Page 111 of The Saxon Lord's Unwanted Bride
The last rays of the setting sun battled against the purple-gray clouds. Thick flakes of snow fluttered to the ground, the occasional blessed one picking up the sunlight, flashing briefly before it joined its companions on the forest floor.
She tipped her face upward and the cool flakes soothed her burning cheeks, falling onto her eyelashes and melting into winter tears. They were the only tears she had left to shed.
Cradling her belly she picked her way through the forest, leaving a trail of footprints to mark the virgin snow.
Apart from the occasional flutter of a hunting owl she was alone, no sound save for the delicate crunch underfoot and a faint pulsing sound in the distance.
The sound grew louder, a rhythm too fast to be the footfall of a man.
It was a horse.
Her limbs began to shake but not from the cold. Fear tightened her throat and icy fingers brushed against her neck. The memory was too strong—a man on horseback, hands pulling her to the ground…
She turned and glimpsed a shape, which emerged from the dancing snowstorm, slivers of sunlight catching on metal armor.
A man on horseback.
Silhouetted against the fading light, his features were unrecognizable. The horse, a huge black destrier, seemed to float towards her.
In the coming twilight, the ghost of Ralph of Aquitaine had come to claim her.
The horse stopped, and the ghost dismounted in a fluid motion then it approached her, hands outstretched.
No…
She was not ready to be taken into hell—not while her child grew within her. She shrank back and cried out as the figure matched her step. His shadow lengthened, then the sun dipped below the horizon and plunged the forest into darkness.
She lifted her skirts and ran, legs unwieldy in the thick snow. Heavy footsteps followed her and a deep voice called out. She covered her ears to block him out, and tripped forward, losing her footing, and she braced herself for the impact that never came.
Two strong arms caught her and held her against cold, hard armor. She fought for freedom, clawing against him, but her fingernails glanced off the thick steel.
Surrendering at last she let her body go limp, sobbing with defeat.
“Let me go!”
“God’s blood, Eloise! Would you run from me?”
That voice—how she had yearned to hear it again!
She reached up and her fingers met the warm skin of a flesh-and-blood man. A scarred cheek, the now-misshapen nose—the swollen eyelid that had begun to heal.
“Harald? Is it really you? Have you returned to me?”
“Aye.”
Soft, warm breath brushed her cheek, then he claimed her mouth. His tongue caressed her lips, begging entrance which she gladly granted, opening her mouth to receive him. She slid her own tongue along his, drawing him into a sensual dance.
He circled his arms around her and enveloped her in his broad, strong frame. She lay her head on his shoulder and a large hand caressed the back of her neck, calloused fingertips brushing the sensitive skin as delicately as a butterfly’s wing. He buried his face in her hair his chest expanded as he drew in a deep breath, as a drowning man seeks the air to nourish his dying body.
“Oh, Eloise!” he cried. “I never thought I’d see your sweet face again, or hold you in my arms.”
“Are you a free man?”
“Aye, my love,” he said, “and I’ve come to take you home.”
Chapter 29
Harald left his wife in Agatha’s care, then rode straight to Wildstorm. The royal party was hot on his heels, and he needed not only to prepare the hall for the king and queen—but to ready a litter to carry his wife home in her delicate condition.
