Married to Her Enemy

by Jenni Fletcher

  ‘Is he so easily offended?’

  ‘He’s the King’s cousin—the Earl of Hereford, Gloucester, Worcestershire and Oxfordshire. What do you think?’

  She shrugged. ‘I think he sounds busy.’

  ‘He’s not a man to be trifled with.’

  ‘Maybe not, but you still haven’t answered my question. Why did you leave your homeland? To find somewhere warmer?’

  ‘If I’d wanted a better climate I wouldn’t have gone to Normandy, let alone come here. This must be the first dry day since we arrived.’

  ‘Perhaps your King should have checked the climate before he invaded.’

  He smiled in surprise. Was that a joke? She was being sarcastic, but for the first time there was no venom behind her words. On the contrary, her voice was soft, thoughtful, surprisingly mellifluous. Perhaps there was hope for her yet...

  ‘I’ll be sure to warn him next time.’

  ‘So where will you go next?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You seem to like travelling.’

  ‘It hasn’t always been by choice. But I might not go anywhere. A man needs to put down roots some time.’

  Her body jerked suddenly. ‘You mean you want to stay here?’

  ‘Maybe. The King rewards his knights.’

  ‘And he’s going to reward you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘For capturing me?’

  ‘In part.’

  ‘With land? Saxon land?’

  He threw her a pointed look. ‘Norman land now.’

  ‘Somewhere like Etton?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  She rounded on him angrily. ‘So that’s it? You’re only admiring the land because you want to steal it!’

  ‘Steal it?’ He sighed heavily. ‘Hell’s teeth, I have already told you—your marriage will allow you to keep your land.’

  ‘And I have already told you I don’t want to marry a Norman!’ Her gaze narrowed suddenly. ‘Besides, what about Aediva?’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘She’s lived in Etton her whole life. Where’s she supposed to go?’

  ‘I’m sure arrangements can be made.’

  ‘You don’t even care!’

  ‘Why should I? Am I supposed to care about every woman in England? One of you is bad enough.’

  She muttered something under her breath and he ran a hand through his hair in frustration.

  ‘For pity’s sake, woman, what do you intend to do if you don’t marry again? If you’re thinking about joining the rebels, then don’t. I’ve seen your sword skills.’

  ‘I’ll think of something.’

  ‘Do that.’ He clenched his jaw in exasperation. ‘It’s still a long way to Redbourn. I’d use the time to think, if I were you.’

  * * *

  Aediva turned her face away, not wanting to look at him a second longer. So that was why he’d been talking about farming! She’d actually thought he’d been trying to comfort her, to distract her from painful memories, but instead he’d been thinking about claiming her home for himself! And she’d been naive enough to feel grateful, talking to him as she might to a Saxon, as if he were someone other than her enemy!

  She was still fuming as they crested the hill and started down the other side, looking out over a wide green expanse that curved all the way down to Redbourn, where William FitzOsbern was waiting for her.

  The thought made her shudder.

  ‘You’re shivering.’ Svend’s voice was matter-of-fact now, without even a trace of sympathy. ‘Renard! See if we have anything warmer for the lady to wear.’

  She tossed her head, still refusing to look at him. Somehow she doubted that Renard would find anything. The Normans seemed to be wearing all of their clothing at once, wrapped up as if for the deepest of winters. All except Svend. He was wearing only a linen tunic under his gambeson, as if he were immune to the chill easterly wind.

  Her mind flew back to the birthing chamber and the fur-lined cloak he’d draped so carefully around Cille’s trembling shoulders. Why wasn’t he wearing it now? Unless...

  Her head spun back towards him. ‘You gave her your cloak?’

  His brow creased as his gaze slipped past her shoulder, studying the horizon as if there were something of intense interest behind her.

  ‘She was in greater need.’

  ‘Oh.’ The word sounded ungrateful even to her own ears.

  There was a long silence, broken only by the screeching of a kestrel overhead, before he drew rein abruptly.

  ‘Hold!’ He jumped down easily, striding away from the horses without bothering to help her dismount. ‘We’ll rest for a while.’

  Aediva lowered herself to the ground, her mind at war with itself. He was a pig! Disrespectful, callous and insensitive, not to mention ungallant—and yet, much as she hated to admit it, overall his behaviour had been surprisingly honourable.

  She stole a glance at his profile. He was staring into the distance, his expression stern, aloof... Norman. He looked like a Norman, sounded like a Norman, and yet despite his ill manners he’d behaved more like a Saxon might have done—as Edmund ought to have done. Since they’d met she’d told him she hated him, threatened to kill him, held a knife to his chest twice, and yet he hadn’t punished her. He’d taken care of Cille and sent Henri to rescue her people. He’d noticed when she was upset, when she was cold, when she was hungry and tired. In retrospect, she’d been less than grateful.

  And, as a Thane’s daughter, it was her duty to acknowledge it, no matter how angry she felt.

  She took a deep, faltering breath. ‘What I said this morning...’

  ‘About wanting to stab me in the heart?’ He turned to face her, arms folded as if braced for a fresh verbal assault.

  ‘Yes. I didn’t mean it.’

  ‘Really?’ He sounded sceptical.

  ‘I was angry.’

  ‘I noticed.’

  ‘And I’m sorry.’

  His expression remained stony and she sighed inwardly. Clearly he wasn’t going to make this easy. How was it possible for a Norman to make her feel like the one in the wrong? But she still had to thank him. That was what her father would expect her to do.

  ‘I owe you my thanks. For taking care of my sister, for sending your man after our people. I should have thanked you this morning.’

  ‘Instead of threatening to kill me, perhaps?’

  She gritted her teeth. ‘Instead of that, yes.’

  ‘But...?’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Speak honestly, Lady Cille. I don’t like half-truths. You’re sorry for this morning, and you’re grateful to me, but...?’

  She stared at him, taken aback by his bluntness. How did he do that? Trap her with her own words? She’d been trying to thank him. Why couldn’t he just leave it at that?

  ‘Well?’ He prompted her.

  ‘Can’t you just accept my thanks? I have said I’m grateful.’

  ‘But you’re still angry.’

  ‘Yes, I’m angry!’ She felt her temper rising again. Of course she was angry! What else would she be?

  ‘Because...?’

  ‘Because you’re still one of them—a Norman, or as good as. I can’t help but hate you for it!’

  She glared at him unrepentantly, caught up in the moment. That was the truth. Hadn’t he asked for it? No matter how sorry for her behaviour or how grateful for his she might be, they were still enemies. That was obvious...wasn’t it?

  ‘So you hate all Normans?’ His voice was expressionless. ‘Your new husband will be pleased to hear that.’

  ‘I can’t help it.’

  ‘Do you always hate so indiscriminately?’

  ‘I have g
ood cause!’

  ‘Yes.’ His expression turned sombre. ‘Yes, in this case you do.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So is it really that simple? Saxon good? Norman bad? Take your sister’s husband, for instance. You say he abandoned her, a vulnerable woman, and their unborn baby. Do you still think well of him just because he’s Saxon?’

  She reeled backwards, staggering as if he’d just hit her. The words were so closely akin to her own thoughts that she had to turn her face away to hide her mortification. She didn’t want to talk about Edmund, especially not with him.

  ‘That’s different.’

  ‘Is it? I’m capable of many things, Lady Cille, but I hope not that.’

  ‘You don’t know anything about it!’

  ‘No, I don’t, but the world isn’t all black and white. Hate is a very strong word.’

  ‘Sometimes it fits very well!’

  His mouth twitched, though his expression was mirthless. ‘If you’re saying we can’t be friends, then for once we’re in agreement. As for your hatred of Normans...for your own sake I hope that you might overcome it.’

  ‘For my own sake? Is that a threat?’

  ‘It’s a warning. You should think about it before meeting the Earl. Or your new husband, for that matter.’

  She opened her mouth to retaliate and then closed it again. He had a point. She wouldn’t be able to persuade FitzOsbern to do anything, let alone release her—Cille—from the planned marriage if she charged in arguing and threatening. She’d have to learn to hide her true feelings, her true hatred of Normans, if she were going to stand any chance of success.

  As for this new husband—she fully intended to make herself as disagreeable to him as possible. After all he’d never met Cille, wouldn’t know what to expect. With any luck she’d put him off Saxon women for ever.

  A gust of wind caught her cloak unexpectedly, making it billow open, and Svend reacted at once, catching the edges and pulling them back together at her throat. She gasped, startled. The gesture seemed too intimate, unexpectedly tender, as if he were wrapping her tight in his arms. For a fleeting moment she felt safe and warm, as if the emptiness inside her had been banished, replaced by a warm glow that seemed to radiate outwards, along every nerve ending from the top of her head to the tip of her toes.

  She looked up in alarm, saw his eyes flash with something like surprise before they both pulled away at the same moment.

  He averted his gaze. ‘Believe it or not, I’m trying to help.’

  She cleared her throat, trying not to think about what had just happened. Even if that were true, she wasn’t going to thank him for it. She hadn’t asked for and certainly didn’t want advice from a Norman!

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘Well, that’s progress.’ He sighed. ‘Now, get some rest. I want to be a third of the way to Redbourn by nightfall and I don’t want you falling asleep on the ride.’

  Chapter Five

  Svend tightened his knuckles over his reins, the sound of soft, feminine laughter shredding the last vestiges of his temper.

  He’d let her rest for over an hour, afraid that the next sound he’d hear would be a thud as she fell out of the saddle, but he hadn’t expected her to wake up quite so refreshed. What was she laughing about? How could a sound be so infuriating and so intoxicating at the same time?

  He cast a swift glance over his shoulder at his squire. He’d told Renard to keep watch on her, but apparently the lad had decided to entertain her as well. He didn’t know which of them he was angrier with, but now he fervently wished he’d left her to fall in the dirt. She was a shrew. Even when he’d been trying to help her, after he’d thought they’d established some kind of truce, they’d somehow ended up arguing.

  So why was Renard so favoured? Why was the boy exempt from her hatred of Normans when he so clearly was not? He could almost imagine that she was doing it on purpose, to annoy him. He was not—would not—be jealous of his own squire!

  He dug his heels into Talbot’s flanks, accelerating his pace to match his anger and frustration, his attention fixed firmly on the track ahead. If she had time for jokes and laughter, then clearly he was being too easy on her.

  The wind battered his skin, brisk and invigorating, as they thundered up and over the rolling hillsides. He wasn’t jealous, he told himself, just irritated. Her very presence was irritating—unsettling, somehow—like a splinter under his skin that he couldn’t extract or ignore. But then he wasn’t accustomed to travelling with women. He was a soldier, not an escort, and the sooner they reached Redbourn and he was rid of her, the sooner he could claim his reward and the better for both of them.

  ‘You’re still one of them. I can’t help but hate you for it.’

  Her words came back to him now, as if carried on the wind. She’d sounded exasperated, as if he ought just to accept them. Well, shouldn’t he? She was mourning her husband and her father, and he was her captor, returning her to Redbourn against her will. Of course she hated him. What else did he expect?

  What else did he want?

  He leaned over Talbot’s mane, trying to lose himself in the pounding rhythm of hoofbeats. He shouldn’t want anything. He shouldn’t be thinking about her at all. He was her escort, sent by the King’s cousin. Only a fool would abuse such a trust. Only a madman would consider it.

  Besides, he wasn’t about to be distracted from his purpose now—and definitely not by a woman. He’d spent ten years rebuilding his life, following orders and earning the King’s goodwill. That was why he was here, fulfilling this one last commission. He was doing this for the reward, no other reason. Now, if he could just stop thinking about her...

  * * *

  The sky was darkening when he finally called a halt, setting up camp between a narrow brook and small copse of woodland. Svend slid from his horse, surprised to feel a protesting ache between his shoulder blades. He hadn’t been aware of any discomfort during the ride, but clearly he’d been pushing even harder than he’d intended.

  She’d probably hate him for that too.

  He turned to face her, expecting anger, and was taken aback by her pale, drained appearance. She was slumped so low in the saddle that she seemed in imminent danger of falling off, her eyes so red-rimmed and swollen they seemed to take up half her face. For a stunned moment he stood motionless, stung by a fierce pang of remorse, before he strode quickly to help her dismount, surprised when she let him. She slid down without even a murmur of protest, tumbling into his arms as if she were already half asleep, her very silence a reproach. No words of anger could have been so effective.

  ‘Lady Cille? Can you stand?’

  Her legs quivered in answer and he caught her up, gathering her into his arms as she mumbled something incoherent, her eyelids closing even before her head hit his shoulder.

  Guilt stabbed him anew. He’d done this, trying so hard not to think about her that he’d hurt her instead. He was accustomed to riding in all conditions, and for any length of time, but he should have considered the effect on someone unused to long marches—not to mention someone who’d spent the night before tending to a baby. He’d let his emotions get the better of him. Emotions he shouldn’t even be having. It would serve him right if FitzOsbern punished him—and not just for his ill treatment of her.

  He laid her down gently on a bed of pine needles and she curled up at once, fast asleep by the time he came back with a blanket. He tucked it around her, careful not to let his fingers linger, trying not to notice the smooth contours of her body as narrow waist curved into rounded hip.

  She hadn’t eaten—again—but he couldn’t bring himself to wake her. She could sleep for as long as she needed, then take it more easily tomorrow. They’d travel at a slow trot all the way to Redbourn if necessary. He’d even let her insult him if it made her feel bette
r.

  He stood up and made his way around the camp, ignoring the inquisitive looks of his men and berating himself inwardly. He rarely second-guessed himself, or felt obliged to explain his motives, but something about her unsteadied him, made him feel dangerously out of control.

  There was only one other woman who’d ever had such a powerful effect on him—one other woman who’d got into his head and ended up breaking his heart. But that had been a long time ago and he’d learnt a lot about women since Maren. Or thought he had. None of it had seemed to help with Lady Cille...

  He volunteered for the first watch, his mind too preoccupied for sleep, settling down amidst the scattered rocks beside the water’s edge as his men bedded down for the night, positioning himself with a clear view of her sleeping body. After what he’d done, he didn’t want to let her out of his sight. The least he could do was make sure she wasn’t disturbed. It wasn’t that he wanted to look at her—not completely, at least.

  He heard a crunching sound and reached instinctively for his dagger, his hand falling again as he recognised his squire.

  ‘Ale, sir?’

  Renard proffered a cup and Svend forced himself to accept. After all, the lad had only been following orders—his orders. Even so, he found it hard to forget their easy laughter that afternoon.

  ‘You should get some rest.’

  ‘I will, sir. It’s just...about Lady Cille...’

  ‘What about her?’ Svend struggled to keep his expression civil. His squire’s tone was mildly reproving.

  ‘She was very tired, sir.’

  ‘She was, but it was her own fault.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Anything else? Did I forget to curtsy as well?’

  The boy shook his head self-consciously. ‘No, sir. Sorry, sir. It’s just... She’s not what I expected.’

  ‘You seemed to get on well enough.’

  ‘I have five older sisters. I’m good at talking to women.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Svend smiled despite himself. ‘That’s quite a gift.’

  ‘Not when they only want to mother me. Lady Cille probably doesn’t think I’m old enough to be a soldier. But she and the Baron don’t seem very well-suited.’