Tomorrow he had planned to take Morcar to the king. A messenger had been sent upon the Saxon’s capture to inform William of the good news. Rolfe tossed restlessly, imagining the king’s reaction when he learned of Morcar’s escape. His wrath would be terrible. He would want to know all the details. And of course, some sort of punishment would be forthcoming—to himself, Rolfe, the commander in charge.
Rolfe did not question his urges, he only knew he must protect Ceidre. He would not reveal her identity to William. She had been punished. She was a serf. He would state that a serf, a woman, had carried out the act of treason and had been punished. But it was not so simple. Because it was only partially the truth— because it was equally a lie.
Ceidre was no simple serf but Morcar’s half sister. This was important information, which the king would want to know. If William ever found out it had been withheld, he would be furious. Rolfe’s omission of the fact was betrayal.
He was betraying his king—to protect her.
Surely he was bewitched in the most literal sense of the word.
He could not do it. He could not betray his king. He was William’s first and foremost commander, and as such, he knew his duty, he understood honor and loyalty. He had spent the past ten years serving his liege, and serving him well. To betray his king was to betray himself. Yet how could he rest loyal to William and protect Ceidre as well?
To reveal her real identity was to risk a graver punishment for her than what she had suffered, perhaps even death.
He was torn. This dilemma occupied him thoroughly, grimly, and he sensed disaster lurking not far from the present. For if he continued to protect her, a traitor, where would it finally end? How to draw the line between her acts of treason—and his own?
His own punishment, be what it might, did not even enter into his thoughts.
His wife lay sleeping beside him. He had sensed her relief when she had come to terms with his intention not to consummate the marriage. Rolfe almost snorted in disgust. At himself. A month ago he would have consummated this marriage whether his wife repelled him or not. But now he was not just repulsed every time he thought of her triumph in Ceidre’s pain; he was enraged. He was allowing his unfed lust to rule him. It must stop.
He had made a vow that he would not touch Ceidre, and he reaffirmed it now. And if he could not touch her, he must put an end to his sexual hunger for her, as it could not be appeased. But how? Surely it was easier said than done.
Damn the woman, he thought, not for the first time. Didn’t she realize her head was in the balance, haughty little chin and all? Didn’t she realize that she was interfering in royal affairs, and that if William chose to hang her, there was nothing he could do to save her pretty little neck? Or—and he had a sudden moment of brilliant comprehension—did she sense her power over him, and believe he himself would betray his own king to save her, thus allowing her to act recklessly, stupidly? If she was going to commit treason, the least she could have done was not let the whole damned world know she was the traitor!
And, for the first time in his life, as Rolfe lay in the dark, he felt fear. It curdled in his guts. It was rank, it tasted like bile. Never in his life had he questioned the natural order, never in his life had he cared about a woman’s feelings, if she was hurt, or pleasured, and never in his life had his own loyalty to his king been in doubt. He was the king’s man. If this fact of his existence ceased to be, then just who the hell was he?
You are Rolfe de Warenne, he told himself firmly, Rolfe the Relentless, eaorl of Aelfgar—and you are King William’s most trusted commander. He still could not sleep.
Or maybe he had drifted off. At first, he thought it was his wife who had awakened him with a pitiful, mewling noise. But his senses were keen, and he was as wide awake as before, listening—and Alice lay sleeping soundly. The cry, pitiful, a child frightened or hurt, sounded again. An instant later Rolfe knew it was no child but a woman, the witch of his dreams. He was out of the bed before the realization had firmly anchored itself.
She cried out again, with a sob.
Rolfe was at the door, his body tense, his thoughts filled with dire predictions—she was in pain, fevered, because of him. At the door he stopped short, remembering himself. Ceidre was moaning. He could see into her chamber, and she was thrashing about in the midst of a dream. He was sure she was assailed by the same image that was haunting him—that of her flogging.
He turned and rudely shook Alice, “Wake up,” he said.
“Alice, wake up.” Alice blinked. “My lord—what is it?”
“Go to your sister.”
She sat up. “What?”
“Go to your sister. Awaken her from her dream, see if she is in pain. Now.”
Alice’s features became pinched in a mask of anger, but she calmly stepped to the floor, pulling her robe closed around her. Rolfe followed her after lighting a lamp, but he paused on the threshold of the chamber, refusing to go any farther. Alice shook Ceidre as rudely as he had shaken her. “Gently,” Rolfe said.
“She is hurt.”
Alice bit her lip but eased her motions. “Ceidre, wake up. Wake up this instant.”
Ceidre heard Alice, laughing, as she tensed for another lash. It hurt unbearably, she could not stand it, she was going to cry out, scream, be weak before the Norman—and she did. She knew she was weeping. It hurt so much. She kept seeing him, proud and beautiful and golden, and her heart was a traitor, begging him to come to her, soothe her, take her away. No, someone in her dream shrieked. He is the enemy, he is the one hurting you! She refused to listen. In her bizarre nightmare, he was her savior. She knew the ending of the story already, which was strange, she knew he would come to her, hold her, take her away, stop the pain. And she needed him to hurry, to do it now. “Rolfe, please,” she cried. “Rolfe, please.”
“Wake up, Ceidre,” Alice snapped.
Rolfe froze after the first cry. He had never heard his name on her lips before. His body, already as taut as a coiled spring, became tauter. And then she cried his name again. He moved like a striking panther; one instant at the door, the next at her bed. He told himself it was the dark, the night, his own exhaustion, that was making him put his hands gently, so gently, on her shoulders. He ignored Alice’s gasp. She leapt to her feet as he sank down on the bed at Ceidre’s hip. “Wake up,” he said huskily. “Ceidre.”
His hand moved to the nape of her neck, into tendrils of hair that had escaped the coiled braid. She was whimpering and sobbing. He wasn’t sure if she was asleep now or awake, but she shifted onto her side to curl against him as he slipped one strong arm beneath her to hold her close to his chest. “Wake up,” he murmured, his breath touching her brow. The endearment “sweetheart” was on the tip of his tongue. The urge to brush his lips against her brow, and then to taste her tears with his tongue, was clamoring for fulfillment. Even so, he was acutely aware of his wife standing a few steps from him, livid. Damn Alice.
His chest was bare. Ceidre’s small, warm palm slid across its contours and finally anchored on his shoulder. Her face pressed into the broad plane between his nipples, wetting his skin with her tears. Rolfe cupped the back of her head and held her closer. He felt he had reached a pleasure so profound he had never experienced it before.
