He was hurting her, hurting her because he wanted to go with her, wanted to watch her, wanted to take her … while she was most likely playing at treason again. “Do you think to seduce me?” he growled, easing his grip.
“N-no.”
“Do you want me, Ceidre?” he purred, dangerously.
“No! Yes! Stop!” Tears spilled onto her cheeks.
“Which is it?”
“Let me alone, leave me be!” she cried.
He released her. His heart was pounding. She was up to something, he doubted she merely lusted for him, knew he could not be so lucky. He was furious. Enraged because of her invitation, her probable motivation. “Go,” he choked. “Go now. Will is your guard. Bathe or not, I do not care.” He strode away. Later he would find out what she had done. He would not follow her into the jaws of a trap and thus catch her at treason, again.
Ceidre tried not to cry, because Will was just a few paces behind her. Under the shade of an apple tree in the orchard, she regained her shattered composure. The plan had been awful, and she, she was the worst seductress in the world. She was humiliated. She was hurt. And … if he truly wanted her, wouldn’t he have agreed to go with her?
It was a hot, airless day. Ceidre stared up at the sun, a burning ball, oblivious to Will, who was uncomfortable and looking everywhere but at her. She hated the Norman. She hated Edwin. She had failed—she hated herself.
She would swim, she decided abruptly. It was hot, she was hot, and more important, she was angry. Now it would not be a seduction, she could enjoy herself, and if her guard dared look at her, she would kill him with the biggest rock she could find. Ceidre got up and marched through the orchard. She stopped so abruptly Will bumped into her, and she whirled on him. “I am going swimming,” she shouted at him. “And not for ten minutes, for the entire godforsaken day. And if you look, or if you try to touch me, I’ll curse you, your mother, your father, your brothers, I’ll give you the pox, and you will die!”
Will recoiled, white-faced.
It had felt good to yell, but now she was ashamed at having taken out her anger on the poor soldier. She strode on, ignoring him. She would pretend he wasn’t present. He would not ruin her swim, and she would pretend she was truly free.
And she would not think of how she had failed.
He had to know, and that night, at supper, he singled Wilfred out as everyone ate. “Did she go to the creek?”
“Yes,” Will said, growing pale. “I did not touch her, my lord.”
“I do not doubt it,” he said, his heart beating thickly. She had gone. Had she been honest, then? Had she really only wanted a swim? If so, did she really trust him to be able to stand guard over her while she bathed? The relief he felt was vast, yet he could not shed all of his suspicion. He turned his gaze to her. She was eating, with gusto. Her hair, coiled in a braid, gleamed from its fresh wash. His breathing was constricted.
Dare he trust her?
The next day Will sought him out as he watched his men drilling against each other. Every day they honed their skills as knights, with lance and shield, mace and sword. At the sight of Will, Rolfe grew agitated. Something had occurred or Will would not leave his post. “What has happened?” He was afraid she had relapsed into the sickness that had almost claimed her life. A dozen other equally fateful possibilities tore through his mind.
Will was panting from his run across the field. “She is at the creek. You did not give permission for her to go again, and I explained this, but she would not listen. Indeed, she laughed and asked if I would stop her. What shall I do?”
“You are not to leave her unguarded for a second,” Rolfe said, hard. “Your orders stand, Will. Go to her now.” He was furious that the boy had left her alone. Tomorrow he would set him to an unpleasant task for failing in his duty, maybe demoting him to stable duty, or those of a page. Will jogged off, and Rolfe watched him, watched him the whole way, seeing exactly where he disappeared into the trees. He memorized the spot.
He could not concentrate on his men. He kept glancing to the east, to the place where Will had disappeared, to where she bathed. So it was not a trap. She had not intended to commit treason. She had, truly, unbelievably, only wanted to swim in the creek. Was she naked? He pictured her thus. Beltain forced Guy to drop his lance in a furious charge, and he whooped.
“If you do not do better, Guy,” Rolfe said, “you will find your head on a Saxon’s pike.”
Guy scowled, angry. Rolfe barely watched as two of his best knights rode at each other for another exchange of blows. He glanced again at the woods where his nymph frolicked. With a growl, he raised his own lance. Guy and Beltain had just separated. Neither was unlanced this time.
“Beltain,” Rolfe called, slipping on his helmut with one hand. He picked up his shield. Beltain had readied himself, and Guy had moved aside. Rolfe nodded once and let Beltain begin. When the knight was racing toward him, Rolfe spurred his destrier into an answering gallop. He relished the feel of the powerful brute beneath him. He relished the sight of the terrain speeding in front of him. He relished the sight of Beltain on his huge bay, approaching head on. Rolfe smiled. His lance ripped into Beltain’s. Beltain’s own weapon barely glanced off the edge of Rolfe’s shield. Rolfe savagely reined in his stallion, whipped him around, and was attacking again before Beltain could recover. This time, his charge was so powerful Beltain was unhorsed. His men laughed and shouted. Rolfe sat panting, looking again toward the woods. His gaze pierced Guy. “Your turn.”
He called out a dozen of his men, one by one, and unhorsed half of them, broke Roger’s lance, and cracked Beau’s shield. Charles suffered a sprained ankle from his fall. The men no longer shouted and laughed. ’Twas not unusual for Rolfe to participate in their drills; in fact, it was expected. What was unusual was that he would drive himself remorselessly, taking on a dozen, instead of two or three or even four. His savage mood was all too visible.
Rolfe threw down his lance and then his helmut. His blood was bursting in his body, he was panting heavily. Sweat plastered his curls to his scalp. He looked, again, at the woods, then gave his steed his spurs.
At the edge of the line of trees he dismounted and proceeded on foot. He was no longer winded, but breathing easily, so he could hear the bell-like sounds of the running creek, and he could also hear splashing. And was she singing? He saw Will first. The boy had his back to the creek, his face to Rolfe, and he gaped. Rolfe made a motion for him to be silent and another for him to leave. And then he looked.
She was not naked. He was disappointed. She was waist deep in the creek in a thin undertunic. It was opaque, hinting at the warm tones of her flesh beneath. Her hair was loose, a glorious mass of bronze and gold, only the ends wet. She was laughing, splashing about, and was beauty immortalized. Lightly, unconsciously, Rolfe touched the tumescent protrusion that was his manhood.
She ducked beneath the water and came up sputtering. Her tunic molded her body, leaving nothing unrevealed. Her full breasts, her slim waist, and as she climbed onto a rock, he glimpsed the lushness of her hips and buttocks. Her nipples, he saw, were hard and tight. She dove in again.
His breathing was already harsh and uneven, and he cursed himself for coming. He reminded himself that she was his wife’s sister. He reminded himself of his vows to God. He was so hard he hurt. He touched himself again, through tunic and hose, and almost groaned. Never had he been so hard, this near to bursting. She surfaced. She moved thick, wet strands out of her face. Then she hopped onto a boulder, lifting her face to the sun, eyes closed, her body arched, breasts thrust up like an offering to the gods.
