His Enemy's Daughter

by TERRI BRISBIN

  Soren scooped some stew into bowls for each of them and handed Sybilla hers. She slid her hand across the surface and grasped the spoon there. He waited until she’d finished about half of her food before beginning his questions.

  ‘Guermont said the harvest is going well and should be a successful one,’ he began.

  All she needed was for him to begin and she joined in the discussion, reviewing the day’s activities and the plans for the next. Her mastery in overseeing this manor and keeping her people alive shone clear. Sybilla understood the management of crops and livestock, as well as how to get the villeins to work effectively in the fields, the manor and the mill. Alston would thrive under her hand.

  But she would be gone soon, he remembered.

  His mouth went dry and he grabbed for the cup of ale to wash down the food he’d been chewing. But he would be sending her away soon, in only a scant few months.

  ‘Soren? Is aught wrong?’ she asked.

  ‘Nay,’ he said a bit forcefully and then quieter, ‘Nay. I but swallowed at the wrong time.’

  As he had in the past, he searched for the anger that had always served him well when threatened. He searched deep inside for the hatred and the fury that would help him erase any softer feelings that came from their closeness.

  And he could find none to use as protection against her.

  Surely this time of ease between them was nothing more than that? They both knew the terms of their agreement and would abide by them. He could have accepted that if not for her next words. They completely tore apart any defences he’d built against her. Four simple words and he was lost, for so many reasons he could not even identify, but he knew in his soul.

  ‘Take me to bed,’ she whispered.

  Soren did not question her about the change in topic or what she meant. He knew, for he felt it also. The heat between them had sparked when he entered the room and every minute, with every word, the delay in claiming her had added fuel to his need and desire for her. He pushed back from the table, lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed.

  Something was different between them this time. Oh, his passion spiked and he claimed her every way he could, thrusting deep and feeling her release as it pushed him to his own. He withdrew only at the last moment because being inside her felt…right somehow. No matter that he was a feared warrior. No matter that some still crossed themselves when they saw him. No matter that he’d sworn to take her life to repay the debt of her father.

  In that moment, as their flesh joined, Soren knew she had managed to touch him in ways no one else ever had. He also knew to his marrow that if she left, it would destroy him. So his prayer as he drifted off to sleep some hours later became one for his own survival.

  Sybilla lay awake, entangled in bedcovers and Soren, but did not wish to move and free herself. She felt the heat of a blush in her face every time she thought of how bold she had been this night. Though she had never refused him, she had never initiated bedplay before, always waiting for Soren to take the lead. And he had.

  With vigour and inventiveness and forthright passion, he’d led her down the path from virgin to lover. He had never apologised for the ways in which he pleasured her and never made demands of her that she was not willing to do. Tonight, though, something had changed.

  She pushed her tangled hair away from her face and wished for the thousandth time that she could see him. No matter how skilled she was becoming in hearing tones in voices and noticing smells and tastes and the feel of things, not being able to see him, to watch his face as he touched her, to see the man called ‘beautiful’ and the damage rendered by her father left her feeling lost. She sighed and then smiled as he grasped her hand, pulling her closer as he turned to his side.

  Did he even know he did that? Did he let down his guard in his sleep? Did his anger and need for vengeance ease when he was caught in rest?

  She wanted to scream out her frustration, for without asking someone, she knew not the time or how many hours remained until morn. ’Twas in the latest part of the nights that she worried about her life, such as it was. Well, at least now she knew he did not mind her boldness and she planned to use it often. If he was going to put her aside, she would build enough memories to live on. Memories that would get her through the lonely, cold nights without him in her bed…or in her heart.

  Mayhap the frustration gave her courage, for she lifted her hand, now freed from his, and reached out to him. Once her hand found him, his hip from what she could tell, she paused and waited for his reaction. When none came, she gently slid her fingers along his skin, tracing the line of his waist. He’d permitted her to touch below his waist, but never above it. Sybilla held her breath and let her fingers glide up his back.

  A ridge of scarred skin began just inches above his waist. She traced it lightly, following it across his back and waiting for him to wake. She felt the moment he did and stilled, preparing for his anger. There was no way for her to claim the touch was accidental, so Sybilla spoke of it.

  ‘Is it painful?’ she whispered.

  ‘Nay, Sybilla. Not all of it,’ he answered without hesitation. ‘Some of it feels nothing.’

  When she would have asked another question of him, she felt him move away and his weight left the bed. The sound of him using the pot explained his absence, or did it? ’Twas almost as though he sought escape from her touch. Truly, he’d allowed her more in that one caress than she’d ever been permitted before.

  Thinking he would avoid her further attentions, he surprised her by returning, arranging the bedcovers over them and pulling her into his embrace and against his chest. They lay quiet for several minutes, but her curiosity ran wild and she could not stop the questions from escaping.

  ‘Tell me of the others,’ she said. ‘The other…bastards.’

  He laughed and it rumbled beneath her ear. It also eased the tightness in her heart as he began to tell her of Giles and Brice and of Lord Simon, the legitimate son of their foster father in Brittany. Soon, tales of the escapades of the four flowed, describing boyhood to manhood and in between until she laughed and cried at some of the incidents described.

  This nobleman Gautier had taken three common boys and turned them into extraordinary young men before his own death. He had given opportunities to these three that enabled them to face the challenges that life and war would toss at them. Knowing the ways of nobles here in England, she could not comprehend why he would have done so, but he had and this man was the result.

  He did not refuse her questions; indeed, only when the sound of the cock crowing in the yard could be heard and his voice grown hoarse from speaking so much did he stop.

  Something had changed between them. Something more than the need in her to learn about him. Something had changed within Soren and she hoped and prayed that it would continue.

  And even though she remembered their agreement and knew he would put her aside, it was easier for her to hope for some future together than to face the bleak knowledge of one without him. The days had flowed quickly, filled with hard work and accomplished tasks, and the nights had raced by, filled with honest passion and shared stories. But Sybilla knew that this was simply a truce, time spent without too much thought of what should be or could be, but always with the truth standing between them.

  So, as the harvest was gathered and news of rebels gathering in the hills and to the north grew more frequent, Sybilla offered prayers for herself and for Soren and for whatever they would face in the coming months.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Sybilla finished counting the last of the sacks of flour and tied the number of knots on the rope that hung on the wall next to them. Guermont had come up with this way for her to keep count and track of which supplies were stored and how many there were of any given kind. Harvest was done and they were almost ready for the cold of winter.

  She was in the storeroom on the lower floor of the keep, waiting for Guermont to come back for her, when she moved too quickly
and lost her balance. Banging up against a row of barrels, she put her hand out to stop her self from falling, but a moment too late to help. Though she did not think she hit her head, she lost consciousness for some time.

  ‘Lady Sybilla? Lady Sybilla, can you hear me?’

  She knew Teyen’s voice and nodded, making her head hurt even worse and making her stomach lurch from the dizziness.

  ‘Do not move,’ he instructed.

  Too late. He should have said that first.

  From the chuckles then, she knew she’d spoken those words aloud and others had heard her. ‘Who is here?’

  From the names listed by Teyen, it sounded as though everyone who lived in the keep, save Soren, was there watching her. At least he would not be witness to her clumsiness.

  ‘Sybilla, are you well?’ Soren had arrived as well.

  She took a deep breath and tried to sit up. When that did not happen, she waved them out, hoping they would leave and she could lessen her humiliation. Now he would begin the lecture he’d perfected for those times when he thought she had tried to do too much, especially when he had already warned her of his opinion on the task at hand.

  ‘Pray thee, all return to your tasks. I will be all right,’ she begged. Not a sound, no one moved, no one left as she asked. The pounding in her head worsened and she thought mayhap some assistance would be the best thing after all. ‘Soren…’

  She did not have to ask; he was at her side in moments, easing his arms around and under her and lifting her up from the floor. Unfortunately, in spite of his gentle approach and care, each step he took made her head hurt more. By the time they reached their chambers, she wanted to cry.

  Lying on the bed made things a bit better, as did the quietness, so she expected the pain to ease and everything to be all right, but it was not. Later she realised how much it felt like that first day all over again. Teyen saw to her, checking her head and finding no injury or bump. By resting, it hurt much less by nightfall.

  Soren offered to sleep elsewhere so he would not disturb what rest she could get, but she knew from other nights spent without him in her bed that she would not sleep at all. He climbed in carefully, easing up behind her and surrounding her with his strength. Her sleep was fitful, partly because Teyen ordered it so and partly because of the nightmares that plagued her when she did fall asleep.

  Swords cutting into bodies. Demons shrieking in the darkness. Someone tearing down Alston piece by piece and setting it aflame. Then more and more until she screamed. She woke to Soren whispering her name until she realised she was not sleeping or dreaming. The night was one of the longest in her life and she was glad when she heard the keep and yard coming to life.

  After much arguing and being teased about needing a day of leisure, Sybilla was able to convince Soren to go about his duties. He apparently ordered everyone to check on her throughout the day, so from Aldys to Gytha, Guermont to Larenz and even young Raed, each visited her, asking about her head and telling her about the progress being made on readying the keep for winter. A heavy measure of guilt lay on her for remaining in bed, but the dizziness returned each time she tried to remain sitting.

  When the symptoms continued into a second day, Aldys broached the possibility of being with child with her. She could feel herself blush as she stuttered out the explanation of how she knew she could not be with child, but Aldys seemed placated more by the fact that Sybilla’s cycles had arrived regularly every month since they’d begun.

  Mayhap it was another illness or ailment, she knew not, but she did feel better on the third morning, enough to sit up and even get out of bed. She had been thankful, for Soren had grown increasingly tense about the situation and she knew he was worried. When she woke from a nap later in the day, her head felt different somehow and the colours from her dreams seemed to remain inside her head.

  Sybilla decided to try weaving a few rows, so she made her way over to the loom. It happened so slowly that she did not realise it at first, and then she could see shadows where everything had been black. Turning around, the brightness of the sun began to pierce through the shadows. She blinked and rubbed her eyes, believing she was dreaming while awake, but soon forms began to take shape and Sybilla recognised her bed and the loom in the corner. Then the colours filled in and the blue that she had loved when she first saw it on the yarn came into focus, clear and bright.

  She trembled and shook and tears poured down as the possibility that she might see grew real. She needed to tell someone. She needed to tell Soren.

  No! She needed to wait to see if this was happening or if she was imagining the change. If she called Aldys or Soren or anyone, even Teyen, and she was wrong… So she forced herself to sit in the chair and to wait a little while. Her stomach tumbled and her heart raced as she prayed over and over and over again that her vision was restored to her. That she would be able to see, be able to read again and to see the sunrise and the sunset. To see the people of Alston and do all the things that gave her joy and purpose.

  To see Soren and to relieve him of one of the too-many burdens he carried on his shoulders. To see Raed and Guermont and the others and decide if the faces she had given them in her imagination were close to what they looked like.

  She laughed then, feeling the excitement with each passing minute when her vision did not fade back into blackness. Giddy at this change, she decided that she would only wait for the next person who came to check on her before revealing it. She could not wait any longer—she wanted to run down the stairs and shout it in the yard.

  Finally…finally…finally she heard soft footsteps approaching down the hall. She counted them as they moved ever closer to her door and to her revelation. Sybilla held her breath as the door opened and an incredibly tall man stepped inside. He turned back as though looking at something in the corridor and she was struck by his beauty.

  Strong, masculine lines carved out a face that showed a handsome nose, strong brow and full mouth. His hair was black as coal and he wore it longer than most Normans she’d seen before, leaving it long enough to touch the edge of his tunic.

  It had to be…

  ‘Soren!’ she said, catching him in the motion of re moving a cowl and a piece of leather from his face. She stood as he turned to face her, not yet realising that she could see him.

  The other half of his face was as horrible as the first was beautiful. Torn asunder and put back together, the flesh pulled this way and that, giving him a garish twist to his lips. The scars… The scars…

  ‘Dear God in Heaven!’ she cried out, horrified at what she saw.

  ‘You can see me?’ he asked, turning from her, hiding that part of him from her sight. ‘Your vision…’

  ‘Oh, Soren,’ she whispered, shaking her head.

  He wanted to die in that moment more than at any time before.

  Everything he ever feared seeing in her gaze was there: horror, disgust, fear and, the worst, pity. Part of him, the stupid, foolish part, had hoped she would be different than all the others. That she would look past the damage to the man she’d come to know these last weeks and months.

  But, no, just as he knew would happen, she saw only the monster before her. His one chance had been destroyed. And for a moment, the man who had survived only for vengeance pushed his way out.

  ‘So, now you see what your father did to me that day and why I had to kill him.’

  ‘Soren, I pray thee—’ she started, but he stopped her with a motion of his hand.

  ‘I could accept it from strangers, from any of them, but not you, Sybilla. I thought we had some measure of trust between us, but I can see it all in your eyes now. The horror at this flesh. The pity.’

  He struck out, needing to cause pain for the pain she was causing him. Now in a blind rage, he threw the last one, the worst one, at her. ‘I only married you because you could not see me. And I prayed to God every night that you would remain blind. I wanted you blind, so that you could not look at me with disgust in your eyes.’ S
ybilla gasped, so he thought he might have hit his target.

  She crumpled to her knees then, just as her maids arrived at the door. They had been yelling, so it was not surprising that others came, too.

  Soren turned and walked out of her chambers, not bothering to put the cowl or patch back in place. Damn them all and damn her more!

  He charged down the steps and out into the yard, the word of the miracle spreading even as he walked to the stables. His expression stopped anyone from saying anything to him. Saddling his horse, he mounted and rode out of the gates, not caring where he headed or why. He just needed to get away and try to erase the sight of finding all the things he feared most in her gaze.

  Soren was so wrapped in his own pain that he never noticed the small boy watching him ride out of Alston or the disappointment on his face as he did.

  All the joy she had felt as her sight returned fled in the face of Soren’s revelations and his reactions.

  When she’d looked on his face with the terrible damage, all she could think about was the horror that anyone had suffered in that way and lived through the terrible pain of it. Sybilla was horrified that someone she loved could have wrought such damage. In spite of Aldys and Larenz trying to explain the realities of the terrible battle at Hastings and in spite of any doubt that they tried to cast on her father’s guilt, Sybilla understood why he had come seeking vengeance all those months ago.

  And horrified at the shame and humiliation he suffered as a result of her father’s actions. She’d lifted her hand to touch him, to try to ease the pain she knew he felt every day of his existence, and he had misread the action and the feelings behind it.

  From there everything deteriorated.

  Any sympathy, any understanding she might have tried to have was obliterated by his announcement that he’d killed her father. Sybilla realised that she’d never asked because she feared learning he had. And now, the thought that she had fallen in love with and given her body and heart to her father’s murderer made her sick.