“My lord, I have the lady,” Jervois panted as he arrived.
Radulf nodded, his eyes sliding past his captain to where Lily was dismounting with Stephen’s help.
“Thank you, Jervois,” he said quietly. “I will remember this.”
Lily’s cloak had blown back, and Radulf saw that she wore the dark blue gown, the wool cloth molding her slender body. Her hair was loose about her, tangling in the wind so that she had to hold it back from her eyes. She was staring at him, her white face ablaze with some powerful emotion.
Anger, he supposed. What had he expected? He bit back his frustration. It couldn’t be helped; he must go ahead with his plan. And hope that Lily would not revenge herself upon him by refusing to obey him. The reason he had given for fetching her had been partially the truth; her presence would make a difference to the English contingent of his army.
The other reason . . . How could Lord Radulf, the monster of legend, admit that he wished to feel his wife’s softness against his body, and smell the scent of her hair, to take with him into the terror of battle?
He was a weak fool. He had sent Jervois to bring him the woman who, after last night, had every reason to hate him more than ever, and who was capable of turning half of his army against him.
A woman he mistrusted.
Radulf was frowning as he came toward her, but Lily forestalled him. She held up her hand, and he halted. Her gaze flicked over him, so large and formidable in his armor, his expression still angry and somehow expectant. This was the man she loved, without whom her life would be nothing. What did it matter if he did not love her? She would make him love her, she thought fiercely. In a few minutes he would fight Hew, and if he were killed . . .
Lily swallowed hard. She had guarded her heart for too long. It was time she opened it to all the joy, and maybe the pain, of which she was capable.
She stretched her arm against the lightening sky and cried out, as loudly as she could, in English and then in French: “Hear me! Oh, good Englishmen and Normans, hear me!”
Gradually the noise began to drop away as, one after another, the men of the army became aware that something was happening. Radulf was standing unmoving, hardly seeming to breathe.
“I wish Lord Radulf luck today in his fight against the rebel Hew. I know that he will win back the north, and we will have peace here at last. Those of you who have families here, who live here, must long for peace as much as I do.”
Lily stepped forward, tugging at the ring on her thumb—the red-eyed hawk that had been her father’s symbol of power. The black enamel inscription caught her eye: “I give thee my heart.” It seemed particularly apt.
“Lord Radulf, I give you this,” she said in stirring tones, and held the ring high, so that the hawk’s ruby eye caught the sun and glinted like blood. There was a muffled cheer from those who understood its significance.
Lily took the steps that brought her face to face with him and, trembling, reached to grasp his hand. She heard his hiss of breath, and then his hand lay acquiescent in hers, the flesh warm and callused. She did not dare think of those fingers touching her, loving her. She did not dare meet those dark eyes, which she knew were watching her every move. If she allowed herself to think or to look, she might not be able to finish what she had begun.
Lily managed to push the ring onto Radulf’s little finger, at least as far as the second knuckle, and there it stuck.
She drew in a deep breath and proclaimed to all, “Lord Radulf, I give you this ring, and with it . . . all that is mine!” And raising his hand to her lips, she pressed a fervent kiss against the roughened skin.
Only then did she look up, into his eyes, her own shimmering with tears, her face naked, vulnerable, and laid open for him.
She meant it. With growing wonder, Radulf understood what she had just given him. He had feared the worst and instead she had given him the very best. There was no longer any reason to mistrust her, to fear that if he admitted to loving her, she would use it as a weapon and destroy him. She had had her chance, and instead of his destruction, given her own heart into his keeping.
Aye, he loved her! He spoke the words in his head, and liked the sound of them. A huge smile split Radulf’s face. He caught Lily up in his arms, lifting her feet off the ground. She gasped, her arms twining about his neck, and he fastened his mouth on hers in a long, soul-wrenching kiss.
The shouts and cheers rose headily about them as the great Radulf kissed his wife, and their army celebrated the joining of Norman and English, and the victory they were about to have.
“I will win today, my Lily,” Radulf murmured huskily in her ear. “I will win for you.”
“Just come back to me,” she said, and tilted her head so that she could gaze deep into his coal-black eyes. “I love you, Radulf. I think I have loved you from our first meeting in Grimswade church. I dream about your wonderful mouth and your strong body, moving inside mine . . . Radulf, you are my Thor.”
Thor? Olaf’s prayer came back to Radulf, and he gave her a slow and satisfied grin. “Keep dreaming that, mignonne. Soon I will make it come true.”
Farther up the valley, Hew’s horse was stamping, sensing its master’s fury, as Hew stared white-faced at the scene being enacted before him.
Radulf and Lily! He felt sick with bitter disappointment. Well, they would see who were the victors there today . . .
Hew raised his gauntlet, and screamed out the command to do battle.
Lily’s arms felt cold, empty. Radulf had gone, riding with his men down into the valley. She held her breath, gazing over the distance until her eyes ached and stung, unable to do more than shake her head when Stephen asked her if she wanted wine, or to take shelter in the tent since it was lightly drizzling.
She was nothing, an empty shell, and she would not live again until Radulf returned.
