With a cry, Ceidre scrambled away on hands and knees, then turned, crouching, her back against a thick, ancient oak. She was panting, her gaze riveted upon him. Her heart thundered in her ears.
He was on his knees, staring at the ground, sweat standing out upon his face, his arms and back corded beneath his tunic. She both sensed and saw the battle he was waging, his mind against his lust. Passion and arousal darkened his features, strained them. His body looked as if it might snap. Ceidre whimpered, in abject fear—or in abject need? He lifted his head and impaled her with his hot blue eyes.
She shrank back.
“I will not hurt you,” he said harshly. “I hate you!”
He got slowly to his feet. “I will not hurt you.”
Tears rose, hot and bitter. “You will not?” She laughed, with a little hysteria. “You beat me and try to rape me and tell me you will not hurt me?”
His jaw hardened. “I did not beat you, I did not rape you.You provoke me, Ceidre.”
“Blame me! Blame me when it are you who are at fault!”
His blue eyes blackened.
Ceidre choked on a sob and cursed herself for her vicious tongue. She slowly got to her feet, her back pressed hard into the bark of the tree. He watched her. She watched him.
“If you were not Alice’s sister,” he said, piercing her, “were you any common wench, I would take you as I willed. You would be my mistress until I could exorcise you from my soul and from my blood. I am only a man, Ceidre, and you try me beyond belief.”
“’Tis not my fault!”
“Oh, ’tis your fault,” he said, silkily now. “Your beauty defies earthly description. And you, you defy me at every turn, arousing my most extreme humors. Do you not think my manhood does not arouse itself as well, in the tempest you create?”
“Should I watch you burn the homes of my kin and say nothing?”
Remembrance brought darkness to his blue eyes. “And in front of my men! I warn you again, Ceidre— do not provoke me. If you do, you will find yourself flat on your back!”
“You would rape your bride’s sister!”
“When you are spread beneath me, do you think I know who you are? You are only Ceidre, a beautiful bronze-haired, purple-eyed witch.”
She knew he did not mean the word, yet she flushed. Or was her coloring due to something else, perhaps his graphic imagery? Feeling a potent desperation, she clung to the topic of import. “What will happen to the villagers?”
“We are rebuilding,” he said. “The village is being moved, Ceidre, and ’tis not a fancy whim. I am a commander, and I have seen more wars than you can imagine. The village will be better defended beneath the walls of the bailey. This suits everyone, not just myself. ’Twould even suit your brother, were he here.”
Had she been wrong? Impetuous?
“Come, Ceidre,” he said, his tone strangely grim. “I will take you back.”
“Do not ask me to come with you,” she hissed. “I will walk.”
Now his face was expressionless, his blue gaze shuttered. “Come. I will not leave you here.”
“Why not?” she cried.
“Because I will not,”
he said, hard. They stared at each other.
And she knew she could not win. She felt the sudden wave of tears rising, and defeat was bitter. She stumbled forward. He had held out his hand to assist her in mounting, and now bewilderment and a strange softness crossed his expression. He dropped his hand. She met his gaze, and before he could guard it, she saw the confusion and what looked like pity—or compassion. But surely she was hallucinating!
“If you wish to walk you may,” he said abruptly.
Immediately she stopped in her tracks and folded her arms tightly. His face closed, tightened. He nodded, turned the gray, and trotted away. Ceidre watched him go. She stared after him, for a very long time.
The message was relayed to her before the noonday meal, by Teddy. Ceidre wanted to leap with joy. Morcar had come home, and he was waiting for her in the woods not far from the orchard.
