Rolfe found himself smiling slightly—and Athelstan finally did so too. “Is it true that Ceidre disappears for days at a time?” He didn’t like the thought, not one bit. Nor did he like the way it made his innards cramp with tension.
“’Tis rare.” Athelstan stared at him. “You ask many questions of the sister, my lord.”
Rolfe met his gaze directly. “She is a beautiful woman—and I had thought her to be my promised wife. ’Tis normal, given these circumstances.”
“You do not fear the eye?”
Rolfe laughed, without mirth. “You think she is a witch too?”
“Oh, she is a witch, all right,” Athelstan said gravely. “Even her father knew it. But a good witch.”
“She is flesh and blood, a woman—made for a man.” And his traitorous thoughts sped ahead: My woman—made for me. He grew grim, not liking his own treachery.
“Of course, my lord. But tonight she practices her witch’s arts.”
“What in God’s name do you mean?” It was almost a roar, accompanied by a slap on the table, which nearly made the wood crack.
“She has gone far afield to find a special herb for Thor.”
“Explain, old man.”
Athelstan dryly told him, and Rolfe was furious and incredulous all at once. “She goes off into the night, alone, unescorted, to fetch herbs to heal an old dog!” He was on his feet, ordering his men to rise. “We shall end this foolishness once and for all.”
Alice’s face was a mask of rage. In her anger, she was taut and ugly, older than her years. She listened to her lord and his men as they rode out into the night, by torchlight, their massive steeds’ hooves rumbling like thunder. To find Ceidre.
It was impossible—but true. Her betrothed wanted her sister. Ceidre had cast a spell on him, she was certain. Why else would he look at her the way he did —when no other mortal man dared? Or was he himself unnatural, maybe not flesh and blood, but Satan’s creation—the devil? Alice shuddered.
No, he was man, of flesh and blood. She had seen his male body, hard, muscular, battle-scarred—so ugly. For some reason he was not afraid of Ceidre’s eye, and thus he was overwhelmed by her vivid, unnatural beauty.
Alice hated her sister so much she felt as if she were choking.
Alice had never been afraid of her sister, ever—her hate was too strong. And with the passing of time, she grew bolder, for Ceidre had never cast a spell upon her. Alice was sure it was because they were sisters— because it would have enraged their father. Or maybe Ceidre had no power where Alice was concerned. That thought pleased Alice greatly.
Now Rolfe was riding out at night to search for her. Alice wished she could kill Ceidre. Rolfe, like her father, was not afraid of her and hence was bewitched by her unusual coloring, her beauty, her form. Thinking about her father made Alice ill. The way he had adored Ceidre, adored that whore, Annie, openly—while barely giving a smile to her own mother, since remarried, or to herself. Her brothers too had always favored Ceidre, oblivious to her eye, entranced by her smile and her laughter. Everyone who counted in Alice’s life had always preferred her sister to her—it was only those who didn’t count, like that young, pimply faced fool, Bill, her betrothed, who didn’t. Alice wished, just once, she could see Rolfe recoil in horror from her sister. She knew how much revulsion dismayed Ceidre.
Ceidre was not going to ruin what was surely her last chance at marriage, Alice swore.
And a plan began to form in her mind.
An hour had passed at least—the moon had risen. Full and yellow, it glowed in the night. Rolfe reined in, listening to the silence. There was no sound, not even of crickets, owls, not even the wind. He raised himself in his stirrups. On an adjacent ridge, and in a dale, and across on another hill, he could see the flickering lights of the torches his men carried as they combed the countryside. His body was as taut as a bow string. Never would she roam afar again! “Ceidre! Ceidre!”
There was no answer. Now he was truly worried, sure a terrible fate had befallen her—wolves, brigands. Then he heard a noise and whipped his head around. He knew instant disappointment, as he saw the light approaching—’twas one of his men. And then his heart leapt as he heard, “My lord! I have her, I found her!”
His expression changed, worry evaporating, his mouth settling into a hard, ruthless line. He spurred his steed forward to meet Beltain. “Well done,” he said, low.
“Put me down, you oaf,” Ceidre said through gritted teeth, a bundle squirming upon Beltain’s lap. “My lord?” Beltain asked.
Rolfe’s fingers itched to spank her until she could not sit. “Put her down.”
Beltain let her go, and she slid to the ground, panting. “What is the meaning of this!”
Rolfe reached down and swung her up in front of him. “Do not test me,” he warned, and at the deadly sound of his voice, Ceidre ceased to protest. She went very still, sitting sidesaddle on his hard thighs. “Signal the others,” Rolfe said. And he spurred his mount back toward Aelfgar.
Ceidre clutched her basket, anger fading in the face of his powerful presence. Tension reared, her heart began thundering. He was angry, very, very angry— which made no sense. And why were his men out looking for her? What she did, ’twas not his affair. She did not understand, not at all. And she did not like being treated like his property—which, if she accepted him as the new eaorl, she was.
He said not one word and the ride was swift. At the manor he dismounted, dragging her quite rudely down with him. He handed his destrier to one of the pages, his grip on her elbow so firm it hurt. He yanked her into the hall.
Alice looked up from her embroidery. She sat with her maid, a plump woman named Mary. A few of the men had returned already and were drinking ale and dicing. Alice regarded them steadily but said nothing.
