Married To Her Enemy. Jenni Fletcher

to be a part of any more. He was a warrior, but he was also a man, and something about this felt wrong. He wouldn’t be the one to defeat her.

      He released her abruptly, letting her push back against him until their positions were reversed and she was sitting astride him, legs straddling his thighs, her whole body coiled to attack. With a cry of triumph she snatched up the knife and swung her arm back, as if making ready to plunge it into his heart.

      Then she froze, her expression suddenly stricken as the knife hung motionless in the air.

      At the same moment, the curtain swung open and Renard stood framed in the doorway, his jaw dropping at the sight before him.

      ‘Sir? Should we come in now?’

      Svend’s gaze remained fixed on the woman looming threateningly above him. He flexed a wrist, ready to deflect the knife, but he didn’t think he would need to. She was panting heavily, her chest rising and falling as if she’d been running, but she looked dazed, as if she were only seeing him for the first time.

      ‘Renard.’ He addressed his squire as if there were nothing unusual in the scene. ‘It seems you were right to be cautious. We’ve found our phantom. This is Lady Cille.’

       Chapter Two

      ‘How long has she been like this?’

      Aediva bristled. Bad enough that he had dared to enter the birthing chamber, but now this Norman invader was insolent enough to ask questions, as if Cille’s condition were any of his business. This wasn’t his place. It was no man’s place.

      ‘The pains started early this morning,’ Eadgyth answered. ‘She’s sleeping now, but it won’t be long.’

      Aediva threw Eadgyth a worried glance, willing her not to call Cille by name. She’d taken her sister’s identity on the spur of the moment, without considering the consequences if her deception were uncovered. Now she had to maintain the pretence at least until the baby was born. Cille was in no condition to deal with Normans, let alone this warrior whose wintry blue gaze seemed altogether too perceptive. She had to warn Eadgyth before she said something to give them away...

      Her mouth fell open. Eadgyth had spoken to him! Which meant...

      ‘You speak Saxon?’

      Pale eyebrows arched upwards. ‘As you speak French.’

      ‘My father thought it important. Besides, that’s hardly uncommon. Not many Normans speak Saxon.’

      ‘Fewer than you think. I’m not Norman.’

      She tilted her head towards him enquiringly but he was already looking at her, his gaze wandering over her face as if a new idea had just struck him. She fought the urge to take a step backwards. Such intense scrutiny made her uncomfortable. What was he looking at?

      His gaze dropped. Slowly, almost leisurely, it travelled down over her neck and breasts. Lower. And lower. Past her waist, lingering over the curve of her hips, down to her toes and back up again, as if memorising every inch of her body. She flushed, her skin tingling wherever his eyes rested, as if they might strip away her gown and see the nakedness beneath. Instinctively her hands coiled into fists. Conquering warrior he might be, but she was a Thane’s daughter! How dared he insult her so brazenly?

      He jerked his head towards the bed. ‘She’s your sister?’

      She nodded cautiously. The question was casual—too casual. She felt a cold sweat break out on the back of her neck, hardly trusting herself to speak. It was obvious that they were sisters. Was he suspicious? Had he guessed who she really was? She had the discomforting feeling that he was testing her.

      ‘You’re very alike.’

      ‘I’ve noticed.’ She bit her lip instantly, regretting the sarcasm. She should try to ingratiate herself, not insult him.

      His eyes flashed with something like humour. How could eyes be so intensely blue? she wondered. It was a blue that seemed to change every time she looked at them, sometimes so pale as to seem almost white, sometimes a vivid, piercing turquoise. People said that her eyes were unusual, but his were almost hypnotic. When they demanded she meet them, there was no way to refuse.

      Like now. What did his scrutiny mean? What was he thinking?

      He turned towards Eadgyth abruptly. ‘Is the baby moving? And facing the right way?’

      ‘Yes, but the mother is weak. She can’t stand much more.’

      ‘How close together are the pains?’

      ‘Close enough.’

      Aediva looked between them, feeling suddenly out of place and excluded. Not many men had more than a vague idea about the mysteries of childbirth, preferring to leave such matters to their womenfolk, but this man seemed to know more about the birthing process than she did.

      ‘Is there anything you need?’ He sounded genuinely solicitous.

      ‘Something hot to eat wouldn’t hurt.’

      He strode purposefully out of the chamber, leaving Aediva open-mouthed. Had this Norman warrior really just taken orders from an old Saxon midwife?

      ‘Not a monster after all,’ Eadgyth muttered.

      She closed her mouth with a snap. ‘He’s still a Norman.’

      ‘Be glad you’re still alive to say so.’ Eadgyth looked her up and down critically. ‘What on earth happened to you, girl?’

      Aediva turned her face aside, cheeks flaring anew. Eadgyth was right. She was lucky not to be in chains. What had she been thinking? She’d armed herself with no real intention except to warn the Normans off, but far from bartering with them, or pleading for mercy, she’d clambered on top of their commander and aimed a blade at his heart, channelling the full force of her fear and anger into one frenzied, pointless attack. For certes, Cille would never have done such a thing.

      And what had she hoped to achieve? She couldn’t possibly have fought off a whole Norman battalion. She hadn’t even stopped one man. Fighting her off had caused him little more effort than batting away a troublesome fly. And now it seemed she didn’t even matter enough to be punished. She didn’t know whether to feel relieved or insulted.

      The sound of footsteps brought her back to herself.

      ‘He thinks I’m Cille,’ she whispered hurriedly, throwing a worried glance over her shoulder as Svend reappeared in the doorway, bearing a thick, fur-lined cloak in one hand and a wineskin in the other.

      For the first time she looked at him properly, free to do so now that his attention no longer held hers. Strange that she hadn’t done it before, but somehow those blue eyes had made everything around them seem like a blur.

      He was unlike any man she’d ever seen before—like a Viking from one of the old stories, a dangerous warrior from a wintry land across the sea. He was young, still in his mid-twenties, but there was no doubting his air of authority. His taut, muscular body was clad in a simple leather gambeson and dark hose, shunning armour except for a top of light chainmail.

      Eadgyth was right; he wasn’t a monster. Far from it. If he hadn’t been her enemy she might have called him handsome. No, she corrected herself, that word was too bland. His features were too rugged to be called simply handsome, his jaw too squarely set, those glacial eyes too piercingly, disconcertingly blue.

      Why did she keep coming back to his eyes?

      She watched him cross the room, remembering the feel of his muscular body over hers, the vivid sensation of strength held in check. She’d aimed a dagger at his heart and yet he hadn’t fought back, hadn’t lain so much as a finger on her except in restraint. And then he’d let her go. Why? She could never have beaten him and yet he’d let her reclaim the knife. Had he been toying with her? Or had she really found a chink in his defences?