The Laird's Captive Wife
Read The Laird's Captive Wife Online
Authors: Joanna Fulford
Table of Contents
Ashlynn’s choice was stark: take Iain as her husband, or accept a fate that would likely be much worse.
When the words were all spoken and the ring on her finger he kissed her, a gentle kiss which burned nonetheless and set her pulse racing. Understated and subtle, it was underlain with a deeper promise, and the implications quickened every fibre of her being.
For an instant their eyes met, but as so often his face gave little away. Did he share the resentment she felt? Given the choice, he would never have entered into this bargain. From the outset he had regarded her as an encumbrance. What possible argument could have persuaded him to agree to this?
They went out to the horses and Iain took leave of his king. He turned back to Ashlynn.
‘Come, my wife.’
The use of that title sent another wave of heat the length of her body. Soon enough he would take her to his bed and make his possession complete…
Author Note
The setting for this story is the Norman Conquest, a period that has long interested me because it was such a watershed in English history. However, the Battle of Hastings was far from being decisive in political terms. For the next six years William had to contend with numerous rebellions, which he put down with great severity. One such rising was in Northumbria. In the winter of 1069–70 the King’s army exacted a terrible retribution for this. Known afterwards as The Harrying of the North, it was one of the most infamous episodes of William’s reign. Contemporary chroniclers describe the region as being littered with corpses because there were not enough people left alive to bury them. One estimate puts the number of dead at 100,000. Over twenty years later, Domesday Book records much of this area as ‘waste and desolation’. It is alleged that William, on his deathbed, confessed that his treatment of Northumbria had been unjust and troubled his conscience greatly.
My heroine and her family are innocent victims of these events. When their manor at Heslingfield is destroyed by the King’s mercenaries, Ashlynn is alone and penniless in a dangerous land. Her troubles are compounded when she falls into the hands of Black Iain, a notorious border warlord. Haunted by the past, and driven by his thirst for revenge, Iain believes he has no time for the kind of encumbrance that Ashlynn represents.
The Laird’s Captive Wife
Joanna Fulford
For Helen, who shared so many childhood adventures.
Praise for Joanna Fulford’s debut novel
THE VIKING’S DEFIANT BRIDE
‘Fulford’s story of lust and love set in the Dark Ages is reminiscent of Woodiwiss’s
The Flame and the Flower
.’
—
RT Book Reviews
JOANNA FULFORD
is a compulsive scribbler, with a passion for literature and history, both of which she has studied to postgraduate level. Other countries and cultures have always exerted a fascination, and she has travelled widely, living and working abroad for many years. However, her roots are in England, and are now firmly established in the Peak District, where she lives with her husband, Brian. When not pressing a hot keyboard she likes to be out on the hills, either walking or on horseback. However, these days equestrian activity is confined to sedate hacking rather than riding at high speed towards solid obstacles.
Recent novels by the same author:
THE VIKING’S DEFIANT BRIDE
(part of the
Harlequin Presents…
anthology, featuring talented new authors)
THE WAYWARD GOVERNESS
Prologue
T
he Scottish laird rested a moment on his sword, letting his gaze range the length of the defile where his men were now searching the bodies of the slain. Though the ambush had been successful the exhilaration of the fight was underlain by frustration as he realised the one he sought was not there. Surveying the scene now, his dark gaze hardened. Before he left he would find out what he wanted to know. Not all the men lying here were dead.
As the laird’s shadow fell across him, the wounded Norman mercenary glanced up quickly, taking in the naked sword and the uncompromising expression of the man who held it. Then he spat. The Scot’s gaze never wavered.
‘Where’s Fitzurse?’
The Norman returned him a cold stare but made no reply. A moment later the point of a blade was pressed against his throat.
‘I’ll ask you just once more,’ said the quiet voice. ‘Where is he?’
‘We’re dead men anyway. Why should I tell you?’
‘Tell me and you can take your chance with the kites and the ravens. Refuse and I’ll cut your throat and ask someone else.’
The man swallowed. ‘Fitzurse rides north with the rest of his force.’
‘Where?’
‘Durham.’
‘You’re certain of this?’
‘We’re in his pay.’
‘Paid to destroy everything for miles around?’
‘Aye, for sixty miles around. On King William’s orders.’
Recalling the devastation he had seen on the journey north, the laird felt his gorge rise. Once upon a time, in a past life, French society had been dear to his heart. At fourteen the world had been new and green, a place full of exciting possibilities of which France had been one. At the time it had seemed like a dream come true, a welcome chance to escape the cheerless confines of Dark Mount and his father’s enmity. Back then the castle at Vaucourt had been the warm centre of his universe; the military training it afforded the highest peak of achievement. At Vaucourt he had grown to manhood. At Vaucourt he had first met Eloise…
That recollection inspired others less welcome. All the dead faces he had seen in the past days blurred and merged until he saw just one, the one that had been all to him. Time dulled the pain of loss but it did nothing to extinguish anger—or hatred. Both burned brighter for being cold.
‘Why are you so anxious to find Fitzurse anyway?’
The prisoner’s voice drew the laird back to the present. ‘That’s my business,’ he replied.
‘Suit yourself. It’s nothing to me.’ The other paused. ‘I doubt if Fitzurse will care either.’
‘Oh, he’ll care all right when
I
catch up to him.’
‘And who are
you
exactly?’
‘My name is Iain McAlpin.’
The Norman’s eyes widened slightly in recognition and with it the first flicker of fear.
‘I have heard of you, my lord.’
‘You’re like to hear more, assuming I let you live of course.’
The other licked dry lips. ‘I’ve told you what you wanted to know.’
‘You can have your life, you Norman scum. I’ll not soil my sword with you.’ With that the laird sheathed the blade and walked away.
He headed back to the edge of the path where his men were waiting with the loot taken from the Normans.
‘Well?’ he asked.
His lieutenant shook his head. ‘Not a lot, my lord. We found only copper coin and a little silver. Hardly worth their effort to get it.’
‘Loot is only their secondary aim, Dougal. The first is revenge for the death of an earl.’
‘De Comyn was a fool.’
‘True, but he was also William’s chosen man and Northumbria will pay the blood price.’
He had found out early in life about the abuses of power, first at his father’s hands and later from other men. They were lessons well learned. Only when you were strong and feared could you protect yourself and others. His reputation might have come too late to help Eloise, but it now served well to protect all those for whom he was responsible.
Dougal eyed him quizzically.
‘What now, my lord?’
‘Tell the men to mount up. We ride for Durham.’
The other lowered his voice. ‘Is that wise?’
‘Wise? Aye, if I am to find Fitzurse.’
‘Have a care, my lord. The man has the king’s favour.’
‘That will not save him,’ replied the laird. ‘I have waited eight years for the chance to get him within my sword’s length.’
‘Aye, and you have just cause to seek him out. I know that if any man does.’
‘And your point is?’
Undaunted by that hawk-like stare his companion met and held it. ‘I’m only asking if Durham is the right place to meet him. The area is like to be swarming with William’s men. Fitzurse will be well protected.’
‘Not well enough to save him from me.’
‘Cut the bastard’s throat with my blessing, but what of your mission and your oath to Malcolm?’
‘Both will be honoured. He’ll get the intelligence he seeks at the appointed place and time.’ Retrieving the reins of a dapple grey stallion, the laird swung easily into the high saddle. ‘But come what may I shall have my revenge.’
Chapter One
‘K
eep your guard high, Ashlynn. Like this.’Ban held his own sword aloft in demonstration. ‘That’s it. Now let’s try those moves again.’
Nothing loath Ashlynn closed in to attack, trying to remember everything her brother had taught her over these last weeks, her whole attention focused on the two blades. The clash of metal rang in the frosty air. Ban parried dextrously and for a moment or two she had the satisfaction of seeing him forced back several paces.
‘Ha! Take that!’
He returned the grin. ‘You grow cocky, little sister.’
Ashlynn redoubled her efforts, laying on with a will, and saw him give ground again. Exultant she laughed. Laughter turned to a yelp as a blow beneath the hilt sent the blade flying out of her grasp and he tripped her neatly, sending her sprawling on her back, his sword point coming to rest against her throat.
‘Do you yield?’
She sighed. ‘I yield…
again
.’
‘Don’t be disheartened.’ He put up his blade and extended a hand, pulling her to her feet. ‘That was much better.’
‘Not good enough.’
‘It takes time, Ash, and you’ve made real progress.’
His praise heightened the flush of colour in her cheeks. At nineteen Ban was a year her senior and had already established his fighting credentials, his career having been founded at Stamford Bridge and Hastings three years earlier.
‘Progress of a kind,’ she replied. ‘Yet I think my skills would not long withstand those of a seasoned mercenary.’
‘God send you never need to put them to the test.’
‘God send none of us does.’ She shot him a shrewd glance. ‘And yet you think it may come to that, don’t you?’
‘William will not suffer resistance lightly.’
She knew the words for truth. In recent days the manor at Heslingfield had seen a steady stream of people fleeing north from Durham ahead of the approaching army. None would willingly stay to face the Conqueror’s wrath, knowing it would be terrible indeed, for the slaying of the Earl of Northumbria would be avenged with interest.
‘De Comyn should have listened to Bishop Aegelwine. If he had he might be living still. Commandeering men’s homes and womenfolk was never going to win him friends.’
It was an understatement and they both knew it. What had followed the arrival of the new Earl of Northumbria was an orgy of violence and cruelty. Provoked beyond endurance, the people of Durham had risen up in the night and slain the hated invaders, almost to a man. The streets of the city had run with blood. De Comyn had been burned alive when the mob set fire to the house where he and some of his men tried to make their last stand. Of the original force of seven hundred Norman soldiers only two had lived to tell the tale.
Ban shook his head in disgust. ‘The Normans are arrogant brutes and heed none when their minds are set on blood and conquest.’