Married to Her Enemy

He threw his body into one final ferocious attack, knocking his opponent to the ground with a heavy thud.

Aye, there was one clear way in which Cille resembled Maren in his mind. He’d never wanted a woman so badly.

He offered a conciliatory hand to his opponent before tossing his weapon aside and climbing alone to the crest of the hill.

If he were honest, a part of him had always known that the Maren he’d loved hadn’t been real, that he’d simply been chasing an ideal, but he’d wanted her so badly that he’d ignored the warning signs. She was the first, the only woman he’d ever truly cared about. He’d given her his heart and she’d trampled all over it, made him into an exile...an outcast. All because she’d been fickle and selfish and deceitful.

Was Cille the same? His head resisted the idea. No, she wasn’t fickle or selfish. She had stayed at Etton to care for her sister despite the risk to herself. She was loyal—a quality he wasn’t accustomed to finding in a woman—and capable of love too. The kind of woman who would repay a man for loving her. Provided he wasn’t part of the Conqueror’s army.

Was she deceitful? He didn’t want to think so, but she was hiding something from him—that was for certain. Was she lying as well? When they’d kissed he’d felt as though he were breaking through whatever mask she was wearing to reach the real woman beneath. But then her defences had gone up again, shutting him out as if he alone were responsible for the Conquest, as if she loathed him simply for being Norman.

Which he wasn’t.

He ran a hand wearily over his brow. For the first time since Maren he found himself truly drawn to a woman, could imagine forging a life with her. But she wasn’t for him. She wasn’t his at all. And whatever mystery she was hiding wasn’t his to unravel. It was de Quincey’s.

His gut twisted with jealousy. He didn’t want to think of her with another man, one who could touch and kiss her, lie with her. But she was on her way to marry de Quincey and he was simply the fool charged with delivering her. That was his duty. Anything more would dishonour them both.

He clenched his fists at his sides, determined to keep his mind, not to mention the rest of him, on his duty. He was finished playing with fire. If she were really like Maren then whatever he was feeling was just a passing infatuation. He was attracted to her—that was all. He couldn’t be in love with a woman he’d known for less than a

week, and the very last thing he needed was an emotional attachment—no matter how strongly she called to him or how badly he desired her. He wasn’t about to risk his whole future for a woman again.

Besides, in another day and a half he’d be free of her, his duty fulfilled, and enjoying whatever reward the King and FitzOsbern saw fit to bestow upon him. Whatever it was, he hoped it took him a long way from Redbourn.

He stood rooted to the spot, waiting for the thought to bring some relief.

So why did he want to turn and ride back the way they’d come?

* * *

The sun was barely skimming the horizon when they packed up the next morning. Aediva wriggled back into her clothes under cover of the blanket—not that anyone was looking. Svend’s soldiers kept their eyes studiously averted, refusing to act like the Norman barbarians she took them for.

Only Renard rushed to greet her, his young face brimming with relief. ‘My lady, I’m glad to see you well again!’

She returned his smile happily, taking his hands and pressing them in gratitude. ‘And I have you to thank.’

‘Me?’ He looked at her blankly. ‘I didn’t do anything.’

‘Didn’t do anything? You saved my life—I’m indebted.’

‘That wasn’t me, my lady. I offered to help, but Sir Svend wouldn’t let me. He never left you.’

‘Svend nursed me?’ Aediva’s heart danced at the news, though her conscience felt suddenly heavy.

She thought about Renard’s words as they made their way through the lowlands. Svend had been worried about her, so worried that he’d barely left her side. Because she’d fallen ill under his protection? Because FitzOsbern would punish him for anything that happened to her? She frowned, trying to make sense of it. He might have taken care of her, but it didn’t necessarily mean that he cared. Did it?

But it did mean she owed him another apology.

She perched silently in the saddle in front of him, forced to share his horse since her own had run wild, grasping the pommel tightly as she tried to keep their bodies apart. But it was no use. The terrain itself seemed to be conspiring against them. Every roll of the horse forced them closer together...every incline slid her further back into the curve of his chest and arms. She felt too hot, vividly aware that the base of her spine was pressed against his groin.

For the hundredth time that day she yanked herself upright, her muscles aching and sore from the effort of holding herself straight. Her back would be throbbing for days, not to mention her thighs. If she clenched them any tighter her spasming muscles might never be able to keep her upright again. Her body felt taut as a bowstring.

To distract herself, she looked around at the gently undulating flatlands. Where were they? They’d been riding all day, but she’d made the journey to Redbourn only a handful of times and her memory of the surrounding landscape was vague. How close were they? She could hardly ask without giving herself away. She was supposed to know this terrain better than anyone.

‘We’ll stay at Offley tonight.’

Svend’s mouth was close to her ear and she jumped as his breath stirred her hair, sending alarming tingling sensations all through her body.

‘Where?’ The name sounded vaguely familiar, but she found it hard to concentrate.