Читать книгу Saxon Lady - Margo Maguire - Страница 9

M athieu moved with a speed that belied his size, grabbed the woman’s wrist and pinned her beneath him. ’Twas ironic that the very wound she’d inflicted upon him earlier in the day had throbbed sufficiently to keep him from sleep, making him aware of her the moment she crawled into his tent.

“Lady Aelia, I presume.”

“Get off me, you…you Norman swine!”

“I see your aim is better than your manners. Fortunately, your skill is unmatched by your size, or I might have had something to worry about.”

She pushed and squirmed under him, but Mathieu did not yield. “Do you Saxons plan to assault me one by one until I’ve beaten every last one of you?”

“One by one?” she gasped. “My brother…he is here?”

’Twas some time since he’d had a woman under him, but though he was aroused by her soft feminine flesh, Mathieu was no rapist. He was disgusted by his own father’s preferred technique. Instead, he favored an enthusiastic partner rather than a combative or submissive one. “Do you mean the red-haired maggot who tried to stick me with his puny sword?” Mathieu quipped. “If Wallis is reduced to sending children to vanquish his enemy, then I’ve lost all respect for the man.”

“My f-father is dead.”

Her words surprised him. Who, then, had led Ingelwald’s defense? Wallis’s elder son? “Then ’tis Godwin who rules Ingelwald?”

Lady Aelia did not answer, but renewed her efforts to free herself. She jabbed her knee forward, hitting Mathieu ruthlessly between the legs. He groaned and rolled to the side, still holding her wrists in his fists.

“You have already done sufficient damage to me, demoiselle,” he said through gritted teeth as she continued to kick and flail against him. “Cease. You are going nowhere.” He lay across her, pinning her legs as well as her hands, and wondered how she’d managed to slip past the sentries who patrolled the boundaries of the camp. He had to concede that her small size had served her well in this instance.

“Where is my brother?”

“Stowed safely away,” he said roughly. His face was so close to hers that he could see a few light freckles dancing over her smooth, flawless skin. Her bared teeth were white and evenly spaced, her lips full and pink and slightly parted. He could almost taste them.

As appealing as that would be, he resisted the urge. “Should my men be watching for Godwin, too?”

“Release me!”

That was something Mathieu had no intention of doing. At least, not until she was properly restrained. He made another quick move and turned the wench facedown on the pelt that made up his bed. Placing his knee in the center of her back, he shoved her long blond plait aside and held her hands tightly behind her with one fist. With his free hand, he reached for a length of rope to bind her, then turned her again, to tie her hands in front.

He was not a cruel man. His ruthless reputation had been exaggerated, but it had served his purpose as he battled for the king. If only Wallis had heeded what he’d heard of Fitz Autier, the Saxon lord would still be in possession of his holding. Instead, he had rebelled against William’s authority, refusing to accept him as king. William had had no choice but to send an army to quell the rebellion.

When the woman was securely tied, Mathieu allowed her to sit up and face him. “Will Godwin negotiate for your release?”

She pressed her lips tightly together and looked away, refusing to answer. But Mathieu saw her throat move convulsively, and noted a slight tremor in her mouth. She was not merely being obstinate. If he was not mistaken, ’twas raw grief that made her tremble.

Her brother was dead.

He ignored the twinge of sympathy that arose from some place deep within him. ’Twas the way of war. Soldiers as well as innocents lost their lives, especially when those innocents did not surrender peacefully to the conquering armies. Mathieu had made warfare his business, and he was not in it to save anyone—particularly not this Saxon wench who stood between him and his deepest wishes.

Mathieu rose to his feet and placed the woman’s knife on top of his hauberk as he considered what to do with her. At first he thought of taking her to the supply wagon and leaving her there with her brother, but decided against it. Better to keep them separated.

“Who is in charge at Ingelwald?” he asked.

She raised her chin and refused to meet his eye.

“It does not matter.” He tossed a fur pelt down to the floor beside the one where the Saxon woman sat. “Tomorrow morn, when you arrive at Ingelwald gate, trussed up and draped over my horse’s rump, someone there will deal with me.”

“Where is my brother?” she snapped.

Mathieu laughed. “You are in no position to demand answers, demoiselle.”

“He is just a child—send him home.”

Mathieu reached for the knife. “You do not yet understand, Lady Aelia. The boy no longer has a home. Nor do you.”

She let out a huff of breath as if he’d struck her. If there had been any compassion in him, he might have spared some of it for this proud woman who’d braved the dark forest paths, then a legion of enemy soldiers, to rescue her young brother. If Mathieu were of a baser nature, he would allow her beauty and her womanly curves to entice him.

But he had one purpose here. He was to win Ingelwald for William, who in turn would grant it back to him as the king’s trusted vassal. ’Twas a rich holding, and a far greater reward than either of his brothers had achieved. He had already been named baron of Ingelwald by King William.

He reached for a length of rope and wrapped it twice ’round the Saxon woman’s waist, tying it behind her. Then he took the loose ends, tied them to one of his own wrists and lay down upon the extra pelt.

Aelia twisted her body to take hold of the rope that bound her to him, and tried to pull free. “If you think I’m going to lie here—”

“I am weary, wench,” he growled as she continued to struggle. She kicked him and tried to beat him with her fists, but Mathieu shoved her to the floor once again and took hold of her hair at the nape of her neck, where the long plait of gold-red began. He leaned down and spoke softly in her ear. “I can call to my men, and if you prefer their company to mine, you can pass the night with them.”

“You would do such a thing, Norman!” she cried, wriggling to get away. “Set an innocent woman—”

“Innocent?” He turned her and pulled her face close to his. “This bloody gash in my cheek had naught to do with innocence. The arrows that rained down upon my soldiers were not meant as goodwill tokens, demoiselle. Be grateful that I am more civilized than you, and be still. Sleep or not, but rest assured that your continued good health and that of your bratling brother will depend upon your conduct tonight!”

Aelia could see no way out. Fitz Autier had turned away from her and settled down to sleep, but she could not rest.

Nor could she escape.

One tug on the rope that bound her would rouse him from slumber, and he was even more formidable at close quarters. ’Twas appalling to her to admit it, but she was afraid to cross him.

She’d thought him comely from a distance, but now that she could see his features and his massive chest and arms, bared for sleep, she knew that there was much more to Fitz Autier than a handsome face. His nose bore a slight bump at its bridge, indicating that it had once been broken. A narrow scar marred his forehead, cutting through his thick dark brow. And from this day forward, he would always bear a reminder of her arrow upon his cheek.

Would that it had been a true shot! Then she would not be in this predicament.

She tried to loosen the bindings on her wrists, but could not. The knots he’d tied at her back were unreachable, and she was unable to twist them to the front, where she could see them and work on them.

The walls of the tent were staked firmly to the ground, so Aelia could not slip underneath, even if she were to manage to free herself. She glanced ’round the shadowy interior of the tent, looking for anything she might be able to use as a weapon, or to cut herself free. Of course, Fitz Autier had placed her knife upon his far side, and she could not reach it without climbing over him.

An unlit lamp hung from the center pole, and a small wooden trunk stood fast against the far canvas wall, a wooden carving of a wolf lying on top. Besides the Norman’s armor and his discarded tunic, hauberk and boots, there was nothing else. No way to kill him, and no way to escape.

Even if she could somehow slip past him to get out, she did not know Osric’s location. If she left, she would have to search every inch of the camp for him, and if she failed to find him and take him back to Ingelwald, Aelia had no doubt the Norman would make good his threat.

Osric would be killed.

Aelia sighed in frustration and lay down uneasily behind Fitz Autier, watching him breathe deeply and regularly in sleep. He was remarkably relaxed for a man who lay beside a captive bent upon destroying him.

He was uncovered, yet his body radiated heat. The thick muscles of his shoulders rippled with every breath, and Aelia swallowed uneasily as she took note of his size and remembered the strength of his grip on her wrists.

He could crush Osric—or even her—between his big hands.

Aelia could not relax. She had never slept beside a man before, and was not about to start with a Norman, particularly this bastard. She pushed herself as far as possible from him, inadvertently tugging the rope and waking him.

She cursed his quick reflexes as one of his hands shot out and grabbed her. He pulled her inexorably toward him and quickly enveloped her in his arms.

“By all that’s holy, wench, ’tis the last time I’ll tell you to settle yourself, else I’ll send you to the guards. Lie down!”

Aelia knew she would be worse than a fool if she tried to fight him. ’Twas not just her own life at risk, but Osric’s, too.

She lay back on the fur pelt beside him, but he allowed her no space. He stayed facing her, and she was caught between his broad chest and the taut canvas wall.

As his breathing quieted, Aelia turned her thoughts from the brawny Norman and considered the coming morn. She had to think what to do when she was offered in exchange for Ingelwald.

Selwyn would not care as much about her safe return as he would about keeping Ingelwald for himself. Aelia had had to remind him far too many times since her father’s death that the holding was Osric’s birthright. King Harold had promised that Wallis and his heirs would continue as earls of eastern Northumberland. With her brother, Godwin, gone these past two years, the honor fell to Osric. Certainly not to Selwyn, whose stature was insignificant in the English hierarchy.

Aelia eased herself down beside Fitz Autier and shivered, whether with cold or nerves, she did not know. But seeming of its own accord, her body inched closer to his warmth, and he threw one arm over her waist. The quiet sound of his breathing relaxed her, and she found her eyelids drooping. Her thoughts became disjointed.

Ingelwald’s warriors would battle the Normans to the death. Selwyn would not yield until the walls were breached and every man, woman and child was killed.

But what if Selwyn could be eliminated first? ’Twas possible her father’s huscurls would trade her and Osric for peaceful entry.

How many lives would be spared if Ingelwald accepted the Norman’s terms?

Ingelwald’s warriors were vastly outnumbered by these Normans, whose stores of armor and weapons—and food—seemed unending. The supplies at home were growing scarce. There were only so many arrows left, and even fewer bags of grain until the fields were harvested. Aelia did not know how long her people could hold out before starvation, if not slaughter, vanquished them.

Aelia saw the face of her brother’s young friend, Grendel, before her eyes, and those of his sisters and his parents. There were countless others whose lives were precious to her. There was Beorn the Carpenter, who built lyres and harps, and all manner of other musical instruments. And Erlina, daft as she was, who made potions and poultices for any who had need of them. If Ingelwald surrendered, would the Normans allow her people to live in peace, working their land as they’d done for generations?

’Twas a disturbing question.

Fitz Autier tightened his grip on her, as though he had heard her painful thoughts and wanted to give comfort. He pulled her close, sliding one thick knee between her soft thighs. Afraid of waking him, she did not pull away, but held her breath while his hand caressed her back, sliding down across her buttocks.

Aelia’s eyes drifted closed and she did not resist when he increased their intimate contact. She did not have the energy to fight him, and the warmth of his body drew her to him, as did the sense of being gathered into a cocoon of security. It had been so long since Aelia had felt safe. She’d lost her brother, then her father, in skirmishes against the bastard king’s armies. Now she had to contend with Selwyn, who wanted to take Ingelwald from Osric. It sometimes felt as though the strife would never end.

Fitz Autier made a soft sound in his sleep and changed position slightly. Though he might be indifferent to what he was doing, Aelia could feel her pulse pounding in every sensitive part of her body. And when his leg slid even higher, she could not breathe.

She was as fatigued as she’d ever been in her life, yet the pressure of his thigh made it impossible to sleep. Her sense of security and repose was soon replaced by a strange tension and a pleasure so acute she had to press her mouth closed to keep from sighing aloud. Inadvertently, she clasped her legs tightly ’round his and shifted slightly, finding the most responsive part of her body and moving against him.

She was afraid of waking him, yet she could not make herself stop. Every nerve within her seemed centered in that one extraordinary place, and when the urgent sensations flooded together and peaked, Aelia thought her heart would burst from her chest. She closed her eyes and let the strange euphoria wash over her, feeling exquisitely sensitive to everything around her.

She felt Fitz Autier’s breath in her hair, heard his heartbeat, felt the dark crisp curls of his chest against her cheek. He smelled like a freshly washed male, his skin warm and taut against hers, and once again Aelia felt the shuddering awareness she’d experienced when she’d first seen him on the ground beneath Ingelwald’s battlements.

But he was her enemy!

These odd sensations had naught to do with the predictions her mother had made so many years ago, when Edward was king and William merely a troublesome Frenchman. Her mother had never known of the disasters to come, of the terrible toll the Normans would take from Ingelwald. She had never meant that a Norman would be Aelia’s one true mate, her body recognizing him even as she did her best to kill him.

’Twas ridiculous.