Aediva flung herself onto Cille’s bed and stared hopelessly up at the rafters, watching as a spider wove its intricate web above her head.
De Quincey had been as good as his word, sending a man to escort her to Cille’s chamber in the old Saxon hall, which was still standing side by side with the new Norman tower. She felt as though she were in some uncanny, half-known version of reality, taking comfort in the familiar surroundings despite the army outside.
Her situation was far worse than she could ever have imagined. She’d set out to save her sister, only to find that she’d failed from the start. She’d deceived Svend for nothing, miring herself ever deeper in a lie because she couldn’t bear to admit her own burgeoning feelings for him. A lie he’d uncovered for himself and for which he apparently couldn’t forgive her. He’d been prepared to face the consequences of her deception alongside her, but he’d done so out of honour—not love. And now she was alone, waiting for whatever verdict the Norman Earl might pass on her.
She’d made a mess of everything.
She pulled her knees up to her stomach and groaned. She shouldn’t have let Svend go to the Earl without her...should have insisted on accompanying him. Anything would have been better than this waiting. The suspense was bad enough, but being alone with her thoughts was even worse. The look on his face when he’d left the tent still haunted her. He hadn’t wanted her to go with them, hadn’t trusted her not to make their situation even worse.
Well, after everything she’d done she supposed she couldn’t blame him, but at least there was one way she could prove him wrong.
She heaved herself up off the bed, her spirit reasserting itself. She’d got them into this mess and now she could help get them out of it. For Cille’s sake she’d go along with whatever version of events Svend and de Quincey invented. What had they said? That she was there as a gesture of goodwill, that she’d come to bring word of Cille’s good health...
She repeated the lines inwardly. When she went to the Earl she’d be the very model of restrained behaviour, would show them all how well a Saxon lady could behave.
If she went to the Earl...
The fact that Svend still hadn’t come back was worrying in itself. It must have been an hour since he’d left with de Quincey. If anything had happened to him because of her she’d never forgive herself.
She wrestled her fears back under control. If she were going to be any help at all she had to start by following de Quincey’s advice. He was right—she couldn’t attend the Earl in her tattered gown. She was a Thane’s daughter and it was high time she started to dress and behave like one.
Carefully, she opened the lid of one of Cille’s old coffers, running her fingers over an impressive array of velvet gowns and intricately embroidered headdresses, tasselled belts and linen girdles. She’d never felt more like an impostor. Cille had always been naturally poised and elegant, rarely allowing so much as a hair out of place, while she on the other hand...
What was she supposed to do with so many clasps and ribbons?
There was only one way to find out.
Slowly she untied the laces on the front of her gown and let it slide over her hips to the floor. Then she slipped off her shoes, standing barefoot in her shift as she started to unravel her braid. Her hair had still been damp when she’d retied it after her swim, so that now it tumbled down her back in a riot of waves, swirling around her body like a cloak.
There. She gave a nod of satisfaction. Stripped down to basics, she could start again. She might have arrived in Redbourn looking like some kind of wild creature, but she would leave—if she could leave—like a lady.
She delved back into the coffer, selecting an ivy-green gown trimmed with dark velvet and embroidered with an intricate pattern of gold thread. The neck was cut in a square, the bodice tighter than she was used to, and the sleeves were so long she’d likely trip over them if she wasn’t careful, but at least she and Cille were the same size. It would fit—if she dared to wear it.
If... She draped the fabric against her body and then dropped it again, distracted by a commotion outside—the sound of muffled voices and heavy footfalls, the squeal of axles and the thud of hoofbeats. Was it something to do with Svend? Quickly she ran to the wall, looking for a gap in the timbers, a hole big enough to see through, finally finding one up near the rafters.
With an effort she dragged the coffer underneath and clambered on top, peering out at a scene of organised chaos. No, this had nothing to do with Svend. Everywhere she looked was a hive of activity, as if the army itself were preparing to move. Was it possible? She felt a flicker of hope. Were the Normans leaving?
A man cleared his throat behind her and she spun around in alarm, wrapping her arms around her body as if she could somehow hide the fact that she was wearing only short undergarments.
‘Svend?’
For a moment she didn’t recognise him. He looked the same, and yet different somehow, as if the features she remembered had been deliberately wiped clean. His tunic was gleaming white, a striking contrast to his usual dark-clad appearance, and his blond hair was swept back off his face, making his chiselled features look even more defined, even more dangerous, somehow, as if they were carved from stone.
He was a stranger, this Svend who didn’t trust her, as strong, formidable and remote as an ice-topped mountain. Everything about him looked stern and forbidding. Everything except his eyes. They were blazing at her in a way that made her tremble all over.
She gasped, suddenly aware of her precarious position, standing on a coffer, bare-legged and covered in only the thinnest of shifts. Quickly she jumped down and snatched up a blanket, wrapping it tightly around her shoulders.
‘Apologies.’ Svend cleared his throat again, more huskily this time. ‘I called out, but there was no answer.’
‘I didn’t hear.’ She tried her best to sound casual. ‘I was trying to see what was happening outside.’
‘Ah.’ His gaze flickered down to her bare legs and then up again, as if reluctant to linger. ‘The Earl wants to leave Redbourn tomorrow. The army is preparing... But perhaps I should leave you to dress before we talk?’
She felt her blush deepen from pink to burgundy. Last night he’d wanted to undress her and now he was telling her to cover up! She couldn’t have felt any more mortified.
‘There’s no need.’ She straightened her shoulders, speaking abrasively. ‘I’m sure whatever you have to say won’t take long.’
‘It won’t.’ His gaze frosted again, cold and hard as sharpened steel, utterly devoid of emotion. ‘I’ve been sent by the Earl.’
‘Oh?’ She felt her pulse start to race. Was that why he looked so forbidding? Because the Earl hadn’t believed their story? Was he here to arrest her?
‘De Quincey told him you’d brought news of your sister. He seemed to believe it.’
‘So it’s going to be all right?’ Her shoulders sagged with relief.
‘In a manner of speaking. He’s appointed me Warden of Redbourn.’
‘You? What about de Quincey?’
‘He wants to take your sister to Normandy after they’re married. He thinks Redbourn might contain too many memories.’
‘Normandy? But this is her home!’
‘The home she ran away from. Perhaps she won’t mind.’
‘So you... He...’
She spluttered at him, surprise giving way to anger. She’d spent the last hour torturing herself, worrying about the danger he might be in, when apparently she needn’t have bothered! He’d been rewarded—not punished. He’d been given a castle! She’d been stupidly naive, thinking that he’d gone in to protect her when all he cared about was getting his hands on Saxon land! And she’d let it all be decided without her! De Quincey was to claim Cille and Svend was to get Redbourn. It had all worked out perfectly. For them.
‘So the Earl just gave you Redbourn?’ She eyed him suspiciously.
‘Not exactly. There are conditions.’
‘How inconvenient.’ She didn’t bother to hide her sarcasm. ‘But at least you still get your reward.’
‘I’ve earned it.’
‘Yes, you must have been very convincing.’
His eyelids flickered dangerously, though his stern expression didn’t waver. ‘The credit belongs to De Quincey. He truly loves your sister.’
She gave him a withering glare. Even if that were true, it didn’t necessarily mean that Cille loved him. And she wouldn’t know that until she returned to Etton and asked her. At least now she could leave with de Quincey.
‘So if you’re the Warden, am I free to go?’
‘No.’ He held her gaze steadily. ‘Not yet.’
‘You said the Earl believed you.’
‘He did. He wants us to marry.’
Marry? She mouthed the word, though it didn’t come out. Instead she stared at him soundlessly, thinking she must have misheard. He’d said it so matter-of-factly, without so much as a flicker of emotion, that surely she must have misheard. If he’d said that the Earl himself wanted to marry her she couldn’t have felt more surprised.
‘He wants the Warden to marry a Saxon.’
‘But...’ She licked her lips, trying to loosen them. ‘Why me? I don’t have anything to do with Redbourn.’
‘It was the Earl’s choice.’
She flinched as if he’d just struck her. It was the Earl’s choice—by implication not his. Well, what else had she expected? To be told that he’d asked for her, loved her, actually wanted to marry her? He looked distant and withdrawn, as if marriage to her was the very last thing he wanted. All he wanted was Redbourn.
‘So I’m a...condition?’
‘One of them.’
She bristled. So the Earl thought he could simply dispose of both her and Cille in one fell swoop, shaping their lives to his own advantage! Or had he guessed her deception after all? Was this some kind of twisted revenge? Forcing her to marry a man who clearly didn’t want her?
‘And when does the Earl want an answer?’
‘He wishes it to be settled before he leaves.’
‘But you said he was leaving tomorrow!’
‘He is. Arrangements are already in place for de Quincey’s wedding to your sister. If you’re agreeable, we’ll have our wedding feast tonight.’
‘Tonight?’
‘As I said, if you’re agreeable.’
She staggered away from him, her mind whirling. Agreeable? How could she be agreeable? The very idea of marriage was abhorrent to her. She hadn’t wanted to marry anyone since the first time Edmund had touched her.
As for marriage to Svend? The thought didn’t repel her in quite the same way, but how could she possibly marry him now? At least when he’d been angry with her he’d felt something. Now his glacial expression made her feel cold all over. Whatever feelings he’d had for her were clearly long gone. If he’d only show some sign of emotion...melt just a little. Otherwise their marriage would be doomed from the start. How could she...? How could they...?
She swallowed nervously. Would it be a marriage in truth? Would he want to lie with her?
He seemed to guess the direction of her thoughts. ‘You’ve nothing to fear from me. You can return to Etton in a few weeks, if you wish. Your sister inherited the land so it forms part of the Redbourn estate. You can look after the village as before. Our marriage will be a formal arrangement, that’s all.’
‘Oh.’ She felt an unexpected twinge of disappointment. ‘And if I refuse?’
‘Make your objections known to the Earl, by all means.’ He gave a dismissive shrug and then frowned, as if admitting something against his will. ‘But I doubt he’ll let you return to Etton if you refuse. He doesn’t like to be thwarted.’
She froze, horrified, hardly knowing whether to laugh or cry at the irony. She’d started off pretending to be Cille and now she was becoming her in truth! If she married Svend she’d be mistress of Redbourn—become the very Saxon bride she’d come to rescue. But if she didn’t who would take care of Etton? If this was the only way to protect her people what choice did she have?
‘Unless...’ Svend’s frown deepened, as if a new thought had just occurred to him. ‘Unless there’s another reason you can’t marry me?’
She looked at him askance. Did he mean besides the fact that he didn’t love her? Or was love so unimportant to Normans?
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re of an age for marriage.’ He looked suspicious. ‘Who’s Edmund?’
‘What?’ Her stomach twisted painfully. ‘Why?’
‘In Etton you said that was the name of your sister’s husband. Who is he really? Yours?’
‘No!’
‘No...?’
He took a step closer and she clasped the blanket to her throat defensively. She hadn’t thought that he could look any colder, but now his whole demeanour was positively chilling.
‘When you asked about Cille’s husband his was the first name I thought of.’
‘So who is he?’ His voice sounded clipped, as if he were keeping a tight rein on his emotions.
‘If you must know, he is the son of a neighbouring Thane. My father wanted me to marry him.’
His face darkened and she felt a momentary surprise. He looked the same way de Quincey had done in the tent—as if he were jealous. But he couldn’t be. He was probably just afraid of anything that might thwart his ambitions for Redbourn.
‘And...?’
‘And I didn’t care for him—not like that.’
His expression shifted slightly. ‘So you’re not married?’
‘Do you think I would have kissed you if I’d been married?’
‘You seemed prepared to go to any lengths to protect your sister.’
‘I wouldn’t do that.’
He shrugged callously. ‘You were pretending to be someone else. How do I know what else you were pretending?’
Aediva clenched her hands into fists, tempted to pick up the nearest blunt instrument and hit him with it. So that was what he thought of her? That she was the kind of woman who would use her body to get her own way? Every intimate moment between them felt tainted. Bad enough that he didn’t trust her, but now he’d insulted her too! How dared he insult her and ask for her hand in marriage at the same time?
‘How could you think such a thing?’
He took another step towards her, that icy demeanour slipping. ‘How could you lie to me for so long?’
‘I couldn’t tell you the truth!’
‘Not even last night?’
She faltered, the memory of their moonlit kiss arresting her anger. ‘I thought I was doing what was best.’
‘You didn’t trust me.’
‘I couldn’t take the chance!’
‘After I saved you from a bolting horse and nursed you through a fever? After everything I told you about Maren? You still didn’t trust me?’
‘What could you have done?’ She squared up to him combatively. ‘If I’d told you the truth then you’d have had to arrest me. Otherwise you’d have been a traitor, an...’
She stopped and he raised an eyebrow, his lips curling sardonically as he finished the sentence for her. ‘An outlaw?’
‘Yes.’ She jutted her chin up. ‘Would you have thanked me for that?’
‘No. But did you really think I’d arrest you?’
She caught her breath. Had she truly thought that? No, somehow she’d known from the first that he wouldn’t do anything to hurt her. She’d been afraid of him discovering the truth, but not because of that. She’d feared something else entirely—had feared him hating her the way he hated her now.
She shook her head hopelessly. ‘I was going to tell you this morning at the waterfall. I wanted to tell you. But then Sir Hugh arrived and it was too late.’
For an instant his expression seemed to waver. Then it hardened again, smoothing out into a hard, cynical mask. ‘It is too late. For that and for this. The Earl’s waiting. If you want to decline his proposal you can do it in person.’
‘Now?’
How could she decide right now? There was too much to think about—for herself and for Etton too! How could she possibly make such a momentous decision so quickly?
He nodded icily. ‘Marry me or don’t. It’s up to you. But decide quickly. I’ll wait outside.’
* * *
Svend let the oxhide fall shut behind him, tempted to wrench it off with his hands. Keeping his emotions under control had been far harder than he’d expected. An enemy he could face down and fight, but who was she? Friend or foe? He was used to clarity, used to knowing who his enemy was. Damn it, where was a rebel raid when he needed one?
He rested his head against the timbered wall, letting his breathing return to normal. He shouldn’t have gone in unannounced, but when she hadn’t responded to his call he’d been afraid that she’d done something reckless and run away.
And when he’d seen her... His breathing had quickened again. Incredibly, she’d looked even more desirable than she had at the waterfall. The memory of her naked beauty was seared into his memory, but her loose-fitting shift and tumbling curls had been almost a provocation too far. Standing on the coffer, her small breasts on a level with his face, she’d looked so wantonly desirable it had been all he could do not to haul her into his arms and consummate their marriage right then.
He forced his body back under control. Bedding her would only make his life more complicated, and he needed clarity where she was concerned. Whatever his heart felt, his head was still in command—at least for now.
She hadn’t given him a definite answer about the marriage, but he’d been surprised at how calmly she’d taken the Earl’s command. She’d actually seemed more shocked than angry, had hardly ranted about Normans at all.
The thought of Edmund had occurred to him only belatedly, sending a surge of jealousy coursing through his veins. Until that moment he’d thought that he wanted a way out of the marriage, but when the possibility had arisen he’d found himself wanting to fight for her instead. He’d insulted her by asking, but he’d needed to be sure. Was she married or not? And if she wasn’t...if her heart and body were still untouched...if she’d kissed him because she wanted to and not simply because she was deceiving him... The thought was more than a little enticing.
That was if she agreed to marry him.
The look on her face when he’d told her about Etton made him wonder. He hadn’t wanted to mention it at all—hadn’t wanted to sway her answer—but she needed to know the truth. If she refused the Earl’s command he wasn’t likely to let her go home.
For the first time he found himself wishing she were more selfish, like Maren. If she only thought of herself then at least he’d know what she wanted. He knew she felt a strong sense of duty towards her people. It would be typical of her to agree to the marriage just to protect them. It certainly wouldn’t prove anything about her feelings for him.
Well, their marriage would be based on duty—not love. Hers to her people, his to the King. He wasn’t about to succumb to temptation and let her make a fool of him again. He’d marry her for Redbourn, nothing more.
The oxhide swung open again and he tried his hardest not to react. She was dressed in an emerald-green gown, cinched at the waist with a tasselled belt, showing the curve of her hip to tantalising perfection. Her dark hair was covered with a veil, held in place with a copper headband that made her eyes seem even bigger and brighter, flickering like jewels in the candlelight.
‘Is this better?’
She ran her hands over the fabric self-consciously and he felt his blood surge with desire. Better? He’d found her alluring enough when she’d been dirt-stained and tattered, so this was almost more than he could bear. She looked stunning—more beautiful than any woman he’d ever laid eyes on. He felt himself harden just looking at her. If it weren’t for the Earl expecting them they’d get no further than this hall...
‘Better.’
He offered an arm gruffly and she took it, resting a hand on his bicep as they crossed the bailey in strained silence.
The hall itself was a riotous assault on the senses, crowded with knights and a scattering of ladies, and all eyes swivelled like magnets as they entered. Svend clenched his jaw fiercely. Every man in the room was looking at her with undisguised admiration, most of them hardly bothering to hide what they were thinking. He raised his spare hand to cover hers on his arm, saw her glance at him in surprise.
‘Lady Aediva—at last!’ FitzOsbern’s gaze swept over her approvingly as they approached the dais. ‘There seems to have been some confusion regarding your identity, my lady.’
Svend felt her hand tremble slightly on his arm, though her face showed no trace of fear as she dipped into a low, graceful curtsy.
‘Apologies, my lord. The fault was all mine.’
‘Then I hope you’re here to make reparation? I trust you’ve been informed of my wishes?’
For a moment she didn’t answer, and Svend felt himself tense. If she were going to refuse the marriage then it would be now. And suddenly he wanted very badly for her to agree.
‘I understand that you wish for us to marry?’
His heart sank. Her voice was loud and clear, carrying to all four corners of the hall, too bold, too defiant, as if she were preparing to refuse the Earl after all.
‘Indeed.’ FitzOsbern stood up expectantly. ‘So, Lady Aediva, we’re here for a wedding. Are you willing?’
‘If it pleases you, my lord, I am.’