Married To Her Enemy. Jenni Fletcher

left in it now.

      ‘It’s not what we all do.’

      His voice was dangerously quiet but she kept going, unable to stop herself from venting her anger.

      ‘You only want us to lie down and surrender!’

      ‘It would be best if you did.’

      ‘Well, we won’t! We might have been beaten, but it doesn’t mean we’ve surrendered. We’ll rise up again and fight!’

      ‘Do you think that you’ll win?’

      She inhaled sharply. His voice was expressionless, but the quiet certainty behind his words made them all the more chilling. He wasn’t really asking her a question, he was giving her an answer. For a moment she felt as though she were facing the whole Norman army—one that the Saxon rebels could never hope to defeat.

      ‘And as I’ve told you before...’ his voice held a note of warning ‘...I’m not Norman.’

      ‘You’re still with them. What’s the difference?’

      ‘We’re not all the same.’

      ‘If I had my way I’d plunge a dagger into your heart—into every single Norman heart!’

      She gasped, surprised by her own vehemence as he regarded her sombrely.

      ‘That’s quite a threat. And not one to make lightly.’

      ‘You think I don’t mean it? After everything your Conqueror has done?’

      She lifted her chin defiantly, too angry to back down, thinking of her father, of Leofric and Edmund—of all the men who hadn’t come back from Hastings. The Normans had destroyed her world. Of course she wanted them to pay for it! She should make them pay!

      He held her gaze for a moment before reaching down to his belt, fingers closing over the hilt of his dagger. Slowly, inexorably, he drew the blade from its sheath, weighing the metal in his hands as if he were considering something.

      Aediva felt her heartbeat accelerate wildly. What was he going to do? Punish her on the spot? Her stomach lurched. Of course he was going to punish her. He was a Norman and she’d just threatened to kill him. He couldn’t let such a threat go unanswered.

      ‘Go ahead.’ He flipped the knife in his hand suddenly, grasping the blade between his fingers as he held the hilt out towards her. ‘Do it.’

      ‘What?’ She gaped at him, uncomprehending.

      ‘Unlike my King, I don’t believe in revenge, Lady Cille. But if you do, if you think it will make one tiny scrap of difference, then go ahead. You have my permission.’

      Aediva stared at the knife, dumbfounded. Was he serious? He looked serious. But surely he wasn’t going to hand her a weapon just like that? She couldn’t win so easily...could she? It must be a trick.

      Her gaze locked with his, shock mingling with suspicion. ‘Your men would arrest me.’

      ‘Renard!’

      She jumped as his shout broke the stillness. Her already ragged nerves were in tatters. What now? Was he going to offer her a lance too?

      ‘Sir?’ His squire came running through the gates, stopping short as he saw the blade.

      Aediva blanched. Hadn’t they acted this scene before—just yesterday in fact? She hadn’t been able to stab Svend then. What made her think she could do it now?

      ‘Renard will act as witness.’ Svend threw a glance at his squire. ‘Whatever happens here is an accident, understand? No one should be punished for it.’ Then he looked back towards her, lowering his voice as if imparting some secret too intimate to be shared. ‘Will that satisfy you, my lady?’

      Aediva licked her lips, trying to moisten them, her mouth too dry to answer. This wasn’t what she’d intended. In her wildest imaginings she’d never thought that he’d simply hand her a blade. She’d been angry, upset at leaving Cille, lashing out without thinking. Surely he didn’t expect her to go through with it? Wouldn’t actually let her attack him? But he was watching her steadily, waiting for her to do something. Was he testing her? Because if this was a challenge, she had to meet it. She couldn’t, wouldn’t let him win.

      Slowly, she nodded.

      ‘Good.’ Svend jerked his head towards Renard, though his gaze never left hers. ‘You can go.’

      Carefully she wrapped her fingers around the hilt of the blade, grasping it tightly to stop her hand from shaking. He relinquished his hold at once, letting her take possession as he pulled his leather gambeson swiftly over his head.

      Out of the corner of her eye she saw Renard cast a last anxious glance towards them, and then they were alone again. Why was he doing this? What was he trying to prove? Except for a thin tunic, his chest was now completely unguarded. She could see the flex of his powerful muscles beneath the linen, the sculpted hard lines of his chest.

      ‘So...’

      His eyes seared into hers and she felt a jolt like a flash of blue lightning pass between them.

      ‘You have your wish, my lady.’

      Her wish? She could hardly breathe. He was close—close enough for her to reach him if she dared. All she had to do was lunge forward. Just lunge and in another second it would be over. She tightened her grip, trying to strengthen her nerve. He was one of them—a Norman! She hated them! She should seize this opportunity, should avenge her people while she had the chance.

      Except... It was too brutal, too barbaric. She couldn’t do it. Not like this—not with him offering her the knife as if it were some kind of favour. If she did she’d be no better than a Norman.

      She shook her head, turning the hilt back towards him, feeling as if she’d both passed and failed the same test.

      ‘Good.’ He took the knife and stowed it away quickly. ‘I have enough on my own conscience, Lady Cille. I’ve no wish to be a burden on yours.’

      She stared miserably at the ground, hardly noticing as he took up her reins, leading her towards the gate. Somehow the world seemed to have shifted beneath her. She felt numb and weary and overwhelmingly tired. She’d failed. At the moment of crisis she’d failed her people. And yet she couldn’t help but feel that he’d been right. What good would it have done?

      ‘I don’t have to be your enemy, Lady Cille. Believe it or not, I’ve no more wish to see bloodshed than you do.’

      ‘No?’ She couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice. From what she’d heard about Normans, she found that hard to believe.

      ‘No. I wouldn’t have harmed your sister’s people. You shouldn’t have sent them away.’

      She looked up at him sharply. ‘How could I have known that?’

      ‘You couldn’t. But what kind of life did you think you were sending them to? Do you know what the King does to rebels?’

      Her scalp tightened. ‘I’ve heard rumours.’

      ‘Believe them. And how far do you think they’ll get without provisions? They haven’t brought in the harvest yet. What are they going to eat?’

      ‘They’ll survive.’

      ‘Will they?’ His voice hardened. ‘How?’

      She twisted towards him, battling a tidal surge of panic. ‘What if they come back? What if I go after them, persuade them to return?’

      ‘Too late. My orders are to return you to Redbourn as soon as possible. Besides, if the King ever hears that they ran he’ll tear down the village, destroy their tools and poison the earth. Etton will be naught but a ruin. Trust me—I’ve seen it.’

      Aediva gaped at him in horror. How could he describe such an event so calmly? It was horrific! And it would all be her fault. She was