His mouth closed on hers, his tongue delving deep into the space she had provided. He ran one hand over her breasts, full and lush. His hand didn’t stop. He tore his mouth away and reached down to clasp her woman’s mound; she arched in panic beneath his touch. “They’ll kill you,” she screamed, her body coming up off the ground to try to escape his touch. But he still had her nape and her head remained a firm anchor; she wasn’t going anywhere. Not until he allowed it.
She lay spread before him, and the sight of her pink woman’s flesh drove him to the edge. He released her wrists, violently ripping open her bodice, exposing full, lush breasts and a small pouch she wore on a thin chain. The sight momentarily froze him. With a shriek, her nails flew at his face, but Rolfe’s reflexes were honed by years of battle, and he caught her hands again, the grip cruel, causing her to cry out. Already his shaft was huge and thick, straining his hose, ready to burst. Rolfe transferred her hands to one of his, yanking them high over her head, hard, effortlessly, even though she still fought him. And then he was taking a nipple into his mouth.
She began to writhe again. He came down on her, his arms going around her, steel bands, unyielding, and he felt the heat of her against the stiffness of his groin. He pressed against her, grunting with pleasure. Her sobs mingled with his labored breathing. But that was not what stopped him. It was the sound of galloping destriers. One more moment and he would be deep, so deep, inside her. He was on his feet, his sword battle-ready in hand, in the next scant second.
“Rolfe, my lord, stop!”
Guy reined in, and Rolfe, standing there with blade upraised, was a hair’s breadth from killing his best vassal. Guy knew it, for he shouted, “She’s Mercia’s sister! Good God, she’s Mercia’s sister!”
“What?”
“She’s Edwin’s sister, Rolfe. Edwin and Morcar’s sister.”
Rolfe turned, stunned, to look at the wench who lay curled up on the ground, the wench he had been an instant from raping. His intended.
Ceidre crouched panting and shaking in the dirt.
She could still hear the rumble of thunder that was the massive destrier’s hoofbeats as the Norman knight had ridden her down. She could still feel the steed’s hot breath, and her own terror. She had been inches from being trampled to death, and she had seen these Normans run down hapless peasants before. This knight, like the others, would have probably done the same to her out of sheer perverted amusement. Sweet Saint Cuthbert!
She could still feel his arms around her, arms of steel, holding her hard and fast to the moist brown earth. And his hands on her womanhood, his mouth on her breast, defiling her. And the heat of his manhood … Mother of God!
She understood the Norman language fairly well, but had been too shaken to comprehend the rapidly fired conversation now occurring. Yet she could not miss her brothers’ names, could not miss “Mercia.” She fought to still her trembling, straining to listen, with her face still pressed to the ground.
“God’s blood,” Rolfe said, and she knew he was looking at her. “She can’t be.”
She could feel the heat of his stare, feel the shock of whatever news had been imparted, in the silence now held between him and his man. Sweet Mary, how she hated him!
“I heard it from the villagers,” his man said. “’Tis well known. And Aelfgar is not that far from here.”
Ceidre tensed at the name of her home. They must know who she was. She slowly sat up, clutching her torn gown together. She fixed him with a stare of intense hatred.
His gaze, cold and vividly blue, held hers. His look darkened and warred with hers. A nerve in his jaw ticked. She could feel his anger now and knew it was directed at her. For what? For her insolence in hating him? For what he had been denied—the rape of her body? Or because he knew who she was?
He moved. He came to her swiftly. Ceidre started to shrink away, then caught herself and held her ground, raising her chin with defiance. She could feel the thick, unnatural beat of her heart, the cloying terror. He could rape her and then beat her before killing her, but she would not show fear of this man. But he had seen her initial reaction, and this too displeased him. His anger was a visible thing, darkening his eyes again, and his face.
And then his expression changed. He stopped abruptly, staring.
Ceidre had seen many people look at her the same way, when they first noticed her eye. Surprise, usually, was the initial reaction, then puzzlement, then comprehension and horror. Behind him, she saw Guy draw back. “I’d heard it but I didn’t believe it,” he whispered nervously, unable to tear his glance from Ceidre. “’Tis the evil eye.”
Rolfe’s gaze was riveted upon hers. Ceidre hated the deformity that had haunted her her entire life: Her right eye sometimes wandered away at will. It was not a frequent occurrence; usually it happened only when she was extremely tired, and was only noticeable by those in close proximity. People thought she could gaze in two opposite directions at once—’twasn’t true. Strangers who did notice this defect crossed themselves for protection when they saw her “evil” eye and kept well away from her. It had been that way her entire life, since she was a tiny toddler in swaddling. The villagers at Aelfgar, her own people, many her own kin on her mother’s side, were long used to her, knew she wasn’t evil. Yet that she could heal the sick as her granny did only confirmed their belief that she was a witch. So even her kin were overly aware of her, in awe. Only her brothers, well used to her, seemed entirely indifferent, and Ceidre had long since said prayers of thanks for this blessing. Yet even they were not beyond begging a boon—Morcar had once asked her to bewitch a lass who had been leading him on a merry chase! Now Ceidre flushed, hating this deformity more than she ever had in her entire life—hating being exposed before this man.
His cool blue gaze swept her features one by one, returning finally to her eye. Then he spoke. “She is no witch. She is flesh and blood. That is enough.”
“My lord,” Guy protested nervously. “Be careful.”
He was standing above her, his sword sheathed, hands curled into angry fists on his lean hips. “Are you the lady Alice?”
She blinked in surprise. And then she understood his misconception; he was confusing her with her half sister. Ceidre was no fool. Alice was not a by-blow. Being nobly born, she was of more import than Ceidre herself was. Depending, of course, on circumstance— on which game of war this Norman pig chose to play. For now she would go along with the false belief, to save herself from a certain rape, or worse. Ceidre said, “Yes.”
Her answer seemed to please him, for suddenly he smiled. Ceidre was momentarily stunned. Not by his response, or by the fact that he actually could smile. She remembered how he had looked charging after her on his destrier, like a golden pagan god. How he had looked, sitting there so impassively as she had pleaded with him to spare the corn. Now she realized he was devastatingly handsome with his short golden curls, his blue eyes, straight white even teeth, and features that were sensually, ruthlessly chiseled. She stared at his proudly sculpted face, unable to stop herself.
“What do you think, Guy?” He was grinning, not tearing his gaze from her as he asked his knight the question. For a moment their gazes held.
Guy didn’t answer. His dismay was answer enough.
Ceidre didn’t like the possessive way the Norman’s eyes were stroking her body, and her anger returned in full force. Anger and something else, uneasiness. She started to get up, and he was there. His touch infuriated her, and she wrenched away; she did not need his help, would never need it. But why wasn’t he afraid of her now that he knew the truth? Instead, he was angry at her response, but he was obviously a man of discipline for he held himself carefully in check. Gone, though, was the beautiful smile. “My lady,” he said stiffly. “What are you doing away from Aelfgar? Dressed as you are? It is not safe in these times.”
He would show concern for her safety? It was a mockery! “And what affair is it of yours? Am I your prisoner?” she demanded, chin high, eyes flashing. Yet inside she was quaking.
