Married to Her Enemy Page 15

  He muttered an oath, his heart at war with his head. Was he mad? He’d lost everything for a woman once before. Was he truly prepared to lose it again? If he helped her he’d be an accomplice, but if he did nothing...if he let her go ahead with her plan...he might as well hand her over to the Earl’s guards himself.

  ‘How did you find out?’ She asked the question warily.

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘It depends who else knows. If it’s only you—’

  ‘It’s not,’ he interrupted brusquely. ‘Renard heard a rumour. The kitchen maids here know more than the Earl.’

  ‘But if you’re the only Normans who know...’ She looked up at him imploringly. ‘You could still let me go. Let me tell them I’m Cille. No one else will know the difference.’

  ‘Believe me, if you go into that hall someone will know.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Trust me.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Enough!’

  He slammed the flat of his hand against the wall. They were wasting time. She hadn’t the slightest idea of how much danger she was in. He had to get her out of there. Now.

  Quickly he glanced around the antechamber. Save for a couple of guards, it was empty. There was no time to think or reconsider. If he was going to save her, it had to be now. And there was only one place he could think of to take her.

  He must truly be mad.

  ‘Come on!’ He grabbed her wrist and pulled her out of the antechamber, down the tower steps and towards a cluster of tents on the far side of the bailey.

  ‘Svend, what are you doing?’ She tugged at his arm, almost running to keep up.

  It was a good question. As far as he could see there were only two choices. Escape and become fugitives, or throw themselves on the mercy of the Earl. Neither option seemed likely to end well.

  ‘First I’m going to get you out of here. Then I want to know what the hell you think you’re doing.’

  They reached the tents and he threw a swift glance over his shoulder, checking for any sign of pursuit. There was none. They had that in their favour at least. Now, if they could just reach his tent without being seen he could keep her hidden while he worked out what to do next.

  He found it at last and whipped back the flap with relief, pushing her roughly inside.

  ‘Ow!’ She stumbled into the tent, bumping against the side of a low pallet bed.

  He ignored her, searching his narrow quarters for any sign of occupancy, but everything was as he’d left it a few weeks before, his small sack of belongings untouched. Good. At least no one had thought to take advantage of his absence. No one would interrupt them. He didn’t want to be disturbed—not until he had some answers.

  He folded his arms in the doorway, trying to ignore the fact that she was sprawled on his bed. ‘You told me you were Cille!’

  She sat up, rubbing the backs of her legs. ‘No, I didn’t. You assumed.’

  He ignored the distinction. ‘Why did you lie?’

  ‘I had to!’

  ‘Why?’ He was getting impatient. ‘Tell me quickly. We don’t have much time.’

  ‘Before what?’

  ‘Before the Earl wonders why you’re ignoring his summons!’

  ‘I’m not!’ She leapt to her feet accusingly. ‘You’re the one stopping me!’

  His anger exploded. ‘I just saved your life! Do you have any idea what would have happened if I hadn’t stopped you? Bloody hell, woman, you were about to lie to the King’s cousin!’

  ‘Not lie exactly...pretend...’

  ‘What’s the difference? It’s still treason!’

  ‘It’s only treason if he’s my King—which he’s not!’

  He closed the space between them in two footsteps. ‘Say that again and you’ll get us both killed!’

  She blanched at once. ‘What do you mean?’

  He didn’t answer, distracted by the lock of honey-coloured hair tumbling across one golden eye, tempting him to brush it aside. He swallowed the impulse, resenting his own weakness. How could she still have such a distracting effect on him? He ought not to be able to stand the sight of her and yet, standing so close to her, it was all he could do not to pull her into his arms. If they were going to be caught, he wanted to feel her lips again first...

  ‘If you’re not Cille—’ he spoke through clenched teeth ‘—then what are you doing here?’

  ‘I thought if I could speak to the Earl...convince him that I was Cille... I could ask him to stop the marriage.’

  ‘Just like that?’

  He could hardly believe his own ears. Was she really so naive? Did she think it would be so easy to change the Earl’s mind?

  ‘I had to do something! You saw Cille—she’d just had a baby. I couldn’t let you take her.’

  He scowled at the implication. ‘I would never have brought her before she was ready.’

  ‘And how long would that have been? A few days? A few weeks? What if she had never been ready?’

  Svend clenched his jaw. Their voices were raised now. If they weren’t careful they’d bring the Earl’s soldiers right to them.

  ‘So you just decided to take her place?’

  ‘Why not? Cille left Redbourn before the Normans arrived. None of them would have known the difference.’

  His brows snapped together. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Cille did.’ She frowned, her defiance faltering momentarily. ‘At least she never mentioned any Normans...’

  ‘She never mentioned de Quincey?’

  ‘Who?’

  He swore violently, ignoring her shocked intake of breath. This was maddening. She had no idea about any of it—about de Quincey and Cille or the real identity of the baby’s father. There wasn’t the faintest inkling of suspicion on her face. She couldn’t see the truth even when it was right in front of her.

  On the other hand he couldn’t fault her motives. Part of him even admired them. She’d lied for a reason. She wasn’t simply duplicitous, deceiving him for her own selfish ends like Maren. She’d been trying to protect her sister and her nephew, acting out of love after all. Just not for him.

  But why had the real Cille let her go through with such a dangerous pretence? Even if she hadn’t wanted to tell her about de Quincey, why hadn’t she stopped her?

  He thought back to the morning of their departure from Etton, when he’d threatened to carry her out of the hall. She’d said that her sister was still asleep. Was it possible that they’d never had a chance to speak? That the real Cille had never even known her intentions?

  He struggled to keep a lid on his temper. It wasn’t just possible—in all likelihood she’d taken her sister’s place without even telling her because she had simply assumed that everyone hated Normans as much as she did. The idea of her sister having a relationship, let alone a child with a Norman had likely never occurred to her.

  Of course it hadn’t. He’d been deluded to think she might even consider the possibility. She hated all Normans—had told him that from the start—and had probably hated him all along. He’d been fool enough to think she might care, but she’d only been playing a part—stringing him along so he wouldn’t get suspicious, as good an actress as Maren had ever been.

  He could feel the heat of his anger abating, to be replaced by something colder and harder. Well, he’d wondered who the real woman was and now he knew. She wasn’t the woman who had kissed him...she was the one who had pulled away. Every look, every touch, every kiss... None of it had meant anything to her.

  And now that the red fog had lifted he felt almost as angry with himself as he was with her. He’d known better than to trust a woman again. He’d even known that she was hiding something. He was almost as much to blame as she was.

  ‘Svend?’ She loo
ked up at him guilelessly. ‘Who’s de Quincey?’

  He fought the urge to laugh. If only she’d asked that question a fortnight ago! For a moment he was tempted to take his revenge—to tell her the truth bluntly and see the scales fall from her eyes. But, as much as he wanted to punish her, he couldn’t bring himself to hurt her, couldn’t be that cruel.

  ‘Aediva.’ He tested her name on his tongue, tried not to like it. ‘Your sister hasn’t told you everything.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ She went very still suddenly.

  ‘De Quincey is the Baron she’s supposed to marry. You said she left Redbourn in the spring?’

  ‘Yes, she wanted to come home.’

  ‘The King’s soldiers arrived in Redbourn only a few weeks after Hastings—in the autumn, when she was still here. De Quincey was with them.’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head in bewilderment. ‘You must be mistaken. If Cille was here when the Normans arrived, why didn’t she tell me about them?’

  She looked so confused that for a moment he almost felt sorry for her. He had to stamp the feeling down quickly.

  ‘How long do you think it takes to build a fortress?’ He paused significantly, but her expression didn’t alter. ‘Even the King’s masons couldn’t have done all this in five months. They’ve had to work night and day to do it in nine.’

  ‘But...’

  ‘Think of the baby.’

  ‘Leofric’s baby...?’ Her voice wavered slightly.

  ‘No.’ Did he really have to spell it out? ‘Leofric wasn’t here nine months ago. De Quincey was.’

  Her lips parted. The truth was dawning at last. ‘But the babe was late!’

  ‘By two months?’

  ‘No!’ She backed away from him as if she might run from his words. ‘It’s not true!’

  ‘Why not? Because he’s Norman?’ His voice hardened again. ‘Aediva, whether you want to believe it or not, de Quincey didn’t just meet your sister, he conceived a child with her too. That’s why I was sent to find her—because he wants to marry her.’

  ‘You said it was for FitzOsbern!’ She glowered at him accusingly.

  ‘He rules half of Normandy! He doesn’t need one English fortress!’

  ‘But...but what about Leofric?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He shook his head. ‘Things happen in war...people act differently. You’ll need to ask your sister. But she has a child with de Quincey. Isn’t it possible that she cares for him too?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘You think it impossible to love a Norman?’ He couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice.

  ‘He must have forced her!’

  Svend clenched his jaw. Apparently her opinion of Normans was even lower than he’d thought. ‘I wouldn’t throw such accusations around lightly.’

  She ignored the warning. ‘She must have been afraid of him! Why else would she have run away?’

  ‘Aediva...’

  ‘Why would she have come back to Etton if she was in love with a Norman?’ She spat the word like an insult. ‘Why call the babe Leofric if not after his father?’

  ‘Maybe because she knew you wouldn’t understand. You’ve said that you hate Normans often enough. Maybe she thought you’d hate your nephew too!’

  ‘No!’ She looked stricken. ‘I would never...!’

  ‘Wouldn’t you? If I’m right then he’s half-Norman.’

  ‘She could have told me!’

  She tried to turn away, but he followed after her remorselessly, grabbing her shoulders and wrenching her back round to face him.

  ‘Maybe she tried.’

  For a moment he thought she was going to argue. Then her gaze misted over, as if she were struggling to remember something.

  ‘She did... Just before I left... I said that the baby’s hair was dark, not like hers or Leofric’s... She was upset, said there was something she wanted to tell me... I should have listened.’

  Svend exhaled slowly. He wasn’t going to argue with that. If she’d only listened and not been so blinkered in her hatred of Normans then neither of them would be in this position.

  ‘I didn’t know...’ Her expression was distraught. ‘Svend, truly, I didn’t know.’

  His grip on her shoulders slackened, though he still didn’t release her. No, she hadn’t known—hadn’t even guessed at the truth. That was the problem.

  ‘And de Quincey’s here. With the Earl. And if I’d gone into the hall he would have known...’ She took a deep, tremulous breath. ‘You saved me.’

  He watched her steadily, saw her look of gratitude turn suddenly into one of panic.

  ‘But you told the steward I was Cille! They’re expecting her!’ She jerked in his arms. ‘Svend, I have to go to the Earl or they’ll think that you lied. I’ll tell him the truth before anyone else does—that I’m an impostor, that I deceived you.’

  ‘It’s too late for that.’

  ‘It can’t be!’

  ‘The steward saw us leave together.’

  ‘But this is all my doing! Take me back to the tower—say that you only just discovered the truth.’ She held out her wrists, pressing them together. ‘I’ll be your prisoner again.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Svend!’ She stamped her foot. ‘You shouldn’t have rescued me. This was my plan, not yours. I won’t let you be punished for it!’

  He raised his eyebrows, surprised by her vehemence. She might have deceived him like Maren, but she wasn’t asking him to take the blame. On the contrary, she seemed determined to take whatever punishment the Earl might mete out on her own. Was it possible that she cared for him after all? At least enough to want to protect him? Or was she simply reluctant to share the blame with a Norman?

  He let his gaze drift over her face, over her bow-shaped lips and smooth, round cheekbones. She wasn’t who he’d thought she was, but she was still the same wildcat who’d attacked him that first day in Etton—the woman who’d said she hated all Normans, who’d lied to his face.

  ‘Svend, I never thought I’d put you in danger. I thought the risk was all mine.’

  He gave a bitter laugh. Danger he was used to. He cared less about that than the fact that she’d lied to him. That deceit outweighed all the rest. She seemed sorry, but how could he know for certain? She was Maren all over again, just as desirable and even more dangerous. He couldn’t trust her—couldn’t trust anything she might say or do ever again.

  But it was too late to save himself. He’d known that the moment he’d pulled her back from the threshold of the hall.

  At least this time he’d walked into the trap with his eyes open.

  ‘We’re in this together now, Aediva.’

  ‘No! You have to let me go.’

  ‘Not on your own. We’ll go to the Earl together.’ He tightened his grip on her shoulders again. ‘We’ll just have to hope he’s in a forgiving mood.’

  ‘Forgiving?’

  The tent flap flew open suddenly, revealing the figure of a man standing framed in the entrance, his dark eyes blazing like hot coals as his expression veered from disbelief to murderous fury.

  ‘The Earl might forgive you. I won’t.’

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘Let. Her. Go.’

  The new arrival stalked menacingly towards them, sliding his sword from its scabbard in one slow, deliberately drawn out movement.

  ‘De Quincey!’ Svend stepped in front of her at once, using his body as a shield.

  De Quincey? Aediva stared at him in amazement. This was him? The man her sister was supposed to marry? The man she already had a child with? In her mind she’d envisaged a monster, but this stranger was unquestionably one of the handsomest men she’d ever seen, with hooded grey eyes, a granite square jaw, almost impossibly s
ymmetrical features and a shock of dark hair.

  Hair that was jet-black, just like that of Cille’s baby...

  Cille... Her head was still whirling from everything Svend had told her—everything she hadn’t known about her own sister. And she cared less about any of it than she did about his behaviour. She’d tried to explain why she’d deceived him but he was still furious with her. Somehow she’d thought that he’d understand, but he seemed too angry to try. Couldn’t he see that she’d only been trying to protect Cille? Or was his pride hurt too badly?

  Well, if he couldn’t understand why she’d lied then there was nothing else to say. He wasn’t the man she’d thought he was and she wasn’t going to beg for forgiveness.

  ‘It’s not what you think, de Quincey.’ Svend drew his own sword defensively, shifting his weight forward as he tensed for combat.

  ‘And what do I think?’ De Quincey’s voice was a sinister monotone. ‘Enlighten me.’

  ‘She’s not Cille.’

  The Baron gave a disbelieving laugh. ‘Is that the best you can do?’

  Aediva looked fearfully between the two men. De Quincey’s footsteps were curving ever closer towards Svend, and the tension in the room was so heavy she doubted even their weapons would be able to slice through it. Physically they were evenly matched, but she didn’t want to find out who would emerge the victor. In such a small space there would be hardly any room to swing a blade. The fight would be up close and personal, bloody and brutal. And the Baron seemed driven by an emotion more powerful than anger—something more akin to jealousy.

  She felt a flicker of triumph. Apparently she made a more convincing Cille than Svend had realised. In the dim light of the tent de Quincey had truly mistaken her for her own sister.

  But if she didn’t convince him otherwise there’d be bloodshed for certain.

  ‘Wait!’ She darted around Svend, evading his outstretched hand. She wasn’t going to risk him getting killed because of her—not when he’d just saved her life. At least this way they’d be even.