Married To Her Enemy. Jenni Fletcher
dare you? My reasons for leaving are none of your concern.’
‘You still have a duty to come back.’
‘Duty?’ She gave a brittle laugh. ‘Ironic for a Norman to be worried about Saxons!’
She whirled away but he caught her wrist, pulling her back again. ‘Even a Norman understands duty.’
‘Let me go!’
‘Forgive me.’ His tone was anything but apologetic. ‘But my orders come from the King. He was most displeased to hear that you’d left Redbourn.’
‘The Conqueror is at Redbourn?’
‘The King,’ he corrected her. ‘King William was crowned in December. But, no, he returned to Normandy in the spring. He left his half-brother Bishop Odo in charge, along with his cousin William FitzOsbern. He’s the one waiting for you at Redbourn.’
‘The King’s cousin wants to see me?’
He nodded slowly. His fingers were still wrapped around her arm, but he felt strangely reluctant to pull them away. He’d held her wrists before... The memory of her writhing beneath him flashed through his mind, heating his blood. He could feel the quickening of her pulse against his thumb and fought the urge to caress it.
‘Why?’ She looked panicked. ‘What does he want with me?’
He wishes for you to marry again.
The answer sprang to his lips, but the obvious fear in her voice made him hesitate. With his hand gripping her arm he felt suddenly, irrationally, protective. It wasn’t his place to tell her the Earl’s plans, but she was watching him, no longer defiant but frightened, asking him a question. He felt a stirring in his chest—something he hadn’t felt in a long time—as if something were shifting inside of him. Damn it all, how could such a small woman have such a powerful effect on his senses?
‘He intends for you to marry again,’ he said softly, surprising himself.
‘Marry a Norman?’
She staggered backwards, the colour draining from her face, and he dropped her wrist instantly, the protective urge evaporating.
‘That is something I wouldn’t say to FitzOsbern, my lady.’
‘But I’ve no wish to marry again! The King has no right to force me!’
Svend held his temper with an effort. Was she determined to fight him on everything? This wasn’t the way he’d intended their interview to go. He hadn’t even got to the part that was bound to provoke her more.
‘That’s no longer your choice. You’re a vassal of the King now, not a freewoman. Your people need you.’
‘They’re not my people any more—they’re his.’
‘You don’t think they’ll take comfort in having a Saxon mistress?’
‘False comfort!’
‘Perhaps, but this marriage will permit you to keep your lands. I’d have thought you’d be grateful.’
‘My lands?’ She gave a hollow, derisive laugh. ‘Is that all you Normans think about? Land?’
Svend’s patience snapped, and his voice was coolly insulting. ‘Aye. Land, money and tupping Saxon women!’
This time he didn’t even try to stop her hand. He didn’t flinch as she slapped him hard across the face, her outstretched fingers connecting violently with the side of his jaw.
There was a long silence, broken only by the crackle of wood in the fire and the sound of their combined breathing. Svend rubbed a hand over his chin. He supposed he’d deserved that. Normally he prided himself on his self-control, on not showing what he was thinking or feeling, but this woman pushed the very limits of his self-restraint. Something about her unsteadied him. She was dangerous, somehow. He’d known her for mere hours and already she was under his skin.
He looked down at her glowering face, at her slender chest heaving beneath it, and felt the sudden urge to grab her around the waist, pull her towards him and...what? His lips curved slowly. Do something that would wipe the defiant look off her face for certain.
What would she do if he kissed her? he wondered. Stab him in his sleep, most likely. Well, he could keep a guard outside his door. It might be worth it.
‘Sir?’ There was a discreet cough from the doorway.
‘Come!’
Svend beckoned to Henri, his second-in-command, relieved at the interruption. One more second and he might have done something he’d regret.
‘Are the men settled?’
‘Aye, sir. I’ve set shifts for guard duty—not including the men riding tomorrow.’
‘What happens tomorrow?’ Lady Cille eyed the new soldier suspiciously.
‘We leave for Redbourn in the morning.’ Svend met her horrified gaze squarely.
‘But Aediva cannot travel tomorrow!’
‘No... She cannot.’
‘You’re leaving her behind? After you promised she’d be safe! What kind of a man lies to a vulnerable woman?’
‘Enough!’ His temper flared again. ‘Before you offend me! We’re not abandoning her. Henri will stay with half of my men until she’s recovered. I gave my word that she and the babe would be safe, and they will be.’
He folded his arms across his chest, deliberately intimidating.
‘Now, are you satisfied? Or have you any more insults to hurl at me?’
She opened her mouth and then closed it again, as if trying to think of an argument or excuse—anything to cause a delay. ‘I... I’m satisfied.’
‘Good. I see that Saxon manners are overrated. You’re welcome.’
He turned away from her, suddenly eager to put some distance between them. She was maddening. Stubborn, insulting and ungrateful to boot! Not to mention determined to turn every conversation into an argument. She was the most infuriating woman he’d ever met!
Except one.
He pushed the thought aside and strode purposefully towards the door, Henri following like a wolf at his heels.
‘Get some rest.’ He hurled the words over his shoulder. ‘We’re leaving at dawn. I’ve no more wish to be in this situation than you, but like it or not I’m taking you home.’
‘So I’m your prisoner?’
He stopped in the doorway, his jaw clenched so tight he could feel his teeth grind together.
‘I’d rather be your escort, but if you want it that way then, yes, you’re my prisoner. I suggest you don’t try to escape. Believe me, I’ll drag you to Redbourn in chains if I have to.’
* * *
Aediva watched him go, feeling the final remnants of her old life collapsing around her.
How dared he? She marched up and down inside the empty cottage, struggling to contain her anger. The arrogance of the man! How dared he talk about her—Cille—as if she were some commodity to be passed from man to man? As if she had no mind, no heart, no choice of her own. He was an insensitive monster! Just like every other Norman!
At least she’d shown him how she felt and left a red hand-shaped patch on his cheek to prove it. There’d be a noticeable bruise there tomorrow. Whatever happened afterwards, she’d have that satisfaction at least.
So this was why the Normans had come! The truth was even worse than she’d imagined. They wanted Cille as a bride—a prize for some grasping Norman interloper. But what kind of husband would such a man be? What kind of stepfather to Leofric’s son...the son she’d promised