His Captive Lady. Carol Townend

for a moment she blinked at it. ‘Lady Erica?’

      Erica managed to release the death grip she had on his tunic and strong fingers closed on hers.

      ‘No! No!’ Ailric renewed his struggles with his captors, but a sharp elbow to his stomach had him rolling in the rushes, gasping for breath like a landed fish.

      Thane Guthlac grinned briefly in Ailric’s direction before transferring his attention back to Saewulf Brader. ‘You may…rest in the storeroom tonight.’

      Saewulf Brader’s grip tightened and he led her towards a small door to one side of the hall. Laughter erupted behind them. The blood rushed in Erica’s ears.

      ‘My apologies, Hrothgar,’ she heard Guthlac say. ‘Despite the feud, I find I have some liking for that girl. She is courageous—for a woman.’

      Hrothgar let out one of his snorts and signalled for more ale. ‘I care not. Truth be told, the wench is too tall for my taste anyway.’

      In a daze, in which Erica could not have told whether relief or trepidation held the upper hand, she watched Saewulf Brader’s lean fingers reach for the door latch. The storeroom door swung open, a dark space opened out before her, and he gestured her inside. Thane Guthlac’s laughing response to Hrothgar, the retching noises Ailric was still making, and the noise and babble in the hall faded.

      Blackness, shadows. Erica held down a groan and her steps slowed—she had a hearty mislike of the dark.

      The wooden lintel was so low that Saewulf Brader was ducking his head as he followed her in. He glanced frowningly around the ill-lit, cramped space, which was almost entirely taken up with barrels and narrow-necked clay jars, before his gaze ran slowly over her face.

      ‘Dark,’ Erica muttered, hugging herself, and hating that he should see this weakness in her. ‘Too dark.’

      ‘Wait here, my lady, I will bring light.’ The shadows retreated as he opened the door and stepped back into the hall. When he closed it behind him, they advanced again.

      Erica stared through the gloom at the rectangular sliver of light around the edge of the storeroom door. Her heartbeat was erratic, her hands were shaking. She curled them into her skirts.

      Wait here? Where else might she go? she wondered, wildly. Hysteria was a breath away. Staring at the cracks of light, she strove for calm. He would not hurt her, not this one. Might he hurt her—had she misread him? But, Sweet Mother, how she hated the dark.

      In the hall a dog yelped, another snarled. She heard the murmur of voices, muffled by the door, the scrape of a stool leg on the floorboards. She could no longer hear Ailric.

      Calm, Erica, calm. He does not seem cruel. He—

      The door swung back and a broad-shouldered form stooped to enter—Saewulf Brader with a flickering oil lamp and a bundle. Another, slighter shadow darkened the doorway, and a thin pallet was heaved onto the floor, next to a barrel.

      ‘My thanks, Maldred,’ Saewulf Brader said.

      The door shut, cutting off another burst of laughter.

      He set the lamp on top of the barrel along with a couple of tallow candles. ‘We will save those for later.’

      Later. Erica’s breath froze. Later.

      He faced her. Smiled. There was so little room that he was scarcely a foot away from her. He was very tall, this man to whom she had been given, his head almost touching the planked ceiling. And, now that he stood close, Erica could see that he did indeed look young. She clung to the thought that she was most likely his senior, by a couple of years at least. How ridiculous that this thought should give her ease. Saewulf Brader’s skin was smooth and his eyes were clear, the blue rimmed by a charcoal-coloured ring. And he was, she realised with a start, examining her with equal attention. Convulsively, she swallowed.

      ‘Do not fear me. You are safe,’ he said, softly.

      ‘I…I thank you.’ Absurdly, she believed him.

      ‘Do you reckon the ale will spoil if I shift this? We need elbow space to sleep in.’ He nudged a barrel with the toe of his boot, and, without waiting for her reply, set about moving it to one side. His voice took on the edge of laughter. ‘Guthlac will have me pilloried if I spoil his ale.’

      Strong muscles bunched and shifted under his tunic. A tunic that, now Erica had leisure to study it, she saw was simple in design, a brown worsted with no embroidery either at cuff or hem. A straightforward weave, it had once been of a reasonable quality, but it had seen better days. His belt was wide and simple, had no fancy pattern chased into the leather. His chausses were grey. Long boots hid most of his cross-gartering, but she saw a flash of blue. But why did he have no arm-rings?

      Erica backed against another barrel to give him room to manoeuvre. Saewulf Brader was, she recognised as she swallowed hard on the lump in her throat, the image of health. He should have won at least a couple of trophies. But his lack of arm-rings was not uppermost in her thoughts. Young men, healthy young men were, in Erica’s admittedly limited experience, not entirely reliable where women were concerned. This she had learnt from listening to Ailric and Hereward. Even when Ailric had hoped to become her betrothed, he had visited the tavern girls by the docks in Lewes.

      Until today, Erica had led a sheltered life—her high status had protected her. Physically, at least. Politically, of course, she was far from sheltered. A favoured only daughter, many was the night that she had sat at her father’s board listening to his men; many a time she had joined in their debates. Which was how her father’s housecarls had come to heed her counsel when news had come of Thane Eric’s death. Physically though, she remained naïve. Even though Erica had fled Whitecliffe with her father’s men, and had been living the life of an outlaw ever since, they remained extremely protective of her. Not one of her housecarls would dream of laying a finger on her. Physically, she was as chaste and innocent as a nun in an enclosed order.

      Today that had changed. Erica had come to Thane Guthlac to end the bloodfeud. She was the sacrifice and she must personally make reparation for the slight suffered by Guthlac’s mother.

      Silently, she stared at Saewulf Brader’s broad back as he worked and wondered what was running through his mind. He might have no arm-rings, but tonight he had been given a trophy. Her. Could she take him at his word? Could she trust him not to…touch her? He was—she must remember—Guthlac Stigandson’s man.

      ‘Saewulf?’

      He ceased rolling a barrel closer to the wall, and glanced across. ‘Hmm?’

      ‘Wh…what have they done with Ailric?’

      ‘Locked him up with your other man,’ came the brief answer. Turning away, he continued clearing their sleeping space.

      ‘Thane Guthlac would not harm them, would he?’

      Again the blue eyes met hers. A shrug. ‘I think not.’ He rested an elbow on the barrel. ‘This Ailric,’ he asked quietly, ‘you were to marry him?’

      ‘I…I…at one time. Not now.’

      ‘But there is…affection between you?’

      Erica twisted her hands together. For her part, she had never felt anything more for Ailric than for any other of her father’s housecarls. Ailric, on the other hand, had been wont to act as though she belonged to him. Not that that had prevented him from visiting those tavern girls with Hereward.

      Guthlac’s man smiled, and his expression softened. Erica’s pulse quickened—he was extraordinarily well favoured when he smiled.

      ‘Ailric certainly appears possessive where you are concerned.’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘He will be angry after tonight.’ A thoughtful look came over him and he sighed. ‘I dare say he will wish to kill me. Such is the nature of a bloodfeud, so it continues, feeding on itself like yeast in a brew-tub.’