Saxon Lady. Margo Maguire
awakened in a tangle of soft arms and legs, and the scent of feminine arousal.
Whatever he’d dreamed had been merely a trick his mind played upon him. If she’d been aroused at all, ’twas with thoughts of murder, nothing more.
The Saxon wench still slept, looking surprisingly innocent. But Mathieu would take no chances with her. There was no doubt she would kill him as soon as look at him.
Without waking her, he reached for her knife and sliced through the rope that bound her to him. Her lashes fluttered, but she did not awaken as he left the pallet they’d shared.
Events could not have worked out better. For Lady Aelia to have fallen so conveniently into his hands was a gift from God. ’Twas obvious the Saxons could not go to battle when their lady’s life was at stake. Ingelwald would belong to King William before the morning sun cleared the trees east of the castle walls.
In good spirits, Mathieu tore off the braies in which he’d slept. Reaching into his trunk for fresh garments, he considered how best to approach Ingelwald. A full-blown battle was likely to ensue if he rode there with his army behind him. No one would notice that he carried Lady Aelia. Ingelwald’s archers were certain to be ready, just as they had been yestermorn.
Perhaps ’twould be best to ride in with merely a herald and a small battalion at his flanks.
Or he could tie the wench to a horse and send her first into the clearing so that—
A sharp intake of breath behind him made him turn to the bed.
“How dare you!” she sputtered.
He stood unabashedly naked before her, but her presumption angered him. ’Twas his tent, and she was the interloper. “You forget, demoiselle, that you were not invited here.”
“Common decency—”
“Would have prevented you from entering my tent with homicidal purpose.”
With color flashing in her cheeks, she turned abruptly away, presenting him with her back. Her movements were awkward, hampered by the ropes that still bound her. ’Twas difficult to believe this was the same soft woman who’d cuddled close to him for warmth during the night. This morn, she was all hard angles and planes, her obstinacy demonstrated by her rigid posture.
Mathieu stepped into his braies and belted the garment at his waist. Then he sat on his trunk and pulled on his chausses, keeping one eye on the Saxon.
“I would see my brother, Norman.”
Mathieu had no intention of uniting her with the boy, not until it suited his own purpose. He continued dressing, sliding his arms into the sleeves of a clean tunic, then pulling it over his head. When he picked up his hauberk, the woman turned to him once again.
In the early morning light he could see that her eyes were green, and they flashed with anger. Or desperation. Mathieu rubbed the back of his neck to dispel the odd feeling that arose when he looked at her, and watched her push herself to her knees.
“Set me free and I will go to Selwyn.”
“You insult my intelligence, demoiselle.” Mathieu shoved her knife through his belt and picked up his sword. He turned to the tent flap and pushed it open.
“I can persuade him to surrender to you.”
“Who is Selwyn?”
“He is my betrothed…. He will have taken command of Ingelwald in my absence.”
“And why would you want to surrender Ingelwald to me now?”
She dropped her gaze to the floor. “My people… I would see no more of them killed for my sake,” she said as he left the tent.
Norman soldiers greeted their lord as he passed, and it sounded as if Fitz Autier gave them their orders in return. Aelia was grateful to Father Ambrosius for teaching her the Normans’ language, though she did not hear anything useful now.
She stood up and followed their leader outside, only to be stopped by a wall of chain mail. She lost her balance, but the burly knight on guard outside Fitz Autier’s tent grabbed her arm and kept her from falling. His face was hard and unmoving, his action not one of kindness, but of expedience.
He was taller than Fitz Autier, and broader, too, though his hair was so blond it was nearly white. His was a craggy face, one that might have been frightening with its scars and one empty eye socket, but Aelia refused to be intimidated by him.
He released her and stepped aside, allowing a smaller warrior to push past her, balancing several items in his arms. He set everything down in Fitz Autier’s tent, then gathered up his leader’s armor and started to leave.
“Food and drink,” he said.
“I am neither hungry nor thirsty,” she replied defiantly, wishing she could cross her arms over her chest to punctuate her words. But alas, her wrists were still tied. “I have need of…” She glanced toward the perimeter of the camp and the woods beyond it. “…of a moment’s privacy.”
The big, blond knight pushed her back into the tent as the young man left. “You’re not leaving. Baron Fitz Autier sent all you will need.”
The man lowered the tent flap behind her, and Aelia saw that a large metal pot had been left for her, along with a bowl of water, a thick slice of bread and a cup of ale. Awkwardly, she picked up the pot in her bound hands, and with a cry of frustration, heaved it against the wall of the tent, resulting in a loud clang and a burst of male laughter outside.
The heat of humiliation burned her cheeks, along with the awareness that her situation would likely become worse as the morning progressed.
Her hands were still tied and Aelia would damn her own soul before asking any of these Normans to cut her loose. She pulled against the ropes, twisting her hands every possible way to free them. Then she tried her teeth.
“You scorn our meager rations, demoiselle?”
Aelia’s head jerked up at Fitz Autier’s voice and she met his eyes, the same cool blue of the cloudless sky.
He’d looked formidable without clothes. Just the thought of his densely muscled body, and the impressive manhood he’d so flagrantly displayed, made her mouth go dry. But in his armor, he was an overwhelming adversary.
Aelia decided she could be just as daunting. She was an earl’s daughter, after all. In her father’s house, she had entertained all manner of royalty, including kings and queens. One Norman knight was barely worth her notice.
She lifted her tied hands, holding them out in front of her. “’Tis full light. Surely you do not fear my escape now, not with all your men on guard ’round this tent.”
He pulled her own knife from his belt and slid the blade between her hands.
Aelia felt his gaze upon her face, but she did not look up. She kept her eyes trained on the ropes that bound her. In one quick slice she was free, but guarded as she was, she could do naught with her freedom.
Fitz Autier stepped away from her and toyed with her knife before putting it back through his belt. He was taunting her, demonstrating which of them had the power here.
“Will I see my brother this morning?”
He pushed the flap open behind him, and Osric fell into the tent. Her brother lay gagged, with his hands bound behind him. A length of rope was looped around his neck like the lead on a goat.
Aelia ran to the boy, dropping to her knees beside him. She started to slip the rope from his neck, but Fitz Autier’s boot came down upon the loose end before she could free Osric.
“You are a barbarian!” she cried, looking up at him. “He is just a child!”
Fitz Autier’s face hardened. “This child nearly severed one of my men’s fingers with his teeth! He kicked Raoul de Moreton in the ballocks so hard the man will be worthless if we battle today! Furthermore—”