She knew he was approaching. She would not look at him. Yet she felt his continuing stare, and it must have compelled her, for she raised her gaze to his. His face was expressionless, his strides long, determined. She met his gaze as boldly as she could. ’Twas not easy, yet though she might be his prisoner, never must she show fear.
“Enjoying the air, my lady?” he asked politely, his blue eyes raking her.
Ceidre rose to her feet. As she did so, both men automatically held out a hand to assist her. Ceidre took Guy’s. “I was,” she said coolly. “But I fear it’s stifling oppressive now.” She turned and slipped back into the tent.
Rolfe stared at the flap door, rigid, nostrils flared. Then he looked at Guy, who immediately glanced at a distant tree. “Oh, relax,” Rolfe snapped. “I’m not going to smite you where you stand.”
“She only offered me some food and drink,” Guy said.
“So I see,” Rolfe said, turning abruptly.
Ceidre waited for the potion to take effect. Some fifteen minutes later she peeked out of the tent’s flap door. Guy sat now fighting to hold his eyes open. Another quick glance showed most of the Normans eating and drinking; one was strumming a viol. There was no sign of her captor, and that made Ceidre both grateful and wary. Where could he be?
It didn’t matter. She would have to take her chance.
Ceidre pulled the flap closed and moved to the other side of the tent. It was well secured, and she had to work the edge up to make enough room to crawl through. She managed to slither out on her stomach, then snake across the dirt and into the trees. There she paused, listening to the sound of the Normans ’talk and laughter, wishing it were dark.
She got to her feet cautiously, and keeping to the trees, with many frequent glances over her shoulder, she began to steal away from the camp and to the village. Once she was on the other side of Kesop she would feel safer. She hoped none of the Normans had decided to take their pleasure in the village, assuming any of the folk had stayed. And again, she wondered where he was.
The cornfield, now blackened grotesquely, offered no protection, and Ceidre hurried to the shelter of the burned-out huts. She saw no one. As she had thought, the peasants had fled north to Aelfgar for protection, or maybe east to the neighboring village of Latham. She started to cut between the partial walls of two adjoining cottages, but before she got to the scorched gardens at the back, she knew she wasn’t alone.
It was a moan.
Ceidre’s reaction was instinctive. She began to rush forward. She was a healer, and someone was hurt and in need of her. It didn’t matter who it was, or even if it was an animal. As she rounded the corner, she heard it again—but too late did she realize her error. That it wasn’t a moan of pain, but of pleasure.
She gasped the instant she realized, which was the same instant she saw them.
Ceidre knew the woman, Beth, dark and voluptuous and a widow. Her white, fleshy thighs were spread wide, her hands grasping wildly at the broad straining shoulders of the man above her. She was pumping rhythmically. So was he.
The Norman. She was mesmerized, she couldn’t move. He was clad in his undertunic and hose, moving like a stallion, covering her, his power immense, yet restrained. He poised over her, his organ huge and red and slick. Then he plunged into her. Beth thrashed violently in pleasure, crying out, again and again. He gasped. She could see his face clearly, dark with passion, with ecstasy. He collapsed on top of her.
Ceidre’s heart was slamming in her ears. She realized they could both see her, they would both see her, the instant they became cognizant of their surroundings again. She started to back away. Her eyes stayed glued on the two of them. And then he turned his head.
Their gazes locked.
Ceidre was frozen for one instant, then she began to run.
She knew he was chasing her, chasing her again. His presence behind her was as tangible as imminent thunder. She had taken ten steps when he knocked her flat and hard to the ground, landing on top of her, causing her to cry out. His arms were around her rib cage, tight, pressing into her full breasts. His mouth was on her neck, just below her ear. His breath was warm, still coming hard and fast from his romp with Beth. “Spying again?” he murmured.
Ceidre wanted to scream, she wanted to cry. She wanted to turn around and claw him. Furious, frustrated, she began to struggle. He loosened his hold to let her twist around, but then he was straddling her. She poised her fingers like talons and aimed for his eyes. He caught both her hands in his and pulled her hard upright—into the hot strength of his groin.
Ceidre instantly twisted to bite his wrist. He realized her intent before her teeth could touch his flesh, and he cursed, pulling her hands behind her back and pressing her more intimately against him. She shrieked in outrage. She felt him hardening against her navel. She tried to bite his shoulder. He caught her braid and yanked her head back, pinning her in a precarious position, twisted, braced against his unmistakably powerful male body, anchored by her own braid. She let out a sob of frustration.
“Stop twisting,” he growled, “or by God, I’ll take you here and now!”
Ceidre froze.
He was panting. “How did you get past Guy?” She found her breath. “He fell asleep.” His blue eyes were bright, suspicious. “Guy? Guy does not fall asleep when he has duty to me.” “He fell asleep,” she retorted, eyes blazing. He stared back.
Ceidre hated him. Then she watched his eyes move to her mouth. She went rigid. “No.” She remembered, vividly, the feel of his tongue, hot, wet, in her mouth.
His look was sardonic. “And will you say no when you are my wife?”
“Always!”
He laughed, without mirth, released her, and rose to his feet. Standing above her, he was immensely tall. “I think not.”
“Think whatever you like.”
