Married To Her Enemy. Jenni Fletcher

Eadgyth was right—there was no time to talk. If she didn’t hurry Svend would be back. And this time he might pay closer attention to the resemblance between the two sisters. Whatever Cille wanted to tell her would have to wait. Right now she had to get Svend away from Etton before he guessed the truth.

      ‘I’ll be back soon.’ She forced a smile, already hastening towards the curtain. ‘You can tell me what it is then.’

      ‘Wait!’

      She ignored the plea, scooping up a cloak and flinging it around her shoulders as she flew through the hall, trying to shake off a vague sense of unease. What had she said to upset Cille? She struggled to remember, but her memory felt as wrung out and weary as the rest of her body. Something about the baby’s hair...?

      Clearly she was more exhausted than she’d realised. Her thoughts were in chaos. She’d have to think on it later, after she’d had some rest...

      She stepped outside and the cold air hit her full in the face, sending her reeling backwards. The evening before had been mild and still, but this morning she could almost believe it was winter again. She clutched the cloak tightly beneath her chin, wishing she could turn around and go back inside.

      ‘Just in time.’

      She frowned at the sound of Svend’s voice. He was standing to one side, arms folded as he leaned against a towering grey destrier. From a distance his posture looked relaxed, but close to, she could see there was nothing casual about him. He was watching her as a falcon might size up its prey, as if half expecting her to run, his whole body poised and ready for pursuit.

      She caught her breath. The rest of the stockade was empty, so that for a moment it seemed as if they were completely alone—the only two people left in the world, facing each other across a deserted, windswept village.

      ‘Where are your men?’ She glanced around nervously. ‘Surely we’re not travelling alone?’

      He grimaced. ‘Believe me, I find that idea as appealing as you do. My men are waiting outside the stockade.’ Blue eyes had frosted to ice, hard and unrelenting. ‘I take it that you’re finally ready?’

      She inclined her head. From the tone of his voice it wasn’t a question. She wasn’t about to dignify it with an answer.

      ‘Good. Raise your arms.’

      ‘What?’

      He ignored the question, closing the distance between them in a few swift strides.

      ‘What are you doing?’ she spluttered as his fingers tightened over her forearms.

      He was standing so close to her that their chests were almost touching. If she took a deep breath, surely they would touch. Not that she could. Something about his proximity made her breathing too shallow, too rapid. Could he tell? Towering above her, he seemed to be watching, waiting for something. For a fleeting moment she thought he was going to lean closer, and yet her body seemed to be frozen, unable to pull away...

      Suddenly he hoisted her arms out to the sides, running his hands along their length, all the way from her shoulder blades to her wrists.

      She felt her cheeks flush scarlet, too shocked even to protest. What on earth was he doing? Did he think he could insult her just because she was Saxon?

      His hands swooped around to her back and she jerked against him indignantly. ‘Let me go!’

      ‘As you wish.’

      He released her at once and took a step backwards, scrutinising the rest of her body.

      Comprehension dawned at last. ‘Weapons again? There isn’t much room to hide a sword.’

      ‘You’d be surprised. Show me your feet.’

      She stared at him, tempted to laugh, though judging by the look on his face he wasn’t joking. Far from it. With or without her help, he was going to see her feet. Tentatively she lifted her gown, just enough to reveal brown leather boots.

      He crouched down, frowning with concentration as he felt around the rims of the leather. For a moment his fingers brushed against her bare skin, and she shivered as a new, tingling sensation raced up her legs and between her thighs. This was intolerable. What could she possibly hide in her boots? It would serve him right if she kicked him full in the face.

      ‘I wouldn’t.’

      His voice was barely a murmur and she stiffened guiltily.

      ‘Wouldn’t what?’

      ‘I wouldn’t do it.’

      He sat back on his haunches, catching her eye with a look that she couldn’t interpret.

      ‘If I were you.’

      She squirmed uncomfortably. He was still crouched down beside her, the top of his head level with her waist, his eyes speaking a language her brain didn’t understand. Only her body... Somehow her body wanted to respond.

      She shrugged her shoulders, feigning innocence. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

      ‘No?’ He cocked an eyebrow as he stood upright again. ‘I’m glad to hear it. I had a feeling my head was about to be used as a football.’

      She pursed her lips, swallowing an insult. ‘I thought you said we were in a hurry?’

      ‘We are, but I’ve found it best not to take chances where you’re concerned, Lady Cille. I never knew Saxon women were so violent.’

      ‘And I never knew Norman men were so easily frightened.’

      His eyes flashed, though whether with humour or anger she couldn’t tell.

      ‘Can you ride?’

      ‘Yes.’ She blinked at the abrupt change of subject. ‘That is...’

      She peered around him, past the grey destrier to an only slightly smaller brown palfrey, and her mouth turned dry. She’d never been much of a horsewoman and the animal was substantially bigger than the mounts she was used to.

      ‘Our horses are smaller.’

      ‘It doesn’t make much difference. The basics are the same. Here.’

      He offered a hand but she ignored it, lifting her chin as she brushed past him and grasped hold of the reins. It was a long way up, but she wasn’t going to show fear—not to him or any other Norman. And she wasn’t going to accept help either. Not if she could help it.

      She took a deep breath and heaved, hoisting herself up, and almost into the saddle before she stopped abruptly, feeling the tug of her skirt trapped beneath her boot in the stirrup, holding her back. Desperately she tried to scramble upwards, but it was no use. The horse was shifting impatiently and she could feel herself sliding.

      ‘Aren’t you going to help me?’ She swallowed her pride, squealing in panic.

      ‘Aren’t you going to ask?’

      ‘Help me!’

      ‘Please...?’

      ‘Please!’

      At once she felt his hands around her thighs, lifting her up and depositing her in the saddle with an inelegant, unladylike thud.

      ‘Thank you.’ She tossed her head, refusing to look at his face, vividly aware that her own was flaming red. This was mortifying. Even her thighs felt red-hot where he’d touched her, as if she were blushing all over.

      ‘My pleasure.’ He swung up onto his destrier, his voice brimming with wicked amusement. ‘I’ve never seen anyone mount a horse like that. Is it some kind of Saxon custom?’

      She rounded on him fiercely. How dared he? After everything else that had happened over the past twenty-four hours, how dared he make fun of her too? Anger, hot and raw, coursed through her veins as her taut emotions finally snapped.

      ‘What do you know about Saxon customs? What