"McBride, Goldie - Wulfgar" - читать интересную книгу автора (McBride Goldie)

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.