His Captive Lady Read Online Free PDF

total stranger--what was it to him if she got hurt? And if she was indeed Erica of Whitecliffe, then she should know better than to march into her enemy's stronghold like this, she deserved to get hurt. Wulf could not get involved, particularly since he was on the brink of leaving...
    Saints, there was Marie's face again. Shoving his hand through his hair, Wulf tried to eject his half-sister from his thoughts. He succeeded, but not before it came to him, that if someone had helped Marie when she had needed it, she would still be alive.
    'Hell.' How in God's name was he supposed to aid the woman when he was here under false colours himself? He had his commission to think of, he must not disappoint De Warenne.
    'Problem, Saewulf?' Hrothgar asked, pale eyes watchful.
    'Not at all.' Wulf forced a smile and reminded himself of the land that he longed for, of the knighthood that he hoped to win. He must not fail now. Tonight he would be away from here--God willing, he would be on the London road.
    Maldred and Swein were applying themselves to the windlass. The portcullis creaked, and Lady Erica of Whitecliffe appeared under the arch. Her two companions stationed themselves either side of her. Gowned in purple beneath her russet cloak, she was tall and dignified, composedly nodding her agreement while her companions were divested of their arms. Men in their late twenties, housecarls by the look of them, Saxon warriors who handed their swords over to Maldred without a murmur. But they did not like it; their eyes and their stance betrayed them.
    Guthlac Stigandson swept the woman a mocking bow. 'Greetings, Lady Erica.'
    She dipped her head in acknowledgement. 'Thane Guthlac?' Her voice was low and even.
    'At your service,' murmured Guthlac.
    Wulf took stock of her. Yes, she was tall, and she had a stately air, and when she flung back the russet hood of her cloak, he bit back a gasp. Close to, with her dark hair gleaming in the growing daylight and with her startling green eyes, Erica of Whitecliffe was beautiful--breathtakingly, radiantly beautiful.
    Lady Erica glanced swiftly round the compound, tipping her head back to take in the tower perched on its mound. Her quick eyes ran over the sentry points, the palisade, the outbuildings, and, finally, lingered on the chapel.
    While she nodded briefly, unsmiling but polite, at each man in the compound, Wulf was disconcertingly aware that his heartbeat was less than steady. She was his very image of beauty. Not that that signified anything. Although when her eyes met his--they were a particular shade of green, which brought to mind the woods near Honfleur on a sunny spring day--Wulf felt a distinct jolt in his belly. She nodded at him and her gaze moved on, to Hrothgar, Beorn, Maldred. He could see by the sudden stillness that gripped Guthlac and his housecarls that they, too, had been struck by her beauty. And who would not be?
    The Lady Erica had pale skin, which was clear and unblemished; her brows and eyelashes were dark; she had a straight nose with a scattering of freckles across it; her lips were red and full and tempting and there was not a wrinkle anywhere, not even around those remarkable eyes. Wulf caught the gleam of gold--her cloak fastening was patterned with interlocking snakes. Two thick dark plaits trailed down to her waist, their ends caught in finely wrought golden fillets.
    Thane Eric's daughter must be about his age, perhaps a little older. If pushed, Wulf would say she had been born at about the same time as his half-sister. Those glossy plaits were black as a crow's wing. Her carriage was proud and straight, and though that cloak hid her bosom, it could not entirely disguise the full curve of her breasts. Briefly Wulf shut his eyes. Thane Eric's daughter was beautiful enough to steal any man's breath. He remembered what had happened to Thane Guthlac's mother, and he feared, he very much feared, that this woman's beauty was about to be her downfall. Merde. It was not