His Captive Lady by Carol Townend Read Free Book Online Page A

look under her lashes at the tall young warrior who was apparently prepared to risk life and limb to save her from the attentions of Thane Guthlac's right-hand man. Thane Guthlac had referred to him as Saewulf Brader. He was, as Hrothgar had pointed out, some years Hrothgar's junior. Why, Saewulf Brader might even be younger than herself. His hair was thick and dark and a deal shorter than most of the men's, and while he was not exactly clean-shaven, he wore no beard. Perhaps it was the lack of beard that gave him his youthful appearance. Erica was twenty-four years old, and, if put to it, she would judge Saewulf Brader to be a couple of years younger than her.
    Her mind raced. His youthfulness would not necessarily be a disadvantage in combat; he was big and solidly built, with strong muscles that showed clearly beneath that worn brown tunic. His hands were oddly at variance with his calling; they were beautifully shaped for a warrior, long fingered and fine-boned but--Erica frowned--no arm-rings jingled at his wrist. Had he won no prizes for his skill at arms? How odd, when a warrior was so strong he usually had any number of arm-rings...
    For a moment their eyes met and her heart stuttered. His eyes were blue, bright and clear as the sky above the South Downs at harvest time, and framed by thick dark lashes. Saewulf Brader, Erica thought somewhat breathlessly, was physical perfection. No, not quite perfection; there were shadows under his eyes that hinted of fatigue, there were lines of tension, too...but, that aside, he was physically perfect--the man looked every inch a lady's champion.
    If she could but trust him.
    Saewulf was apparently a newcomer to Thane Guthlac's band and he did not hold with the bloodfeud, but did that mean Erica could rely on him? The lack of arm-rings was a worry, too...maybe he was not as adept as he looked.
    'Lady Erica, you had something you wished to say?' Guthlac's tone warned her that he was startled at her interference, but Erica took heart from his continuing use of her title. For even if Thane Guthlac was planning to force her to lie with one of his men as his price for ending the bloodfeud, he was still paying lip-service to the courtesies. Provided she showed herself to be amenable, he would not beat her or force her in that way. A wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm her.
    Provided she was amenable.
    Another stolen glance at Saewulf Brader, a briefer one at Hrothgar, whose fingers were gouging holes in her arm and who had roused an immediate and instinctive loathing in her, and Erica had made up her mind. 'Might I choose, my lord?'
    Thane Guthlac's brows climbed, and on the benches someone groaned, 'No, my lord, a fight, give us a fight!' Other men, loathe to lose what was speedily becoming the best night's entertainment in years, joined in the chorus. 'A fight! Give us a fight!'
    Wrenching herself free of Hrothgar, Erica clasped her hands at her breast. 'Please, my lord, let me choose. What sense in permitting two of your finest to wound themselves? We shall need every man in the coming conflict, when we fight as one.' Beside her, the warrior Saewulf shifted, but he said nothing. The warmth of his body was oddly comforting.
    Hrothgar snorted. 'My skin is not at risk, my lord. This boy is all ambition and no staying power.'
    Thane Guthlac exchanged grins with his champion. Ice trickled down Erica's spine--she was certain her request was about to be denied. 'My lord,' she rushed into speech, 'I do not relish the thought of Saxon blood being spilled on my account. If I agree to your terms, why make them fight? The bloodfeud will have ended, your honour will be satisfied, and your men and mine will have new allies against the Normans.'
    'Who would you choose?' Thane Guthlac scratched his neck, his tone so casual, so idle, it was nothing less than an insult.
    Swallowing down a rush of rage, Erica reached blindly for the brown homespun of Saewulf Brader's tunic. 'This one,' she murmured,