She staggered backwards, the colour draining from her face, and he dropped her wrist instantly, the protective urge evaporating.
‘That is something I wouldn’t say to FitzOsbern, my lady.’
‘But I’ve no wish to marry again! The King has no right to force me!’
Svend held his temper with an effort. Was she determined to fight him on everything? This wasn’t the way he’d intended their interview to go. He hadn’t even got to the part that was bound to provoke her more.
‘That’s no longer your choice. You’re a vassal of the King now, not a freewoman. Your people need you.’
‘They’re not my people any more—they’re his.’
‘You don’t think they’ll take comfort in having a Saxon mistress?’
‘False comfort!’
‘Perhaps, but this marriage will permit you to keep your lands. I’d have thought you’d be grateful.’
‘My lands?’ She gave a hollow, derisive laugh. ‘Is that all you Normans think about? Land?’
Svend’s patience snapped, and his voice was coolly insulting. ‘Aye. Land, money and tupping Saxon women!’
This time he didn’t even try to stop her hand. He didn’t flinch as she slapped him hard across the face, her outstretched fingers connecting violently with the side of his jaw.
There was a long silence, broken only by the crackle of wood in the fire and the sound of their combined breathing. Svend rubbed a hand over his chin. He supposed he’d deserved that. Normally he prided himself on his self-control, on not showing what he was thinking or feeling, but this woman pushed the very limits of his self-restraint. Something about her unsteadied him. She was dangerous, somehow. He’d known her for mere hours and already she was under his skin.
He looked down at her glowering face, at her slender chest heaving beneath it, and felt the sudden urge to grab her around the waist, pull her towards him and...what? His lips curved slowly. Do something that would wipe the defiant look off her face for certain.
What would she do if he kissed her? he wondered. Stab him in his sleep, most likely. Well, he could keep a guard outside his door. It might be worth it.
‘Sir?’ There was a discreet cough from the doorway.
‘Come!’
Svend beckoned to Henri, his second-in-command, relieved at the interruption. One more second and he might have done something he’d regret.
‘Are the men settled?’
‘Aye, sir. I’ve set shifts for guard duty—not including the men riding tomorrow.’
‘What happens tomorrow?’ Lady Cille eyed the new soldier suspiciously.
‘We leave for Redbourn in the morning.’ Svend met her horrified gaze squarely.
‘But Aediva cannot travel tomorrow!’
‘No... She cannot.’
‘You’re leaving her behind? After you promised she’d be safe! What kind of a man lies to a vulnerable woman?’
‘Enough!’ His temper flared again. ‘Before you offend me! We’re not abandoning her. Henri will stay with half of my men until she’s recovered. I gave my word that she and the babe would be safe, and they will be.’
He folded his arms across his chest, deliberately intimidating.
‘Now, are you satisfied? Or have you any more insults to hurl at me?’
She opened her mouth and then closed it again, as if trying to think of an argument or excuse—anything to cause a delay. ‘I... I’m satisfied.’
‘Good. I see that Saxon manners are overrated. You’re welcome.’
He turned away from her, suddenly eager to put some distance between them. She was maddening. Stubborn, insulting and ungrateful to boot! Not to mention determined to turn every conversation into an argument. She was the most infuriating woman he’d ever met!
Except one.
He pushed the thought aside and strode purposefully towards the door, Henri following like a wolf at his heels.
‘Get some rest.’ He hurled the words over his shoulder. ‘We’re leaving at dawn. I’ve no more wish to be in this situation than you, but like it or not I’m taking you home.’
‘So I’m your prisoner?’
He stopped in the doorway, his jaw clenched so tight he could feel his teeth grind together.
‘I’d rather be your escort, but if you want it that way then, yes, you’re my prisoner. I suggest you don’t try to escape. Believe me, I’ll drag you to Redbourn in chains if I have to.’
* * *
Aediva watched him go, feeling the final remnants of her old life collapsing around her.
How dared he? She marched up and down inside the empty cottage, struggling to contain her anger. The arrogance of the man! How dared he talk about her—Cille—as if she were some commodity to be passed from man to man? As if she had no mind, no heart, no choice of her own. He was an insensitive monster! Just like every other Norman!
At least she’d shown him how she felt and left a red hand-shaped patch on his cheek to prove it. There’d be a noticeable bruise there tomorrow. Whatever happened afterwards, she’d have that satisfaction at least.
So this was why the Normans had come! The truth was even worse than she’d imagined. They wanted Cille as a bride—a prize for some grasping Norman interloper. But what kind of husband would such a man be? What kind of stepfather to Leofric’s son...the son she’d promised to protect?
She clenched her hands into fists. It was cruel—barbaric! It would break Cille’s heart. She couldn’t let it happen!
But what could she do? She could hardly go to the King’s cousin and pretend to be Cille. Someone would be bound to recognise her and reveal the truth. And yet... From a distance, she and Cille were almost identical. And surely Cille’s own people would keep her secret.
She stopped dead in her tracks. Would they? Svend’s criticism of Cille was all the worse for being true. Cille had fled her home in the spring—five months after Hastings and Leofric’s death. And he was right, as the ealdorman’s widow she should have stayed—should have remained to take care of her people. Would they be angry with her for abandoning them? Would they keep such a dangerous secret to protect her?
Svend had been right about Edmund too, and the disgust had been writ plain on his face. Now she wished she’d made up a name—not reminded herself of the one man she wanted to forget. They hadn’t actually been married, but the lie hadn’t been so far-fetched. Her father had wanted it, even if Edmund himself had shown no sign of caring for anything except her dowry. Worse still, he’d been rougher than she’d expected a suitor to be. His kisses had been too demanding, and he’d pressed her for more—far more—than she’d been willing to give. For her father’s sake she’d tried to accept him, but in truth his violence had frightened her.
But he was a Saxon—part of her old life—and the thought of him still hurt, like a bruise she’d inadvertently pressed too hard. He’d abandoned her just when she’d needed him, running off to join the rebellion despite her entreaties. Let Svend draw his own conclusions about such a man. They couldn’t be any worse than her own.
A sense of isolation swept over her, leaving a hollow sensation like a gaping pit in her stomach. Since her father’s death the feeling had become all too familiar. There was so much she felt responsible for, but there was no one—not a single person—she could turn to for help. And there was no one to protect Cille and her baby either. If she didn’t, who would?
She crouched down by the fire, trying to warm the chill in her heart, trying to work out a plan. Could she pretend to be Cille? It was possible. Surely Cille’s people would support her, a Saxon, over the Norman usurpers? And the Normans themselves had never met Cille...had they?
Now that she thought of it, Cille had been strangely unforthcoming on that subject. She hadn’t even said whether she’d left Redbourn before or after the Normans had arrived.
On the other hand, what did it matter? After this many months who would remember the colour of her eyes?
She rocked back on her heels, making her mind up. If this was the only way to protect her sister and nephew then she’d do it—and gladly. The Normans might have invaded her country, but she wasn’t conquered yet. If she took Cille’s place she could find a way to stop the marriage. In the meantime, who knew what might happen? The rebels might gather an army and overthrow the Conqueror, or Cille and the babe might escape. Any risk would be worth that.
She glanced towards the open doorway with a new sense of resolve. She could do it. After all, she’d already fooled Svend du Danemark. And if she could stay one step ahead of him, she had a feeling the rest would be easy.
Chapter Three
Svend tightened the bridle on his destrier with a snap. The sun was casting a pink glow on the horizon and a dozen soldiers were mounted behind him, ready and awaiting his order to depart.
Where was she?
He looked towards the Thane’s hall, his scowl deepening from dark grey to black. He’d slept badly after their confrontation the previous night, angry at himself for losing his temper and at her for provoking it. And now she was late, after he’d told her they’d be leaving at dawn! Damn it, they should have left already!
‘Sir?’
He turned to find Henri at his shoulder. While he was in his present temper, only his battle-hardened lieutenant dared to approach.
‘We’re ready to go after the villagers.’
‘Good.’ Svend nodded with satisfaction. At least one part of the morning was going according to plan. ‘Their tracks head east. They took carts, so they can’t have gone far or fast. Bring them back. Use persuasion if you can, force if you have to, but I don’t want anyone hurt—understood?’
‘Yes, sir. And the woman?’
‘I’ll deal with her.’
Henri grinned. ‘Her new husband might not appreciate you manhandling his bride.’
‘Then he should have come himself.’
Svend tightened his knuckles instinctively. For some reason the mention of her future husband made him irrationally angry. Not that he knew who it was. FitzOsbern had been unusually taciturn on the subject.
‘I’ll see you in a few weeks. Just make sure the villagers are settled before you join us in Redbourn. I don’t want them running away again.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And, Henri? As far as anyone else is concerned they never left.’
‘Understood. There’s just one other matter, sir. The new lad—Alan—I found him in the hall an hour ago.’
‘Looting?’
‘Searching the rafters.’
Svend’s expression hardened. He didn’t give his soldiers many orders to follow, but when it came to those he did he was inflexible. No stealing, raping, brawling or looting. Most of his men had sense enough to obey. Alan obviously thought he knew better.
‘I’ll deal with it.’
Henri mounted his horse. ‘He’s still a lad...just seventeen.’
Svend didn’t answer, his mouth set in a thin, implacable line as Henri and his men thundered out of the gates. Seventeen. When he was that age he’d been in exile for three years already. Seventeen was more than old enough to learn that actions had consequences.
‘Alan!’
‘Sir?’ A young soldier came running at once.
‘You were in the hall this morning?’
‘I... Yes, sir.’ Alan flushed guiltily. ‘I was searching in case they’d hidden valuables. The King gave us the right of plunder, sir.’
‘Do you see the King now?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Have we conquered this village? Did you fight anyone for it?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Would you like to?’
The boy gulped and Svend brought his fist up quickly, knocking him to the ground with one swift, decisive blow.
‘We raid only where we conquer, we don’t steal from farmers, and under my command you follow my rules—understand?’ He turned away brusquely, shouting over his shoulder at his men. ‘Wait outside the gates! This won’t take long.’
He stormed into the hall, barely resisting the urge to bellow her name. That whole incident had been her fault too. If she’d been ready when he’d told her the boy might never have been tempted to go looting. Was she obstinate on principle or just naturally infuriating? Either way, his patience was worn out. No matter how desirable she might be, her attractions were more than outweighed by her character. Thane’s daughter, ealdorman’s widow, nobleman’s future bride—whoever she was, she was under his command now. He’d meant what he’d told her last night. He’d drag her to Redbourn in chains if he had to.
His step faltered momentarily. What would the Earl make of her? What kind of maelstrom would this Saxon wildcat unleash in the Norman court? He’d been deadly serious in his warning. FitzOsbern wouldn’t tolerate disobedience or insults. Nor forgive them either. And Lady Cille seemed the kind of woman to learn lessons the hard way.
That strange protective feeling was back and he pushed it aside irritably. He’d warned her. That was all he could do. He wasn’t responsible for her temper—only her safety until they reached Redbourn. Once they were there she could do and say as she pleased. If she insulted FitzOsbern that was her mistake and not his problem. He certainly wasn’t about to risk his hard-earned reward for a woman who made the whole Saxon army seem welcoming.
‘Shh!’
He halted mid-stride, caught off guard as she stepped out of the shadows, the babe cradled in her arms.
For half a moment he wondered if he were imagining the vision before him. With the child in her arms she looked calmer, softer, a completely different woman from the spitting wildcat of the previous day. She’d changed her clothes too. Her mud-splattered tunic had been replaced by a woodland-green gown. He ran his gaze appreciatively over the close-fitting contours of the fabric, his body reacting despite himself. She was swaying from side to side, cooing gently as she tried to soothe the grumbling child, slim hips rolling in a slow and alarmingly distracting rhythm.
He forced his body back under control. This was the second time she’d caught him by surprise in this very hall. What was the matter with him? She seemed to undermine all his defensive instincts. What was it he’d wanted to tell her? Something about his authority...
‘You almost woke him!’ She hissed through her teeth. ‘You were stamping like a whole herd of cattle!’
Svend raised an eyebrow, the vision of loveliness dissipating before his eyes. It was her, no doubt about it. That fiery glare would have given her away even if her adder’s tongue had not.
He cleared his throat deliberately loudly. ‘It’s time to go. My men are waiting.’
‘I can’t.’ She shook her head so vigorously that tendrils of hair broke free from the sides of her headdress. ‘Not yet. It’s taken me half the night to calm him. If I stop moving he’ll wake up for certain.’
Svend narrowed his gaze critically. Her face looked wan and drawn, her eyes circled with dark shadows. Had she slept at all?
‘Have you been pacing all night?’
‘No!’
Her denial came too quickly and he scowled ferociously. ‘I told you to get some rest! For pity’s sake, woman, we have a day’s ride ahead.’
‘I did rest!’ Her chin jutted upwards unconvincingly. ‘But Eadgyth needed some sleep too.’
‘Then you should have asked one of my men for help!’
‘Ask a Norman?’
Her voice dripped with scorn and he clenched his teeth, trying to restrain his temper. ‘Is it too much to hope that you’ve packed?’
‘No.’ She gestured towards a sack by the door. ‘I did it last night, if you must know.’
<
br /> ‘Well, that’s something.’ He scooped up the bag and untied the leather cords, ignoring her shocked intake of breath as he rummaged inside.
‘What are you doing? Those are my things!’
He bit back a smile with effort. It was quite a spectacle, watching her lose her temper and try to comfort a baby at the same time. He wouldn’t have thought such an endeavour were possible.
‘You’ll have to forgive me for searching for weapons...’ he paused meaningfully ‘...under the circumstances.’
‘I’m not a fool!’
‘I never said that you were. Now, say goodbye to your sister. We should have left an hour ago.’
‘I can’t wake her. She needs to rest.’
‘Then don’t say goodbye—let her sleep. Either way, leave the baby with the old woman and let’s go.’
He fixed her with a hard stare, challenging her to argue. She was nearly trembling with anger, every muscle in her body taut with tension, eyes sparking so brightly he could almost feel the heat. If she’d been holding anything other than a baby he was quite certain she’d have thrown it at him by now.
He swung her bag over his shoulder, deliberately relaxing his stance to present an open target.
Her eyes flashed and he found himself smiling sardonically. She was a wildcat, in truth. Surely any man would enjoy taming her—or at least trying to.
‘I need a few moments.’ Her voice was clipped with anger.
‘A few,’ he agreed, turning his back and strolling casually towards the door, not even bothering to turn for his parting shot. ‘Just be quick or I’ll come and carry you out myself.’
* * *
‘Cille, wake up!’
Aediva shook her sister’s arm urgently, wondering how much she should tell her about what had happened. The truth was impossible. She didn’t want to frighten her. And, besides, there was so little time. How could she possibly tell her everything in a few minutes?
Nervously she glanced back over her shoulder. She’d no wish to be carried anywhere over any man’s shoulder, let alone a Norman’s, but she’d believed this warrior when he had threatened to drag her outside. Something in his face told her he wasn’t a man to make threats lightly.
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