Married to Her Enemy

by Jenni Fletcher

  His lips twitched and she felt a frisson of excitement. She’d never been able to flirt with Edmund, but somehow it felt natural with Svend—enjoyable, even. He didn’t make her feel tense and uncomfortable. He made her feel as no man ever had before...as if her body finally made sense.

  She cupped a hand to her mouth, testing the limits of her power as she stretched up to whisper in his ear, gesturing towards Renard. ‘Don’t tell him how bad he smells!’

  Svend heaved on his reins, changing direction so abruptly that she had to grab the sleeve of his tunic to steady herself.

  ‘One hour.’ His voice sounded husky.

  She nodded happily, still grasping his sleeve as they entered the wood.

  His soldiers were charging towards the lake in a stampede of hooves and catcalls, stripping off their armour and tunics barely before they’d leapt from their horses, splashing into the glassy water like a herd of thirsty cattle.

  Aediva averted her face, blushing furiously. The prospect of quite so many naked Normans had never occurred to her. She’d been thinking of only one.

  ‘I don’t want anyone getting cramp!’ Svend shouted above the clamour. ‘Renard, keep an eye on them! Bertrand, take lookout!’

  He dismounted and took hold of the destrier’s reins, leading him away from the uproar to the furthest end of the lake, where the trees were thickest, blocking out the sounds of shouts and splashing. The pool here formed an almost perfect oval, its water clear and inviting.

  ‘You’ll have to excuse my men,’ he commented drily, reaching up to help her dismount. ‘They’re not accustomed to travelling with ladies.’

  ‘I noticed.’

  She slid into his arms, her cheeks still red with embarrassment. His gambeson gaped open at the neck and her gaze fell upon a jagged scar between his chest and his shoulder. She hadn’t noticed it before, but the collarbone protruded outwards beneath, as if it had been broken and reset badly. She stared at it distractedly. He seemed vulnerable suddenly, less like a Norman and more like any other man.

  ‘What’s this?’ Without thinking, she pushed the leather aside, tracing the line of the scar with her fingertips.

  ‘An old injury.’

  ‘What happened?’ Her fingers stroked the length of the bone. She was surprised by the soft texture of his skin. She would have expected a warrior to be rough and callused, but he felt silky smooth.

  ‘I fell out of a hayloft when I was ten.’

  ‘That’s not very heroic. You should say it’s a battle scar at least.’

  His hands were still clasping her waist, but she didn’t pull away. No one could see them. They were surrounded by trees, and his destrier made a surprisingly effective screen. Slowly her fingers traced their way back to the point of the bone. It must have hurt when it had happened. Somehow she wanted to make it better. Instinctively she leaned forward, pressing her lips against the scar.

  ‘Cille...’

  He groaned and she jerked her head back guiltily.

  ‘Did I hurt you?’

  His eyes fell on hers with a look that was part desire, part amusement. His eyes were so clearly, blindingly blue that they seemed to mirror the lake beside them. Her stomach lurched, filled with a thousand fluttering butterflies. No, she hadn’t hurt him. She was close enough to feel the effect of her kiss pressing forcefully between them.

  Svend cleared his throat and moved away, looking towards the lake as if nothing had happened. ‘Do you want to swim?’

  ‘I...yes...perhaps.’ She forced herself to sound light-hearted, as if she hadn’t just noticed the evidence of his desire pushing between her legs. ‘There’s a small pool below. No one will see.’

  She walked away quickly, following the path that led to the dam, peeking back over her shoulder just in time to see Svend’s feet vanish beneath the surface of the water. She stared at the ripples, then saw him emerge ten feet further out, swimming away from her with long, practised strokes.

  Could she tell him the truth?

  She pushed the thought away, concentrating instead on her footing as she climbed down the side of the dam. The water levels were high where the edge dropped away suddenly, pouring over the rock in a smooth cascade into the smaller pool below.

  She clambered down carefully, sighing with relief as she dropped out of sight of the others. It felt good to be alone, to be herself again however briefly. She felt as if she’d been holding her breath for days.

  Could she tell him who she really was?

  No! She kicked off her shoes and stepped into the shallow water. It tickled her feet, luxuriously cool and so crystal-clear she could see the sandy floor beneath. Hoisting her dress around her knees, she wandered further in, letting the water lap around her thighs. After the heat of the day the ripples felt like gentle caresses.

  With a quick glance around, she pulled her dress over her shoulders, letting her body slide under the water. Then she lay back, listening to the bubble of water in her ears, trying to shut out her thoughts along with her senses. A willow was draped over the edge of the pool, its wispy tendrils swaying gently in the current, and a robin hopped along one of the branches, bobbing its head as if studying her. She smiled. Saxon or Norman, some things didn’t change. If only she could be as free.

  Could she tell him the truth?

  She kicked her feet in frustration. Had the fever addled her brain? Even if she could trust him, how could she tell him now, after what he’d said about Maren?

  On the other hand, how could she not? He wasn’t Edmund. After everything he’d done for her, didn’t she owe him the truth? He’d shown he could be trusted. If she kept on deceiving him then she was truly no better than Maren. And at least if she told him the truth herself there was a chance he might forgive her. Whereas if he found out on his own...

  There was a flicker of movement behind her and she dipped quickly back under the water, clasping her arms over her breasts as she spun around.

  Then she saw him. He’d finished swimming and was already half-dressed, walking barefoot in just a pair of hose along the top of the waterfall, his broad shoulders tapering into a well-defined waist, still streaming with water. The muscles of his toned chest rippled as he walked, so solid that they seemed to be sculpted from wood.

  She stared, speechless. She’d seen men without shirts before, villagers working in the fields, but none who had looked like this. She doubted that one man in a thousand could look so effortlessly intimidating, so powerful, and yet in such complete control of his body.

  He hadn’t seen her. He seemed to be examining the structure of the dam. If she didn’t move he would pass her by completely.

  If she didn’t move.

  She swept her arms wide, letting the ripples spiral outwards, drawing his gaze towards her like a siren.

  Could she tell him the truth? Would he forgive her? Would he help her?

  Either way, and no matter what he might think of her afterwards, she owed him the truth.

  His gaze locked with hers and her whole body clenched. What was he thinking? He wasn’t walking away, but he wasn’t moving either. Instead his expression seemed to be at war with itself—hungry eyes vying with a stubborn-set jaw. Had she shocked him? The temptation to do so again was overwhelming.

  She lay back, kicking her legs up as she dived in a loop, emerging just below him like a mermaid tempting him into the water. Then she stood up, slowly and deliberately, keeping her arms at her sides until she stood naked, waist-deep in the pool, the water lapping just below her belly.

  It wasn’t too late. If he came to her now then she’d tell him everything. And he’d help her—she was sure of it. He would find a way to protect Cille if anyone could. Maybe he could think of a better plan too—one that didn’t involve deceiving FitzOsbern. Maybe they could go back to Etton and work it out together.
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br />   She held her breath. If he came to her now she’d hand herself over to a Norman.

  * * *

  Svend stood on the side of the dam, keeping every part of himself immobile through sheer force of will.

  What the hell had he been thinking, bringing her here? Had he lost his mind? They should be at Redbourn by now. He should be leaving her with her new husband—not thinking about jumping into the water beside her. It was a matter of honour. He was honour-bound to deliver her safely to FitzOsbern, and he wasn’t in the habit of seducing other men’s brides. No matter how badly he wanted to. No matter that she’d kissed him first...

  What had she said? ‘No one will see.’

  When she’d left, he’d torn off his clothes and hurled himself into the water, letting the cold restore his sense of clarity, his temperature still soaring from the memory of her touch on his skin. When she’d pressed her lips to his scar he’d wanted to throw her to the ground and take her right then. Strange how sometimes she seemed more like an innocent maid than a grieving widow. Surely a woman who’d been married five years would know the effect her touch might have on a man? But she’d seemed genuinely shocked by his arousal.

  He’d still been grappling with the contradiction when he’d seen her just now. Now he kept his gaze fixed firmly on hers, trying to concentrate on what his mind was telling him and not other parts of his body.

  Damn it all—how much self-control was a man supposed to have?

  The thunder of hooves took them both by surprise.

  Svend spun around instantly, searching for his sword on the lakeside, mentally calculating the time it would take him to reach it. Too long.

  He muttered a volley of colourful oaths. Normally he prided himself on never being caught unprepared or off guard—but then he’d never normally have brought his men here, never let his warrior instincts become sluggish and distracted.

  There was nothing normal about the effect she had on him. He was still burning with desire for her, and he didn’t know whether he felt more frustrated by that fact or the timing of this attack.

  He crouched down, muscles coiling. If he could reach the trees without being seen he would be able to grab his sword and come up behind them—whoever they were. They might have the advantage, but he wouldn’t make the fight easy.

  Just as soon as he knew she was safe.

  ‘What’s happening?’

  Her voice was close to his ear and he started, surprised to find her peering over the top of the dam beside him. Somehow she’d found a foothold and clambered up. Instinctively, he glanced downwards, but her long tresses were shielding her body from view.

  ‘Do you know the way to Redbourn from here?’

  ‘Yes, but...’

  ‘Stay hidden. If I don’t come back, wait until dark and then go.’

  He started towards the shore and then stopped abruptly, bursting into relieved laughter. A Norman patrol was pushing its way through the rim of trees, their white tunics and pointed helms shining with light reflected off the water.

  ‘Svend? What is it?’

  She was staring at him as if he’d suddenly sprouted two heads, and he fought the temptation to jump down and gather her in his arms. How long before somebody found them? Not long enough for what he wanted to do.

  ‘Nothing to fear.’ He raised a hand, waving a greeting to the knight in front. ‘Just a friend.’

  He looked down again, but she’d already slid off the rock and ducked back under the water. Tendrils of hair spread around her like an ink stain. As he watched the ripples gradually stilled, revealing the shimmery outline of her body beneath.

  He dragged his gaze away. ‘We should go.’

  ‘I’ll follow.’ She looked shy suddenly. Even her shoulders seemed to be blushing.

  ‘There might be more soldiers on the way.’

  ‘I won’t be long. Besides, if they’re Norman I should be safe, shouldn’t I?’

  Her tone challenged him to deny it and he nodded reluctantly, pulling his tunic over his head as he collected Talbot and made his way back around the edge of the lake, walking fast to quell his desire.

  At least Hugh was a friend—one of the few knights who judged a man on ability rather than birth—and he knew how to keep a secret. Under the circumstances, it might have been a lot worse. If de Quincey had found them, for instance...

  ‘Hugh!’ He hailed a man with cropped chestnut hair and a broad, friendly face.

  ‘Danemark? You’re the last person I expected to find here! Are you lost?’

  Svend gave a disarming smile before jabbing the other man in the ribs, dropping him heavily to the ground.

  ‘You have either the best or the worst timing, my friend.’

  ‘That’s the thanks I get for finding you?’ Hugh clutched his stomach, winded. ‘You know FitzOsbern doesn’t like waiting. Where have you been?’

  Svend proffered a hand. ‘There were...obstacles. Finding Etton was more of a challenge than we anticipated.’

  ‘But you found it?’

  ‘Eventually.’

  ‘And...?’ Hugh’s face lit up inquisitively. ‘What’s she like, de Quincey’s new bride?’

  ‘She’s not an ogre.’

  ‘Dark or fair?’

  ‘Dark.’

  Brown hair kissed by the sun. Eyes like the purest honey.

  Hugh smirked. ‘He likes them dark. Is she pretty?’

  More than words can describe.

  ‘Pretty enough.’

  ‘Is that it? I’ll never understand you, my friend. You talk more about horses than women.’

  ‘She’s a woman—the same as any other.’

  Hugh heaved a sigh. ‘Truly, I wouldn’t be as cynical as you for the world! My heart is open to all. Whoever broke yours has a lot to answer for.’

  Svend looked up sharply and Hugh practically whooped with delight. ‘I’m right, aren’t I? Somebody did break your heart! I knew it! What was her name? Beatrice, Mathilde, Alice—?’

  ‘Maren.’ Svend cut him off sharply. ‘And if you ever mention her again I’ll personally cut your tongue out.’

  ‘Maren...’ Hugh blew air from between his teeth. ‘And I thought your defences were unassailable. I’d like to meet the woman who could get past them. Wait!’ He gave a low whistle. ‘Is that de Quincey’s bride?’

  Svend turned his head, feeling his chest tighten at the sight of a small figure on the shoreline, the long coils of her damp hair swinging around her hips as she seemed to float rather than walk towards them.

  It was no easy thing to march through a garrison of enemy soldiers but she did it, as brave as any warrior he’d ever known. Amidst the soldiers she looked even more tiny, even more beautiful—a Saxon wildcat with sheathed claws. How could he ever bear to let her go?

  ‘“Pretty enough”?’ Hugh’s tone was sceptical. ‘Are you blind?’

  * * *

  Aediva followed the curve of the lake, doing her best to look like the virtuous, albeit slightly bedraggled widow of an ealdorman.

  Heads swivelled as she passed by. The new Norman soldiers were regarding her with undisguised curiosity. She ignored them, searching for Svend in the sea of new faces, half eager, half afraid to find him. After what had just happened at the waterfall she needed to see him again, needed to judge his reaction. What did he think of her? What did she think of herself?

  Everything had happened so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that already it seemed unreal—like a dream. Had she really bared herself to him? Had he made a movement towards her or had she simply imagined it? She tried to remember, but the sudden jolt of reality had scattered her thoughts. The Norman patrol had arrived and the moment had gone, leaving her more breathless and confused than ever.

  She found his face at last and raised her
eyes nervously, her step faltering as she saw the raw desire in his. He was watching her hungrily, as if he wanted to carry her back to the waterfall right there and then. It made her stomach flip and her breathing quicken all over again.

  Quickly she turned her attention to his companion. His gaze was openly appraising, though his curiosity was quickly concealed behind a courtly flourish. If he felt any surprise at her dishevelled appearance he gave no sign of it, bowing low as she finally stopped in front of them.

  ‘You must be Lady Cille. It’s an honour to meet you at last. I am Sir Hugh Rolande.’

  He spoke slowly, as if he didn’t expect her to speak French, and she dipped into an elaborate curtsy, responding fluently. ‘The honour is all mine, Sir Hugh.’

  His eyebrows shot up, though his answering smile appeared genuine. ‘I’m truly delighted to meet you. And I can see why it’s taken my friend here so long to share you with the rest of us. For the pleasure of your company, I’m sure.’

  Aediva kept her face calm with an effort. What was that supposed to mean?

  She forced a smile, emulating his tone. ‘On the contrary, Sir Svend has been nothing but honourable. Unfortunately I fell ill on the journey.’

  Hugh feigned alarm. ‘I’m sorry to hear it. Fortunately you couldn’t have been in better hands.’

  ‘No, indeed. He has been consideration itself.’

  ‘And you are recovered now, I trust?’

  ‘Quite recovered, thank you.’

  ‘Are we at court already?’ Svend folded his arms over his chest with a look of exasperation. ‘Or can we speak plainly?’

  Hugh laughed and pressed a kiss to her fingertips. ‘Forgive my friend—he doesn’t care for court manners. But might I add that Saxon women never cease to amaze me?’

  Aediva’s brows snapped together. Sir Hugh was as charming as Svend was most definitely not, but something about his manner grated. She didn’t want charm—not from a Norman. She wanted a man who would speak plainly. Unconsciously her gaze slid towards Svend.

  ‘Then you must be easily surprised. Did you think we were a nation of savages?’

  Hugh’s mouth fell open. ‘Forgive me...’ He smiled sheepishly. ‘I meant no offence. Perhaps we might start again? My name is Hugh.’