“I will be sitting just there, with those men. I would hardly call that abandoning you.”

  “Fine,” she brooded. She didn’t want to serve. She was used to being served. “Do whatever you want.”

  He did, disappearing to another table where a group of savage-looking men sat drinking in their animal skins. He didn’t spare her another look. She cursed him silently and went to seek out a woman who could help her.

  Serving wasn’t horrible—no, who was she kidding? It was repulsive. Not only did she have to serve the men, she had to serve Fin. She kept her gaze locked on to her captor’s while she served.

  His furtive gaze found her more than once, but no one else saw him looking. He neither smiled nor frowned when a few fights broke out, possibly about her. Maybe they were fighting over who would get her after their leader died. She didn’t understand what they were saying. She thought it was just as well. She didn’t want to know what they were talking about.

  She hated it here. With them.

  Her eyes settled on her captor. With him.

  Chapter Three

  Camelee washed the last plate and fell into a chair in the candlelit kitchen of the town hall. The skin on her fingers was white and water-logged. She’d been at the dishes for the last hour.

  He waited for her there in the kitchen, with his hand on the hilt of his sword and his diamond-hard gaze on her. He wasn’t altogether unpleasant to look at.

  Where the hell was she?

  If she thought serving was repulsive, washing dishes was doubly so. She never wanted to eat again.

  “Tomorrow, we leave for Wessex for the Christmas festivities,” he informed her. “After that, I will have an audience with King Cnut.”

  She looked at him coming closer. “And then what?” she asked nervously.

  He sat in a chair next to hers. “And then we shall see. I would like to go home to Denmark.”

  “What of me?” Why did she ask him? She hated that she needed his protection. But for now, she did. She would play along with whatever this was.

  “You will come with me, of course.”

  To Denmark? She almost laughed out loud but she felt too sick to her stomach. How long would she have to stay with him?

  “Have you sailed upon a longship before?” he asked her.

  She blinked. “What?” She knew what he was talking about. No, she’d never been on a longship before. If there was a longship, did it mean they really were in England, pre-William the Conqueror? No. Impossible.

  “I assume you have not. You will be ill for the entire trip, no doubt.”

  Wonderful. More fun to look forward to.

  “What are you doing here? Waiting for me?” She didn’t want to ask, but it was late, and she was tired.

  “I do not let what is mine get ravaged by the dogs.”

  She wondered if pulling out a club from behind his back and hitting her over the head with it was next. “How sweet,” she seethed. “And is it just me you think you own? I would have thought you had a flock of women.”

  He crooked one edge of his mouth into a smirk. “One is difficult enough, but when I return home, you will be the first of my servants.” He said it happily, as if it were the most natural thing in the world and she should be happy, too.

  She was tempted to poison his food.

  “Come,” he said standing up from his seat. “It is late.”

  “Um…” She stayed sitting. “I’m not going to bed with you, so forget it. I’d rather you just kill me now and get it over with.”

  His smile turned into amusement. He wore it so well it made her blood bubble. “I was going to offer to walk you to the hut. I’ve procured a bed for you. You. I will not be with you. But knowing you would rather be put to death than give yourself to me is well noted.”

  Good. Good, she was happy it was well noted. She wanted to tell him that it was because of the way he bossed and tossed her around. He was playing this whole chest-beating, authoritative jerk to the trillionth degree. She thought of Fin…and probably all the rest of them. Maybe this one wasn’t the worst of them.

  “What’s your name anyway? I’m Camelee,” she added when he gave her a confused look. “You are?”

  “Ulf Kristiansen. I am called Wolf.”

  “Of course you are,” she said, looking him over in the soft candlelight. He was, in fact, positively wolf-like in his furs and hungry, piercing eyes.

  “I didn’t mean I would literally rather be dead than—”

  “Do not trouble yourself with what I think,” he overrode her. “You will address me as lord in the presence of others.”

  “I will?” she scoffed.

  “You will, either freely…or not.”

  How could he threaten her and his voice sound so velvety and sultry that it made her mouth go dry? She was afraid of him. But for some crazy reason, she trusted him not to hurt her.

  “Okay,” she said softly and stood to her feet, close to him. “What do I call you in private?”

  He stared down into her eyes, and she was sure she could read some of his thoughts. Thoughts of them together…

  “Wolf.”

  He seemed to be the powerful one among his men. Maybe she was looking at this all wrong. If she was going to be here any longer, she was going to need someone powerful behind her. If she made him her lover, would that give her power, too? What about contraception? She suddenly felt lightheaded. This was real.

  He caught her in his arms, seeming almost familiar with her form. But then, hadn’t he been the one to set her on the table when she’d fainted?

  “What is it?” he asked behind her, against her ear.

  “I…I must be more tired than I thought.”

  “Hmm, not used to working is my guess.” He leaned down and, in one fluid motion, scooped her up in his arms to cradle her against his chest. “I could tell from a league away that you had no idea what you were doing.”

  So, he’d been watching her.

  “I told you I didn’t. Now, please, put me down.”

  He shook his head. His braids fell against her hands as they locked at his nape.

  “Put me down. What will your men think if they see you carrying a slave?”

  “That I am a considerate master, and—”

  “Master?” she asked with distaste.

  “That is correct.”

  “No. It’s not correct. Slaves are no longer a thing to want or need, okay? We’ve become a tad bit more civilized.”

  “All right,” he said softly. “I stand corrected.”

  The sound of his steady heartbeat in her ear resonated through her body. She felt weightless in his arms. And safe. His chest and belly were rock-hard, proving that he spent time in a gym. His shoulders were wide above her.

  “Thank you.” She closed her eyes in his arms and promptly fell asleep.

  *

  She awoke the next morning in a straw bed that didn’t smell fresh. She leaped out of it and made a soft squeak when she saw Wolf in the bed with her.

  The lying bastard. Did he want to see angry? He would see angry now. She looked down at herself. Thank God, she was fully dressed. Had they done anything? She clutched her belly. Did they have plan B here? No. This was real. She didn’t have a purse anymore. Or a phone, or any identification.

  Had they made love? Wouldn’t she remember doing it with him? She stared at him asleep in the bed, covered from low on his waist, down. His chest was bare and carved with hills and valleys, harder than granite. His belly was tight like a trampoline, ready to be jumped upon.

  She tried to lift the thin woolen blanket to see if he was naked underneath.

  “What are you doing?”

  His voice startled her enough to make her jump away.

  But why should she feel ashamed? “You lied to me! You told me you procured a bed for me!”

  “I did not deceive you, Camelee,” he let her know from the bed, barely opening his eyes. He kicked off the blanket and before she could close her eyes, she saw that he wore short white breeches of sorts. But he was covered.

  “When I arrived at the hut with you, the woman of the house advised me that thanks to my men, several of her neighbors were now widows and were staying with her. She could not give a bed to a stranger over a friend. I thought of commanding her to give up a bed, but I am not a cold-hearted beast. Not all the time, anyway. In the end, I had nowhere else to put you but in my own bed in this cottage.”

  She listened, afraid to ask him if they had done anything. “Where can I use the restroom?”

  “The what?”

  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 her from 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.”

  She opened her eyes. “You will?”

  He nodded. “Anything you wish if you will just try to make me something to eat. We can have bread and butter, but I was thinking—”

  “Eggs and bacon.” She looked around. “And we’ll see what’s in the cabinets, eh, cupboards,” she corrected, looking around again.

  Did she smile at him? Why did it make his belly tighten and his heart feel weightless? He’d seen men who had fallen in love, Odger Ragnarsen, one of his men, and Rune Aethlesen a chief from East Anglia. They became mindless, thoughtless, senseless, everything helpless there was. He would not become that over any woman.

  Or so he’d always thought.

  But Camelee was different. He wasn’t sure he even liked her. He knew beautiful women. None of them had ever affected him the way she did. He tried to stop it. He had to. He was a warrior. He would likely die young. Though he wished for more in his life, he didn’t want to leave his woman and his children behind, unprotected.

  “Fine.” He gave her a stiff smile and rose from his seat. “I heard a rooster. I will go check for chickens and eggs.”

  “Okay,” she mumbled while she rummaged through jars of jam and spices.

  He left the cottage with a slight smirk on his face and then followed his ears to the henhouse. He liked this feeling of waking up with someone…her and preparing to eat with her. He was thinking how foolish and pitiful he must appear. He had to exercise more control. He—

  He looked up. What was that? He didn’t wait to find out but ran back toward the cottage. He paused to take his knives out of his boots and flip them in his hands before he listened at the door. He heard men’s voices. Camelee’s muffled cries.

  “Are you here alone?” one of them demanded to know.

  Saxons! Wolf was going to kill them! He opened the door as slowly and as quietly as he could. He could see one of them holding her, one dirty hand over her mouth and the other caressing her bosom!

  Wolf felt his blood boil. In less than a breath, he noted three other men standing around the kitchen, and positioned his knives. He aimed and let one fly. It flew into her assailant’s temple. He let her go and sank to the floor. Camelee turned to look at her latest captor, dead and bleeding around her.

  She cried out.

  He felt his eyes go wide. They hurt her. He was going to destroy them! But no, he couldn’t lose control now.

  “Camelee! Get behind me,” he commanded as he sent the second knife into another man’s neck.

  He released the two axes from his belt before the second man’s body hit the floor.

  With Camelee at his back, he hacked at the last two men, swerving and pulling her down to duck. He groaned and swiped at them with all his might. Their meager blows could not keep his axes away until he left them both dead.

  He moved with the strength and purpose of a feline predator despite her clumsy steps and her fingernails digging into his back and shoulders. They moved through the cottage, with Wolf ready to kill at a moment’s notice. They checked outside for more men but found none.

  When he deemed it safe, he put away his axes and turned, but she didn’t let go of him, so that he was in her arms.

  “It is over. It is over,” he assured softly. “You are safe.”

  She let him hold her for a while. He could feel her heart beating hard and fast, like his.

  “This is horrible,” she said, finally breaking away. “I cannot live like this. I’m trying to act brave, but this place is breaking me down. It’s breaking me down.”

  “Will you just give up then?”

  “No.”

  He liked how quickly she answered. It was instinctual. She would not give up. But what did she mean acting brave? “You will make it through whatever it is you are suffering. I will protect you. You see that I can.”

  What was he doing? This was marriage talk! He was not offering himself to her. He wanted to laugh. He would admit, he was drawn to her, but it was nothing serious.