She whimpered. “I love you.” He released her and laughed. “More honeyed words!”
“’Tis the truth.”
His face was filled with revulsion. His eyes were brilliant. “Do you love me, Ceidre?” A cold purr.
“Yes.”
“Show me,” he said. “Show me, prove it. Deeds— not words.”
Ceidre froze, her heart pounding, unsure of what to do. How to convince him? Was she really being given this chance? How to soften his heart, heal it? Take away the ugly hatred?
He laughed, the sound bitter, and turned to leave.
She catapulted against him, her cheek on his back, her whole length pressed to him, clinging. He froze. “Do not go,” she cried, choking on thick tears. “Let me show you, let me, I will!”
He did not move.
Her hands were shaking as she ran them over his shoulders frantically. She kissed his shoulder blades, his spine. She wrapped her arms around his waist and nuzzled his side. She curved her groin against his buttocks and held him, as hard as she could.
“I love you,” she whispered, and she slid her palm up to his heart, to feel its fast, hard beat. She slipped her fingers down, into his hose, to touch the silken flesh near his navel. She was instantly rewarded with the big tip of his aroused sex springing against her hand, and she felt a tremendous relief—he still desired her, at least! “Let me love you, my lord.” She gasped, her heart racing wildly. “I will show you—”
She was suddenly wrenched free of him and thrown backward, against the wall. She stumbled but did not fall. He was enraged.
“Save your whore’s tricks for a farm boy,” he rasped, blue eyes blazing, and then he was gone.
The lying whore sought to seduce him again.
Did she think he was a fool? Rolfe paced his chamber in a fury. He had been enraged since supper, nothing would quell the flames within him. He hated how his body had responded to the slut. He told himself he would respond like a man to any woman, ugly or fair, not just to the witch who was imprisoned in the chamber just beyond his door. God curse her! Maybe he should have let her work her wiles, see how far she would have gone to prove her “love”! Maybe he should have taken her and fucked her until she could not walk! He was a hair’s breadth from doing it now!
“Will you come to bed, my lord?” Alice breathed.
He looked at his wife with disdain, eyes blazing. He understood her husky tone. She wanted a fucking. Well, it would be no problem, because his groin was thick and swollen with his anger. He stripped methodically. He climbed into the bed and pulled her beneath him, impaling her instantly.
Alice gasped from the suddenness of his entry, and whimpered.
Rolfe moved hard and steadily, eyes closed, imagining it was Ceidre beneath him, crying out in pain, trying to push him off as his wife was doing. He plunged deeper, harder, wanting to hurt her, the bitch! Alice sobbed and writhed, clawing his chest. He caught her wrists, yanked them out of his way, driving himself mercilessly into her—the traitorous witch. The woman beneath him keened wildly in orgasm. Rolfe was still filled with the need to hurt Ceidre in the most basic, primitive way, and his angry, brutal thrusting did not cease.
Ceidre did not see Rolfe alone again, and two days after his hurtful, hate-filled visit, he rode out with a dozen men. She watched him leaving from the arrow slit, the pain in her heart as vivid and agonizing and heavy as ever. He was unbearably handsome as he sat his big gray, his face tight and closed—the way he had been that first day she had ever seen him at Kesop. It was hard to believe that this man was the same lover who had played with her in the orchard, teased her in the dark of the barn. He had learned to laugh and love so well, she thought, unbearably sad, and now he had learned to hate with the same fervor.
Mary was the only one to come to her chamber, bringing bread, cheese, and ale, once in midmorning and once at dusk. She was left with minimal amounts of water, and had not yet used the candle to test her captor’s generosity—as she suspected he had none and would not bring her another candle. Her chamberpot was emptied every other day, thankfully. She was denied a bath—told, in fact, that if she wanted to wash she should use what was given her to drink. So she became dirty, and did not care.
Mary was deep in Alice’s graces, and Ceidre knew this. Apparently the Norman knew it as well, and for this reason had chosen her to tend her. Mary, however, was a gossip. She was not malicious, just talkative, although Ceidre suspected Alice supplied her with the painful information she provided.
Mary was happy to tell her how the Norman had kept Alice awake all through the night with his big shaft, until she was begging—happily—for mercy. God. It hurt. He hated her, and she knew he would go to other women, had never even hoped he would be faithful to her, a mere mistress, but it hurt more than she could bear. She hid her feelings carefully though, sure that Mary would be questioned quite thoroughly by Alice for her reaction.
Ceidre learned that the Norman had ridden out to fortify a position on his northeastern border with Wales. He would be gone at least a fortnight, maybe two, building a lonely keep in the midst of the barren wilderness. When Beltain was well, she was told, he would be given this small outpost. She was also told that her husband, Guy, had returned shortly after the Norman had left.
The days passed. Monotony at first was relieved by reliving every moment since he had entered her life that June day in Kesop. This proved too painful, and Ceidre tried to stop her memories, but it was impossible. There was nothing else to do except stare at the four walls. She worried as well for her brothers, knowing as each day passed the rebellion they were planning was coming closer and closer—and praying they would survive once again. Ceidre knew she should not bother to keep count of the days, yet she did, telling herself she was not marking the time for his return. She wished with all her being she could strike him from her heart. It was not to be.
A week after the Norman had left she realized that her monthly course was late. Not only was it late, her breasts were sore and she was nauseous in the mornings. There was a distinct possibility that she was pregnant, for Geidre had been regular since she was thirteen. Her blood did not flow, and after another week passed, she knew she was pregnant with the Norman’s child.
It was a gift from God.
She hugged her belly and wept with thanks, for now she had a part of him to cherish and love, a part of him that would grow to be strong and proud and every inch the man his father was, or, a woman blessed with the best traits of both parents. She loved the tiny soul growing within her body, she loved it with all the passion she had given Rolfe, and even more, because she loved him so and this child was created by that love. All her emotions went to this new baby, and nurtured by this event, she became serene, content. She was sure that the babe had been conceived on her wedding night to Guy, six weeks ago, because her breasts were already swollen and she already had the morning sickness. That she had conceived the first magical night she had lain with Rolfe filled her with pleasure.
Her fare, although boring, was enough to sustain her—but not enough to sustain them both. She begged Mary for more, but the maid was afraid of her mistress and balked.
“I can’t, Ceidre,” she wailed. “I’d be whipped good if I did!”
