The Viking's Defiant Bride(18)

Elgiva felt only increasing panic and a desire to slip away and run. It was impossible. She would be caught very quickly and returned to her husband. Her husband! It was inconceivable that she wore his ring, symbol of the eternal bond between them, a bond that would be sealed this night when he took her to his bed. Her jaw tightened. If he thought she would yield up her body, as well, Wulfrum was much mistaken. A decidedly militant light appeared for a moment in the amber eyes before being swiftly veiled. When she looked up again it was to see Sweyn watching her from across the hall, a fleering smile on his lips. Elgiva returned the stare for a moment or two and then looked away. He was the least of her worries now. Besides, in a day or two he would be gone and she would never see him more. With any luck he would perish in the fighting to come.

These thoughts were interrupted by Osgifu, who now approached her chair. Behind her were Hilda and some of the other women.

‘Come, my lady. It is time.’

Elgiva’s stomach lurched and she closed her eyes to steady herself. The women would lead her to the bedchamber and prepare her for the arrival of her husband. That’s what I’ll never stand, she thought. I’ll never give myself to him. Her fingers brushed the hilt of her belt knife and its touch reassured her. There was another way. She opened her eyes to see Wulfrum watching her and the sight of his mocking smile stiffened her spine like nothing else could. With every bit of self-possession remaining, she rose from the table, following her women to the stairs, accompanied by a loud cheer from the assembled throng.

When they reached the chamber the silence was almost deafening; the usual laughter and jesting that should have accompanied the bridal preparations were absent. The women said nothing and their demeanour was anything but joyful. Elgiva stood like a rock while they removed her girdle and unlaced her gown, drawing it off, and leaving her in her kirtle. Someone poured water into a basin so that she could bathe her hands and face. Then Osgifu removed the flowers from her hair and combed it out across her shoulders. Finally she was ready. At the side of the room the great bed waited. The women looked from it to her. Elgiva remained where she was.

‘My lady, you must—’

‘I must nothing. Now leave me.’

The women exchanged uncertain glances, but Osgifu ushered them to the door. As it opened to allow their departure, it also admitted a great wave of noise from the hall below, a mighty cheer from the warrior host as Halfdan and half-a-dozen others hoisted Wulfrum on to their shoulders and carried him to the staircase led by Olaf Ironfist with a lighted torch. When they reached the chamber they set their burden down with much laughter and many a ribald jest. Then their attention moved from Wulfrum to his bride, their eyes burning with lust as they feasted them on the woman before them. The thin kirtle did little to conceal the lines of her body, a form whose hinted curves seemed made for a man’s touch. Mentally each gaze stripped the fabric away, leaving her naked save for the mane of gold hair that flowed down her back. Elgiva forced herself to remain still, to fight down the terror knotting her gut. A sheen of perspiration started on her skin. She knew now how a cornered deer felt before a pack of wolves.

As if he had divined her thought, Halfdan spoke. ‘Oho, beware, my lady! Here’s a wolf will gobble you up!’

‘’Tis a tender morsel,’ agreed Ironfist, grinning.

‘We shall look to see the proof of his feasting.’ Halfdan clapped Wulfrum on the shoulder.

Elgiva felt her heartbeat quicken, but before anyone could say more Wulfrum turned towards them.

‘The wolf feasts tonight, but he will do so at his leisure and in private.’ He nodded to the door.

With mock grumbling and some final crude injunctions the men turned and began to troop out. Those too slow to suit him were forcibly ejected. Weak with relief to see them go, Elgiva watched him bar the door. However, the relief was short lived, for now he turned and all his attention was on her.

‘I am not minded to be disturbed this night,’ he said, ‘no matter what the pretext.’

Elgiva said nothing, her gut knotting further as he divested himself of his cloak and unbuckled his sword belt. Then the tunic joined the cloak. One look at those broad shoulders gave her little hope of holding him off by force. The lamplight gleamed softly on his silver arm rings and revealed the lines of old scars on his flesh, several on his upper arms and a deeper one across his ribs. Seeing that she did not move, Wulfrum smiled.

‘That kirtle becomes you well, my lady, but I am curious to know what lies beneath.’

‘So the wolf can feast?’

‘Something like that.’

‘I am not minded to satisfy your curiosity, Viking.’

‘Say you so?’

‘Do you think I would give myself to one who has slaughtered my kin and enslaved my people?’

‘Slaughtered? It seems to me that the menfolk of this hall put up a strong resistance. They died honourably with swords in their hands as men should. As for the serfs, they will work these lands as they did before, albeit for a new master.’ He paused. ‘And you, my lady, you too will yield.’

Elgiva felt warm colour flood her face but her eyes met and held his. ‘I will never yield.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I will not lie with you.’

‘You will lie with me tonight and every night.’ He drew closer, pausing only when he was within arm’s reach. ‘Now, take off that kirtle.’

Elgiva’s eyes flashed and he saw her chin come up. He raised an eyebrow.

‘Must I do it for you?’

She bit back defiant words. He would do as he threatened and she had no way to stop him. Her eyes sought for some means of escape, but the window was shuttered fast and the door barred. Worse, she would have to pass him to reach it.

‘I’m waiting, Elgiva.’

‘How I hate you!’

‘It will make our marriage the more interesting. Take off the kirtle.’

‘I will not.’

Wulfrum bent on her such a look that she quaked. As she retreated, her leg brushed the edge of the chair where her gown and girdle lay discarded. She remembered the knife and, turning, grabbed it, drawing it from the sheath and bringing it up in front of her. Wulfrum saw the glint of the blade and grabbed her wrist, arresting the progress of the point. For a few moments it wavered between them. He increased his grip and heard her gasp. The blade clattered to the floor.

‘For you or for me?’ he demanded.

‘For me.’

‘You will not escape me so, Elgiva. You belong to me now and I will keep safe what is mine.’

‘I am not yours, Viking!’

‘Not yet,’ he agreed.

Before she guessed his intent, he lifted her bodily off the floor and strode to the bed, tossing her on to the furs. Elgiva scrambled away, retreating until her back was to the wall, watching in horrified fascination as he unfastened his leggings and let them fall. Then he came on. She drew in a sharp breath. Having had a brother, she was no stranger to the male body, but every inch of that lithe and muscled form spoke of a warrior’s strength. Struggling to her feet, she launched herself off the end of the bed and then uttered a shriek of despair as Wulfrum’s arm locked fast about her waist. With insulting ease he tossed her down on to the fur coverlet. Strong hands grabbed the hem of her kirtle, ripping it upwards in one fluid movement. The thin fabric parted to the neck. Elgiva twisted away and struggled to her knees. For a moment they faced each other and her cheeks flamed as the Viking’s insolent gaze raked her from head to toe. Then he grinned and the glint in those blue eyes became dangerous.

Again she backed away and again her back met the wall. Wulfrum came on, seizing her arms, drawing her towards him. Somehow she got a hand free and hit him hard across the cheek twice. He laughed, catching her wrist before she could get in a third blow, and flung her backwards. Elgiva turned her head and bit him, the nails of her free hand raking his shoulder, raising scarlet welts on his flesh. It was a brief victory; in seconds he had hold of both her wrists and imprisoned them above her head. Cursing him, Elgiva writhed and kicked out, but he held her easily now, forcing her down into the furs with the weight of his body. With a sense of panic she felt the hardness of his manhood against her.

‘You bastard! You cur! Let go of me!’

‘No, my lady, I shall not do that.’ His hand travelled down to her waist, over the curve of her hip, down her thigh in a long lingering caress. He felt her kick out again, try to raise her knee, and laughed softly.

‘None of your tricks will work, Elgiva.’

‘Give me a sword and I’ll geld you like a steer!’

‘Then I should fail in my duty as a husband, and I do not mean to fail.’

Before she could reply his mouth closed over hers in a kiss that was burning and insistent while his hand continued its exploration of her body. Elgiva tasted the sweet mead on his breath, breathed in the musky scent of his skin as he took the kiss at leisure. Then he drew back a little, letting his gaze travel the length of her, taking in every curve of breast and waist and thigh, the long slim legs and dainty feet. In the lamplight her flesh seemed golden.

‘Truly, lady, you are beautiful.’

Elgiva’s angry reply was lost in a thunderous banging that shook the chamber door and her heart leapt in terror to hear Halfdan’s voice.