Читать книгу Married To Her Enemy - Jenni Fletcher - Страница 11

Chapter Two

‘How long has she been like this?’

Aediva bristled. Bad enough that he had dared to enter the birthing chamber, but now this Norman invader was insolent enough to ask questions, as if Cille’s condition were any of his business. This wasn’t his place. It was no man’s place.

‘The pains started early this morning,’ Eadgyth answered. ‘She’s sleeping now, but it won’t be long.’

Aediva threw Eadgyth a worried glance, willing her not to call Cille by name. She’d taken her sister’s identity on the spur of the moment, without considering the consequences if her deception were uncovered. Now she had to maintain the pretence at least until the baby was born. Cille was in no condition to deal with Normans, let alone this warrior whose wintry blue gaze seemed altogether too perceptive. She had to warn Eadgyth before she said something to give them away...

Her mouth fell open. Eadgyth had spoken to him! Which meant...

‘You speak Saxon?’

Pale eyebrows arched upwards. ‘As you speak French.’

‘My father thought it important. Besides, that’s hardly uncommon. Not many Normans speak Saxon.’

‘Fewer than you think. I’m not Norman.’

She tilted her head towards him enquiringly but he was already looking at her, his gaze wandering over her face as if a new idea had just struck him. She fought the urge to take a step backwards. Such intense scrutiny made her uncomfortable. What was he looking at?

His gaze dropped. Slowly, almost leisurely, it travelled down over her neck and breasts. Lower. And lower. Past her waist, lingering over the curve of her hips, down to her toes and back up again, as if memorising every inch of her body. She flushed, her skin tingling wherever his eyes rested, as if they might strip away her gown and see the nakedness beneath. Instinctively her hands coiled into fists. Conquering warrior he might be, but she was a Thane’s daughter! How dared he insult her so brazenly?

He jerked his head towards the bed. ‘She’s your sister?’

She nodded cautiously. The question was casual—too casual. She felt a cold sweat break out on the back of her neck, hardly trusting herself to speak. It was obvious that they were sisters. Was he suspicious? Had he guessed who she really was? She had the discomforting feeling that he was testing her.

‘You’re very alike.’

‘I’ve noticed.’ She bit her lip instantly, regretting the sarcasm. She should try to ingratiate herself, not insult him.

His eyes flashed with something like humour. How could eyes be so intensely blue? she wondered. It was a blue that seemed to change every time she looked at them, sometimes so pale as to seem almost white, sometimes a vivid, piercing turquoise. People said that her eyes were unusual, but his were almost hypnotic. When they demanded she meet them, there was no way to refuse.

Like now. What did his scrutiny mean? What was he thinking?

He turned towards Eadgyth abruptly. ‘Is the baby moving? And facing the right way?’

‘Yes, but the mother is weak. She can’t stand much more.’

‘How close together are the pains?’

‘Close enough.’

Aediva looked between them, feeling suddenly out of place and excluded. Not many men had more than a vague idea about the mysteries of childbirth, preferring to leave such matters to their womenfolk, but this man seemed to know more about the birthing process than she did.

‘Is there anything you need?’ He sounded genuinely solicitous.

‘Something hot to eat wouldn’t hurt.’

He strode purposefully out of the chamber, leaving Aediva open-mouthed. Had this Norman warrior really just taken orders from an old Saxon midwife?

‘Not a monster after all,’ Eadgyth muttered.

She closed her mouth with a snap. ‘He’s still a Norman.’

‘Be glad you’re still alive to say so.’ Eadgyth looked her up and down critically. ‘What on earth happened to you, girl?’

Aediva turned her face aside, cheeks flaring anew. Eadgyth was right. She was lucky not to be in chains. What had she been thinking? She’d armed herself with no real intention except to warn the Normans off, but far from bartering with them, or pleading for mercy, she’d clambered on top of their commander and aimed a blade at his heart, channelling the full force of her fear and anger into one frenzied, pointless attack. For certes, Cille would never have done such a thing.

And what had she hoped to achieve? She couldn’t possibly have fought off a whole Norman battalion. She hadn’t even stopped one man. Fighting her off had caused him little more effort than batting away a troublesome fly. And now it seemed she didn’t even matter enough to be punished. She didn’t know whether to feel relieved or insulted.

The sound of footsteps brought her back to herself.

‘He thinks I’m Cille,’ she whispered hurriedly, throwing a worried glance over her shoulder as Svend reappeared in the doorway, bearing a thick, fur-lined cloak in one hand and a wineskin in the other.

For the first time she looked at him properly, free to do so now that his attention no longer held hers. Strange that she hadn’t done it before, but somehow those blue eyes had made everything around them seem like a blur.

He was unlike any man she’d ever seen before—like a Viking from one of the old stories, a dangerous warrior from a wintry land across the sea. He was young, still in his mid-twenties, but there was no doubting his air of authority. His taut, muscular body was clad in a simple leather gambeson and dark hose, shunning armour except for a top of light chainmail.

Eadgyth was right; he wasn’t a monster. Far from it. If he hadn’t been her enemy she might have called him handsome. No, she corrected herself, that word was too bland. His features were too rugged to be called simply handsome, his jaw too squarely set, those glacial eyes too piercingly, disconcertingly blue.

Why did she keep coming back to his eyes?

She watched him cross the room, remembering the feel of his muscular body over hers, the vivid sensation of strength held in check. She’d aimed a dagger at his heart and yet he hadn’t fought back, hadn’t lain so much as a finger on her except in restraint. And then he’d let her go. Why? She could never have beaten him and yet he’d let her reclaim the knife. Had he been toying with her? Or had she really found a chink in his defences?

‘One of my men is preparing broth,’ he murmured, passing the wineskin to Eadgyth. ‘This contains feverfew. It should ease the pain.’

He moved to the far side of the bed and raised Cille gently, draping the cloak around her shoulders and holding her steady as the midwife pressed the spiced liquid to her lips.

Aediva stared transfixed at the scene before her. He is our enemy! she wanted to scream to the rafters. A Norman, or as good as! Had the world turned upside down? Normans were cold-hearted, ruthless invaders! They’d killed Leofric in battle, murdered her father in cold blood, driven Edmund away—destroyed the very fabric of their lives! So why was he helping them and not punishing her? And how could they possibly accept help from such a tainted source?

Cille’s flickering eyelids gave her the answer. She was gulping the liquid down greedily, as if she hadn’t touched a drop for days, seeming to gain strength with every mouthful.

‘Here.’

Without looking up, Svend shifted aside to let her take over and she brushed past him warily, careful not to make contact as she slid an arm under his and around Cille’s narrow shoulders. She was uncomfortably aware 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 with him in it, as if the walls were closing in on her. Or was he too big? She hadn’t noticed how tall he was before. The top of her head barely grazed his shoulder. Not to mention his chest. If both she and Cille stood together behind him no one would guess they were there.

Suddenly she wished she were back in the birthing chamber, back in the open air—anywhere but there.

She gave him a searching glance but he seemed not to have noticed her slip. Still, it would be too easy to give herself away. Perhaps it was time to tell him the truth, to admit who she was and that she’d been pretending to be her own sister. After all, he’d been unexpectedly kind to Cille. If she admitted the truth now he might let the lie pass, but the longer she deceived him the worse it would surely be. He didn’t look like a man who’d take kindly to being deceived. He would be angry...furious, even.

But at least he couldn’t blame Cille...

No, she decided, she wouldn’t tell him the truth just yet. She’d bear the brunt of his anger when it came, but it was too soon for Cille to be burdened with questions. Eadgyth had said she’d recover, but she was still weak. And she needed time with her baby. Whatever this warrior wanted could wait.

She peered at him from under her lashes, but his expression was closed, revealing nothing of the thoughts underneath. What did he want? Whatever it was, he looked like a man accustomed to getting his own way.

Well, that didn’t mean she would give it. And before she said anything—before she simply turned her sister over to him—she ought to find out what it was...

* * *

Svend stayed silent, unwilling to intrude upon her grief. The mention of her husband seemed to have upset her and he knew better than to offer sympathy.

What the hell had he been thinking, trying to offer solace at all? She’d looked so upset outside the hall that he’d assumed the worst, had felt drawn to comfort her despite himself. Why? What did it matter to him if she was upset? Women cried every day—their reasons for doing so were none of his concern. The world was a hard place, and the sooner everyone learned that, the better. No one had comforted him when he’d been forced to leave his home and family. So why did the sight of this woman crying bother him so much?

He frowned, trying to unravel the skein of his own tangled emotions. It was this place. He hadn’t noticed it at first, but something about it felt strangely familiar, stirring memories he’d thought long since forgotten. He’d seen villages enough since his arrival in England, but this one felt different. This one might have been his village in Danemark, one of these houses his home. The woman in the bed might have been one of his sisters, Agnethe or Helvig—young girls when he’d left them, probably mothers themselves by now. The feeling had been so striking that he’d felt bound to help her.

As for Lady Cille... Nothing about her was sisterly at all. Quite the opposite. So why was he still trying to comfort her?

He watched her out of the corner of his eye, studying her silhouette in the firelight, her slender figure still obvious and enticing despite her tattered tunic. Her waist was so small that his hands would probably meet if he wrapped them around it—which he realised he wanted to, and badly. He wanted to slide them down the slender curve of her hips, over her thighs, up and under her tunic, between her legs...

A surge of desire coursed through him. Was that all his concern meant, then? That he was attracted to her? The idea was...surprising. He was no stranger to women, nor was he easily swayed by feminine charms. And she was nothing at all like the kind of woman he was usually drawn to. She was too small, too delicate-looking—as if a strong wind might carry her away. A tender reed with a temper too big for her body.

Clearly he’d been in the company of men for too long. He desired a woman, that was all, and in the meanwhile he had no time to soothe tender feelings—especially those of a prisoner who’d just tried to kill him.

Besides, she was hiding something—he was sure of it. Just as he was certain that a pack of rabid wolves wouldn’t drag it from her. In the birthing chamber, he’d let his eyes rake her body deliberately to unsettle her, to undermine whatever premeditated answers she might have intended to give him. The fact that he’d wanted to look was simply a bonus. And she’d definitely been unsettled. The flicker of panic when he’d asked if they were sisters had been fleeting, but unmistakable.

He’d assumed that she was Lady Cille because she had answered to the name and fitted the description he’d been given exactly. But then so did the woman in the bed... Quickly, he filtered through the few details he’d been given. Lady Cille was the young widow of the ealdorman of Redbourn, hazel-haired, slight of build, kind and virtuous. But weren’t all wives described as virtuous? No one had mentioned golden eyes or a violent temper. And he found it impossible to believe that anyone could describe the woman before him without mentioning her eyes.

On the other hand, surely someone would have told him if Lady Cille had been with child!

He pushed his suspicions aside. As usual he was being too analytical, too thorough. This was no military campaign, to be examined from every angle, just a simple assignment. Find the woman and take her back to Redbourn. Whatever she was hiding was none of his concern.

‘What do you want from me, Norman?’ She spun around suddenly, interrupting his musing.

He ignored the question, absorbing her anger impassively, vaguely impressed. At least she didn’t try to inveigle him with sweet words, or try to flirt her way out of trouble, like most women of his acquaintance. He doubted this one knew how to do either. She was clearly overwrought and exhausted. But he had his own questions—ones that couldn’t wait. And besides, he had to prepare her for what lay ahead—though, judging by her temper so far, he ought to arm himself first.

‘She’s alone here, your sister?’

Her face clouded instantly. ‘Yes, apart from Eadgyth and me. I ordered our people to leave for their own safety.’

He ignored the jibe. ‘And her husband?’

She blinked, as if the question surprised her, and he raised an eyebrow. ‘She has a husband, I presume?’

‘Of course! Edmund.’

‘But he’s not here?’

‘No.’

She didn’t elaborate and his eyebrow inched higher. ‘No?’

‘He joined the rebellion.’

‘And left his wife with child?’

She shrugged. ‘I came to look after her.’

Svend stared at her incredulously. What kind of a man abandoned his pregnant wife, rebellion or no? Small wonder that Lady Cille seemed reluctant to talk about him. On the other hand, at least it explained what she was doing here—though not why she’d left Redbourn so suddenly and secretly.

‘You ask a lot of questions, Norman.’ Her expression was guarded.

‘I’m simply confused. Since the death of your husband, you’ve inherited his lands, have you not?’

‘No. Leofric had a younger brother. He’s the ealdorman now.’

‘He forfeited that position when he refused to swear fealty to the King and joined the rebels. Surely you knew that?’

‘Forfeited under Norman law. I don’t have to accept it.’

‘It would be wise if you did.’ His voice was low, but the veiled threat was unmistakable. ‘In any case, you’re now mistress of one of the largest estates in England.’

She looked less than impressed. ‘What of it?’

‘You left Redbourn in something of a hurry, my lady. It’s time for you to return home.’

She froze instantly. If he’d told her Redbourn had burnt to the ground she couldn’t have looked more horrified. ‘And if I don’t wish to go?’

‘Your people are vulnerable and afraid. As the ealdorman’s widow it’s your duty to take care of them. Or did you forget that when you ran away?’

‘I told you—I came to look after my sister. I have a duty to her as well.’

‘And yet you ran away by yourself, without telling anyone where you were going. That doesn’t speak of a particularly clear conscience.’

‘How 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 to protect?

She clenched her hands into fists. It was cruel—barbaric! It would break Cille’s heart. She couldn’t let it happen!

But what could she do? She could hardly go to the King’s cousin and pretend to be Cille. Someone would be bound to recognise her and reveal the truth. And yet... From a distance, she and Cille were almost identical. And surely Cille’s own people would keep her secret.

She stopped dead in her tracks. Would they? Svend’s criticism of Cille was all the worse for being true. Cille had fled her home in the spring—five months after Hastings and Leofric’s death. And he was right, as the ealdorman’s widow she should have stayed—should have remained to take care of her people. Would they be angry with her for abandoning them? Would they keep such a dangerous secret to protect her?

Svend had been right about Edmund too, and the disgust had been writ plain on his face. Now she wished she’d made up a name—not reminded herself of the one man she wanted to forget. They hadn’t actually been married, but the lie hadn’t been so far-fetched. Her father had wanted it, even if Edmund himself had shown no sign of caring for anything except her dowry. Worse still, he’d been rougher than she’d expected a suitor to be. His kisses had been too demanding, and he’d pressed her for more—far more—than she’d been willing to give. For her father’s sake she’d tried to accept him, but in truth his violence had frightened her.

But he was a Saxon—part of her old life—and the thought of him still hurt, like a bruise she’d inadvertently pressed too hard. He’d abandoned her just when she’d needed him, running off to join the rebellion despite her entreaties. Let Svend draw his own conclusions about such a man. They couldn’t be any worse than her own.

A sense of isolation swept over her, leaving a hollow sensation like a gaping pit in her stomach. Since her father’s death the feeling had become all too familiar. There was so much she felt responsible for, but there was no one—not a single person—she could turn to for help. And there was no one to protect Cille and her baby either. If she didn’t, who would?

She crouched down by the fire, trying to warm the chill in her heart, trying to work out a plan. Could she pretend to be Cille? It was possible. Surely Cille’s people would support her, a Saxon, over the Norman usurpers? And the Normans themselves had never met Cille...had they?

Now that she thought of it, Cille had been strangely unforthcoming on that subject. She hadn’t even said whether she’d left Redbourn before or after the Normans had arrived. On the other hand, what did it matter? After this many months who would remember the colour of her eyes?

She rocked back on her heels, making her mind up. If this was the only way to protect her sister and nephew then she’d do it—and gladly. The Normans might have invaded her country, but she wasn’t conquered yet. If she took Cille’s place she could find a way to stop the marriage. In the meantime, who knew what might happen? The rebels might gather an army and overthrow the Conqueror, or Cille and the babe might escape. Any risk would be worth that.

She glanced towards the open doorway with a new sense of resolve. She could do it. After all, she’d already fooled Svend du Danemark. And if she could stay one step ahead of him, she had a feeling the rest would be easy.