Married to Her Enemy

by Jenni Fletcher

  But it was all hazy. She couldn’t make sense of the dream and she was too drowsy and comfortable to try. She felt snug and peaceful, without a care in the world. If only Cille wouldn’t come and wake her up too soon...

  Cille! Her eyelids flew open as memory came flooding back. Open to the sight of a cloudless blue sky.

  She sat bolt upright, clamping a hand to her head as the dull throbbing in her temples became a sudden violent hammering. She felt dizzy, as if she’d drunk too much of Eadgyth’s mead, and strangely exposed...

  She glanced down and gave a small shriek, clutching the blanket to her chest like a shield. She was naked!

  She dropped to the ground, twisting around to see if anyone had noticed, but there was no one to see. Aside from a few bored-looking horses, the campsite was completely deserted.

  Panic subsiding, she tucked the blanket under her chin and tried to gather her scattered thoughts. Judging by the position of the sun it was around midday, and as unseasonably warm as it had been cold before. How long had she been asleep?

  More importantly, where was she?

  The camp was strategically positioned near the top of a hill, with views that seemed to extend over the whole shire. The last she remembered they’d been north of the river, but now it stretched out behind them, a sparkling band in the distance. She had no memory of crossing the ford. Her memory seemed to stop with a kiss. One breathless and breathtaking kiss.

  She inhaled sharply, caught off guard by the same giddy rush of desire, the same tingling sensation deep in the pit of her stomach. What had she done? She’d been swept off her feet, swept away from reason, had come dangerously close to forgetting who she was and who she was pretending to be all because of a kiss.

  And it had all been her fault! She was the one who’d told Svend that she’d been trying to protect him. She was the one who’d leaned in for his kiss. How could she have been so weak?

  But why had he kissed her? He’d done little but harangue her since they’d met. Did he think she’d make such an easy conquest? As if wanting her land wasn’t bad enough! Well, he could think again. She might have succumbed once, but she’d been taken by surprise. He was her enemy and he always would be. It wouldn’t happen again.

  A mistake. It had all been a mistake. She’d been tired, overwrought, seeking comfort in the nearest pair of arms. And then something had happened. She’d pushed him away, felt a strange, dizzying weariness. Had she fainted? Was she ill? She pressed a hand to her forehead but it felt cool to the touch. Svend must have brought her here. Had he nursed her? Had he undressed her too? No, surely not. A knight would never do such a thing...would he?

  And what was that noise?

  At first she thought the pounding was in her head. Then she heard shouts and the distinctive clatter of steel upon shield and her throat turned dry. Quickly she rolled onto her stomach, looking towards the ridge of the hill where the Normans were...fighting each other?

  She blinked, relief vying with surprise. It was no battle. They were practising their sword skills in hand-to-hand combat, though the sparring looked ferocious enough, even from a distance.

  Instinctively her eyes sought Svend. He was there too, flicking a sword from hand to hand as he circled his opponent, wearing just a coat of light chainmail for protection, his windswept hair shining like burnished gold in the sunshine.

  Her breathing quickened. He looked like a born warrior, with every stroke of his sword slicing the air with cool, measured precision. Sweat gleamed on his biceps, accentuating every bulging muscle as he swept the weapon up in an arc and then spun around, blocking a counterblow before knocking his opponent to the ground with a quick twist and thrust. She hadn’t seen his arms uncovered before, had only felt the taut strength of them around her waist, but they looked impossibly large. Arms that could hold her close and keep her safe...

  If she wanted them to.

  No! She shook her head to banish the temptation. He was her enemy. She had to remember that even if he felt like the opposite. He was her enemy, no matter what else her instincts might tell her. She had too much to lose—couldn’t trust another man or he’d fail her just as Edmund had done. Even if Svend’s blue eyes promised differently. Even if they seemed honest and trustworthy as he watched the fighting with a smouldering intensity that seemed to make the space between them fizz with tension.

  Except that he wasn’t watching the fighting.

  He was watching her.

  She dropped down quickly, squeezing her eyes shut and pretending to be asleep. She wasn’t ready to face him—not yet and definitely not naked! She had to steel herself first...build up her defences to resist him.

  For a few minutes she lay perfectly still, listening. But there was nothing—not a sound besides the distant clamour of metal and her own pounding heartbeat. She exhaled, cautiously opening one eye to find herself staring at a pair of black leather boots.

  ‘You’re awake, then?’

  She squeaked in surprise. She hadn’t heard footsteps and yet he was crouching beside her, looking amused and wary at the same time, as if he were trying to gauge her reaction. He must have stopped to exchange his mail for a leather gambeson, but it hung open in the middle, exposing a line of pale hair that tapered down his chest like an arrow, dragging her gaze along with it.

  She tore her eyes away as her cheeks flared bright red.

  ‘Hungry?’ He proffered a chunk of bread. ‘Or would you prefer some water to cool down?’

  She batted the bread away, furious at herself for looking and at him for noticing.

  ‘Where are my clothes?’

  He nodded towards a bundle on the ground beside her. ‘There. Clean and dry, thanks to Renard.’

  ‘Then why...?’ She stopped, suddenly reluctant to bring his attention to her nakedness. ‘I mean, why aren’t I wearing them?’

  He took a bite of bread and chewed it thoughtfully. ‘They were wet.’

  ‘So you took them off?’

  ‘You had a fever. Wet clothes would have made it worse.’

  ‘So you brought me here and...’ she gritted her teeth ‘...undressed me?’

  ‘No.’ He took another bite. ‘They had to come off at once. Then we came here, far enough away to be safe from your rebels, and waited for your fever to break. That was two days ago.’

  She stared at him in growing horror. Two days! Not to mention the fact that he’d seen her naked! That idea bothered her more than the fact of her long illness.

  He leaned forwards conspiratorially. ‘I did my best not to look.’

  She spluttered, too angry even for words, before a new, more alarming thought occurred to her. ‘So what did I wear on the journey?’

  He jerked his head towards one of his soldiers, a barrel-chested giant who seemed to be using his vast bulk as a battering ram. ‘See Bertrand over there? His under-tunic made a passable dress.’

  ‘You mean I’ve been roaming the countryside in Norman undergarments?’

  White teeth flashed in a broad grin. ‘So it would seem.’

  She blinked, her anger suddenly forgotten. She hadn’t seen him smile properly before—hadn’t thought such a thing was possible—and the effect was strangely disarming. When he smiled like that she could almost forget they were enemies. A lock of white-gold hair hung over his forehead and he appeared not to have shaved in days. The layer of stubble made him look almost Saxon.

  She felt her resolve weaken. Why did he have to look so heart-stoppingly attractive? More like a carefree youth than a battle-hardened commander? She didn’t know which alarmed her more—the fact that he was smiling or that her heart appeared to be doing somersaults in her chest.

  She remembered to breathe at last. Clearly the illness had affected her nerves. ‘And where is Bertrand’s dress now?’

  ‘Ah.’ Svend rubbe
d his hands together, brushing away crumbs. ‘You were extremely feverish. After a while it simply became easier to change your blankets than your wet clothes.’

  ‘My wet—!’

  He raised a hand in mock gallantry. ‘No need to be embarrassed. Even Norman ladies sweat.’

  She glared at him, fuming inwardly. He thought this was funny! He was enjoying her humiliation. How could she ever have kissed him?

  And yet someone had nursed her back to health...someone with caring blue eyes utterly unlike the ones mocking her now. But if it wasn’t him, then who?

  ‘I suppose I should thank someone for taking care of me?’ she asked vaguely.

  ‘You should—though I doubt that you will.’

  She bit back a retort. ‘Renard, I suppose?’

  He regarded her steadily for a moment before standing up, his lips set in a tight, thin line. ‘Who else? The lad was worried about you.’

  She felt an unexpected twinge of disappointment. ‘Well, please give him my thanks.’

  ‘You can thank him yourself soon enough. I see your illness hasn’t affected your manners.’

  * * *

  Svend made a stiff bow and strode away, determined to put as much distance between them as possible. She was ungrateful—as ungrateful as Maren had ever been! Even if she looked so much like a Saxon wildcat, wide-eyed and tousle-haired, lips still full and pouting from sleep, that it had taken all his self-control not to lie her back down again.

  So he’d gone in on the offensive and deliberately made her angry. After what had happened between them in the meadow he’d had no choice. He should never have kissed her—had had no right to touch her at all—but he hadn’t been able to stop himself. He’d been too relieved that she was safe...his blood had still been hot and pumping from the chase. She’d infuriated him, but then she’d said that she’d been trying to protect him...

  The words had caught him off guard. When was the last time anyone had cared enough to want to protect him? So long that he couldn’t remember. Desire had rendered him powerless.

  He stormed furiously back up the ridge. It was typical of her to wake up now! He’d barely left her side for days, but his men were bored and irritable, in need of some physical exertion to distract them. After her fever had broken in the night, he’d known that she was out of danger. But of course she assumed that Renard had nursed her! Did she ever miss a chance to think ill of him?

  As for her clothes—surely she understood that he’d had to undress her? He’d have done the same for anyone. And he’d truly done his best not to look...even with her shift clinging so tightly to her skin as to have been almost transparent. When he’d imagined undressing her it certainly hadn’t been like that. He’d been trying to save her life, dammit! He could hardly have asked one of his men to do it. Under the circumstances, it had had to be him.

  Even if it definitely should not have been.

  He snatched up a sword and charged back into the fighting, trying to concentrate on the swing of the blade. Bertrand ran towards him and he darted quickly to the left, then switched sides again, pretending to aim for a high blow before sweeping his arm down to swipe the backs of his legs.

  She was just like Maren—throwing his help back in his face!

  A massive arm swung towards him and he ducked, spinning away and then quickly back again, thrusting his dagger up and under Bertrand’s shield until he conceded.

  Maren. He hadn’t thought of her in so long that her face—that smooth oval he’d once thought so perfect—was no more than a blurred and indistinct memory. Barely a day went by that he didn’t think of his lost homeland, but his reason for leaving was long buried. What had brought her to mind now?

  He accepted a fresh challenge and circled absently around his new opponent, twirling his sword in his hand as he considered the question.

  Were they alike, Cille and Maren? He racked his brains. Maren’s hair had been red—a cascade of copper-coloured spirals. And her eyes...green like the sea. Beautiful and enticing, but empty and cold. Whereas Cille’s... Her eyes were so deep he felt he’d barely skimmed the surface. Except when they’d kissed. Then they’d been warm and vulnerable, shining like molten gold, beautiful and beguiling and utterly impossible to resist.

  She’d kissed him back—he was sure of it. He hadn’t imagined her gasp of surrender or the way her hands had coiled around his neck, pulling her up towards him as if she’d wanted him as much as he had wanted her. She’d responded to his touch like an instrument, perfectly in tune, more sensual and desirable than any woman he’d ever known. Wildcat she might be, but something about her called out to him—not just to his body, but to a deeper, buried part, one he thought he’d sealed off for ever. Just thinking about her made his groin tighten and his blood heat anew.

  He lunged forward, trying to banish the memory of full soft lips, battering his opponent’s shield with a flurry of hard, punishing blows.

  No, they weren’t alike in appearance, Cille and Maren. So what was it about one that reminded him so vividly of the other? Half-buried memories tugged at the edge of his consciousness, tantalisingly close but elusive. There was something about Cille...something he couldn’t quite put his finger on—a nagging intuition that something about her was...not wrong, exactly, but not right either. As if the real woman were hiding behind a mask. She was a phantom, in truth, impossible to pin down or decipher. Who was she? The woman who’d kissed him or the woman who’d pushed him away? What was she hiding?

  He threw his body into one final ferocious attack, knocking his opponent to the ground with a heavy thud.

  Aye, there was one clear way in which Cille resembled Maren in his mind. He’d never wanted a woman so badly.

  He offered a conciliatory hand to his opponent before tossing his weapon aside and climbing alone to the crest of the hill.

  If he were honest, a part of him had always known that the Maren he’d loved hadn’t been real, that he’d simply been chasing an ideal, but he’d wanted her so badly that he’d ignored the warning signs. She was the first, the only woman he’d ever truly cared about. He’d given her his heart and she’d trampled all over it, made him into an exile...an outcast. All because she’d been fickle and selfish and deceitful.

  Was Cille the same? His head resisted the idea. No, she wasn’t fickle or selfish. She had stayed at Etton to care for her sister despite the risk to herself. She was loyal—a quality he wasn’t accustomed to finding in a woman—and capable of love too. The kind of woman who would repay a man for loving her. Provided he wasn’t part of the Conqueror’s army.

  Was she deceitful? He didn’t want to think so, but she was hiding something from him—that was for certain. Was she lying as well? When they’d kissed he’d felt as though he were breaking through whatever mask she was wearing to reach the real woman beneath. But then her defences had gone up again, shutting him out as if he alone were responsible for the Conquest, as if she loathed him simply for being Norman.

  Which he wasn’t.

  He ran a hand wearily over his brow. For the first time since Maren he found himself truly drawn to a woman, could imagine forging a life with her. But she wasn’t for him. She wasn’t his at all. And whatever mystery she was hiding wasn’t his to unravel. It was de Quincey’s.

  His gut twisted with jealousy. He didn’t want to think of her with another man, one who could touch and kiss her, lie with her. But she was on her way to marry de Quincey and he was simply the fool charged with delivering her. That was his duty. Anything more would dishonour them both.

  He clenched his fists at his sides, determined to keep his mind, not to mention the rest of him, on his duty. He was finished playing with fire. If she were really like Maren then whatever he was feeling was just a passing infatuation. He was attracted to her—that was all. He couldn’t be in love with a woman he’d known for less than a
week, and the very last thing he needed was an emotional attachment—no matter how strongly she called to him or how badly he desired her. He wasn’t about to risk his whole future for a woman again.

  Besides, in another day and a half he’d be free of her, his duty fulfilled, and enjoying whatever reward the King and FitzOsbern saw fit to bestow upon him. Whatever it was, he hoped it took him a long way from Redbourn.

  He stood rooted to the spot, waiting for the thought to bring some relief.

  So why did he want to turn and ride back the way they’d come?

  * * *

  The sun was barely skimming the horizon when they packed up the next morning. Aediva wriggled back into her clothes under cover of the blanket—not that anyone was looking. Svend’s soldiers kept their eyes studiously averted, refusing to act like the Norman barbarians she took them for.

  Only Renard rushed to greet her, his young face brimming with relief. ‘My lady, I’m glad to see you well again!’

  She returned his smile happily, taking his hands and pressing them in gratitude. ‘And I have you to thank.’

  ‘Me?’ He looked at her blankly. ‘I didn’t do anything.’

  ‘Didn’t do anything? You saved my life—I’m indebted.’

  ‘That wasn’t me, my lady. I offered to help, but Sir Svend wouldn’t let me. He never left you.’

  ‘Svend nursed me?’ Aediva’s heart danced at the news, though her conscience felt suddenly heavy.

  She thought about Renard’s words as they made their way through the lowlands. Svend had been worried about her, so worried that he’d barely left her side. Because she’d fallen ill under his protection? Because FitzOsbern would punish him for anything that happened to her? She frowned, trying to make sense of it. He might have taken care of her, but it didn’t necessarily mean that he cared. Did it?

  But it did mean she owed him another apology.