Married to Her Enemy Page 5

  ‘Aediva?’ Cille’s voice was groggy with sleep. ‘What’s the matter? Is the baby all right?’

  ‘Yes, he’s here. But I have to go.’

  ‘Go?’ Cille sat up in alarm. ‘What do you mean?’

  Aediva perched on the edge of the bed, trying to find words to reassure her. ‘I have to go with the Normans. Not for long, but it’s important. We’ll be together again soon, I promise.’

  ‘What do they want?’

  ‘Nothing to worry about. And some of the soldiers are staying to make sure you’re safe, so there’s no need to worry. Just get better.’

  The baby stirred in her arms and she passed him carefully to Cille, smiling at the sight of his round pink face.

  ‘His hair is so dark,’ she mused aloud. ‘Darker than either Leofric’s or yours. Maybe he takes after someone else in the family...?’

  She stopped mid-sentence, taken aback by the horrified expression on her sister’s face. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I wanted to tell you...’ Cille’s eyes brimmed with tears. ‘I tried to, but I didn’t know how...’

  ‘What?’ Aediva felt a shiver of panic ripple down her spine and pool in her stomach, hardening there like a lump of ice. What was the matter? What could possibly be so bad?

  ‘You’ll hate me...’ Cille’s voice was almost inaudible.

  ‘No! You can tell me anything.’

  ‘She’s delirious.’ Eadgyth bustled between them suddenly, taking charge of the baby as she jerked her head towards the curtain. ‘You should be going.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I’ll take care of her.’ The old woman gave her a pointed look. ‘You do your part. Before he gets suspicious.’

  Aediva leapt up at once. Eadgyth was right—there was no time to talk. If she didn’t hurry Svend would be back. And this time he might pay closer attention to the resemblance between the two sisters. Whatever Cille wanted to tell her would have to wait. Right now she had to get Svend away from Etton before he guessed the truth.

  ‘I’ll be back soon.’ She forced a smile, already hastening towards the curtain. ‘You can tell me what it is then.’

  ‘Wait!’

  She ignored the plea, scooping up a cloak and flinging it around her shoulders as she flew through the hall, trying to shake off a vague sense of unease. What had she said to upset Cille? She struggled to remember, but her memory felt as wrung out and weary as the rest of her body. Something about the baby’s hair...?

  Clearly she was more exhausted than she’d realised. Her thoughts were in chaos. She’d have to think on it later, after she’d had some rest...

  She stepped outside and the cold air hit her full in the face, sending her reeling backwards. The evening before had been mild and still, but this morning she could almost believe it was winter again. She clutched the cloak tightly beneath her chin, wishing she could turn around and go back inside.

  ‘Just in time.’

  She frowned at the sound of Svend’s voice. He was standing to one side, arms folded as he leaned against a towering grey destrier. From a distance his posture looked relaxed, but close to, she could see there was nothing casual about him. He was watching her as a falcon might size up its prey, as if half expecting her to run, his whole body poised and ready for pursuit.

  She caught her breath. The rest of the stockade was empty, so that for a moment it seemed as if they were completely alone—the only two people left in the world, facing each other across a deserted, windswept village.

  ‘Where are your men?’ She glanced around nervously. ‘Surely we’re not travelling alone?’

  He grimaced. ‘Believe me, I find that idea as appealing as you do. My men are waiting outside the stockade.’ Blue eyes had frosted to ice, hard and unrelenting. ‘I take it that you’re finally ready?’

  She inclined her head. From the tone of his voice it wasn’t a question. She wasn’t about to dignify it with an answer.

  ‘Good. Raise your arms.’

  ‘What?’

  He ignored the question, closing the distance between them in a few swift strides.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she spluttered as his fingers tightened over her forearms.

  He was standing so close to her that their chests were almost touching. If she took a deep breath, surely they would touch. Not that she could. Something about his proximity made her breathing too shallow, too rapid. Could he tell? Towering above her, he seemed to be watching, waiting for something. For a fleeting moment she thought he was going to lean closer, and yet her body seemed to be frozen, unable to pull away...

  Suddenly he hoisted her arms out to the sides, running his hands along their length, all the way from her shoulder blades to her wrists.

  She felt her cheeks flush scarlet, too shocked even to protest. What on earth was he doing? Did he think he could insult her just because she was Saxon?

  His hands swooped around to her back and she jerked against him indignantly. ‘Let me go!’

  ‘As you wish.’

  He released her at once and took a step backwards, scrutinising the rest of her body.

  Comprehension dawned at last. ‘Weapons again? There isn’t much room to hide a sword.’

  ‘You’d be surprised. Show me your feet.’

  She stared at him, tempted to laugh, though judging by the look on his face he wasn’t joking. Far from it. With or without her help, he was going to see her feet. Tentatively she lifted her gown, just enough to reveal brown leather boots.

  He crouched down, frowning with concentration as he felt around the rims of the leather. For a moment his fingers brushed against her bare skin, and she shivered as a new, tingling sensation raced up her legs and between her thighs. This was intolerable. What could she possibly hide in her boots? It would serve him right if she kicked him full in the face.

  ‘I wouldn’t.’

  His voice was barely a murmur and she stiffened guiltily.

  ‘Wouldn’t what?’

  ‘I wouldn’t do it.’

  He sat back on his haunches, catching her eye with a look that she couldn’t interpret.

  ‘If I were you.’

  She squirmed uncomfortably. He was still crouched down beside her, the top of his head level with her waist, his eyes speaking a language her brain didn’t understand. Only her body... Somehow her body wanted to respond.

  She shrugged her shoulders, feigning innocence. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘No?’ He cocked an eyebrow as he stood upright again. ‘I’m glad to hear it. I had a feeling my head was about to be used as a football.’

  She pursed her lips, swallowing an insult. ‘I thought you said we were in a hurry?’

  ‘We are, but I’ve found it best not to take chances where you’re concerned, Lady Cille. I never knew Saxon women were so violent.’

  ‘And I never knew Norman men were so easily frightened.’

  His eyes flashed, though whether with humour or anger she couldn’t tell.

  ‘Can you ride?’

  ‘Yes.’ She blinked at the abrupt change of subject. ‘That is...’

  She peered around him, past the grey destrier to an only slightly smaller brown palfrey, and her mouth turned dry. She’d never been much of a horsewoman and the animal was substantially bigger than the mounts she was used to.

  ‘Our horses are smaller.’

  ‘It doesn’t make much difference. The basics are the same. Here.’

  He offered a hand but she ignored it, lifting her chin as she brushed past him and grasped hold of the reins. It was a long way up, but she wasn’t going to show fear—not to him or any other Norman. And she wasn’t going to accept help either. Not if she could help it.

  She took a deep breath and heaved, hoisting herself up, and al
most into the saddle before she stopped abruptly, feeling the tug of her skirt trapped beneath her boot in the stirrup, holding her back. Desperately she tried to scramble upwards, but it was no use. The horse was shifting impatiently and she could feel herself sliding.

  ‘Aren’t you going to help me?’ She swallowed her pride, squealing in panic.

  ‘Aren’t you going to ask?’

  ‘Help me!’

  ‘Please...?’

  ‘Please!’

  At once she felt his hands around her thighs, lifting her up and depositing her in the saddle with an inelegant, unladylike thud.

  ‘Thank you.’ She tossed her head, refusing to look at his face, vividly aware that her own was flaming red. This was mortifying. Even her thighs felt red-hot where he’d touched her, as if she were blushing all over.

  ‘My pleasure.’ He swung up onto his destrier, his voice brimming with wicked amusement. ‘I’ve never seen anyone mount a horse like that. Is it some kind of Saxon custom?’

  She rounded on him fiercely. How dared he? After everything else that had happened over the past twenty-four hours, how dared he make fun of her too? Anger, hot and raw, coursed through her veins as her taut emotions finally snapped.

  ‘What do you know about Saxon customs? What do you care? All you want is to destroy them! Isn’t that what Normans do? Destroy anything, anyone, who gets in their way!’

  There! She felt a surge of triumph. That had wiped the smile off his face. There wasn’t a single trace of humour left in it now.

  ‘It’s not what we all do.’

  His voice was dangerously quiet but she kept going, unable to stop herself from venting her anger.

  ‘You only want us to lie down and surrender!’

  ‘It would be best if you did.’

  ‘Well, we won’t! We might have been beaten, but it doesn’t mean we’ve surrendered. We’ll rise up again and fight!’

  ‘Do you think that you’ll win?’

  She inhaled sharply. His voice was expressionless, but the quiet certainty behind his words made them all the more chilling. He wasn’t really asking her a question, he was giving her an answer. For a moment she felt as though she were facing the whole Norman army—one that the Saxon rebels could never hope to defeat.

  ‘And as I’ve told you before...’ his voice held a note of warning ‘...I’m not Norman.’

  ‘You’re still with them. What’s the difference?’

  ‘We’re not all the same.’

  ‘If I had my way I’d plunge a dagger into your heart—into every single Norman heart!’

  She gasped, surprised by her own vehemence as he regarded her sombrely.

  ‘That’s quite a threat. And not one to make lightly.’

  ‘You think I don’t mean it? After everything your Conqueror has done?’

  She lifted her chin defiantly, too angry to back down, thinking of her father, of Leofric and Edmund—of all the men who hadn’t come back from Hastings. The Normans had destroyed her world. Of course she wanted them to pay for it! She should make them pay!

  He held her gaze for a moment before reaching down to his belt, fingers closing over the hilt of his dagger. Slowly, inexorably, he drew the blade from its sheath, weighing the metal in his hands as if he were considering something.

  Aediva felt her heartbeat accelerate wildly. What was he going to do? Punish her on the spot? Her stomach lurched. Of course he was going to punish her. He was a Norman and she’d just threatened to kill him. He couldn’t let such a threat go unanswered.

  ‘Go ahead.’ He flipped the knife in his hand suddenly, grasping the blade between his fingers as he held the hilt out towards her. ‘Do it.’

  ‘What?’ She gaped at him, uncomprehending.

  ‘Unlike my King, I don’t believe in revenge, Lady Cille. But if you do, if you think it will make one tiny scrap of difference, then go ahead. You have my permission.’

  Aediva stared at the knife, dumbfounded. Was he serious? He looked serious. But surely he wasn’t going to hand her a weapon just like that? She couldn’t win so easily...could she? It must be a trick.

  Her gaze locked with his, shock mingling with suspicion. ‘Your men would arrest me.’

  ‘Renard!’

  She jumped as his shout broke the stillness. Her already ragged nerves were in tatters. What now? Was he going to offer her a lance too?

  ‘Sir?’ His squire came running through the gates, stopping short as he saw the blade.

  Aediva blanched. Hadn’t they acted this scene before—just yesterday in fact? She hadn’t been able to stab Svend then. What made her think she could do it now?

  ‘Renard will act as witness.’ Svend threw a glance at his squire. ‘Whatever happens here is an accident, understand? No one should be punished for it.’ Then he looked back towards her, lowering his voice as if imparting some secret too intimate to be shared. ‘Will that satisfy you, my lady?’

  Aediva licked her lips, trying to moisten them, her mouth too dry to answer. This wasn’t what she’d intended. In her wildest imaginings she’d never thought that he’d simply hand her a blade. She’d been angry, upset at leaving Cille, lashing out without thinking. Surely he didn’t expect her to go through with it? Wouldn’t actually let her attack him? But he was watching her steadily, waiting for her to do something. Was he testing her? Because if this was a challenge, she had to meet it. She couldn’t, wouldn’t let him win.

  Slowly, she nodded.

  ‘Good.’ Svend jerked his head towards Renard, though his gaze never left hers. ‘You can go.’

  Carefully she wrapped her fingers around the hilt of the blade, grasping it tightly to stop her hand from shaking. He relinquished his hold at once, letting her take possession as he pulled his leather gambeson swiftly over his head.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw Renard cast a last anxious glance towards them, and then they were alone again. Why was he doing this? What was he trying to prove? Except for a thin tunic, his chest was now completely unguarded. She could see the flex of his powerful muscles beneath the linen, the sculpted hard lines of his chest.

  ‘So...’

  His eyes seared into hers and she felt a jolt like a flash of blue lightning pass between them.

  ‘You have your wish, my lady.’

  Her wish? She could hardly breathe. He was close—close enough for her to reach him if she dared. All she had to do was lunge forward. Just lunge and in another second it would be over. She tightened her grip, trying to strengthen her nerve. He was one of them—a Norman! She hated them! She should seize this opportunity, should avenge her people while she had the chance.

  Except... It was too brutal, too barbaric. She couldn’t do it. Not like this—not with him offering her the knife as if it were some kind of favour. If she did she’d be no better than a Norman.

  She shook her head, turning the hilt back towards him, feeling as if she’d both passed and failed the same test.

  ‘Good.’ He took the knife and stowed it away quickly. ‘I have enough on my own conscience, Lady Cille. I’ve no wish to be a burden on yours.’

  She stared miserably at the ground, hardly noticing as he took up her reins, leading her towards the gate. Somehow the world seemed to have shifted beneath her. She felt numb and weary and overwhelmingly tired. She’d failed. At the moment of crisis she’d failed her people. And yet she couldn’t help but feel that he’d been right. What good would it have done?

  ‘I don’t have to be your enemy, Lady Cille. Believe it or not, I’ve no more wish to see bloodshed than you do.’

  ‘No?’ She couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice. From what she’d heard about Normans, she found that hard to believe.

  ‘No. I wouldn’t have harmed your sister’s people. You shouldn’t have sent them aw
ay.’

  She looked up at him sharply. ‘How could I have known that?’

  ‘You couldn’t. But what kind of life did you think you were sending them to? Do you know what the King does to rebels?’

  Her scalp tightened. ‘I’ve heard rumours.’

  ‘Believe them. And how far do you think they’ll get without provisions? They haven’t brought in the harvest yet. What are they going to eat?’

  ‘They’ll survive.’

  ‘Will they?’ His voice hardened. ‘How?’

  She twisted towards him, battling a tidal surge of panic. ‘What if they come back? What if I go after them, persuade them to return?’

  ‘Too late. My orders are to return you to Redbourn as soon as possible. Besides, if the King ever hears that they ran he’ll tear down the village, destroy their tools and poison the earth. Etton will be naught but a ruin. Trust me—I’ve seen it.’

  Aediva gaped at him in horror. How could he describe such an event so calmly? It was horrific! And it would all be her fault. She was the one who’d sent them away. She’d been trying to protect them, but she’d sent them to their destruction instead. The pit in her stomach was so deep she felt as though it were swallowing her up from the inside.

  ‘So they’re doomed either way?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Henri went after them this morning. He speaks some English and he knows what to say. If anyone can persuade them to come back, it’s him.’

  ‘You did that?’ She sagged forward, breathless with relief. ‘Why?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I? I told you—I don’t believe in revenge.’

  ‘And you won’t tell the King?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What if someone else does?’

  ‘Who? My men know better than to spread rumours. Unless you’re planning to?’

  She shook her head vehemently and he gave a dismissive shrug.

  ‘Then there’s nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Nothing to worry about?’ Anger took over again. ‘Then why did you scare me like that? How could you be so cruel?’