She was asleep. The sight of her curled up on her side—a sight he had seen many times before—halted him in his tracks. For a moment his resolve wavered, and then, with renewed fury, he pushed it aside. He reached her and shook her roughly. “Wake up,” he said with a snarl.
She blinked awake in confusion. Rolfe squatted, taking her chin in his hand, pushing his face near hers. “Are you awake, witch?”
She gasped with recognition.
“Good.” He smiled and stood, hands already pushing down his hose to free his straining, angry member. Ceidre gasped again, eyes widening. “I have need of a whore,” Rolfe said coolly. “Spread yourself for me.”
She did not move.
He pushed her down on her back, hard, hoping to hurt her, reaching for her thighs to spread them. He was unprepared for her arms, which went fiercely around his neck, her face buried there. “Take me, my lord,” she breathed. “I will never deny you.”
Her words, her acceptance, her serenity inflamed him. “You cannot deny me, whore,” he spat, already on top of her. He thrust into her and she whimpered. Unlike the night he had raped her on her wedding day, she was dry and tight and he knew he had hurt her. He told himself he did not care. Yet he froze just the same, unable to continue ruthlessly.
She stroked the curls at the nape of his neck tenderly, kissing his jaw. “Your whore’s games will not work,” he shouted, thrusting fiercely into her. She met his rhythm fervently, gasping now with pleasure—he recognized the sound too well. He did not want to pleasure her. He only wanted to use her. He intended to spill his seed quickly, as quickly as possible. In the past, he had had to fight himself from finishing, wanting to give her ecstasy; now he welcomed his unbearable arousal, encouraged it. He reminded himself of every lie she had told, every instance of treason, and the final act—the one resulting in the loss of a dozen of his men. She had probably lied about Guy too, had probably shared his bed many times. After all, why not spy in two beds, or even more? He came violently.
He stood, smiling coldly, adjusting his hose. He could see that she had not been assuaged, her eyes were black with passion and desire. He was pleased to have found release—and even more pleased to have excited her and then denied her hers. “From now on you are not just my prisoner,” he said, raking her contemptuously. His gaze lingered on her femininity, damp and exposed with her gown still up around her waist. She did not try to cover herself. “You are my whore. When I feel the need, I will take you. I think this suits you very well, Ceidre.”
Her eyes were wide and violet, and he saw the shimmer of tears. “I will never hate you, my lord,” she whispered.
“Then I will hate strongly enough for the two of us,” he stated, and he turned abruptly and walked out.
It was four days later.
Rolfe cautiously looked around the woods. He was six kilometers from the village, near a huge fallen tree that crossed the racing creek like a bridge. This was most definitely the place for the rendezvous.
He was mounted on his gray, alone. At least, he appeared to be alone. In truth, his men were hidden in the forest, not far—in case this was a trap. His hand rested lightly upon the hilt of his sword.
He heard him before he saw him. Staring across the river, Rolfe watched the rider appear through the trees until he had reined in on the creek’s rocky bank. As one, Rolfe and the rider dismounted, moving to the fallen tree. Rolfe leapt nimbly up and walked carefully to the middle, as did the other man. All around them the creek gurgled happily, the sound innocent and bell-like and loud enough to drown out their words— should anyone try and listen.
“Aelfgar will be attacked. There will be five dozen men. The maid Beth will let them in through the secret door in the wall. Edwin and Morcar and Hereward lead.”
“When?”
“The thirtieth—in ten days.”
“You have done well,” Rolfe said. “If you speak the truth, as William has promised, your reward is the fief of Lindley in Sussex.”
“Oh, I speak the truth,” Albie said.
The Saxon camp was nestled in a hidden dale, within twenty kilometers of Aelfgar.
It was the twenty-ninth of September. The night was pitch-black and moonless, promising a gray, cloudy morning. The camp was completely hushed. There was no whispered conversation. No fires burned. Few were sleeping, however, on the eve of battle.
“Even the weather favors us,” Morcar said, low.
Edwin said nothing. The brothers sat side by side on a log. The night sounds were all around them—crickets, an owl, a lonely wolf.
“We will win, Ed,” Morcar said, barely suppressing his voice in his excitement. “The time has come to take back what is ours! I can feel it!”
Ed smiled slightly.
“Beth knows what she must do,” Morcar whispered. “Just before dawn she will open the door. With me and my men in the lead, no one will know what has hit them! I think we will be within the keep before an alarm is even sounded.”
Edwin touched his brother’s shoulder, then clasped it firmly. “This time,” he said, “it does appear that the gods have favored us.”
Ceidre was waiting.
He had not come to her again, not since the one night when he had tried to use her cruelly and coldly, yet every night Ceidre waited, hoping. If he still desired her there was a chance for them, a slim chance, true, but she would gladly take it. In his arms she would show him how she felt—how she repented her betrayal, how she loved him.
