Free Dawn of Wolves (The Kingdom of Mercia) by Jayne Castel Page A

to stop him visiting her again tonight and taking greater liberties? She would not let him get away with humiliating her.
    She would not let him have the upper hand.
    The company had stopped by the roadside, at the top of a shallow valley. The wind blew Ermenilda’s hood back off her face as she dismounted her palfrey, loosening strands of fine blonde hair from her braids.
    Beside her, Wynflaed had just dismounted her gelding and was opening one of her saddlebags to fetch some bread and cheese.
    “Shall we take a seat on those rocks over there?” she asked.
    “Make a start without me, Wynflaed,” Ermenilda told her handmaid firmly. “I must speak to the king.”
    “But, milady . . . is that wise?”
    “Perhaps not, but it is necessary.”
    Ermenilda squared her shoulders and marched through the crowd of milling men and horses. She strode purposefully toward the front of the column. Aware of the men’s stares as she walked among them, Ermenilda kept her gaze fixed upon her destination: the King of Mercia.
    Wulfhere had just dismounted from his stallion and was saying something to Werbode. The dark-haired warrior spied Ermenilda first. He watched her for a moment, his gaze traveling the length of her in a way that made her boiling temper rise even further. Then, he lazily turned to Wulfhere.
    “Milord, it appears your betrothed wants a word.”
    Wulfhere turned, his limpid gaze settling upon Ermenilda. The impact of their gazes meeting nearly caused her step to falter. Resisting the sudden impulse to turn and flee, she pressed on.
    “Lady Ermenilda,” he greeted her. “How can I be of service?”
    “I would speak to you for a moment,” she replied, stopping a few feet away from him. “Alone.”
    Wulfhere raised an eyebrow, while around them a few men sniggered.
    Werbode gave a low whistle. “She’s forward, this Kentish princess . . .”
    Ermenilda threw him the coldest, most imperious look she could muster, but Werbode merely returned her gaze with a boldness that made her skin crawl. Suddenly, she felt like a lamb in a den of wolves. The anger that had propelled her off her palfrey and up to the head of the column was beginning to subside. She was starting to feel vulnerable.
    “Come, milady.”
    Wulfhere cast Werbode a censorious look before he gently took hold of Ermenilda’s arm and steered her away from his men. They reached the crest of the hill, a few yards away from the others, and halted. Behind them, to the north, Ermenilda could see the gentle folds of grassy downs stretching away to a cloudy horizon like a rumpled blanket.
    Wulfhere turned and faced her. The look of thinly veiled amusement on his face made Ermenilda’s ire rise once more.
    “What is it?” he asked.
    “I demand an apology,” she replied, folding her arms across her chest as she faced him.
    His amusement faded. “An apology . . . for what?”
    “For your behavior.”
    Wulfhere stared at her, stunned. When he replied, his voice held a warning.
    “I had every right to be angry, Ermenilda. I had just learned of your mother’s treachery, and I believed you to be part of it. I am still yet to be convinced that you are entirely innocent.”
    “My word should be enough,” she countered angrily. “Yet, that is not what I seek an apology for. You took advantage of a moment alone with me. You humiliated me.”
    His eyes widened. “A kiss is not humiliation. You are my betrothed—I have a right to kiss you. Even if I had taken you last night in your tent, it would have been my right.”
    Anger exploded within Ermenilda. She unfolded her arms and balled her fists at her sides.
    Wulfhere observed her temper and raised an eyebrow.
    “Definitely not the ice maiden I took you for. Do you wish to strike me?”
    “If I were a man, I would,” she replied between gritted teeth. “Do the promises you made my father mean nothing?”
    Wulfhere gave a soft laugh. “And what promises are you referring to?”
    “That you would