His Captive Lady - Carol Townend Mills & Boon Historical

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lord?’ Erica darted a swift 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, praying her instincts were not letting her down. As her fingers curled into the fabric, they closed on hard muscle beneath. ‘I would choose this one.’

      Chapter Five

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      ‘He is not nobly born, my lady,’ Hrothgar hissed in her ear.

      Erica shrugged. ‘I care not. If I am allowed a choice, I choose this man.’

      ‘Oh, but it is worse than that, my lady.’ Hrothgar’s lips curled and he shot the young man standing stiffly at Erica’s side a disdainful look. ‘Brader is a bastard.’

      Saewulf Brader’s jaw tightened, but he did not refute Hrothgar’s accusation.

      It certainly was shocking, in a day when to produce a child out of wedlock was deemed one of the greatest sins a woman could commit. Erica’s breath caught as it struck her that, after tonight, that might be her fate. She sent another prayer winging heavenward that, whatever happened tonight, she must not conceive. And another, that Thane Guthlac would give her to the younger housecarl. Saewulf Brader’s birth was nothing set against her desire, her very strong desire, that she should not be given to Hrothgar.

      Dimly, Erica was aware of more muttering down the table, more calls of, ‘Let them fight! A fight!’

      She kept her gaze pinned on Guthlac Stigandson. ‘Please, my lord, for the respect you felt for my father, I ask you in acknowledgement of the respect he had for you. Let me choose.’

      Her thoughts moved swiftly. And now, she told herself, no more words, lest you begin to beg. For she misliked the look of Thane Guthlac’s right-hand man. Neither in his words nor his manner did Hrothgar appear to be someone who would consider a woman’s feelings. But this other whose tunic she could not seem to release…this younger man who, though low in the pecking order, had spoken up for her. It was little enough to judge a man by, but what else had she to go on? The ridiculous realisation that, even in this hall, on this most hideous of nights, she found Saewulf Brader attractive? Those thickly lashed blue eyes seemed to be the only eyes in the hall to see her, to really see her; his wide shoulders suggested that here was a man strong enough to share her burdens; the fine-boned fingers clenching and unclenching on his swordhilt hinted at a sensitivity she would not have looked for in a warrior loyal to Thane Guthlac.

      She must be losing her wits. For even in the midst of her humiliation, she found herself drawn to this Saewulf Brader.

      Thane Guthlac was stroking his beard, making much of coming to a decision. Erica swallowed down a bitter taste. She was only too conscious of the men on the benches holding their breath, awaiting his judgement. Her fate, the question of whether she was to be given to Thane Guthlac’s champion or his rawest recruit, was little more to most of them than an evening’s entertainment. A minstrel or a dancing girl would have been received with like interest and with as little concern.

      Biting back a tart response, Erica gripped Saewulf Brader’s brown homespun for all she was worth. She lowered her gaze, for, if Guthlac Stigandson saw the anger that must be burning in her eyes, he would surely give her to Hrothgar. She wanted to fly at her father’s old enemy, kicking and screaming; she wanted to turn tail and run. But one thing weighed more than her anger at Thane Guthlac—her determination that Morcar, Hrolf and the others should not rot in that noisome cottage. Add to that her hatred of Normans and her vision that the two warbands should unite against those who had stolen her father’s lands…

      She stood firm, it was all she could do. Erica of Whitecliffe was at the mercy of Thane Guthlac’s whim. And to think that the men watching so avidly were fellow Saxons…

      Thane Guthlac pushed up her chin. ‘Lady Erica, you are a brave woman, you do not weep and wail, you are a daughter a man could be proud of—a peace-weaver.’ He waved at Saewulf Brader. ‘Take Thane Eric’s daughter—this night a true-born lady is yours.’

      A sigh rippled round the hall like the wind in the reeds, but Erica barely heard it. She dragged in a breath.

      At her side the dark head bowed briefly. ‘Thank you, my lord.’

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