“No!”
Rolfe touched Ceidre’s stiff shoulders. “It is time to go. There is nothing more you can do. She must grieve herself.”
“I will give her a sleeping potion.”
“No!” Tildie screamed, somehow raising herself up to a sitting position. “No! I want my baby! Give me my babe!”
Ceidre took Tildie’s hand as she wept. “I’m sorry. Oh, Tildie, I tried…” She broke off, unable to continue, thinking that if she’d come sooner maybe she could have saved the baby. Her heart ached for her friend.
“Oh, my baby,” Tildie moaned.
John came to his wife and Ceidre rose to her feet, brushing at tears. She really couldn’t see, everything was a blur. She had tried, she knew that, she had done the best she could, yet … If only she had thought to check on Tildie that afternoon, if only she had come sooner. She escaped the dark, dank hut and gulped in the fresh night air. She realized she was running. She didn’t care.
She ran into the half-mown hayfield.
“Ceidre—stop!”
Him! He was the last person in this world she wished to see. Ceidre kept running. She stumbled on the furrowed earth but did not fall. She heard him calling again. Stalks of hay tore strands of hair free from her braid and whipped her cheek. She reached the far side of the field and paused, gasping for breath, at the edge of the dark, looming forest. Would he never leave her alone?
She rested a shoulder against the rough bark of an ancient oak, and her knees gave way. She curled her fingers into the dirt and swallowed a sob. Her world was spinning. Her breathing was still ragged and uncontrolled.
“Ceidre.”
She turned her head slightly and saw his foot. She forced herself up, into a sitting position. “Leave me be.” To her dismay, her voice was husky with unshed tears and not fierce at all.
Rolfe stood, tense and uncertain. He ached as if he were the one wounded. He wanted to reach down and touch her, stroke the dirt from her face and the tendrils of hair away from the corners of her mouth. Damn that peasant wench!
“Come,” he said, the sound gruff even to his own ears, and he reached down to assist her up.
She shrank away. “Leave me be!” she cried shrilly. “I do not want your concern!”
His hands fell to his sides. “You have it whether you want it or not. All of Aelfgar is my concern.”
She turned her face away, wishing he would leave, staring at her hands, white against the black earth.
Rolfe had never suggested anything to anyone, but now, awkwardly, he said, “Let us go back.”
“You go. Just leave me alone.”
He could order her, of course, but for some reason he was loath to do so. “You wish to spend the night here?” It was inane, his remark, but he did not know what to say.
“No,” she spat, “I don’t wish to spend the night here. Oh—God’s blood!” She started to weep.
For the first time in his life he felt helpless. Ceidre wept at his feet. His urge to touch her was strong, yet he had never touched a woman merely to comfort, without lust—he did not know how. He clenched his fists and just stood there, unsure, feeling weaker than the weakest of boys.
She shoved herself abruptly to her feet, pushing past him. Rolfe was overwhelmed with relief. He followed. They said not a word. She held herself proud and straight, when he knew she was utterly exhausted. She had more courage and determination than most men. At the manor door, she nodded stiffly to him without meeting his gaze. He said nothing, going to the stairs. But there he turned, his gaze automatically seeking her out. He saw her shed the mantle, pause, almost ethereal in the thin white nightgown, and then she collapsed upon her pallet. He hesitated, thinking she would become cold, but he did not move to go to her.
And then a form rose at Ceidre’s side. Rolfe went stiff, murderous. He held up his lamp—Athelstan gazed directly at him. Rolfe watched the old man pull the blanket up over her, murmuring something soft and unintelligible. Rolfe was seared with jealousy— and it was only Athelstan.
Alice ran from the window in Rolfe’s chamber to the solar across the hall where she slept. She had barely dived onto her own bed when she saw his shadow passing her doorway and entering his chamber. She lay rigid, seething. She had known it—hadn’t she? She had known he was going to meet that whore when he had left earlier. Seeing them return together confirmed it. Alice had never hated Ceidre more—or Rolfe.
She would pay. Alice would make sure of it. But first, more important, she had somehow to keep Ceidre out of her way—and out of her lord’s bed. Until after the marriage. Once Alice was securely wed, she would find a way to deal with Ceidre—to remove her permanently from Rolfe’s lusting perversions. Even if it meant marrying her off to some serf in a village at the far end of Aelfgar’s borders. Better yet—have her abducted by Scots! Then they would never see hide nor hair of her again!
Alice, soothed by her fantasies, fell into the deep embrace of sleep.
“A fortnight?” Ceidre echoed.
“Yes. The banns have already been posted,” Athelstan said.
