Denise Lynn - The Warrior's Runaway Wife

Once they were on their way, she looked up at the man who’d quickly made himself an irritant in her life. ‘Release me.’

To her surprise, he did. She stepped back, putting a little space between them. ‘I am not a whore.’

His lazy, bored glance from the sky back down to her did not endear him to her in the slightest. In fact, his silent display of derision only made her want to fly into a rage. Instead, she fisted her hands at her side and repeated, ‘I am not a whore.’

‘I wouldn’t expect Lord Brandr’s daughter to be one. Although, finding you as I did would have made it easy for another to have come to that conclusion.’

The arrogant half-smile on his face was her undoing. Everything she had suffered these last weeks—the hunger and thirst, the fear, the cold dampness—all roiled to the fore serving to ignite her rage. Avelyn raised her arm to strike the smug expression from his face.

His arm shot out as fast as a loosened arrow and he grasped her forearm, warning, ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you.’ He pulled her against his chest. ‘I am not beholden to your father, nor to you. I will not meekly endure your abuse no matter how angry you become.’

Avelyn lowered her head, wishing she could simply disappear as quickly as her rage had at the deep tone of his voice. What was wrong with her to make her act like such a simpleton, such a fool?

At her lingering silence, he said, ‘Your anger is misplaced. I have done you no harm, nor have I wronged you.’

‘I know. I am sorry and apologise. It’s just that...’

She stopped speaking and closed her eyes, unable to find the words she sought and not wanting to say anything more to a man not known to her.

He released her and with a finger beneath her chin lifted her head. ‘What? It’s just that what?’

She opened her eyes and met his gaze. He didn’t appear angry or out of sorts. Just curious, as if what she’d been about to say mattered. ‘It’s just that I don’t wish to wed Sir Bolk.’

He laughed softly and lowered his hand. ‘I can understand that. I wouldn’t want to marry him either.’

How could she not laugh at his ridiculous comment? However, knowing he was taking her back to do just that—marry Sir Bolk—tempered her humour.

Avelyn sighed and stepped away from the comfort she’d found pressed against his chest. ‘Yes, well, while neither of us wishes to marry my great-grandfather’s warlord, I will soon be forced to do so.’ She shivered at the thought of sharing a life and a bed with the man.

‘Then you have two or three days to find a reason that will convince King David to intervene on your behalf.’

‘I am nothing more than a piece of property. Anything I say will fall on deaf ears.’

‘Ah, perhaps you have forgotten, property has value.’

That was true. Property did have value. But that value was determined by men who had little, if any, concern for her or for anything she might want for her future. A future she hadn’t thought about in what seemed ages.

Her wants were no different than any other woman’s. She wanted a husband, home and children. But she had little faith in the love that troubadours sang about—it seemed a rather fleeting and useless emotion. Something more solid seemed a better choice—caring, friendship, sharing, a partnership of sorts were all things she would prefer over some elusive feeling that served only to leave one suffering the relentless pain of loss.

Her mother had pined for her love every day until the last. Even on her death bed, she’d wanted nothing more than the touch of his lips against hers one more time. At fourteen years old Avelyn had come to the harsh realisation that this love her mother craved was never going to come to her bedside—at least not while she lived. After her mother had died, she’d vowed never to allow herself to be trapped so neatly by a man’s pretty words.

No matter how sweetly spoken, they were false and meaningless.

But that didn’t mean she did not want a husband. She simply wanted one who would honestly care for her and her alone. One who was nearer her own age, so they could grow old together. One strong enough to protect her if need be and lustful enough to give her children.

One not unlike the man before her.

Avelyn gasped softly. What devil had put that notion in her head?

She took another step backwards, wanting to put more than an arm’s length of distance between them.

‘Avelyn? Lady Avelyn?’

From the sharper tone of his voice and the quizzical way his brows were drawn closer together, he had asked her a question. One she’d missed while her unruly mind was off wandering places it shouldn’t go.

‘What?’

‘I asked why Sir Bolk had been chosen.’

She shook her head. ‘I have no idea. It isn’t as if they included me in making their decision.’

‘You have a brain, otherwise you would not have got this far on your own. So, think about it. Why would they have chosen such an elderly man and why would he have agreed?’

‘Well, of course he agreed. What man in their right mind would naysay their King?’

‘You obviously don’t know Sir Bolk. Not even the King could sway him if he wasn’t agreeable to the arrangement.’

‘No, I don’t know him. Nor do I wish to.’

‘He must have seen some advantage to the wedding.’

‘Other than trying to outlive a third wife?’

‘I doubt if that would happen. However, he would go to his death bed as son-in-law to Brandr and great-grandson-in-law to King Óláfr. Everything of value he possessed at that moment would go to—’

‘My father!’ she interjected, cutting off his words. ‘Including me.’ She staggered a couple of steps back, shocked by the realisation that her father and great-grandfather were even more underhanded than she could have imagined.

‘Then they would have the opportunity to marry you off once again.’

Even though Bolk’s possessions were meagre, they would all pass to her father. Avelyn wanted to scream. Instead, she narrowed her eyes and asked, ‘Do you think King David would go against my family?’

‘If given a good enough reason to do so.’

‘You said I have two or three days to devise one?’

‘That is about how long it will take to reach Carlisle.’

She stepped forward and reached out to place a hand on his arm. ‘Then, my good sir...’ she pulled her hand back ‘...what is your name?’

‘Roul. Lord Elrik of Roul.’

Avelyn burst out laughing. When she was able to gain control of herself, she wiped the tears from her eyes and shook her head. ‘Of course you are. It only makes perfect sense that King David sent his Wolf to sniff out and retrieve King Óláfr’s lowly prey.’

He frowned down at her. ‘I fail to see the humour.’

‘That is because you are not in my place. I am nothing but a defenceless dove. You are a wolf. It seems out of place that they would send such a skilled hunter to track down so meek a prey.’

He offered her his arm and then turned to escort her to the men and horses waiting near the well. ‘It is impossible to know ahead of time how dangerous a prey might prove to be.’

‘Yes, that is true. You had no way of knowing if this dove hid fangs inside her beak.’

He nodded in agreement. ‘Or perhaps talons worthy of any eagle.’

Once they reached the others, Elrik paused to ask, ‘Can you ride?’

Avelyn could count the times she’d been on the back of a horse on one hand—two fingers in truth. But the alternative was obvious—she’d be forced to share his mount and that would place her too close to him for comfort. She shrugged. ‘Not well, but I’ll manage.’

He lifted a brow, but said nothing. Instead, he removed his long mantle and slung it over her shoulders. While securing the pin to hold the cloak in place and tucking her hair inside the hood, he said, ‘This will keep you from getting any wetter than you already are.’