The Laird's Captive Wife. Joanna Fulford

       Ashlynn’s choice was stark: take Iain as her husband, or accept a fate that would likely be much worse.

      When the words were all spoken and the ring on her finger he kissed her, a gentle kiss which burned nonetheless and set her pulse racing. Understated and subtle, it was underlain with a deeper promise, and the implications quickened every fibre of her being.

      

      For an instant their eyes met, but as so often his face gave little away. Did he share the resentment she felt? Given the choice, he would never have entered into this bargain. From the outset he had regarded her as an encumbrance. What possible argument could have persuaded him to agree to this?

      

      They went out to the horses and Iain took leave of his king. He turned back to Ashlynn.

      

      ‘Come, my wife.’

      

      The use of that title sent another wave of heat the length of her body. Soon enough he would take her to his bed and make his possession complete…

      Author Note

      The setting for this story is the Norman Conquest, a period that has long interested me because it was such a watershed in English history. However, the Battle of Hastings was far from being decisive in political terms. For the next six years William had to contend with numerous rebellions, which he put down with great severity. One such rising was in Northumbria. In the winter of 1069–70 the King’s army exacted a terrible retribution for this. Known afterwards as The Harrying of the North, it was one of the most infamous episodes of William’s reign. Contemporary chroniclers describe the region as being littered with corpses because there were not enough people left alive to bury them. One estimate puts the number of dead at 100,000. Over twenty years later, Domesday Book records much of this area as ‘waste and desolation’. It is alleged that William, on his deathbed, confessed that his treatment of Northumbria had been unjust and troubled his conscience greatly.

      

      My heroine and her family are innocent victims of these events. When their manor at Heslingfield is destroyed by the King’s mercenaries, Ashlynn is alone and penniless in a dangerous land. Her troubles are compounded when she falls into the hands of Black Iain, a notorious border warlord. Haunted by the past, and driven by his thirst for revenge, Iain believes he has no time for the kind of encumbrance that Ashlynn represents.

      The Laird’s Captive Wife

      Joanna Fulford

      

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      For Helen, who shared so many childhood adventures.

      

       Praise for Joanna Fulford’s debut novel

      THE VIKING’S DEFIANT BRIDE

      ‘Fulford’s story of lust and love set in the Dark Ages is reminiscent of Woodiwiss’s The Flame and the Flower.’ —RT Book Reviews

      JOANNA FULFORD is a compulsive scribbler, with a passion for literature and history, both of which she has studied to postgraduate level. Other countries and cultures have always exerted a fascination, and she has travelled widely, living and working abroad for many years. However, her roots are in England, and are now firmly established in the Peak District, where she lives with her husband, Brian. When not pressing a hot keyboard she likes to be out on the hills, either walking or on horseback. However, these days equestrian activity is confined to sedate hacking rather than riding at high speed towards solid obstacles.

       Recent novels by the same author:

      THE VIKING’S DEFIANT BRIDE

      (part of the Mills & Boon Presents… anthology, featuring talented new authors)

      THE WAYWARD GOVERNESS

      Prologue

      The Scottish laird rested a moment on his sword, letting his gaze range the length of the defile where his men were now searching the bodies of the slain. Though the ambush had been successful the exhilaration of the fight was underlain by frustration as he realised the one he sought was not there. Surveying the scene now, his dark gaze hardened. Before he left he would find out what he wanted to know. Not all the men lying here were dead.

      As the laird’s shadow fell across him, the wounded Norman mercenary glanced up quickly, taking in the naked sword and the uncompromising expression of the man who held it. Then he spat. The Scot’s gaze never wavered.

      ‘Where’s Fitzurse?’

      The Norman returned him a cold stare but made no reply. A moment later the point of a blade was pressed against his throat.

      ‘I’ll ask you just once more,’ said the quiet voice. ‘Where is he?’

      ‘We’re dead men anyway. Why should I tell you?’

      ‘Tell me and you can take your chance with the kites and the ravens. Refuse and I’ll cut your throat and ask someone else.’

      The man swallowed. ‘Fitzurse rides north with the rest of his force.’

      ‘Where?’

      ‘Durham.’

      ‘You’re certain of this?’

      ‘We’re in his pay.’

      ‘Paid to destroy everything for miles around?’

      ‘Aye, for sixty miles around. On King William’s orders.’

      Recalling the devastation he had seen on the journey north, the laird felt his gorge rise. Once upon a time, in a past life, French society had been dear to his heart. At fourteen the world had been new and green, a place full of exciting possibilities of which France had been one. At the time it had seemed like a dream come true, a welcome chance to escape the cheerless confines of Dark Mount and his father’s enmity. Back then the castle at Vaucourt had been the warm centre of his universe; the military training it afforded the highest peak of achievement. At Vaucourt he had grown to manhood. At Vaucourt he had first met Eloise…

      That recollection inspired others less welcome. All the dead faces he had seen in the past days blurred and merged until he saw just one, the one that had been all to him. Time dulled the pain of loss but it did nothing to extinguish anger—or hatred. Both burned brighter for being cold.

      ‘Why are you so anxious to find Fitzurse anyway?’

      The prisoner’s voice drew the laird back to the present. ‘That’s my business,’ he replied.

      ‘Suit yourself. It’s nothing to me.’ The other paused. ‘I doubt if Fitzurse will care either.’

      ‘Oh, he’ll care all right when I catch up to him.’

      ‘And who are you exactly?’

      ‘My name is Iain McAlpin.’

      The Norman’s eyes widened slightly in recognition and with it the first flicker of fear.

      ‘I have heard of you, my lord.’

      ‘You’re like to hear more, assuming I let you live of course.’

      The other licked dry lips. ‘I’ve told you what you wanted to know.’

      ‘You can have your life, you Norman scum. I’ll not soil my sword with you.’ With that the laird sheathed the blade and walked away.

      He headed back to the edge of the path where his men were waiting with the loot taken from the Normans.

      ‘Well?’