Ceidre was curled up on her pallet, unable to sleep, debating this topic, when Rolfe and his men returned from their afternoon’s sport. Periodically, her eyes would burn and tear, and her heart would swell with pain. She shoved such despondency down, the best she could. She trusted Edwin, she always had. She wanted to help him. She was being a silly goose to overreact to his suggestion this way.
She felt betrayed.
And nothing would make the sick feeling go away.
Rolfe’s men were a noisy lot, but Ceidre attempted to ignore them as they stomped in, demanding food and wine. Rolfe’s own voice could be heard, and he sounded well pleased. Ceidre rolled onto her side to face the crew, attempting to find the bane of her thoughts, the target of her new ambitions. He was warming himself by the hearth. His profile was to her, proud, perfectly molded. Ed was right—he was handsome. His hair glimmered molten gold in the firelight. Alice handed him a cup of wine, which he drained effortlessly. Then she said something, and Rolfe smiled one of his rare smiles. It was like a sunburst. As if suddenly feeling her gaze, he turned to look directly at her.
She could not begin now, it was too soon. Ceidre abruptly dropped her regard and rolled onto her other side, her back to him. Despair welled again. Despair, and hurt.
She was not a seductress. She did not even know where to start. Hadn’t she failed miserably with the first royal messenger? And although, prior to Edwin’s proposal, she had known the Norman wanted her, now she was filled with doubt and dread. What if it was just a game? What if his lust for her was a figment of her imagination? What if, at the last moment, he was suddenly repelled by her eye as most other men were? What if he rejected her?
And she had the horrifying thought that if her plans did succeed, if he came to her bed and took her, she would weep as he used her body, betraying them all.
Her sleep was riddled with a melange of half-waking dreams.
She was the seductress. She walked past him in a thin undertunic. They were in a meadow, his gaze smoldered and burned. Ceidre felt powerful; she laughed. She danced for him. Whirling and whirling, her skirt lifting about her legs. And all the while he watched….
She had taken off her clothes. Stark naked, she walked to him. He waited with that hot gaze. Ceidre did not feel fear, and she did not feel despondency. She felt exhilaration.
She was very close when he started laughing.
He laughed and laughed. Ceidre froze, confused. Then she understood—he was laughing at her. He did not want her, and she had been a fool to think he did. No man wanted her. Alice appeared, also laughing. “Witch,” she shrilled. “Witch! He is mine!” Alice embraced Rolfe, who was still laughing. Ceidre wanted to disappear, to die. This couldn’t be happening….
“Witches are whipped,” Rolfe said.
“A hundred lashes,” Alice said, sneering.
Ceidre tried to beg for mercy but she found, to her horror, that she had no voice. And then she felt the lash, the brutal pain of the whip, and she screamed. She sobbed. Alice’s taunts echoed. Rolfe was still laughing, because he thought she was funny—he did not want her.
Then someone held her, soothing her, the flogging over. It was incongruous, it didn’t make sense, but she knew it was Rolfe. “Shh,” he said, like a father to a babe. “Shh.”
Ceidre woke up, her face still wet with tears. The men were all rousing, the dogs yapping. She lay very still, her heart pounding. She could remember every vivid detail of the dream. It was worse than her worst nightmare, the one she’d had recently, of the flogging. This one … She shuddered. She was a fool. It was only a dream. But it had been so real.
’Twas only a dream, she told herself sternly. And you know he wants you. And if he doesn’t, if he rejects you, you have suffered rejection before, ’twill be no worse than the other times—and you will be spared.
She could not delay what must be inevitable.
No fool, Ceidre, knew she must be subtle, maybe resist him a little even as she flaunted herself. Details of the dream reared themselves again, and angry, she swept them away from her mind. She must be strong, and brave. She got up and hurried outside to wash her face and throat, her arms and chest. An idea struck her, owing to the persistence of her shadow, this one a very young man, really a boy, named Wilfred.
Usually, when free to do as she pleased, Ceidre performed her ablutions in a nook of the creek that ran through the village, one just outside town and shielded by the forest. This had no longer been possible, not since the Norman’s possession of Aelfgar, for she was afraid of his men. She would beg Rolfe to let her bathe without her guard. He, of course, would refuse—and she would very subtly suggest that he be the one to accompany her. Ceidre felt a touch of fear-laced excitement. She would order him to turn his back, then she would strip completely. In no time, she was sure, she would be his mistress. ’Tis better to get this over with, she told herself, her heart pounding. It would be a while before he trusted her enough to start revealing information to her, as it was.
The only thing she worried about was if her plan lacked subtlety. Well, she supposed, she would soon find out.
But sooner would have to be later, Ceidre discovered as she approached the keep, for the Norman was already mounting up with a handful of his men. He twisted abruptly, and Ceidre realized she was staring. Just in time she caught herself from a reflexive response to look away and held his gaze boldly.
His eyes widened, surprise crossed his face. Ceidre held his gaze and watched the surprise gleam and transform itself into something bright, burning. Her stomach actually did somersaults. In fact, beneath his now openly smoldering regard, her entire body tightened and she felt breathless. I am not being subtle, she managed to think, and she tore her gaze away.
She was blushing, and she thought to escape within the keep. She was almost at the outside stairs when he rode her down, his big horse practically brushing her back. Ceidre leapt and backed away nervously, but he moved the stallion in closer, until her spine was at the wall. He leaned down, smiling ruthlessly, with those hot blue eyes. “An invitation like that must be answered,” he murmured.
Her heart was leaping into her throat. “’Twas not an invitation,” she squeaked, only too late realizing she should be thinking, planning, seducing, but most definitely not denying his words.
“No?” He grinned, still boxing her in. His knee almost touched her breast. “Be careful with those looks, Ceidre. This thing between us is no game.”
“I—I was only …” She trailed off. His leg was disconcerting her as it pressed into the fullness of her breast. He was disconcerting her, with his handsome face, his predatory smile, his bright, bold eyes.
“Yes?” His grinned openly, apparently enjoying himself. “Perhaps you were admiring my form,” he suggested.
She saw the opening and seized it. “You know,” she flung back, feeling in control now, “that the women eye you often. You like it.”
