Margo Maguire (3 page)

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.

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 have fallen so conveniently into his hands was a gift from God. ’Twas obvious the Saxons could not go to battle when their lady’s life was at stake. Ingel
wald would belong to King William before the morning sun cleared the trees east of the castle walls.

In good spirits, Mathieu tore off the braies in which he’d slept. Reaching into his trunk for fresh garments, he considered how best to approach Ingelwald. A full-blown battle was likely to ensue if he rode there with his army behind him. No one would notice that he carried Lady Aelia. Ingelwald’s archers were certain to be ready, just as they had been yestermorn.

Perhaps ’twould be best to ride in with merely a herald and a small battalion at his flanks.

Or he could tie the wench to a horse and send her first into the clearing so that—

A sharp intake of breath behind him made him turn to the bed.

“How dare you!” she sputtered.

He stood unabashedly naked before her, but her presumption angered him. ’Twas
his
tent, and
she
was the interloper. “You forget,
demoiselle,
that you were not invited here.”

“Common decency—”

“Would have prevented you from entering my tent with homicidal purpose.”

With color flashing in her cheeks, she turned abruptly away, presenting him with her back. Her movements were awkward, hampered by the ropes that still bound her. ’Twas difficult to believe this was the same soft woman who’d cuddled close to him for warmth during the night. This morn, she was all hard angles and planes, her obstinacy demonstrated by her rigid posture.

Mathieu stepped into his braies and belted the garment at his waist. Then he sat on his trunk and pulled on his chausses, keeping one eye on the Saxon.

“I would see my brother, Norman.”

Mathieu had no intention of uniting her with the boy, not until it suited his own purpose. He continued dressing, sliding his arms into the sleeves of a clean tunic, then pulling it over his head. When he picked up his hauberk, the woman turned to him once again.

In the early morning light he could see that her eyes were green, and they flashed with anger. Or desperation. Mathieu rubbed the back of his neck to dispel the odd feeling that arose when he looked at her, and watched her push herself to her knees.

“Set me free and I will go to Selwyn.”

“You insult my intelligence,
demoiselle.
” Mathieu shoved her knife through his belt and picked up his sword. He turned to the tent flap and pushed it open.

“I can persuade him to surrender to you.”

“Who is Selwyn?”

“He is my betrothed…. He will have taken command of Ingelwald in my absence.”

“And why would you want to surrender Ingelwald to me now?”

She dropped her gaze to the floor. “My people… I would see no more of them killed for my sake,” she said as he left the tent.

Norman soldiers greeted their lord as he passed, and it sounded as if Fitz Autier gave them their orders in return. Aelia was grateful to Father Ambrosius for teaching her the Normans’ language, though she did not hear anything useful now.

She stood up and followed their leader outside, only to be stopped by a wall of chain mail. She lost her balance, but the burly knight on guard outside Fitz Autier’s tent grabbed her arm and kept her from falling. His face was hard and unmoving, his action not one of kindness, but of expedience.

He was taller than Fitz Autier, and broader, too, though his hair was so blond it was nearly white. His was a craggy face, one that might have been frightening with its scars and one empty eye socket, but Aelia refused to be intimidated by him.

He released her and stepped aside, allowing a smaller warrior to push past her, balancing several items in his arms. He set everything down in Fitz Autier’s tent, then gathered up his leader’s armor and started to leave.

“Food and drink,” he said.

“I am neither hungry nor thirsty,” she replied defiantly, wishing she could cross her arms over her chest to punctuate her words. But alas, her wrists were still tied. “I have need of…” She glanced toward the perimeter of the camp and the woods beyond it. “…of a moment’s privacy.”

The big, blond knight pushed her back into the tent as the young man left. “You’re not leaving. Baron Fitz Autier sent all you will need.”

The man lowered the tent flap behind her, and Aelia saw that a large metal pot had been left for her, along with a bowl of water, a thick slice of bread and a cup of ale. Awkwardly, she picked up the pot in her bound hands, and with a cry of frustration, heaved it against the wall of the tent, resulting in a loud clang and a burst of male laughter outside.

The heat of humiliation burned her cheeks, along with the awareness that her situation would likely become worse as the morning progressed.

Her hands were still tied and Aelia would damn her own soul before asking any of these Normans to cut her loose. She pulled against the ropes, twisting her hands every possible way to free them. Then she tried her teeth.

“You scorn our meager rations,
demoiselle?
”

Aelia’s head jerked up at Fitz Autier’s voice and she met his eyes, the same cool blue of the cloudless sky.

He’d looked formidable without clothes. Just the thought of his densely muscled body, and the impressive manhood he’d so flagrantly displayed, made her mouth go dry. But in his armor, he was an overwhelming adversary.

Aelia decided she could be just as daunting. She was an earl’s daughter, after all. In her father’s house, she had entertained all manner of royalty, including kings and queens. One Norman knight was barely worth her notice.

She lifted her tied hands, holding them out in front of her. “’Tis full light. Surely you do not fear my escape now, not with all your men on guard ’round this tent.”

He pulled her own knife from his belt and slid the blade between her hands.

Aelia felt his gaze upon her face, but she did not look up. She kept her eyes trained on the ropes that bound her. In one quick slice she was free, but guarded as she was, she could do naught with her freedom.

Fitz Autier stepped away from her and toyed with her knife before putting it back through his belt. He was taunting her, demonstrating which of them had the power here.

“Will I see my brother this morning?”

He pushed the flap open behind him, and Osric fell into the tent. Her brother lay gagged, with his hands bound behind him. A length of rope was looped around his neck like the lead on a goat.

Aelia ran to the boy, dropping to her knees beside him. She started to slip the rope from his neck, but Fitz Autier’s boot came down upon the loose end before she could free Osric.

“You are a barbarian!” she cried, looking up at him. “He is just a child!”

Fitz Autier’s face hardened. “This
child
nearly severed one of my men’s fingers with his teeth! He kicked Raoul de Moreton in the ballocks so hard the man will be worthless if we battle today! Furthermore—”

“He merely defended himself!” she protested. When she pulled off his gag, Osric let loose a stream of Saxon curses. “Let me untie him!”

Fitz Autier drew his sword. “Do so at your own peril,
demoiselle.
”

The Norman was deadly serious. Aelia smoothed Osric’s bright, coppery hair away from his dirty face and shushed him. ’Twas important to remain calm, never allowing the Norman to see how he’d rattled them.

“Aelia,” Osric said in their own tongue. “When I say the word, you feint to the side and I’ll grab—”

“Do not be an idiot,” she replied. “First of all, he could very well understand our language. Secondly, you are tied! We have no chance against them. They are armed, we are not. There are so many of them, and we are only two. We’ll have to let them trade us for peace at Ingelwald.”

Osric rolled to his side and pushed himself up. “Never! Ingelwald belongs to us! We—”

“
Hush
before you get us killed,” she said, blocking her little brother from any action the Norman might take.

She had known Osric would never yield to his captors. He was not an easy child, even in the best of circumstances. Their father and older brother had indulged him unrelentingly, spoiling him, making him feel as privileged as a king. He was a bright lad, but young.
And headstrong. She could just imagine the havoc he’d wreaked upon the Norman camp during the night.

“Make ready to ride, wench,” Fitz Autier said. “The boy will wait outside.”

Mathieu took the Saxon boy by the scruff of his neck and hauled him away from his sister. “You will ride with Sir Auvrai d’Evreux,” he said, aware that the boy spoke French.

The little fiend turned suddenly and kicked Mathieu’s shin, then fled. Since Mathieu’s leg was shielded, no damage was done, but he did not follow. He allowed Osric to run all the way to the bordering woods, where two sentries caught him and carried him back into camp. They dropped him unceremoniously at Mathieu’s feet, where the child spat out the only Saxon words Mathieu had learned, and they were not fit for a child’s tongue.

“Are all Saxons as badly behaved as you, boy?” he asked, without expecting an answer.

He just wanted to get this business over—bargaining for the woman’s and her brother’s lives for the peaceful surrender of Ingelwald. He turned to Auvrai, the tall, blond warrior who was his second-in-command. “I’ll carry Lady Aelia. You take the boy. I want ten men on each of our flanks and the rest of…”

All activity and every conversation going on around Mathieu and Auvrai suddenly ceased. Mathieu looked in the direction of his men’s gazes and saw that Aelia had moved outside.

She might have been wearing a gown of the finest silk, with a circlet of gold upon her brow, yet her garments were merely a common tunic and breeches. She’d straightened those poor clothes and done something to
her hair. ’Twas now a glorious mass of golden curls, cascading across her shoulders and down her back. She’d washed her face, and Mathieu could appreciate every feminine feature, from her delicately arched brows to the hint of a cleft in her chin.

Yet he refused to be moved by her beauty. She was his hostage, and her life would be forfeit if Selwyn refused to negotiate. He had no sympathy for her position.

With utter poise, Lady Aelia approached him, stopping at the place where Osric lay curled on his side. “I am ready, Norman,” she said, reaching down to help her brother to his feet. She spoke softly to the lad in their Saxon tongue, then looked unflinchingly at Mathieu, with eyes the clear green of England’s fertile fields.

Mathieu clenched his jaw and turned away, barely noticing the squire who led his horse into camp. He would not be duped by her quiescent manner, or swayed by her comely form. There were far more beautiful women in Normandy, one of whom would become his bride as soon as he returned to London.

Mathieu mounted his horse and Auvrai lifted Lady Aelia up to the saddle in front of him. She felt small and insignificant for all her apparent composure, and he felt her tremble slightly against his armor.

She had good reason to be nervous. Unless Selwyn was strongly motivated to save Aelia’s life, the man would have no reason to negotiate at the cost of losing Ingelwald for himself. As the warrior chosen to wed Wallis’s daughter, Selwyn had become Ingelwald’s legitimate leader. Would the Saxon care more about losing Aelia and her intractable brother, or giving up Wallis’s rich holding in what was certain to be another bloody battle?

Without a doubt, Aelia was a desirable woman. Hav
ing spent the night dreaming of her sensual awakening, then observing the noble manner in which she’d approached him just now, Mathieu could not imagine a man in all of England who would not want her.

But Mathieu did not know Selwyn, nor did he know how matters stood between him and the lady.

He pulled down his visor and waited for Auvrai to mount his horse and situate Osric in front of him. A moment later, the rest of the company was ready, and Mathieu led the throng away from camp.

He considered what to do if Selwyn refused to negotiate. There were several trees just outside Ingelwald’s walls. Mathieu had noticed one in particular, with a thick, horizontal branch suitable for hanging. If Selwyn did not surrender, Mathieu would set these two Saxons upon one horse, tie ropes ’round their necks and send the horse a-galloping. The two prisoners would strain and choke as they hung by their necks, and their legs would jerk and quiver as all of Ingelwald witnessed their deaths.

Mathieu took a deep breath and inhaled Aelia’s scent. He felt her softness against him and hardened his thoughts against any unwelcome mercy.

She was his prisoner, nothing more. And there was no excuse for his thoughts to keep returning to his arousing dream, or to wonder if he could make those sighs of pleasure that he’d imagined real. Better to think of Lady Aelia with a stout rope around her pretty neck.

Or not think of her at all.

Mathieu and Auvrai took the main path, while the men who flanked them rode through the sparse woods. Mathieu had decided to approach Ingelwald with only a few men visible. The rest would remain beyond the line of trees near the Saxon holding, awaiting the results
of the parley that would take place with Selwyn. He had already instructed the herald, Gilbert de Bosc, on what was to be said, and that he wanted the Saxon’s words translated.