Svend froze with the ale halfway to his mouth. ‘The Baron?’
‘Philippe de Quincey, sir. That’s who she’s marrying.’
‘De Quincey?’ Svend lowered his cup again, unable to hide his surprise. ‘How do you know?’
‘The maids at Redbourn. Like I say, women talk to me. When you met with the Earl I visited the kitchens. They say he’s completely besotted.’
Svend blew air from between his teeth. Philippe de Quincey was one of the richest and most powerful men in Normandy, not to mention a close friend and confidante of the King. If Renard were right it would certainly explain the urgency of his assignment, not to mention the secrecy. If the Baron wanted Lady Cille, even William FitzOsbern would make it his business to find her.
A muscle twitched in his jaw. He had no issue with the man personally. Quite the opposite. On the few occasions they’d served together he’d found him a fair and charismatic leader. Arrogant, perhaps, though that was only to be expected from a man who ruled half the coastline of Normandy. But not the kind of man to appreciate a challenge—especially not where women were concerned. No, he preferred them pliant and docile, the more submissive the better. Would this Saxon wildcat really appeal to him?
On the other hand...there was undoubtedly something captivating about her. It wasn’t so far-fetched. After all, de Quincey could have his pick of heiresses. Whatever Lady Cille might bring to a marriage would be only a tiny fraction of his wealth. He must be besotted indeed to pursue such a minor alliance.
‘Are you certain?’
‘That’s what I heard. They say it’s a love match—on his side anyway.’
‘And hers?’
‘They didn’t know. They thought she was still grieving for her husband.’ Renard pitched his voice lower. ‘Perhaps she found his attentions displeasing and that’s why she ran away?’
Svend’s expression hardened. That sounded more like her. He could easily imagine her reaction to a Norman suitor. The Baron was lucky she hadn’t gelded him. But how far had his unwelcome advances gone? Was that why she’d run away? Because she was afraid of him? Damn it all, everyone knew that political alliances were necessary, but surely the woman’s feelings ought to be taken into account. What kind of a man forced his attentions on a grieving widow? What kind of a man forced himself at all? What had the bastard done to her?
‘Can I get you anything else, sir?’
‘What? Oh...’ He put a placatory hand on his squire’s arm, regretting his earlier brusqueness. ‘No, get some rest.’
His gaze followed Renard’s retreating figure before drifting inexorably back towards her. From his vantage point he could just make out the pale oval of her face in the moonlight. Why hadn’t she told him about de Quincey? As far as he could remember she’d never mentioned his name. Nothing she’d said even suggested the two of them had ever met. He frowned into the darkness. Not that he expected her to confide in him, but the omission bothered him somehow. What else was she hiding?
And where the hell was de Quincey? If he were really so besotted, why wasn’t he here in person, saving him the trouble? Why make him complicit? He’d rather face a horde of rebels than force a woman into marriage against her will. Especially this woman.
From what he remembered, the Baron had been called back to his estates in Normandy in the early spring. His return was imminent, but apparently not soon enough. And so FitzOsbern had sent him instead—a warrior in place of a husband...
Snap!
The sound was faint, an almost inaudible crack in the darkness, but he froze instantly, every instinct on the alert as he scanned the undergrowth for movement, looking for telltale signs of an ambush. The noise had come from the copse behind the campsite, too loud for an animal, too quiet for a man—unless it were a man moving slowly, trying not to be heard.
Soundlessly he moved into a crouching position, poised for a counter-attack. He was only ten feet away from the camp, but it still felt too far. If they were under attack, could he reach her in time?
He peered into the darkness, but there was nothing, no one—just a heavy, unnatural stillness, as if the trees themselves were holding their breath. But there was someone out there—he knew it instinctively. Someone on the far side of the clearing, watching, waiting...for what?
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a shadow move suddenly—a man’s figure, darting silently between the trees, but heading away from the camp, not towards it. Instantly he was on his feet and following, keeping low to the ground as he darted across the beach and into the camp, clamping a hand over Renard’s mouth as he shook him awake.
‘Wake the men! We’re not alone.’
He started off again, quickly, and then stopped as if reconsidering something. ‘Get her up too. I don’t want her caught by surprise.’
He broke into the trees, following the direction of the shadow, treading lightly as he ducked under and around branches, trying not to make a sound. There was a rustle of leaves and a sway of branches ahead and he crept towards it, halting abruptly as the shadow stopped, every muscle immobile as an unknown gaze seemed to sweep over him. Then the figure moved again and Svend carried on, reaching the far edge of the copse just as the shadow burst into the open, the unmistakable figure of a man revealed in the moonlight.
Svend swore imaginatively. The man might be a rebel scout, or simply a lone outlaw, but he couldn’t take the chance. Where there was one rebel there might be more. He wasn’t going to wait around to find out.
He made his way swiftly back to the clearing, relieved to find his men grouped in a defensive circle around Lady Cille. She was standing alone in the centre, a small figure dwarfed by the burly soldiers, her pale face tense and frightened. As he stepped out of the trees her shoulders seemed to slump suddenly, her whole body slackening as if with relief. Or was it disappointment? After the ride that day she’d probably hoped she’d seen the last of him.
‘Rebels, sir?’
Renard ran up to him and Svend patted the boy’s shoulder reassuringly. ‘Most likely. We need to leave. Now.’
His men didn’t argue, packing up camp with quiet, practised efficiency, clearing the ground in a matter of minutes.
‘Lady Cille.’ He found himself drawn irresistibly towards her, his feet moving as if of their own volition. ‘We need to go.’
‘Why did you do that?’ She straightened up as he approached, her voice high-pitched and accusatory, eyes glowing like golden orbs in the moonlight.
‘Do what?’ He frowned, taken aback by her vehemence. What was she angry about this time?
‘You shouldn’t have gone after him! It was dangerous.’
He stared at her, genuinely perplexed. Had she been worried about him? Flattering though the idea was, it seemed highly unlikely. More likely she’d been afraid for the rebels, or angry that he’d left her alone. But it wasn’t as if he’d left her undefended. His men had practically built a shield wall around her.
‘There’s no need to be frightened. My men are more than capable of dealing with rebels.’
‘Frightened?’
‘You’re safe with my soldiers.’
She blinked rapidly, as if she were coming out of a trance. ‘Why would I be frightened of rebels? They wouldn’t harm me.’
‘No?’ His temper stirred. Was she really so naive? Did she always have to provoke him? Even now when he was trying to reassure her? ‘I wouldn’t be so sure. They might be rebels or they might be outlaws. Either way, they’re men. Are you so certain who’s on your side?’
For a fleeting moment her expression seemed to waver. Then it hardened again, and her chin inched upwards in a now familiar gesture of defiance. ‘If they’re Saxon, they won’t harm me.’
‘Is that so?’
He took a step towards her, so that they stood only inches apart, the air between them
seeming to crackle and strain with tension. She swayed slightly, as if she were about to retreat, then straightened again, so close that he could feel the heat of her body through her gown. She was panting slightly, her breathing shallow and erratic, her breasts rising and falling just inches away from his chest.
From the sounds around them he could tell that his men were almost ready. If he had even the tiniest shred of common sense he’d turn and walk away from her now.
She licked her lips nervously and his gaze followed the movement. Her bottom lip was full, moist, dangerously tempting. He clenched his jaw, fighting the urge he’d felt that first night, the almost overwhelming desire to pull her into his arms and kiss the defiant look off her face.
‘They won’t harm me,’ she repeated, less convincingly.
‘So you say.’
‘You could leave me here.’
He frowned, thinking he must have misheard her.
‘Just leave me here.’ She looked hopeful suddenly. ‘You could say that I ran away.’
‘Just like that?’
She nodded. ‘Turn around and I’ll run. Then it won’t be a lie.’
Svend raised his eyebrows incredulously. ‘You want me to abandon you at night, in the middle of nowhere, with wolves and rebels and outlaws for company?’
‘I’ll take my chances.’
He studied her face intently. She meant it. She actually wanted him to let her run off alone. Was she brave or just reckless? Or so afraid of de Quincey that she’d actually risk her life to avoid him? His hands curled into fists at the thought.
‘It’s too dangerous.’
‘I’m not afraid.’
‘I can’t let you go.’
‘Please, Svend.’
He stiffened. He was used to her arguing with him, to berating him and insulting him, but pleading...? The imploring tone of her voice made his heart clench unexpectedly. The way she said his name almost finished him. For one wild moment he was tempted to do whatever she wanted—to let her go, to let her run from a marriage she didn’t want.
To go with her.
He shook his head, dispelling the thought. He hadn’t forgotten the last time a woman had asked him for a favour. He’d given in to Maren and look where it had got him. He’d spent the last ten years paying for it, rebuilding his life one hard step at a time. He’d learnt his lesson the hard way and he wasn’t about to make the same mistake now, when his reward was almost within touching distance. Lady Cille could plead all she wanted. He wasn’t going to fall for a woman’s tricks again.
‘We don’t have time for this.’ He turned his back on her stiffly. ‘My men are waiting.’
‘So you won’t help me?’
He hardened his heart against the appeal in her voice. ‘On the contrary, I’m going to keep you safe. Whether you want me to or not.’
Chapter Six
Aediva hunched down in the saddle and stared at a point between the palfrey’s ears, trying not to think about the cold air biting her cheeks and numbing her fingers. Strands of hair curled out from the sides of her headdress, billowing around her face like a dark cloud, suiting her mood.
They’d ridden in silence through the night, glad of the bright moon and clear sky lighting their way. The atmosphere had been tense and defensive, lightening only as the first yellow fingers of dawn had started to splay out over the horizon.
She shifted uncomfortably in her saddle. They were travelling at a slower pace than yesterday, though after only half a night’s sleep her head was still throbbing and dizzy. Not to mention her body. She was bone-weary, so leaden and saddle-sore that every mile was a slow torture. Her thighs felt as though they were covered in bruises.
It was all Svend’s fault. If he hadn’t set such a punishing pace yesterday then she wouldn’t be feeling so wretched today. And if he hadn’t gone off alone in the night, chasing down some mysterious unknown enemy, she wouldn’t be feeling so confused.
If only he’d let her go—let her run away into the night. She could have gone back to Cille, fled with her into the Fens. For a moment she’d thought she’d persuaded him, but then his expression had closed down again, like a gate swinging shut in her face. Why couldn’t he understand?
Understand what?
She frowned at her own question. That she needed to get away—not just from Redbourn and the Earl, but from him too. She’d thought that she hated him, but when she’d awoken in the night and found he’d gone off alone she’d felt physically sick. And when he’d come back it had taken all her willpower not to run into his arms.
No. She shook her head. That couldn’t be true. She didn’t want to run into any man’s arms. Men were rough, violent, demanding. Edmund had taught her that. She’d been relieved, that was all, as relieved as she would have been for anyone who’d charged off alone into the night. She hadn’t been worried about Svend himself. He was nothing to her—worse than nothing. The man who wanted to steal her home. Her enemy.
And yet standing in that circle of Norman soldiers she hadn’t been certain whose side she was on.
‘How are you feeling, my lady?’
Renard appeared at her shoulder, proffering a wineskin, and she accepted gratefully, glad of the distraction.
‘There’s a storm building,’ he commented good-naturedly, gesturing towards the build-up of clouds overhead, massing together to form a towering grey ceiling. ‘Truly, I’ve never known such a place for rain.’
Aediva rolled her eyes. ‘What is it about Normans and rain? Are you so frightened of a little water?’
Renard laughed, and she found herself joining in. A few days ago she would never have imagined sharing a joke with a Norman, but the squire was so easy to tease. He was just a couple of years younger than she was, and so disarmingly friendly that she found it impossible to hold a grudge against him.
‘It has rained a lot this summer,’ she conceded, drawing rein to look out over the gently undulating hills to the south.
The vale sloped downwards here, widening out and flattening as it reached the Great Ouse River. If she followed its winding contours she could just make out the faint white outline of the sea in the distance.
‘But look at the view.’
‘A land worth conquering.’
Svend’s deep voice made her swing round in surprise. After the events of the night, they’d been studiously avoiding each other, but now he looked different somehow, his pale hair falling carelessly across one eye, even more rugged and handsome than she remembered.
‘We were just resting,’ Renard hastened to explain. ‘Lady Cille looked tired.’
Svend’s gaze swept her features appraisingly. ‘You look pale, my lady. Are you unwell?’
‘No. I can keep up, if that’s what you mean.’
‘It’s not.’ He frowned at the darkening clouds. ‘But we need to stop anyway—take shelter in the woods.’
‘Those woods?’ She glanced uneasily down the hillside towards the thicket of fir trees that rimmed the valley. They looked dark and impenetrable.
‘We’ve no choice. There’s a storm coming and we’re too exposed up here.’
As if to reinforce his words there was a low rumble of thunder, followed by a fine spattering of rain. The horses shifted uneasily, unsettled by the change in atmosphere.
‘Come!’ He set off down the hillside at once, gesturing for his soldiers to follow.
Aediva didn’t move.
It wasn’t that she hadn’t heard him, just that she’d heard something else as well. Against the backdrop of thunder a bittern’s booming call—twice in quick succession, brief but unmistakable. She knew about the rebels’ use of such signals. Was there an ambush waiting in the woods? Was she about to be rescued? Did she want to be?
The latter question brought her up short.
Of course she wanted to be rescued! If she reached Redbourn and her deception were uncovered, who knew what the Normans might do to her? What Svend himself might do? So why did she feel this strange reluctance to be parted from him? She should grasp at any chance of escape...shouldn’t she?
‘Lady Cille?’ Svend had stopped halfway down the slope and was looking back at her, the heavy drizzle casting a murky veil between them. ‘What’s the matter?’
She should move, she told herself. The drizzle was fast becoming a downpour and her hair was sticking to her face in dark tendrils. She’d only provoke his suspicions if she stayed there.
‘We should try to cross the river first!’ she shouted, surprising herself.
‘We can’t outride the storm!’
‘No, but if the rain’s heavy, the ford might be too high to pass later.’ That made sense, even if her motives for saying so didn’t.
‘There isn’t time!’
He started back towards her and she held his gaze with an effort, schooling her expression into innocence. Why was she hesitating? She should go with him, should lead him into the rebels’ trap before he guessed something was wrong. He was her enemy.
‘We should try the river!’ she said again.
‘Why?’ His voice was hard, urgent, demanding an answer.
She shook her head, speechless with uncertainty. She was soaked through, but her skin felt red-hot under his penetrating stare. She couldn’t lead him into a trap, but nor could she betray the rebels to him.
Suddenly she knew with utter, terrifying certainty that if it came to a fight, this man would win.
And she didn’t want any more bloodshed. Not if she could prevent it.
‘The river...’ she whispered, her voice cracking under the strain. Who was she betraying?
A crack of thunder made the decision for them.
‘Too late!’
He grabbed her reins and pulled her headlong towards the shelter of the trees, heavy pellets of rain battering their faces as if the storm itself were chasing them.
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