She almost made the mistake of turning again to stare at him for cutting her off. But she wouldn’t make that mistake again. “Prehistoric. Old fashioned.”
He shook his head. He didn’t know those words either. And he didn’t seem to care. “Tell me about the men of your day.”
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. “I don’t know much about men,” she admitted. “Everyone around me, men and women, mostly men, have always been fake. No one really knew me. They just wanted to be around the star of a hit cable series. Most guys wanted to be with my character. When they found out that I wasn’tIllissa D’Angelo, they left. I had never cared. I’d never wanted any of them to stick around after a date or two.”
“Why would they want you to be someone else?” he asked from behind her.
She smiled, forgetting why she’d been angry with him a moment ago.
“They do not sound better than me, Camelee,” he told her. “Why do you prefer them over me?”
“I don’t,” she replied quickly. “I mean, I don’t like them either, but at least I can get away from them if—”
“You wish to get away from me?” He sounded a bit hurt or insulted.
“Where would I go?”
“That is not an answer.”
She turned her head to look at him over her shoulder. It was a terrible mistake, not because the sight of him robbed her of her senses, but because his eyes, gazing down on her, were so intent. Was her reply so important to him? Why would it be?
“If I must be here,” she told him, resting her chin against her shoulder. She knew how to flirt. She apparently didn’t know her own mind though, or why she was flirting with him. “I would prefer to be with you.”
She didn’t expect his face to light up like a kid who’d just found a puppy under the Christmas tree. Vague feelings of regret over missing Christmas in New York were vanquished by the radiant smile of the man who imagined he could tame her, dominate her, make her his. She hated her traitorous heart for actually liking the idea of it, especially in this world.
No. She almost laughed. Let him imagine it. For now, in this cold, horrible era, she needed him to live.
“That doesn’t mean I want to be your servant,” she let him know, veiling her gaze behind curtains of lashes. She dared not look up because when she did, she wanted to lick his beguiling lips and fall at his feet—if they were walking.
He was quiet, which piqued her curiosity—and paranoia. Was it because of what she said? Or because they were entering the inner yard? She realized it was both when he coiled his arm around her and lifted her out of the saddle and safely to the ground.
“Do not run,” he warned and straightened in his saddle. And kept riding.
Oh, she wanted to kill him! He couldn’t let his king possibly see him with a slave pressed to his chest. Her head was still spinning at the speed and fluidity he used to get her away from him! She wanted to stomp her foot, kick something, maybe even have a cigarette. Another little light dwindled out inside her. No more smoking, even though she only smoked a pack every two months. No more vaping. No more coffee. No more burgers or diet soda, not includingeverythingelse! What would she do all day in a place like this? Clean and cook and wait for her husbandor masterto come home so they could make love under his fur blankets, or in the green fields under the stars in the summer.
Danes were practicing everywhere she looked. There were smaller huts and large tents scattered throughout the vast yard. Many were decorated with holly branches over the doorway. There was a tower and a church, also decorated with a wreath, and the main keep, built not only of wood, but of stone. The beginnings of castles, she thought with a chill creeping along her spine.
By the time she reached the regiment of men welcoming Wolf, he was already off his horse and speaking with three men in the lead. One, in particular, commanded respect and honor with his straight, wide shoulders clad in white fur. His hair was pale blond and braided down his back. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, not that she could understand them, and when she moved to go toward them, two warriors blocked her path, swords at the ready.
She looked at Alric and Genevra, walking toward her with Hild holding Genevra’s hand. What would become of them?
“What should we do?” she asked them when they reached her.
“We are Saxons,” Alric reminded her. “They will not believe your story. You are Saxon.”
“I could be French,” she tried, which brought a smile to his face.
She took his hand to walk inside with him, but he pulled free.
“I have been traveling with Leofric and his brother for some time. Leofric is a formidable warrior and does not go into battle blindly. Remember, he took out half of the chief’s army.”
“The half without the chief in it,” she interjected.
He nodded, giving her the point, then continued. “He learned a few things about his enemy, and I overheard most of it. The Danes see affection as weakness. They will use it against us.”
She thought of how Wolf sought to hide his—was it affection for her? He practically threw her off his horse. He even sought to hide it from his men—especially Fin. A chill ran through her. His protection was limited.
“You two!” a man shouted at them.
