She struck him.
The blow was furious and reflexive, and all of her anger and desperation were behind it. He ducked to avoid her palm, so she only grazed his jaw. Her heart was thundering right out of her breast, and she froze, stunned with what she had done.
For one split instant, he froze too, shock and disbelief and incredulity written all over his face. And then his lips tightened grimly and her offending hand was seized by his—and he jerked her hard up against the steel wall that was his body. His reaction had been instantaneous.
“No!”
His other arm imprisoned her and his mouth found hers, and this time there was nothing soft or seductive about his kiss. He was the conqueror, she the vanquished. His mouth bruised hers. His mastery was total, his domination complete. Ceidre felt his teeth actually grating hers as he forced her mouth open. She struggled like a wild, snared fox, but her movements were impossibly futile. When he released her she choked on what was a sob and a gasp for air, her breasts heaving.
“No one,” the Norman said, his face flushed, his breathing harsh, “has ever dared what you have dared.”
“The devil take your soul!” Ceidre cried, fists clenched. “Damn you, damn you to hell!”
He stared, his own fists clenched and trembling at his sides.
Ceidre took a step back and felt the wall of the tent. Trapped. She was trapped. And although she would never show it, she was afraid, oh-so-afraid.
Their gazes locked, warred. She would not look away, no matter what, despite her pounding terror. His lips seemed to curl up at the corners.
And then, like lightning, his hand delved into her bodice.
“What is this?” He held up the leather pouch.
Rage swept her. “Give it back!”
He pulled it from her before she could respond and slipped it over his own head, tucking it into his tunic.
“Bastard!” Never, in her life, had she flung that most vile epithet at anyone. “Rotten bastard!”
“I do not want my men poisoned,” he said grimly.
She was panting, furious. “You tricked me!”
“Tricked?” He grinned. “Call a scythe a scythe, sweetheart. I am a man. You, only a woman. I took what I wanted. Would you rather I’d beaten you?”
She gritted her teeth, fists clenched.
“Do not fight me, Alice. As you have seen, we shall do well together, very well.” His glance swept down, lingering over her heaving bosom, her pointed nipples.
“Never!” Ceidre meant it.
He smiled broadly, his ruthless features exquisitely transformed into a picture of pagan beauty. “Deny it now, while you still can, for very shortly you will no longer be able to deny it.” He paused at the door of the tent. “Or me.”
She always had the dream when she was anxious or afraid. And it came to torment her again that night.
She was a child of seven, standing on the steps of the manor, blinking in the bright morning summer sunlight. She could hear the sounds of childish laughter, squealing, shrieking, and Ceidre smiled at the happy tones, turning to locate their source. She saw a group of boys and girls, from her own age to twelve or so, all her familiars, children from the village whom she had grown up with. Her half sister, Alice, two years her junior, played tag with them.
Ceidre lifted her skirts and ran down the hill, skipping in her eagerness. She quickly darted into the game among the milling, racing children. A boy named Redric was the catcher, and Ceidre just dodged his outstretched hands, squealing with laughter.
In the confusion, she knocked into Alice and sent the little dark-haired girl tumbling into the grass. Alice cried out, and at the sound, everyone stopped to gather around and see that she had skinned her knee.
Ceidre was instantly remorseful. “I’m sorry, Alice, I—”
“You pushed me!”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“She pushed me!”
