Married To Her Enemy. Jenni Fletcher
of his proximity, of the heat radiating from his broad chest, reminding her that less than an hour before, she’d thrown herself against it in an abandoned murderous frenzy. Wanton or murderess—which would he think was worse?
And why should she care?
He moved around the bed, apparently oblivious to her discomfort, and crouched down on one knee, bringing his face level to Cille’s.
‘My lady, in the name of King William, I promise that no harm will come to you or your child.’
Even through the heavy cloak Aediva could feel some of the tension ease from Cille’s trembling shoulders. She gaped at him in amazement. The unexpectedly gentle, reassuring tone of his voice, so utterly at odds with his warrior-like appearance, was having a similar effect on her own tattered nerves. How could this man, their enemy, be inspiring such confidence?
He glanced up suddenly, then away again, as if he hadn’t seen her, and her anger reasserted itself. He might be helping them now, but if it hadn’t been for this Norman’s arrival, Cille would still be safely awaiting her baby. Offering his protection was the very least he could do!
Cille groaned and Eadgyth stooped to feel her swollen stomach, nodding with satisfaction. ‘It’s time.’
Svend nodded and strode briskly to the doorway, pausing briefly on the threshold. His broad shoulders filled the space easily.
‘If you need anything, one of my men will be waiting outside.’
Then he was gone, leaving Aediva staring at a swinging curtain, emotions in turmoil. Of course she was glad that he’d gone, and yet his presence had been inexplicably reassuring—as if Cille had been safe when he was close by. Typical of a Norman to inflict himself upon them and then leave...
‘Are you going to help me or not?’
Eadgyth’s shrill voice interrupted her thoughts.
‘Fetch some water, girl!’
She leapt to her feet, smitten with guilt at neglecting Cille, if only for a moment. Her distraction was his fault too.
Never again, she promised herself.
Svend du Danemark wouldn’t distract her again. Not ever.
* * *
Aediva stumbled out into the courtyard, gulping mouthfuls of air like water. After the stultifying atmosphere of the birthing chamber it was a relief to be out in the open.
It was twilight. But on what day? An eternity seemed to have passed since she’d last felt the cool breeze on her skin.
She leaned back against the timbered wall and looked up at the first scattered sprinkling of stars, letting the tension ease from her tired limbs. It was over. Cille had a son, a tiny red bundle with powerful lungs that had already made more noise than his mother had in her whole life.
She smiled, recalling the blissful look on Cille’s face as she’d cradled her newborn baby to her breast, so happy even after so much pain. Cille had defied their worst fears, her small body proving stronger than they’d dared to imagine. Aediva had known that childbirth was dangerous, but she hadn’t realised it could be so brutal.
Tears welled in her eyes. Was that how it had been for their own mother? Had she suffered so much?
‘Lady Cille?’
She jumped, dismayed to be caught at such a vulnerable moment. She didn’t normally let down her defences so easily, but her emotions were still raw and the stress of the day had made her careless.
She hadn’t heard him approach, but Svend was already standing beside her, barely an arm’s length away, pale eyes glinting like twin crystals in the near darkness. He must have shaved, because his stubble was gone and his jutting cheekbones were even more prominent in his tanned face, his blond hair slicked back as if he’d just finished bathing. She’d never seen a man without a beard before. His skin looked smooth, the strong line of his jaw soft and almost strokeable. She found herself wanting to reach out and touch it. Instead she scowled deliberately.
‘Forgive me.’ He bowed stiffly. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. Is there news?’
‘What do you care?’
She tossed her hair and stared into the distance, reluctant to meet his gaze until she had her tumultuous emotions under control. After his too intimate assessment of her in the birthing chamber, he’d barely glanced in her direction, but now his scrutiny was back—too close, too penetrating. Why did he have to stare at her again now, when she wanted to be alone? How long had he been watching her?
She thought she heard a sigh, but when she looked back his expression was blank, impenetrable.
‘You should eat,’ he said finally.
For a moment she thought of refusing, but the very idea of food made her ravenous. A curl of smoke twisted up from a chimney in one of the abandoned cottages, accompanied by a strong smell of cooking, and she felt her stomach tighten with hunger.
Svend gestured towards it and then stepped aside, letting her precede him across the courtyard. It was another thoughtful gesture, but she refused to acknowledge it. Now that the crisis was over, her nerves felt stretched to breaking point. She felt utterly drained and exposed. Why was it proving so hard to pull herself back together?
She looked around, trying to clear her befuddled head, and experienced a vague sense of surprise. She’d assumed that the Normans would take over the Thane’s hall, but they were scattered throughout the village, billeted in the recently vacated dwellings. Damn them, why were they being so reasonable? She didn’t want to feel indebted.
Not looking where she was going, she tripped and stumbled headlong into the cottage, a foot catching in her tunic and dragging her down. At once a strong hand gripped her elbow, but she shied away, hitting the ground with a thud, preferring to sprawl in the dirt than accept any further help. If he did one more honourable thing she would scream.
Svend stared down at her for a long moment, his expression set hard as tempered steel as she glared defiantly back, ignoring the pain in her hands and knees where she’d grazed them, daring him to help her up.
‘As you wish,’ he commented icily, striding to the central fireplace and ladling out a bowl of steaming broth. ‘Will you deign to eat Norman food or would you prefer dirt?’
Aediva struggled to her feet, abandoning the last shreds of her dignity as she snatched up the bowl and drained the contents in a few short gulps. The warmth coiled through her limbs, giving her strength, but she still couldn’t bring herself to thank him.
Instead she licked her lips, savouring the last taste of broth, delaying the moment when she’d have to face him again. The fire flickered and crackled between them, casting eerie shadows along the walls and filling her nostrils with woodsmoke. She looked around the room and felt a shiver of unease. Aside from a few cracked earthenware pots and a straw mattress it was completely empty, when just this morning it had been a home.
She could sense his eyes on her, but when she finally looked up they were hooded.
‘It’s a boy,’ she said finally. ‘Eadgyth says he’s a reasonable size.’
‘That’s a good sign.’
‘She said so too.’
She hesitated, loath to tell him any more, but somehow it seemed ungrateful not to.
‘My sister’s asleep, and her breathing’s steady.’
Aediva, she told herself. She should say Aediva. But she couldn’t trust herself with the lie. Not yet—not when he was standing so close.
‘I’m glad of it.’
‘And the babe is called Leofric after h... My husband.’
She bit her lip, mortified that she’d almost given herself away. But this Norman’s proximity was unsettling. It distracted her. The cottage seemed too small