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CONQUEST OF THE WHITE ROSE
By
Goldie McBride
©copyright by Goldie McBride, June 2004
Cover Art by Jenny Dixon
ISBN 1-58608-488-7
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA
www.newconeptspublishing.com
Chapter One
The first roar of fury barely penetrated Elspeth's semi-conscious haze, although it generated a spark of fear and the vague thought that the Normans, who'd taken over Rasgarth, her family's holdings, were embroiled once more in a drunken brawl among themselves. The second was punctuated by a kick that lifted the man she was trapped under. Elspeth peered up at the man who stood above her through one eye. Her other eye was swollen nearly shut.
Her heart nearly stopped when the blurry visage looming above her swam into focus.
A demon!
She knew it must be, for it could be no man-this dark giant, his perfectly chiseled face twisted in fury, his eyes as black as sin.
Renard belched a gaseous cloud of soured wine in her face at the blow, but gathered himself and rolled off of her.
Elspeth made a feeble attempt to cover herself, but Renard had lain upon her so long that she could not seem to command her limbs to move. It was some relief that the dark lord's rage seemed to be focused upon Renard. A flicker of hope went through her. Perhaps he'd come to take the vile Normans instead of the women they had despoiled?
Renard lifted his head groggily, focusing with obvious difficulty. When he finally did manage the feat, his eyes all but bulged from their sockets, which seemed to lend a good deal of credence to Elspeth's fears.
Renard had led the band of ruffians that had descended upon them like demons from hell after William the bastard's army had defeated the forces gathered to repel him from Saxony, and had lain waste to the lands her father had spent a lifetime building to fruitfulness. They had slain all who opposed them and many who had only tried to flee--and those had been the fortunate ones. Those who'd survived had endured a reign of terror such as they could never have imagined.
Her own life had become such a nightmare since Renard had first fastened his lascivious gaze upon her that she had longed for death to end her suffering and would have sought it if he had not watched her so assiduously as to remove all opportunity of a quick and painless end.
"Guillume--my Lord Arnaud! We did not expect you for at least another fortnight!"
"That much is obvious!" Arnaud of Valognes said in a voice that was deadly cold. "Else you and your guard might have been on watch instead of rolling about on the floor with your laymen." He glanced toward the doorway and Elspeth saw two men at arms stood at attention there. "Take him."
"But … Guill-my Lord!"
The two soldiers strode forward at the command. Each grasped an arm. Hauling Renard to his feet, they marched him from the room between them. The man he had called Lord Arnaud watched their departure through narrowed eyes. When he turned at last, his gaze focused upon her and Elspeth's blood ran cold.
"Out!"
Elspeth stared at him blankly. She had made it a point to pretend she didn't understand a word of their language. She wasn't certain if it would transpire that there was any sort of advantage to it, but she had thought it possible it would. At the very least, she knew they would speak more freely around her and she might be warned of any evil intent toward herself or their people in time to prevent more bloodshed.
She was in no condition at the moment, however, to recall the dangerous charade she had been playing. She looked at him blankly because she simply could not fathom what he wanted.
After studying her a moment, he strode toward her impatiently. Reaching down, he grasped her by one arm and hauled her to her feet. Renard had shredded her gown when he'd fallen upon her. Trying vainly to cover herself, Elspeth grasped the tatters of her clothing as he pulled her to her feet.
The abruptness of being dragged up so quickly sent a wave of dizziness through her and worse, her body was still numb and uncooperative from being pinned to the cold floor beneath Renard so long. Her knees refused to hold her. The moment his hand loosened, she began to sink toward the floor despite her best efforts to brace herself upright. With a sound of impatience, he hauled her up once more. This time, he caught her face in one hand, jerking it up for his inspection. "Are you too drunk to walk?"
Elspeth stared back at him fearfully, but she'd had time to consider her situation. It seemed unlikely, despite his irritation, that he had it in mind to kill her on the spot. As tempting as it was to respond immediately and try to spare herself yet another beating, her knowledge of their language, pitiful as it was, was her only weapon. Instead of answering, therefore, she merely met his gaze as steadily as she could manage, swallowing her terror.
His frown turned thoughtful as he scanned her face and then looked her over more carefully. She would've given much to know what was going through his mind, but the dark eyes typical of the Norman devils made them nigh impossible to fathom. Finally, apparently satisfied that he had discovered what he sought, he released the bruising grip on her cheeks and turned, dragging her from the room.
She did her best to keep up, unwilling to test his temper further by deliberately provoking him, but her legs still felt strange and uncooperative and it was difficult to hold her gown together with one hand. His long stride was impossible to match in any case.
She stumbled. He glanced down at her frowningly several times and finally slowed his angry stride.
She saw when they reached the great hall that it was overflowing with Normans. The servants were gathered in frightened knots, watching while those, apparently, who'd arrived with Lord Arnaud, lay about them with the flat of their swords, and fists, and booted feet, rousing Renard's drunken men from the floor.
Even as she reached the hall with Lord Arnaud, they began to push the revelers toward the door.
From the knot of frightened servants, an elderly woman detached herself and Elspeth recognized her old nurse, Griselda. "Lady! Lady! What has that monster done to you?" she wailed, falling to her knees beside Elspeth.
Elspeth stared down at her in horror as Lord Arnaud came to an abrupt halt. "Shh! Are you mad, woman! Do you want me to join my ancestors? I've survived nigh two weeks of that pig of a Norman. I've taken no serious hurt, not near so much as I'm likely to take if they learn who I am."
Griselda scrambled to her feet abruptly, wringing her hands and casting fearful glances toward Lord Arnaud.
Elspeth didn't dare look at him. She knew few of the Normans had any grasp of the Saxon tongue, but it would take no great intellect to figure out who she was if Griselda was determined to treat her as her lady in front of them. With the exception of her mother, who had passed on many years ago, the Normans had slain the rest of her family-her father and brothers had all fallen beneath Norman blades when they'd gone to protect the realm from the invaders from across the sea. She had no protector and no way of knowing whether the Normans would be satisfied with the blood already spilled or if they were bent upon wiping out the last of her father's seed. It seemed to her, though, that the possibility was great that they would prefer not to harbor the daughter of the old lord.
After a moment, Lord Arnaud tugged her into motion once more and strode toward the servants purposefully, releasing her at last when they reached them. Elspeth cast an uneasy glance at him, but he seemed to have dismissed her. With an effort, she hobbled over to join them. They stared at her fearfully, but parted, allowing her to find her way to the back where she would be less noticeable.
"Who among you speaks French?"
Everyone shifted, exchanging nervous glances when he addressed them. Finally, Jean, the young man who'd come into her father's household as a troubadour and remained as her tutor, stepped forward cautiously and bowed. "I do, my lord."
Lord Arnaud looked him over, assessing him. "You are not Saxon."
"I am a troubadour, originally from Vereins. I joined Lord Odolf's household last spring."
Lord Arnaud's brows rose. "And stayed to entertain so long?"
Jean blushed but didn't glance in Elspeth's direction. "I made myself useful."
Lord Arnaud studied him for so long that Jean shifted restlessly. "Then you may stay and make yourself useful to me, as well. I've need of someone who can speak their crude tongue and pass my orders along until I can master the language myself."
Jean bowed again. "I am happy to be of service, my lord."
Lord Arnaud nodded. "Then set them to work cleaning this pig sty. Remove anything that can be fixed for the craftsmen to repair. The rest should be piled far enough from this tender box so that it can be burned without setting the house ablaze, as well."
Jean looked at him uncomfortably.
"Is there ought about the order that you do not understand?" Lord Arnaud demanded impatiently.
Jean swallowed with an effort. "The carpenter and his apprentice were killed when the … uh … others arrived," he said weakly.
Lord Arnaud's lips tightened with barely suppressed fury. After a moment, he nodded. "The order stands. Use your best judgment. Dispose only of those things that appear beyond redeeming."
Battered as they were, everyone was so relieved that they were expected to do no more than perform the tasks familiar to them that they nigh fell over themselves to show their willingness to comply. Elspeth knotted her gown together the best she could and set to work with them.
The first of the servants to venture outside to begin the task of disposing of broken furnishings returned fearfully. Lord Arnaud, they said, had rounded up Lord Renard's men and had lined them up at the whipping posts. The news sent a ripple of unease through everyone as the thought occurred that they might be next, and everyone bent to their tasks with renewed vigor, despairing, but hopeful their efforts might please Lord Arnaud enough that he would consider showing some leniency.
Elspeth would have preferred to remain inside and as unobtrusive as possible, but she was as fearful as the others and presently gathered an armful of refuse and went out to see what she might learn of Lord Arnaud's plans. She made Griselda walk with her, hopeful it would make her less conspicuous, but when she nerved herself to glance toward the proceedings, she saw that Lord Arnaud was watching the progress of the servants to and from the growing pile of refuse. His dark gaze so unnerved her that she stumbled. Griselda steadied her, preventing her from falling on her face, and she concentrated thereafter on listening rather than watching.
When she returned to the hall, she was able to report that Lord Arnaud had ordered twenty lashes for each of the men he'd charged with the task of securing his holdings, including Lord Renard, who was his bastard half brother.
They were certain she must be wrong. Twenty lashes hardly seemed like any punishment at all if he truly was displeased about their behavior. When Jean confirmed her report, they became excited with the notion that it seemed to indicate Lord Arnaud was not nearly so much to be feared as they'd thought.
It was a dangerous misconception, Elspeth thought, and pointed out to them that Lord Renard, whom they were so certain was far more to be feared, had quailed before his half brother. "I think it's far more likely he doesn't wish to render them completely useless. It would be a mistake we might all come to regret to perceive him as weak only because he seems to have shown mercy to his men. There seems to be some hope, however, that so long as we do as we are told, we need not be overly fearful."
They scattered and hurried about their tasks when they saw that Lord Arnaud had returned to check their progress. Unfortunately, no one noticed his arrival until Elspeth had finished speaking, including Elspeth, and she couldn't forebear sending a panicked, and she didn't doubt, guilty, glance in his direction before she hurried to join the servants and, hopefully, vanish among them.
When she finally nerved herself to glance at him again, she saw that his gaze was on her still and the uneasy feeling that he had realized she was the old lord's daughter could not be shaken.
To her relief, he seemed reasonably satisfied with their progress, however, and left again after he'd thoroughly frightened everyone out of the little wit that remained to them by watching their progress with his cold, assessing gaze. Mid morning, Jean was summoned and disappeared for a while. When he returned it was to inform them that they were to prepare a meal for the men. Ordinarily, that wouldn't have been cause for great alarm, but there was little left in the larder to appease fighting men. Her father had taken much of their supplies with him when he'd gone off to make war, and Renard's men had made great inroads into what had been left in the two weeks since their arrival. To make matters worse, much had been destroyed when they'd seized Rasgarth.
Renewed fear swelled among them. It didn't matter that they were not responsible. They would be held responsible and bring Lord Arnaud's wrath down upon their heads.
Assuring them that something could be managed, Elspeth directed them to return to their work, sent the kitchen folk to the kitchen to set it to rights and went off with Jean to check the larder to see if it was possible to keep her word. Her mother had died at her birth. She had been chatelaine of her father's household for years and there had been many lean ones in her time when the crops had failed or a particularly bad winter and late spring had required a good deal of skill to keep the folk fed. She felt-hoped-she could come up with something that would at least be filling if not particularly elegant.
The condition of the larder dismayed her, however. There was no fresh meat since Renard and his men had seemed more inclined to drink and whore than pursue anything useful, and very little smoked meat. The bread was virtually non-existent and most of the cheese was gone, as well.
"We are going to starve," Elspeth said with conviction once she'd assessed the situation, "if Lord Arnaud doesn't slay us first. How many Normans would you guess there are, Jean?"
Even as she glanced toward Jean, the larder grew dark as someone stepped into the doorway, blocking the light. She glanced quickly toward the door.
"What did she ask you?" Lord Arnaud asked coolly.
Jean glanced at Elspeth nervously before he answered. "We were trying to calculate how much we would need to feed everyone, my lord."
Lord Arnaud studied him piercingly for several moments and finally turned to survey the larder, his face hardening. "By what name is she called?" he asked as his gaze settled at last upon Elspeth.
"La--Elspeth."
Lord Arnaud's gaze zeroed in upon Jean once more. One dark brow arched upward. Instead of commenting on Jean's near slip, however, he informed Jean to see to unpacking the supplies he'd brought with him.
Elspeth sagged with relief when he'd left with Jean following at his heels. She found that she was shaking with reaction. She had never considered herself a coward, but the reign of terror they'd experienced at the hands of the Normans had done more than instill a healthy respect of them. It had made her long to flee to some place safe from their merciless tempers. She would have except that she had no where to run to-any family she might have that had survived the invasion would not be in any position to lend her aid. She was certain in any case that the Normans would only hunt down anyone who tried to flee-Lord Renard had made great sport of doing so.
She'd hoped to escape notice, however, and with the best will in the world, she could not make herself believe that she had. Somehow, most likely because he believed she was his brother's whore, Lord Arnaud had focused his attention upon her-with suspicion she feared, but she did not want his attention for any reason.
That thought provoked a wry glance at herself. She had once been considered comely, but she need not look upon her reflection to know that she could have no appeal now for any man. Lord Renard had battered her face into a grotesque, misshapen mask. She was filthy from having been thrown on the floor like a common doxy at any time Lord Renard had been sober enough to spy her, and she had been slow enough for him to catch. Her hair was filthy as well, and scarcely half of it still contained within its braid since they had ransacked her apartments and she no longer even had so much as a comb to her name.
She wasn't certain why Lord Arnaud was interested, but she thought she needn't fear that he would take his brother's place. Unlike his pig of a brother, Lord Arnaud seemed a fastidious man. He wore the grime of the road, of course, but he had not the look of someone careless about their person, and his determination to see that the manor was cleaned seemed to support that assessment.
Very likely it was only that he suspected that she was not a servant at all, but that was hardly reassuring.
Despite her anxieties, Lord Arnaud concentrated on securing his new holdings and setting it to rights. He and the men he'd brought with him spent most of their days hunting for fresh meat for the larder, patrolling, and making certain the serfs were tending the fields that had not been destroyed. The men he'd had whipped were given the additional punishment of having to supply the labor they'd deprived their lord of by slaying so many of his serfs and were put to work preparing the foundation for a stone wall that was to surround the manor in the style of a European fortification.
Little more than a week after his arrival, just as they'd begun to relax and the workings of the manor had begun to resume some semblance of normalcy, they learned why Lord Arnaud had set about seeing that the household was put to rights as quickly as possible. His bride arrived from Normandy.
Wulfgar
by
Goldie McBride
© copyright by Goldie McBride
Cover Art by Jenny Dixon
ISBN 1-58608-381-3
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
Chapter One
Alinor had never traveled beyond her father's holdings in all her short life. Under other circumstances, she would have been enthralled, would have studied everything they passed with keen interest. She was so sick with trepidation, however, that she could not find it in herself to have any interest in her surroundings.
She was not a child. She had matured into womanhood nigh two years past, reached the age when her menses began and she was ripe to bear children for the man chosen for her. She should have left all childish things far behind. And yet, she found that she had nursed the childish hope that her own wishes would outweigh the arrangement that had been made for her, despite the fact that her mother had done her utmost to drum it into her head that, for people of their class, marriage was not an estate to be entered into blinded by emotional attachment. It was a binding together of wealth and power, and most ideally, of superior bloodlines.
Jean-Pierre was by far the most illustrious of those who had offered for her hand. In truth-as they had pointed out to her-she should have been grateful that her parents had chosen a man in the prime of his life when it could easily have been otherwise, particularly since Jean-Pierre was considered by most to be an exceptionally handsome man.
Unfortunately, the beauty of his exterior hid a black soul-one she alone, apparently, could see, but then he had almost seemed to glory in revealing to her his darkness, which he kept carefully concealed from all others.
She had been cold to her parents when she departed. She regretted it now, for it seemed unlikely she would see them again in this lifetime.
Jean-Pierre, no doubt drunk on his newest conquest, had arranged their marriage and sent an escort for her to transport her across the channel to England. Whether it was their usual manner, or Jean-Pierre had given them orders to that effect, they had traveled at a grueling pace, reaching the coast in little more than a day and half. They rested there only a matter of hours and then took ship.
The crossing had been like nothing Alinor could have imagined in her worst nightmares. It was nearing winter, and the channel was treacherous with storms. She had been too terrified by the crashing waves even to fight them when her escort had whisked her aboard, and too sick and fearful afterwards to do more than cling frantically to the nearness support and pray for a quick death, expecting momentarily to meet it.
She had been so weak when they reached the coast of England at last and she was carried ashore that she could not even hold herself upright. The moment the man had set her down, she had collapsed in an ignoble heap on the wet sand. Not so much of a stitch of her clothing had been dry, but neither had she had a more thorough soaking than the one she received when she sank to the sand within reach of the crashing waves, which immediately reached for her and tried to drag her out to sea once more.
Their leader had waded into the water cursing, dragged her out and tossed her onto the back of the horse that had been brought for her. More miserable than she had ever been in her life, Alinor, her jaw locked to fight the chattering of her teeth, had looked around dully at the strange land that would be her new home.
On the cliffs above them, she had seen a solitary rider. His hair, long, falling well past his shoulders, and as dark as a raven's wing, fluttered around a face that was featureless at this distance, but she had the impression that he was relatively young-no youth from his build, but certainly not old. His bare chest and shoulders seemed broad, deep-massive. Around his shoulders a cape was flung almost carelessly. Of a color somewhere between a deep red and brown, the color alone seemed almost a challenge to those below to notice his presence.
Something about him caused her heart to leap in her chest. His stillness, the tension in every line of his body had convinced her that it was not mere curiosity that held him in thrall, watching as the small party that had met them brought forth fresh horses for the men who'd accompanied her thus far.
She didn't know why she hadn't called attention to him. She had told herself that she was simply too surprised; that she was too ill and miserable to think of it; that the others would probably have noticed him, as well-that he might even be a part of the party who'd come to escort her to Jean-Pierre.
She knew better.
She had glanced around, instinctively, after she'd spotted him, to see if any of the others had noticed him. When she'd looked again, he'd disappeared.
She'd told herself there was little point in saying anything then, but she had caught a glimpse of him again, late in the day, had known that he must be following them-and still she'd said nothing.
* * * *
Alinor found that, despite her exhaustion from traveling, she could only sleep fitfully. Tomorrow, or no later than the following day, she was to be presented to her groom, Jean-Pierre. He'd assured her parents that the wedding had already been arranged and that the wedding festivities were poised to proceed the moment she arrived.
That thought alone made sleep impossible. With the best will in the world, she had not been able to convince herself that he was not as she remembered, that she had only imagined the cruelty she sensed in him. She could not, despite her mother's efforts, and indeed certainty, that it was no more than natural maidenly fears of the marriage bed.
She would almost have preferred to face her wedding night in ignorance. She knew her mother had been well intentioned, but her careful instructions had been far worse than the ignorance that had frightened her before. It was impossible, in any case, that she could have grown up with no knowledge at all of the act of mating. The dogs that roamed the keep mated with a complete disregard for the size, or discomfort, of their audience. For that matter, she had stumbled upon the men-at-arms and maids on more than one occasion and though she'd fled immediately, she had seen enough to have a fair notion of what it was all about.
Her mother's helpful instructions had left nothing at all to the imagination, however, no room to convince herself that it couldn't possibly be nearly as degrading and revolting as it looked.
A whisper of sound distracted her from her mental ramblings and Alinor stiffened, listening. She sat up abruptly when it came again, her heart hammering in her chest.
She was seized abruptly, one hand gripping her chest in a bruising hold that flattened her breasts, the other large hand clamped tightly to her mouth to muffle any cries she might have the presence of mind to make. That hand covered near the whole of her face and seemed likely to smother her if the man did not relent in short order.
As he shifted his hand to allow her to draw a decent breath, she closed her eyes, willing the fear to abate, willing her mind to calmer reflection. Panic would gain her nothing but a swifter death.
Her first, instinctual, fear had been that one of the men sent to escort her had crept into the tent and meant to violate her, but no man of Jean-Pierre's, she knew, would dare to touch her. Jean-Pierre would make him beg for death before he granted it. The man who held her so tightly could not be a member of her party.
Had he come to rob? To rape? To kill?
Despite the fear those thoughts evoked, there was almost a sense of hope, as well, the sense that it might be over for her quickly and she would never have to endure marriage to Jean-Pierre. After her first, instinctual effort to free herself from the bruising grip, she subsided.
A blade was pressed threateningly to her throat. She closed her eyes, waited, hoping the pain would not be unbearable. After a moment, to her surprise and something curiously akin to alarm, the blade was removed. The hand covering her mouth eased its pressure and then was cautiously removed.
Despite her fear, it leapt instantly to mind that silence was all that ensured life for either her or the man. She would die if she so much as gasped for breath, she knew. He had not had to speak the command to assure her that he was deadly serious. His actions were clear enough.
In a moment, the hand was withdrawn completely and a rag took its place, was bound tightly around her mouth to muffle any sound she might think to make that would alert the soldiers outside her tent. It smelled strongly of animal and she realized that it was not a rag of cloth, but a thin piece of scraped hide. The odor was almost overwhelming given that she had not really recovered from the crossing, and she had to fight the bile that rose in her throat to choke her.
A rustle of sound came again as the man moved around her. Despite the darkness, she could make out a darker form among the shadows, could see well enough to tell that he wore no armor-and was still massive. He was not a knight then-nor merely a peasant either. Peasants, half starved for the most part, rarely grew into such giants.
She realized abruptly that it must be the rider she had seen trailing them since they'd left the coast, though she'd caught no more than a glimpse of him either time. This, then, was his purpose-to steal her away. The question was, why?
Ransom almost certainly had to be the motive. Would Jean-Pierre pay? And, assuming he did, what would he do to her once he got her back? Her captor would almost certainly dishonor her. If she survived it, Jean-Pierre would blame her no matter how hard she fought-if she fought.
That thought stunned her for several moments until she realized that she would almost welcome being deflowered by anyone but Jean-Pierre-it was almost inconceivable that it could be worse--and still shame filled her for such wicked thoughts.
She wondered, if Jean-Pierre paid, if man would return her. Or would he merely use her to rob Jean-Pierre, to taunt him, and then slay her?
Such speculation was useless at this point. It seemed unlikely that he would win free of the camp with her. Jean-Pierre's men surrounded them. Big as he was, and no matter how competent a fighter, he could not hope to best them all.
Pulling her to her feet, he produced a length of rope and bound her wrists so tightly she couldn't contain a moan of pain. He stopped abruptly, studying her, she knew, in the darkness. Her heart skipped several beats while she waited see what he would do and he, apparently, waited to see if she would try to sound the alarm. To her surprise, he loosened the bonds slightly. Gratitude filled her, and hope. He could not, surely, use her cruelly if he could show concern over so slight an injury?
When he'd finished binding her wrists, he picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder. The impact of connecting with his hard shoulder knocked the wind from her. She stiffened as she fought for breath, but he did not appear to notice her distress. Turning, he tossed something onto the pallet he had pulled her from and then made his way toward the back of the tent. Emerging through the slit he'd cut in it, he paused, almost seeming to sniff the wind for the scent of the men who lay sleeping on their pallets.
After that brief hesitation, he struck off toward the tree line, moving as silently past the sleeping men as a wraith.
* * * *
"Je suis Alinor d'Arrus," Alinor told him who she was in little more than a whisper when at last her captor removed her gag. They had traveled miles it seemed through the woods before they had come at last upon a small clearing where a horse had awaited. Without a word, he had tossed her up onto the front of the saddle, climbing up behind her while she struggled frantically to maintain her balance. Settling, he caught her as she lost the battle and righted her, holding her snugly against his hard belly with one hand and gathering the reins in the other. Almost as an after thought, he had tugged the gag down so that she could breathe more freely.
He did not respond to her tentative effort of communication, except by a grunt, which allowed a good deal of room for interpretation. Alinor wondered whether he hadn't really heard her-since she had been afraid to speak too loud for fear of angering him-if he did not understand her language, or if he was simply not of the frame of mind to allow her to draw him into any sort of conversation.
She frowned. Her mother had thought it imperative that she learn to speak at least enough words of the peasantry of England to direct the servants, but there had been little time to learn once she had located someone who claimed knowledge of the Saxon tongue.
The moon had risen above the tops of the trees before she reached a point in her mental search that she was fairly certain she had recalled the correct words to ask the questions she desperately needed answers for. With an effort, she swiveled around to look up at her captor.
Her heart seemed to jerk to a halt as she looked up at him. His face, concealed by the night as much as revealed by moonlight, was a terrifying mask of harsh planes and angles. His eyes, deep set beneath his straight, black brows, were nothing more than black pits. The first thing that leapt into her mind was 'devil'. "Oo are you?" she gasped in a frightened whisper.
Instead of answering immediately, he pulled the horse to a halt, grasped the gag that he'd pulled down around her throat earlier, and tugged it up once more until it rubbed the underside of her nostrils.
"Wulfgar," he growled as he kicked the horse into motion once more.
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