Married to Her Enemy

by Jenni Fletcher

  She felt as though night had suddenly fallen. Heavy branches blocked out the darkening sky, enveloping them in an eerie, overcast gloom. Svend dismounted at once, issuing orders as she peered through the trees for any sign of rebels. But there was nothing, no one, no sign that anyone had ever been there. It must have been a coincidence after all, she thought with relief. Her imagination playing tricks on her.

  No sooner had the thought entered her head than two dozen men burst from the undergrowth, swords and axes raised, their bloodcurdling cries and bearded faces immediately identifying them as Saxon rebels.

  The Normans drew their weapons at once, grouping around her defensively as the palfrey snorted and whirled, spooked by its sudden entrapment.

  ‘Cille, get down!’

  She heard Svend shout, but she couldn’t see him. Almost at once his voice was lost in a deafening, seething morass of metal and blood. Desperately, she sought him out, craning her neck to catch a glimpse of pale blond hair in the very midst of the fiercest fighting. He wasn’t wearing armour, but it hardly seemed to matter. None of his opponents’ blows even came close to touching him. He wielded his sword as if it were a mere extension of his arm, every strike measured and terrifying.

  She heard a loud battle cry as one of the Saxons suddenly charged through the throng, hurling himself against the boy with the swollen eye and knocking him to the ground, swinging his axe back as if preparing to bring it down on his head.

  ‘No!’ She looked around frantically, searching for a weapon—any weapon. The boy was sprawled on the ground, looking stunned, unable to fight back even to defend himself. Norman or not, she couldn’t let him be struck down in cold blood...

  The Saxon’s axe swung down and she froze, holding her breath, willing the boy to escape—before Svend appeared out of nowhere, barrelling into the man’s side so violently that he sent them both rolling into the dirt.

  A scream was torn from her lungs. Svend was already scrambling back to his feet, but so was the Saxon warrior, and this time there was no mistaking her feelings. She was frightened—no, terrified—of Svend being hurt. She hardly knew whose side she was on any more, but she couldn’t just sit there and watch. What if he were injured? What if he were killed? She had to do something.

  Impulsively she charged the palfrey into the throng, determined to cause a break in the fighting.

  ‘Hold!’

  She heard restraining cries in both Saxon and French as the palfrey wheeled about, nostrils flaring, panicking as it scented blood. In a blur, she saw men jump out of the way, then felt herself flung backwards and abruptly forwards again as the terrified beast reared on its haunches, legs kicking in mid-air, before bolting headlong into the trees.

  She clung to the horse’s mane for dear life, pressing her face into its neck as twigs and branches tore at her clothes and skin, ripping away her headdress and scratching her neck with long, pointed talons. She heaved at the reins but the horse resisted, dodging and weaving between the trees, running wild as it tried to escape.

  At last they burst into a clearing—a small, secluded meadow in the midst of the woodland—and she lifted her head into the sleeting rain. Blasts of icy wind whistled in her ears and coils of hair whipped across her face, half blinding her. Though not enough to obscure the view of another clump of woodland looming directly ahead. And the palfrey was heading straight towards it, galloping at full speed towards trees that looked closer together and even more dangerous. If they didn’t stop she’d be crushed against them for certain.

  Then she heard another set of hooves—a heavy drumming that was slowly but steadily gaining on her. Heart in her mouth, she turned her head, knowing the identity of the rider even before she saw him.

  ‘Jump!’

  Svend was almost alongside, reaching an arm out to catch her as she stared at him in shock. Surely he didn’t mean it? She risked a glance at the ground hurtling by and then wished that she hadn’t. If she fell beneath the hooves she’d be trampled instantly. There had to be another way.

  ‘Cille, you have to jump! Trust me!’

  There were only a few seconds left. She was almost at the trees and he was her only chance. She wanted to let go, wanted to trust him, but how could she? She’d already betrayed her people. If she let him rescue her too she might as well side with the Normans completely.

  ‘I can’t!’

  His destrier twisted sideways abruptly, its grey head butting fearlessly against her palfrey’s flanks, knocking it off course. Bellowing in shock, her horse reared up and she found herself hurtling backwards, the reins slipping through her fingers. She closed her eyes and braced herself, knowing there was nothing between her and the rock-strewn ground.

  Then an arm grabbed her waist, catching her as she tumbled through the air, and her eyes flew open with a jolt, to look up into those of the angriest-looking man she’d ever seen.

  ‘Have you gone mad?’ Svend’s face was like thunder.

  Aediva blinked at him, scarcely able to breathe. Her heart was pounding violently against her ribcage and his arm was tight around her waist, crushing her against him. He was half out of his saddle, bearing her entire weight apparently without effort, in the crook of one arm. She looked down, feeling like a tiny twig on a massive oak tree.

  ‘You could have been killed! Can’t you just trust me for once?’

  Her temper flared to meet his. He was her enemy. How dared he ask for her trust? And why was he berating her anyway? She was the one who’d almost been killed!

  ‘Let me go!’ She twisted in his grip and he released her at once, letting her sprawl inelegantly on the wet ground.

  ‘That’s one less horse, then.’ He glared as the back of the palfrey vanished into the trees. ‘Are you intending to walk the rest of the way?’

  She ignored him, shaking out her sodden dress in disgust. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, but the meadow felt like a swamp. Scowling, she pulled herself up and stalked back the way they’d come, the long grass clinging to her skirts as if trying to drag her back.

  ‘Stop!’

  He called after her but she kept moving, rubbing her neck and arms in irritation. They were covered in bumps and scratches like painful bites, where the branches had torn through her sleeves. As if losing her dignity in front of Svend weren’t bad enough, she probably looked a fright too.

  ‘I said stop! That’s an order, Lady Cille!’

  ‘An order?’ She whirled around angrily, unable to stop herself from taking the bait. ‘Who are you to give me orders?’

  He leapt down from his destrier and stalked towards her. ‘You’re my prisoner.’

  ‘You’re my escort!’

  ‘I warned you not to try to escape.’

  ‘Escape?’ She blinked in surprise. ‘I wasn’t...’

  ‘Do you have any idea how dangerous that was? Besides the fact that you endangered my men. I told you to get down!’

  ‘I wasn’t trying to escape!’ she shouted over him impatiently. Somehow that fact felt important, as if she needed him to know.

  ‘You weren’t?’ He frowned, some of his anger evaporating.

  ‘No, I...’ She stopped. What could she say? How could she explain what she hardly understood herself?

  ‘Then what were you thinking?’

  He sounded exasperated and she laughed, a bitter sound even to her own ears, throwing her arms wide as if to embrace the elements.

  ‘Nothing! I wasn’t thinking. But I had to do something. I couldn’t just watch you get killed!’

  She spun away from him, clamping a hand to her mouth as she realised what she’d said. She’d meant the rebels. She hadn’t wanted to watch the rebels get killed. They were her people. They were all she cared about—all she should care about.

  But it wasn’t true.

  She heard him come
to stand close behind her...so close that she could feel the warmth of his breath on her neck. Her skin tingled beneath it.

  ‘You were trying to protect me?’ he murmured huskily in her ear.

  She bit down hard on her lip. She couldn’t care about him. It wasn’t possible. He was her enemy. And even if he wasn’t he was still a man. If she told him how she felt he might touch her, and she didn’t want any man to touch her...did she?

  The memory of their first meeting flashed through her mind. Of when she’d hurled herself against him in the hall, when his strong body had lain over hers, when she’d straddled his thighs... She’d resisted him then and had resisted him ever since—as she ought to resist him now. But this time she couldn’t. This time she wanted him close. Closer. She felt a strange compulsion to lean back against him, to feel the curve of her body against his, to feel his strong arms around her waist.

  She shook her head, her mind still protesting against her treacherous body. It was comfort that she wanted, that was all. She was still in shock after her ordeal with the palfrey. Saxon or Norman or whoever he was, she only wanted to be comforted. He could be anyone.

  ‘Cille?’

  His hand touched her shoulder but she didn’t push it away. Instead she half turned her head, shivering with anticipation as his fingers slid downwards, past her elbow and along her forearm, until they circled her wrist like a manacle. As if she were his captive. Which she was.

  With only the lightest of touches he tugged at her hand and she found herself turning to face him, her body just a hair’s breadth from his, so close that if she swayed even slightly...

  Strong fingers traced the line of her jaw, tilting her chin up and forcing her gaze to meet his. She gasped, the smouldering intensity in his eyes making her stomach quiver. They looked bigger, darker, and even more tempting—as if the ice in them had melted, leaving twin pools of irresistible cobalt blue water. Eyes she could dive into, could drown in if she weren’t careful.

  She swallowed nervously, seeing the reflection of her own desire. He wanted her. And she wanted him. But how could she? He was her captor, her enemy. He thought she was someone else...he thought she was a grieving widow...he thought she was...

  ‘Cille?’ He said the name like a caress.

  ‘No...’ she breathed. She wasn’t Cille. She shouldn’t be doing this.

  ‘No?’ he repeated faintly, bending his head so that his mouth hovered mere inches from hers, tantalisingly close, waiting for her to make the first move...

  If she wanted him to stop, this was her chance.

  She let her body overrule her mind, swaying forward as if her insides had turned to water and she could simply flow into his arms. Her hand fluttered to his chest and his lips seized instantly upon hers, covering her mouth with a touch that silenced every protest.

  She let her lips mould against his, caught up in a wave of pleasure that threatened to overwhelm what was left of rational thought. He was tender—more tender than she’d imagined a warrior could be—exploring her mouth with a soft but unyielding pressure as his hands gathered her against him, tracing the curve of her spine, leaving a trail of fire.

  All her resistance gave way and she surrendered to the feeling, letting her body lead as she closed what was left of the space between them, reaching up on her toes as she leaned against the hard lines of his body as if she couldn’t bear anything, not even air, to come between them. She felt his surprise, felt him stiffen and then respond as his arms coiled tighter around her waist, lifting her up so that her feet barely skimmed the floor, so tight that she could feel the solid muscles of his chest beneath his tunic.

  A frisson of excitement raced through her body, heating her blood. All her senses seemed heightened...every nerve ending quivered. And she could feel a hot, tugging sensation deep inside, as if he were pulling her towards him by some invisible cord. It was an ache, a need, overwhelming and urgent... She ran her hands through his hair and moved her mouth against his, felt the pressure of his own lips increase, grow deeper, harder, as if they were no longer two but one body joined by a common desperate need.

  They came apart finally and she arched her neck, gasping for breath as his mouth still moved hungrily over her skin, pressing kisses against her throat, her ears, into her hair. A low moan escaped her lips as for the first time in months she felt her mind start to shut down, as if her cares were floating away and there were only the two of them. If she could only hold on to this feeling, stay engulfed by his powerful arms, with the intoxicating feel of his lips on her skin, just lose herself in it and not think of the future...

  ‘Cille...’ he murmured, reclaiming her mouth.

  She could feel his heartbeat, the hot pulse of his blood, but it wasn’t enough. What more was there?

  ‘Svend...?’ She made his name into a question. What next? she wanted to ask. What happens next?

  She’d heard gossip, of course, and Cille had told her something of what passed between a man and a woman, but this was beyond her ken, beyond words, beyond anything that she’d ever imagined.

  She didn’t know what her body wanted, just that it wanted, needed, demanded more. She’d never felt anything like this before, nothing remotely akin to this yearning. Her only experience was with Edmund.

  Edmund. Her stomach plummeted.

  ‘Cille?’ Svend pulled his head back, sensing the change in her. ‘What is it?’

  His breathing was as ragged as hers, but his face was full of concern, as if he truly cared. If she wanted him to he’d take her in his arms and kiss her again, kiss away the bitter memory of Edmund for ever.

  She caught her breath, fighting the impulse. What was she doing? He was a man—just like Edmund. His kisses might feel pleasurable now, but soon he’d start pushing for more, would turn pleasure into pain. She didn’t want any man to touch her, let alone Svend. How much worse to let an enemy use and then betray her as Edmund had done? She shouldn’t be doing this.

  No matter how much she wanted to.

  She pushed frantically against his chest and he relaxed his hold at once, lowering her gently to the floor.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ He sounded confused.

  Back on firm ground, her legs felt unsteady—as if the world beneath her had become suddenly unstable. She felt his arms tighten again and wrenched herself free, raising a hand to her swollen lips, seized by an irrational surge of anger. How dared he try to seduce her? Cille or not, he was supposed to be her escort—the man entrusted to take her to her new husband. What kind of a wanton did he take her for? Did he think Saxon women were so easily seduced?

  ‘Cille?’

  He reached out a hand and she clenched her fists, resisting the urge to take it. She had to go back—back to the way things had been. Better to be enemies than this.

  ‘Do you make it a custom to seduce all your prisoners?’

  She spat the words out as scathingly as possible, and saw something like hurt flash across his features, before it was gone—so quickly that she thought she must have imagined it. And then he was her captor again, the intimacy between them evaporating into thin air.

  At the same moment she heard a commotion in the trees and a Norman soldier burst into the meadow, shouting out with relief at the sight of them.

  ‘The rebels have fled, sir!’

  She was relieved to see it was the boy with the swollen eye.

  Svend raised an arm in acknowledgement, then turned back to face her stonily. For a moment he seemed on the verge of saying something, before his expression altered abruptly.

  ‘You’re soaking wet!’

  She looked down, surprised to find that he was right. Her dress was sodden, clinging to her body like a second skin, leaving little to the imagination. She hadn’t been aware of it until that moment, but now that he mentioned it she felt soaked to the bone. More than
that, she felt cold and shivery all over.

  He made a move as if to touch her, then stopped himself.

  ‘We can’t stay here. Your rebels are still close by and I can’t risk any more of your heroics.’

  She nodded, her teeth starting to chatter uncontrollably. ‘But the horse...’

  ‘You’ll ride with me.’

  ‘No!’ She shook her head, struggling to focus. She couldn’t ride with him—couldn’t touch him again. She didn’t know if she could trust herself.

  She raised her arms as if to fend him off, then swayed dizzily. The meadow itself seemed to be tilting up towards her. Where was Svend? She spun round, then felt a pair of strong arms on her waist, scooping her up and gathering her to a broad chest that smelt of horse, leather and a musky male scent all of its own. She’d smelt it the first time he’d tackled her to the ground. She would have recognised it anywhere.

  A feeling of immense tiredness swept over her. He seemed to be asking her a question, but she felt as though she were below water, straining to hear. What was the matter with her hearing? And her sight? His eyes were blurring together in front of her, coalescing into a single bright sapphire in the very midst of her vision.

  ‘Cille? Can you hear me?’

  His voice seemed to come from a long way away. He sounded concerned. He was worried about her. The thought made her smile... Maybe if she said sorry, that she hadn’t meant to attack him, he would kiss her again. Now that the moment was gone she wanted it back again.

  ‘Svend...’ she murmured, enjoying the feel of his name on her tongue. ‘Svend du Danemark...’

  And then the fog descended and she surrendered to it.

  Chapter Seven

  Aediva stretched, yawned and burrowed her way deeper inside the comfort of a fur-skinned mantle, smiling as the hair tickled her cheek.

  She sighed contentedly, recalling a sensation of endless motion, of something warm and strong wrapped tightly around her waist, of feeling as light as a feather and then being laid down and wrapped in something soft and luxuriant. She vaguely remembered a blurry face, filled with concern, and the gentle touch of fingers on her forehead...