Married to Her Enemy

by Jenni Fletcher

  Instead she placed a hand on his forearm, trying and failing to feel only the cloth and not the muscles beneath as they meandered slowly towards the edge of the village.

  Desperately she tried to arrange her thoughts into some kind of order, but now she had space to think and darkness to cloak her emotions she found herself utterly incapable of doing so. His presence beside her made it impossible to think about anything clearly. All her being seemed focussed on the warm, solid pressure of his arm against hers.

  She cleared her throat, trying to distract herself. ‘Renard said it was you who nursed me through the fever.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  He ignored the question. ‘And how do you feel, after all my hard work?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ She glanced at him warily. He’d sounded faintly amused.

  ‘I mean how do you feel after the ride today? I’ve never seen anyone look more uncomfortable on a horse.’

  She scowled, glad of the darkness concealing her crimson cheeks. How did he know how she felt? Did he notice everything?

  ‘I told you, I’m just a little stiff.’

  They came to a halt at the top of the village, looking down over the thatched roofs to the moonlit valley below. To the east she could see the boggy morass of the Fens, to the north the hills they’d just crossed. She peered into the distance towards Etton, far over the horizon now. It was a long and more dangerous road than she’d given it credit for—a road that Cille had travelled alone just five months before.

  Until now she hadn’t truly appreciated the risks her sister had taken. Cille had known she was carrying a baby, so why had she made such an arduous journey alone? She’d said that she’d wanted to come home, but that answer seemed inadequate now, the danger too great. For the first time Aediva wished that she’d asked more questions, been more persistent in getting answers. But Cille had been reluctant to talk about anything, retreating inside herself, silently mourning the loss of their father, of Leofric...

  A memory stirred at the back of her mind. Cille had wanted to tell her something. Just before she left. Something about the baby...

  ‘It’ll take her a while to recover.’ Svend’s gaze followed hers, and his voice was low and reassuring. ‘The babe’s strong and healthy. And Henri won’t leave until he’s sure they’re both out of danger.’

  ‘He knows about babies?’ She looked up dubiously, an image of the battle-scarred soldier popping into her mind.

  ‘I doubt that.’ Svend’s teeth flashed white in the darkness. ‘But he’ll take care of them. Don’t worry.’

  ‘I know.’ She paused for the space of a heartbeat. ‘I trust you.’

  ‘Trust a Norman?’

  ‘You’re not Norman.’

  ‘Ah.’ He nodded thoughtfully. ‘That must be it.’

  For a moment neither of them spoke, as if the atmosphere were already too heavy for words. Why had she said that? The mead was clearly affecting her senses, pushing Cille and Maren and all the reasons why she shouldn’t be alone with him to the back of her mind. She shifted uncomfortably, wincing as a taut muscle spasmed in her back.

  ‘Just a little stiff...?’

  She set her teeth against the pain. ‘I’m fine.’

  He sighed and pulled her towards him suddenly, one hand grasping her waist while the other slid up and down her spine, teasing the sore muscles.

  She made a strangled sound in the back of her throat, the shock of his touch coursing through her body like lightning through her veins. What was he doing?

  ‘Relax.’

  It was a command, not a request. Strong fingers stroked the curve of her back, tracing circular patterns around the knotted muscles, kneading them in a firm, smooth rhythm. She bit her tongue, holding back a groan of pleasure as she swayed towards him, lulled into submission. This was madness. Wrong—definitely wrong. But it felt too good to stop...too good to do anything but surrender.

  ‘Better?’ His fingers pressed deeper and harder, forcing the tension out of her body.

  ‘A...a little.’ She sighed, tipping her head back so that her spine arched beneath his touch.

  ‘Just a little?’ His voice was gently teasing.

  She was almost panting now, and her head was screaming a warning so loudly she couldn’t hear herself think. Not that she wanted to. Not when his touch was sending toe-curling sensations all through her body, making every fibre of her being ache and shudder with longing.

  Slowly his hands slid up and around to cup her breasts, his fingers spreading out to stroke the nipples. They hardened at once, stiffening beneath the fabric of her tunic as if they were straining to reach him.

  ‘And this?’ His lips skimmed the side of her throat.

  ‘Much...better...’

  She sagged against him, engulfed by the feeling of his strong body moulded to hers. How could two hands—hands that had held her imprisoned, hands that she’d pushed away in anger—now be controlling her so effortlessly? Her whole body throbbed with pleasure.

  He pulled her round gently, his lips drifting across the line of her jaw towards the neck of her gown, his teeth grasping the lacings and pulling them loose until she gasped aloud, feeling the whisper of air on her skin.

  She murmured his name, unable to bear the tension any longer, feeling a stirring sensation deep in her stomach. It was a warm glow and a yearning at the same time...an intense pleasure and a tantalising pain all mixed into one. If she didn’t kiss him now she would scream. She grasped his head and pulled it down to hers, lips seeking his hungrily.

  This kiss was different—not slow or tender, but hungry and forceful...a kiss meant to last. His tongue traced the line of her lips and she opened them eagerly, letting him inside and entwining her own tongue with his, searching, questing, losing herself in the touch and taste of him.

  They came apart at last and she clung to his shoulders, dazed. Her heart was beating so fast she felt dizzy. She’d never imagined that a kiss could be so all-consuming. If the Thane and his family had stood watching she doubted she would have noticed. How long had it been? Time seemed to have stopped. It felt like hours and yet not long enough.

  ‘I’ve wanted to do that from the first moment I saw you.’ Svend’s breathing was as unsteady as hers.

  She started to smile and then stopped. ‘You kissed me after the ambush! Had you forgotten that?’

  ‘How could I forget? But that was different. You caught me off guard.’

  ‘I caught you off guard?’

  He grinned. ‘I knew I wanted to kiss you, I just didn’t realise how much. This time I was better prepared.’

  She smiled, appeased, swaying back into his arms as his lips brushed her neck.

  ‘I never knew it could be like this.’

  ‘What’s that?’ His teeth tugged gently at her earlobe.

  ‘Like this.’ She stretched her body like a cat, wanting to feel every inch of him. ‘I never imagined it could feel so wonderful.’

  His lips stilled against her ear, his grip on her waist tightening imperceptibly. ‘Not even with your husband?’

  She froze in his arms, brought down to earth with a jolt. In that moment she’d forgotten that she was supposed to be Cille—forgotten everything but him and the feelings he aroused in her.

  ‘Cille?’

  ‘It wasn’t... That is... It’s different.’

  Desperately she tried to remember what she’d said. Had she revealed too much? Did he suspect her?

  ‘You didn’t feel the same way?’

  ‘No.’ She tried to pull away, but his arms held her tight.

  ‘And now?’

  His voice was insistent, demanding, as if her answer were important to him.

  How did she feel? She didn’t k
now what to say. He didn’t suspect her. He really wanted to know—as if he truly cared about her answer, as if he wanted her to care too. She felt a wholly inappropriate desire to laugh. She felt like a traitor and a slave at the same time...as if she were standing on the very brink of a precipice, peering over the edge, unable to take a step backwards and save herself.

  She opened her mouth, the words on the very tip of her tongue. She wanted to tell him the truth. That she’d never felt this way about anyone, had never imagined such a feeling was even possible, that she wanted him—a Norman—more than any Saxon she’d ever known! But how could she tell him any of it without admitting who she really was? Without failing Cille?

  She couldn’t.

  ‘Let me go!’

  She wrenched herself out of his arms, stumbling away into the darkness. How could her feelings for him have altered so much in a few days? Less than a week ago she’d tried to stab him, and now... Now she was afraid of hurting him as Maren had. Was this love? Did she love her enemy? What kind of Saxon did that make her? What kind of sister and daughter? All she knew was that she had to get away from him—away from the temptation of his arms. The longer she stayed, the more likely it was that she’d give herself away.

  ‘Cille...’ He sounded contrite. ‘I shouldn’t have asked. Your husband and your past are none of my business.’

  She stared at him helplessly. If she went back to him now she’d be lost. She rocked on her heels, fighting the urge to run into his arms and tell him everything.

  ‘We should go back. They’ll be wondering where we are.’

  ‘Cille...’ He held out a hand to her.

  ‘No!’ Her voice was harsher than she’d intended and his hand fell at once.

  ‘As you wish.’

  She walked silently ahead of him, her emotions in disarray, desperate to get away and yet dreading the moment of parting. She couldn’t tell him who she really was, but she didn’t want it to end like this.

  They reached the hall at last and she turned to face him.

  ‘When we reach Redbourn will I see you again?’

  His face was impassive. ‘That depends on FitzOsbern. He may have another commission for me.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Her heart felt like a stone in her chest. Even if she saw Svend again, this was probably the last time they’d be alone together.

  ‘Then this is goodbye, Svend du Danemark. I won’t forget you.’

  He nodded sternly. ‘Goodbye, Lady Cille.’

  She turned away, but his voice arrested her.

  ‘Cille, if there were another way...’

  She attempted a smile but failed, moving away before she could change her mind. If there were another way, she thought miserably, one of them would already have found it.

  Chapter Nine

  ‘I’m sorry you can’t stay any longer.’ Thane Harald laid a restraining hand on Talbot’s bridle. ‘You’ll be sure to tell the King of my service?’

  Svend nodded tersely. The Thane’s obsequious manner had ceased to be entertaining and was starting to grate heavily on his nerves. If the man didn’t let go of his horse in a moment he’d wrench his whole damn arm off.

  ‘We’re grateful for your hospitality, Thane.’

  He pulled sharply on the bridle, hardly bothering to hide his contempt. The old hypocrite had made endless declarations of loyalty to the King, though he’d failed even to offer the loan of a horse.

  As a result, he and Cille were still sharing a mount—her small body was still perched in front of him as they rode out of Offley and into open countryside. It was slow torture, being so close and yet unable to touch her the way he’d touched her last night, the way he wanted to again...

  Silently, he studied the base of her neck. It was smooth and swanlike, with her long hair swept carelessly over one shoulder in a loose braid. Every time the horse swayed he found himself tempted to reach down and bury his face there. And if she pressed any further back against him she’d know how badly he wanted to.

  Neither of them had spoken a word to the other all morning. What could they say? Nothing that would ease the tension between them. Nothing that would take back what had happened.

  He should have known better—had known better—but he hadn’t been able to resist following her out into the night. Clearly she wasn’t the only one who’d drunk too much mead. That and the moonlight had made him reckless, made him say and do things he should never even have thought about.

  He’d told her about his past. Why? Because she reminded him of Maren? No, it was more than that. He was as powerfully attracted to her as he’d been to Maren, but the feelings she aroused in him were completely different.

  Over the past few days he’d found himself thinking of his lost home more and more, her presence evoking half-forgotten feelings of warmth, affection, loyalty...belonging. Since he’d met her he’d started looking at the land in a new light too, wishing it were possible to start again, to build a new home, to belong somewhere, with someone. With her.

  For the first time in ten years he’d wanted to tell someone about his past, wanted to share something of himself and not just his sword arm. He’d told her the truth, the whole truth, and her reaction had taken him completely by surprise. In his experience most people despised outlaws, whether they were guilty of their crimes or not, but she hadn’t condemned him—hadn’t questioned his innocence even for a moment. She’d actually seemed angry for him, not towards him, and there had been something else too—some emotion he couldn’t quite put his finger on...something like guilt.

  But what did she have to feel guilty about? More likely she’d been offended that he’d compared her to Maren, making it sound as if he didn’t trust her either.

  Did he trust her?

  The thought gave him pause. She was still hiding something from him. Somehow he’d hoped that by telling her about Maren she might return the favour, but if anything she’d pulled even further away. She’d surrendered to his kisses eagerly enough, but when he’d asked about her husband she’d actually looked frightened, recoiling as if his very touch had scalded. Clearly she still thought of him as her enemy, still retreated into silence when he demanded answers.

  That had been a mistake. He shouldn’t have pushed her to answer. But when she’d said she hadn’t felt the same way with her husband he hadn’t been able to stop himself—had hoped for one brief, thrilling moment that there was more than just physical attraction between them, that she might care for him too.

  But it was hopeless.

  If there were another way...

  There wasn’t. He’d lain awake most of the night, faced with a choice that was none at all. If he cared for her, he had to let her go. As a lowborn knight he couldn’t challenge the Baron, but he could hardly run away with her either. He was a landless warrior, reliant upon the King’s goodwill, with nothing of value beside a skilled sword arm. Nothing to offer any woman—especially one used to a fine hall and a wealthy husband—and he wouldn’t wish the life of an exile on anyone, wouldn’t expose her to that kind of danger. She’d be better off with de Quincey.

  At least he had the comfort of knowing she’d be well treated. The Baron was an honourable man, and would take good care of her. Though if he ever found out what had happened between them he’d have his guts on a spike. Svend shrugged the thought aside. Whatever punishment the Baron might devise paled beside the thought of her marrying him. That was punishment enough.

  Talbot shied slightly and he reached forward, adjusting the bridle. For a heart-stopping moment his hand brushed her wrist and he found himself wanting to grasp it, to hold tight and never let go. But he had to let go. In a few hours he had to bid her goodbye.

  When had she stopped being his prisoner? he wondered. And when had he become hers?

  * * *

  T
hey joined the approach road to Redbourn around noon. Aediva recognised their surroundings now—had ridden this way in the past with Cille. They were on the last leg of their journey...would be there that afternoon. Soon Svend would leave her behind, riding out of her life possibly for ever.

  The thought of parting from him made her feel sick to her stomach, undermining all her resolve of the previous night. In the cold light of day the last thing she wanted was to let him go. Not now—not when she’d only just realised how much she cared.

  She half turned her head, trying to fix an image of him in her mind. It wasn’t so much to ask, surely? Just a few more hours in his company? Time to treasure and savour once they were parted? It wouldn’t hurt Cille. If anything, it would gain her more time. Where was the harm?

  She racked her brains, trying to think of a means of stalling. She couldn’t ask him outright. If he refused she’d feel humiliated. Could she pretend to be ill again? No, she had the feeling he’d see through any pretence. How else could she persuade him?

  Renard cantered alongside and she could have kissed him in gratitude.

  ‘The men want to know if they can remove their chainmail in this heat, sir. ’Tis not far now to Redbourn.’

  Svend scanned the vale, as if scouring every tree and shrub for a trap. ‘We’re close enough, I suppose. I doubt there’ll be rebels this far south.’

  ‘Perhaps your men would like to bathe?’ She asked the question casually, testing his reaction.

  ‘Bathe? I don’t see a river.’

  ‘See those two streams?’ She pointed up the valley triumphantly. ‘They run into that wood. There’s an old dam where the water pools into a lake. It’s stony, but safe.’

  Svend hesitated for a moment, before shaking his head. ‘We can’t keep FitzOsbern waiting any longer. He’ll be impatient enough.’

  ‘But this way you’ll arrive fresh.’ She batted her eyelashes, mimicking Joannka.

  ‘Do we smell so bad?’