“You play with fire, Ceidre.”
She stared wildly into his bright, triumphant blue eyes. She could feel the dampness of his body. Her own gown and even her undertunic were becoming wet. Her breasts were crushed against the rock-hardness of his chest, achingly so. But mostly she was aware of his shaft, throbbing and hard and pressed against her hip. She tried to move away from it, he jerked her tighter against him. She gasped.
“Fire,” he said harshly. “Now, penance.” And then he claimed her mouth with his.
His kiss was fierce, hard, utterly uncompromising— but not hurtful. Ceidre gasped as her hands came up to resist, bracing away. Yet that too was a mistake. Instead, they spread against warm flesh, softly furred. He growled, the sound animal, warning. His teeth clashed against hers. With a cry, she wrenched away, only to be caught again and yanked back against his body.
“No!”
“Oh, yes,” he purred, the light in his eyes brilliant, momentarily stunning her already stunned senses.
For one instant it was a standoff: she braced to fight yet held hard against him, as their gazes warred. “And what of Alice!” she cried, desperate and furious. “What of your bride!”
His expression became cruel, even ugly. “You should be my bride.”
Ceidre’s mouth opened to protest, but she made nothing more than a choked sound. For his palm anchored her head and his lips claimed hers, his tongue thrusting deep into her mouth. One of his hands closed over her buttock and lifted her groin completely against his erection.
His mouth left hers. “No,” Ceidre managed again, but it was weak, a lie—she was on fire, trembling with wet heat, aching unbearably, unable to stand. His mouth moved voraciously against her throat, nipping, tugging, kissing her skin. And then he bent to bite a puckered nipple through her gown.
Ceidre cried out, clinging to his broad shoulders in a feeble attempt to push him away. Then, abruptly, he pushed her from him. Panting, stunned, shaking, Ceidre tried to recover. Rolfe was holding his undertunic, shielding his blatantly aroused manhood. He pierced her with a look—a warning—and then Alice and a servant entered the room with refreshments.
Alice stopped short, looking from Rolfe to Ceidre. Ceidre knew everything must show—her lips had to be bruised, her face flushed, her gown wet, her hair escaping from its thick braid. Oh, Saint Edward! Realization of what had just happened cut her like a knife. She was horrified.
“Thank you, my lady,” Rolfe was saying smoothly. He stood casually, the tunic draped over a forearm, still covering him. With his other hand he took the beaker of wine and drained it. The cup shook.
Alice seared Ceidre with a look of hatred. Then, angelically, innocently, she said to Rolfe, “Another, my lord?”
“No, ’tis enough.”
“You are finished already?”
“Yes.”
Alice handed the bag-beaker to the servant, picked up a towel, and began rubbing his shoulders dry. Ceidre felt a sick stabbing at the sight—and she hated him. She forgot the herbs—she fled.
He did not call her back.
Ceidre was angry.
She stomped through the bracken, swishing her skirts. Every now and then she paused, face flushed, to inspect a cluster of yellow flowers and to pick a few delicate tiny green leaves, placing them in her basket. Then, stomp-swish-stomp. All because of him. Had he given her the pouch she would not have to be doing this now, when she was so very weary and so very hungry. When all she wanted to do was lay her head down on her pallet and sleep a dreamless sleep.
She thought of Thor and grimly continued her quest. Thor was Edwin’s oldest wolfhound—why, he was almost as old as she was. He had been badly hurt in a dogfight that Athelstan said had happened yesterday. The sleeping potion she had given Guy, when mixed with mandrake and valerian, would numb him sufficiently as well as help him sleep. Now he was suffering greatly, and it hurt Ceidre unbearably, not just because he was Ed’s but because he was her old, trusting playmate as well. She had barely enough of the weed, and it was already approaching dusk. She thought of how much of the potion was left in her pouch and she cursed, wishing for once she were truly a witch. Oh, then she would make him suffer!
A penance indeed!
Why need she pay such a perverse penance to satisfy his perverse lusts? She flushed with fury—and dismay —-just to recollect it. And he was to wed Alice. Her heart leapt at the fact. She would not dwell on it yet she could not ignore it. She was upset, but surely ’twas only because of the thought of bringing her worst enemy into the bosom of her own home. Yet she had a vivid image of Alice toweling him dry. She imagined him kissing Alice—the way he had kissed her. Her sickness was so overwhelming she had to stop and gather her wits.
She was not jealous. She hated the Norman and all he stood for. He was the enemy, the invader, the conqueror. He was dispossessing her two brothers, whom she adored and worshiped. He was cruel and cold—he had razed Kesop to the ground without a twinge of conscience. She was not jealous—but, oh, what a mockery of Fate, that finally a man should not fear her, should so greatly desire her—and he be the Norman whom she could only hate!
Tonight she must talk to Alice. Alice could not truly want this marriage, and Ceidre would move heaven and earth to help her evade it—even if it meant poisoning the groom.
No. She had never hurt another soul, not man, not beast. It would have to be a very grave situation indeed before she would use her powers, so carefully studied from her grandmother, to harm instead of heal. No, there must surely be another way.
In the single hall of the manor, Rolfe sat at the head of the long table with Alice by his side. He was clad only in cross-gartered woolen hose, shoes, an undertunic, and his scabbard and sword. His men sat clustered around the table eating heartily, with those who had not managed to find a seat standing. Guy was on his right, Athelstan on Alice’s left. His bride touched his hand with her tiny white one. “My lord? You do not like the wine?”
Truly, it was atrocious, even though he was verily sick of the Saxon ale. “’Tis passable.”
“But you do not eat,” Alice persisted. “The fare does not please you?”
