Married to Her Enemy Read online

  Aediva gave a conciliatory smile, hoping it would suffice. She couldn’t call herself Cille any more—not with Svend standing so close—couldn’t lie so brazenly in front of him.

  ‘But what are you doing here?’ He turned back towards Svend.

  ‘Taking a rest. My men have earned it.’

  ‘FitzOsbern expected you a week ago.’

  ‘Then a few more hours shouldn’t matter.’

  Aediva shifted uncomfortably. Svend’s terse manner was doing nothing to dispel the tension between them. If anything, he was making it worse. Surely Hugh could sense it too? She didn’t want him guessing the reason as well.

  ‘It’s my fault,’ she said smoothly. ‘I suggested a swim. I wanted time to gather my thoughts before meeting the Earl.’

  ‘Of course.’ Hugh’s gaze darted speculatively between them. ‘But we ought to be going now. If he finds out that you’ve been swimming, of all things...’

  ‘Not yet.’ Svend pushed him aside deliberately. ‘There’s something I need to discuss with Lady Cille first.’

  ‘Can’t we talk and ride?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What is it?’ Aediva felt a rush of panic. The seriousness of his expression alarmed her.

  A muscle tensed in his jaw. ‘You need to prepare yourself, my lady. Redbourn has changed a great deal since you left. The fortifications needed improving. It’s not the home you left...’ He paused meaningfully. ‘It would be best if you tried to accept it.’

  She caught her breath as his eyes bored into hers. He was trying to warn her, to prepare her for her meeting with FitzOsbern, but all she could hear was the note of finality in his voice. He was saying goodbye.

  She took refuge in anger. ‘And you’re only telling me this now?’

  ‘There was no point before. I didn’t want to alarm you.’

  She dug her nails into her hands, fighting back tears. She didn’t care about the changes to Redbourn. Her memories of Cille’s home were hazy, at best. At least now she wouldn’t arouse suspicion because of it. But it was better to be angry than to admit that she cared about him—about the fact that he’d been hiding things from her just when she thought she could trust him.

  Just as she was hiding everything from him.

  Her shoulders slumped in defeat. Who was she to accuse him? She’d been deceiving him all along. And it was too late to admit it.

  If Hugh was right, and the Earl was really so impatient, it was too late to turn back. She had to go ahead with her deception, no matter what. If she told Svend the truth now he’d be forced to choose between exposing her and lying to the Earl. And if he took her side and something went wrong he’d be a traitor...an outlaw all over again. She couldn’t do that to him—not like Maren. It wasn’t just Cille and her nephew she was protecting any more. It was him too.

  She took a step towards the horses, suddenly desperate to get the journey over with.

  ‘My lady.’

  He followed to help her mount and she stopped short, stiffening as his fingers touched her arm. They felt warm and strong. They were all she could feel. At that moment they seemed to be the only thing holding her up.

  She mumbled something incoherent and clambered up quickly, hoping he couldn’t see the effect that even such a slight touch had on her body. He mounted behind and she shifted forward self-consciously, keeping her back as straight as a spear, determined this time to keep their bodies apart. She couldn’t let him touch her again—not when she needed a clear head.

  ‘Cille?’

  His lips skimmed her ear when Hugh’s back was turned, his voice low and intimate, but she shook her head, refusing to answer. If she spoke to him now she might fall back into his arms and never let go.

  And for Cille’s sake—for all their sakes—she had to let him go. Whatever awaited her in Redbourn, she had to face it alone.

  Chapter Ten

  Svend stormed into the gatehouse, pounding his fist into the wall so hard that fragments of stone dust erupted in a small cloud.

  ‘It went well, then?’ Hugh had followed him inside, closing the door carefully behind them.

  Svend scowled and flung himself into a chair. It was over. She was gone. He’d left her on the steps of the hall—had handed her over to the Earl’s steward as if she were any other prisoner, as if his heart hadn’t been ripped from his chest, acutely aware of Hugh’s eyes following them both.

  ‘You’re a terrible actor, my friend. I saw the way you were looking at her.’ Hugh picked up a flagon and poured two cupfuls of ale. ‘The way she was looking at you too, for that matter. But you ought to be careful. De Quincey’s a dangerous man to have as an enemy.’

  ‘So am I.’ And if de Quincey harmed so much as a hair on her head he’d find out exactly how dangerous...

  ‘True, but he’s been like a bear with a sore head for the past week.’

  ‘He’s back from Normandy?’

  ‘A week ago, and so impatient he almost went after you.’

  Svend took the cup and drained the contents in one draught, relieved that he’d chosen not to escort her inside the tower after all. The last thing he wanted was to watch her reunion with de Quincey. Hugh was right—he was no actor. If he saw them together he’d want to smash the other man’s head into a wall. He might still do it, too, given half the chance...

  ‘I suppose the rumours weren’t true, then?’ said Hugh.

  He ran a hand over his face wearily. ‘What rumours?’

  ‘That she was p—’

  Hugh stopped mid-sentence as the door burst open suddenly and Renard dived headlong into the room.

  Svend leapt up at once, grabbing his squire’s arm before he fell. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I’ve been looking...everywhere...’ Renard was bent over, gasping for breath. ‘I went...to the kitchens...’

  ‘And they refused to feed you?’ Hugh guffawed loudly. ‘Or have they poisoned you with Saxon food, lad?’

  Renard shook his head, straightening himself up with an effort. ‘I spoke to Hawisa—one of the maids. I didn’t see her last time, but she said something about Lady Cille...’

  ‘What?’ Svend tried to suppress a feeling of dread.

  ‘She said the reason Lady Cille left was...she was with child.’

  ‘What?’

  For a few seconds he couldn’t move. She’d been pregnant? He felt a visceral blow as shock coursed through his veins like poison. Of course she’d been pregnant! Every nagging suspicion, every question he’d been asking himself for the past week, all the pieces of the puzzle fitted together suddenly like stones in a wall. Lady Cille had been pregnant. Which meant...

  ‘It’s not her husband’s child either!’ Renard’s voice followed him outside. ‘It’s de Quincey’s!’

  Svend charged through the bailey, blood roaring in his ears as he shoved and fought his way through the throng of soldiers. The wrong sister! He’d brought the wrong sister! How could he have been so blind?

  His mind raced back to that first day in Etton. The two women had been almost identical. Almost. Damn it all, he’d had his suspicions. Why hadn’t he followed them through?

  Because he’d been distracted—that was why. Distracted by a pair of bewitching golden eyes in an impostor’s face, just as she’d intended he would be.

  He felt a surge of white-hot anger. He’d been tricked by a woman again—another duplicitous, treacherous woman! Every moment he’d spent with her, every time he’d kissed her, she’d been lying to him. She was no better than Maren—letting him believe that she cared, using him for her own selfish purpose.

  But for what purpose? What did she hope to achieve by taking her sister’s place? Was she simply stalling for time or did she think she could lie to the Earl with impunity? Surely she knew she wouldn’t
get away with it? She’d be exposed as a liar the moment de Quincey laid eyes on her.

  Unless...

  Was it possible that she didn’t know?

  He searched his memory for a word, a hint—for any indication that she knew about de Quincey and her sister. He’d assumed that she’d been avoiding the subject, but now the reason seemed far less complicated. And if she really didn’t know, if for some reason her sister hadn’t told her, did she think that the babe was Leofric’s? Quickly he counted the months since Hastings. It was just about possible...especially if she wanted to believe it.

  He dodged around a cluster of carts, every footstep a furlong too far. What about de Quincey? Did he know about the baby? By all accounts Lady Cille had fled Redbourn just after he’d left—five months before. A pregnancy might not have been obvious. And if de Quincey had known of an heir surely he wouldn’t have gone back to Normandy.

  No, de Quincey couldn’t know. But if the rumours were true he’d certainly know the difference between the two sisters.

  A rush of panic overtook his rage. He’d left her to face FitzOsbern alone—a man who was implacable towards enemies and traitors. If—when—he found out she was lying, she’d be lucky ever to see daylight again. And he’d be lucky to see her.

  He charged up the steps of the hall, trying to hold his panic in check. How was it possible to feel so angry and so afraid at the same time? Was she crazy or just reckless? He’d asked himself that question before, but he was no closer to knowing the answer. Either way, he had to reach her before anyone else did. He didn’t want the Earl to punish her. That was his job.

  * * *

  Aediva paced up and down the antechamber, fighting the urge to turn tail and run. Back in Etton the idea of taking Cille’s place had seemed so simple and straightforward, but now she was here it felt like madness. She’d been so distracted by Svend that she’d hardly thought about what to do next. Somehow she had to stop the marriage and convince FitzOsbern to let her go, but as to how...

  A thousand fears crowded her head. What if she gave herself away? What if the Earl asked something only Cille could know? What if she couldn’t persuade him? What had she got herself into?

  She tried to distract herself, looking around the cavernous antechamber with a mixture of amazement and dread. Svend’s description of Redbourn as having changed was the worst kind of understatement. She’d never seen a place like it. New stone ramparts loomed twice as high as the old wooden palisade, encircling a bailey she scarcely recognised—a maze of wooden buildings, tents and one giant tower.

  The old Saxon town had been remodelled as a new Norman fortress. And fluttering over it all was the King’s banner—two golden lions on a red background—its presence serving as both a declaration and warning.

  There wasn’t the faintest hope of escape. She was trapped in a tower filled with Norman knights, in the very heart of a bailey packed with Norman soldiers, surrounded by a massive Norman-built stone wall. If she’d been trying she couldn’t have imprisoned herself more effectively. If she couldn’t find a way to stop the marriage she might be trapped here for ever.

  The door to the great hall swung open and her legs trembled unsteadily. Was it time? Had the Earl summoned her already?

  But it was just a lone knight, emerging from the throng inside, striding past her as if she were invisible, leaving the door slightly ajar.

  She crept towards it and put her eye to the gap. If she could just take a peek at least she would know what to expect, try to prepare herself for the ordeal ahead...

  Like the tower, the hall was built in a new design she’d never seen before. Long and high-ceilinged, its walls were decorated with teardrop-shaped Norman shields instead of round Saxon ones, ornate tapestries instead of antlers and horns. And at the far end, on a dais, stood a man with red cropped hair...

  She clutched a hand to her mouth as bile rose in her throat. There was no doubting the man’s identity. His lean body was wrapped in a black bear fur, thick and luxuriant enough to stop the point of a blade, and his fingers were draped in more jewels than she’d ever imagined. This was William FitzOsbern, the Conqueror’s cousin, one of the men who’d brought the whole Saxon world to its knees...whose soldiers had murdered her father.

  But he was also the man she had to persuade to call off the marriage and let Cille go. And if she were going to persuade him to do that—going to persuade him of anything—she’d have to swallow her anger, hide her true feelings as well as her identity.

  She didn’t know if she could.

  ‘Lady Cille?’ A steward opened the door. ‘The Earl’s ready for you, my lady.’

  She cleared her throat, willing her mind to stay calm and her feet to start moving. She had to do this for Cille—to protect her and the baby. That was why she’d come, why she’d deceived Svend. If she failed now it would all have been for nothing. And she couldn’t—wouldn’t—deceive him for nothing.

  Svend. He’d bade her a formal goodbye on the steps of the hall, riding away from her without so much as a backwards glance. But it was for the best. If anything went wrong with her plan she didn’t want him there to witness it—didn’t want to see his face when he found out that she’d lied. If he was going to hate her she’d rather he did it from a distance.

  The steward prompted her and she stepped up to the door. One foot was hovering over the threshold when a hand grabbed her elbow, pulling her roughly back again.

  ‘What—?’

  She yelped, startled, spinning around and colliding with a man’s chest.

  ‘Svend!’

  She felt a momentary rush of happiness, quickly dispelled by the thunderous look on his face.

  ‘Danemark?’ The steward looked confused. ‘She has an audience with the Earl.’

  ‘She’s not ready!’

  Strong fingers clamped over her arm, hauling her away as the steward’s panicked voice followed after them.

  ‘But she’s been summoned! He’s waiting!’

  ‘She’s indisposed!’

  ‘Svend, what are you doing?’ She tried to pull away, but he swung her into an alcove out of sight of the hall.

  ‘What am I doing?’ he growled. ‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’

  Desperately she searched his face, looking for any trace of warmth or affection, but there was none. There was no empathy now, only raw, unrestrained anger. He was a conquering warrior again, every bit the Norseman and just as frightening—nothing at all like the knight at the waterfall. He looked dangerous, angrier than she’d ever seen him.

  As angry as a man who’d just found out he’d been lied to.

  No, she reassured herself quickly, he couldn’t have. It wasn’t possible. She’d barely seen anyone since their arrival, and the only person she’d spoken to was the steward. Who could have recognised her? Who could have told him so quickly? Her heart started to race frantically. How could he possibly know?

  ‘Let me go!’ She tried to twist away, but his grip on her arm was unyielding. ‘Svend, I’ve been summoned! I have to go!’

  ‘Do you?’ His voice was a snarl laced with quiet menace. ‘Are you sure it’s you who’s been summoned?’

  She stiffened, willing her face to remain calm, trying to brazen it out. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘No?’

  He dropped her arm abruptly and she staggered away from him, stomach churning, trying to give herself space to think. Still he pursued her, intent and relentless, giving no quarter as her back hit the wall with a thud.

  She stared up at him mutely. Something in his face warned her not to lie. Besides, what could she say? If he already knew, if he’d somehow discovered the truth, then there was nothing she could say.

  If...

  She waited, letting the silence between them lengthen. Every moment was
deeper and more dangerous as he came ever closer, stopping with barely a sliver of air between them.

  ‘Tell me your name.’

  For a moment the room seemed to spin as she pressed her palms into the wall, gripping the stone to hold herself up. Certainty overtook fear.

  He knew.

  He knew everything.

  She felt a thud in her chest, as though her heart had stopped beating and then started again. He knew who she was, knew that she’d lied, and from the fearsome look on his face it seemed as though he’d come to punish her himself. For a moment she was tempted to take her chances with the Earl.

  ‘No!’

  She tried to push past him but he blocked her way, trapping her between his body and the wall. She wasn’t sure which was the more unyielding.

  ‘Tell me who you are.’ He placed a hand on either side of her, obstructing any chance of escape, his pale eyes as cold and cutting as shards of ice. ‘Who you really are.’

  She lifted her chin. It was too late to argue or to explain, or even to defend herself. That moment had passed at the waterfall. But she wouldn’t show fear—not to him or any other Norman. No matter what he intended to do with her she’d face it like a Saxon, like the Thane’s daughter that she was.

  ‘My name is Aediva.’

  ‘The sister.’ He didn’t sound surprised.

  ‘Yes. What are you going to do with me?’

  Svend stared at her furiously, letting the woman he’d thought of as Cille turn slowly into Aediva.

  She’d deceived him. For more than a week she’d let him believe she was someone she wasn’t. She’d made a fool of him—would have made a greater fool of him in front of the Earl. He’d told her about his past and she’d betrayed his trust.

  And now she was looking straight at him, defiant and undaunted, asking what he intended to do with her.

  He knew what he ought to do. He ought to march her in front of the Earl and expose her before the whole court. He had the opportunity and more than enough motive. If he had any sense he’d be in there already. But all he could think about was getting her as far away from the tower as possible.