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The notorious Lord of Roul...
...must take her as his bride!
Lady Avelyn flees an unwanted betrothal to an elderly warlord only to be hunted down and returned to King David’s court by fearsome Elrik, Lord of Roul, a legendary warrior with a heart of ice—and a kiss of fire. And now Avelyn is bound to Elrik—and his bed—when Elrik is commanded to wed her instead!
“Another sensual, action packed tale.”
—RT Book Reviews on At the Warrior’s Mercy
“Lynn has real talent.”
—RT Book Reviews on Dragon’s Promise
Award-winning author DENISE LYNN lives in the USA with her husband, son and numerous four-legged ‘kids’. Between the pages of romance novels she has travelled to lands and times filled with brave knights, courageous ladies and never-ending love. Now she can share with others her dream of telling tales of adventure and romance. You can write to her at PO Box 17, Monclova, OH 43542, USA, or visit her website: denise-lynn.com.
Also by Denise Lynn
Falcon’s Heart
Commanded to His Bed
Bedded by Her Lord
Bedded by the Warrior
The Warrior’s Runaway Wife
Warehaven Warriors miniseries
Halloween Temptations
Pregnant by the Warrior
The Warrior’s Winter Bride
At the Warrior’s Mercy
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.
The Warrior’s Runaway Wife
Denise Lynn
www.millsandboon.co.uk
ISBN: 978-1-474-07387-5
THE WARRIOR’S RUNAWAY WIFE
© 2018 Denise L. Koch
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk
For Tom and KM with love.
Contents
Cover
Back Cover Text
About the Author
Booklist
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Extract
About the Publisher
Prologue
Carlisle Castle—April 1145
The large double doors of the Great Hall groaned open, slowing the fever-pitched conversations to a hushed whispering. Lord Elrik of Roul strode through the open doors, bringing even the whispers to a complete halt.
Rain from the spring storm fell in rivulets from the wolf pelts trimming his full-length mantle. The cape swirled, sending droplets of rainwater to the floor in his wake.
Men and women alike made way, clearing the path ahead of his long strides. The clinking of his linked-mail hauberk and spurs along with the heavy fall of his footsteps were the only sounds echoing in the hall.
The visitors to King David’s court stared in fascination at the sight of the fabled man before them. Some were young enough to have grown up hearing stories of the King’s Wolves. They’d trembled at the tales told in the dark of night, wondering how much truth lay behind the words, yet not wanting to discover the answer for themselves.
From the unkempt overlong hair, black as night and shot through with silver, to his frowning countenance, the furrowed brow resembling a dark outcrop over his greenish-gold eyes, to the beard covering his lower face, hiding his features, leaving only the thin line of his tightly held mouth visible, made them wonder if he was indeed part-wolf. A barely civilised, not quite human warrior who would think nothing of unleashing the terrors of hell on an unsuspecting prey.
Elrik dropped to a knee at the bottom of the raised dais and bowed his head. He knew what these people thought of him, these weak-kneed courtiers who had rarely, if ever, used the sword belted to their side for anything more than show, and he cared not. As the Lord of Roul, he did what he needed to do to keep his lands, and his family, safe.
Being one of David’s Wolves wasn’t easy, but then he’d never been blessed with a life of ease so why would this be any different? The one saving grace was that his three brothers made up the rest of his wolf pack and he could trust them with his life.
King David stood. ‘Roul, join me.’
Elrik rose and followed the King into the smaller chamber beyond the dais. Once the door closed behind the two of them they were afforded a privacy not available in the Great Hall.
‘Thank you for coming so quickly.’ David poured two goblets of deep red wine and offered one to Elrik, before settling into a chair.
He accepted the liquid, hoping it would thaw his blood. ‘My liege?’
‘I apologise for taking you from the comfort of your fires, but I’ve a need for your particular skill.’
‘Who do you need found?’ He’d been born with an uncanny ability to track down things lost, whether it be a missing shoe or a person not wishing to be found.
‘Avelyn of Brandr.’
Elrik paused before swallowing his wine. In the space of one heartbeat it all came flooding back. His father had sought to commit treason against King David at the prompting of Galdon, Lord of Brandr Isle. Brandr, named so because of the long, sharp, pointed rocks that stuck out from the northern end of the isle like ready swords, drawn for attack, wasn’t enough land for Galdon. Whether the traitor had acted of his own accord, or at the behest of his uncle by marriage and liege, Lord Somerled, the Lord of Argyll, or his maternal grandfather Óláfr, the King of the Isles, was never discovered since Brandr had used his connections to escape punishment. Unlike Elrik’s father.
To save his father’s life, he and his younger brother Gregor had thrown themselves at King David’s feet, begging for mercy. Their plea had been heard and mercy granted—at the cost of nothing more than their souls.
While their father had been confined to Roul Isle, he and Gregor, along with their two younger brothers, when they’d become old enough, had become King David’s Wolves. Men tasked with deeds that required secrecy and, at times, the steadfast ruthlessness of a wolf.
He swallowed, then said, ‘I wasn’t aware Brandr had a daughter.’
‘A natural-born daughter.’
Elrik wasn’t surprised. Especially since Brandr’s mother was conceived out of wedlock. Still, why would King Óláfr’s grandson come to the King of Scotland for assistance? More curious, why would Brandr risk coming to King David when the man had once joined forces with those intent on taking the throne from David? Not wanting to dredge up the traitor’s history—especially since his own father had been part of that treasonous act—he instead asked, ‘And Brandr came to you rather than going to his uncle or grandfather?’
‘Yes, it appears that way.’
‘Any reason given for keeping them in the dark?’
‘A marriage has been arranged between the girl and Sir Bolk, one of Óláfr’s minor lords.’
Bolk? ‘Surely you don’t mean Bolk the elder?’
The King nodded. ‘Yes. If I’m counting correctly, this will be his third wife.’
What had the girl’s father been thinking to agree to that arrangement? That old, gnarled warlord had outlived the previous two. Obviously, Brandr’s daughter had not liked the idea of being number three. ‘How long has she been gone?’
‘My understanding is that she vanished three weeks ago, just moments before officially meeting the man.’
Elrik set his empty goblet on the table, waving off a refill, and asked, ‘Any description of the woman?’
‘All I was told was that she has night-black hair, ice-blue eyes, fair skin, a well-made form and a temper befitting a daughter of Brandr.’
Excellent. Not only was he required to find the daughter of a warlord whom he considered an enemy of his family, but a king’s great-granddaughter who had a three-week head start on him and a headstrong one who most likely desired not to be found.
‘Where was she last seen?’
‘She ran away from Oban.’
There was little there other than the ruins of an ancient tower fort. ‘Any word after that?’
‘There were rumours of a black-haired wench in Duffield who’d killed a man for trying to stop her from stealing bread. Brandr’s men stopped their search there.’
Elrik doubted the rumours held any truth. If the girl was smart enough to run away without being caught thus far, she wasn’t going to risk capture by doing anything to foolishly call attention to herself.
However, if she had been spotted in Duffield, this mission could prove a little more difficult, which was why her father’s men had stopped their search. Going into England to hunt for the girl was one thing, but heading deeper into the Earl of Derby’s lands was another thing altogether. The first Earl of Derby had done much to help King Stephen keep unfriendly forces at bay—it was doubtful the second earl would do any less.
Elrik knew he could find himself at the wrong end of a sword. Which, of course, was why he was being given the task—the Wolves were expendable. If captured, King David wasn’t going to offer a ransom—in fact, the King would deny all knowledge of the mission.
So, he needed to make certain he wasn’t caught.
The woman was either very strong and brave, or completely lacking in wits. She’d already travelled a far distance for a woman alone. Thankfully, it required no special powers to know she was headed for the southern coast and then on to Normandy, or France.
‘You need to find her before she leaves England.’
‘Where will Brandr be expecting her return?’
‘Not our concern, since his expectations will go unmet. Bring her here to me. Marrying off the eighteen-year-old great-granddaughter of a king to a nearly eighty-year-old minor vassal with no title, or holdings to speak of, seems a little suspicious, made more so by Brandr’s request for my assistance.’
Elrik couldn’t disagree with that reasoning. ‘It is a bit...odd.’
‘More than just odd. Considering the man has already proven he cannot be trusted, I can’t help but wonder what he is plotting.’ David waved a hand, dismissing further discussion. ‘Find her, bring her here and do it quickly. Brandr will arrive within the next four weeks. I do not wish his presence for any longer than necessary and I intend to put a halt to his plans before his arrival.’
Elrik’s stomach knotted at the last part of the King’s statement. Something about David’s emotionless, steady tone of voice when he said he intended to put a halt to Brandr’s plans was...unsettling. The King already knew what he was going to do—and Elrik wondered if there was more to his involvement than David was willing to divulge at this moment.
For over ten years he’d been the King’s Wolf. Not once had he questioned any order he’d been given, not even the ones that had forced him to harden his heart, or turn a deaf ear to those pleading for mercy. But this was different—it was personal. It touched on the very reason he’d sold his soul to the King. ‘Why me?’
‘The girl had nothing to do with the past.’ David’s stare darkened. ‘At that time, she was but a child and her father hadn’t yet claimed her as his daughter.’ He paused before leaning forward to add, ‘Your father made his choice. He would have done nothing different whether Brandr had been involved or not.’
Elrik disagreed. He’d been there. He’d heard Brandr’s rallying speeches against the foreigners King David had put in control of what were considered choice areas of land and seen the effect the man’s passionately spoken words had had on the older men gathered in Roul’s Great Hall. With nothing but his voice, he’d stirred them into a frenzied desire for revenge.
The striped scars crisscrossing his back were a permanent reminder of the hellish glee Brandr took in seeing punishment meted out to those deemed insubordinate—whether they had been or not. Brandr hadn’t applied the lash, but he’d done much to ensure it had been used.
Elrik wasn’t about to voice his thoughts to the King. Brandr was a king’s grandson and the nephew of a very powerful lord, while he was nothing more than a traitor’s son.
‘You will do as ordered, Roul.’
Elrik kept a tight hold on his rage, swallowed the bitterness coating his tongue and nodded. ‘Of course, my lord.’
King David leaned back against the chair and tossed him a sack of coins. ‘This should cover what you need. I’ve no men to spare.’
Elrik dropped the smaller sack into the leather pouch secured to the inside of his cloak. The money would come in handy and additional men would only slow him down. ‘What need I of any men?’
‘Perhaps I failed to mention that Brandr’s men found evidence that someone might be hunting the lady. He fears their intention is not to bring her home alive.’
Chapter One
South of Derbyshire, England—one week later
‘Open up.’ The wooden door to the room rattled. ‘I’ve a ready need for a willing whore.’
Avelyn cringed at the man’s request and kept a firm grip on the borrowed dagger she held out before her as she backed away from the locked door of her room. The need to protect herself was from habit since she knew she need only keep quiet and eventually he would move further along the corridor.
Just as they had for the last seven nights, men looking for a willing woman had stopped by to test her door countless times before moving on to find one that would open beneath their touch. So far, she’d been lucky and the thin metal locking bar had held.
There seemed to be a code of honour of sorts, even for this brothel. Apparently, a locked door meant either that the room was already occupied, or the lady wished no company at that moment. To her surprise, the men seemed to abide by that wish.
When silence once again fell in the hallway, she lowered her weapon and breathed. She choked out a strangled laugh at the loudness of her breath. Not even the unceasing rain beating on the roof had drowned out what sounded like a near gasp for life.
Avelyn sat on a stool by the window, staring at the overcast sky. Everything was grey. The sky, the road outside the brothel, even the buildings blended into near nothingness against the unending grey.
She longed to be gone from here, but had let her newfound friend Hannah talk her into waiting yet another day in the hopes the sky would clear even a little. Right now, after nearly eight days of rain, the streams would be so overfilled that the crossings would not be passable, which would only increase the likelihood of being caught.
She hadn’t risked her life running away from her father and forthcoming nuptials only to be captured and returned.
Everyone at home had told her that she’d been lucky and how privileged she should have felt to find herself betrothed to one of King Óláfr’s warlords. Especially considering the King was not beholden to concern himself with her welfare. Óláfr was her father’s grandfather—her great-grandfather—but she was nothing more than a by-blow from a dalliance her father had had with a common servant. King Óláfr was not beholden to see to her future. So, why had he gone to such lengths for her?
Even with the questions plaguing her over the arrangement, when Lord Somerled had first come to Brandr with the news, she had been so excited about the prospect of being married that she’d slipped away to return to her mother’s burned-down hut in the village to retrieve a ring her mother had given her on her twelfth birthday. She’d been told it had been her grandmother’s wedding band and she’d buried it to keep the ring safe until her own wedding day loomed in hopes that she could convince her husband-to-be to use it as her wedding band.
But those who’d thought her so lucky and privileged had not seen the warlord selected to be her husband. He was old, so ancient that his own sons were older than she. He was wrinkled, his skin ashen. And he had a belly that hung half way to his knees. She couldn’t begin to imagine her wedding night.
And when she had tried to reason it out in her mind, it seemed that the only viable options open to her were either death by her own hand, or to run away.
Unwilling to kill herself, she’d chosen to run. However, because her half-brother Osbert was watching her far too closely, she’d bolted quickly, taking with her a small stash of food, her ring, which she’d placed in a small pouch and hung around her neck with a ribbon, and even fewer prospects. There were not many ways for her to make enough money to buy food and none of them seemed welcome.
The food had lasted her only the first two days. On the third night, she’d stolen bread from a cottage window where it had been left on the sill to cool. She’d almost been caught. A man stumbling out of the local inn, barely able to walk a straight line, had seen her swipe the round loaf and took chase. Quicker on her feet, she’d outrun him, only looking back once when she’d heard him shout out in pain as he’d tripped over a tree root. His slurred curses let her know that he’d live, so she’d not stopped.
The next night she’d not been as lucky at finding anything to eat. So, the following evening she’d joined the gathering outside the gates of a castle and waited for the food scraps that would be tossed their way. She’d managed to nab a sodden, hard bread trencher and a couple of pieces of half-eaten fruit, food that would seem like gifts from heaven to her growling stomach.
But she recognised the half-dead stare of hunger from a bedraggled child at her side. It had been a part of her own childhood. Without having to think twice, she placed over half of the trencher, along with the fruit, in the small, shaking hands.
Thus had become her life—a woman alone, on the run, hiding from all who might seek to harm her, or worse, return her to her father. She’d been sick from hunger and exhausted from her non-stop march south. At times, she’d considered giving up her quest for escape. But then an image of the man waiting to become her husband flashed through her mind, lending her enough strength to put one foot in front of the other.
To her relief, she’d managed, for the most part, to avoid others by keeping off the main roads and staying out of town. But one afternoon, while she’d been leaning against a tree bemoaning her fate, an arrow had whizzed right past her nose to pierce the tree trunk, quivering less than a finger’s width away.
She’d run wildly through a forest to a narrow, rutted road and kept running until she’d fallen to her knees. Exhausted she’d crawled from the road to hide beneath piles of leaves and underbrush. The sun had been high in the sky when she’d finally woken to find herself hungrier and more tired than she’d been the evening before.
She’d happened into a good-sized town and quickly found the common well in the centre. That was where Hannah had found her—gulping water from the bucket while sobbing like a spineless fool.
The good lady had coaxed the story from her—it hadn’t been hard considering her mind was as numb as her body—and she had brought her here, to the brothel above the town’s inn where Hannah and a few other women made their living.
So far nobody had tried to talk or force her into plying the same trade. They’d simply given her the use of one of their rented rooms while two of them shared another and brought her food and drink.
Avelyn was more than grateful for their help in her time of need and vowed to herself that she would find a way to repay them some day soon.
Movement in the street below caught her attention. Three men she’d not seen before walked towards the inn, their booted feet splashing muddy water from the puddles on to the hems of their long, hooded mantles.
The tallest of the three looked up as if he knew she watched. Avelyn leaned away from the window, hiding from his searching gaze. Something about him and his companions sent worry skipping along her spine. She shivered as the apprehension settled cold in her belly.
A soft, quick knock on her door drew her away from her troublesome cares. Recognising Hannah’s gentle tap, Avelyn rose to cross the small room and open the door to invite her newfound friend inside.
The boisterous sounds from the main room below had been loud, but they grew impossibly louder when she pulled open the door. She’d grown accustomed to the jovial laughter and curses of drunken men, but tonight the tone held a tension-filled undercurrent that had not been present before.
She motioned Hannah inside and quickly closed the door against the troubling voices. From the concerned look on her friend’s face, she, too, felt the tense heaviness in the air. ‘What is wrong?’
With a roll of her eyes, Hannah headed towards the bed. ‘Let us sit.’
Avelyn closed the door, then joined the other woman. The foreboding chill from seeing the strangers still lingered and now turned to icy cold pricks of warning with each step she’d taken.
Again, she asked, ‘What is wrong?’
Hannah sighed as she looked around the room before saying, ‘You know that Mabel has been unable to be here the last three nights.’