Rolfe whirled and grabbed her wrist, almost breaking it. The stone tumbled from her grasp, and he sent her sprawling to the earth. Morcar was on his feet, but before he could pick up his sword, Rolfe’s blade jabbed his abdomen. The two men stared. And at that precise moment, Guy and five knights came charging into the woods, alerted by Ceidre’s screams.
Rolfe smiled coldly, his eyes never leaving Morcar’s. “Place him in the dungeons, Guy,” he said. And without looking at Ceidre, he added, “I will deal with you later.”
Ceidre was escorted by Guy back to the manor and into the hall. He did not leave her side. Alice, amusing herself with her two lapdogs, looked up, startled. Guy turned to Ceidre. “Await him here.”
Ceidre looked away, desperation cloying. Morcar was at this very moment being thrown into the dungeons below the manor—and he was hurt. He must be cared for, and he must, somehow, escape.
Alice, her hand in one terrier’s long white fur, said shrilly, “What passes? Why does my lord wish you to await him here?”
“Morcar has returned, Alice,” Ceidre said. “And the Norman has taken him prisoner.”
Alice gasped. “And Edwin?”
Ceidre shot Guy a dark look. “At this very moment, Edwin rides with a hundred men to chase the Norman into the sea!”
Rolfe’s spurs clinked as he entered and strode to her. His face was rigid, his eyes blazed. “Tell me more, mistress,” he said softly.
Ceidre whirled, taken by surprise. “You heard well enough!”
“Is it true?” Alice cried, standing, hands clasped tightly.
Ceidre turned to her. “You sicken me! You are afraid our brothers’ return will ruin your wedding! Have you no thought for anyone other than yourself?”
“Whom shall I think of, Ceidre? You? You who play the whore with my groom? You think I do not know? You wish to stop this marriage for yourself! Not for Edwin’s sake!”
“Enough,” Rolfe said with a growl. “Lady Alice, leave us. And you, Guy.”
Alice went pink with anger, then, snapping her fingers at her dogs, she stalked away. Guy exited more gracefully. Ceidre, her heart picking up a quick, frantic beat, wondered what the Norman would do now.
His look was ice. “My scouts have seen nothing of a hundred Saxons, Ceidre. The truth!”
Ceidre swallowed a lump of fear. “They are in hiding, I know not where.”
He said nothing, just stared. Ceidre’s hands were shaking. She tried to hide them in the skirt of her gown.
“You should be afraid,” Rolfe said grimly. “Very, very afraid.”
She should beg his mercy, even if it meant getting down upon her knees. But she would not—she could not. So she watched him, her eyes huge and purple and frightened.
“I fear greatly,” Rolfe finally said, “that your presence here shall always be that of a serpent in the garden.”
She did not respond, she could not respond.
“You understood,” Rolfe said heavily, “as well as the next, the punishment for treason.”
Her heart leapt up to choke her. He would have her whipped? Or hanged? She wet her lips. Somehow she managed to speak, her voice trembling. “Yes.”
Rolf turned away to pace. He was like a caged lion, barely contained. The silence and the anticipation stretched endlessly, torturing her. He finally turned, piercing her with his gaze. “’Tis not treason to stumble upon one’s brother by chance in the woods.”
Relief, vast, vast relief, swept her.
“Ceidre.”
“Yes, my lord?”
“You have surely bewitched me, but I warn you, do not test my clemency again. If you commit treason, you will suffer the same as anyone. Do you understand?”
She could hear her own heartbeat. She swallowed. She said the word yes, but it was so low as to be inaudible.
