Ceidre turned away. Her mind was racing. She could not allow the viper into their nest! She could not! But how, how to stop the marriage when her sister was willing? And was it even fair to do so, when Alice so desperately wanted to wed? Ah, but surely there were others—she did not have to wed the Norman! Not the Norman!
“We must stop them,” she muttered to herself.
“You will not stop that one,” Athelstan said. “He is not called the Relentless for nothing. What he wants, he pursues until ’tis his. ’Tis well known, Ceidre. And he wants Aelfgar and its lady.”
“Yes,” Ceidre said bitterly. She couldn’t help it, she remembered the warmth in his eyes and his voice when, after she had turned the babe, he had said “Well done.” Then she recalled the feel of his mouth on hers in his chamber, his body wet from the bath, hard, sleek, thrusting against hers. Something coiled tight within her. Would he be so ready to bed Alice? Why did that thought upset her? She had no place even concerning herself with such an affair, unless it was to feel sorry for her sister.
She had been given no duties. With resolution, Ceidre went to check on Tildie. The events of the night before were fresh, so very fresh, in her mind. Had her own friend shown her truest, deepest feelings —that she too was reviled and repulsed by Ceidre’s “evil” eye? Ceidre knew that Tildie had been hysterical, but still, it had hurt, it did hurt. And then there was her own sense of failure. Most of all, Ceidre wanted to help her friend through her grief.
Tildie was not, surprisingly, in the kitchens. According to the servants, she had been given a day of rest by the lord. Bemused at such unheard-of charity, Ceidre walked down the slope to the village. The sun was high and warm, shedding its strength, burning away the finest spun clouds. There was a faint breeze, carrying with it the familiar odor of sheep and the fragrance of baking bread and hyacinth. Somewhere just to her right a lark sang, and a mockingbird responded.
The palisade of the Norman’s new keep would be completed today, Ceidre thought as she came closer. The first floor of the tower had been framed as well. A drawbridge lay open, its wood pale and fresh. A knot of men stood there; working on the portcullis. Ceidre saw the Norman.
He was stripped to his hose and chausses, his torso, golden brown, glinting in the sun. His hair glimmered, its soft, thick curls threaded riotously with gold and flaxen and even spun silver. It was, she thought, becoming overly long for the Norman style. In the back, where it had been shaved, as was the mode, it was growing in. Unlike his fellows, he would never be able to sport the popular style with a neat fringe of bangs because his hair was so unruly, untamable; even close-cropped, it would not lie flat upon his brow.
He turned to stare.
Ceidre realized she had paused to study him, and she flushed. Whatever had possessed her to do so openly, in front of half of Aelfgar! He did not smile, but wiped his hands upon his muscular thighs and approached her. Ceidre wished she had not halted, but it was too late. She raised her chin a notch, tensing.
“Good morning,” he said.
She couldn’t help it—something fierce swept her. He was near naked before her, his body sculpted with muscle, his chest broad, darkly furred, his waist narrow, hips small. His thighs bulged. His hose was damp, clinging—cupping his sex, conspicuous even now, when at ease. Ceidre forced herself to meet his gaze. His eyes were hot.
“Do not look at me that way, mistress,” he said, low.
“’Tis unholy provocation.”
She knew she was coloring again. “You flaunt your elf and know very well every wench who passes will eye your form.”
“Do I flaunt myself?” He was smiling now, the transformation in his visage startling. “You think all the wenches look?”
Ceidre stared at the portcullis so as not to regard him. “You know they do.”
“So I am comely?”
She took a breath. “Nay, merely—different.”
“Different?”
“An oddity!” she shot, eyes flashing. “Taller than a tree, thicker than a mountain, gold and white—a most strange sight!”
He laughed. It was the first time she had ever heard him laugh, and she was stunned by the richness and the warmth of the sound. “We cannot all be dark and short and Saxon,” he said, eyes sparkling.
“’Tis too bad.”
“Nay, ’tis good.” He reached out a hand, and one strong forefinger touched her chin, raising it. “I am glad you are not short and dark, Ceidre.”
“Like Alice?”
“Like Alice.”
“Your gladness means nothing to me,” she gasped. “I must go.”
“Where do you go? I purposefully ordered your day to be free. You need rest.”
She eyed him warily, reluctant to answer. “And why does my well-being interest you?”
His eyes glinted. “Everything about you interests me, Ceidre.”
