Married to Her Enemy

‘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?