by Brenda Joyce
She would slip a potion into the guard’s food. When he was asleep, she herself would unlock the dungeon and free Morcar. She would have a horse ready and waiting. And then it would be up to him.
And she would not think of the Norman’s threat.
But when she left the manor to gather more of the herb, she was startled to find Guy at her side. He glanced at her sideways, but stopped as she had. “Sir,” Ceidre said, spirits sinking, “why do you play the shadow?”
“Lord Rolfe has commanded I be your escort,” Guy said.
Ceidre turned her face away before he could see her consternation. Then she continued on. She would gather what she needed, and worry later about how to shake Guy this night to free her brother. Yet that evening, to her utter dismay, Guy pulled a pallet next to hers and stretched out beside her. Ceidre could not believe that she was to be guarded so, day and night. Amulet around her neck, she got up. Guy followed.
“Nature calls,” she hissed furiously.
“I am sorry, mistress,” he said, “but where you go I go as well.”
She would test him. She stomped outside, he was on her heels. He would not leave her to seek any privacy other than to turn politely away. Ceidre stormed back into the manor, and careless of the hour—past midnight—she stomped up the stairs and crashed her fist down hard on the Norman’s door.
It opened immediately. The Norman stood there, stark naked, keen alertness fading and being replaced with a flicker of amusement. Ceidre blushed and looked at his shoulder. Behind her, Guy coughed.
Rolfe grinned, unable to prevent himself, and then he chuckled. “’Tis my lucky night,” he said. “The lady of my dreams seeks me out—-just when I need her most.”
’Twas not funny, not at all. Ceidre lifted her gaze to his, red-faced. “Have you no shame? Or are you flaunting now for me?”
Rolfe threw back his head and laughed. “I gladly flaunt myself for you, Ceidre—any time, any place.”
His tone was so seductive, her heart tripped.
Rolfe grinned at Guy. “Await her downstairs.”
“No, stay!” Ceidre cried. Of course, Guy didn’t hesitate, he was already trotting away. Ceidre, looking from Guy to Rolfe, managed to glimpse a goodly portion of naked flesh—and to her dismay, she noted he was becoming aroused. “Can you not clothe yourself?”
“But you seek me out,” he teased.
“Not for the reason you think,” she managed, staring at his shoulder again.
He gave her a last look, then turned and went to retrieve his hose. Ceidre could not help it, she studied his back, taut and ridged with muscle, and his backside, high and hard. She realized she had almost forgotten why she had sought him out in his chamber.
Rolfe turned to her, shrugging on a thin undertunic. He gestured to the hearth. Ceidre stepped inside the room, but hovered near the door, for safety. Now that her senses had returned, she realized he was in rare good humor, and seeing the near-empty bag of wine, she wondered if this was the cause. He noted her gaze and grinned.
“Some wine, Ceidre?”
“I detest your Norman grapes,” she said haughtily.
He grinned. “Do you? Truly?”
“Yes.”
“But the Norman fruit bears seed more potent—did you not know?”
“Do not play with my words, you know what I mean.”
His blue eyes sparkled. “I think that there is Norman fruit you like very well.”
She went scarlet. “You are drunk!”
“I have good cause to celebrate.”
“Oh, yes,” she said bitterly. “You may now deliver my brother’s head to your bastard king!”
His easy humor vanished. “’Tis correct.”
“I demand you free Guy of his guarding me.”
“You demand, Ceidre?” His brow lifted. He was amused, indeed in a rare spirit.
“I request,” she amended, flushing.
He leaned against the hearth indolently, yet his aura was unmistakably sensual. He crooked a finger. “You may demand whatever you like.”
She blinked.
“Come here and demand of me, Ceidre, that which you want. I am most amenable tonight.” He smiled again.
It was like the brightest of suns, when he smiled, perhaps because true mirth, from him, was so rare. Ceidre realized her heart was fluttering madly and that her limbs were taut. “You are not serious.”
“Oh,” he said softly, “I am most serious. Do you not know you can get anything you wish of me?”
She stared.
“Especially”—his nostrils flared as his gaze shifted —“when you are clad in such a thin gown, your eyes so dark with righteous anger, your mouth so full and slightly parted, mayhap for me …”
Ceidre trembled.
“Take down your hair,” he said softly.
“What?”
“I have never seen it loose. I wish to see it now.” His tone was still easy. “Please me, Ceidre.”
“I did not come here to please you,” Ceidre managed. “I came to insist—to request—that your man leave me be. I cannot even seek a private spot for my body’s needs without him there, on my heels. ’Tis most unjust.”
He smiled his beautiful smile, his gaze wandering over her again, slowly, with languid enjoyment. “I do not trust you,” he said mildly.
She flushed.
“Take down your hair,” he coaxed, his tone distinctly sensual. “Please.”
Startled, she realized that he had asked her, not ordered her, to free her hair. The word please rolled like honey from his tongue, yet she was sure he had rarely used it. Of course, she would not do as he asked.
He smiled, and before she knew it he was in front of her, his hands gentle in her hair, pulling the binding off. Ceidre could not move, she could not even breathe, as with his fingers he loosened the strands until a cloud of bronze tresses whirled around her shoulders and breasts, down her back, and past her hips.
She could not look away from his gaze, now turning even brighter than the brightest sun.
He stared at her and a small sound, much like a groan, escaped him. She knew she must retreat, now, while she could. Her back found the door; he approached. His hands again delved into her tresses, his expression strained and awed. “I am beyond all hope,” he murmured, low, so low Ceidre wasn’t sure she had heard him at all correctly.
His hands, wrapped up in strands of thick hair, cupped the back of her head. “You make me weak, Ceidre.”
In truth, Ceidre thought, he made her weak too. His hands were so warm, so large. She wondered if he would kiss her. Her gaze found his lips, closer now. She wanted him to kiss her. And with the perversity of chance, she thought of two people at once, Alice in the solar across the hall, and Morcar, in the dank dungeons below. She twisted away.
“Leave me be, please!”
“One kiss,” he breathed. “Just one, Ceidre. Just one.”
He was the strongest man she had ever met, and he used his strength now, to pull her close. In truth, she did not want to resist, it was only a token. He ignored the feebleness of her struggles and claimed her lips with a harsh, guttural cry. In his drunken state, he was fierce and greedy, like a newborn babe, his mouth hot, insistent, frantic. She was open and pliant beneath him. Her bracing away became a kind of soft clinging.
His lips found her throat, and she arched for him. He nibbled and teased with his tongue, making soft sounds of unfettered pleasure. His mouth found her ear. “I want you, Ceidre,” he whispered urgently. “Tonight, now, ’tis like a dream.” His arms tightened around her and he pressed her against the wall. His body shifted until he had pressed his huge maleness into her warm recesses. “Say yes, welcome me gladly,” he urged, kissing her neck. “Tonight is our night, Ceidre, sweetheart. Tonight belongs to us.” He lifted her into his arms.
She was spinning away with pleasure, hot and potent, as he carried her to the bed. Never had he asked, nor cajoled like this, even begged. It had always been to threaten and
to take, as if they were in the midst of battle. Now he was a gentle lover, and she was succumbing to his seduction. She knew it; she wanted it.
And, ever a warrior with a killer’s unerring instinct, he knew it too. He laid her upon the soft mattress. “Please,” he said throatily, nuzzling her breasts, his body covering hers.
But again, perversity raised her ugly head. Morcar’s image flashed. He was a prisoner, and he would surely hang, because of this Norman. Sanity returned and, with it, her own will. As weak as it was, it was also desperate. She pushed up at him, protesting. “No! No, never! I hate you for how you use me, Norman! My brother rots below, my sister sleeps next door. Tomorrow you will wed and bed her; in how many days will Morcar hang? And you expect me to pleasure you of my own free will?”
He had not released her, but he had stopped his assault, his breathing harsh, and he heard every word. “You come here to tempt me, then you turn me away.” He was angry. “’Tis a very dangerous game, Ceidre. I am a scant instant from impaling you.” He rocked his thick erection against her.
She went very still, all pleasure gone, fear in its place. “Alice can probably hear every word.”
“She is asleep.”
“I doubt it. I will scream. Your bride will not be happy to see her groom raping her sister.”
“A moment ago it would not have been rape.”
She was bitter because the truth was foul. “I lost my head, ’twill not occur again.” She meant it. “Let me up!”
“You test my very soul,” he cried, with real despair, drunken or no. He pressed his face into her neck, his body hard against hers, throbbing with its own male need. “’Tis torture,” he growled. “True torture.”
She rested very still, so as not to provoke him further. Now that she was sane again, she was sure her sister had been a spy to the entire interlude, for the door was open and Alice’s chamber was but a few paces away. She felt dismay. This coil was beyond her. If only she could remain strong and use the Norman’s lust against him! But she wasn’t strong; in matters of the flesh, she was realizing, she was very weak indeed.
His body was rigid on hers, and she was still imprisoned in his arms. She felt him relaxing, felt his embrace loosening. Ceidre attempted to roll free; instantly his grip tightened—he would not let her go. She gritted her teeth in despair, but lay motionless, afraid to move. She waited for his next assault.
It did not come. He nuzzled her cheek and held her fiercely. He sighed; his breathing grew deep and even. Ceidre was astonished. Could he be asleep? How much had he imbibed? True, males seemed to have a propensity for being able to sleep no matter what the circumstance, and he had consumed a bag of wine. She should have known, she realized grimly. That he would not jest and tease unless he was in his cups, ’twas not his personality. Yet she felt a twinge of something wistful, for he had been almost likable. Then she resolutely turned such traitorous thoughts away. The Norman was detestable, and she would not forget it.
Her predicament suddenly struck her.
Ceidre realized he was sound asleep, Guy was downstairs, and she was free to do as she pleased. Her heart tightened. She would shut the door. Guy would assume her to be with Rolfe, and let him think what he would. She would use a rope or clothing to let herself out the window. She would drug the guards, get a steed, and Morcar would be freed….
Ceidre moved carefully, gingerly extricating herself from the sleeping Norman. Once afoot, she went swiftly toward the door, to close it. If Alice was awake, and Alice had heard them, let her think the worst. Morcar’s freedom was more important.
In the solar, Alice paced, furious.
He would cuckold her even as she slept next door— with her own sister! Alice wanted to scream, she wanted to shriek. She would dearly love to kill Ceidre, if only she could. She was being made a fool, for all the world to see, and she could not stand it.
She strode resolutely into the hallway, then paused, losing courage. She desperately wanted to wed Rolfe tomorrow. Dare she put her foot down? Dare she demand he cease his dallying? What if he grew so annoyed he decided to call off the wedding? Oh, if only she had more power!
He wants you because of Aelfgar, she reminded herself. You do have power, ’tis merely untried. If you do not test it, you will never know its true extent.
Determined now, Alice eyed the closed door. There was no sound coming from within, not even grunts and groans. Another thought struck her—what if her sister had killed her groom?
She would not put it beyond Ceidre, who was truly loyal to Edwin and Morcar. Spurred on, Alice pushed open Rolfe’s door. To her shock, a snore greeted her.
Ceidre gasped, jumping back from an open trunk.
“What are you doing?” Alice demanded, looking again at at Rolfe, fully clothed in undertunic and hose, sprawled on the bed. They had not been fornicating like animals. She was almost disappointed. A thought struck her. “Have you poisoned him?”
“No, of course not,” Ceidre said, calmly closing the trunk. “He is drunk and fell asleep. I merely sought another covering for him.”
“You whoring liar! I want you out of here—this instant! I know why you came.” Alice was so angry, tears appeared in her eyes. “To seduce him—to seduce him until he freed Morcar!”
“’Tis not true,” Ceidre said quietly. “I came to demand he release Guy from his dotage upon me. Alice—” Her voice lowered. “We must help Morcar.”
“You are a fool,” Alice cried, and then she raced to the door. “Guy,” she shouted. “Guy, come quickly, this witch has poisoned our lord!”
Ceidre froze, stunned.
Guy appeared instantly, looking murderous. On his heels were Beltain, two others, and Athelstan. They pounded to the bed.
“I did not,” Ceidre cried out. “He is drunk!”
Guy took Rolfe’s shoulders and shook him.
“She poisoned him with her witch’s weeds,” Alice said. “Guy, I command you, put her in the dungeons with her brother, ’tis treason what she did.”
Guy shook Rolfe harder, who groaned and, with great difficulty, sat up, blinking. “What happens here?” he muttered thickly.
“My lord, are you all right?” Guy asked worriedly. “Have you been poisoned?”
Rolfe focused, then he grinned and laughed. “Nay, not poisoned,” he murmured, falling back upon the pillows. “Bewitched, Guy, bewitched…. Leave me now.”
“I think he is in his cups,” Guy said, confused. “I have never seen him thus before.”
“He drank two good pints of wine with supper,” Athelstan said. “And I saw the maid bring him another bag after—and then another. Let him sleep it away.”
Alice flushed under Athelstan’s regard. “I only sought to protect my lord,” she said. “What should I have thought, to see him so, with her in his room, rummaging through his chests.”
Guy stared at Ceidre. “What did you search for, mistress?”
“A covering.” She shrugged. “Look, he lies atop the blankets, and ’tis chill at night so close to the sea.”
“I will see to him,” Alice announced. “Get out,” she said to Ceidre. “And stay out!”
Ceidre, recovered, could only think one thought: All her plans were ruined.
For this night.
The sunlight awoke him, blinding him.
Rolfe groaned. As sleep rapidly fled, he became aware of a splitting headache, one that felt as if a rock were being repeatedly crashed against the back of his skull. Instead of capitulating to the urge to stay abed, he forced himself to sit up.
Last night he had gotten very drunk.
And today, today was his wedding day.
He groaned again, long and loud, and cradled his head in his hands. He could remember everything—or almost everything.
Yesterday at dinner he had begun to imbibe in a grim self-congratulation for Morcar’s capture. The wine had touched him strongly after his long, exhausting duel. He could not understand why his mood was so somber, so dark, when he sho
uld be rejoicing. He recalled William’s promise, that should he bring him Edwin and Morcar he would be awarded Durham too.
Had the king meant it?
Morcar was a worthy foe, he had brooded, draining another cup of wine. Rolfe had had instant respect for both brothers when he had met them shortly after Hastings. Their reputations as strong leaders preceded them. Rolfe could judge a man for himself, and well, he thought. The moment he had seen them both he had known they were strong, smart, dedicated, and brave. He had also not trusted them.
Morcar was a worthy opponent with a sword as well. His thoughts became darker—he could still hear Ceidre’s screams when he had pressed his blade against the Saxon’s heart. Now, despite the wine and the hubbub of those eating boisterously at his table, he had a terrible image of her, eyes wide, frantic—desperate. She dearly loved her brother.
She had played at treason.
She unmans me, he thought grimly. He was no fool. She had been summoned to meet her brother, a traitor, and she had gone, defying him, knowing full well the penalty for her act. Yet he had not punished her. He had protected her instead. And by protecting her, by not punishing her, by withholding the fact of her treason from his king, he became culpable too. His standards were high, and strict. Yet for the first time in his life he had violated his own code of ethics. If he was not careful, he would become so unmanned Aelfgar would come careening down about his ears—or worse, he would fail his king.
Because of a woman.
’Twould not happen again. He would keep Ceidre firmly at heel, even if he had to keep her on a leash like a mutt. But she would not defy him and commit treason again, and he would not have to punish her for another betrayal. For, if she undertook another act of treason, he would not let her escape the consequences —he could not.
His thoughts could not get grimmer. Alice had been, again, overly attentive. She kept his cup filled. Her hand brushed his. She laughed long and false in his ear. She pressed her breast against his arm. He was indifferent—worse, annoyed. Ceidre, of course, would not look at him from her place at the low end of the table. He hoped she realized she was more than lucky to escape so lightly. Damn the ancient gods! He had lost his manhood. That witch had him protecting her when she was trying to destroy him and all he cherished.
