He remembered why he’d chosen Camelee. She was full of life and sparks of fire. And like a moth to flame, he was drawn to her. He was a fool. She was a Saxon…or something, but not a Dane. His captive, a servant. And if all that weren’t bad enough, she was mad. Wasn’t she?
“Some say you are immortal,” Alric said from beside him. Wolf had forgotten he was there. “But no one is. Leofric said he was going to prove it by cutting out your heart.”
“I do not have a heart,” Wolf let him know. “He will find that out.”
“Look!”
He followed Alric’s finger, looking west toward the camp. Dark smoke rose to the clouds. Fire!
He rode to Camelee and handed Hild to her. “Stay here!” he ordered them and then sped away with his men thundering behind him.
Fin! Was his brother alive? The rest of his men? Aethelwold had done this. Wolf was glad he’d killed the Saxon. He would find Leofric and end him.
He rode hard, reaching the smoky outskirts of the camp, turning on his mount to his men. He pointed right to some, left to the rest. They were too late though. Dead men littered the ground. His men. Some were Saxon, but most were his men. He moved slowly on his horse, gazing through tendrils of smoke at the massacre. The Saxons must have come upon them unaware. Still, the men could have taken the Saxons after gaining their wits. There were more men with Leofric. They had left with him. He would find them.
For now, it looked as if all of them were dead. Was his brother among them? Wolf had left him in charge. He was to lead the men. If he wasn’t here among the dead, what did it mean?
“Find anyone alive. If they are ours, bring me to them. Go!” he barked his orders, and his twenty men did as he commanded. He heard a woman’s voice. He raked his burning eyes over the bodies. No women.
“Chief!” she called out to him.
“Chief!” one of his men called. “There’s a woman—”
“I know. Bring her to—”
“Oh, Chief, I never thought I would say this, but thank God you are here.”
Genevra! “Genevra!” He rode his horse to her and dismounted when he reached her. “What happened here?”
“Like I told your commander—”
“Fin? Blond? Nasty?”
She smiled, then coughed, holding her hand over her mouth. “That would be him.”
“Then he is alive?”
“Aye. He was not here when the Saxons attacked.”
“Not here?” A chill pierced Wolf’s heart at the news. “Where was he and where is he now?”
“He was with her.” She pointed to a pretty girl with sooty cheeks. She was going through the fallen men’s clothes.
Wolf’s blood boiled. He released his bow from over his furry shoulder and pulled an arrow from his quiver. “You!” he shouted, nocking the arrow. She looked up from the burned coat of one of his men. “Move away from my men or I will put this arrow through your neck.”
She paled and rubbed her throat and stepped away.
“Where were you while this was happening?”
“In my bed. Why? Do you think I had something to do with this?”
“I had not considered you a suspect,” he told her with his voice practiced and as sharp as the finest blade. “You protest before I accuse. Come around this way. I have some questions to put to you.”
“He was anguished,” Genevra told him about Fin. It was a bit shocking to hear. “He left to go find Camelee.” Fresh tears filled her eyes. Wolf could see that she’d been weeping by the stripes down her dirty face.
“I found her, Genevra,” he reassured her while he looked around. “She and Hild are safe.”
“Oh!” She clutched his arm, stopping him. “Thank God! That is pleasing news to my ears, my lord.”
