Stepping out into the daylight, the heat of the afternoon sun matched Stefan’s seething anger as he gripped Ædwen’s waist, tugging her towards his horse.
She had allowed him to lead her out of the church, perhaps in shock about what had just happened, but when she saw more of his men, his horse waiting for them, he felt her change her mind, hesitate and try to pull away.
He seized her wrist and their skin touching sent an unwanted spark up his fingers. He had hoped that when he saw her again, he would look into her eyes and feel nothing. Instead, when her expressive blue gaze had lifted to meet his across the room, his heart had jolted with awareness. Now his skin was burning. Helvete! He didn’t want to still be attracted to her, or feel so possessive of her. He resented her.
The woman who had borne his child and then given her up.
Ædwen wore her long blonde hair loose and uncovered, and his jaw clenched in distaste. It was inappropriate for married women to have their hair down and on show. Something he intended to rectify before they reached the next settlement. She was wearing an exquisite bridal tunic in blue, the colour of purity—but he had already exposed that to be a lie. She looked stunning, like a true noblewoman, and yet she had kept her highborn blood from him. In the end, she hadn’t been honourable at all...
‘Come with me,’ he said, dragging her over to his trusty steed.
He released her for just a moment, so he could grip the reins to ascend the animal, and quick as lightning she turned and began to run. Her refusal to co-operate made his irritation soar. He swung himself up into the saddle and dug his boots into the side of the horse, spurring the animal into action, charging alongside her, gripping her under the shoulders. He hauled Ædwen up to join him, pulling her back against his chest, and she gave a strangled cry of protest. She struggled, her bottom wiggling between his thighs.
‘Stop it!’ he said, his voice lethal, drawing the reins either side of her, capturing her in his arms, tight, in case she had any further ideas of trying to get away. Damn, he was livid. ‘Don’t do that again. Don’t even think about running,’ he warned.
Stefan felt off balance, incensed by her behaviour and disturbed by their bodies colliding again after such a long time of being apart and the heated reaction it had caused. The amused glances of his men, smirking at the behaviour of his wayward wife, only infuriated him further. Her dramatics weren’t helping the situation. But at least his men hadn’t dared to ask why she was attempting to marry another while still wedded to him. The very thought of it wounded his pride.
He gave the instruction for his soldiers to set off and forced himself to take a deep breath, to calm himself. He had made it. He’d got here in time. He had her and they were leaving this wretched place for ever.
He didn’t want to be in Eastbury for a moment longer. Just seeing the familiar walls of the monastery standing on the cliffs, the stark mudflats and lonely creeks, and the vast shore where his father’s ships had pulled up on the shingle all brought back a wave of unwanted memories.
He could recall the brutal battle now. He could almost hear the clashing of metal and wood as the Saxons’ swords and axes hit their shields; the grunts of his father’s men as they fought back, trying to defend themselves against a force double their size. He remembered the village people wailing in distress. He felt the smarting of his forehead as he recalled the blow he’d taken to his temple and he could still taste the metallic flavour of the blood in his mouth, before he had shut his eyes, willing death to take him...and then he’d seen her, leaning over him...
When a messenger had arrived last night, informing him of Ædwen’s imminent wedding to Lord Werian, an incandescent rage had taken over and he’d known he had to come. He would not be dishonoured. Not again. For she was his wife. The woman who had conceived his daughter and carried her in her belly—and failed to tell him about it. He’d seen today as an opportunity to finally take revenge.
After a long, restless night’s sleep, he’d left Wintancaester with his men at dawn and ridden hard across the city, out into the undulating, patchwork countryside, not stopping until they’d reached the coast. This place once represented his rescue, his hope, but later, to use a Christian word for it, his hell. Rearing up outside the church, he’d descended his horse so fast and barged into the chapel with such force, everyone had turned to look. But he hadn’t been prepared for the impact seeing her would have on him again. He’d felt a gut-punch of wrath tempered with relief.
To think what might have happened if he hadn’t arrived in time to interrupt the service... Would she have gone through with it and said her vows to that man, the very same vows she had said to him? Betrayal ripped through him.
Ædwen gave another frustrated attempt to get away, writhing, struggling against his hold, but he was stronger; unmovable, his arms tightening around her.
‘Stop fighting me. You’ll fall and get yourself killed!’
He tried not to react, but his body had other ideas. He had strived to forget what it felt like to have her in his arms, of being this close to her, her warm, soft curves pressed against his chest and his groin, the floral scent of her hair drifting under his nose. And he grimaced, realising the forced intimacy was as much a torture to him as it was a punishment for her. He was shocked his body was hardening, still responding to her, despite everything...
‘Why are you doing this?’ she cried.
She gave one last protest and then slumped, giving up, turning her face away from him.
Anger whipped him, along with the biting wind. He couldn’t understand it. Did she want to marry Lord Werian? Surely not. The man was almost twice her age!
‘We must go back,’ she pleaded, shaking her head, the sound of desperation in her all too familiar voice.
‘Never!’
He wanted to get them far away from this place. He wanted to put as much distance between Ædwen and Lord Werian, and him and her father as possible.
‘You’ve stormed in here and broken up my wedding. Shaming me. Why?’
His clenched his hands around the reins.
That night they’d spent together had been extraordinary, but tainted by the events of the following day. But she had still tied herself to him. And if he’d had to prove it, he would have. He would have gone one step further and told them of the birthmark above her left hip...the one he’d enjoyed discovering with his lips. And there was far greater evidence.
He would have told them that somewhere out there was a child. A mixture of Saxon and Danish blood. He would have stopped at nothing to achieve what he came here to do. He thought back to the look on the congregation’s faces. They’d been shocked. Appalled. Had he ruined her? For anyone else, yes. He let out a slow sigh of satisfaction.
‘Did you forget you’re already married?’ What was it with women thinking they could release themselves from their vows so easily? They could not be trusted.
‘My father said I would have had to marry a fellow Christian for our marriage to be legal...that a union between a pagan Dane and a Christian Saxon would be condemned.’
He was incensed. She belonged to him.
‘So you wish to be with him, to marry Lord Werian? To lie with him, in his bed, tonight?’ His stomach turned at the thought that she would choose that man over him.
‘No!’ she gasped, as if she was offended, disgusted. ‘Of course not, but—’
Her answer appeased him a little and he forced himself to rotate his shoulders, to ease some of his tension, as they sped along the path. ‘Then I did you a favour,’ he spat.
She shook her head. ‘You don’t know what you’ve done.’
His eyes narrowed, her flyaway hair tickling his cheek. ‘What? Destroyed your father’s alliance? His honour? I should have done it a long time ago.’
‘You’ve ruined everything,’ she said bitterly, her voice a hoarse whisper.
He couldn’t see how. And he wasn’t sorry. He wanted her father to pay for his past wrongs. For all the pain he’d caused. And she should be thankful. He could have struck the man with his sword, or ordered his men to tear down the Saxon fortress, knowing Lord Manvil would use his force against the King given the chance...but he hadn’t, for her sake. He’d restrained himself, kept his anger in check. And he’d saved her from a union she’d just admitted she didn’t want.
Then he realised she was crying and it shocked him. Was she really shedding tears over not marrying that man? Over what had happened back in the church? He couldn’t believe it. He had never seen her cry. Not even when he’d told her he was leaving her that bitter day the previous winter.
He softened his voice a little. ‘Ædwen...’
She shook her head solemnly, uncontrollable, silent tears streaking down her face, and he grew concerned. She had always been so stoic, so...joyful. It was one of the reasons he’d fallen for her. She had brightened his days when everything else had seemed so bleak.
Damn it. Her wilfulness and anger were preferable to this. He would much rather she stood up to him, argued with him, creating more of those sparks.
He released his grip on one of the reins, his hand smoothing down her arm, trying to calm her. ‘Ædwen...’ he repeated.
But she shrugged him off as huge sobs racked her body, her chest heaving.
He cursed, knowing they’d have to halt their journey, even though it had only just begun. He called to his right-hand man, Maccus, signalling with his hand. ‘All of you, carry on. We’re making a stop. Wait for us at the river crossing further up.’
Maccus nodded, taking the lead, but not before stealing a glance at Ædwen’s forlorn face and it made Stefan feel like a brute. He veered off the coastal path, heading for an outcrop of large stones on the top of the next cliff, before slowing his faithful horse. He swung himself down, before gripping her arm and aiding Ædwen’s descent. She was too upset to fight him.
He cast her down on to a rock and she buried her face in her hands, and he watched, confounded, as she sobbed until there were no more tears to come. Against his better judgement, he wanted to reach out and comfort her, but he knew he must stand firm. He mustn’t be swayed by her tears.
He bunched his fists.
Yes, he had walked away from her when he’d discovered what she and her father had done. But despite them having spent all this while apart, he still considered their union as something they were both duty-bound to honour. When he’d learned of this illicit wedding, his jealousy had burned. He hadn’t been able to bear the thought of Ædwen in the arms of another man. Her father’s brutal ally. Not when she had promised herself to him. It just wasn’t right.
He had anticipated her fierce resistance to leaving Eastbury and coming with him. He had expected a fight, but not these tears. They were far more disturbing. Far more dangerous, for they threatened to weaken him.
He told himself not to forget who she was and what she had done.
He pushed a hand through his hair and blew out a steadying breath, taking in the barren landscape dotted with scarce farmsteads—the desolate flatlands stretched out as far as the eye could see. It offered him a good viewpoint of anyone approaching and he was glad there was no sign of her father’s men following them. Not yet anyway. That was something, at least. It shouldn’t do any harm for them to stop for a short while.
He watched the surf tumble on to the shore down below. This vast bay, this beach, it said a lot about who he was. These waters had carried him to this place, away from his traumatic past to a new, promising future. But instead, what had been waiting for them when they’d arrived here had been much worse. This place served as an awful reminder of an attack that had left its mark on him, for ever. The sea was wild, like the battle that had been fought here. But it could also be tranquil, like those who now were at rest. The sand and stones were like the grief he felt, never to be washed away.
Once, a long time ago, he would have gone for a swim to try to cool his feelings, often his desire. But in Wintancaester, they were a long way from the sea. He hadn’t swum in a while and he missed it. He suddenly ached to slice his arms through the cold water, to take his anger out on the surf, but he was well aware he was still in Eastbury—hostile territory—so they needed to press on.
He turned back to Ædwen. She was dithering, her plump bottom lip quivering, and he wondered if the shock of the day’s events had now set in. He had expected her to be surprised at seeing him again, shocked at him breaking up her wedding. But there was a part of him that had hoped she might be relieved, even pleased to see him. Unfastening his cloak, he draped it around her shoulders, her fingers brushing against his as she gingerly took it from him, and his heart ridiculously skittered.
He caved.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked gruffly, drawing his hand over his beard. ‘I realise it’s been quite a morning.’
She looked up at him, her deep blue eyes swollen and red, her lovely face stained with silvery streaks—the same, beautiful face that had stared down at him in concern as he lay wounded on the beach that day.
The first time he’d seen her, he had thought her so striking, he’d wondered if she was a Valkyrie, sent by Odin to bring him to the Great Hall of Valhalla. But over the weeks that had followed, as he’d drifted in and out of sleep, unsure what was imaginary or real, he had realised she was in fact a young woman who had rescued him from the brink of death and brought him to a strange place where her people prayed to their God. The monastery.
Every day, she had sat by his side, reading to him, spoon-feeding him, changing his wound dressings, her gentle touch soothing him, until he’d regained his strength, if not his memories.
He had found contentment with her for a while, in this strange new place. A simple happiness.
The lay of the land here was similar to Denmark: a settlement surrounded by water. The people worked the soil, ate together and worshipped. But it was warmer here. Or he had just felt warmer with Ædwen in his life. She had quickly become his everything. His reason to live.
Fifteen months on, she looked the same—but also different. Her body had become more womanly, her breasts fuller, her hips wider—the result of carrying his child? Yet she was slim...too slim, he thought...her skin stretched over her prominent cheekbones. She was still stunning, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen—she took his breath away—yet he registered the dark circles under her eyes, the taut lines around her mouth. He noticed because he had once watched her, studying her face closely as she slept, and he had explored her body, intimately. She seemed different to the lively girl he had wed back then.
She pulled out a small scrap of muslin that had been tucked into the sleeve of her tunic. She brought it up to her nose and breathed in, before wiping it over her cheeks, mopping up her tears, pulling herself together. ‘No, I’m not all right,’ she said, squaring her shoulders, drawing her face up to his. He was relieved to see the fire and fight slowly return to her eyes. ‘You’ve kidnapped me. Taken me against my will.’
‘Kidnapped you? Ædwen, you’re my wife!’
She reeled. ‘How can you call me that? I haven’t seen you in almost two winters! And now you think you can suddenly turn up, completely unexpected, and humiliate me in front of everyone I know, before forcing me to leave with you?’
He put his hands on his hips. ‘You always cared too much about what others thought.’ Wasn’t that why she’d lied to him about what had really happened the day he had arrived here? Why she’d deceived him about who she was, wanting to keep her true self hidden from him? And why she’d kept their relationship a secret from everyone?
‘Is it so wrong to want to be respectable? Isn’t that why you strive for glory? Why you were so impatient to succeed in life?’ Her tone was accusatory and he didn’t like it.
‘I’m just saying I would have thought me breaking up your wedding arrangements might have been preferable to you committing adultery and going to hell, spending a lifetime of unhappiness with a man you didn’t want to be with.’
‘What do you care about my happiness?’ she said bitterly. She shook her head. ‘How did you even know...?’
‘What, that you were about to marry another man—while still married to me?’ he spat out. He still couldn’t believe she had been prepared to deny all knowledge of him and go ahead with it, as if she was denying there had ever been anything between them, erasing him from her life.
‘Ours wasn’t a marriage—it was a mistake!’ she shot back at him.
He felt a muscle flicker in his cheek. ‘Just as I said at the time.’ The morning after the night they’d made love, when he’d found out he had married his enemy’s daughter.
Had she thought having their child was a mistake, too? Is that why she had forsaken her?
‘But it is a marriage, none the less. Whether you like it or not, you belong to me.’
She shook her head in despair. ‘And yet you left me...you haven’t wanted me all this while. You don’t want me now. You said so yourself in the church. So why come back? What do you want? Is this some kind of punishment?’
He took a step towards her. ‘I don’t know. Is it?’
She shivered and rubbed her arms, turning her face away from him.
He did want to punish her, he admitted to himself now. For not telling him the truth from the start. For deceiving him about who she was—that it was her father who was responsible for the death of his family. Because that was unforgivable.
When he’d woken in the monastery, he couldn’t remember who he was or where he’d come from. What he was doing there. He had a deep wound to his head and his shoulder. It had been disorientating. Daunting.
Slowly, his old memories had returned to him, like his name, his homeland of Denmark—and he could describe it to her in vivid detail. He could recall his happy childhood with his mother, his father and his brothers growing up. They had lived a nomadic existence, moving around the banks of the vast, beautiful fjords. He could recall how cold it was outside, but warm in their various homes, all huddled together round the fire, sharing stories.
The land had been unfarmable in places and they’d struggled for food, but they had always managed. But his more recent memories had been a mystery—shadows dancing on his periphery, just out of his reach. And the headaches had been severe.
She had tried to fill in a few gaps, telling him she’d rescued him from the beach, after he’d washed up on the shore. That perhaps he had fallen overboard, off a ship. And he’d been injured. But it was all a blur to him. He’d pushed himself to remember, frustrated with himself.
She had hinted at the animosity between his people and hers, telling him of Northmen like him coming to plunder their fortresses and monasteries for many summers, wreaking havoc on the people and the land. He had been horrified, yet listened with interest, trying to piece things together. Had his people come here to do that? But he could not marry up that image with himself, or his family. He felt sure whichever ship he had been on, they had come to the west in search of peace, perhaps looking for new, fertile lands to toil.
His heart had gone out to Ædwen that she had grown up seeing the worst of his kind, mistrusting them...and he had been determined to change her mind about Danes, wanting to show her he was a good man.
Slowly, he had recovered and grown stronger, and he’d begun to care for her, deeply. He had thought, out of all the confusion, he had found something good and, despite being unsure of his past, he had known he wanted her to be his future. Visions of her lying on animal skins, her hair and body splayed out on the furs beneath him, entered his mind before he could halt them. Damn. He tried to shake them away. He had made love to her and, wanting to make their union legitimate, to do things right, he had asked her to be his wife.
Then he’d seen her with her father and realised—it had all been based on a lie. His memories of the battle had come back so suddenly, so fiercely, all at once, overwhelming him, engulfing him in grief.
He remembered...
It had been a period of great despair in Denmark. Stefan had lost his first love and then his mother had died of the fever. It had changed him, changed his father beyond repair. It had prompted the older man to want to set sail across the ocean, leaving Denmark behind to explore the lands in the west. But when they’d reached the English shore, there had been a ferocious army waiting for them and his father had said they must defend themselves.
He remembered Lord Manvil leading the charge towards them, striking his brothers down, then coming for him, and his father stepping between them, trying to save him. Lord Manvil had plunged his sword into his father’s chest, going right through him, and piercing his own shoulder, too, then he’d received the final blow to his head. They’d both been struck down, his father’s lifeless body lying on top of him. And that is how Ædwen had found him on the beach.
Lord Manvil, Ædwen’s father, had killed his family. And the sudden sorrow and anguish of all that he had lost had been too much to bear.
He’d felt sick.
Then he’d realised, Ædwen must have known. She had known what her father had done and kept it from him. Lied. And just like that, his trust was gone. He’d felt he could no longer be with her—the daughter of the man who had murdered his kin. It felt like too much of a betrayal. He had thought she was different. He had determined never to be gullible—ignorant—again when it came to women. But he’d fallen for someone, been hurt, once again. How could he not have seen the truth?
He ran his hand across his forehead now. His wound might have healed, but the scars ran deep.
He had thought about it often in the months that had passed. He had obsessed over past details, looking for clues he’d missed along the way. At first, he had been lost without Ædwen. She was all he had known here. But he had gradually found his place.
Yet when he’d learned about an even greater truth she’d kept hidden from him—his child—his bitterness had returned with force. How could she give up her child? Their child? How could she deny him the chance of being a father? Had she not wanted the responsibility of being a mother? Or did she think her prospects would be better if she cruelly gave the child away?
Whatever her reasons, he should have been part of that decision. He deserved an explanation. That was why he was really here, why he had broken up her wedding, what he wanted from her, he realised now. And he would only consider letting her go when he got the answers he so desperately needed.
She sighed heavily, drawing his attention back to the present. ‘Stefan...you don’t know what’s at stake here.’
He crossed his arms over his chest. ‘No? Then why don’t you enlighten me.’
She turned away, shaking her head, her buttery blonde hair swaying.
‘Go on. Tell me. What did your father or Lord Werian promise you in return for your hand in marriage?’ He glowered at her.
‘I can’t,’ she said, biting her lip.
His frown deepened, his brow furrowing as he fought for control. ‘Something else you don’t think I need to know, Ædwen?’ he said coldly. ‘I thought you would have learned your lesson about keeping secrets from me by now.’
He wanted her to tell him about the baby. He wanted her to confess she’d had his child. Admit she’d given it up. Would she ever? Once again, her actions were unforgivable, hard to comprehend, and disgust churned in his stomach. He would not abide her deceit. He took a hard stance on lying.
He could have forced the issue, outing it himself now, to see the reaction on her face when she discovered he knew the truth. How would she excuse herself? But it wasn’t the right time, not with the furious wind whipping up around them, huge raindrops starting to pelt down. No, he would wait for the moment when it would have maximum impact.
He crouched down before her and took her chin in the palm of his hand, tilting her face up to look at him. ‘When you’re under my roof there will be no more places to hide, Ædwen. Nothing you can keep hidden from me.’
She shivered. ‘What do you want from me?’ she whispered. ‘Where are you taking me?’
‘To Wessex. To Wintancaester.’
‘I have no choice...’ she said, shaking her head sadly.
He couldn’t understand her anger, or resentment. It seemed unjustified. He had every right to be furious—but why did she? His people had come here in peace—and been slaughtered. He’d lost his family. She had lied, tried to hide it from him. She had had his child and kept that from him, too. She’d given it up. Now he had saved her from an awful marriage...
‘We always have a choice, Ædwen... It’s those choices we make in life that shape us into who we are.’
And she had made her decision when she had lied to him and betrayed him over and again. Now he was determined she should face the consequences of all she had done.