Married to Her Enemy

‘It’s only treason if he’s my King—which he’s not!’

He closed the space between them in two footsteps. ‘Say that again and you’ll get us both killed!’

She blanched at once. ‘What do you mean?’

He didn’t answer, distracted by the lock of honey-coloured hair tumbling across one golden eye, tempting him to brush it aside. He swallowed the impulse, resenting his own weakness. How could she still have such a distracting effect on him? He ought not to be able to stand the sight of her and yet, standing so close to her, it was all he could do not to pull her into his arms. If they were going to be caught, he wanted to feel her lips again first...

‘If you’re not Cille—’ he spoke through clenched teeth ‘—then what are you doing here?’

‘I thought if I could speak to the Earl...convince him that I was Cille... I could ask him to stop the marriage.’

‘Just like that?’

He could hardly believe his own ears. Was she really so naive? Did she think it would be so easy to change the Earl’s mind?

‘I had to do something! You saw Cille—she’d just had a baby. I couldn’t let you take her.’

He scowled at the implication. ‘I would never have brought her before she was ready.’

‘And how long would that have been? A few days? A few weeks? What if she had never been ready?’

Svend clenched his jaw. Their voices were raised now. If they weren’t careful they’d bring the Earl’s soldiers right to them.

‘So you just decided to take her place?’

‘Why not? Cille left Redbourn before the Normans arrived. None of them would have known the difference.’

His brows snapped together. ‘Who told you that?’

‘Cille did.’ She frowned, her defiance faltering momentarily. ‘At least she never mentioned any Normans...’

‘She never mentioned de Quincey?’

‘Who?’

He swore violently, ignoring her shocked intake of breath. This was maddening. She had no idea about any of it—about de Quincey and Cille or the real identity of the baby’s father. There wasn’t the faintest inkling of suspicion on her face. She couldn’t see the truth even when it was right in front of her.

On the other hand he couldn’t fault her motives. Part of him even admired them. She’d lied for a reason. She wasn’t simply duplicitous, deceiving him for her own selfish ends like Maren. She’d been trying to protect her sister and her nephew, acting out of love after all. Just not for him.

But why had the real Cille let her go through with such a dangerous pretence? Even if she hadn’t wanted to tell her about de Quincey, why hadn’t she stopped her?

He thought back to the morning of their departure from Etton, when he’d threatened to carry her out of the hall. She’d said that her sister was still asleep. Was it possible that they’d never had a chance to speak? That the real Cille had never even known her intentions?

He struggled to keep a lid on his temper. It wasn’t just possible—in all likelihood she’d taken her sister’s place without even telling her because she had simply assumed that everyone hated Normans as much as she did. The idea of her sister having a relationship, let alone a child with a Norman had likely never occurred to her.

Of course it hadn’t. He’d been deluded to think she might even consider the possibility. She hated all Normans—had told him that from the start—and had probably hated him all along. He’d been fool enough to think she might care, but she’d only been playing a part—stringing him along so he wouldn’t get suspicious, as good an actress as Maren had ever been.

He could feel the heat of his anger abating, to be replaced by something colder and harder. Well, he’d wondered who the real woman was and now he knew. She wasn’t the woman who had kissed him...she was the one who had pulled away. Every look, every touch, every kiss... None of it had meant anything to her.

And now that the red fog had lifted he felt almost as angry with himself as he was with her. He’d known better than to trust a woman again. He’d even known that she was hiding something. He was almost as much to blame as she was.

‘Svend?’ She loo

ked up at him guilelessly. ‘Who’s de Quincey?’

He fought the urge to laugh. If only she’d asked that question a fortnight ago! For a moment he was tempted to take his revenge—to tell her the truth bluntly and see the scales fall from her eyes. But, as much as he wanted to punish her, he couldn’t bring himself to hurt her, couldn’t be that cruel.

‘Aediva.’ He tested her name on his tongue, tried not to like it. ‘Your sister hasn’t told you everything.’