Married to Her Enemy

by Jenni Fletcher

  Svend wanted no part of it. For the first time in his career he found himself questioning his King’s methods. How could the Conquest ever be peaceful when Normans were so hated?

  He reached the Thane’s hall and thrust his sword point-first into the mud. No matter what Renard’s concerns, if by some unlikely chance she were still hiding inside, there’d be little enough room for swordplay and he had no desire to fight a woman. He still carried his sax on his belt, but he had no intention of using it. He’d bring her by force if he had to, but he wouldn’t hurt her—not if he could help it.

  Unlike a Norman fortress, there was no wooden door, just a heavy oxhide draped over the entrance. Cautiously he pulled it aside and stepped over the threshold. A shaft of light filtered in through a hole in the centre of the thatched roof, helping his eyes adjust to the half-darkness. As he’d expected, the hall was deserted—and yet something about the scene wasn’t right. The room was empty, not abandoned. And there was a strange sound coming from behind a partition at the back, like an animal whimpering in pain.

  He took a step towards it and then stopped, realising his error a split second too late as the blade pricked the back of his neck.

  ‘Don’t move!’ The voice was soft but determined, and unmistakably female. More surprisingly, it was speaking in perfect French. ‘Raise your hands!’

  He did as he was told, annoyed by his own complacency. He’d been caught out like some raw, callow recruit—but then he’d never expected to find her completely alone. Where were her men? Surely there was somebody here to defend her?

  He put his hands on the back of his head, starting to turn. ‘You’re a difficult woman to find, Lady Cille.’

  ‘Stop! Stay as you are!’

  The blade pressed harder against his skin, but he detected a faint tremor. She was afraid.

  Briefly he considered disarming her. The position of the sword told him everything he needed to know about her combat skills. A more practised opponent would have pointed the blade to his throat. But he decided to try diplomacy first.

  ‘My name is Sir Svend du Danemark. I mean you no harm.’

  There was a lengthy pause as he waited, inhaling the sweet, heady scent of summer flowers, which reminded him of his home in Danemark.

  Fool. He didn’t have a home. He’d left his parents’ farm half a lifetime ago.

  ‘My lady?’ He prompted her, pushing the memory aside.

  ‘How did you find me?’ She spoke slowly, as if choosing her words with care.

  ‘With difficulty. Etton isn’t an easy place to find.’

  ‘And what do you want from me?’

  He felt a flash of irritation. If she thought to interrogate him she’d be swiftly disappointed. Even so, the hint of steel in that soft voice was intriguing. ‘The King’s deputy sent me to find you.’

  ‘The King’s deputy?’ She sounded genuinely surprised. ‘Why?’

  He paused, having considered the same question at length over the past weeks. It couldn’t simply be her value in marriage. As a Saxon noblewoman, and widow of ealdorman Leofric of Redbourn, she’d lend legitimacy to a Norman husband’s authority, but it was unlike FitzOsbern to expend so much time and effort on one who’d proved so troublesome. There had to be something else—something special about her.

  He’d hardly been in Redbourn long enough to hear any rumours. The Earl had summoned and then dispatched him almost as soon as he’d arrived. But there had to be a reason. Somehow he’d hoped she might be able to tell him.

  The blade pushed harder. ‘Have you lost your tongue, Norman whoreson?’

  He grinned, having heard the insult numerous times over the past few months, though rarely spoken with such venom. Clearly Saxon ladies weren’t as sheltered as their Norman counterparts.

  ‘I’m not party to the Earl’s thoughts, my lady,’ he answered with exaggerated courtesy.

  There was another cry from the back—less like an animal, more like a woman sobbing. His brows snapped together.

  ‘You can’t come in here!’

  By the note of panic in her voice he could tell his assailant had heard it too.

  ‘I can’t?’ His voice was low and dangerous, all trace of humour extinguished.

  ‘You have to leave!’ Her voice rose higher, becoming hysterical as the blade shuddered against his neck.

  It was time to end this.

  He moved so fast that she had no time to react. In less than a heartbeat he was facing her, clamping his hands together over the flat sides of her sword and hurling it easily into the floor rushes, then hooking a foot expertly around her legs, knocking them out from under her so that she tumbled backwards, straight into his waiting arms.

  It wasn’t a manoeuvre that he’d ever used before, usually preferring that his opponents stayed down when he disarmed them. But then none of his opponents had ever been a woman...and none so light and willowy as the one now cradled in his arms, the dark honey waves of her long hair rippling over his hands almost to the floor.

  For a heart-stopping moment he thought he might drop her. It wasn’t because she was pretty, though she undoubtedly was. Her small face was that of a woman in her late teens or early twenties, lightly tanned with smooth, round cheekbones and a pair of pink bow-shaped lips. It was her eyes that held him. Unlike any he’d ever seen before, so wide and lustrous he might almost fall into them. What colour were they? A swirl of copper and gold, fringed with long black lashes, strange and beguiling as jewels.

  He shook his head, trying to break the spell. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but the roundabout journey to Etton had hardly disposed him to think charitably of his quarry.

  The change as her face contorted into an expression of implacable fury, was enough to render him speechless.

  The knife was flicked out of her sleeve so fast that he was almost caught off guard. But a lifetime of fighting had honed his reflexes to the point that he caught her wrist instinctively, stopping the blade a hair’s breadth from his chest.

  ‘Norman pig!’

  She shrieked in her anger and he heard voices outside, followed by footsteps running in their direction. He called out, ordering his men to stop even as she screamed and hurled herself bodily against him, sending both of them sprawling into the rushes.

  Svend landed heavily, trying to shield her from both the fall and herself as she thrashed recklessly against him, heedless of the blade still between them, pummelling at his chest as if she wanted to pound him into the ground. The scent of flowers filled his nostrils—honeysuckle and daisies, like a meadow he wanted to bury his face in. He tossed the weapon aside and captured her arms above her head instead, clamping his hands over her wrists like iron manacles.

  Still she refused to yield, flailing against him like a cornered animal, fists beating impotently at thin air. He felt a vague sense of surprise. Pretty she might be, but she was also half wild, with an impressive temper to boot.

  He rolled on top of her, pinning her legs to the floor with his own, struggling to keep his weight on his arms. She wasn’t the sort of woman he was accustomed to having beneath him, so slight and slender he was almost afraid he might break her.

  Then he waited, letting her fury wear itself out. Trapped beneath him, she flung herself from side to side, arching her back and squirming as she tried to escape. Her small breasts heaved against his chest and he felt a stirring in his loins, quickly suppressed. This was hardly the time for such thoughts, but her endless writhing was bringing to mind other, more enjoyable pursuits.

  ‘I’m not going to hurt you!’ he muttered through gritted teeth, dragging his mind away from the snug fit of her body beneath his. He’d never taken advantage of a vulnerable woman before and he wasn’t about to start now. If she’d only stop wriggling...

  ‘Scum! Son of a Norman bitch!’

&nb
sp; She kept on thrashing against him, venting her anger in a torrent of what he assumed was Anglo-Saxon abuse. Long hazel hair tumbled over his chest like a silken blanket, stirring his senses, and his gaze fell to her lips. They looked full and soft and suddenly desirable. But her eyes...

  If looks could kill he’d be dead a hundred times over. Her eyes were aflame with anger. He couldn’t blame her. He was a Norman and she’d lost her husband at Hastings. He’d seen the same look of raw loathing in the faces of her countrymen every day for months, and yet it unsettled him to see it so close. He wanted her to look at him with something other than hatred, with a very different emotion...

  Damn it, he must have been without a woman too long if he was drawn to this Saxon wildcat.

  With an effort, he steered his thoughts in a different direction. Why was she still resisting? He felt an unwanted flicker of admiration. From long experience he knew that most opponents would have surrendered by now, but by the determined gleam in those fiery eyes it was clear that she’d never submit. She would fight to the bitter end.

  And he didn’t want to fight her. She was just one of the Conquest’s many victims—a woman whose whole existence, like that of her people, had been overturned by the Norman invasion—but at that moment he was the one holding her down. And he didn’t want to.

  Something inside him rebelled. He’d seen enough injustice in his life, didn’t want to be a part of any more. He was a warrior, but he was also a man, and something about this felt wrong. He wouldn’t be the one to defeat her.

  He released her abruptly, letting her push back against him until their positions were reversed and she was sitting astride him, legs straddling his thighs, her whole body coiled to attack. With a cry of triumph she snatched up the knife and swung her arm back, as if making ready to plunge it into his heart.

  Then she froze, her expression suddenly stricken as the knife hung motionless in the air.

  At the same moment, the curtain swung open and Renard stood framed in the doorway, his jaw dropping at the sight before him.

  ‘Sir? Should we come in now?’

  Svend’s gaze remained fixed on the woman looming threateningly above him. He flexed a wrist, ready to deflect the knife, but he didn’t think he would need to. She was panting heavily, her chest rising and falling as if she’d been running, but she looked dazed, as if she were only seeing him for the first time.

  ‘Renard.’ He addressed his squire as if there were nothing unusual in the scene. ‘It seems you were right to be cautious. We’ve found our phantom. This is Lady Cille.’

  Chapter Two

  ‘How long has she been like this?’

  Aediva bristled. Bad enough that he had dared to enter the birthing chamber, but now this Norman invader was insolent enough to ask questions, as if Cille’s condition were any of his business. This wasn’t his place. It was no man’s place.

  ‘The pains started early this morning,’ Eadgyth answered. ‘She’s sleeping now, but it won’t be long.’

  Aediva threw Eadgyth a worried glance, willing her not to call Cille by name. She’d taken her sister’s identity on the spur of the moment, without considering the consequences if her deception were uncovered. Now she had to maintain the pretence at least until the baby was born. Cille was in no condition to deal with Normans, let alone this warrior whose wintry blue gaze seemed altogether too perceptive. She had to warn Eadgyth before she said something to give them away...

  Her mouth fell open. Eadgyth had spoken to him! Which meant...

  ‘You speak Saxon?’

  Pale eyebrows arched upwards. ‘As you speak French.’

  ‘My father thought it important. Besides, that’s hardly uncommon. Not many Normans speak Saxon.’

  ‘Fewer than you think. I’m not Norman.’

  She tilted her head towards him enquiringly but he was already looking at her, his gaze wandering over her face as if a new idea had just struck him. She fought the urge to take a step backwards. Such intense scrutiny made her uncomfortable. What was he looking at?

  His gaze dropped. Slowly, almost leisurely, it travelled down over her neck and breasts. Lower. And lower. Past her waist, lingering over the curve of her hips, down to her toes and back up again, as if memorising every inch of her body. She flushed, her skin tingling wherever his eyes rested, as if they might strip away her gown and see the nakedness beneath. Instinctively her hands coiled into fists. Conquering warrior he might be, but she was a Thane’s daughter! How dared he insult her so brazenly?

  He jerked his head towards the bed. ‘She’s your sister?’

  She nodded cautiously. The question was casual—too casual. She felt a cold sweat break out on the back of her neck, hardly trusting herself to speak. It was obvious that they were sisters. Was he suspicious? Had he guessed who she really was? She had the discomforting feeling that he was testing her.

  ‘You’re very alike.’

  ‘I’ve noticed.’ She bit her lip instantly, regretting the sarcasm. She should try to ingratiate herself, not insult him.

  His eyes flashed with something like humour. How could eyes be so intensely blue? she wondered. It was a blue that seemed to change every time she looked at them, sometimes so pale as to seem almost white, sometimes a vivid, piercing turquoise. People said that her eyes were unusual, but his were almost hypnotic. When they demanded she meet them, there was no way to refuse.

  Like now. What did his scrutiny mean? What was he thinking?

  He turned towards Eadgyth abruptly. ‘Is the baby moving? And facing the right way?’

  ‘Yes, but the mother is weak. She can’t stand much more.’

  ‘How close together are the pains?’

  ‘Close enough.’

  Aediva looked between them, feeling suddenly out of place and excluded. Not many men had more than a vague idea about the mysteries of childbirth, preferring to leave such matters to their womenfolk, but this man seemed to know more about the birthing process than she did.

  ‘Is there anything you need?’ He sounded genuinely solicitous.

  ‘Something hot to eat wouldn’t hurt.’

  He strode purposefully out of the chamber, leaving Aediva open-mouthed. Had this Norman warrior really just taken orders from an old Saxon midwife?

  ‘Not a monster after all,’ Eadgyth muttered.

  She closed her mouth with a snap. ‘He’s still a Norman.’

  ‘Be glad you’re still alive to say so.’ Eadgyth looked her up and down critically. ‘What on earth happened to you, girl?’

  Aediva turned her face aside, cheeks flaring anew. Eadgyth was right. She was lucky not to be in chains. What had she been thinking? She’d armed herself with no real intention except to warn the Normans off, but far from bartering with them, or pleading for mercy, she’d clambered on top of their commander and aimed a blade at his heart, channelling the full force of her fear and anger into one frenzied, pointless attack. For certes, Cille would never have done such a thing.

  And what had she hoped to achieve? She couldn’t possibly have fought off a whole Norman battalion. She hadn’t even stopped one man. Fighting her off had caused him little more effort than batting away a troublesome fly. And now it seemed she didn’t even matter enough to be punished. She didn’t know whether to feel relieved or insulted.

  The sound of footsteps brought her back to herself.

  ‘He thinks I’m Cille,’ she whispered hurriedly, throwing a worried glance over her shoulder as Svend reappeared in the doorway, bearing a thick, fur-lined cloak in one hand and a wineskin in the other.

  For the first time she looked at him properly, free to do so now that his attention no longer held hers. Strange that she hadn’t done it before, but somehow those blue eyes had made everything around them seem like a blur.

  He was unlike any man she�
��d ever seen before—like a Viking from one of the old stories, a dangerous warrior from a wintry land across the sea. He was young, still in his mid-twenties, but there was no doubting his air of authority. His taut, muscular body was clad in a simple leather gambeson and dark hose, shunning armour except for a top of light chainmail.

  Eadgyth was right; he wasn’t a monster. Far from it. If he hadn’t been her enemy she might have called him handsome. No, she corrected herself, that word was too bland. His features were too rugged to be called simply handsome, his jaw too squarely set, those glacial eyes too piercingly, disconcertingly blue.

  Why did she keep coming back to his eyes?

  She watched him cross the room, remembering the feel of his muscular body over hers, the vivid sensation of strength held in check. She’d aimed a dagger at his heart and yet he hadn’t fought back, hadn’t lain so much as a finger on her except in restraint. And then he’d let her go. Why? She could never have beaten him and yet he’d let her reclaim the knife. Had he been toying with her? Or had she really found a chink in his defences?

  ‘One of my men is preparing broth,’ he murmured, passing the wineskin to Eadgyth. ‘This contains feverfew. It should ease the pain.’

  He moved to the far side of the bed and raised Cille gently, draping the cloak around her shoulders and holding her steady as the midwife pressed the spiced liquid to her lips.

  Aediva stared transfixed at the scene before her. He is our enemy! she wanted to scream to the rafters. A Norman, or as good as! Had the world turned upside down? Normans were cold-hearted, ruthless invaders! They’d killed Leofric in battle, murdered her father in cold blood, driven Edmund away—destroyed the very fabric of their lives! So why was he helping them and not punishing her? And how could they possibly accept help from such a tainted source?

  Cille’s flickering eyelids gave her the answer. She was gulping the liquid down greedily, as if she hadn’t touched a drop for days, seeming to gain strength with every mouthful.