Married To Her Enemy. Jenni Fletcher
scare me like that? How could you be so cruel?’
‘Because you need to understand what you’re dealing with! You can’t go to Redbourn and threaten the Earl. You can’t speak of rebellion so lightly. Whether you like it or not, Lady Cille, the conquest is over and we have won. And I’m not your enemy—not unless you want me to be.’
He spurred his destrier forward then, cantering away as she stared helplessly after him, trying to make sense of her jagged emotions as they veered from anger to gratitude and back again. She was still furious, but if he’d sent Henri to rescue her people then she was in his debt too. Indebted to a Norman! The very idea made her blood run cold. How would she ever repay him? How could she repay a Norman?
She sat completely still, looking around at the narrow confines of her world, at the village and the valley where she’d spent most of her life. Etton and England would never be the same again. She hadn’t wanted to believe it, but it was true. The Conquest was over and the Normans had won. Even if she came back—even if her people came back—nothing would ever be the same again.
And if Svend du Danemark wasn’t her enemy, who was he?
Svend galloped to the head of the valley, trying to outrun his bad mood. She was maddening! Barely a slip of a woman, but what she lacked in size she more than made up for in temper. She hated Normans, that was obvious, but why couldn’t she understand that he was simply her escort, not her enemy? All he wanted was to get her to Redbourn as quickly and uneventfully as possible. Was that too much to ask, or was she going to argue with him all the way?
He placed a hand on his chest, vaguely surprised to find himself still in one piece. Had he taken leave of his senses, handing her a knife? What had made him so certain she wouldn’t use it? He grimaced. He hadn’t been certain at all, but something in her face had made him want to find out. The desire to test her had outweighed everything else, even self-preservation.
Well, now he knew. She didn’t want to kill him—not today at least. That was a minor improvement.
He rubbed a hand over Talbot’s neck, slowing the destrier to a trot. On the other hand, her anger that morning had been largely his fault. He shouldn’t have mocked her as she’d tried to mount the palfrey, shouldn’t have deliberately provoked her temper, but it had been easier than admitting the unwelcome urges she’d aroused in him. Those eyes...even when she was in a temper they lit up her whole face. He could hardly keep his own off her. Checking her for weapons had been harder than he’d expected—in more ways than one. When he’d finally lifted her up, wrapping his hands around her waist and feeling the soft pliancy of her body beneath, it had taken all his self-control to release her again.
He clenched his jaw, resenting his orders anew. He was a warrior, not an escort. He ought to be hunting rebels, not escorting Saxon ladies! Women had no place in his soldier’s world—especially this woman, who somehow angered and appealed to him in equal measure. He couldn’t help but admire her feisty spirit, the way she flared up like a spark catching light, but she was more than infuriating. If she were anyone else he might enjoy watching the sparks fly, but she wasn’t. She was his prisoner, and if he had any sense he’d keep as far away from her as possible.
If it were only that easy... Redbourn was still three and a half days’ ride away. And suddenly that seemed like a very long time.
* * *
Aediva awoke with a jolt, catching her breath as the earth swayed and then righted itself in front of her. Quickly she hauled herself upright, half amazed, half alarmed to have fallen asleep in the saddle, the night’s exertions finally catching up with her.
Blinking rapidly, she glared at the back of Svend’s broad shoulders, easily visible at the head of their small procession. He hadn’t so much as glanced in her direction since they’d left Etton. Not that she cared, but he was supposed to be her escort. He might have checked that she was all right—not left her to fend for herself. It would serve him right if she fell off her palfrey and broke a leg. Let him explain that to FitzOsbern!
She stole a furtive glance at the rest of his soldiers. There were around a dozen of them, most as grim and indomitable-looking as their commander, though a few were younger. One of them had a swollen eye, she noticed. It looked a fresh wound too.
She put a hand to her mouth, stifling another yawn. If she could only rest for a while... Her head lolled and her eyelids drooped. No! She mustn’t fall asleep. If she fell from this height it would be a lot more dangerous than from the ponies she was used to. She had to stay awake...even if she just dozed for a moment...
She felt a sudden strong grip on her arm, snatching her back to consciousness.
‘I told you to get some rest last night!’ Svend’s voice was low and furious. ‘You should have slept!’
‘What?’ She looked around, disorientated, cheeks flushing self-consciously.
What was he doing there? She’d been dreaming of a man with white-yellow hair and a smile so mesmerising it took her breath away—a man bearing so little resemblance to the one looming beside her now that she wrenched her arm out of his grasp indignantly.
‘Let me go!’ She tossed her head, trying to salvage some small shred of dignity. ‘I’m perfectly all right.’
‘Good.’ The ice in his stare could have caused frostbite. ‘We’ve a long way to go and we’re not stopping for you to sleep.’
‘I didn’t ask to stop! I told you I’m all right.’
‘Have you eaten?’
‘What?’ Now that he mentioned it, she hadn’t eaten anything since the broth he’d given her last night. Her mouth watered at the memory. No wonder she felt so light-headed.
‘I asked if you’d eaten.’ He sounded impatient.
‘I’m not hungry.’ She grasped her stomach quickly, stifling a growl. Why had he made her think of food? Now it was all she could think about!
‘Really?’ He raised an eyebrow sceptically.
‘It’s your fault for mentioning food!’
Glaring, she turned her attention back to the road. They’d been riding at a punishing pace all morning, but she’d hardly paid any heed to their surroundings, concentrating on staying awake. Now the road ahead looked vaguely and disturbingly familiar, like a scene from some half-remembered nightmare. They were at the far edge of Etton territory, where farmland gave way to scree and boulders. The next hill marked the furthest boundary of their land, and over there...
She pulled on her reins so fiercely that the palfrey stopped with a jolt, almost throwing her head-over-heels into the dirt, but she didn’t notice. All she could feel was the cold sweat on her brow and a heavy pounding like a hammer in her chest. She knew this place—knew every detail of the landscape, every rock and boulder, just as it had been on the day she’d ridden to her dying father’s side. She hadn’t ridden this way since—hadn’t wanted to come back. Not ever.
Desperately she gulped for air, caught off guard by the sudden onslaught of emotion. How could she not have noticed the route they were taking? She could have prepared herself, or at least tried to. Now she felt as though she were falling apart at the seams. But she couldn’t cry, couldn’t show weakness—not in front of him!
‘What now?’ Svend glanced back over his shoulder, his look of impatience giving way instantly to one of concern. ‘Lady Cille, what’s the matter?’
She shook her head, unable to speak, tried to gesture instead.
‘There’s something wrong with the road?’
He sounded confused and she dragged her eyes to his, trying to communicate without words.
He swung around instantly, summoning his men with a few curt orders.