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Saxon Lady. Margo Maguire
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The walls of the tent were staked firmly to the ground, so Aelia could not slip underneath, even if she were to manage to free herself. She glanced ’round the shadowy interior of the tent, looking for anything she might be able to use as a weapon, or to cut herself free. Of course, Fitz Autier had placed her knife upon his far side, and she could not reach it without climbing over him.
An unlit lamp hung from the center pole, and a small wooden trunk stood fast against the far canvas wall, a wooden carving of a wolf lying on top. Besides the Norman’s armor and his discarded tunic, hauberk and boots, there was nothing else. No way to kill him, and no way to escape.
Even if she could somehow slip past him to get out, she did not know Osric’s location. If she left, she would have to search every inch of the camp for him, and if she failed to find him and take him back to Ingelwald, Aelia had no doubt the Norman would make good his threat.
Osric would be killed.
Aelia sighed in frustration and lay down uneasily behind Fitz Autier, watching him breathe deeply and regularly in sleep. He was remarkably relaxed for a man who lay beside a captive bent upon destroying him.
He was uncovered, yet his body radiated heat. The thick muscles of his shoulders rippled with every breath, and Aelia swallowed uneasily as she took note of his size and remembered the strength of his grip on her wrists.
He could crush Osric—or even her—between his big hands.
Aelia could not relax. She had never slept beside a man before, and was not about to start with a Norman, particularly this bastard. She pushed herself as far as possible from him, inadvertently tugging the rope and waking him.
She cursed his quick reflexes as one of his hands shot out and grabbed her. He pulled her inexorably toward him and quickly enveloped her in his arms.
“By all that’s holy, wench, ’tis the last time I’ll tell you to settle yourself, else I’ll send you to the guards. Lie down!”
Aelia knew she would be worse than a fool if she tried to fight him. ’Twas not just her own life at risk, but Osric’s, too.
She lay back on the fur pelt beside him, but he allowed her no space. He stayed facing her, and she was caught between his broad chest and the taut canvas wall.
As his breathing quieted, Aelia turned her thoughts from the brawny Norman and considered the coming morn. She had to think what to do when she was offered in exchange for Ingelwald.
Selwyn would not care as much about her safe return as he would about keeping Ingelwald for himself. Aelia had had to remind him far too many times since her father’s death that the holding was Osric’s birthright. King Harold had promised that Wallis and his heirs would continue as earls of eastern Northumberland. With her brother, Godwin, gone these past two years, the honor fell to Osric. Certainly not to Selwyn, whose stature was insignificant in the English hierarchy.
Aelia eased herself down beside Fitz Autier and shivered, whether with cold or nerves, she did not know. But seeming of its own accord, her body inched closer to his warmth, and he threw one arm over her waist. The quiet sound of his breathing relaxed her, and she found her eyelids drooping. Her thoughts became disjointed.
Ingelwald’s warriors would battle the Normans to the death. Selwyn would not yield until the walls were breached and every man, woman and child was killed.
But what if Selwyn could be eliminated first? ’Twas possible her father’s huscurls would trade her and Osric for peaceful entry.
How many lives would be spared if Ingelwald accepted the Norman’s terms?
Ingelwald’s warriors were vastly outnumbered by these Normans, whose stores of armor and weapons—and food—seemed unending. The supplies at home were growing scarce. There were only so many arrows left, and even fewer bags of grain until the fields were harvested. Aelia did not know how long her people could hold out before starvation, if not slaughter, vanquished them.
Aelia saw the face of her brother’s young friend, Grendel, before her eyes, and those of his sisters and his parents. There were countless others whose lives were precious to her. There was Beorn the Carpenter, who built lyres and harps, and all manner of other musical instruments. And Erlina, daft as she was, who made potions and poultices for any who had need of them. If Ingelwald surrendered, would the Normans allow her people to live in peace, working their land as they’d done for generations?
’Twas a disturbing question.
Fitz Autier tightened his grip on her, as though he had heard her painful thoughts and wanted to give comfort. He pulled her close, sliding one thick knee between her soft thighs. Afraid of waking him, she did not pull away, but held her breath while his hand caressed her back, sliding down across her buttocks.
Aelia’s eyes drifted closed and she did not resist when he increased their intimate contact. She did not have the energy to fight him, and the warmth of his body drew her to him, as did the sense of being gathered into a cocoon of security. It had been so long since Aelia had felt safe. She’d lost her brother, then her father, in skirmishes against the bastard king’s armies. Now she had to contend with Selwyn, who wanted to take Ingelwald from Osric. It sometimes felt as though the strife would never end.
Fitz Autier made a soft sound in his sleep and changed position slightly. Though he might be indifferent to what he was doing, Aelia could feel her pulse pounding in every sensitive part of her body. And when his leg slid even higher, she could not breathe.
She was as fatigued as she’d ever been in her life, yet the pressure of his thigh made it impossible to sleep. Her sense of security and repose was soon replaced by a strange tension and a pleasure so acute she had to press her mouth closed to keep from sighing aloud. Inadvertently, she clasped her legs tightly ’round his and shifted slightly, finding the most responsive part of her body and moving against him.
She was afraid of waking him, yet she could not make herself stop. Every nerve within her seemed centered in that one extraordinary place, and when the urgent sensations flooded together and peaked, Aelia thought her heart would burst from her chest. She closed her eyes and let the strange euphoria wash over her, feeling exquisitely sensitive to everything around her.
She felt Fitz Autier’s breath in her hair, heard his heartbeat, felt the dark crisp curls of his chest against her cheek. He smelled like a freshly washed male, his skin warm and taut against hers, and once again Aelia felt the shuddering awareness she’d experienced when she’d first seen him on the ground beneath Ingelwald’s battlements.
But he was her enemy!
These odd sensations had naught to do with the predictions her mother had made so many years ago, when Edward was king and William merely a troublesome Frenchman. Her mother had never known of the disasters to come, of the terrible toll the Normans would take from Ingelwald. She had never meant that a Norman would be Aelia’s one true mate, her body recognizing him even as she did her best to kill him.
’Twas ridiculous.
Chapter Three
M athieu never dreamed at night, but decided he might enjoy the practice if all his dreams were as arousing as the one he’d just had. No doubt his proximity to the Saxon woman through the night had been responsible for it. He’d awakened in a tangle of soft arms and legs, and the scent of feminine arousal.
Whatever he’d dreamed had been merely a trick his mind played upon him. If she’d been aroused at all, ’twas with thoughts of murder, nothing more.
The Saxon wench still slept, looking surprisingly innocent. But Mathieu would take no chances with her. There was no doubt she would kill him as soon as look at him.
Without waking her, he reached for her knife and sliced through the rope that bound her to him. Her lashes fluttered, but she did not awaken as he left the pallet they’d shared.
Events could not have worked out better. For Lady Aelia to