And when he’d seen her... His breathing had quickened again. Incredibly, she’d looked even more desirable than she had at the waterfall. The memory of her naked beauty was seared into his memory, but her loose-fitting shift and tumbling curls had been almost a provocation too far. Standing on the coffer, her small breasts on a level with his face, she’d looked so wantonly desirable it had been all he could do not to haul her into his arms and consummate their marriage right then.
He forced his body back under control. Bedding her would only make his life more complicated, and he needed clarity where she was concerned. Whatever his heart felt, his head was still in command—at least for now.
She hadn’t given him a definite answer about the marriage, but he’d been surprised at how calmly she’d taken the Earl’s command. She’d actually seemed more shocked than angry, had hardly ranted about Normans at all.
The thought of Edmund had occurred to him only belatedly, sending a surge of jealousy coursing through his veins. Until that moment he’d thought that he wanted a way out of the marriage, but when the possibility had arisen he’d found himself wanting to fight for her instead. He’d insulted her by asking, but he’d needed to be sure. Was she married or not? And if she wasn’t...if her heart and body were still untouched...if she’d kissed him because she wanted to and not simply because she was deceiving him... The thought was more than a little enticing.
That was if she agreed to marry him.
The look on her face when he’d told her about Etton made him wonder. He hadn’t wanted to mention it at all—hadn’t wanted to sway her answer—but she needed to know the truth. If she refused the Earl’s command he wasn’t likely to let her go home.
For the first time he found himself wishing she were more selfish, like Maren. If she only thought of herself then at least he’d know what she wanted. He knew she felt a strong sense of duty towards her people. It would be typical of her to agree to the marriage just to protect them. It certainly wouldn’t prove anything about her feelings for him.
Well, their marriage would be based on duty—not love. Hers to her people, his to the King. He wasn’t about to succumb to temptation and let her make a fool of him again. He’d marry her for Redbourn, nothing more.
The oxhide swung open again and he tried his hardest not to react. She was dressed in an emerald-green gown, cinched at the waist with a tasselled belt, showing the curve of her hip to tantalising perfection. Her dark hair was covered with a veil, held in place with a copper headband that made her eyes seem even bigger and brighter, flickering like jewels in the candlelight.
‘Is this better?’
She ran her hands over the fabric self-consciously and he felt his blood surge with desire. Better? He’d found her alluring enough when she’d been dirt-stained and tattered, so this was almost more than he could bear. She looked stunning—more beautiful than any woman he’d ever laid eyes on. He felt himself harden just looking at her. If it weren’t for the Earl expecting them they’d get no further than this hall...
‘Better.’
He offered an arm gruffly and she took it, resting a hand on his bicep as they crossed the bailey in strained silence.
The hall itself was a riotous assault on the senses, crowded with knights and a scattering of ladies, and all eyes swivelled like magnets as they entered. Svend clenched his jaw fiercely. Every man in the room was looking at her with undisguised admiration, most of them hardly bothering to hide what they were thinking. He raised his spare hand to cover hers on his arm, saw her glance at him in surprise.
‘Lady Aediva—at last!’ FitzOsbern’s gaze swept over her approvingly as they approached the dais. ‘There seems to have been some confusion regarding your identity, my lady.’
Svend felt her hand tremble slightly on his arm, though her face showed no trace of fear as she dipped into a low, graceful curtsy.
‘Apologies, my lord. The fault was all mine.’
‘Then I hope you’re here to make reparation? I trust you’ve been informed of my wishes?’
For a moment she didn’t answer, and Svend felt himself tense. If she were going to refuse the marriage then it would be now. And suddenly he wanted very badly for her to agree.
‘I understand that you wish for us to marry?’
His heart sank. Her voice was loud and clear, carrying to all four corners of the hall, too bold, too defiant, as if she were preparing to refuse the Earl after all.
‘Indeed.’ FitzOsbern stood up expectantly. ‘So, Lady Aediva, we’re here for a wedding. Are you willing?’
‘If it pleases you, my lord, I am.’
Chapter Thirteen
Aediva sat miserably at the high table, trapped between the Earl and her new husband, keeping a rictus smile on her face. If she smiled any harder she thought her face would crack. Or she would.
She winced as a seemingly endless array of dishes were paraded past her trencher: duck drenched in honey, chicken stuffed with egg yolk, kidney and liver, woodcock and wild boar—more food than she usually saw in a month. She wondered where it had all come from. The Conqueror’s army had plundered the land, leaving the Saxons starving, but here at the Earl’s court there was no sign of shortage. The contrast would have turned her stomach even if his presence had not.
Absently, she twisted the copper band on her finger. How had it happened? She was married. To her enemy. Not by force, not against her wishes, but willingly, without so much as a murmur of protest, and in the presence of the Earl himself. What would her father have thought of her now?
But she was protecting Etton, she reminded herself. That was the reason she’d done it—the only reason that made any sense. She didn’t care for Svend...not after every insult and accusation he’d heaped on her. She was protecting her people, acting the part of Saxon lady and willing bride. That was her duty. Even if it meant life with a man who despised her.
She cast a sidelong glance towards her new husband, but his whole attention seemed riveted on the entertainment before them—a brightly coloured collection of jugglers, dancers and musicians. He’d been politely attentive all through the meal, loading her trencher with an array of delicacies, though he’d barely spoken a word, the smile on his lips never reaching his eyes.
Well, it wasn’t as if she wanted to be there either. She felt more alone in this crowded hall than she ever had at Etton. At least there she’d been amongst her own people, but now she could see nothing but strangers. Who were they? Who was she? Was she still Saxon or was she now Norman by marriage? Or Danish? Whoever she was, she felt surplus to requirements. This feast had been planned for de Quincey and Cille. Her marriage to Svend was just an excuse. If she slipped away she doubted anyone would notice. Probably not even her husband.
She chewed her lip resentfully. She wasn’t exactly sure what she ought to be doing on her wedding night, but she was quite certain that she shouldn’t be doing it on her own.
‘Did you know your husband plays the lyre?’ FitzOsbern’s voice broke through her reverie.
Svend’s head snapped round at once. ‘Not well.’
‘Passably well.’ The Earl’s smile was teasing. ‘When he came to Court he knew nothing of music or culture. I told him a knight had to do more with his hands than just fight. Come, Svend, honour us with a tune. A song for your new bride.’
‘As you wish.’ Svend inclined his head and stepped down from the dais, borrowing a lyre from one of the musicians. ‘I’ll play, but I don’t sing.’
Aediva knotted her hands in her lap as he strode to the centre of the hall. If he were playing for her, then silence would be more appropriate. It certainly wouldn’t be a love song.
He looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, then started to run his fingers lightly over the strings, skilful as a weaver at his spindle. Aediva listened, spellbound. She’d never imagined him caring fo
r pursuits such as music. It seemed so unexpected and incongruous, his warrior hands too big for such a small instrument, but he looked perfectly at ease. It was a ballad of some kind—a tune she didn’t recognise—bittersweet and soulful.
‘He’s a fine musician.’ FitzOsbern leaned conspiratorially on the arm of her chair, too close for comfort. ‘You’re lucky to have such a champion. I only hope that you’re worth it.’
Worth it? She stared at the Earl, perplexed. Worth what? The words implied that Svend had lost something by marrying her, but that didn’t make sense. He had the reward he’d always wanted and more. That was the reason he’d married her. She was the one who’d been threatened with the loss of her home. As far as she could see he hadn’t sacrificed anything.
‘Of course,’ FitzOsbern continued, ‘I have to wonder why you left your sister so soon after her birthing.’
She started, caught off guard by the abrupt change of subject. The Earl’s tone was pleasant, but his words made her scalp tingle.
‘My message was urgent.’
‘And yet Svend could have delivered it himself.’
‘There were things my sister wanted me to explain in person.’
‘Such as why she left?’ He raised his eyebrows, his expression shifting menacingly. ‘Strange...de Quincey seems no wiser about that. But keep trying, Lady Aediva, you might still convince me.’
‘Convince you?’ She struggled to keep her voice calm.
Green eyes narrowed like daggers, pinning her to the spot. ‘Normally I don’t tolerate my men hiding things from me, but then some men are more useful than others. I won’t ask what you’re really doing here, but Svend has a job to do. If he fails me I’ll know who to blame.’
Aediva inhaled sharply. There was no mistaking the threat behind his words. Apparently Svend and de Quincey hadn’t been as convincing as they’d thought. FitzOsbern suspected her of something, even if he didn’t know what.
A round of applause interrupted them and she turned to find Svend watching her. His song had drawn to a close without her noticing, and his gaze was moving suspiciously between her and the Earl. She had the distinct impression that he hadn’t missed so much as a glance of their exchange.
‘Excellent!’ The Earl cheered. ‘Now for the bride’s turn! I’ve heard a great deal about Saxon music. Perhaps you would oblige me, Lady Aediva?’
She felt her stomach lurch. How could he expect her to sing with his threat still roaring in her ears? What could she possibly sing? Bad enough to be made a spectacle for so many Normans—now she was expected to entertain them as well? Her throat had never felt so dry. Every eye in the room was on her and she couldn’t remember so much as a child’s rhyme.
Slowly she descended from the dais, stalling for time as she searched her memory for a song, a melody—anything to end the torturous silence. Svend brushed past her and for a fleeting moment she felt his hand grasp hers reassuringly. Then he was gone and her mind was an ever greater blank, coherent thought banished by the unexpected thrill of his touch.
What did that mean?
‘It seems Saxon music is overrated,’ the Earl murmured, sending a ripple of laughter around the tables.
Desperately she looked towards Svend, but he wasn’t laughing. He was looking straight at her, his gaze sharp and intent, as if he were willing her on, trying to send her words.
She opened her mouth and let an old Saxon love song pour through her lips, the words emerging even before she knew what she was singing—words she hadn’t known she remembered—the notes soaring and dropping in a tale of unrequited love and heartache. It was a song she’d never truly thought about, never understood until now.
She closed her eyes, fighting the bitter sting of tears. The last time she’d heard the song had been at Cille’s wedding, long before the Conquest, when the Saxon world had seemed so strong and unchangeable. Now everything was so different she almost wished that she hadn’t remembered it. The words, the memory—they all meant too much.
She let the last note linger, opening her eyes at last to a hall held still and silent, as if gripped by some enchantment. Svend’s gaze was still on her, his eyes glowing with something more than appreciation, as if he felt and understood the song too. As if he understood her.
‘A sad song for a bride,’ the Earl commented drily, and the spell was broken.
‘Dancing!’ someone called, and she found herself swallowed up in a sea of couples, Svend’s face vanishing behind them.
Quickly she wiped her tears on her sleeve and made for the door. The urge to escape the hall was becoming unbearable. She needed some air...just a few minutes alone to recover. Surely no one would notice if she stepped outside for a moment?
‘Care to dance?’
Sir Hugh bowed unsteadily before her, his brown eyes sparkling with wine, and she shook her head, wishing she could simply push past him. If she didn’t get out of there soon she would scream!
‘Not tonight, Hugh.’
Svend’s voice at her shoulder sent a tingling sensation down her spine, making her relieved and apprehensive at the same time.
‘The lady’s already spoken for.’
‘Thank you.’ She looked up at him nervously as Hugh staggered away, surprised that he had been able to reach her so quickly.
‘You looked in need of rescuing.’ He took her arm and tucked it inside his. ‘Where were you going?’
‘Just outside.’ She flexed her fingers on the hard muscles of his bicep. ‘I don’t know any Norman dances.’
‘And I have two left feet. We’d make a pretty pair on the dance floor. Are you ready to escape?’
‘Escape?’ She felt irrationally offended. This was their wedding feast! He could at least pretend to be happy. ‘You mean you aren’t enjoying yourself?’
‘About as much as you are.’
‘And who says I’m not?’
‘Your face is quite expressive, my lady. But if you want to stay...’
‘No!’ She tightened her grip on his arm hastily. ‘You win. But don’t we have to stay? Won’t anyone mind?’
He gave her a wry look. ‘I think we’ve done our duty. Besides, most of them have more wine in their veins now than blood. They wouldn’t notice if we flew out of here.’
She bit her lip, suppressing a smile. She couldn’t argue with that. It wasn’t so much a dance going on around them as a stumble.
‘We just need to ask permission from the Earl first. Come on.’ He swung around, pulling her after him before she could protest. ‘Let’s get this over with.’
Get this over with?
She stumbled after him, torn between resentment and alarm. Was he determined to offend her? That had to be the least romantic thing she’d ever heard. Besides which, this was their wedding night! He wasn’t just escorting her out of the hall. He was going to go with her. And the last thing she wanted was to be alone with him. He’d said that she had nothing to fear, but he was still her husband.
Suddenly she wished she’d accepted Hugh’s offer to dance.
‘Ready to leave so soon?’ The Earl’s face broke into a lascivious grin as they approached the high table. ‘Are you so eager, Danemark? Or is it the lady who desires your company?’
‘A man can dream.’ Svend put a hand on his heart with mock gallantry. ‘Sad to say, my new wife is tired. With your permission, I’ll show her to bed.’
‘And tend to her in it, no doubt.’ The Earl smirked. ‘You may leave us.’
He waved a hand to dismiss them and she spun around instantly, wanting to get the hall, the banquet, the whole evening behind her. Her husband too, if she could. How could he joke about her so publicly? It would serve him right if—
For a moment she didn’t know what was happening. She staggered slightly, then felt a sharp tug on her arm, followed by a jo
lt as her knees buckled and she stumbled over her sleeves, falling headlong into a pair of familiar strong arms.
‘It seems she can’t wait for your embrace, Svend!’ The Earl was bent over, laughing. ‘Perhaps you ought to carry her?’
She felt a flash of panic, swiftly followed by outrage as Svend’s hands swooped around the back of her legs, lifting her into his arms.
‘Put me down!’ She kicked her feet indignantly. ‘Everyone’s looking!’
‘I’m not surprised.’
‘Let me down!’
‘Not in that dress. You’ll break a limb if you’re not careful.’
She glared at him. So much for her attempt to act like a lady. Just when she’d thought things couldn’t get any worse, it seemed he didn’t like her dress either.
They reached the antechamber and he turned away from the main door, heading towards a narrow staircase in the corner.
‘Aren’t we going to Cille’s chamber?’ She twisted her head in surprise.
‘No.’ His step didn’t falter. ‘The Earl’s given us use of the main chamber a day early. He thought we might be more comfortable there.’
‘Oh.’
She kept her face averted as they entered the room and he kicked the door shut behind them. A fire was blazing in the hearth and the floor was strewn with fresh rushes, making it look new and homely, bigger and more luxurious than any bedchamber she’d ever been in before. If she’d been on her own she might have found it inviting. In Svend’s arms she found her eyes drawn inexorably to the large, intricately carved wooden bed in the centre.
She’d barely had a chance to look before he dropped her unceremoniously on top of it, tipping her in a tangle of skirts and sleeves onto the softest, most comfortable mattress she’d ever imagined. For a moment she was tempted to stay put, before scrambling up again hurriedly as he started to undress.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Svend unfastened his belt, letting it coil in a heap on a floor. ‘It’s been a long day. I’m going to bed.’
Married to Her Enemy Page 18
