Ædwen was relieved to finally see the straw-covered rooftops of a settlement in the distance. They’d been travelling all afternoon and she was hungry, soaked through and she couldn’t wait to finally be released from Stefan’s hold.
As he began to tighten his grip on the reins, slowing the horse, she realised they were making a stop outside a large building that looked to be some kind of barn. She saw men standing at high tables outside, the din of raucous laughter escaping from the door every time it swung open and revellers stepping out into the night, and realised they must be at an alehouse.
‘Where are we?’ she asked.
Stefan led his men into the stables at the back of the establishment and he jumped down, tethering his horse.
‘We’re at a tavern in Herdbridge,’ he said. ‘We need to rest the horses. We’ll get some food and stay here for the night, then carry on to Wintancaester in the morning.’
She opened her mouth to protest, panic rising in her chest. Surely he didn’t expect her to spend the night with him and his men here? Where would they sleep? It didn’t look like the kind of place that had rooms. But then, being surrounded by people was a good thing, wasn’t it? It meant the two of them didn’t have to spend time alone. So she pressed her lips together, keeping quiet.
Might she be able to signal for help? Although, if she managed to get away from him, where would she go? The city would be her first choice.
‘What is it?’ Stefan said, looking up at her, as he stroked the horse’s nose, his gaze raking over her face. ‘Not where you thought you’d be spending your wedding night?’
She slanted him a look. She knew he was goading her, but the truth was, she had been prepared to suffer anything if it meant being reunited with Ellan. Yet she had to admit she felt immense relief that her wedding to Lord Werian hadn’t taken place. That she didn’t have to lie with that man tonight, or any night, and suffer him putting his hands on her. The thought had filled her with sickness and dread. But with her relief came feelings of guilt—that she had once again failed Ellan. That she hadn’t done what she needed to do to see her child again.
She slid down the side of the animal without Stefan’s help, feeling wretched, not wanting him to touch her, knowing the reaction it caused when he did, and he surprised her by pulling a piece of white cloth from his satchel and handing it to her.
‘Here, put this on,’ he said.
She looked at it, puzzled.
‘For your hair,’ he said. ‘Married women are meant to keep their hair covered. It would be inappropriate for a woman to be seen here, travelling with all these men, especially an unmarried one. You need to wear this.’
She went to protest, then realised she ought to pick her battles and nodded, draping the large piece of cloth around the top of her head, covering her soaking wet hair, her neck and chin. He took a step towards her and, before she could stop him, he reached up and tucked a few loose tendrils into the material. His fingertips trailed against her neck, sending tingles down her spine, making her shiver.
‘There. As it should be,’ he said.
She wished he wouldn’t touch her—whenever he did, it sent her body up in flames. But her wish was denied once more as he gripped her arm and led her and his soldiers into the barn. ‘Keep your eyes down,’ he said.
The heat of male bodies hit her as they stepped over the threshold and the noise of burly voices, all talking at once, over each other, assaulted her ears. Stefan guided her to a large bench and table up a corner, away from the lively antics of some of the more animated revellers, while his men fetched them some drinks. Ædwen sat as close as she could to the roaring open fire, staring into the dancing flames, hoping the mesmerising crackle and hiss would help to calm her.
She had never been anywhere like this before. It was a far cry from the quiet sanctuary of the monastery. So this was the type of place that men liked to while away their evenings? She wondered how else Stefan spent his nights, whether he’d met another woman after he left her, and instantly shook away the thought. She did not want to think about it.
Stefan followed her down into the opposite bench, his knees brushing against hers—was there no escape from him? She was almost glad when his men piled in after them, forcing her to shuffle up.
‘I didn’t get a chance to introduce you all before. Men, I’d like you to meet Lady Ædwen, my wife,’ Stefan said to the warriors round the table.
Her breath hitched. So they were announcing it, making this ridiculous sham of a marriage known now? Why, all of a sudden? He hadn’t wanted to acknowledge her this past winter. He hadn’t come for her before. And she hadn’t even known where he was, or if he was even alive.
He had missed so much. He hadn’t witnessed her body bloom and grow with his child, how huge she’d been, and then slowly return to normal again after the birth. He hadn’t been there when she’d delivered their baby. He didn’t know what pain, what trauma, she’d been through and she didn’t know how to feel about it all—that he had come to fetch her now. It was so absurd. And the more people he told about them being married, the harder it would be to extract herself...
‘Estranged wife,’ she added and got a little satisfaction from seeing a muscle flicker in Stefan’s cheek.
The men looked between them, amused.
She didn’t know why she wanted to antagonise him. Stefan was certainly not a man you’d want to incense. He looked formidable, his dark blue gaze glowering at her.
‘Ædwen, this is Maccus and the rest of my men,’ Stefan continued, introducing them each by name, and one by one they nodded and said it was nice to meet her, before hiding their smiles in their tankards full of ale.
The talk quickly turned to the rain and the long journey, but they were polite enough not to mention her disrupted wedding ceremony and the reactions of her father, her jilted groom and the shocked congregation. As they began to break off and speak among themselves, she became acutely aware of Stefan sitting just across from her on the other side of the table, staring at her. She was aware of his sculpted body in his uniform and the way his large hands toyed with his cup.
‘So you are their leader?’ she asked, trying to think of something to say, to fill the silence, before taking a sip of her ale. It tasted good on her parched tongue.
‘We all fought to be in Lord Stefan’s contingent,’ Maccus interrupted, elbowing her in good spirits. ‘Your husband is the man to follow, Lady Ædwen.’
Was that right?
Stefan had clearly made a name for himself, she thought. She knew the housecarls were the most elite of the King’s troops, the most-feared soldiers of his guard. Had Stefan ever been content with the much simpler life he’d lived with her before? Yet she had always known he wasn’t a man who could stay confined within those walls, hidden from view for long. He was larger than life, a man who deserved to be seen. He’d had ambitions beyond the Saxon monastery and she had wanted him to achieve them. Only, she had always thought he would find success and she would be there by his side to see it. Now, he was a stranger and she was hearing about his triumphs from someone else.
She was relieved when a serving woman came over with a bowl of stew for each of them. As well as her stomach rumbling in response at the delicious smell of the food, she was pleased to see another female among all these men. But as the woman relinquished her heavy load, passing the steaming dishes around the table, she smoothed the material of her pinafore over her swollen stomach, showing off her bump, and Ædwen’s face fell—in envy and total devastation. She turned her face away before anyone could see her torment.
For a while, when she’d realised she was with child, she had tried to keep her growing belly hidden beneath her tunic and pinafore. But she had known she couldn’t hide it for ever. And she had determined that even when she had to confess, she would be safer inside the monastery walls than anywhere else.
How wrong she’d been.
The holy sisters had been compassionate in those early days and they had helped her through the long and tiring birth, and the days afterwards. But she had known she couldn’t expect them to shelter her and Ellan for long, that she would need to face her father eventually. And when she had, his wrath had been great indeed. Far greater than even she had expected.
The woman passed a bowl to Stefan.
‘Thank you. Though you shouldn’t be doing this work in your condition,’ he said.
Ædwen glanced up at him.
‘And who’s going to serve your food if I don’t? I haven’t got time to rest. Besides, I’ve got a child in my belly, I’m not ill,’ the woman retorted in good humour, rolling her eyes. And then she fixed Ædwen with a look. ‘Don’t you let your husband get you with child, dear, you’ll be stuck indoors. He won’t let you lift a finger!’ she teased, giving her a wink.
Stricken, Ædwen was too distraught to return her smile. She knew the woman was well meaning, but it didn’t stop the pain of her loss consuming her again. There were reminders everywhere, she couldn’t escape them, and she felt as if she was gasping for air through a thick smog of grief.
She could sense Stefan watching her, as if his assessing, penetrating gaze was aware of her every reaction, her body’s every movement, and she knew she had to hold herself together. She couldn’t afford to fall apart again, not in here, sat among all these men.
She smoothed her hands over her knees to give her fingers something to do, her eyes something to focus on other than him.
‘I’m your husband’s best man. Or he was mine at my own wedding recently,’ Maccus said, picking up where their conversation had left off.
She turned to look at him, glad of the distraction. It seemed Stefan had made friends. He had a life she wasn’t a part of.
‘When we get back to Wintancaester I shall introduce you to my new wife. You two will get on, I think,’ Maccus said. ‘She will look after you. Show you around.’
‘Thank you,’ Ædwen whispered. But she wasn’t planning on staying, or making acquaintances with Stefan’s friends. She was determined to leave just as soon as she could get away. Stefan didn’t want her—he had said so himself. She would be a burden to him and he’d soon tire of having her around. Given the chance he would abandon her again, just as he had before.
‘Dark horse, your husband,’ Maccus continued. ‘None of us knew he was married up until today.’
She stirred her stew, taking some of the liquid on the spoon before letting it pour back down into the bowl again. ‘It seems it’s come as a surprise to us all, then,’ she said, raising an eyebrow at Stefan.
So he hadn’t talked about her to anyone. He’d kept their union a secret. He really hadn’t missed her at all. It made all this seem so strange.
‘Eat your food before it gets cold,’ Stefan said gruffly, gesturing to her pottage. ‘You must be hungry.’
It almost seemed like he cared. But she knew that he didn’t. If you cared about someone, you didn’t turn your back on them and walk out of their lives.
‘You don’t need to treat me like a child,’ she whispered.
But he was right, she was starving. She’d not been able to stomach anything before going to the church this morning, so she hadn’t eaten all day, and even though it was just watery meat and vegetables, when the first mouthful reached her lips, it felt good to have something warm, the gravy filling her hollow belly.
She took another few mouthfuls and then glanced back over at the serving woman carrying more bowls and collecting empty tankards. She looked exhausted. Ædwen remembered that feeling, although she had enjoyed being with child. She had been lucky—she hadn’t suffered any sickness, but she had also resolved to savour each step, as she knew she would never go through it again. For she had determined she would never love again. Besides, she knew no man would want her, not when they discovered she was a single mother to a half-Dane.
She thought back to the words her father had told her the morning Ellan had been taken. Down on her hands and knees with grief, she’d begged and pleaded with him to bring her daughter back, to no avail.
‘It’s better this way. No one will know about what has gone before. And you can always have another child,’ he had said, matter of factly.
But she didn’t want another child. She wanted her daughter. Stefan’s child. She wanted Ellan.
She had wanted her from the moment she’d known of her existence, even though Stefan was gone. She knew there were tinctures she could have taken, herbs to put a stop to what was happening inside her, to prevent her fall from grace. But she hadn’t wanted to take them—the baby was a part of him. All she had left of him. She hadn’t wanted to get rid of it.
It had been daunting, terrifying at times, wondering how she would cope as a mother, raising her child alone, but it was also exciting, once she’d made her choice. With a fierce determination, she had decided she could do it. It would take hard work and sacrifice, but it would be worth it. She was bringing a new life into this world. And although hers and Stefan’s relationship had ended badly, she knew their child had been created with love. On her side anyway.
Taking another mouthful of stew, her heart suddenly lurched with a thought. Had Stefan had another child? What if he had another woman waiting for him in Wintancaester? A family of his own. It would be more than she could bear...
She knew there must have been women before her. The way he had touched her, he had certainly known what he was doing. But had there been anyone since?
Her eyes returned to his across the table. He seemed more commanding, more serious than the man she knew before. Amber flecks in his blue gaze reflected the flames of the roaring fire. Beneath, they were the colour of the turbulent ocean they had ridden past today. His scar to his forehead had healed well, leaving only the faintest of lines, and she liked to think she had a hand in that.
They had always understood one another, despite the initial language barrier. And she cursed herself for not telling him the truth from the start. If she had, if she’d told him what her father had done right from the beginning, would things have been different? Or would he have walked away from her before things had gone so far?
But she had done it to protect him. And perhaps herself, at first. She hadn’t wanted him to know her father was a monster and that she had his blood flowing through her veins...
She had thought that lying was the greater kindness.
Stefan had been recovering from a trauma—a terrible injury—and struggling to regain his memories. She had wanted to save him from more grief, thinking that if he learned the truth about all his comrades being slaughtered at her father’s hand it would cause him unnecessary hurt. Yet she knew now that was wrong. Grief helped you to come to terms with what you’d lost. You couldn’t run or hide from it.
She stretched out her hand to pick up her tankard at the same time he reached for his and their fingers collided, making her snatch back her arm as if she’d been burned. His hand wrapped around the vessel, his strong, long fingers lifting it to his lips. Fingers that had once caressed her skin so tenderly.
Her eyes trailed to the tanned skin at his wrists, which were covered in swirls of dark ink. It was the same blue dye that was sprawled over his chest and shoulders, hidden beneath his tunic and mail coat. She had been troubled, then fascinated when she’d first seen the patterns, but he’d told her it was customary for his people to paint their skin with totems or messages to their gods, to keep them safe. And she had grown to love them, to be fascinated by them, trailing them with her fingers.
But this one on his wrist was more recent. She hadn’t seen it before. Her eyes narrowed, trying to work it out. Dark streaks seemed to flare from an inner spiral. Was it a sun, or the flames of a fire? She couldn’t be sure without pushing the material of his tunic further up his arm.
She looked back up into his eyes and realised he’d caught her staring, his disconcerting gaze holding her own over the rim of his cup. His presence was stifling.
‘That’s new,’ she said, blushing, nodding to the symbol.
‘A symbol of light—and truth—to guide me in the darkness,’ he said, before tugging down his sleeve to cover it up.
Ædwen had barely touched her food and it bothered him. As did her lack of reaction to the serving woman who was with child. She had turned away, as if it had no impact on her at all, as if she hadn’t ever been in that position herself. As if their child was some sordid secret she did not want people to know about. Had she been ashamed of their daughter, as she had always been of him, wanting to keep him hidden and their relationship a secret?
‘I didn’t know you could have such a thing done here.’
‘Such a thing?’
‘The markings. The designs. Who did them for you?’ she asked.
‘A woman in Wintancaester. She is very skilled...’
Her beautiful eyes flashed. ‘I’m sure.’
He cursed himself. He really should stop trying to get a rise out of her.
On the one hand, he admired her strength—the fact that she was putting on a brave face in the current circumstances, surrounded by his men in an alehouse. It had been a long day. Much had happened. And it was disorientating being back in each other’s presence. But did she have no heart? How could the memory of being with child not affect her? It did him and he hadn’t even been there to witness it.
He wished he had seen her with a swollen belly. In full bloom. He wished he had been there to share those moments other couples had experienced, like Maccus, when he’d pressed his ear to his wife’s stomach in wonder to hear the baby’s heartbeat. But he had been denied all of that. She had denied him all of that.
His hand bunched into a fist on the table.
Who was this woman sat across from him, who he was introducing as his wife? He knew she was strong-willed and stubborn, but she seemed a hard shell of her former self. So cold. And yet still warm and soft to the touch. The effect she had on him when their bodies bumped, their knees brushed, or their eyes met was concerning and he needed to regain his composure.
He felt as if his eyes were reacquainting themselves with her beauty, as they kept being drawn back to her face. It was hard to look away. Strands of her long, golden hair were coming loose from her makeshift wimple, and he itched to reach out across the table and tuck them back in again. But he didn’t know how she’d react and he didn’t want to cause a scene, not in front of his men. He needed to keep his control.
Yet she was his wife. He had every right to touch her. And why shouldn’t he? He had suffered the discomfiture of having her in his embrace, between his legs, all day long. He’d wanted to reach Herdbridge so he could release her from his grasp, to get some distance. But now, disturbingly, he was missing the feel of her in his arms. What the hell was the matter with him?
He knew after a few jars of ale some of the men would find a woman and a secluded place to satiate their desires. And he had every right to take Ædwen to one of the back rooms and claim her tonight, yet he knew that he wouldn’t. Because he knew what consequences it had had last time. Their first and only time.
‘Where will we be sleeping tonight?’ she asked.
And his spoon froze, suspended in mid-air. His groin tightened. He ignored the smirks and whistles of all the men at the table and instead tried to keep his body in check. Had she been thinking along the same lines as him? Did she want to lie with him, too? No... He took in her wide eyes and realised she looked uncertain, chewing her bottom lip, and her vulnerability struck him right in his chest.
‘Where would you like to sleep, Ædwen?’ he said, leaning back against the wall, giving her a slow, seductive smile.
But she tipped her chin up and glared at him. ‘Given the choice? Back in my room, at the monastery.’
He grinned wider. ‘That’s out of the question.’ Then he leaned in towards her, bracing his arms on the table, his face coming close to hers so only she could hear. ‘There are rooms out the back here, if you’d like us to be alone.’
‘I think you’ve had too much ale,’ she said in disgust, pulling away from him.
He straightened. Too much of her nearness, her intoxicating floral scent, certainly.
He shrugged. ‘I’m afraid no one gets much sleep here,’ he said. ‘Because this place serves all night.’
And before he knew it, his men were up, out of their seats, encouraging each other to down jar after jar of ale, seeing who could drink the fastest, and the most, drawing a crowd. Stefan shook his head at them, amused. It helped to release some of his pent-up frustration. At her. At the situation he’d put them in.
He didn’t mind the men letting their hair down. He wasn’t expecting any trouble from Lord Manvil tonight. Yet he would remain vigilant. From now on, he would be responsible for another person’s safety. Plus, he really didn’t want a sore head for the rest of their journey home on the morrow.
Ædwen was watching the men with interest, chewing on her nails, and he raised himself out of his seat and came round the table, sliding himself down into the bench to sit beside her. He wrapped his hand around her fingers, tugging them from between her lips. His eyes were drawn to her plump, bottom lip...her parted mouth. It was like the petals of a dewy rose.
‘Tsk. Stop biting your nails,’ he said, bringing her hand down on to the table. ‘Worried about something?’ he asked, smoothing his thumb over the top of her hand.
He noticed her breath hitch, her blue eyes widen, before she seized her hand back.
‘When will we be leaving here?’ she asked, glancing all around, as if she was worried someone had seen him touch her.
‘At first light. Why? Are you impatient to leave?’
He could understand her trepidation. He didn’t much like the thought of staying here tonight either, surrounded by strangers. He wanted to get her to Wintancaester, safe inside the city walls.
Tomorrow, they’d be back at the palace and Ædwen would have a nice warm bed to sleep in. His bed. Sunday was market day and it would be busy, the streets crawling with people wanting to trade their wares. He wondered what she’d make of the capital. And he realised, he was excited about showing her his home...
When he’d first made the journey to the city, people had whispered and cowered away from him, knowing at first sight that he was a Dane, but when Canute had taken the throne and begun to unite the Christians and pagans, he had no longer felt like an imposter. Now he commanded the people’s respect. The Saxons and Danes of Wintancaester.
His eyes raked over Ædwen, taking her in. She had stopped dithering, and her cheeks were infused with a rosy glow from the food and the fire. Her bridal gown was beginning to dry out, although he knew it was ruined for good. Mud was splattered all along the bottom and there was even a tear in the hem. He hadn’t been aware of when that had happened.
Not that she’d be needing it again. It was a beautiful tunic. It enhanced the full swells of her breasts and it had tiny, intricate buttons all down the front—buttons designed for another man to undo, he realised. And his envy threatened to bubble up inside.
‘As soon as we get to Wintancaester, we’ll need to find you some new clothes. You can’t go around dressed like that indefinitely,’ he said.
She frowned and brought her hands back up to her mouth.
‘Something else bothering you?’
‘Only that I’m in an alehouse surrounded by strangers, unsure what I’m even doing here, or why you’re taking me to the capital,’ she said. ‘Now you’re talking about getting me new clothes? But I don’t even know you. Not any more.’
‘Strangers?’ he mused, his lips curling upwards again. ‘I’d hardly call us that. There was a time we knew each other...intimately. I’m sure anything unknown between us can be rectified with a brief conversation. Why don’t you tell me about your life since I’ve been gone? What have you spent your days doing?’
Why don’t you tell me about the baby...?
She gave a little shake of her head, picking up her tankard and staring down into its depths, swishing the honey-coloured liquid about. ‘There’s not much to tell.’
Liar, he thought.
‘If there’s not much to tell, nothing much could have changed, since before. Since we were lovers.’
She looked up at him, stunned, confusion clouding her blue depths, perhaps wondering why he’d brought that up. He didn’t know himself, only that he felt there was something unfinished between them he wanted to address.
He saw her swallow, her throat work. ‘Once,’ she said, turning away from him. ‘We were lovers only once.’
Tension was strumming through his body. And once hadn’t been enough. Damn, he’d gone too long without a woman, he realised. That must be his problem.
Too long without this woman, a little voice in his head mocked.
He still wanted her in his bed, he admitted to himself now. Despite it all. And although he despised himself for it, he realised there was at least something he could do about that. And once he’d had her again, perhaps he could finally put these feelings behind him. Perhaps he could finally move on.
The jeering of his men grew louder as Maccus drained another jar and Stefan’s hand gripped hers again, tugging her with him. ‘It’s getting rowdy. It’s too loud to hear yourself think in here. Let’s get some air,’ he said, draining his cup and setting it on the table.
She tried to resist him, but his fingers wrapped around hers, his grip on her too strong, and reluctantly she allowed him to lead her in the direction of the door and out into the yard. Once outside, he released her from his hold and she drew her arms across her chest. A defensive barrier, he thought. One he had a desire to smash down.
Now that the storm had cleared, it was a beautiful evening. The full moon lit up the surrounding buildings and trees in a pale, milky glow.
‘Tell me what’s on your mind,’ he said.
‘I don’t know...everything,’ she said, raising her palms, exasperated. ‘I don’t know what you want with me...why we’re even here. You got your revenge today, on my father, on me, you ruined my wedding, our family’s reputation, so why not let me go? What more can you want?’ she said, dropping her hands.
He stepped towards her. ‘What, indeed...?’
‘If you’re truly taking me to Wintancaester—why?’ she said, her voice rising. In panic? In frustration? ‘And how will we live? What will you expect of me, when we get there?’
He felt the flare of desire. Were her thoughts following the same path as his own?
‘That’s a lot of questions,’ he said, his lips curling upwards. ‘But don’t worry, I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to do, Ædwen.’
‘If that was the case, you would have taken me back already. You could take me back right now,’ she said, going to walk past him and he caught her against him and swung her round, backing her against the wall of the alehouse. Anger, and need, pounded through him. He leaned his one hand on the wall above her head, the other taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger, lifting her gaze to meet his. Their bodies were mere inches apart.
‘You keep saying you want to go back. But I don’t think you mean it. Would you rather I was Lord Werian right now? Would you rather it was him, looking into your eyes, touching your skin?’
He watched her tongue dart out of her mouth and tentatively trail over her parted lips.
‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘But—’
‘How can I be certain of that?’ he said, staring down at her, his thumb delicately stroking the base of her throat. Her breathing was irregular, her breasts rising and falling unsteadily, and he stepped closer, his body almost pressing against her.
‘Stefan—’
He lowered his head and captured her lips with his, controlled, testing her. He meant what he’d said. He wouldn’t do anything she didn’t want to do. But he had to know, one way or another, whether she still desired him, as he did her. She had lots of questions, but he did, too. And his kiss was one of them. A soft enquiry...
He waited for her to pull back, to push him away, but instead her lips parted willingly—instinctively—on a little gasp. She yielded, opening her mouth to allow his tongue’s gentle caress, and her hands came up, her fingers delicately touching his chest, and a victorious surge soared through him.
He slid his tongue inside her mouth, carefully, coating hers, as his fingers twisted into her hair at either side of her neck, beneath her wimple. He drew her head closer, deepening the kiss, and he felt her entire body tremble.
His kiss had a purpose. He had wanted to brand her with his lips, claim her as his own again, to remind her who she belonged to. But what had started out as a proprietary display of domination had him now surrendering to his own need and he wanted more. He wanted to run his hands all over her, to learn the lines of her body again, to brand her as his.
He grazed his fingers down over the undulating curves of her collarbone, his thumb stroking the smooth skin of her shoulder. He could feel her heartbeat, hectic now, thudding against his chest as he continued to stroke her tongue with his own, taking total possession of her mouth. And her response was explosive. She pushed her tongue against his, pressing her body closer, moulding her curves to his hard ridges, arching into him, as if the insane need that was directing him was erupting inside her, too.
He wanted her. So badly. He had gone from being starved of her touch, deprived of seeing her face, having to hold his needs in, to an afternoon of having her back in his arms, between his legs, and it had sent him to the edge of reason. And he knew, if they didn’t stop now, he would be lifting her dress and thrusting into her hard, right here in the courtyard of the alehouse, on show for every person walking past to see.
Where was his restraint? That cool control he was known for as commander of the King’s housecarls? He needed to dig deep to find it. And with a resolve even he didn’t know he possessed, he tore his burning lips from hers, getting the torture of pulling away from her over as quickly as possible, and he stared down at her, confounded, as he drew in some deep, ragged breaths.
He wondered how he could still want this, with her, knowing what had happened to his family. Knowing that she had lied. And knowing she had given up their child.
He shouldn’t want this.
He watched as her own sanity returned and she let go of his chest in dismay, her face blushing a deep, beautiful red. She pressed her back further against the wall, trying to put more distance between them.
Her fingers came up to touch her lips, as if he’d scalded her.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she gasped.
‘I had some questions of my own. And I got my answer—you’re just as eager as I remember,’ he rasped. ‘At least we know we’re still compatible in one way.’
Her eyes narrowed on him. ‘I was young. Foolish. And only eager because you had convincingly made me believe you cared for me,’ she said, straightening, in defence of her behaviour back then, her tone accusatory. ‘You lied.’
‘I did not know who you really were, did I?’ he said, raking a hand through his hair. ‘And I’m not sure I do now. But the truth is, this time I don’t care. I’ve decided... I want you back in my bed, Ædwen. And when we get to Wintancaester, I’m going to have you. To release myself of this insatiable, burning desire I have for you, once and for all.’
‘Do I have a say in this?’ she said unevenly, thrusting her chin up, her beautiful, wide-eyed face still flushed from the heated passion of their kiss.
He stepped towards her, hooking his thumb under her jaw, his eyes focusing on her swollen lips. ‘I think you just did.’
Suddenly, a thundering noise made the ground shake beneath their feet and he finally released her, whipping his head round to see the chilling sight of a group of men on horseback rearing up in front of them, surrounding them. Stefan recognised the leader immediately. Lord Werian.
He cursed himself for allowing Ædwen to distract him. That he’d let his men drink, as they’d now be oblivious.
As Stefan reached for the hilt of his sword, he realised there could only be one possible reason the Saxon man had come. To take Ædwen from him.