Married to Her Enemy

Despite herself, Aediva felt a surge of pity. There was no doubting the look of anguish on his face, nor the depth of his emotion. He looked tormented, as if he truly cared for Cille. He even spoke as if she cared for him too. No, this man was no monster. But he was still Norman...

She waited for the customary sense of outrage, but it didn’t come. A week ago—a day ago, even—she would have hated him, would never have believed that her sister could care for a Norman. Now the idea didn’t seem so outlandish. The idea of loving her enemy seemed almost...natural.

‘Did she say why she left?’ He sounded desperate. ‘What did she tell you?’

Nothing. Aediva’s stomach plummeted. Cille hadn’t told her anything.

She turned away, shamefaced. She’d learned so much in the past hour—not just about her sister, but about herself too. Cille had come home for help and then hadn’t dared to confide in her because she’d been so intractable, so full of hatred, never questioning her own prejudices against Normans. Cille hadn’t retreated inside herself—she’d pushed her away. And when Svend had arrived she’d been too impulsive, taking Cille’s place without even asking, charging recklessly ahead and endangering everyone around her—him included.

So why had he rescued her? She stole a glance towards him, confused. If she’d known about de Quincey she would never have let him help her, let him endanger himself by dragging her away. Besides, she didn’t want his protection—not like this! He looked as stern as granite, a different man from the one who’d kissed her so tenderly the night before.

He wouldn’t kiss her again. That much was certain. So why was he still trying to protect her? Lying to the Baron to hide her deceit? Clearly he was as stubbornly honourable as she was impulsive. That made her feel doubly guilty. He wouldn’t let her take the blame even when she asked for it. Now she wished he’d left her at the tower. If he was so angry, why had he even bothered to rescue her?

‘Aediva?’

His stern voice prompted her now. Apparently he expected her to tell de Quincey about the baby. Well, she wasn’t going to soften the blow—not for a Norman. She hadn’t changed her mind so completely.

‘She was with child.’

The Baron’s face turned even paler. ‘She was carrying my child?’

‘A boy.’ Svend shot her a glance of warning. ‘Born a week ago. He’s healthy and strong.’

‘You didn’t leave them alone?’

‘No. Henri’s with her, and ten of my men. They’re safe.’

‘Then I’m indebted.’ He stood up shakily, clasping Svend’s shoulder for support. ‘I have to go to her.’

‘I’ll give you directions. You can be there in three days.’

‘Good. I’ll go to the Earl now. I want to leave immediately. Tonight.’

He made for the flap and then stopped, as if suddenly remembering why he’d come. ‘You ought to come with me. You’ll still have to explain why she ignored the Earl’s summons.’

Aediva tensed, but the Baron’s expression was thoughtful.

‘Perhaps it was my fault... Perhaps I came across her and couldn’t wait for news of Cille... Perhaps all this time she’s been assuring me of her sister’s good health...’

‘Perhaps.’ Svend’s expression was guarded.

‘As for what you told the steward...a slip of the tongue after such a long journey would be understandable. Or perhaps he simply misheard?’

Aediva’s mouth fell open. This Norman—this man she’d assumed was a monster—was offering them a lifeline. She clenched her jaw, trying and failing to hold on to her resentment.

‘And perhaps...’ De Quincey looked faintly amused. ‘She might want to change her clothes before meeting the King’s cousin.’

Mortified, she looked down at her tattered dress. He was right. She looked as though she’d been dragged through a hedgerow backwards. Twice. No decent Saxon lady would ever have appeared in such a state. Certainly Cille would never have done. Had she looked so ragged all week? What must Svend think of her? He had seemed to find her attractive despite her dishevelment, but now his averted gaze spoke volumes. He didn’t even want to look at her.

‘Wait here.’ The Baron smiled gallantly, as if to take the sting from his words. ‘I’ll have someone escort you to Cille’s old chamber. Her clothes are still there. You can choose a new gown.’

‘I...’ She hardly knew what to say.

‘In the meantime—’ he turned back towards Svend ‘—we need to speak with the Earl.’

‘But shouldn’t I come with you?’

The two men exchanged glances and she stiffened. Did they think they could just leave her behind while they spoke to the Earl? As if she ought to stay put while Normans decided her future? She should have a say at least. If she were going to be condemned by FitzOsbern she wanted a chance to confront him first.