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

follow god’s word.”
    “I am baptized,” he replied, “but I will not follow pointless rules when they do not serve me.”
    “Then you lied to my father,” Ermenilda countered.
    Wulfhere took a step toward her, his face hardening.
    “I have not lied to anyone,” he told her softly, “but if I wish to kiss you, I will. No priest, no father, and no god will stop me.”
    Ermenilda shrank back from him, her pulse pounding in her ears.
    “When we are handfasted, I will do my duty, as a woman must,” she snarled at him, “but until then, you will leave me alone.”
    She turned, with the intention of stalking back to where Wynflaed waited. However, Wulfhere grabbed her arm and hauled her back round to face him. He stood over her, his gaze hard with fury.
    Then, he pulled her hard against him and kissed her.
    This kiss was not like the night before—that embrace had been gentle, intimate, and overwhelmingly sensual. Instead, this kiss was possessive and brutal. He branded her as his, for all his men to see. Their hooting and catcalls rang in Ermenilda’s ears when he finally released her. Her lips stung from the force of his kiss.
    Without thinking, she lashed out and slapped him hard across the face. “Lutān!”
    Wulfhere barely seemed to notice her blow. Instead, he stepped close to Ermenilda once more, his hard gaze pinning her to the spot.
    “Perhaps I am a lout , as you say, princess,” he told her softly, “but very soon I will be your husband, and you won’t be able to deny me anything.”
    Ermenilda held her ground, even though his closeness was intimidating. Around them, Wulfhere’s men were laughing and calling out to them, enjoying the display.
    Ermenilda’s cheeks flamed at the humiliation; this was even worse than the night before. Her temper had worsened an already tense relationship between them, and had given Wulfhere’s men a spectacle to boot. However, she was still too incensed to care.
    “You will be my husband,” she told him, her voice trembling with the force of her anger. “But, you cannot force me to like you. I wish you dead. I loathe you, Wulfhere of Mercia. The devil take you!”
    With that, she whirled away from him and pushed her way back through the crowd.

Chapter Eleven
Crossing the Line
     
     
    Wulfhere stepped inside his tent and found Elfhere attempting to light a fire. Outside, night had fallen, and a vicious wind, even stronger than the night before, hammered against the tent. The hide snapped and billowed, causing the tender flames that Elfhere was trying to encourage to gutter and go out.
    “Foul night,” Elfhere observed, cupping his hands around the smoking pile of twigs. “The gods are raging.”
    Wulfhere grunted. He was not in a good mood this evening. The events of the last two days had soured his temper, and he had no desire for company. Instead of responding to his thegn, he sat down on the pile of furs in the far corner of the tent and began unlacing his boots. Elfhere took the hint and turned back to his task.
    The warrior had just managed to coax the flames back to life, when the tent flap swung open and Werbode entered. He brought with him a gust of wind that put the fire out once more.
    “Woden’s balls!” Elfhere muttered. “Couldn’t you have made a gentler entrance?”
    Werbode gave the warrior a look of wry amusement before setting down the pack he was carrying.
    “Looks like you’re having trouble with that,” he observed.
    Elfhere threw him a dark look and turned back to the smoldering twigs.
    Wulfhere observed the tension between them without comment. Although they were both unfailingly loyal to him, Elfhere and Werbode barely tolerated each other. Werbode saw himself as the king’s most trusted thegn and often sought to discredit Elfhere. However, to Werbode’s ire, Elfhere largely chose to ignore him.
    “How about a cup of mead, milord?” Werbode asked.
    Wulfhere nodded. Hopefully, a cup of the pungent fermented honey beverage