Svend tightened his knuckles over his reins, the sound of soft, feminine laughter shredding the last vestiges of his temper.
He’d let her rest for over an hour, afraid that the next sound he’d hear would be a thud as she fell out of the saddle, but he hadn’t expected her to wake up quite so refreshed. What was she laughing about? How could a sound be so infuriating and so intoxicating at the same time?
He cast a swift glance over his shoulder at his squire. He’d told Renard to keep watch on her, but apparently the lad had decided to entertain her as well. He didn’t know which of them he was angrier with, but now he fervently wished he’d left her to fall in the dirt. She was a shrew. Even when he’d been trying to help her, after he’d thought they’d established some kind of truce, they’d somehow ended up arguing.
So why was Renard so favoured? Why was the boy exempt from her hatred of Normans when he so clearly was not? He could almost imagine that she was doing it on purpose, to annoy him. He was not—would not—be jealous of his own squire!
He dug his heels into Talbot’s flanks, accelerating his pace to match his anger and frustration, his attention fixed firmly on the track ahead. If she had time for jokes and laughter, then clearly he was being too easy on her.
The wind battered his skin, brisk and invigorating, as they thundered up and over the rolling hillsides. He wasn’t jealous, he told himself, just irritated. Her very presence was irritating—unsettling, somehow—like a splinter under his skin that he couldn’t extract or ignore. But then he wasn’t accustomed to travelling with women. He was a soldier, not an escort, and the sooner they reached Redbourn and he was rid of her, the sooner he could claim his reward and the better for both of them.
‘You’re still one of them. I can’t help but hate you for it.’
Her words came back to him now, as if carried on the wind. She’d sounded exasperated, as if he ought just to accept them. Well, shouldn’t he? She was mourning her husband and her father, and he was her captor, returning her to Redbourn against her will. Of course she hated him. What else did he expect?
What else did he want?
He leaned over Talbot’s mane, trying to lose himself in the pounding rhythm of hoofbeats. He shouldn’t want anything. He shouldn’t be thinking about her at all. He was her escort, sent by the King’s cousin. Only a fool would abuse such a trust. Only a madman would consider it.
Besides, he wasn’t about to be distracted from his purpose now—and definitely not by a woman. He’d spent ten years rebuilding his life, following orders and earning the King’s goodwill. That was why he was here, fulfilling this one last commission. He was doing this for the reward, no other reason. Now, if he could just stop thinking about her...
* * *
The sky was darkening when he finally called a halt, setting up camp between a narrow brook and small copse of woodland. Svend slid from his horse, surprised to feel a protesting ache between his shoulder blades. He hadn’t been aware of any discomfort during the ride, but clearly he’d been pushing even harder than he’d intended.
She’d probably hate him for that too.
He turned to face her, expecting anger, and was taken aback by her pale, drained appearance. She was slumped so low in the saddle that she seemed in imminent danger of falling off, her eyes so red-rimmed and swollen they seemed to take up half her face. For a stunned moment he stood motionless, stung by a fierce pang of remorse, before he strode quickly to help her dismount, surprised when she let him. She slid down without even a murmur of protest, tumbling into his arms as if she were already half asleep, her very silence a reproach. No words of anger could have been so effective.
‘Lady Cille? Can you stand?’
Her legs quivered in answer and he caught her up, gathering her into his arms as she mumbled something incoherent, her eyelids closing even before her head hit his shoulder.
Guilt stabbed him anew. He’d done this, trying so hard not to think about her that he’d hurt her instead. He was accustomed to riding in all conditions, and for any length of time, but he should have considered the effect on someone unused to long marches—not to mention someone who’d spent the night before tending to a baby. He’d let his emotions get the better of him. Emotions he shouldn’t even be having. It would serve him right if FitzOsbern punished him—and not just for his ill treatment of her.
He laid her down gently on a bed of pine needles and she curled up at once, fast asleep by the time he came back with a blanket. He tucked it around her, careful not to let his fingers linger, trying not to notice the smooth contours of her body as narrow waist curved into rounded hip.
She hadn’t eaten—again—but he couldn’t bring himself to wake her. She could sleep for as long as she needed, then take it more easily tomorrow. They’d travel at a slow trot all the way to Redbourn if necessary. He’d even let her insult him if it made her feel better.
He stood up and made his way around the camp, ignoring the inquisitive looks of his men and berating himself inwardly. He rarely second-guessed himself, or felt obliged to explain his motives, but something about her unsteadied him, made him feel dangerously out of control.
There was only one other woman who’d ever had such a powerful effect on him—one other woman who’d got into his head and ended up breaking his heart. But that had been a long time ago and he’d learnt a lot about women since Maren. Or thought he had. None of it had seemed to help with Lady Cille...
He volunteered for the first watch, his mind too preoccupied for sleep, settling down amidst the scattered rocks beside the water’s edge as his men bedded down for the night, positioning himself with a clear view of her sleeping body. After what he’d done, he didn’t want to let her out of his sight. The least he could do was make sure she wasn’t disturbed. It wasn’t that he wanted to look at her—not completely, at least.
He heard a crunching sound and reached instinctively for his dagger, his hand falling again as he recognised his squire.
‘Ale, sir?’
Renard proffered a cup and Svend forced himself to accept. After all, the lad had only been following orders—his orders. Even so, he found it hard to forget their easy laughter that afternoon.
‘You should get some rest.’
‘I will, sir. It’s just...about Lady Cille...’
‘What about her?’ Svend struggled to keep his expression civil. His squire’s tone was mildly reproving.
‘She was very tired, sir.’
‘She was, but it was her own fault.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Anything else? Did I forget to curtsy as well?’
The boy shook his head self-consciously. ‘No, sir. Sorry, sir. It’s just... She’s not what I expected.’
‘You seemed to get on well enough.’
‘I have five older sisters. I’m good at talking to women.’
‘Indeed?’ Svend smiled despite himself. ‘That’s quite a gift.’
‘Not when they only want to mother me. Lady Cille probably doesn’t think I’m old enough to be a soldier. But she and the Baron don’t seem very well-suited.’
Svend froze with the ale halfway to his mouth. ‘The Baron?’
‘Philippe de Quincey, sir. That’s who she’s marrying.’
‘De Quincey?’ Svend lowered his cup again, unable to hide his surprise. ‘How do you know?’
‘The maids at Redbourn. Like I say, women talk to me. When you met with the Earl I visited the kitchens. They say he’s completely besotted.’
Svend blew air from between his teeth. Philippe de Quincey was one of the richest and most powerful men in Normandy, not to mention a close friend and confidante of the King. If Renard were right it would certainly explain the urgency of his assignment, not to mention the secrecy. If the Baron wanted Lady Cille, even William FitzOsbern would make it his business to find her.
A muscle twitched in his jaw. He had no issue with the man personally. Quite the opposite. On the few occasions they’d served together he’d found him a fair and charismatic leader. Arrogant, perhaps, though that was only to be expected from a man who ruled half the coastline of Normandy. But not the kind of man to appreciate a challenge—especially not where women were concerned. No, he preferred them pliant and docile, the more submissive the better. Would this Saxon wildcat really appeal to him?
On the other hand...there was undoubtedly something captivating about her. It wasn’t so far-fetched. After all, de Quincey could have his pick of heiresses. Whatever Lady Cille might bring to a marriage would be only a tiny fraction of his wealth. He must be besotted indeed to pursue such a minor alliance.
‘Are you certain?’
‘That’s what I heard. They say it’s a love match—on his side anyway.’
‘And hers?’
‘They didn’t know. They thought she was still grieving for her husband.’ Renard pitched his voice lower. ‘Perhaps she found his attentions displeasing and that’s why she ran away?’
Svend’s expression hardened. That sounded more like her. He could easily imagine her reaction to a Norman suitor. The Baron was lucky she hadn’t gelded him. But how far had his unwelcome advances gone? Was that why she’d run away? Because she was afraid of him? Damn it all, everyone knew that political alliances were necessary, but surely the woman’s feelings ought to be taken into account. What kind of a man forced his attentions on a grieving widow? What kind of a man forced himself at all? What had the bastard done to her?
‘Can I get you anything else, sir?’
‘What? Oh...’ He put a placatory hand on his squire’s arm, regretting his earlier brusqueness. ‘No, get some rest.’
His gaze followed Renard’s retreating figure before drifting inexorably back towards her. From his vantage point he could just make out the pale oval of her face in the moonlight. Why hadn’t she told him about de Quincey? As far as he could remember she’d never mentioned his name. Nothing she’d said even suggested the two of them had ever met. He frowned into the darkness. Not that he expected her to confide in him, but the omission bothered him somehow. What else was she hiding?
And where the hell was de Quincey? If he were really so besotted, why wasn’t he here in person, saving him the trouble? Why make him complicit? He’d rather face a horde of rebels than force a woman into marriage against her will. Especially this woman.
From what he remembered, the Baron had been called back to his estates in Normandy in the early spring. His return was imminent, but apparently not soon enough. And so FitzOsbern had sent him instead—a warrior in place of a husband...
Snap!
The sound was faint, an almost inaudible crack in the darkness, but he froze instantly, every instinct on the alert as he scanned the undergrowth for movement, looking for telltale signs of an ambush. The noise had come from the copse behind the campsite, too loud for an animal, too quiet for a man—unless it were a man moving slowly, trying not to be heard.
Soundlessly he moved into a crouching position, poised for a counter-attack. He was only ten feet away from the camp, but it still felt too far. If they were under attack, could he reach her in time?
He peered into the darkness, but there was nothing, no one—just a heavy, unnatural stillness, as if the trees themselves were holding their breath. But there was someone out there—he knew it instinctively. Someone on the far side of the clearing, watching, waiting...for what?
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a shadow move suddenly—a man’s figure, darting silently between the trees, but heading away from the camp, not towards it. Instantly he was on his feet and following, keeping low to the ground as he darted across the beach and into the camp, clamping a hand over Renard’s mouth as he shook him awake.
‘Wake the men! We’re not alone.’
He started off again, quickly, and then stopped as if reconsidering something. ‘Get her up too. I don’t want her caught by surprise.’
He broke into the trees, following the direction of the shadow, treading lightly as he ducked under and around branches, trying not to make a sound. There was a rustle of leaves and a sway of branches ahead and he crept towards it, halting abruptly as the shadow stopped, every muscle immobile as an unknown gaze seemed to sweep over him. Then the figure moved again and Svend carried on, reaching the far edge of the copse just as the shadow burst into the open, the unmistakable figure of a man revealed in the moonlight.
Svend swore imaginatively. The man might be a rebel scout, or simply a lone outlaw, but he couldn’t take the chance. Where there was one rebel there might be more. He wasn’t going to wait around to find out.
He made his way swiftly back to the clearing, relieved to find his men grouped in a defensive circle around Lady Cille. She was standing alone in the centre, a small figure dwarfed by the burly soldiers, her pale face tense and frightened. As he stepped out of the trees her shoulders seemed to slump suddenly, her whole body slackening as if with relief. Or was it disappointment? After the ride that day she’d probably hoped she’d seen the last of him.
‘Rebels, sir?’
Renard ran up to him and Svend patted the boy’s shoulder reassuringly. ‘Most likely. We need to leave. Now.’
His men didn’t argue, packing up camp with quiet, practised efficiency, clearing the ground in a matter of minutes.
‘Lady Cille.’ He found himself drawn irresistibly towards her, his feet moving as if of their own volition. ‘We need to go.’
‘Why did you do that?’ She straightened up as he approached, her voice high-pitched and accusatory, eyes glowing like golden orbs in the moonlight.
‘Do what?’ He frowned, taken aback by her vehemence. What was she angry about this time?
‘You shouldn’t have gone after him! It was dangerous.’
He stared at her, genuinely perplexed. Had she been worried about him? Flattering though the idea was, it seemed highly unlikely. More likely she’d been afraid for the rebels, or angry that he’d left her alone. But it wasn’t as if he’d left her undefended. His men had practically built a shield wall around her.
‘There’s no need to be frightened. My men are more than capable of dealing with rebels.’
‘Frightened?’
‘You’re safe with my soldiers.’
She blinked rapidly, as if she were coming out of a trance. ‘Why would I be frightened of rebels? They wouldn’t harm me.’
‘No?’ His temper stirred. Was she really so naive? Did she always have to provoke him? Even now when he was trying to reassure her? ‘I wouldn’t be so sure. They might be rebels or they might be outlaws. Either way, they’re men. Are you so certain who’s on your side?’
For a fleeting moment her expression seemed to waver. Then it hardened again, and her chin inched upwards in a now familiar gesture of defiance. ‘If they’re Saxon, they won’t harm me.’
‘Is that so?’
He took a step towards her, so that they stood only inches apart, the air between them seeming to crackle and strain with tension. She swayed slightly, as if she were about to retreat, then straightened again, so close that he could feel the heat of her body through her gown. She was panting slightly, her breathing shallow and erratic, her breasts rising and falling just inches away from his chest.
From the sounds around them he could tell that his men were almost ready. If he had even the tiniest shred of common sense he’d turn and walk away from her now.
She licked her lips nervously and his gaze followed the movement. Her bottom lip was full, moist, dangerously tempting. He clenched his jaw, fighting the urge he’d felt that first night, the almost overwhelming desire to pull her into his arms and kiss the defiant look off her face.
‘They won’t harm me,’ she repeated, less convincingly.
‘So you say.’
‘You could leave me here.’
He frowned, thinking he must have misheard her.
‘Just leave me here.’ She looked hopeful suddenly. ‘You could say that I ran away.’
‘Just like that?’
She nodded. ‘Turn around and I’ll run. Then it won’t be a lie.’
Svend raised his eyebrows incredulously. ‘You want me to abandon you at night, in the middle of nowhere, with wolves and rebels and outlaws for company?’
‘I’ll take my chances.’
He studied her face intently. She meant it. She actually wanted him to let her run off alone. Was she brave or just reckless? Or so afraid of de Quincey that she’d actually risk her life to avoid him? His hands curled into fists at the thought.
‘It’s too dangerous.’
‘I’m not afraid.’
‘I can’t let you go.’
‘Please, Svend.’
He stiffened. He was used to her arguing with him, to berating him and insulting him, but pleading...? The imploring tone of her voice made his heart clench unexpectedly. The way she said his name almost finished him. For one wild moment he was tempted to do whatever she wanted—to let her go, to let her run from a marriage she didn’t want.
To go with her.
He shook his head, dispelling the thought. He hadn’t forgotten the last time a woman had asked him for a favour. He’d given in to Maren and look where it had got him. He’d spent the last ten years paying for it, rebuilding his life one hard step at a time. He’d learnt his lesson the hard way and he wasn’t about to make the same mistake now, when his reward was almost within touching distance. Lady Cille could plead all she wanted. He wasn’t going to fall for a woman’s tricks again.
‘We don’t have time for this.’ He turned his back on her stiffly. ‘My men are waiting.’
‘So you won’t help me?’
He hardened his heart against the appeal in her voice. ‘On the contrary, I’m going to keep you safe. Whether you want me to or not.’