The Norman stood in deep discussion with Guy, the knight she had used the potion on last evening. But his gaze was on her.
Ceidre felt the instant flood of memories. How he had imprisoned her in his embrace, with his superior strength proving his mastery over her, her punishment his hot, hard kiss. Good God, she had reacted as pitifully as a helpless, ensnared hare. She stiffened at the very remembrance, anger and agitation making her blood pound. If he dared to touch her so again she would rake his eyes out. This time she would not miss! She shuddered, glancing at him again. And she would not wonder at his daring—at his complete lack of fear of her and her “evil” eye.
He didn’t smile, but he suddenly, abruptly, began striding toward her. Ceidre felt herself freeze. She did not want him to approach. She did not want to talk to him, even see him. Yet she could not move away. And now she was assailed with worries.
They were close to Aelfgar, which was normally her sanctuary. Alice would greet them, and the Norman would find out her deception. She knew he was, like any man, proud, thus he would not take kindly to having been deceived by a mere woman. He would be humiliated and angry at being made the fool. Of course, she knew his anger would recede, for he would be relieved to be wed to Alice, and not one such as she. But until it did recede, was she in jeopardy?
And how, oh how, could she help her sister to avoid wedlock to this man?
And what of her brothers? Did this Norman know something? Ceidre realized he would know more than anyone, being so close to the Bastard Conquerer, but how could she win his goodwill to ask and receive the truth? He was so shrewd, surely when he realized she was desperate for news he would use his position as a source of power over her. Yet she had to ask—she was dying to know something—anything.
He paused in front of her, his steely blue eyes riveted upon her face. “Have you passed a good night, my lady?”
And she could feel her cheeks flushing. “Y-yes.”
“You hesitate. Perhaps”—and he smiled—“you did not sleep well. Perhaps your dreams were filled with me?”
She would never ask him anything! “I slept unusually well.”
He studied her. His gaze drifted to her mouth. “Then I envy you.”
His meaning was clear. She went scarlet.
He turned abruptly. “We leave in half an hour’s time.”
She watched his back, broad at the shoulder, small and narrow at the hip. It was not what she thought, he did not mean what it seemed he meant. Did it?
He eyed her as she rode alongside him on a mule, as haughty and proud as any queen astride a blooded Arabian. And beautiful. Her profile stole his breath away, and once again Rolfe blessed Dame Fortune.
For it was rare, so unbelievably rare, for a man to want the woman who was his wife. Last night, after escorting Alice back to the tent, he had lain awake unable to sleep. Even having slaked his lust with the peasant, he was hot and uncomfortable again. He should never have touched her as he had, but he could no more stop himself than he could stop a summer storm. What a boon! Aelfgar and its lady, the most bewitching, seductive woman he had ever met. William had ordered the marriage performed as soon as his convenience allowed, and now Rolfe smiled, thinking that immediately would be at his utmost convenience!
It was early morning, the sun now pale and champagne-hued, the day still cool with the evening’s chill. The terrain was hilly and rocky, good for sheep raising, which was no surprise to Rolfe, for he already knew that the crux of Aelfgar’s prosperity was lamb and wool.
He could not stop himself from glancing at Alice again, just as he could not stop the sun from rising and setting. She had not looked at him, not once in the past hour. This irked him. He knew she was not indifferent to him. Yet she would pretend to be so. He was a soldier, not a poet, not a priest, so polite conversation did not come readily or easily to his lips. Yet Rolfe resolved to try.
“’Tis still cool. Are you warm enough, my lady?”
She cautiously glanced at him. “Yes.” She hesitated. “Thank you.”
He was aware instantly, of course, that she refused to address him properly. No man would dare to show him such lack of respect by failing to call him “my lord.” Yet she dared. Last night, given the circumstances, he could let it pass. Today ’twas incredible. Today he could not allow it. His blue eyes scored her. “Say it, Alice.”
Her gaze flew to his. “Say what?”
“Do not play the confused idiot with me,” he commanded. “Say it: my lord.”
She stiffened. “You are not my lord.”
He could not believe his ears. His hands, on his reins, were so very white. She would defy him? Openly? She, his intended, a lady, a woman? He did not know which fact of her being made it worse!
He turned his furious gaze upon her, about to stop the column. He saw her eyes, wide, purple, he saw the fear there. It flashed through his mind to go softly, he who knew only how to wield his sword boldly. And then a locust of arrows swept down from the trees.
“Ambush!” Rolfe roared, wheeling his destrier in that same instant between Ceidre and the hail of arrows. A stone, shot from a sling, bounced off his helmut. From the corner of his eye he had already spotted one perpetrator, and he was swinging his mace, standing high in his stirrups. The Saxon in the tree above met his gaze, saw his ruthless intent, and opened his mouth to scream. Rolfe’s studded weapon hit him flush in the chest, ripping him open and knocking him out of his perch. He saw another archer, arrow leveled, bow twisted with tension. At the same time he knew the wench was right behind him, her frightened palfrey pressed against his right knee. “Do not move from me,” he roared without ever taking his gaze from the Saxon. He threw his mace as the Saxon released his bow. The arrow missed, Rolfe did not.
Rolfe had been a soldier his entire life; he had lived through a thousand battles. In one quick glance he saw the fighting around him, saw his men were in control, knew there were five dead or dying Saxons, knew a nearly equal number were fleeing, a few still in the process of being routed. He was reaching for the bridle of the palfrey as the animal bolted. Instinct made him whip around to see a huge Saxon with his broadsword charging toward him, on foot, from the woods. With a war cry, Rolfe raised his own sword, as long as he was tall, and faster than the eye could see, much swifter than the Saxon with the heavy broadsword, Rolfe cleaved the man in two, decapitating him.
The battle had ended. The glade was starkly quiet, except for the harsh blowing of their mounts and the panting of his men. Rolfe immediately noted that seven Saxons lay dead and that all of his men remained mounted. He was still holding the little palfrey, and scanning the area once more, he turned to the lady at his side. “’Tis finished,” he said gruffly. “Are you all right?”
Her beautiful purple eyes were wide, frightened. She was panting, her hand on her bosom. Rolfe clenched his jaw, furious now. He was enraged that she had been in the midst of this attack. His scouts had said no danger lay ahead. “Alice…”
