“My penance—my lord.”
“I have decreed no such thing,” Rolfe said furiously. “But I decree this. You are to rest for what remains of this day—and you are never to work in the kitchens again. Do you understand?”
Ceidre stared.
“I see that you do,” Rolfe said. “Then understand this as well. You do not turn your back on me, Ceidre. You are not nobly born.”
She bit her lip. Her flush increased. He saw the defiance in her eyes, and the mingling of apprehension before she lowered her head. She mumbled an affirmative. “Yes.”
He stared at her. Her anger was arousing—she was arousing. She would fight him regardless of her fear— and he knew she feared him. He felt the soaring of some emotion like respect, which could not be, of course, for she was only a woman, and another he understood well, annoyance. He did not like her afraid of him. He touched her chin, lifting it with one forefinger. He saw the startled light in her eyes and felt the impact of their touching just as, he knew, she had.
“My lord,” he said softly.
Her bosom rose and fell. She was ensnared, unable to withdraw her gaze.
“You cannot beat me, Ceidre,” Rolfe warned softly.
Defiance flared. “Yes—my lord.”
He smiled, satisfied, but did not drop his hand. His finger stroked her jaw. “Was it so hard?”
She winced and pulled away.
Rolfe cursed, furious with himself for catering to his own base, male instincts, and forgetting her bruise.
“Go to your grandmother,” he said harshly. “Have her make a poultice before it swells further.”
She was gone before he had finished, holding up the hem of her gown and running—from him.
“Lady, I would have a word with you.”
Alice stood near their two chairs at the head of the table within the hall, waiting for Rolfe before seating herself. His men had already come in, sat, and were busily eating. Rolfe’s eyes were bright blue and cold— like the sky in January. She glanced around to see who had heard his tone. His man, Guy Le Chante, was studiously watching every mouthful he ate, but old Athelstan was slow (and insolent) to withdraw his regard. Alice seethed, but hid it behind a pretty smile. “Can it not wait, my lord? The food is hot.”
“No.” He took her elbow rudely and propelled her up the stairs.
Alice would not show her anger at being treated this way—like some field wench. She kept her lashes demurely lowered. And she reined in the little knot of fear he inspired.
“How is it,” Rolfe growled, “that you told me Ceidre supervises, when in truth she is reduced to the task of any common serf?”
Alice’s lashes flew up. “But she is any common serf!”
“She is your sister.”
“My half sister—some serf’s brat.”
“She is still the eaorl’s daughter, Lady, and that raises her above the place you would have her. She will not work like a common peasant in the kitchens.”
“Yes, my lord.” Alice waited a beat, until he had relaxed slightly. “My lord?”
He waited, impatiently now.
“What tasks should she perform, then? She is a mouth to be fed. Every serf at Aelfgar works for his fare, this you know.”
“I will find her other duties. Enough of this topic.” He started down the stairs.
Alice touched his sleeve. “My lord?”
He made no effort to hide his annoyance. “What now?”
