Jenni Fletcher - Married To Her Enemy

A surge of desire coursed through him. Was that all his concern meant, then? That he was attracted to her? The idea was...surprising. He was no stranger to women, nor was he easily swayed by feminine charms. And she was nothing at all like the kind of woman he was usually drawn to. She was too small, too delicate-looking—as if a strong wind might carry her away. A tender reed with a temper too big for her body.

Clearly he’d been in the company of men for too long. He desired a woman, that was all, and in the meanwhile he had no time to soothe tender feelings—especially those of a prisoner who’d just tried to kill him.

Besides, she was hiding something—he was sure of it. Just as he was certain that a pack of rabid wolves wouldn’t drag it from her. In the birthing chamber, he’d let his eyes rake her body deliberately to unsettle her, to undermine whatever premeditated answers she might have intended to give him. The fact that he’d wanted to look was simply a bonus. And she’d definitely been unsettled. The flicker of panic when he’d asked if they were sisters had been fleeting, but unmistakable.

He’d assumed that she was Lady Cille because she had answered to the name and fitted the description he’d been given exactly. But then so did the woman in the bed... Quickly, he filtered through the few details he’d been given. Lady Cille was the young widow of the ealdorman of Redbourn, hazel-haired, slight of build, kind and virtuous. But weren’t all wives described as virtuous? No one had mentioned golden eyes or a violent temper. And he found it impossible to believe that anyone could describe the woman before him without mentioning her eyes.

On the other hand, surely someone would have told him if Lady Cille had been with child!

He pushed his suspicions aside. As usual he was being too analytical, too thorough. This was no military campaign, to be examined from every angle, just a simple assignment. Find the woman and take her back to Redbourn. Whatever she was hiding was none of his concern.

‘What do you want from me, Norman?’ She spun around suddenly, interrupting his musing.

He ignored the question, absorbing her anger impassively, vaguely impressed. At least she didn’t try to inveigle him with sweet words, or try to flirt her way out of trouble, like most women of his acquaintance. He doubted this one knew how to do either. She was clearly overwrought and exhausted. But he had his own questions—ones that couldn’t wait. And besides, he had to prepare her for what lay ahead—though, judging by her temper so far, he ought to arm himself first.

‘She’s alone here, your sister?’

Her face clouded instantly. ‘Yes, apart from Eadgyth and me. I ordered our people to leave for their own safety.’

He ignored the jibe. ‘And her husband?’

She blinked, as if the question surprised her, and he raised an eyebrow. ‘She has a husband, I presume?’

‘Of course! Edmund.’

‘But he’s not here?’

‘No.’

She didn’t elaborate and his eyebrow inched higher. ‘No?’

‘He joined the rebellion.’

‘And left his wife with child?’

She shrugged. ‘I came to look after her.’

Svend stared at her incredulously. What kind of a man abandoned his pregnant wife, rebellion or no? Small wonder that Lady Cille seemed reluctant to talk about him. On the other hand, at least it explained what she was doing here—though not why she’d left Redbourn so suddenly and secretly.

‘You ask a lot of questions, Norman.’ Her expression was guarded.

‘I’m simply confused. Since the death of your husband, you’ve inherited his lands, have you not?’

‘No. Leofric had a younger brother. He’s the ealdorman now.’

‘He forfeited that position when he refused to swear fealty to the King and joined the rebels. Surely you knew that?’

‘Forfeited under Norman law. I don’t have to accept it.’

‘It would be wise if you did.’ His voice was low, but the veiled threat was unmistakable. ‘In any case, you’re now mistress of one of the largest estates in England.’

She looked less than impressed. ‘What of it?’

‘You left Redbourn in something of a hurry, my lady. It’s time for you to return home.’

She froze instantly. If he’d told her Redbourn had burnt to the ground she couldn’t have looked more horrified. ‘And if I don’t wish to go?’

‘Your people are vulnerable and afraid. As the ealdorman’s widow it’s your duty to take care of them. Or did you forget that when you ran away?’

‘I told you—I came to look after my sister. I have a duty to her as well.’

‘And yet you ran away by yourself, without telling anyone where you were going. That doesn’t speak of a particularly clear conscience.’

‘How dare you? My reasons for leaving are none of your concern.’

‘You still have a duty to come back.’

‘Duty?’ She gave a brittle laugh. ‘Ironic for a Norman to be worried about Saxons!’

She whirled away but he caught her wrist, pulling her back again. ‘Even a Norman understands duty.’

‘Let me go!’

‘Forgive me.’ His tone was anything but apologetic. ‘But my orders come from the King. He was most displeased to hear that you’d left Redbourn.’

‘The Conqueror is at Redbourn?’

‘The King,’ he corrected her. ‘King William was crowned in December. But, no, he returned to Normandy in the spring. He left his half-brother Bishop Odo in charge, along with his cousin William FitzOsbern. He’s the one waiting for you at Redbourn.’

‘The King’s cousin wants to see me?’

He nodded slowly. His fingers were still wrapped around her arm, but he felt strangely reluctant to pull them away. He’d held her wrists before... The memory of her writhing beneath him flashed through his mind, heating his blood. He could feel the quickening of her pulse against his thumb and fought the urge to caress it.

‘Why?’ She looked panicked. ‘What does he want with me?’

He wishes for you to marry again.

The answer sprang to his lips, but the obvious fear in her voice made him hesitate. With his hand gripping her arm he felt suddenly, irrationally, protective. It wasn’t his place to tell her the Earl’s plans, but she was watching him, no longer defiant but frightened, asking him a question. He felt a stirring in his chest—something he hadn’t felt in a long time—as if something were shifting inside of him. Damn it all, how could such a small woman have such a powerful effect on his senses?

‘He intends for you to marry again,’ he said softly, surprising himself.

‘Marry a Norman?’

She staggered backwards, the colour draining from her face, and he dropped her wrist instantly, the protective urge evaporating.

‘That is something I wouldn’t say to FitzOsbern, my lady.’

‘But I’ve no wish to marry again! The King has no right to force me!’

Svend held his temper with an effort. Was she determined to fight him on everything? This wasn’t the way he’d intended their interview to go. He hadn’t even got to the part that was bound to provoke her more.

‘That’s no longer your choice. You’re a vassal of the King now, not a freewoman. Your people need you.’

‘They’re not my people any more—they’re his.’

‘You don’t think they’ll take comfort in having a Saxon mistress?’

‘False comfort!’

‘Perhaps, but this marriage will permit you to keep your lands. I’d have thought you’d be grateful.’

‘My lands?’ She gave a hollow, derisive laugh. ‘Is that all you Normans think about? Land?’

Svend’s patience snapped, and his voice was coolly insulting. ‘Aye. Land, money and tupping Saxon women!’