The Warrior's Runaway Wife. Denise Lynn

Chapter Eleven

       Chapter Twelve

       Chapter Thirteen

       Chapter Fourteen

       Chapter Fifteen

       Chapter Sixteen

       Chapter Seventeen

       Chapter Eighteen

       Chapter Nineteen

       Extract

       About the Publisher

       Prologue

      Carlisle Castle—April 1145

      The large double doors of the Great Hall groaned open, slowing the fever-pitched conversations to a hushed whispering. Lord Elrik of Roul strode through the open doors, bringing even the whispers to a complete halt.

      Rain from the spring storm fell in rivulets from the wolf pelts trimming his full-length mantle. The cape swirled, sending droplets of rainwater to the floor in his wake.

      Men and women alike made way, clearing the path ahead of his long strides. The clinking of his linked-mail hauberk and spurs along with the heavy fall of his footsteps were the only sounds echoing in the hall.

      The visitors to King David’s court stared in fascination at the sight of the fabled man before them. Some were young enough to have grown up hearing stories of the King’s Wolves. They’d trembled at the tales told in the dark of night, wondering how much truth lay behind the words, yet not wanting to discover the answer for themselves.

      From the unkempt overlong hair, black as night and shot through with silver, to his frowning countenance, the furrowed brow resembling a dark outcrop over his greenish-gold eyes, to the beard covering his lower face, hiding his features, leaving only the thin line of his tightly held mouth visible, made them wonder if he was indeed part-wolf. A barely civilised, not quite human warrior who would think nothing of unleashing the terrors of hell on an unsuspecting prey.

      Elrik dropped to a knee at the bottom of the raised dais and bowed his head. He knew what these people thought of him, these weak-kneed courtiers who had rarely, if ever, used the sword belted to their side for anything more than show, and he cared not. As the Lord of Roul, he did what he needed to do to keep his lands, and his family, safe.

      Being one of David’s Wolves wasn’t easy, but then he’d never been blessed with a life of ease so why would this be any different? The one saving grace was that his three brothers made up the rest of his wolf pack and he could trust them with his life.

      King David stood. ‘Roul, join me.’

      Elrik rose and followed the King into the smaller chamber beyond the dais. Once the door closed behind the two of them they were afforded a privacy not available in the Great Hall.

      ‘Thank you for coming so quickly.’ David poured two goblets of deep red wine and offered one to Elrik, before settling into a chair.

      He accepted the liquid, hoping it would thaw his blood. ‘My liege?’

      ‘I apologise for taking you from the comfort of your fires, but I’ve a need for your particular skill.’

      ‘Who do you need found?’ He’d been born with an uncanny ability to track down things lost, whether it be a missing shoe or a person not wishing to be found.

      ‘Avelyn of Brandr.’

      Elrik paused before swallowing his wine. In the space of one heartbeat it all came flooding back. His father had sought to commit treason against King David at the prompting of Galdon, Lord of Brandr Isle. Brandr, named so because of the long, sharp, pointed rocks that stuck out from the northern end of the isle like ready swords, drawn for attack, wasn’t enough land for Galdon. Whether the traitor had acted of his own accord, or at the behest of his uncle by marriage and liege, Lord Somerled, the Lord of Argyll, or his maternal grandfather Óláfr, the King of the Isles, was never discovered since Brandr had used his connections to escape punishment. Unlike Elrik’s father.

      To save his father’s life, he and his younger brother Gregor had thrown themselves at King David’s feet, begging for mercy. Their plea had been heard and mercy granted—at the cost of nothing more than their souls.

      While their father had been confined to Roul Isle, he and Gregor, along with their two younger brothers, when they’d become old enough, had become King David’s Wolves. Men tasked with deeds that required secrecy and, at times, the steadfast ruthlessness of a wolf.

      He swallowed, then said, ‘I wasn’t aware Brandr had a daughter.’

      ‘A natural-born daughter.’

      Elrik wasn’t surprised. Especially since Brandr’s mother was conceived out of wedlock. Still, why would King Óláfr’s grandson come to the King of Scotland for assistance? More curious, why would Brandr risk coming to King David when the man had once joined forces with those intent on taking the throne from David? Not wanting to dredge up the traitor’s history—especially since his own father had been part of that treasonous act—he instead asked, ‘And Brandr came to you rather than going to his uncle or grandfather?’

      ‘Yes, it appears that way.’

      ‘Any reason given for keeping them in the dark?’

      ‘A marriage has been arranged between the girl and Sir Bolk, one of Óláfr’s minor lords.’

      Bolk? ‘Surely you don’t mean Bolk the elder?’

      The King nodded. ‘Yes. If I’m counting correctly, this will be his third wife.’

      What had the girl’s father been thinking to agree to that arrangement? That old, gnarled warlord had outlived the previous two. Obviously, Brandr’s daughter had not liked the idea of being number three. ‘How long has she been gone?’

      ‘My understanding is that she vanished three weeks ago, just moments before officially meeting the man.’

      Elrik set his empty goblet on the table, waving off a refill, and asked, ‘Any description of the woman?’

      ‘All I was told was that she has night-black hair, ice-blue eyes, fair skin, a well-made form and a temper befitting a daughter of Brandr.’

      Excellent. Not only was he required to find the daughter of a warlord whom he considered an enemy of his family, but a king’s great-granddaughter who had a three-week head start on him and a headstrong one who most likely desired not to be found.

      ‘Where was she last seen?’

      ‘She ran away from Oban.’

      There was little there other than the ruins of an ancient tower fort. ‘Any word after that?’

      ‘There were rumours of a black-haired wench in Duffield who’d killed a man for trying to stop her from stealing bread. Brandr’s men stopped their search there.’