapped her, it could not have stung more. All the doubts she’d so carefully submerged and dismissed swarmed into her mind and she voiced the first thought that surfaced without considering whether there was truth to it or not, or how it might be received. "I am woman enough to carry your child!" she said tightly.	
His gaze snapped immediately to her belly, the color draining from his face. He looked away. "If that was truth … it resides there no longer."	
Alinor was still grappling with the realization that she must, subconsciously, have known that she was carrying his child, for she had not had her menses since Wulfgar had taken her and her courses were far too late for it to be anything else. It took her several moments to assimilate what he had said and for the implications to sink in. Behind that a lump of sadness swelled in her chest. It was unreasonable to feel grief for what she had lost when she had never even acknowledged the child that grew in her belly—when she was unwed and the child fathered by the man who had taken her prisoner—However unreasonable, though, she couldn’t deny that she felt a terrible sense of loss. She looked down at her hands. "God in his infinite mercy …."	
"Your god has no mercy," Wulfgar snapped harshly.	
Alinor glanced up at him in shock. She was of no mind to argue religion with him, however, particularly when she could see, from his own words, that he was an unbeliever. Her own belief, though she would never have admitted it for fear of damnation, was not as strong as it should have been, which hardly qualified her to take a position as defender of the faith. 	
Unfortunately, she could think of no retort at all. Hugging her knees to herself, she studied her toes, which just peeked from beneath the voluminous gown she wore. "What will you do now?"	
He did not answer for so long that she finally looked up at him.	
"Jean-Pierre has accepted my challenge—at last. I await word of when and where he will meet me."	
Alinor felt as if a hand had squeezed her heart. "He can not be trusted," she said a little breathlessly.	
"I am well aware of that!" Wulfgar snarled.	
"Nay! You think because he has accepted the challenge that he will fight you fairly. He will not! If you go, you will be slain!"	
Wulfgar’s eyed narrowed. "I am accounted a good man with a sword," he said stiffly.	
Alinor came up on her knees. "Good enough to dispatch a dozen men or more!" she exclaimed. "He will not meet you in single combat! He will lay a trap for you and they will all fall upon you if you meet him! If they capture you alive he will have you tortured until you will beg for death! Can you not be content with the victory you have taken?"	
"He took all from me! ALL! I will not be content until I have deprived him of breath!" Wulfgar growled angrily.	
"You can not get your beloved Freda back! If you pursue this, you can only join her!"	
"So be it! At least I will not have to live with the knowledge that I left her to his tender mercies!" he snarled, pacing the room like a caged beast.	
A mixture of emotions washed through her as she watched him; sympathy for his pain and guilt that he’d failed the woman he cared so much for; envy that the woman had held his heart; and anger, too, that he seemed to account her of no worth. She knew she was no great beauty, but neither was she ugly or disfigured and her dowry had made her a prize in her own land that many men had considered worth pursuing. 	
The thought of her dowry prompted another thought and, typically, she spoke impulsively. "You have another means of revenge if you would but look upon it!"	
He stopped abruptly, turning to look at her in surprise. She blushed, but she was not timid. The thought would not have occurred to her if her heart had not voiced it. "I am no dowerless bride! I bring an estate of some note—in a fertile valley that produces well and supports a goodly number of livestock. It is not of great wealth, but ‘tis certainly equal to what you …uh … what was taken."	
Wulfgar scowled at her. "I am no landless fortune seeker!"	
"You took that which was meant for my husband and none other! You are honor bound to right the wrong you have done me! For I have not offended thee and it was wrong to punish me for something of which I had no knowledge of or hand in!"	
His look of affront vanished. For several moments, he looked at her with a mixture of discomfort and surprise. Finally, all gave way to a hint of humor. "You are petitioning for my hand?"	
Alinor cringed inwardly. Put like that it made her sound brazen indeed. "I merely point out," she said stiffly, "that there would be justice for all concerned if you … if I …." Mortification overcame her and she found she could not continue. 	
He looked her over as if he were sizing up a mare brought round for him to consider for purchase. She misliked the look, well aware that she must look far from her best. He said nothing, however. After a few moments, he moved to the hearth. A small piece of wood had burned in half and rolled beyond the reach of the flames and he nudged it back with the toe of his boot. 	
Alinor studied him for several moments, angry, inexplicably hurt. She didn’t know why it distressed her so much to think of him dying to defend another woman’s honor—or that he so obviously did not want to consider her as a wife. She had thought, when he had come back for her—What had she thought? Perhaps he was right. Perhaps she was still a silly, heedless child—because she had thought she must mean something more to him than just the means to an end. 	
It had been simple minded to believe, just because he had not brutalized her—because he had been sweet and gentle—that it had meant something to him when he had coupled with her, that she had meant something to him. She should have known that it was merely his way—or, perhaps, he had thought that would be a revenge in itself? To treat her gently so that she could only compare her husband unfavorably when Jean-Pierre took her into the marriage bed? 	
"Why did you come back for me?" she asked quietly.	
He glanced at her sharply, his face hard, unyielding.	
Because he was not done with her, she realized.	
Alinor’s chest tightened with disappointment. "Go then!" she said angrily, flopping back on the bed and turning away from him. "Avenge your precious Freda by allowing Jean-Pierre to lift your head from your shoulders! You are a pig headed man and -- I do not care!"	
She heard him stride across the room. Expecting to hear the door slam as he left, she was startled when she looked up to see him standing beside the bed, looking down at her speculatively. "You have been at great pains to convince me to forswear my vow. What is it you hope to gain, I wonder? Was all of this to protect him?"	
Alinor gaped at him, but sat up to face him angrily. "You accuse me of deceit?"	
"For whom ‘do you not care’? Me? Or your precious Jean-Pierre?" he growled, catching her upper arms in a bruising grip and dragging her to him. 	
Alinor was still gaping at him in dismay when his mouth came down to cover hers in an angry, possessive kiss that threw her into instant turmoil.	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
Chapter Six	
	
Shamefully, her body reacted with gladness and pleasure to his touch, though her mind screamed that it was for punishment only, that he meant to wound, not caress—and still a moan of pleasure escaped her. She clutched his tunic as weakness washed through her, parting her lips even as his mouth opened over hers, welcoming his plundering caress as he explored her mouth thoroughly, aggressively with his tongue. His taste and scent washed through her in a pleasurable tide that laid waste to the last bastions of her pride, sending heat and expectancy pounding through her body, making her femininity feel hot and achy for his possession. She could not think at all beyond the thrill that raced through her veins, the breathless anticipation that invaded her.	
He broke the kiss almost before he’d begun, thrusting her away from him as roughly as he’d pulled her to him. Still clutching his tunic for support, Alinor opened her eyes with an effort, keeping her expression carefully neutral as she looked up at him, but she could not steady her thundering heartbeat. She could not seem to catch her breath. She wanted him. She wanted him to show her what he’d given her only a taste of before.	
Grasping her hands, he pulled them free, his expression hard, unyielding, though his gaze was hot, tumultuous. For several moments he seemed to wage battle within himself. In the next, he pushed her down onto the pillows and followed her, crushing her beneath his weight as he thrust a hand roughly down the neck of her gown, squeezing her breast almost painfully. With his other hand, he jerked her gown up to her waist. Alinor gasped, arching her back as he covered the peak of one breast with the hot moisture of his mouth, flicking her nipple with tongue. The muscles in her belly clenched as his other hand skimmed it, then cupped the mound of her femininity. She drew her knee up to allow easier access, begging for his touch. When he slipped on finger through the petals of flesh of her femininity, she was wet for him. Gasping at the bolt of pleasure that went through her as he pushed his finger inside of her, she grasped his shoulders, digging her fingers into his flesh. 	
Her reaction seemed to catch him off guard. He lifted his head, hesitated for a fraction of a second and then it was as if a dam broke upon his restraint. His mouth and hands were everywhere at once, stroking her, suckling, teasing, tasting. On a mindless tide of exquisite sensation, Alinor returned each caress with one of her own, tearing at the lacing of his tunic until she could feel the hard flesh of his chest against her cheek, taste the saltiness and feel the smoothness of his skin on her tongue. 	
He growled, low in his chest as she nipped at him with her teeth, pulled away long enough to snatch his tunic off over his head and then tossed it aside and descended upon her again, closing his mouth over hers. Alinor arched up to meet him, brushing her breasts against his chest, relishing the sensation of bare skin against bare skin, so caught up in the feel of his body on hers and his tongue as it stroked and caressed her own that she was barely aware of her restless movements against him. When he withdrew his tongue to break the kiss, she followed him, dancing her tongue along his, tasting him, learning his mouth as he had hers, exploring his body with her hands.	
A groan rumbled from his throat and he pushed her thighs apart, insinuating one knee between them and then the other until he was nestled between her thighs. Alinor arched her hips, rubbing her femininity against the hard bulge in his breeches when he removed his hand, kneading that tiny bud of flesh hidden in the petals of her femininity that so desired contact with him that she could think of nothing beyond the escalating throbs of pleasure emanating from it with each thrust of her hips.	
She was gasping for breath when he broke the kiss at last, near to sobbing with need, helping and hindering at once as he struggled with the lacings of his breeches and she fought to grasp his heated flesh in her hand. When he freed his cock at last from his breeches, she arched her hips, grinding her femininity against its length, desperate to feel him inside of her. 	
He ground his teeth, shaking with the effort to control himself as he grasped his cock in one hand and finally aligned it with her body, nudging, thrusting, then finally parting her flesh, sinking slowly through the passage that contracted around his distended flesh, grasping him tightly and impeding his progress. 	
Digging her fingers into his shoulders, she rocked her hips upward to meet his downward thrust, moaning dizzily as she felt him sink to her core and slowly withdraw until only the rounded head of his cock remained inside her. Pleasurable tremors began inside her belly with his full possession, building in intensity each time he withdrew and thrust again, sinking deeply inside her. 	
She felt a growing tension inside of her, knew her body was struggling to reach a threshold of sensation. Focusing every part of her being on reaching that undefined goal, she moved with him, countered each caressing stroke of his cock along the exquisitely sensitive recesses of her body ... and still it eluded her, remained just beyond her grasp as she struggled toward it, digging her heels into the mattress to meet each jarring plunge of his cock. She felt it within her reach when he stiffened, went still for several heartbeats and then began to thrust hard and fast. A thrill went through her, the knowledge that he had found pleasure in her body as she had his and that quiver of excitement sent her over the edge onto a plane of such wondrous rapture she cried out, unable to hold it inside of her, floating downward finally into a near oblivion of supreme, boneless bliss. 	
Wulfgar lay limply upon her for many moments, his breath harsh. Finally, he gathered himself and moved away, sitting on the edge of the bed for some time. Slowly, as she stared at his back, Alinor’s contentment ebbed and a sense of foreboding replaced it. 	
He seemed so aloof, as if he was determined to distance himself from her both emotionally as well as physically.	
Finally, without a word, he rose and adjusted his clothing, donned his tunic once more, tightening the lacings in sharp, jerky motions that told her his anger had not completely abated. Not once did he so much as glance in her direction and Alinor felt a resurgence of her own anger, and guilt. It had been a mistake, she realized now, to give herself with such abandon. He could only think the worst of her. It made no difference at all that she had been a maiden when he had taken her. He must think she had the heart and soul of a whore to have so thoroughly enjoyed their coupling. 	
Shivering as the chill of the room skated across her sweat dampened skin, she pulled the covers up and turned away from him as she saw him turn to leave. He paused for many moments at the door, studying her, she sensed, and finally left. 	
When he had gone, she lay for many minutes fighting the urge to weep, trying to understand how something that had felt so wonderful—something she knew they had shared, could have ended so coldly.	
She had had little enough experience in the arts of flirtation and courtship. They were far from court, where such things were practiced almost to an art form, and she had only been to court once before in her life. There had been no true courtship—in fact very little conversation—between her and the men who had petitioned her father for her hand. Perhaps, if her father had not settled upon Jean-Pierre, she would have had the opportunity to begin to understand the workings of a man’s mind better, but he had and she had been very glad that she had not had to endure much of Jean-Pierre’s brand of courtship. 	
In truth, until she had met Wulfgar, it had never occurred to her to have an interest in trying to win the attention or admiration of a man at all. She had known she would have no choice in the selection of a husband and had not met one who interested her more than another. Now that it mattered, she had no idea of what she might have done wrong. 	
He had been angry about Jean-Pierre. She understood that much, and also that he thought—must think—that she was somehow trying to dupe him—toying with him, perhaps? She couldn’t quite see, however, what he thought she had to gain by it beyond trying to protect herself. 	
Mayhap that was it? He realized that she had been careful, most of the time anyway, not to arouse his wrath? In the beginning she had only thought that if she was too much trouble, he might begin to wonder if she was really worth ransoming—might decide to simply unburden himself. She had had no clear plan, however. She had only wanted to survive, had hoped that she would not be returned too swiftly to Jean-Pierre. 	
It occurred to her after a while to wonder if, perhaps, he was angry because he had not wanted to desire her and he did. She examined that thought for some time, trying to decide whether it was merely wishful thinking, or if it had merit. 	
Perhaps he thought of it as some sort of betrayal of the woman he had loved?	
That did not fit, however, unless he cared for her, or thought he might come to care for her. Men eased themselves on any female handy. She knew that much at least, for she had heard the maids complain of it endlessly—sometimes angrily. He would not feel that he was betraying Freda if he were merely easing his needs upon her.	
A seed of hope sprang from that thought, one she was almost afraid to feed, but it occurred to her finally that she could not quell it once it sprang into her mind. If there was any chance at all that he thought coupling with her might lead to a growing fondness, then it was certainly worth the effort of enticing him into her bed. If he became fond of her, perhaps he would decide her suggestion had merit and would wed her and take her home!	
She discovered the following day, however, that he had deprived her of any opportunity of putting her plan into motion, for, by the time she had nerved herself to ask for him of the maids, he had already gone to meet Jean-Pierre.	
* * * *	
Wulfgar found as he rode west and south that he could not dismiss Alinor’s remarks from his mind. He hated Jean-Pierre with a rage that had blinded him to anything beyond the need for revenge. In all the time that he had plotted his revenge he was well aware that he could not so much as conjure the man’s name in his mind and still think clearly. He knew nothing at all about his enemy. In truth, he had not made an effort to learn him as a man, only to follow his movements, looking, always, for the perfect opportunity to exact his revenge. 	
He could not bring Freda back or ease her suffering. He could not regain the lands the new king had settled upon his man, Jean-Pierre. He could only plot to give Jean-Pierre a taste of the suffering he, himself, had endured before he ended his life. 	
He could not fathom why it was that it had not occurred to him that he could not make Jean-Pierre suffer over the loss of his bride unless Jean-Pierre loved Alinor as he had loved Freda. A love match was a rare thing among the upper class. He had not expected that his own would be such, but he had been smitten the moment he had set eyes upon his future wife, had barely been able to contain himself until the knot was firmly tied. They had not even been wed a se’nnight when he had been called to meet the Norman invasion. He had not seen her alive again.	
When he had learned that the Norman had sent for his betrothed, he had not been able to see beyond the fact that it so closely mirrored his own situation that it was as if the gods had handed him his means of revenge. Perhaps that was why had had looked no further? 	
He did not trust the Norman female. He could think of no reason why he should and many why he should not. He had been both surprised and relieved when he had found that she gave him no trouble at all, either when he took her, or later when he had had to stay on the move to stay ahead of Jean-Pierre. At first he had thought she was just too frightened to try anything. Finally, he had decided that it was simply her manner of ensuring her survival—to the point that she almost had not survived at all. He hadn’t realized until he had reached his uncle’s home that he had pushed her so far beyond her endurance that she was nigh death. If they had not arrived when they had, she most likely would have died, for she had slept straight through three days not even rousing to full consciousness when the maids had shaken her to force food and water down her. 	
He frowned at that thought, wondering if it was possible he had gotten her with child—he knew it was possible, but was it likely? There had been dried blood on her clothing when the maids removed them. He had assumed it was from her monthly cycle, or perhaps even from breaching her maidenhead—surely if she had miscarried there would have been more blood?	
He shook the thought. Either way, it made no difference now—except that it heaped more guilt upon his head when he was already carrying so much it felt like a great boulder upon his shoulders. It made very little difference that he had not intended to cause her harm. He had done so, and possibly killed his own child in the process. 	
He tried to shrug it off. He had lived with so much guilt for so long that it was like a throbbing tooth—never far from his mind, but he had no choice but to gone on with his life, hoping he would eventually find something he could do that would bring surcease from the pain. 	
Which brought him back to the question of whether or not he could trust the word of a known enemy. Finally, he decided that it could do no harm to use caution and reconnoiter the area before he went to meet Jean-Pierre.	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
Chapter Seven	
	
She had been allowed the freedom of the manor house and the immediate area around it, but Alinor had been left in no doubt that she was a prisoner, for she was always under watch. They had not been kindly or friendly, but then neither had they been abusive. 	
None spoke to her. She had no idea whether it was simply because they did not know her language or if it was a precaution because she was a prisoner. She listened carefully to everything that they said, however, and managed to pick up a word here and there, though she could not be completely certain of the meaning.	
The day Wulfgar had left, an old crone had come into her room with several maids, who had proceeded to hold her down so that the horrible old crone could poke and probe at her. At first, she had been so mortified she had not been able even to imagine what reason might lie behind it, but it had dawned upon her finally that the old woman was undoubtedly a midwife, sent to verify her lie.	
Wulfgar had been gone a week and half of another before a rider was spotted, and Alinor had spent the better part of a week wondering what was to become of her, certain that Wulfgar would not return at all. When a guard came to report sighting a rider, however, everyone began to gather in the yard to watch his approach. Alinor was not sure what the messenger had related until that moment, but the gathering was enough in itself to alert her to the fact that someone was approaching. 	
She recognized him the moment he came into view and her heart leapt in her throat—She was relieved, she told herself, that he had come back because, surely now, she would find out what was to become of her. 	
He sat stiffly in the saddle, as if he was holding himself erect with an effort. Noticing, Alinor began to move toward him. Someone—one of the maids set to watch her—caught her arm, preventing her unconscious urge to go to him. She turned to the woman. "He is wounded."	
The woman merely looked at her blankly. 	
Alinor turned to look at Wulfgar again just as he swayed in the saddle.	
"He is hurt!" she repeated angrily, jerking her arm free and running toward Wulfgar even as he began to slide off his horse. She caught him, but he was far too heavy for her even if he had not been barely conscious and she succeeded only in breaking his fall with her body. She hit the ground so hard she was too stunned to move--wondering for several moments if the horse had fallen upon her as well as Wulfgar. Before she could recover sufficiently to check him for signs of life, they were surrounded and Wulfgar lifted up and carried away. The maid who had tried to restrain Alinor, seized her wrist, yanked her to her feet and led her back to the manor. 	
She was not allowed to accompany Wulfgar. Instead, in spite of all she could do to fight her way free, she was dragged to the room she had occupied since her arrival and locked in. She beat on the door for a while, demanding to be allowed to see him, but finally had to accept that they would continue to ignore her. 	
Days passed in an agony of worry. Alinor paced the room like a caged animal, going to the door whenever she heard footsteps and pressing her ear to it to see if she could hear anything that might give her a clue as to whether or not Wulfgar still lived. Near the end of the fourth day Alinor’s guard unlocked the door and summoned her. 	
Alinor looked the woman over doubtfully, not at all certain she wished to know what the woman had in mind. If she had retained any doubt of it before, however, she was quickly disabused of the notion that what she wanted was of any consequence at all. The maid simply marched across the room, seized her by one wrist and dragged her from the room. Leading her down the hallway to another room, she opened the door and shoved Alinor inside. 	
Alinor stared at the door in consternation for several moments after it was slammed behind her before she turned to survey the room. It was another bed chamber, she realized immediately, and although it was still full light outside, the shutters had been closed and lit candles surrounded the bed.	
A priest stood beside the bed, examining her through narrowed, condemning eyes.	
Alinor scarcely noticed him, however, for her gaze had been drawn to the figure in the bed. 	
He was so pale and drawn as to be almost unrecognizable, and his condition, the priest and the candles clicked together almost instantaneously and her mind shouted ‘last rites’. She clapped a hand to her mouth to stifle a gasp of horror, felt as she had the day Wulfgar had fallen upon her, as if she had been body slammed against an immovable object and all the air crushed from her lungs. She couldn’t move. For several moments, she felt like she was going to faint and fall into a dead heap on the floor. 	
She noticed finally that Wulfgar was watching her. He lifted a hand, held it out to her. His image swam before her eyes as tears flooded them. She blinked, trying to banish them, trying desperately to summon a smile, but it was a ghoulish imitation of a smile at best and fell flat almost at once. 	
She wanted to go to him, but she could not seem to command her legs to move until his hand dropped tiredly to the mattress. She forced herself to take a step and then another, moving stiffly, with tremendous effort. When she finally reached the side of the bed, she sank weakly to her knees, grasping his hand in both of her own and bringing it to her cheek. She thought she wouldn’t be able to speak at all, but from no where the angry, accusing words spilled forth. "You have satisfied your honor? Avenged your beloved Freda? Look was has come of this mad scheme of yours!"	
She turned to glare at the priest. "Go away, you! He does not need you! He will be well and strong again!"	
Wulfgar made a coughing sound and her head whipped around. He was frowning, holding his chest with one hand. Her heart seemed to stand still as she watched his struggle. Finally, it subsided and he grinned at her. "I will be well."	
Alinor burst into tears. It was only by an effort that she refrained from throwing herself upon his chest, but she feared she would cause him pain.	
"This is the woman you are to wed?"	
Alinor broke off mid-wail. "What?"	
"You have fornicated with this man and conceived a child?"	
Alinor looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. It hardly seemed the time to start chastising her for her transgressions, and, in any case, even if she had conceived, that was no longer the case. 	
"I raped her," Wulfgar growled. "I have confessed as much. Do what you were summoned to do and leave."	
Alinor glanced from the priest to Wulfgar. "He was not brought to perform the last rites?"	
Wulfgar looked at her in surprise. "What made you think that?"	
Grinding her teeth in impotent fury, Alinor leapt to her feet, balling her hands into fists. "You allowed me to believe you were dying!"	
Wulfgar frowned, but looked away guiltily. He might not have intended that she think she had been summoned to his death bed, but he had known from the way she behaved that that was what she believed. She felt like punching something, preferably him. "Do you know what you put me through, you … you pig!"	
"What?"	
Alinor gaped at him, feeling the blood rush into her cheeks. She had been devastated. He had to know that, had to have seen it in her face, but she wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of saying it to him. "I thought I was to be a prisoner here forever!" she snapped.	
His expression closed and she immediately regretted the impulsive words her pride and anger had summoned. They could not be taken back now, however, and she was still too angry to find caution. "I will not wed this man!" she said to the priest. "I want to be returned to my family. They will pay ransom for my return."	
The priest frowned. Alinor didn’t so much as glance in Wulfgar’s direction. 	
"It matters not whether you were willing or not. You have fornicated. You carry this man’s child. You can not condemn the innocent to eternal damnation because of your pride."	
Alinor flushed. "I am not with child."	
The priest frowned, turning to Wulfgar. "Is this true?"	
"As far as she knows, perhaps. But the mid-wife examined her and assures me she still carries my child."	
It was one shock too many. Alinor felt her knees buckle. Slowly, she wilted to the floor, covering her face with her hands, trying to fight the blackness that threatened to engulf her. 	
Someone helped her to her feet. In a daze, she heard the priest recite the marriage lines. When prodded, she repeated the vows as told. Finally, she was led back to her room and left alone. Still feeling more than a little faint, and ill, she crawled into the bed and lay with her eyes closed, trying to make sense of what had just happened.	
She had wed Wulfgar. It seemed he had decided, after all, that her suggestion of how he might obtain his revenge would be the easiest road to take.	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
Chapter Eight	
	
Alinor had almost an entire week to worry about her wedding night. Naturally, she had no fear of coupling, but she was deeply troubled about the situation that had resulted in her marriage and not at all certain how best to handle it. 	
There was no doubt in her mind that she had grown deeply attached to Wulfgar. She very much feared that there was little doubt in his mind either, considering her behavior, but she had no desire to be an object of pity or the butt of jokes by displaying her feelings when it was painfully obvious to her that she had no place in Wulfgar’s heart. Moreover, she was uncertain of whether she had a chance to make a place for herself. If she did, she wanted it. She didn’t want to keep him at arm’s length just to protect her pride and lose all chance of gaining what she wanted.	
She could not help being eager for his caresses. She had to acknowledge that there was very little chance of hiding that much—some, mayhap, but not much. 	
When Wulfgar had recovered sufficiently to be up and moving about, his uncle arranged a wedding feast for them. To Alinor’s relief, this was confined to those residing in and near the manor. It was uncomfortable enough as it was to go through the motions of celebrating their marriage among people well aware of their situation, but fairly familiar. To be gawked at and whispered about by strangers would have been pure misery. 	
Thankfully, they were also spared the bedding ceremony. There could be no doubt that she was virginal no longer, or that Wulfgar had accepted her as she was and vice versa. The wedding guests merely escorted Wulfgar to their room, therefore, and left them.	
The maids had groomed Alinor to look her best for the wedding, washing her hair and combing it until it gleamed with health and life; bathing her in scented water; scrubbing the dry, rough skin from her body and kneading oils into her skin to soften it; and when they prepared her to receive her husband, they had used equal care.	
Despite everything that had passed between them, or perhaps because of it, Alinor’s heart leapt suffocatingly in her chest when Wulfgar entered the room, closing the door behind him. His gaze was immediately drawn to her where she sat propped up in bed on the pillows with her hair flowing around her, wearing her beribboned gown, like some confection that had been offered up to tempt him. A blush crept up her chest and neck to her cheeks under his scrutiny and, following the red tide, his gaze came to rest upon hers at last. 	
His expression was impossible to read. As he moved toward the bed and halted beside it, however, she saw that his eyes were dark with the promise of forbidden pleasures. Her nerves went taut, a flush of anticipation running through her that made her skin prickle with heightened awareness. Without taking his gaze from hers, he shrugged the robe he wore from his shoulders, allowing it to drop to the floor at his feet. 	
New, reddened scars and much older ones, now white, marred the once smooth flesh of his body, but Alinor was enthralled by his sheer magnificence, for, despite his recent brush with death and the pallor from it, his arms, chest and shoulders were massive with hard, bulging, ropy muscle, each clearly delineated by the skin stretched over it. His torso was a washboard of ridged muscle, his belly flat and hard. His cock, protruding from a nest of dark hair low on his belly caught her attention and held it. 	
She had not seen his manroot before. Now she found herself both fascinated and shocked by the look of it. It was an obscene shaft, veined and topped by a knob slightly larger in circumference than the shaft. It was stunning to think that her body would—had accommodated such a thing without causing her great pain, for it looked huge to her—small wonder, for there was no part of him that did not look huge to her.	
She looked up at his face uneasily when he moved toward her. 	
Grasping her arms, he urged her to come up upon her knees and lifted her nightgown. Pulling if off over her head and then tossing it aside, he caught her wrists, holding her arms out while he studied her as she had studied him. A shiver went through her that seemed equal parts excitement and nervousness. Despite her best efforts to quell the thought, it bounded into her mind to taunt her—Was he comparing her to Freda? And worse, did he find her lacking? 	
She had the uncomfortable feeling that he must. He’d accused her of being a child yet and she wasn’t certain if he had meant her figure was not womanly enough to suit him or if he meant he considered her behavior childish.	
In truth, though she had eaten well since she had been at the manor of his uncle she was well aware that she was still far too thin from the many weeks that she had traveled so hard and eaten so little. 	
Shame filled her and she tried to wrest her hands free to cover herself. He released her, but when she snatched the bed linens up to cover herself he took them from her, tossing them toward the foot of the bed. "Don’t," he murmured huskily as he placed a knee upon the bed and climbed into it so that they were kneeling face to face. "You are beautiful to my eyes."	
Alinor blushed, searching his face to see if the words had only been spoken to spare her feelings, but there was nothing there to tell her of anything beyond his needs. Grasping her shoulders, he leaned down, rubbing his cheek along hers, breathing in her scent as he caressed her gently, as if he saw and understood her nervousness and was determined to move slowly and allow her time to relax. His heated breath brushed her ear, raising a cascade of goose bumps that rushed down her neck and along her arm. She shivered, lifting her arms and pressing her palms against his chest as he moved lower, nuzzling her neck, placing light kisses there that made her breasts and belly tighten with need. Her nipples stood erect, pouting, demanding attention. 	
His gentle caresses seem to seep through her pores like strong wine and ran through her blood, intoxicating, demolishing her reserves as it sent a flash of heat and tension to the core of her womanhood. She slipped her palms up his chest to his shoulders, digging her fingers into his taut flesh and when he lifted his head, she pressed her lips to his, glided them across his hard mouth in a light caress, then, with the tip of her tongue, traced the seam where his lips met. 	
He sucked in a sharp breath. Sliding his arms around her, he caught her hips and pulled her onto his lap as he sat back on his heels, spreading her thighs so that she was astride him, a knee on either side of his hips. Her buttocks slipped along his hair roughened thighs, sending enticing ripples of sensation through her. Grasping her hips, he pulled her snugly against him, his cock slipping between the petals of her femininity teasingly, nudging the tiny, sensitive bud that was the center of her delight as he slid the hard, distended flesh of his cock back and forth along her moist cleft. A shudder of gratification ran through her, bathing her core in a hot tide of moisture and flooding her passage to ease the way of his possession, sending a dizzying lethargy throughout her body. A small, unconscious sound of pleasure vibrated from her throat and she slipped her hands from his shoulders, locking her arms around his neck to hold herself closer to him as she plucked at his lips with her own, teasing him with the tip of her tongue until at last he opened his mouth over hers, plunging his tongue into the moist, sensitive inner recesses of her mouth. 	
The hot tide rose, and she began to move restlessly against him, luxuriating in the tingles of delight that raced along her flesh, burrowing deeply inside of her and building the exquisite tension with each brush of her bare flesh against his. 	
Her movements seemed to break his restraint. His kiss became more heated, his breath harsh as he caught her hips, guiding her as she rocked her moist cleft along his hardened cock, stroking him. Lifting her slightly, he positioned his cock so that the head nudged her cleft, seeking the entrance to her passage. Eagerly, her heart pounding with anticipation, Alinor moved to align her body with his, breaking their kiss on a gasp as she felt his cock head enter her. Lifting her head, she stared deeply into his eyes as she bore down upon him, felt his shaft sinking slowly inside of her, felt the muscles of her belly adjusting to his girth, until she was impaled to the hilt. 	
For several thundering heartbeats they gazed at each other once they were fully joined, holding themselves still as they relished the thrilling sensations rushing through them. Wulfgar slid one hand up her back to cup her head, threading is fingers through her hair and pulled her close, nibbling a trail of kisses down her throat and finally opening his mouth over one distended nipple. Her heart clenched almost painfully as his mouth closed around the sensitive peak, pleasure like fire rolling through her and the muscles of her passage responded of their own accord by clenching around him. He groaned as if in agony, catching her hips in both hands once more and lifting so that his cock moved through her in a downward stroke, and then pushing down on her hips and thrusting at the same time so that he sank deeply inside her once more. 	
Catching the rhythm, she began to move as he’d shown her, rotating her hips as she discovered a place inside of her that quaked with intense pleasure each time he stroked it, moving faster, then slower, until she found the angle and rhythm that brought her the most pleasure, that sent her racing along the path of repletion. And though she felt the building tension, felt herself rising rapidly toward her goal, felt her pleasure mounting higher, faster, more intensely, the magnitude of it caught her so unaware, so blindingly with its intensity that she cried out, groaning as if she were dying. 	
The pleasure was still jolting through her in waves when he tossed her onto her back on the mattress and began pumping in and out of her in deep, swift strokes until his own climax burst upon him, his hot seed pouring into her in a scalding fountain that bathed the quivering flesh of her womb and passage and sent aftershocks of pleasure and an intense sense of completion through her.	
Trembling with the effort, he pushed himself off of her, collapsing on the other side of the bed. 	
The sense of completion vanished as abruptly as his withdrawal. A cooling breath of air wafted over her, sending a shiver of discomfort through her, but that was nothing compared to the sense of abandonment that crept insidiously through her as he lay unmoving beside her, staring pensively at the canopy above the bed.	
A sense of betrayal followed upon the heels of that and Alinor strove to nudge a spark of anger to life … anger directed mostly at herself. What had she expected, after all, fool that she was? That he would profess undying love for her only because he enjoyed easing his body upon her? Just because it was the most wondrous experience in her life, it did not necessarily follow that it was so for him. Very likely his experience was no different with her than with any other woman he had lain with. 	
She had overheard men talk of coupling with women. The vessel they used to sheath their sword was unimportant so long as they found their ease—and they always did. 	
She would not cry over it, though she longed to release her pain and anger in tears. It would do nothing but irritate Wulfgar if she wept each time they coupled as if she were wounded and he would soon be looking for a woman who left him in peace afterward. 	
Sitting up, she pulled the covers up over herself and turned on her side away from him. She would’ve liked to have found her gown, as well, but cringed at the thought of drawing his attention to her nakedness. 	
He had said she was beautiful. How stupid of her to take it to heart. It could have been nothing more than the sweet words men were prone to use to ease their passage. She knew she wasn’t beautiful, even in the first blush of health—and she was less than that now. What an absurd piece of self-deception that had allowed her to believe he truly meant it!	
With an effort, she pushed the thoughts aside as she heard the deep, even breaths that told her he slept and composed her own mind to seek rest. She had gotten herself into a miserable mess, so caught up in her own infatuation that it had not occurred to her that having that which one wants most only allows one to suffer daily, and endlessly, over the realization that one does not really have it at all. 	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
Chapter Nine	
	
Within the week, Wulfgar, Alinor and a small escort set off to the nearest port to take ship for France. Men joined them along the way, seasoned soldiers that Alinor finally decided must be the remains of the army Lord Wulfgar had once commanded in the days before his lands were taken. 	
Alinor found she did not feel at all well throughout much of the trip, though Wulfgar did not set the killing pace that he had when they were eluding Jean-Pierre’s troops. Bouts of nausea plagued her. At first she feared she had contracted some strange malady, but she did not worsen and finally she realized that the old crone who had examined her and reported to Wulfgar had been right. She was with child. 	
She knew she should be elated. Women were supposed to be thrilled at the prospect of bearing there husband’s child. Somehow, though, she could not seem to feel anything at all beyond a sense of disbelief and finally she simply put it from her mind altogether, unable to focus on anything beyond her physical misery. 	
The crossing was no better, nor any worse that she could tell, than her previous crossing, beyond the fact that she was far more than vaguely nauseated. They had barely left port when she emptied the contents of her stomach over the side of the rail and she clung there throughout the crossing, continuing to gag long after she had ceased to have anything at all in her stomach. 	
She was so weak by the time they arrived that she was barely even aware of being carried through the crashing surf. When Wulfgar settled her on the sand beyond the reach of the waves, she wilted gratefully onto the damp sand, her eyes closed as she tried to fight off the dizzying sensation of movement that continued to plague her.	
She yearned, desperately, for the comfort of her own bed—her own room. Until she had set foot once more on French soil, she had not realized how terribly she had missed all that she’d left behind—or perhaps she had and had simply refused to acknowledge it because she had known it was pointless even to think of it. Now, however, it filled her mind with a fever of impatience and she struggled up as she heard the men unloading the fear crazed horses. 	
"We will camp here for the night at least," Wulfgar said shortly when he saw her moving toward the horse that had been brought for her use. 	
She turned to look at him in dismay. "But … we are only a few days’ ride from Arrus. I am well enough to go on."	
"The horses are too crazed to attempt it now. You would not be able to handle it."	
Alinor gaped at him for several moments and finally turned to study the frenzied dance of the horse. She knew he was right. She was no horsewoman and could barely stay on the back of a calm horse, but disappointment flooded her all the same. Her shoulders slumped. Nodding, she lifted her skirts and moved to the packs that had been piled on the beach, trying to decide whether there was any point, really, in unpacking anything when they would probably be leaving at first light. 	
The very thought of food made her feel distinctly ill, but no one else seemed to have suffered the effects of the crossing quiet as much as she had. They had not eaten since they had broken their fast at dawn. She should see what she could find to cook over the campfire several of Wulfgar’s men had built of driftwood they had collected.	
She yelped, dropping the pot she’d unearthed when Wulfgar swooped down upon her. Snatching her off her feet, he swept her into his arms, carried her to a spot near the fire and deposited her. "Sit!" he growled impatiently.	
Alinor blinked at him in surprise, but he said nothing more, merely turning upon his heel and stalking off. She watched him for several moments as he and his men moved about the beach, setting up camp, but looked away when she realized his men kept throwing curious glances at first her and then Wulfgar. Pulling her knees up beneath her gown, she hugged them to her and propped her cheek on her knees, staring at the fire thereafter and doing her best to ignore everything going on around her. She must have dozed, for she awoke to the aroma of cooking food. At once, her belly was of two minds, the one clamoring for something to fill the empty void and the other rebelling. 	
She squeezed her eyes tightly, fighting the wave of nausea while she tried to decide whether to yield to the hunger and appease it or if her belly was merely playing a trick upon her and would immediately reject any attempt to swallow. 	
She opened her eyes when Wulfgar sat beside her. He was holding out a trencher filled with huntsman’s stew—that manmade concoction whereupon they threw whatever was at hand into it so that it never tasted quiet the same any two times it was cooked and as often as not was completely unpalatable. Alinor forced a smile, but shook her head. "Merci, but I am not ‘ungry."	
He frowned. "I insist."	
Alinor’s smile fell flat. "I do not think I can eat it."	
His lips tightened with annoyance. "You will try, however. You have my child in your belly."	
She sent him a sullen glance but took the trencher, staring down at it in revulsion for several moments. He speared a chunk of meat with his eating knife and held it to her lips. Alinor shuddered, squeezed her eyes tightly and opened her mouth. To her surprise and relief, it tasted quiet good. She chewed it experimentally and finally swallowed. Her stomach protested immediately, but quieted after a moment and she took another bite. She had managed only a little when she became quite certain that she could eat no more if she was to have any chance of holding what she’d already eaten. She set the trencher aside. 	
Wulfgar frowned. "You have barely touched it. You will be no more than breath and bones if you refuse to eat."	
Alinor glared at him, tempted to inform him that she did not care if he found her bones unappealing or not. No doubt his precious Freda had been buxom and well rounded for his pleasure. He could stab himself to death on her bones for all she cared! In any case, it was not she who refused, but her belly … not that she trusted herself even to speak that much. The more tense she became, the more determined her stomach seemed to reject the pitiful offering. 	
He picked up the trencher and held it out to her again. "Only a little more and I will leave you in peace."	
Alinor stared down at the congealing food and lost her battle. Clapping a hand over her mouth, she thrust his hand away, leapt to her feet and dashed up the beach. She didn’t notice Wulfgar had followed her until he nudged her shoulder and handed her a skin of water. Accepting it gratefully, she rinsed her mouth and spat before she sat back. Uncomfortable now that the bout had passed, she glanced at him. Even in the dim light of approaching night she could see that he looked nearly as pale and shaky as she felt. 	
"I could not help it!" she snapped. "If it makes you feel ill, then go away."	
Something flickered in his eyes, but Alinor was far too distressed to take not of it, or even to try to understand it. His lips tightened. "You are an ill tempered wench!"	
Alinor glared at him. "I am not ‘a wench’!" she snarled. "I am your wife."	
"Then obey me," he snarled back at her. "Your parents will be wroth with me if I arrive at their door with you nigh dead!"	
Alinor gaped at him, outraged. "You think I did this on purpose?"	
He stared at her a long moment and then looked away. "Nay. But you must try harder. If you continue this you will not be able to eat at all and you will not have the strength you need for the babe in your belly."	
"I am a brood mare then? I must suppose that is better that being of no consequence at all!" Alinor said hotly, well aware that she was goading Wulfgar into anger, but uncaring.	
He flushed. "An heiress is always of importance," he said tightly.	
Alinor flinched at the comment. She had forced him to admit his reason for wedding her and she should be fiercely glad. She was. It was completely unreasonable that she also felt a desire to burst into tears. She fought a round with her wayward emotions and finally subdued the urge. "I think I will rest now," she said finally, rising with an effort and making her way back to the tent that had been set up for her use.	
She was asleep when Wulfgar crawled beneath the furs with her sometime later, but roused sufficiently to move closer to his warmth. Slipping an arm beneath her head, he snuggled her tightly against his length. Alinor murmured sleepily, lifting her head to nuzzle his neck. He stroked her hair and along her back and she felt a stirring of desire. Gliding her hand downward, she pressed her palm against the hard ridge that had been nudging her belly. He groaned, but caught her hand, and placed it firmly on his waist. "Be still, love. There will be time enough for that when you are well."	
Alinor frowned, vaguely disappointed, but finally decided she was too comfortable and too sleepy anyway. 	
To her surprise, she woke the following morning as Wulfgar entered the tent. Settling beside her, he wordlessly handed her a portion of bread and a skin filled, she discovered, with warm milk. She looked up at him in surprise as she sat up and accepted them. "Angus says his woman finds this easier to eat when she is breeding," he said gruffly. "Eat it slowly and do not get up until you do not feel ill."	
Alinor stared at the tent flap when he departed as abruptly as he’d entered. Slowly, a smile curled her lips and warmth suffused her. It was a thoughtful gesture. She decided to accept it and enjoy it, refusing to allow her fertile mind to suspect his motives. 	
To her relief, she found that Angus’ wife had been right. The goats’ milk and dried bread went down easily and barely gave her a quiver of doubt that it would remain. 	
Regardless, she ate sparingly. It would be better to keep only a little than to keep none at all by trying to eat more than she felt like eating. She lay still for a time after she’d eaten, listening to the men as they broke camp and began loading the horses. Finally, she rose and dressed, rolled the furs and tied them and dragged the bundle outside. 	
Wulfgar, she discovered, was waiting outside. Handing him the bundle, she went in search of privacy for her needs. When she returned, the tent had been struck and loaded and the men were already mounted and ready to depart. Wulfgar studied her searchingly for several moments and finally lifted her onto her mount, waiting until he was certain she was firmly seated and had her mare in hand before he mounted his own horse. 	
"We will go first to the home of your father," Wulfgar said as he pulled his horse along side her own. 
Alinor nodded, feeling at once a surge of both happiness and dread. Her father was not going to be pleased that she returned home with a far different husband than the one he had arranged for her. 	
"Your father is more like to disown you than negotiate peace," Wulfgar murmured, as if to himself. 	
"He will not like it," Alinor said. "But he will accept it."	
Wulfgar’s look was dubious, but he did not argue the matter. 	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
Chapter Ten	
	
"What!" Chrétien d’Arrus bellowed furiously.	
Alinor set her jaw belligerently. Beside her, she felt Wulfgar tense. She stepped in front of him. She was fairly certain he would not come to blows with her father, and he had disarmed when he entered the keep, but there was no sense in taking the chance. 	
She was glad they had a private audience—courtesy of her mother, who had insisted that they go to her solar for refreshment.	
"He is my husband," she said tightly. "My choice."	
Her father glared at her. "You were betrothed to Jean-Pierre! As good as wed-- or my word is nothing! The contracts have been signed and witnessed!"	
Alinor shrugged. "I wed Lord Wulfgar of my own free will, before a priest, father. It can not now be undone."	
"Indeed it can!"	
Alinor’s heart skipped a beat. She had not anticipated that her father would refuse to see the inevitability of the situation. "Indeed it can not! I am with child! Wulfgar’s child. The church would not grant an annulment and I would not ask for it."	
Her father gaped at her as if she had lost her mind. "A captive bride, wed against her will! I will petition for an annulment. Under the circumstances…."	
Claire d’Arrus laid a hand on her husband’s arm. "Think of the child, Chrétien," she said quietly. "Jean-Pierre would not welcome the child of his enemy, even if you succeeded in having your way. We must accept this and make the best of it. Jean-Pierre is not unreasonable. We can make some sort of restitution for the loss."	
Chrétien glared at her. "Mind your needle, woman, and leave business to men!"	
"My daughter is my business!" Claire snapped. "I told you she was not happy with your choice and no good would come of it. I have no doubt she did it to spite us."	
"I did no such thing, mother!" 	
"I took her captive! She had no choice in the matter!" Wulfgar said tightly.	
Alinor gave him a look. "I could have refused to say my vows!"	
"I would have wed you anyway! You would not have been the first bride to take her vows bound and gagged." Wulfgar snarled. 	
"Mayhap, but you did not have to!"	
"Peace!" Chrétien d’Arrus demanded. "I know nothing of this man."	
"I am Wulfgar, late of Chittenhold—Saxon," Wulfgar said stiffly.	
Chrétien’s lips tightened. "Landless—and so you seized an heiress to replace the lands you lost."	
Wulfgar’s eyes narrowed. It went against the grain to explain his actions to any man, but he was obliged to consider the rights of a father. "I seized the bride of my enemy, Jean-Pierre, in retaliation for … what was taken from me. "	
"My daughter!" Chrétien growled, glaring back at him. "You made war upon my daughter—you should have challenged Jean-Pierre like a gentleman."	
Wulfgar gritted his teeth. "I did challenge Jean-Pierre … to single combat, to settle the issue."	
Chrétien was taken aback. "You’re saying you bested Jean-Pierre?"	
Wulfgar flushed. "He did not meet me. He sent a dozen knights to take me prisoner."	
"And yet, you are here."	
"Your daughter warned me that he was not a man of his word and would lay a trap for me. Because I was warned, I was able to win free."	
Chrétien glanced from Wulfgar to Alinor and back again. Finally, he sat and gestured for Wulfgar and Alinor to sit, as well. "He speaks the truth, daughter?"	
Wulfgar ground his teeth. He was not accustomed to having his word questioned by any man. Father or not, he was of more than half a mind to return to England at once. He might be landless now, but he was no beggar.	
Alinor laid a hand on his arm. "He is my husband, father, and a man of honor. He brought me here only because I begged him to. I … told him my dower lands would be my husband’s and that he would have his revenge upon Jean-Pierre if he married me. He refused them … until he learned that I carried his child.	
"Where is the difference? You can not tell me Jean-Pierre would have wed me without the dower lands!"	
Her father frowned at her. "If you can not understand the difference, child, then I will not try to explain it."	
"I do not understand the difference because there is none! If he had come to ask for me before the Duke of Normandy invaded his lands, he would have been as eligible as any other … more so that some others. If we had been wed, and then he had lost his holdings in England, we would still only have had the dower lands!"	
Chrétien stared at her a long moment and finally looked at Wulfgar. "Women have no logic."	
Wulfgar’s eyes gleamed. "They do not."	
Alinor looked from one to the other indignantly, but her mother caught her eye. "Come, Alinor. Sit closer to the fire with me. I feel a bit of a chill."	
Chrétien turned a piercing eye upon her. "You are not ill?"	
Claire smiled at him. "No, my love. But I was certain that you and Wulfgar would have more important things to discuss and I wish to speak to my daughter about woman things."	
Chrétien nodded and flicked a hand dismissively toward her and Claire gave her daughter an amused look. Alinor glanced at Wulfgar a little anxiously, not at all certain that she wished to leave him with her father, but her father had engaged him in conversation and he did not look her way. Claire slipped an arm around her waist. "You have not been well," she murmured consolingly. "It is the babe?"	
Wulfgar glanced toward the two women as they settled near the hearth. At a little distance, they were as two peas in a pod, of much the same height and build, the same dark hair, the same large, brown eyes that gave them a look of wide eyed innocence, whatever mischief they might be about. Alinor’s mother could have as easily been thought to be her sister, for she still retained a youthful look about her.	
"She was of much the same age as Alinor is now when Alinor was born. I’d hoped for a son, of course, but I have not been displeased with Alinor."	
Wulfgar dragged his gaze from them with an effort. "Alinor has never spoken of brothers or sisters."	
Chrétien sighed. "Because there are none. Claire bore three sons for me and two daughters besides Alinor, but none lived more than a few years. One never drew his first breath, a second died within a few days. The others were carried off by fever.	
"This is why it was important to me to settle Alinor well—with a strong warrior, capable of defending her and her holdings. I do not have great wealth, but the lands I hold are fertile enough to tempt our neighbors. I would not have been against a love match if Alinor’s heart had settled upon someone suitable, but she favored none above the rest and Jean-Pierre, whose land marches with her dower lands, is widely known as a warrior of merit." He looked Wulfgar over with a slightly more favorable gaze. "You look to me as if you have a good sword arm."	
"I am accounted capable."	
Chrétien shrugged. "We’ll know soon enough."	
Wulfgar’s brows rose questioningly. 	
"Jean-Pierre placed a man on Alinor’s holdings before he left to join Duke William. Like as not the man will not yield willingly."	
Wulfgar’s eyes gleamed. "T’would be a pity if he did."	
Chrétien frowned, but in a moment a chuckle escaped him. "You were hoping for as much."	
Wulfgar eyed him speculatively for several moments. "Aye. There is more than one way to draw a serpent from his hole."	
Chrétien grunted. "You will need more men that what you have brought with you."	
Wulfgar shrugged. "I have faith in my men. They have fought many battles beside me."	
"Hmmm. All the same, you and I will have to consider this matter carefully before we leave. I’d just as soon take the land with as little damage as possible. If Jean-Pierre has no notion of what you are about, then he will not have sent word to warn them."	
"I make no doubt Jean-Pierre believes me dead," Wulfgar said grimly. "For I was sorely wounded ‘ere I won free of the trap he’d set for me."	
"But you are fit for fighting now?"	
Wulfgar shrugged. "Well enough."	
"There is no great rush, surely? If he thinks you dead then that is to our advantage. We can bide awhile, give you time to heal as you should and regain your strength."	
Wulfgar frowned, turning to look at Alinor. "Alinor is not well. I would like to settle things and have her comfortable in her own home as soon as possible."	
Chrétien said nothing for so long that Wulfgar became aware of the prolonged silence and glanced at him. 	
"Is that the way of it, then?"	
Wulfgar flushed uncomfortably. He could see what was in the man’s mind and his first impulse was to deny it, but it occurred to him quite suddenly that the denial would be a lie. "Aye. That is the way of it." 	
* * * *	
Alinor had been in bed for quite some time before Wulfgar joined her. 	
Her mother had arranged a small celebration in honor of her marriage and they had feasted long into the night. She had not wanted to leave when her mother had suggested that they retire for the evening, but she was weary from the travel and the events of the day. In any case, she had thought Wulfgar would surely follow her when he saw that she was going to their apartments. 	
They had not coupled since they had begun the journey and Alinor had taken great pains to prepare herself for him. She had been anxious that he would come before she had had time to complete her preparations, but when the maids had left at last he still had not come. Finally, she had settled herself in bed to await him.	
In the end, she had dozed despite her determination to wait for him. Despite her exhaustion, however, or perhaps because of her determination, she had woken when he had come in at long last. 	
Two things were immediately apparent. 	
He thought that she was asleep and was taking great pains not to disturb her; and he was drunk, as she had never seen him before.	
He undressed himself with an effort. Watching him, the temptation grew strong to giggle. She quelled it, not certain that he would take it well in his present state. By the time he had finished, however, all desire to laugh had fled. He was, she decided, quite beautiful to behold. Warmth and excitement flooded her as she studied him and thought of how wonderful it felt when their bodies joined.	
Finally, he doused the candles and climbed into bed beside her, lying stiffly on one side, staring up at the ceiling. Alinor lay still, as well, waiting for him to reach for her. When he did not, irritation surfaced. She was of half a mind to simply turn her back upon him and go to sleep. It occurred to her, however, that he had not sought to ease himself on her for many days and he would be in need. 	
She didn’t at all care for the way the maids had eyed him, all a flutter with excited giggles whenever he strode through the hall.	
She scooted across the bed and cuddled against his side, placing her hand on his chest. He stiffened, but after a moment, he slipped an arm under her head and held her close. When he made no effort to do more, Alinor stroked his chest caressingly.	
He caught her hand, held it a moment and finally released it. 	
Alinor lay fuming for a while, but she was not about to leave him ripe for the maids’ suggestive glances.	
Pushing herself up on one elbow, she leaned over him and began to kiss her way down his chest to his belly. He sucked in a harsh breath, slipping his hand up her back to her shoulders in a gesture, she knew, was not intended as encouragement, but rather the opposite. She ignored it, reaching down with one hand in search of his cock as she continued to nibble a teasing trail of kisses down his belly. He jerked reflexively when her fingers closed around his engorged member. 	
Alinor smiled against his belly in satisfaction. He might pretend he had no interest in coupling with her-- and perhaps he did not—but his cock had a mind of its own.	
Leaning down, Alinor kissed the rounded head. His cock jerked in her hand. A harsh groan rumbled through his chest. Alinor took his cock into her mouth. 	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
Chapter Eleven	
	
	
Wulfgar bolted upright, his fingers tangling in her hair, clutching and releasing, as if he couldn’t quite decide whether to hold her there or pull her away. 	
Lifting her head, Alinor gave him a look of innocence. "Did you not like it?"	
Wulfgar stared at her a long moment, his heart thundering in his chest as if it would beat its way out, unable for several moments even to catch his breath to speak. "This is … not right."	
Alinor studied him for a long moment, but there was nothing to suggest that he was repelled by what she had done and much to suggest otherwise. "You are my husband. It is right that we pleasure each other in whatever manner we wish."	
When he did not contradict her, she lowered her head once more. Covering the head of his cock with her mouth, she sucked it. Groaning as if he were dying, Wulfgar fell back against the bed, digging his fingers into the bed linens. Entirely satisfied with his reaction, Alinor slipped his cock deeper into her mouth and then lifted her head, moving his turgid flesh in and out of her mouth as he moved inside of her when they coupled, trying to find a rhythm that would give him the most pleasure. 	
Every muscle in his body seemed tensed, as if he were struggling to resist the pleasure she gave him, and yet he could not be still as she held him tightly in her mouth, stroking him. Abruptly, she felt a change in him, a new restless, a new desperation and she realized that he was nearing his crisis. Heat rushed through her, pooling like liquid fire low in her belly. She renewed her efforts, moving faster, thrusting his hands away when he tried to push her away. 	
Sitting bolt upright with a growl, Wulfgar pulled her free and shoved her down on the mattress on her back. Alinor was too stunned to do more than gape at him when he grasped her legs, lifting her hips from the bed as he pulled her thighs apart and buried his face between them. When his mouth opened over her femininity, she cried out in surprise as an intense shaft of pleasure stabbed through her, making the muscles in her belly tighten almost painfully in response. She clutched his head as he stroked the sensitive petals of flesh with his tongue, the heat of his mouth, the slightly rough texture of his tongue sending lightening forks of ecstasy sizzling through her until she was thrashing mindlessly, moaning incessantly.	
Within moments, she felt herself rushing toward her crisis. It burst upon her like a rupturing melting pot, so intensely she cried out. He lifted his head, a gleam of triumph and desire lighting his eyes as he dragged her toward him and impaled her on his distended flesh, thrusting hard, burying himself deeply and pulling away quickly to thrust again. Alinor lay spent, gasping at the waves of pleasure that rocked her with each deep penetration. Within seconds she felt her body gathering toward release once more. It caught her up in a more intense explosion even than before as she felt his cock jerk as he spilled his seed inside of her. 	
Bracing his hands on the bed on either side of her, he hovered above her for several moments, struggling to catch his breath and finally simply dropped sideways onto the bed beside her and lay unmoving except for the harsh breaths that continued to saw in and out of his chest. 	
Too weak to move, Alinor remained where she was for several moments, but the night air across her heated skin sent a shiver through her. With an effort, she moved closer to Wulfgar. Snuggling against his side, she draped an arm across his heaving chest, stroking him in appreciation.	
He caught her hand after a moment. "Do not," he said through gritted teeth.	
Alinor stiffened, felt hurt wash through her. 	
"I will die if you begin that again," he muttered irritably.	
As his meaning sank in, Alinor tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle a giggle.	
"The thought of murdering your husband amuses you?" he asked stiffly.	
Alinor nipped him teasingly and chuckled. "Surely it would be a pleasurable way to die?"	
Growling, he rolled onto his side and shoved her onto her back. His expression was serious, but there was a teasing gleam in his eyes. "You are a wicked temptress, Alinor. You make no allowance for an aged husband."	
Alinor gazed up at him for several moments and finally lifted a hand and caressed his lean cheek. "Rest then. I am weary also. I just … wanted to be sure you did not find someone else to assuage your needs."	
He frowned, withdrawing. "I am no monk, Alinor."	
Alinor came up on one arm, glaring at him. "You had best consider taking the vows. I will never deny you, but neither will I look the other way while you find sport elsewhere."	
"You are my wife," Wulfgar growled. "Not my confessor."	
"Yes! Your wife! You vowed to honor me, not to dishonor me by taking other women into your bed!"	
"You are too young to understand the ways of the world," Wulfgar said with determined patience. "A man has needs."	
"A woman also," Alinor responded tightly. "And, you are wrong, I do know the ways of the world, but I know also that my father has always been faithful to my mother. Would you not care if I were to look about for another stallion to ride?"	
Wulfgar caught her arms in a bruising grip. "Has one caught your eye?" he growled furiously. "Only point him out to me and I will see to it that he is stallion no more, but gelding."	
Alinor looked down, satisfied with his answer. "There is one ….It would be a great shame to geld so magnificent a beast, however."	
His fingers tightened on her arms. "Name him."	
Alinor looked up at him and realized immediately that it had been a mistake to tease him. There was murder in his eyes. Her heart skipped a beat. "A Saxon lord by the name of Wulfgar."	
He didn’t believe her. She saw that at once.	
"I will not hurt you, Alinor. But know this, your touch means death to any man who strikes your fancy. You are mine," he said through clenched teeth, "and I will not look away while you comport yourself like the ladies of loose morals and choose lovers at whim."	
Alinor sighed impatiently. "On my honor, I desire no one but you."	
He studied her a long moment and finally released her. "Women have no honor."	
She glared at him angrily for several moments and finally lay back in a huff, turning her back to him. 	
He remained as he was, staring up at the canopy for so long that Alinor thought he might have gone to sleep. Finally, he rolled to face her, studied her rigid back for a moment and then pulled her back against him, wrapping an arm around her. "I have satisfied your needs?" he asked stiffly.	
Alinor bit her lip, knowing he would be outraged if she laughed. "Very well, my lord," she responded finally, keeping her voice level with an effort.	
* * * *	
Claire d’Arrus was torn between shock, amusement and irritation when Alinor confessed what she had done. "Child! I despair that you will live long enough to learn to mind your tongue! What possessed you to sew a seed of doubt in the man’s mind? Men are simple creatures. They see only black and white and can not detect the fine shadings between. Next he will begin to doubt the child in your belly is his."	
Alinor felt the blood rush from her face. "What have I done!"	
Claire studied her angrily for several moments, but finally her face softened. "Nothing that can not be mended … if you will mind that wicked tongue of yours! When he has had time to assure himself that you are not looking around for someone with which to cuckold him, he will begin to trust again … it will be best if providence provides you with a child in his image that he can not deny …. If you have learned a lesson from it, then some good will have come of it."	
Alinor looked at her doubtfully. "I am not at all certain that I will remember it the next time something pops into my mind. I do try …. But he had not touched me since we left England and I have seen the way the maids titter over him. I was afraid that he would turn from me altogether."	
Sympathy filled her mother’s eyes. "It is a terrible thing to love someone so much. It does tend to lead to poor judgment, and, alas, yours was not as it should have been even before."	
A blush crept up Alinor’s cheeks. "It is that obvious then?"	
"To me, yes. To that great lout you married, obviously not, else he would not have been so quick to suppose you would look around for another … uh … stallion."	
Vaguely relieved, Alinor was still not terribly happy. It occurred to her, however, that if she was jealous because she loved Wulfgar, that, surely, his implied a similar attachment. Unfortunately, her mother disabused her of the notion.	
"It is a common mistake to judge others upon yourself. You must understand that no one else feels, or thinks, or looks upon things in quite the same way that you do. They are not motivated by the same things that you are, nor will they react the same. In any case, men are territorial animals. They will growl over a bone they do not even want, only because it is theirs."	
"Oh," Alinor said in dismay. "You think, then, that he was only angry because I am his wife?"	
Claire shrugged. "He has been kind to you, despite the circumstances. It is not impossible that he has developed an affection for you. Particularly since he lost his wife so tragically and claimed to love her. He would have a void that needed filling."	
Alinor supposed that was said to make her feel better. Somehow it didn’t. "If … father died, do you think that you would love another?"	
Claire looked pained. "I would not look for another to take his place, for no one could." She noticed Alinor looked near tears and could have bitten her tongue. Small wonder her daughter spoke so thoughtlessly! "I already pointed out that we are not all the same, Alinor. In any case, I never said that I could not love another, only that I would not look."	
"That is the same thing!"	
Claire sighed with exasperation. "Then you should simply give up now. There is no point in trying to win his heart, I am sure, for it is in the grave."	
Alinor’s jaw set belligerently. "You always told me that men liked their comfort and a woman who could assure that could also be assured of earning their man’s affection."	
"You will not make him comfortable if you treat him to tears and rages of jealousy."	
"Then I will not."	
Claire looked at her dubiously.	
"I will not!" Alinor repeated more forcefully, wondering even as she said it if she would be able to control her impulse to speak, or act, first and mourn the consequences later.	
To her surprise, although Wulfgar made it clear that he remained displeased with her, he watched her every movement whenever she was within sight, like a predatory cat watched its prey. It was unnerving, and yet she could not help but be elated that he never so much as glanced in the direction of any of the maids who made sheep’s eyes at him—He was far too busy watching her to notice the invitation in their eyes. Moreover, he slept in her bed each night, coupling with her each night before he would allow her to sleep.	
Alinor didn’t know whether to be gratified or disturbed by the results of their argument but by the time Wulfgar left with her father to reclaim their holdings, she was almost relieved at the opportunity it would afford her to rest.	
She would have been happier if she had not been anxious about the outcome of the excursion, for she very quickly discovered that broken rest due to coupling was far preferable to the anxiety that kept her wakeful and restless once he had gone.	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
Chapter Twelve	
	
Chrétien d’Arrus sent word ahead of his intentions to inspect his daughter’s dower property. Wulfgar was opposed to the notion, but bowed to Chrétien’s position. When they topped a rise and looked upon the stronghold that guarded the property’s northern boundary, he understood why Chrétien had decided it would be best to approach openly. 	
Unlike the Saxons, the Europeans favored walled fortresses. Maison de Vardon was surrounded by a sheer stone wall that looked to be between twenty and thirty feet high. Above its ramparts, Wulfgar could see the pointed spires and steep slate covered roof of the mansion itself, but nothing else beyond the guards stationed along the top of the wall. 	
The mansion was aptly named, for it stood upon a knoll that even now, after first frost, showed specks of green. The land that stretched out around it in every direction was still in cultivation this late in the growing season and Wulfgar had no doubt that the forest that had been cut back into the distance was equally fecund. Alinor had not exaggerated when she had told him of it.	
A mixture of emotions filled him as he surreptitiously surveyed the lands that would be his home and Alinor’s; pleasure in the sheer beauty of it; gratitude that he would once again have an estate to manage and a hearth of his own; humility that Alinor and her family had accepted him when he was no more, now, than any other landless knight; and homesickness. 	
He had not allowed himself to think of living in a foreign land. In truth, he had hardly given any thought to the land at all beyond the certainty that taking it would goad Jean-Pierre as nothing else had. Now, although he looked forward to claiming it with hope and a sense of renewed purpose, he also realized that he would never truly feel as if he belonged. The lands Jean-Pierre now held had been in his family for generations. He had been born there as his father before him and every inch of it was as familiar to him as his own body. 	
This place was Alinor’s.	
As if Chrétien had read his mind, he spoke just then. "This part of the property comes to Alinor from Claire. The mansion was built for her mother, but has been well kept and added to several times over the years. There is a much smaller keep on the southern end of her property … not much to it at all, but the land is as fertile. I purchased it after my second daughter was born, but …." He allowed the sentence to trail off and after a moment Wulfgar realized that he was thinking of the children he had lost. There had been no point in enlarging his holdings when he had seen he would have no other heirs. 	
A knot tightened in Wulfgar’s belly. He had seen himself how much Alinor was like her mother. 	
"We shall see soon enough if Raul Dubois has a notion of what we are about," Chrétien muttered under his breath as he signaled for the troops to halt before the gate of the keep … which had not opened to greet them as Chrétien had expected it would. They waited, becoming uneasy as time passed. Finally, the creak and groan of chain rang out as the portcullis slowly began to open. 	
Wulfgar glanced at Chrétien. "It’s a trap," he muttered, tossing one corner of his cape back so that he could reach his weapons without hindrance. A ripple went through the men behind him as they noticed his posture.	
The gate was little more than halfway open when he dug his heels into his destrier’s sides and yelled the battle cry. 	
If Chrétien’s men had not been as well trained as his own, they would very likely have been doomed, for less than half their men managed to make it through before the portcullis was slammed closed once more. Those who’d entered were well versed with the layout of the keep, however, and leapt from their horses immediately and charged the walls to capture control of the portcullis. Once they were inside, the battle lasted little more than an hour, for the mansion itself was not fortified. 	
Raul Dubois had had no word from Jean-Pierre they discovered after they’d questioned him, beyond having been informed that the heiress had been killed and that he was not to allow Chrétien the chance to retake the keep. 	
Chrétien had to be restrained from killing the man on the spot, but Wulfgar had other plans for him. "No! We will send him to Jean-Pierre. Obviously, he was devastated at the thought of Alinor’s death. He can take Jean-Pierre word that she lives."	
Chrétien studied him for several moments and finally moved away from the man they had been questioning. "You are certain you wish to issue this challenge?"	
"Soon, or late, Jean-Pierre will come to make certain his holdings are secure. If we send his man to him, he will come soon and we can be ready for him."	
Chrétien thought it over and finally shrugged. "Likely, you are right."	
Wulfgar nodded and moved back to the man. "The message you will take to Jean-Pierre is this: Your bride is now mine and thus her lands, as well."	
The man glared at Wulfgar sullenly. "Who am I to tell him sends this message?"	
Wulfgar leaned down until he was almost nose to nose with the man. "The Saxon who’s bride he slew and who’s lands he now calls his own. I am Wulfgar."	
Three men were allowed to leave with him. Wulfgar sent a dozen men with them to see them to the coast and aboard a ship bound for England—to lessen the chance that they might decide discretion was the better part of valor for messengers bearing ill tidings. 	
Most of the soldiers were mercenaries and given the choice of accepting a new overlord or seeking their fortunes elsewhere. Some chose to leave and were escorted to the boundaries of Alinor’s lands. The men who remained Wulfgar divided up and absorbed into his own troops, who were under orders to put them to the sword if they so much as hesitated to follow a command.	
Taking a troop of men, Wulfgar set out to retrieve his wife while Chrétien stayed behind to oversee repairs from the battle. 	
* * * *	
‘We have taken my lady Alinor’s keep.’ Alinor had been both relieved and terrified when the messenger had arrived and brought word to her and her mother—terrified, quite naturally because until the messenger had related the message she and her mother had been under the amiable impression that Chrétien expected to take the keep peacefully. Her father had certainly been at great pains to create that impression. Wulfgar had been his usual uncommunicative self and given her no clue at all of what his thoughts were on the matter, of course, which had caused her some uneasiness. She had decided, though, that her father was probably right—it was her dower property and there was no reason to think Jean-Pierre would be suspicious of her father inspecting it—and Wulfgar’s caution was just that. 	
She supposed, to Wulfgar’s mind, the message he had sent was expected to reassure her and her mother that all was well. Unfortunately, he had left out the tiny details of whether he and her father were well—or wounded in battle--and when another week passed with no sign of Wulfgar Alinor became convinced that he had been injured, might be even now hovering between life and death.	
Her mother did her best to reassure her, but since she was equally convinced that Chrétien had been mortally wounded, neither believed the other’s reassurances and they did not comfort each other much. 	
When word came at last that a troop was spotted approaching the keep, both Alinor and Claire raced to the window of the solar and threw it open, jostling each other for a better position to see who it was that had come. By that time, the troop had already entered the keep, however, and neither of them could see the men at all. 	
They were still debating whether to meet the men in the courtyard or wait in the solar when Wulfgar strode into the room. Alinor and her mother both paled. "You are well?" she asked, examining his face for any sign of weakness or pain. "You were not wounded?"	
"Where is Chrétien?" 	
"He stayed at the keep to oversee repairs," Wulfgar said curiously.	
"He was not wounded?"	
"No more than I—a scratch or two—I sent word. Did the messenger not tell you?"	
With her arm wrapped comfortingly around her mother, Alinor glared at him. "You have frightened … me … my mother half out of her wits. You might at least have thought to add that no one was greatly hurt. We could tell nothing at all about the message beyond the fact that there had been a battle for possession when we had not expected one."	
Wulfgar’s eyes narrowed as he looked from one woman to the other. "You did not expect me to return? I am sorry to disappoint you." With that, he turned and stalked from the room, only pausing in the doorway long enough to tell Alinor she should make ready to travel to Maison de Vardon. 	
When he had gone Alinor and her mother exchanged a dumbfounded look. "What is it that he thinks we have done?" Alinor asked in a quaky voice, afraid she knew already.	
If possible, Claire had turned even more pale than before. "I am not at all certain," she said evasively.	
Alinor’s face crumpled. "He thinks you have plotted to rid me of my husband and I was a party to it!" 	
"Do not look at me so accusingly! You know very well we did not! It is not my fault that he looks for plots under every bush! You should have told him we were only anxious that they had been harmed. You were not used to be so careful to hide your feelings! Why did you hold yourself back instead of going to him?"	
"He is Saxon, not French! They are very reticent, and suspicious or repulsed by displays of emotion!" Alinor moved to a chair and sat, covering her face with her hands. "I always say or do the wrong thing, no matter how I try! He is convinced that I am his enemy. That is why he turns everything I say over and examines it for a different meaning! I do not know how I might go about convincing him that I care for him."	
Claire moved to her and patted her bowed head. "Pride can lead to your downfall, Alinor. Be yourself. Eventually, he will realize that subterfuge is not your strong suit and you are more like to say and do exactly what you think and feel."	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
Chapter Thirteen	
	
"You were wrong to believe that I hoped ill would befall you, or that my parents had conspired to make it so. My parents are not pleased by the circumstances of my marriage, but they have accepted you because they know it is what I want …. I was glad that you returned safely," Alinor said tentatively when she had recovered sufficiently from their bout of lovemaking to think clearly once more. 	
Wulfgar grunted, but said nothing.	
It was amazing, Alinor thought that one could convey so much without saying anything at all. For herself, she could have talked for an hour and still not have conveyed the depth of skepticism Wulfgar had with only a grunt. She was torn between despair and irritation. 	
"We might as easily have suspected you had done something to my father … if we were devious enough of mind to consider everyone else so!"	
"You accuse me of being devious?" Wulfgar demanded tightly.	
A shiver went through Alinor. They were lying as they generally did, with her back tucked tightly against his belly. It was dark in the room in any case, which would have made it impossible to read his expression even if she had been facing him.	
There was no doubt, however, that he was angry still.	
"Mother says that people only suspect you of doing things that they would do."	
He merely grunted this time.	
"I think she is right—mostly—but, of course, that does not take into consideration the things one learns of other people."	
He didn’t even grunt that time and Alinor wondered if he had fallen asleep.	
"I was worried for your safety," she said in a small voice.	
"This is why you bit my head off when you saw that I was not hurt?"	
Alinor bit her lip. She supposed, from his point of view, she could see where it might seem to contradict an assertion of concern. "No. That was because you had allowed me to spend a week worrying when you were perfectly all right."	
Wulfgar caught her jaw, forcing her to tip her head toward him. He studied her for several moments and finally covered her mouth in a scalding, but disappointingly brief, kiss. "Sleep. We leave at first light."	
* * * * 	
The household goods that had been purchased for Alinor upon her betrothal had been sent behind her when she had left for England and, not surprisingly, had not been returned when she had failed to arrive. Therefore, she had had nothing with which to set up a household when she returned home with Wulfgar. Alinor’s mother had set about remedying the situation when Chrétien and Wulfgar had left to secure the property, however, and Wulfgar was plainly appalled at their efforts. He took one look at the baggage train that had been assembled and stopped dead in his tracks for several moments. Finally, looking like a thundercloud, he helped Alinor and her mother to mount, climbed upon his own horse and they rode out. 	
The Maison de Vardon was not far distant from Arrus—as the crow flew. They could have reached it cross country within a couple of hours. By road, in they had not had the baggage train, they would have made it in little more than half a day. The oxen pulling the baggage carts, however, had been bred for strength and stamina, not speed. Moreover, due to the weather, the road they had to travel was not in very good condition. 	
All things considered, Alinor thought they made good time, for they arrived at Vardon before nightfall the same day that they had set out.	
Her parents stayed only a week. Wulfgar and Chrétien spent their days preparing for battle, and their evenings discussing strategy. It was finally decided that Chrétien and Claire would return to the Chateaux, where Chrétien would prepare his own keep—either for siege if Jean-Pierre attacked Arrus first, or to come to Wulfgar’s aid if Vardon was attacked first. 	
Wulfgar did not believe they would wait long before Jean-Pierre made his move. Once he had seen to the defense of the keep, he concentrated on gathering together supplies to ensure the protection of Vardon and its people in the likelihood that Jean-Pierre would try to destroy all that he did not seize to feed his troops. 	
Wulfgar wasn’t particularly comfortable with the method of warfare necessary to defend a keep. He was accustomed to battling in the open, with room to maneuver, to retreat or attack as necessary. Chrétien’s advice, he knew, was sound and the majority of the men under him were accustomed to the European practices even if the men who had come with him were not. 	
He did not like the notion of skulking behind stone walls and pitching battle with his enemy, however, and more than that, he did not care for the fact that Alinor would be in the midst of the fighting. He was almost certain that Jean-Pierre would head straight for Vardon and he was tempted to send Alinor with her parents. It was the ‘not quite’ that prevented him from doing so, for he felt better to defend Alinor himself than to leave her defense to anyone else, even her father.	
Alinor found the entire situation unnerving. If she had thought of it at all, she would have been convinced that Jean-Pierre would not come so far only to make war to gain more land—but he had gone to England to gain land, when he had already believed that he had hers and his own French estate, and she was obliged to admit that Wulfgar might be right. 	
If the circumstances had been different, she would have welcomed the distraction. She was fairly certain she and Wulfgar had not resolved the little misunderstanding that she had inadvertently created, but he was too caught up in preparing for war to spare much time for her. 	
To make matters worse, she was afraid she had a new problem. 	
She wasn’t at all certain she was with child, for she could see no sign of change in her body that would reassure her. She had not had her menses since before Wulfgar had taken her. The old crone had, apparently, assured Wulfgar that she was with child, even though there had been some question that she had miscarried, but her belly was as flat as before. Surely, in all the time that had passed, she should at least have a little pooch?	
She was certain she must be with child by now, even if she had not been before. The problem was that the child had been one of the reasons Wulfgar had decided to wed her. She had berated him for getting her with child and refusing to marry her. 	
He would remember that. 	
If she had the child a year or more after they had first met then he would know she could not have been with child when she claimed to be. To his mind it would be a lie, and he hated deceit in any form, big or small.	
The worst of it was that he had begun to caress her belly at night, as if he were thinking of the child—anticipating its arrival. 	
If he had not been so distracted, she felt sure he would already have noticed, perhaps even questioned her about it, for she was—should be—nearly four months gone, nearly upon the time when she should feel the quickening. 	
She would have been willing to lie to prevent yet another barrier from being erected between them, but, because she had been so stupid as to put it into his mind that she might have a roving eye, he coupled with her far too often for her to complain of her woman’s time, to claim miscarriage—to claim anything at all, and she was fairly certain she was not up to feigning a miscarriage even if not for the fact that it was too late to do so. 	
Briefly, she entertained the wild idea of flinging herself from the tower, just so she would not have to face the inevitable confrontation with Wulfgar—She rather liked the notion of him weeping over her broken corpse, but it lost its luster when she realized she would not be there to enjoy it and she could not convince herself that he would be devastated anyway. Moreover, she was not at all certain that the fall was high enough to kill her outright and the idea of lingering for days, weeks, months or even years after she had mutilated her body past mending had no appeal at all. 	
She was fairly convinced, then, that she must be with child for she was not generally prone to such insane urges and her mother had told her it was not uncommon for women who were with child to ‘not be themselves’. She liked to think that might also account for some of the more bizarre things that she had said and done since she had met Wulfgar. It gave her hope that, once the babe was born, she might then be able to win his affection instead of steadily driving him further away.	
She was finally able to put her fears to the back of her mind when she awoke one morning to the news that an army had crossed onto their southern boundary and sacked the small keep at Coyne. The standard they carried was the boar’s head. Jean-Pierre had come. Wulfgar assembled his men and went out to meet him. 	
* * * *	
"In matters of war a woman’s opinion is never welcome. Any expression of concern will, at best, earn a woman a pat on the head and advise to attend to women’s matters. At worst, it will result in an argument that could endanger your man’s life, for they can not afford distractions of any kind when they are about the business of trying to hack each other to death," Claire had told her daughter more than once over the years. 	
Alinor was certain it was sage advice. She was just as certain that there could be no one worse than she when it came to handling a matter diplomatically. She merely watched Wulfgar’s preparations to leave in tense silence, therefore, her tongue firmly between her teeth, although she was in an agony of dread. She was still trying to decide what expression she should be wearing if Wulfgar chanced to glance at her when he did.	
He frowned and she decided the petrified look probably wasn’t the least provocative expression she could have come up with. "You will be safe here."	
Alinor nodded, although it hadn’t crossed her mind to be fearful for herself. It should have. She had an unpleasant certainty of what Jean-Pierre was capable of, and knew that, if he could, he would make her a widow first and a bride shortly behind that.	
She could not presently think beyond the possibility of becoming a widow, however. 	
"I shall leave half the men here to hold the keep."	
Alinor gaped at him in horrified dismay. It was bad enough to think of him meeting Jean-Pierre on an open field when he would have been far safer behind the walls of Vardon. She saw no reason for him to expose himself to more danger by leaving so many to hold the keep. "You will not need them?" she asked faintly, before she had time to think better of it.	
"I can not afford to leave the keep virtually unprotected. If he should outflank me … I want enough men here to hold it until your father can come to your aid."	
Alinor blanched. Was he expecting to die? Hoping to join his beloved Freda? She wondered a little wildly. "Must you go out to meet him?"	
He studied her for several moments and finally strode toward her, enfolding her in a tight embrace. "You will be safe. I swear it. I can not sit idly here and wait for him to ravage all that lies between here and Coyne."	
They could burn it all to the ground for all she cared, but, as frightened as she was for his safety, she realized Wulfgar would be insulted if she suggested he could not best Jean-Pierre. In truth, she had no reason at all to believe he was not equal to or far superior a warrior than Jean-Pierre. She clung to him tightly. "You will take care? You will not expose yourself foo—needlessly?" She said anxiously. 	
"Nay, love. I have no death wish," he said soothingly, stroking her hair. He pulled a little away from her and placed a palm on her belly. "I have a wish to see my son come into this world."	
Alinor summoned a wavery smile. If he had said anything but that! Now she would be worrying herself sick that the child in her belly was a female!	
It occurred to her that, perhaps, it was the opening she had hoped for. She should seize this moment to tell him that it might be many months more than they had anticipated before that day arrived, but before she could summon the courage to do so, he kissed her briefly on the lips, released her and strode from the solar. 	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
Chapter Fourteen	
	
When she heard the troop ride out, Alinor left the solar, crossed the courtyard and climbed the stairs to the walk at the top of the keep walls, moving to a position where she could watch Wulfgar until he and his men disappeared from sight. When she turned away at last, she saw that the captain of the guard had come to stand nearby. "Did my lord send word to my father that he would go out to meet Jean-Pierre’s army?"	
He glanced at her and frowned. "Nay, my lady. He said nothing of it to me."	
Alinor nodded and turned to stare into the distance. "I should think my father would wish to know."	
"Should I send a messenger then, my lady?"	
Alinor turned and smiled at him. "That is an excellent idea, Captain!"	
She felt somewhat better after that. Very likely her father would do as Wulfgar had, take no more than half his men if even that many, but it could only improve the odds in Wulfgar’s favor to have more men with him. 	
She had nothing to do then but wait—a thing that was not nearly as easy to do as one might think. She did her best to direct her mind toward the business of keeping her household running smoothly, but no matter how hard she worked it was difficult to keep her anxieties at bay. 	
Finally, a messenger came with the news that Wulfgar and her father had managed to rout Jean-Pierre’s forces. He had not managed to capture Jean-Pierre, however, and meant to pursue him to the coast to make certain they returned to England. 	
Alinor was both disappointed and uneasy when the messenger departed. Wulfgar had never made it a habit to elaborate on his messages. She couldn’t decide whether there was censure in the mention of her father or not for her interference in the matter. It seemed significant that he did not return at once.	
She finally decided she must be imagining Wulfgar’s displeasure, however. He had made it clear that nothing would satisfy him short of killing Jean-Pierre. He had not gone to make certain that Jean-Pierre had returned to England. He had gone to make certain Jean-Pierre did not.	
A week dragged by and then another. The first snow had fallen the day Wulfgar had left and it had snowed many times since. She had no doubt that the weather was making things difficult for Wulfgar, but worry gave way to anger long before she finally had word of him again. 	
Wulfgar returned for supplies, carrying the news that, instead of returning to England, Jean-Pierre had circled round and was now hold up at his French estate. 	
* * * *	
As soon as he was spotted, Alinor sent the maids scurrying to build up the fire in their apartments, to heat water for a bath, and bring food. Wulfgar found her there overseeing their efforts with a critical eye. It was several moments before she realized he had come into the room and, as he stood watching her, he realized that the sense of homecoming that had flooded him the moment Vardon came into view had nothing to do with place, and everything to do with Alinor. He frowned at the realization, wondering what moment in time had marked the transition from captor, to lover, to loving husband, but he could not seem to recall a time when he had not felt contentment only from the knowledge that he was with her and she was his. 	
Nor could he mark the time when his pursuit of Jean-Pierre had ceased to be driven by the need for revenge and become a determination to protect Alinor from the animosity that raged between them.	
He was certain, however, that he loved Alinor as he had never loved Freda. He had never known Freda as he knew Alinor. Freda had been a fire in his blood from the moment he set eyes upon her. He had never been able to think beyond the need to possess her, or his rage that she had been taken from him before he had even become accustomed to the fact that she was his. 	
It was different with Alinor. His desire for her was just as intense, perhaps even more so, and yet it was more than that. He had missed sleeping with her curled next to him, hearing her voice, seeing her face—he had even missed her unruly tongue and her sometimes amusing, sometimes infuriating, efforts to mend her unthinking remarks. 	
She noticed him just then and looked up, surprise, pleasure and doubt chasing across her features. 	
The doubt bothered him. It was always in her eyes when she looked at him, evidence that she did not completely trust him and because of that, she always tried to hide her feelings from him.	
He thought that was the way of it, in any case. He could never be sure. She was always so open in every other way that he could not be certain that she cared, but held herself back because she did not trust, or if she only seemed to be holding herself back because she did not care for him as he did her. 	
It mattered. It should not have. She was his wife, regardless, but he wanted more. He wanted all.	
"My lord! There was such a clatter I did not hear you come in! Come. Sit by the fire and warm yourself." Turning away, Alinor shooed the maids out and closed the door. 	
When she looked around again, she saw that Wulfgar had not moved, but still stood as he had before, watching her. He looked weary to the point of sleeping on his feet. Grasping his hand, she tugged him toward the hearth, leading him to the chair she had positioned their for his comfort and pushing at him until he sat. "You are nigh frozen," she fussed, chafing his hands for several moments and finally kneeling to pull his boots off. 	
"I’ve had the maids prepare a hot bath for you. Would you rather bathe first? Or eat?"	
Wulfgar’s eyes gleamed. "That depends."	
Alinor lifted her brows questioningly. 	
"On what you are offering me to eat."	
Alinor stared at him a long moment in incomprehension, then, slowly, a blush rose all the way to her hairline. "I can not think that that would appease your hunger."	
"It is that hunger I am most in need of assuaging—but as I suspect I smell like a mountain goat, I suppose I should brave the bath first."	
He stood up to undress and Alinor stepped back, examining him surreptitiously for signs of injury. To her relief, although she saw a number of small cuts, none appeared in need of attention. When she realized that he had noticed her inspection, she busied herself collecting his soiled clothing, crossing the room to pile it outside their door for the maids to collect for the laundress as he climbed into the tub. 	
The tub had not been designed for anyone quite as large as Wulfgar she saw when she turned. She bit her lip to contain her amusement, knowing the tub could not be at all comfortable for him. Despite the hot water, he shivered as he lathered his arms, chest and shoulders. Her amusement vanished and she moved quickly to kneel behind him and help him with his bath, lathering his hair and scrubbing his scalp and then pouring warm water from the pitcher slowly over his head to rinse it. When she was certain she had rinsed the soap from his hair, she urged him to lean forward and scrubbed his back. He groaned with pleasure as she rubbed his back and she continued for some moments after she had finished washing, and then rinsing, the soap from him. 	
"You could join me," he suggested in a thick voice when she finally stopped and moved around the tub to pick up the length of linen that had been warming by the fire.	
She chuckled. "There is barely enough room for you."	
He studied her speculatively for several moments and finally rose from the water. Alinor held the linen up for him. When he stepped out, she stood on her tiptoes, wrapping it around him and drying him briskly. "I have a robe for you."	
As she moved toward it, however, he caught her around the waist. Dragging her back against him, he caught her jaw and bent to kiss her long and lingeringly. Alinor felt a rush of heat. He had trapped her arms between them, however, and she struggled to free them. He broke the kiss, moving slightly away to look at her questioningly, but she didn’t notice the look. The moment he released her she slipped her palms up his chest and locked her arms behind his head, pressing herself fully against him. 	
A tremor went through him as she lifted her lips for his kiss. His arms tightened almost crushingly as he captured her lips one more, kissing her hungrily, his mouth and tongue near scorching as he caressed her mouth with his own. 	
Alinor was so caught up in the heat raging through her veins that many moments passed before she became aware of the tremors running through him. Reluctantly, she broke the kiss and pulled away. "You are cold."	
His eyes were glazed, almost feverish, his skin flushed. Alarm ran through her. Small wonder he had seemed to be behaving strangely. "You are fevered," she said in dismay.	
"Aye," he said, scooping her into his arms and striding across the room to the bed. He climbed upon the mattress with her still in his arms, falling upon her like a man starved as he settled her against the bedding. Alinor gasped with a mixture of surprise and excitement as his mouth and hands moved over her, thrusting her clothing aside so that he could touch her bare skin. Struggling, she finally managed to push him away enough to fumble with the lacings of her gown. He brushed her fingers away impatiently, tugging her clothing off and tossing each article in first one direction and then another until she lay naked beneath him. 	
He seemed seized by a sort of madness, nipping her flesh with his teeth, sucking upon it, massaging, tracing every inch of her body. Within moments, Alinor felt as if she were seized with it, as well, descending into an abyss where she was aware of nothing but the feel of him against her and his caresses. His breathing was harsh, ragged. She could not seem to catch her breath.	
Grasping her wrists, he pinned them to the bed on either side of her head, suckling upon the sensitive tips of her breasts until her entire body was awash with a fevered tension, and she writhed beneath him, moaning endlessly. She wasn’t even aware of when he ceased to hold her captive for his caresses until he kissed a burning path up her throat and opened his mouth over hers. 	
She slipped her arms around his neck as he thrust his tongue into her mouth to taste and explore the sensitive inner surfaces, threading her fingers through his silky hair, stroking his shoulders, his back as far as she could reach. 	
He moved away impatiently after only a moment, breaking the kiss to move his mouth down her throat once more, kissing her breasts, her belly. When he reached her thighs, he pushed them apart, kissing the exquisitely sensitive flesh near the apex of her thighs. She cried out as his heated mouth settled over her femininity, sucking, lathing with his tongue. Within moments, her body convulsed in an explosion of pleasure. 	
She was still caught up in the aftershocks when he moved over her once more, nudging her femininity with the head of his cock and finally seating himself and thrusting inside of her in a desperate rhythm that strummed her body, taking her quickly to culmination a second time that was far more intense than the first. 	
He came with her that time, explosively, crying out hoarsely before he collapsed in a boneless heap half on top of her. Alinor drifted to sleep with the feel of Wulfgar stroking her belly gently.	
When she woke, Wulfgar had already ridden out once more.	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
Chapter Fifteen 	
	
Wulfgar had told her that he had only come for supplies and that he would return once more to Jean-Pierre’s holdings to make certain that he was settled for the winter before he relaxed his vigilance. She had not expected that he would leave again immediately, however, and certainly not while she lay sleeping. 	
She was peeved that he had left without even bidding her farewell, but not greatly disturbed—at first. In the beginning, she had not been able to recall anything about the night before except their lovemaking. Later, she recalled that he had murmured something about her belly as he lay stroking it. It was then that dismay filled her, and the anxiety that he had realized that she had deceived him and was angry about it. 	
It was ironic that he had only seemed to notice now, when her belly had begun to take on a roundness that reassured her that she was with child, when she had finally become certain that the tiny flutters she had been feeling were the movements of the child and not nervous stomach. 	
A messenger arrived from Arrus the day Wulfgar departed. Her parents had invited her and Wulfgar to join them in the festivities they had planned for Christmas. Excitement flooded her, but was immediately dashed when she realized that Wulfgar might not return before then. 	
As disappointing as that was, it was far more upsetting that she would miss the opportunity to speak with her mother about all the things that had been worrying her. She thought Wulfgar would probably take her when he returned, unless the weather turned particularly nasty, but that could be weeks yet. 	
She thought it was possible that she had blown everything all out of proportion, but she wanted her mother’s reassurances that much of the problem was no more than pure imagination and the rest of little or no consequence. Of equal importance, she did not understand the changes in her body. By her count, her child would be born late winter or early spring, but that did not seem right when her belly was yet so small. If she had been a buxom woman, she could have understood it, but she was not. It would almost have been easier to accept that she had not conceived when she thought, even if she then had to face Wulfgar with her deceit. At least then she would not be so worried that the child would be too small to survive.	
The more she thought about it, the more certain she became that she needed her mother to advise her and that she could not wait weeks for the reassurances she needed. The following morning, she packed for a short stay and arranged for an escort. The man Wulfgar had left in charge of the keep’s defense was not happy with her decision, but she pointed out that her parents had sent for her. Wulfgar had not left orders that she was not to leave. Wulfgar had said that Jean-Pierre was far away, in his own keep, and it was not far to her parents’ keep in any case.	
They debated next over the size of her escort. Alinor considered three men more than enough. He wanted to send a dozen. Finally, after she had pointed out that there was no sense in weakening the security of the keep by sending so many, they settled upon a half a dozen men and Alinor set out. 	
Alinor was uneasy about her decision almost the moment the gates closed behind them. At any other time, she might have simply said that she had thought better of it and changed her mind. Everyone had already begun to look at her as if they suspected she was afflicted with a touch of madness, however, so she firmly ignored the sense of danger that assailed her the moment she found herself exposed.	
She had committed herself to the trip. She needed to see her mother. It could not take long to travel to Arrus and once she was there, she would know it had been nothing but her imagination.	
The snow was deep. They decided that it would take less time to take the road, even though it would have been a shorter distance to simply cut across country. 	
To Alinor’s dismay, the uneasiness did not abate. Instead, the further they traveled from Vardon, the deeper her conviction became that something simply did not feel ‘right’. It did not help one whit that she noticed her escort was looking distinctly uneasy, as well.	
They reached the halfway point, however, without incident. Alinor was just beginning to feel that she had worried needlessly when a group of riders emerged from the trees ahead of them. Alinor’s hand jerked reflexively on the reigns and her horse skittered, tossing its head and dancing sideways. As one, they halted. The man to her right muttered under his breath. "There are only four of them to our six."	
The leader, who was riding to her left, shifted in his saddle, glancing all around them. "This has the feel of a trap to me—and Lord Wulfgar will have our ballocks for endangering his lady. Jacques, Piers, Frayne and Claude—hold them. Christophe and I will return with Lady Alinor to Vardon." Leaning down, he grasped the reigns of Alinor’s mount. "Back. Now!" he yelled, even as he urged the two horses around, kicking his own into a gallop. 	
It would have worked had Jean not been right, but they had not gone far when another group of riders flooded from the woods, again blocking their path. Instead of skidding their horses to a halt, Jean changed directions abruptly, heading cross country. 	
Alinor’s mount, much smaller than the war horses, floundered, pitching her from her precarious perch and into the snow. She lay stunned for many moments, fighting to catch her breath. Around her, she was vaguely aware of the clash of swords. Shaking herself, she got to her feet with an effort, glanced around and headed for the only cover available, the trees. The snow was loose, however, and deep. It was like trying to wade through waist high surf, only worse, for the snow offered no buoyancy, only resistance. She had managed to cover no more than a few yards when a rider swooped down upon her. Leaning from his saddle, he caught her around the waist and dragged her up onto the saddle before him. 	
Alinor screamed, clawing ineffectually at his armor. Abruptly, something hard caught her across the jaw. Pain exploded inside her head and she slumped against the man, dazed, barely conscious. The sounds of fighting ceased even as her captor turned his mount and kicked it into motion once more. 	
"I see my little bride has missed me," the man muttered with a sneer.	
Alinor shuddered as Jean-Pierre’s voice washed over her, giving up the fight to cling to consciousness. 	
* * * *	
It was some time before Alinor realized that they were heading for the coast. That seemed almost as insane as capturing her to begin with. It would have made more sense, surely, to return to his holdings in France than to return to England? Why bother with her now anyway? She was not such a great heiress at to be worth so much effort, and, in any case, she was obviously with child now. Was it because she carried Wulfgar’s heir? How would he even find anyone willing to make the crossing in the dead of winter? 	
Alinor shook those thoughts off. It did not matter why she had been taken or even where she was being taken. The only thing of any importance was how she might get herself out of her fix. She had no notion when the party that had sent for her would be missed, but it occurred to her forcefully that the only way Jean-Pierre would have been able to set his trap for her was if he had a spy within Vardon--or if he had sent the messenger himself. 	
The messenger should have been questioned more carefully. She should have been more suspicious—but hindsight was of no use to her either, beyond trying to estimate how long it would be before it was known that she was missing, and, if her parents had not sent the messenger it seemed probable that Jean-Pierre would have her in England before anyone even realized she had been captured. 	
They had slain her escort and left their bodies lying where they fell, but it had snowed almost continuously since and few people would be traveling now. They might lie their for days before anyone stumbled upon the bodies and reported it. The men had made no plans to return to Vardon immediately and would not be expected back—her parents, she realized now, would not be expecting her. 	
She would have to try to escape, for if Jean-Pierre managed to get her to England Wulfgar would need to bring an army to free her and Duke William would not ignore an army. Wulfgar would draw attack from every side if he tried—perhaps that was why Jean-Pierre had thought it was better to take her there?	
Jean-Pierre gave her no opportunity to escape, however. When she woke, she found herself bound hand and foot. She had expected as much, had known she would have to free herself of her bonds before she had a chance of escaping, but she did not even have the opportunity for that. Except to rest the horses and to relieve themselves, they did not stop at all, even eating in the saddle. Regardless, their pace was slowed by the weather and it took far longer to reach the coast than it had when she had traveled it before. She was so exhausted by the time they reached the coast that even her fear did not lend her the strength she knew she would need to escape. 	
She was too weary even for the crossing to terrify her and so ill from being tossed around by the churning water that death would have been welcome. She managed to rouse herself sufficiently, however, once they had crossed the channel to realize that escape was not much of a possibility and that she had far worse things to consider. 	
Jean-Pierre had not touched her. He had not even spoken to her once he discovered that she refused to respond to his taunts, but he had made it perfectly clear that he intended to ravish her the moment the opportunity arose. She could not allow that, although she was well aware that fighting him off was not an option. 	
If she had not been carrying Wulfgar’s child, she might have considered that enduring was worth it if it insured life, but she was, and enduring would not insure her life or the child’s—for she didn’t delude herself for a moment that he would be gentle with her even if she gave him no resistance. 	
She had to protect her babe—the question was, how?	
Desperation and a fertile mind supplied a note of hope when she was allowed to go into the woods to relieve herself. She had squatted near a plant that she had previously had a very unpleasant encounter with. She was about to move away from it when the idea sprang into her mind. Glancing toward the man set to watch her, she wrapped her hand in the folds of her skirt and pulled the plant up, rubbing it against her bare thighs and belly before she could lose her nerve. 	
Her skin immediately began to sting but she resisted the urge to press a handful of snow against it. 	
It occurred to her, afterwards, that she might only have made herself miserable for no reason at all, or that the poisons in the plant might hurt the babe—but she had no other choices that she could see.	
By the time they reached Jean-Pierre’s English holdings, Alinor was nearly mindless with the itch from the rash and all else paled by comparison. 	
Jean-Pierre cut the bonds around her ankles before he pulled her from the horse, but Alinor’s knees buckled the moment her feet touched the ground. With an impatient oath, Jean-Pierre swung her into his arms and carried her inside. Instead of stopping in the great room, as she had hoped, he climbed the stairs to his apartment. When they reached his bed chamber, he slammed the door behind them, strode across the room and tossed her onto the bed. 	
Alinor immediately scrambled away, but she was not quick enough for him. He caught the fabric of her gown. Hearing a distinct ripping sound, Alinor fought harder to crawl away from him. As if the sound itself had spurred him on, however, Jean-Pierre leapt upon her, grasping her gown and ripping it from her in a frenzy until no more than tatters hung about her. 	
She fought him. Despite her resolve to acquiesce for the sake of her child, she was so terrorized she lost all sense of logic and fought him purely on instinct. After slapping her several times with no appreciable effect, he finally slammed him fist against her jaw.	
Stunned, Alinor went limp, trying to fight the blackness that threatened to descend, leaving her completely helpless and at his mercy.	
She was relieved, momentarily, when he rolled off of her, until it finally clicked in her mind that he had only left her to discard his own clothing. He halted abruptly, however, cursing. 	
"What, by all that’s holy, is wrong with you?"	
With an effort, Alinor lifted her head to look at him. Following the direction of his gaze, she looked down at herself. Her mind went perfectly blank for several moments. Finally, however, she recalled her desperate ruse. "It is nothing. A rash only," she muttered somewhat drunkenly, so dizzy from the blow that she could hardly gather her wits about her. "My lover said I was not to concern myself over it. It would go away."	
Jean-Pierre looked at her in revulsion for several moments. "Your lover?"	
Alinor nodded with an effort. "The captain of the guard—he said it would surely be gone before Wulfgar returned."	
Jean-Pierre’s eyes narrowed and Alinor’s heart squeezed painfully while she waited, wondering if he would believe her lie—wondering if her ruse would work as she had hoped. Finally, he stepped to the door and bellowed for one of his men to fetch the old Saxon witch woman.	
He paced the room while they waited. Slowly, the dizziness receded sufficiently that fear curled around Alinor’s innards.	
Finally, they heard a shuffle outside the door. Jean-Pierre strode to the door and snatched it open. Grasping the old woman who stood there by one arm, he dragged her into the room and shoved her toward the bed. "Attend her."	
The woman stumbled but managed to right herself and shuffled nearer. Alinor dragged her gaze from Jean-Pierre and looked at the woman, wishing Jean-Pierre had left and given her the opportunity to speak with the woman alone. The woman leaned forward, looking at the angry, reddened skin that covered Alinor from her waist almost to her knees. Her glance flicked briefly to Alinor’s face.	
"It is the rot, my lord. Her man’s done got it off some whore and given it to her."	
Jean-Pierre cuffed her. "You lie, witch!"	
The woman cringed, scurrying away. "’Tis the truth," she whined. "Your cock will rot off if you touch her."	
"You can cure this?"	
"Nay, my lord. There is no cure."	
Jean-Pierre ground his teeth in impotent fury. "If you value your life, old woman, you will find a cure."	
When he had slammed out of the room, the old woman glanced at her. To Alinor’s amazement, her eyes were alight with both amusement and, strangely, respect. "There’s a nasty rash ye’ve got yerself. Ye should have used the leaves more sparingly."	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
Chapter Sixteen	
	
Wulfgar’s anger grew the closer he came to Arrus. He had been looking forward to returning to Vardon with an impatience that had grown impossible to ignore after nearly a week of shivering in a miserable tent. When he had seen the activity in Jean-Pierre’s keep increase as they began making preparations for a feast, he had been convinced that Jean-Pierre had indeed settled in for the winter and had, with relief, ordered his men to strike camp and head for home, anxious to return to Alinor. 	
He had been stunned when he returned and found her gone. Disappointment had very quickly turned to irritation, however. He had been more than a little inclined to sulk at Vardon and send word to Arrus demanding that Alinor return immediately, but, after wandering the halls miserable for several days, had decided instead to go after her.	
His mood was foul when he arrived at Arrus and it did not improve when he was shown into the great hall and saw no sign of Alinor. "Where is my lady?" he growled when Chrétien and Claire greeted him.	
They exchanged a glance. "She is at Vardon," Claire said a little breathlessly even as Chrétien jumped to his feet.	
"She is not with you?" Chrétien demanded.	
Wulfgar stared at them for several moments. "I was told a messenger had been sent inviting her here for the festivities nigh two weeks ago."	
"Oh," Claire gasped, pressing a hand to her heart.	
Chrétien paled. "We sent no messenger."	
Wulfgar’s heart sank, but he had no need to question her parents further. He could see from their faces that they were as stunned and frightened as he was. Whirling on his heel without another word, he strode from the keep. Chrétien, bellowing for his cloak, followed him. 	
Wulfgar found once he had ridden out that he was seized by an unaccustomed indecisiveness. It immediately leapt to mind that Jean-Pierre had somehow taken her, but he could not decide whether it was logical to assume so or not. He had tracked Jean-Pierre and his men back to his keep. He was certain of that. There had been only one window of opportunity for Jean-Pierre to leave without his knowing it—when he had returned to Vardon for supplies. 	
Jean-Pierre must have followed him, waiting until he’d left again to set his trap.	
The question was, would he have taken her back to his keep at Merrill? Or would he have considered that that was too easy and have taken her to England? Wulfgar frowned. The channel was treacherous most any time, but far more so at this time of year.	
After a moment, he kicked his horse into motion and struck off along the road to Vardon. He’d ridden cross country before. Most likely, Alinor’s escort would have taken the road. 	
He found the men purely by chance when his horse stumbled over one of the bodies hidden in the snow. Dismounting, he pushed the snow aside and studied the man he’d discovered. Recognizing the man, he pulled his sword from its scabbard and began to poke around until he found several others. 	
Chrétien rode up with a troop of men while he was examining the corpses. He dismounted, joining Wulfgar.	
"Her escort?"	
Wulfgar nodded grimly. "Thomas said he sent six men with her. I have found only three." He glanced around at the woods. "Wolves might have dragged the others off," he added thoughtfully.	
Chrétien dropped to one knee in the snow. "Alinor?"	
Wulfgar glanced at him sharply. "He would not have killed her."	
"You think this is Jean-Pierre’s doing?"	
"Thieves would not have fallen upon six well armed men."	
Chrétien nodded, looking around at the woods. Finally, he motioned to the men still mounted and had them search for bodies. They found a fourth man a little away from the others and Chrétien sent a man back to Arrus to bring a cart for the dead. 	
Wulfgar stood up. "They came out of the woods here. These men would have been ordered to guard their back while the other two tried to escape with Alinor."	
Briefly, hope flickered across Chrétien’s countenance before he realized Alinor had not escaped or she would have been returned to Vardon. 	
"I will take Merrill apart stone by stone if need be," Wulfgar said through gritted teeth. 	
Chrétien stood abruptly. "I will gather my men and meet you at Vardon."	
* * * * 	
When their army had gathered at the gates of Merrill, Chrétien and Wulfgar rode forward, demanding to speak with Jean-Pierre. The captain of the guard laughed. "He can not come, Monsieur. He is busy entertaining his lady."	
Wulfgar made an abortive moment, as if he would charge the gates that moment, but Chrétien grasped his arm. "He thinks to taunt you into riding within his archers’ range. You are no good to Alinor dead!"	
Pulling his horse around, Wulfgar rode back toward his men. Chrétien brought his horse even. "We must settle in for a siege. We can not use the trebuchets when Alinor is held within without risking her life. At any other time, I would suggest we dig under the walls, but the ground is frozen now. The keep might well fall from siege before we could dig a tunnel to bring the walls down."	
Wulfgar nodded grimly, but he was of no mind to wait to starve them out. Alinor would starve as well as everyone else and she was far too thin already, and well gone with child. The risk was too great that she would be among the first to starve. After studying the walls for some time, Wulfgar ordered the trebuchet brought forward and carefully positioned so that the stones it lobbed against the keep struck the outer wall itself, low so as to weaken it. There was still a danger to Alinor if any of the stones went wild, but far less so than lining it up to strike the men along the crenalations or firing wildly into the keep itself. 	
The men who held the keep jeered when the first stones began to strike the walls. When cracks began to form along the walls, however, and the stones of the wall itself began to crumble, they brought men up with long bows to fire at those manning the trebuchet. It was out of range, but occasionally a spent arrow would strike one of his men and pandemonium would briefly ensue. 	
Wulfgar had begun to have the uneasy feeling that he had been tricked long before the walls finally collapsed, for, in all the time that they had battered at Merrill Jean-Pierre had not once been spotted. In the beginning, he had been certain that Jean-Pierre would not have taken her all the way back to England. The more he thought of it, however, the more he saw the advantage to Jean-Pierre in doing so. 	
His holdings in England had no stone walls to protect it, but Wulfgar would not be allowed to bring an army into England—or indeed any number of men of sufficient strength to overcome Jean-Pierre. 	
Impatient to know for certain, Wulfgar set his men to building another trebuchet. In only a few weeks, they had two firing steadily at the walls. In little more than a month, holes began to form and finally, one large section of the keep walls collapsed and the combined armies of Wulfgar and Chrétien stormed the breech. Within a day, the men defending Merrill lay down their arms and were rounded up. Every inch of the keep was searched, but Wulfgar knew long before the searchers reported back that Alinor was not there. 	
Selecting the highest ranking officers, Wulfgar had them questioned. When they proved reluctant, they were tortured until he had the information he sought. 	
Chrétien felt they should petition Duke William for Alinor’s return. He had never met the man, but from what he knew of William, he felt that William would do his best assure her safe return. Wulfgar was of no mind to wait so long. It could take many months to free her using diplomatic channels and he had no confidence that Alinor could survive Jean-Pierre’s tender mercies so long—if she still lived even now. 	
Taking only the men who had come with him from England, he set out with the determination to finish the war between himself and Jean-Pierre.	
* * * * 	
Alinor had begun to despair that Wulfgar would come for her. Try though she might to reassure herself, it crept through her mind, unbidden, that Wulfgar need not take the risk. He had been acknowledged as her husband and heir. If she were dead, all that had been hers would be his and he would be free to wed another more to his taste. 	
She knew Wulfgar was a man who valued his honor, and that he was not of an avaricious nature—he was bull headed and sometimes quick tempered, but he was no fool. He must know that it would be nearly impossible to rescue her. Perhaps, even though it had never been his intention to profit from her death, he had realized the futility of trying to get her back? Perhaps, even though it was not her fault, he could not stomach the notion of taking her back when he must believe that Jean-Pierre had made her his whore?	
He might yet if Wulfgar did not come for her. Despite Jean-Pierre’s fear of disease, he had been suspicious from the first and she was not certain he still believed the rash she had perpetuated with judicious applications of the poisonous plant was in truth the disease of whores. 	
Moreover, she was growing increasingly unnerved about the old Saxon healer’s involvement in her deception. It would mean her life if she was discovered. She had assured Alinor that she did not count the cost to herself so long as she protected Lord Wulfgar’s child, for she was well past the age where life had a great deal of meaning, but she deserved the peaceful death of a long life, not the death that Jean-Pierre would deal her if he discovered her deception. 	
Then, one evening when the healer came, her eyes were alight with excitement. At the first opportunity, she leaned close and whispered, "Wulfgar has come for you. Be ready, for we must move quickly when the time comes."	
Alinor was at once thrilled and terrified. Two days passed in an agony of suspense. Even the healer, Hilda did not come. Then, in the afternoon, she slipped into Alinor’s room. "Do not eat tonight," she said quickly and turned to leave. "I will come for you an hour past supper."	
"You will take me to Wulfgar?" Alinor whispered urgently.	
The woman paused and looked back at her. "He comes here. I am to take you down to the great hall to meet him."	
Alinor paced the room when she had gone, pausing by the window from time to time to watch the sun as it sank toward the horizon, listening to the manor around her, though she wasn’t certain what she listened for. It seemed certain Hilda had arranged to poison the food, but she closed her mind to that unimaginable horror. If it would insure the safety of Wulfgar ….	
She was standing by the window, listening to the sounds below that told her the men had gathered to eat when her door was flung open. Jean-Pierre stood upon the threshold. 	
"I see you are better today," he said coolly.	
Alinor stared at him in apprehension. She had feigned illness to match her rash and spent much of her time in bed, but Jean-Pierre had not even been into her room in weeks and she had relaxed her guard. She saw now that that had been a serious error in judgment. 	
"You will be joining me tonight. Make yourself presentable."	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
Chapter Seventeen	
	
Alinor discovered she had no need to feign illness as she was seated beside Jean-Pierre at the head table. She was ill with terror, but well aware that she could not behave in any suspicious manner or she risked unraveling the entire plot that Hilda and Wulfgar had hatched.	
She could not bring herself to eat the food. She had no idea of what Hilda had given the cooks to lace into the food—if it would merely cause illness, or death--nor if all of the food had been poisoned or only some dishes. To her relief, one of the young serving maids appeared beside her shortly after she was seated, placing a trencher in front of her. "Hilda prepared this especially for you, knowing the difficulty you have had in holding your food," the girl murmured.	
Alinor forced a smile, refusing to allow Jean-Pierre to catch her eye. In truth, even the certainty that the food was not tainted did nothing for her appetite for she could not help but notice that Jean-Pierre ate little himself. Her belly felt as if it had tied itself into knots. With an effort, she managed to eat a few bites, chewing her food slowly. 	
"We will wed when you have dropped that bastard you carry in your belly."	
Startled, Alinor glanced at Jean-Pierre. "My marriage to Wulfgar is legally binding," she retorted. "It can not be annulled, whatever you may think."	
Jean-Pierre shrugged. "I must arrange to make you a widow. I’ve no objection to doing so—Of course that entails laying my hands upon that sniveling coward you wed."	
Alinor flushed. "My husband is no coward—nor a fool, as you thought. Meet him in single combat as he has asked—without your army at your back," she said tightly.	
Jean-Pierre uttered an unconvincing laugh, but a flush of annoyance mounted his cheeks. "I am no fool either. I went to meet him before." He shrugged. "He slipped up behind the men who had accompanied me to the meeting and attacked. That is not the actions of a man of courage and honor."	
Alinor glared at him. "He did not fall into your trap, you mean! If he has ever been a fool at all it was in believing you to be a man of honor."	
Jean-Pierre’s eyes narrowed. "And yet, you have taken a lover already and not wed to him even a full year."	
Alinor felt the blood rush from her cheeks. She looked down at her hands. "It was a moment of foolish pride," she said slowly. "I was angry that he paid me no mind and thought to make him jealous. I did not intend that it go so far."	
"I will make certain that I give you my undivided attention," Jean-Pierre murmured as he leaned close.	
Alinor leaned away, eyeing him distastefully. "Hilda says the disease can not be cured."	
"And yet you seem healthy enough to me."	
Before Alinor could think of a suitable retort, Jean-Pierre’s face contorted, as if a pain had lanced through him. His gaze went instantly to his trencher. Abruptly, he stood up, looking around the hall. Alinor glanced around fearfully, as well, noticing at last that the hall was rapidly emptying, that some had fallen to the floor, writhing in agony. Clutching one hand to her stomach and the other to her mouth, Alinor rose abruptly. "I do not feel at all well," she announced in a voice muffled by her hand. 	
"Poison!" Jean-Pierre rasped. "We have been poisoned."	
Turning away, he put his finger down his throat and promptly began puking. Alinor thought for several moments that she would lose the little she had eaten, but the opportunity she had been awaiting had arrived. Giving Jean-Pierre a shove, she rushed past him. Hilda appeared in the doorway leading to the kitchens and grasped her arm, hurrying her toward the great oaken doors that fronted the manor. Before they had made their way halfway down the hall, a battering came at the doors, causing them to shudder. Again and again, something battered at the door. Abruptly flew open. 	
Men on horseback dropped the log they had used as a battering ram and charged into the hall, upending tables and benches, trampling the men who were rolling around on the floor. Alinor’s heart leapt. "Wulfgar!"	
His head jerked in her direction. He forced his horse through the melee, leaning low, one arm outstretched. Alinor ran to him, holding her arms up to him. Scooping her up, he settled her on the saddle before him. Alinor wrapped her arms around his waist, clinging tightly to him, bunching herself into a tight ball to allow him room to fight, for, despite their illness, Jean-Pierre’s men had begun to rally, grabbing their weapons and racing to defend the manor. 	
Wulfgar’s glance went to Jean-Pierre, his eyes narrowing. After a moment, he uttered an oath and turned away, fighting his way free of the great hall. They rode hard until they reached the tree line, but, once there, Wulfgar signaled for the men to halt. Urging his horse alongside Thomas, he grasped Alinor’s arms, breaking her grip. 	
"What are you doing?" Alinor gasped. "We must hurry."	
Wulfgar caught her jaw, kissing her briefly. "Take her, Thomas. If I am not there by the time you are ready to leave, take her to her father."	
"No!" Alinor cried. "Come with me! Please, Wulfgar!"	
"I must end this now. I can not let him live when he has dared to touch you."	
Alinor clutched his arm. "He did not! I swear he did not!"	
Wulfgar’s lips crooked up at one corner. "Aye, not in that way, I know. Hilda told me of your clever ruse. But I will take no more chances with your life. While he lives, he will always be a threat."	
Despite her efforts to cling to him, he handed her to Thomas, who gripped her tightly. "Yes," she said a little desperately, "but not here! Not now! You are out numbered. If you care for me at all, please do not make me a widow!"	
Wulfgar leaned toward her, touching her cheek briefly. "I care for you with all my heart, Alinor. This is why I must protect you—with my last breath, if necessary."	
Alinor wasn’t even aware that she was crying until she felt the dampness drip from her jaw. Twisting around, she looked up at the grim faced man who held her. "Leave me and go back."	
"I can not," he said tightly. "My lord bade me to take care of his lady."	
"But … he is outnumbered! There’s no need for three men to accompany me when he has greater need of you than I have!"	
He said nothing for several moments. Finally, he looked down at her coldly. "Six men died defending you because you were so willful that you left the keep—and would not have a whole troop accompany you—Lord Wulfgar would more likely lob the head from my shoulders than welcome me if I abandoned you to go to his aid—though I will tell you truly, I would far rather die by his side than live, knowing I left him for your sake."	
Alinor was effectively silenced. In truth, she could think of nothing to say in her defense. What could she say, after all? She had not intended that they die? She had not expected that there would be danger? It was true, and yet hardly an excuse when it had cost the men their lives. 	
Much, if not all, that had happened since she had been betrothed to Jean-Pierre had been because of her, and yet she could not think what she might have done differently—knew that it had been out of her hands even before she had known of Wulfgar. She found, though, that it made her feel no better, no less guilty, no less saddened, to realize that it would have happened no matter what she had done. 	
* * * *	
A sense of exhilaration and purpose filled Wulfgar as he rode once more toward the place that had once been his, the place that his grandfather had built in his time. He did not think of that, however. His entire being was focused upon the men riding toward him, more specifically the one who led them. 	
The two groups clashed with the clang of steel, the growling bellows of men and the scream of horses midway between the forest and the manor. Despite the ruse Hilda had used to even the odds, Wulfgar’s men were outnumbered almost three to one. Wulfgar felt the battle madness descend upon him as he waded through the writhing throng of battling men and horses, hacking and thrusting at anyone who crossed his path, focused upon reaching Jean-Pierre. 	
Abruptly, the melee seemed to part, leaving the opening Wulfgar had waited for. He charged forward with a roar, swinging his great sword at Jean-Pierre’s head. He met steel instead of the satisfying crunch of bone and flesh as Jean-Pierre brought his own sword up to parry the blow. Their swords scraped together until the hilts met, throwing off sparks. For several moments, the two men swayed, each trying to overcome the other by strength alone. 	
It was no contest, for Wulfgar was by far the strongest of the two. Jean-Pierre fell from his horse, rolled, trying to come to his feet. Wulfgar leapt from his own saddle, swinging even as Jean-Pierre managed to right himself. Again Jean-Pierre blocked a blow that would have cleaved his head from his shoulders. Their blades locked, held. With gritted teeth, they swayed, shoving against one another. Finally, Wulfgar gave Jean-Pierre a heave that sent him stumbling backward. 	
Again, they advanced upon each other, Wulfgar bringing his blade down again and again, hacking away at Jean-Pierre’s strength and confidence as each blow sent a jarring pain through his arm. 	
"Quarter!" Jean-Pierre finally managed between gritted teeth.	
"No quarter!" Wulfgar growled. "You gave none to Alinor."	
Jean-Pierre lurched toward Wulfgar in a lightening strike, slicing through the leather armor that covered his thigh, cutting deeply, but he found no advantage. The move exposed his left side completely and Wulfgar did not hesitate. With a roar of triumph, he brought his blade down, severing Jean-Pierre’s head from his shoulders. It hit the ground, rolling, a grimace of surprise etched on his features. 	
Breathing heavily, Wulfgar turned to survey the battle waging around him. His men, he saw, were holding their own, but even as he raced to take his horse and mount once more, he saw more men pouring from the half finished walls surrounding the manor. 	
"Finish it and be quick about it!" he yelled to his men, falling upon the soldier nearest him and cleaving him almost in half, then whirling toward the next, his focus now on winning free of the men that had first met them before they were joined by reinforcements. 	
Winning free at last, Wulfgar spurred his horse into a gallop, hurrying to join Alinor and the men he’d sent to escort her home. 	
He would have far preferred to lead the soldiers away from her, but he doubted they’d fall for the ruse and, without him and his men, she was virtually unguarded.	
* * * *	
They had been riding for perhaps an hour when the thunder of approaching riders reached them. Thomas glanced at the man beside him. "Wulfgar, you think?"	
The man glanced over his shoulder. The moon had risen, but it was still far too dark to see more than a few yards in any direction. "I think I’m not of a mind to wait here and find out."	
They had not gone far before they realized that they could not outrun whoever it was, friend or foe, who was thundering down upon them. Thomas slowed, looking around for cover. With relief, Alinor heard Wulfgar call out to them. 	
With an audible sigh of thankfulness, Thomas dragged on the reins, pulling his horse to a halt. Within moments, Wulfgar and his men rode into view. They skidded to a halt when they came abreast of Alinor’s party. "Half the garrison is behind is," Wulfgar said breathlessly reaching for Alinor and pulling her onto the front of his horse once more. 	
"Are you hurt?" Alinor gasped, tightening her arms around his waist.	
"Not as badly as I will be if they catch up to us," he said shortly. "How far, do you think, Thomas?"	
Thomas shook his head. "A good hour and a half, maybe two. We’ll be lucky to make it in that in the dark."	
"We’ll not make it at all if we don’t ride hard," Wulfgar said grimly. He spared a look down at Alinor. "Are you up to it, love?"	
Alinor nodded. "Yes. Let us go."	
They rode, endlessly it seemed to Alinor. Behind them, dimly, they heard the sounds of pursuit, but Alinor found very quickly that she could focus upon nothing but the fact that her babe had chosen this night, of all nights, to fight his way into the world.	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
Chapter Eighteen	
	
The pain rapidly became intolerable. Try though she might, Alinor found she could not be still. Every position she chose only seemed to make her hurt worse. Gritting her teeth against it, she prayed it was no more than the jolting of the horse that was causing her such pain. She knew it could not be time for the babe. If she had it now, it would not survive even if she did… and it seemed unlikely that she would. They could not stop, however, or all were doomed. Finally, she reached a point where she was so enveloped in pain that she ceased to be aware of anything else. 	
"What ails you, Alinor?" Wulfgar demanded.	
"Nothing," Alinor said breathlessly. 	
"It is not nothing," Wulfgar growled. "What is it?"	
Alinor gasped, clutching her belly as a particularly hard contraction hit her. 	
Wulfgar paled, a look of pure terror washing over his features as he placed his hand on her belly, feeling it grow rock hard beneath his palm. "Jesus Christ! You can not!--Not now!"	
"No. I will be fine when I can get off this horse," she assured him a little breathlessly. 	
Wulfgar glanced helplessly at Thomas, who had pulled alongside them when he saw Wulfgar slow his steed. "She is having the babe."	
"Now?" Thomas demanded. "Christ! I have never seen a woman who was not more trouble than she was worth!"	
Wulfgar glared at him. "You speak of my wife?" he growled threateningly.	
Thomas glanced at him in alarm. "Nay, my lord! But—we are not even a dozen all together, and most are wounded! We can not hope to hold that hoard off that pursues us!"	
"I know of a cave in the cliffs not far ahead," one of the men near enough to hear them volunteered. 	
"A cave!" Wulfgar roared furiously.	
The man looked taken aback, but shrugged. "I only thought it might be better than trying to birth her babe in a rocking boat—assuming we reach the beach."	
Wulfgar considered it for only a moment. "You will show me. Loose the horses, take the boat and row out into the water. With any luck they will think they have lost us and turn back."	
Alinor clutched at Wulfgar. "Nay. Let us go with them. It is too soon for the babe. Likely the pains will cease if I could but lie still for a bit."	
Wulfgar shook his head. "Mayhap they will, but not in a boat. You will be jounced as much or more if we get you into the boat. We will go to the cave and rest a bit. When you are feeling better, we will signal for them to come back for us."	
Alinor found she simply didn’t have the strength to argue and she had ceased to care about anything beyond the hope of escaping her pain. She said nothing more, trying only to close her mind to the blinding pain. It was the with the greatest relief that she heard the sound of pounding waves not long afterward and knew they were nearing the beach—though she had never thought to be glad to hear that sound. 	
It took precious minutes to locate the cave, but they discovered it at last and Wulfgar carried her inside, laying her carefully on the cold stone floor. "Attend your lady," Thomas said. "I will keep watch at the entrance."	
Wulfgar shook his head. "You have done enough, old friend. Far more than many a man would. Go with the others."	
Thomas’ jaw set stubbornly. "I have never questioned any order you gave me, Lord Wulfgar, but I will not leave you and your lady alone." 	
Wulfgar studied him a long moment and finally nodded. Turning away from the cave entrance, he made his way carefully through the dark interior, kneeling when he saw Alinor’s dim outline. She was curled into a tight ball. Pulling his cloak from his shoulders, he spread it on the floor of the cave and lifted Alinor onto it, wrapping it around her. "Better, love?"	
Alinor groaned in spite of all she could do. "Yes," she lied.	
"Quiet!" Thomas whispered harshly. "They are almost upon us."	
Time lost all meaning to Alinor after that. She was vaguely aware of movements around her, whispered conversations, but she had ceased to exist. Her belly was on fire with pain and she could find no relief from it. In the beginning, there had been some respite, no more than a few minutes, but even that would have been welcome after a time, for she had none at all.	
She became aware at one point that there was light in the cave and glanced around to discover a small fire had been built near where she lay. "They will see the light. You must put it out."	
"They have gone—satisfied that they chased us into the sea. You are safe, love."	
Alinor clutched Wulfgar’s hand when he would have moved away. "I am so sorry."	
Wulfgar frowned. "For what?"	
"Everything … for being so much trouble."	
Wulfgar stroked her cheek soothingly. "You are no trouble to me."	
It was kind of him to say so, though she knew it was a lie, but the pain consumed her again and she forgot everything else. She began to wonder after a while how much time had passed. 	
"Where is Hilda?" she asked fretfully.	
"She escaped into the woods. Do not worry about her. She has gone to live with her son. She will be fine."	
"Jean-Pierre knows. He will kill her."	
"Jean-Pierre is dead and no longer a threat to anyone," Wulfgar said harshly.	
"You have avenged her then?"	
"What?"	
"Freda. You have found peace?"	
Wulfgar said nothing for so long that she began to wonder if she had only thought, and not said, the words. "Aye. When I found you."	
Alinor frowned, but she wasn’t certain what he meant by that, for he had had no peace since he had found her. 	
"How long have we been here? Are they not coming back for us?"	
Wulfgar glanced at Thomas. "They have returned. We will leave as soon as you are better."	
"Am I dying?"	
"Nay!" Wulfgar said harshly. "Do not talk of such! It has only been a little while. It only seems long because you are in pain."	
Despair filled Alinor. "Not long? Wulfgar, I do not think I can endure this if it is to take much longer."	
Wulfgar looked at Thomas and nodded toward the mouth of the cave. Rising, he followed him. "What think you?"	
Thomas shook his head. "I’ve helped a mare with her foal, and a sow with her piglets, but I’ve no notion of birthing a babe. We should look for a woman to help her."	
"Look where?" Wulfgar said sharply. "Likely if we could find one it would be too late to be of use to her."	
"My mother told me it took her three days to birth me," one of the men outside volunteered. 	
Wulfgar glanced at the man. It was Kavan, the man who’d told them of the cave. "I have doubt that Alinor can last two more. She is nigh exhausted now."	
The man shrugged. "There’s never any telling how long these things will take. When my mother birthed her last, that took no more than a matter of hours."	
Everyone, including Wulfgar, looked him over curiously. "You have knowledge of this? First hand?"	
He blushed. "I’ve no sisters. My mother needed someone to help and none of the others could stomach it."	
Wulfgar grasped the man by his tunic and hauled him to his feet. "You will help Alinor, then."	
Startled, Kavan flicked an uncomfortable glance at him. "I am willing enough, my lord, but if there is ought wrong, I do not have the skills to help her."	
"You’ve more knowledge than the rest of us. At least have a look. If you think it will wait a while, mayhap it would be best to try to get her across the channel and find a woman to help her."	
When Kavan had examined her, however, he shook his head. "I can see the child’s head. If we move her now we’re likely to kill them both." 	
He leaned down and caught Alinor’s face, shaking her slightly. Alinor had been drifting on a haze, but the movement roused her. "You must push."	
Alinor frowned at the stranger uncomprehendingly. 	
Catching her hand, he placed it on her belly. "When your belly grows tight again, suck in a deep breath and hold it while you push."	
She tried, encouraged by his calm words and reassuring touch, certain that it meant her trial was almost over. After a while, however, she found it was harder and harder to focus on what he was saying and to do as he told her.	
Kavan sat back, frowning. "She is too weak. She will never push the babe out at this rate." He thought about it for several moments and finally directed Wulfgar to sit behind her, holding her up. Taking Wulfgar’s cloak, he folded it and placed it beneath her. "This way the child’s weight should help. Place your hands on her belly and each time it hardens, push downward … not too hard. Just help her."	
Within moments, Alinor felt her legs begin to shake from the effort. Each time she reached the point of giving up, however, the stranger would speak sharply, or encouragingly, to her, always distracting her from the urge to simply give up the effort and slip to the floor. 	
"Almost there. Just push a little more. Hold only a moment. Now. Push."	
Abruptly, something heavy slipped away and the pain ceased as abruptly as if it had been sliced from her body. Alinor wilted weakly against Wulfgar’s chest, barely conscious. 	
A moment passed and then another. Alinor had just realized something was not right when she heard a choking noise followed by an angry wail. A sob of relief escaped her. 	
"He is alive?"	
"Aye," Wulfgar murmured against her cheek. "He is."	
Kavan frowned. "Hold her only a few more moments."	
"Is something wrong?" Alinor asked fearfully.	
Kavan glanced at her. "Nay. Small wonder this fellow gave you such a time. He’s a strapping lad. But first I must tie this off when the blood ceases to flow." He paused, tearing a strip from Alinor’s gown. "And see that the after birth has passed."	
He nodded at Wulfgar finally and Wulfgar helped her to lay down beside the squalling infant. Tired as she was, Alinor gathered him close to her heart, laughing and crying at the same time. "He is so tiny!"	
Kavan exchanged a look with Wulfgar. "You are not used to seeing infants. He is a good sized lad, I give you my word."	
Alinor tugged the cloak back so that she could study the baby’s face and finally looked up at Wulfgar, smiling. "He is beautiful, is he not?"	
Wulfgar looked down at the bloody, red faced, wrinkled thing she held in her arms. "Aye," he agreed weakly.	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
	
Chapter Nineteen	
	
Alinor had just settled into her bath when a maid rushed into the room to tell her that Wulfgar had returned. A thrill of excitement went through her, but also exasperation and dread. She had not expected him quite so soon. She had spent the past hour preparing her bath, anxious to look her best for him when he returned since it would be the first time since his son’s birth that she would be able to receive him as a wife. After a moment, she sent the maids to tell him she would be down shortly and rushed the maids through washing her hair. 	
The door to their bed chamber burst open, slamming against the wall just as the maid was finished rinsing her hair. Startled, the maid squeaked in surprise, dropping the pitcher. Alinor’s head whipped toward the door. 	
Wulfgar stood in the doorway, his expression dark with anger. As his gaze settled upon her in the tub, however, a curious mixture of surprise and desire abruptly replaced the anger. He pointed at the maids. "Out!"	
The maids looked at Alinor questioningly and she nodded. "Have someone bring up the food I asked to be prepared for my lord."	
"Later," Wulfgar said shortly as the maids scurried from the room. Closing the door behind them, he strode across the room to the hearth, placing his back to it and staring down at her.	
"You are cross," Alinor observed coolly.	
Wulfgar stared at her a long moment and finally scrubbed his hand along his jaw and turned away. "I was … not pleased to be told upon my arrival that my wife was detained—when I have been gone for weeks."	
Alinor studied his rigid back for several moments before it occurred to her that he had suspected she was ‘detained’ because she was entertaining. Anger washed through her, but after a moment it occurred to her that it was entirely her own fault that he had jumped to such a nasty conclusion. Her mother had told her she would live to regret having sown that seed of doubt, and indeed she did, for trust, she saw, would be slow in coming, particularly after the lie she had told to dissuade Jean-Pierre’s attentions. 	
She had been revolted at the very thought of accusing her own husband of bringing her a disease from a whore, though.	
Unfortunately, that was the one part of the story she had fabricated that had mightily displeased Wulfgar. When coupled with her previous remark about her own needs, it had proven to be fodder for jealousy. 	
Sighing deeply, Alinor returned her attention to finishing her bath before the water grew cold. After a few moments, she realized that Wulfgar had turned to watch her. She pretended she had not noticed, but the desire in his eyes was a goad to tease him—in part because of his unpalatable suspicions, in part because it thrilled her to see the hunger in his gaze as he watched her. "Would you care to bathe while the water is still hot, my lord?"	
Without a word, Wulfgar began shedding his garments, though his gaze never left her. When she rose and swiped the excess water from her body, he went perfectly still, his gaze locked upon her as she stepped from the tub and wrapped a length of linen around herself. The linen clung damply to her skin, nearly transparent. After a moment, Wulfgar seemed to shake his stupor. Tugging off his boots and breeches, he climbed into the tub, grabbed the sponge that she had been bathing with and began to scrub himself quickly. When he dropped the sponge and leaned forward to splash water over his face, Alinor knelt and took the sponge, then felt around in the tub for the soap he’d dropped. He sat back abruptly as her hand grazed his thigh, but Alinor pretended she hadn’t noticed, concentrating on rubbing the soap into the sponge. Setting the soap aside, she moved behind him and scrubbed his back, then lathered his hair before retrieving the pitcher to rinse the suds from his hair. 	
She was still trying to rinse the soap from his hair when Wulfgar twisted around abruptly, grasped her around the waist and dragged her across his lap. She gaped at him in surprise. 	
"Woman—‘tis a dangerous game you play."	
Alinor dropped the pitcher to the floor and draped her arms around his neck. "Is it?"	
His eyes narrowed. 	
Leaning toward him, Alinor grazed the line of his jaw with a nibbling kiss. "What will happen if I do?" she whispered in his ear before tracing the swirls of his ear with the tip of her tongue.	
A shudder went through him. Gripping her tightly, he rose straight up from the tub, glanced speculatively toward the bed and finally stepped from the tub. Kneeling, he laid her upon the rug before the hearth, capturing her lips in a heated kiss as he followed her down, covering her body with his own. 	
Alinor found her hunger equaled his. Murmuring an approval into his mouth, she wound her arms tightly around his neck, entwining her legs with his. It was all the encouragement he needed. Leaning away, he dragged the wet linen from between them and tossed it away. Their wet bodies clung, slipped, drove them both over the edge as they rolled on the rug, seeking to position themselves. 	
Despite her readiness, a twinge of discomfort suffused her as he slipped his engorged flesh inside of her, driving deeply, but the discomfort passed quickly as he began to thrust, haphazardly at first, pausing and pulling away so that he could suckle her breasts, kiss her shoulder and neck, her lips. Finally, feeling the desperate need descend upon her, she locked her legs around his waist, arching to meet his thrusts, demanding a rhythm that would take her to culmination. He fell into a rhythm then that pleased them both, thrusting and retreating smoothly, deeply. 	
Within moments, Alinor reached her crisis, crying out in bliss as her body convulsed around his engorged flesh. The clenching of her body around his cock sent him over the edge, as well. They lay gasping and sated in the aftermath, still entwined, their bodies still joined. 	
After a moment, Wulfgar gathered her tightly in his arms and rolled to his back. Alinor lay limply atop him, her cheek pressed to his chest. A sense of peace settled over her. Turning her head slightly, she placed a light kiss in the center of his chest, above his pounding heart. "I desire no one save you, Wulfgar."	
He stiffened, pushed her away so that he could look at her. 	
She smiled wryly. "I have an unruly tongue. Many times I have spoken without judicious thought and then found that what I have said did not come out just as I meant it to. I could not bear to think that you might do this with anyone else. I only meant to make you understand how it would make me feel if I found that you had—not to place doubt in your mind about me."	
Wulfgar frowned thoughtfully, stroking her back, but he said nothing.	
She reached up, placing her palm on his cheek so that he looked at her. "I love you, Wulfgar, with all my heart. I desire no other."	
Wulfgar’s eyes lit, but after a moment he looked away, frowning. "A proper courtship would not have left us vulnerable to so many doubts," he said slowly. "I spoke thoughtlessly myself … many times."	
Alinor chuckled, drawing his attention. "You will think me strange, but … I thought it thrilling that you stole me away."	
Wulfgar’s lip quirked upward. Rolling onto his side, he faced her. "I terrified you."	
Alinor bit her lip. "Mayhap a little—but I was far more terrified that you would decide to take me back … and disappointed that you seemed so disinterested in ravishing me."	
Wulfgar chuckled, but sobered almost at once. "I was not disinterested. I could think of little else, but I could not bring myself to force you and watch the innocence in your eyes die."	
"Oh." Alinor frowned and then blushed. "I thought … I thought it was because you … feared that you might come to care for me, at least a little."	
"I am so easily read, then?"	
Alinor shrugged. "Apparently not."	
Wulfgar tucked his fingers beneath her chin. "I can not honestly say what I felt then … beyond confusion. All I do know is that from the moment you looked up at me and I saw fear, and innocence, and trust in your eyes I was torn between the desire to protect you and … the desire to have you. There is no doubt in my mind that I love you, Alinor--as I have never loved anyone else. Any doubts that remained in my own mind vanished when you were taken from me, and when I watched you struggling to bring our son into the world. All I could think of then was that there would be no life for me without you."	
Alinor hugged him tightly, lifting her lips for a kiss to seal their vows. "I am so relieved little Wulfgar took no hurt from all of our adventuring," she said on a happy sigh when they parted at last.	
"Aye," Wulfgar agreed.	
"He is such a beautiful child! He looks just like his father."	
Wulfgar looked torn between amusement and doubt. "Only a mother’s eyes would see beauty in such a creature."	
Alinor struck him playfully, but laughed. "I knew you were horrified when you first saw him! And no consideration made for what the poor babe had endured finding his way into this world. You should see him now. He is beautiful."	
Wulfgar forestalled her, however, when she would have rushed away. Standing, he scooped her into his arms and strode to the bed. "Later. Just now I am far more interested in showing you how much I adore you and allowing you to show me how much you adore me."	
Alinor wrapped her arms around his neck, smiling. "I would love to adore you … all over your body."	
Wulfgar gave her a heated gaze as he placed her atop the mattress and followed her down. "Me first," he growled huskily.	
	
	
	
	
	
The End	
	
	
	

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