She drew out a long sigh. “Where can I go to relieve myself?”
“Oh. Just out back.”
“Out back. Of course. You do know it’s winter, right?”
“I did not build this place, Camelee,” he called out. “Someone else did.”
She hated when he was logical. He was supposed to be the kidnapping, marauding maniac.
A cold dread washed over her that had nothing to do with the weather as she slipped on her jacket. The longer she remained here, the more real it became. She hadn’t heard a plane or helicopter all day yesterday.
But how could she have traveled through time? She thought about that while she found the outhouse, which was a hole in the ground.
She wondered if anyone back home missed her. Did her parents? Did they even know she was gone? She spoke to them once a year on the phone. It didn’t matter if she never called them. She was their perfect daughter who could do no wrong. As long as she was successful, they were happy. They weren’t her biological parents. Those two dropped her off at an orphanage downtown and never looked back. She grew up the daughter of Henri and Claire Pendrey and studied to be an actor since she was five. She’d done some commercials and a soap until she was ten. She’d scored a bunch of minor things, but finally after a “masterful audition”, she was hired to play the lead role in an original series on cable. That was eight seasons ago. Life changed after that. Money was good. She had a penthouse in Chelsea. She was waited on hand and foot on set. She rarely had to do anything or pay for anything. People adored her. Men fawned all over her. Everyone wanted to be her friend.
But she felt more alone than ever. She cried herself to sleep every night. No matter how much her fans loved her. Her mother and father by blood, and by choice, did not love her. They’d abandoned her. She hated them for it. Every time she saw a baby being loved and adored by its parents, she couldn’t understand what had been so bad about her that both sets of hers couldn’t love her enough to make it work. It was the only role she had trouble playing. A mother.
She thought that if she was loved by the masses, it would fill the emptiness—but it didn’t. Forget a serious relationship. Men wanted to have sex with her and then move on, as if she were good to have on a resume of women they’d screwed. Or they wanted to worship her and then became bored.
What about Wolf? Did he have sex with her while she slept? No way. No one slept that deeply. She felt relieved, finished, then frowned when she realized there was nothing to wipe with.
Oh, how she hated it here.
Chapter Four
Wolf watched herfrom the small window while she hurried to the well, filled a cup of water, then ran back to the outhouse.
He liked looking at her in her hose and short, heavy woolen shirt. Her hose hugged her arse quite nicely, better than any skirts. Where had she gotten such attire? Where had she learned such boldness? Of course, it wasn’t possible for anyone to travel through time. Who would believe such a mad tale?
She was a mystery. He’d asked many of the women in the town and all denied knowing her. Who was she? Where had she come from? He wondered if she was completely mad or if there was a part of her still sane. She intrigued him with her strange words and even stranger clothes. He wanted to know more about her. He shouldn’t have stayed with her all day and all night though. Sleeping with her was nicer than he’d expected. He didn’t put his hands on her, but he could smell her. She smelled like flowers. Not one, but many. It was faint. He had to move closer to get a better whiff. He could hear her breathing. He liked listening to it, learning her rhythm. It made him feel closer to her in a different way, like…he should be with her.
No. She was his captive. His servant. Chiefs, especially soldiers under Cnut, did not lose their hearts to their slaves. He could take her to his bed as often as he wished, without her consent, but because he could, didn’t mean he would. He might be a barbarian on the field, but he wasn’t one in the bedroom—except if his woman wanted him to be.
His woman…
“It’s disgusting,” she grumbled, coming back in. “I need a bath.”
He grinned at her, raising an eyebrow. “There is a stream—”
“Ha! You’re kidding right?” The sound she made was something between laughter and a growl.
“Then, no bath.”
“Dear Lord, help me,” she prayed as she fell onto a chair at the table.
She opened her eyes and stared at him with a pleading urgency. “I’m not cut out for this kind of life. I want to go home. And it’s got to be pretty bad here if I want to go home.”
She’d shown strength and fortitude since she’d been captured. She was saucy and spirited, and through all this, she had not wept.
He kept his eyes on her. He wanted to know more about her. “What is so terrible about your home? Do you have a husband who beats you?”
She shook her head and shrugged her delicate shoulders. “There was no husband, and it wasn’t completely terrible. There was coffee.”
“What is coffee?” he indulged.
“It’s a drink made from ground up coffee beans. It smells like nothing you’ve smelled before. Slowly pouring boiling water over it makes it a strong hot or cold drink. I like mine with cream and sugar.”
He watched her eyes close with delight while she thought of her drink. He suddenly wanted to be the one who brought such delight to her face. He felt ill, a little lightheaded. “Camelee,” he interrupted, unable or unwilling to stop speaking. “I will try to have a hot bath prepared for you when we reach Wessex.”
