The Conqueror Page 3

  The eaorl had chosen other suitors, but Ceidre, afraid they would refuse her just as John had, rejected them, outwardly pretending that they did not appeal to her. She knew her father would never force her into a marriage she said she did not want. She could not face such a rejection again. She knew no one wanted her—no one ever would. Somehow Ceidre feigned indifference as she casually refused each man her father brought to her attention. And she stopped dreaming her dreams.

  But he, he looked at her with burning eyes, his hot lust bright and bold, for all to see.

  He wanted her.

  Guy was flustered by her invitation to sit and sup. “My lady …”

  Ceidre poured the ale into a beaker and handed it to him. She felt a twinge of guilt. “Are you allowed to drink?”

  “Of course,” Guy said. “Thank you.” He drained the cup.

  She knew he was approaching. She would not look at him. Yet she felt his continuing stare, and it must have compelled her, for she raised her gaze to his. His face was expressionless, his strides long, determined. She met his gaze as boldly as she could. ’Twas not easy, yet though she might be his prisoner, never must she show fear.

  “Enjoying the air, my lady?” he asked politely, his blue eyes raking her.

  Ceidre rose to her feet. As she did so, both men automatically held out a hand to assist her. Ceidre took Guy’s. “I was,” she said coolly. “But I fear it’s stifling oppressive now.” She turned and slipped back into the tent.

  Rolfe stared at the flap door, rigid, nostrils flared. Then he looked at Guy, who immediately glanced at a distant tree. “Oh, relax,” Rolfe snapped. “I’m not going to smite you where you stand.”

  “She only offered me some food and drink,” Guy said.

  “So I see,” Rolfe said, turning abruptly.

  Ceidre waited for the potion to take effect. Some fifteen minutes later she peeked out of the tent’s flap door. Guy sat now fighting to hold his eyes open. Another quick glance showed most of the Normans eating and drinking; one was strumming a viol. There was no sign of her captor, and that made Ceidre both grateful and wary. Where could he be?

  It didn’t matter. She would have to take her chance.

  Ceidre pulled the flap closed and moved to the other side of the tent. It was well secured, and she had to work the edge up to make enough room to crawl through. She managed to slither out on her stomach, then snake across the dirt and into the trees. There she paused, listening to the sound of the Normans ’talk and laughter, wishing it were dark.

  She got to her feet cautiously, and keeping to the trees, with many frequent glances over her shoulder, she began to steal away from the camp and to the village. Once she was on the other side of Kesop she would feel safer. She hoped none of the Normans had decided to take their pleasure in the village, assuming any of the folk had stayed. And again, she wondered where he was.

  The cornfield, now blackened grotesquely, offered no protection, and Ceidre hurried to the shelter of the burned-out huts. She saw no one. As she had thought, the peasants had fled north to Aelfgar for protection, or maybe east to the neighboring village of Latham. She started to cut between the partial walls of two adjoining cottages, but before she got to the scorched gardens at the back, she knew she wasn’t alone.

  It was a moan.

  Ceidre’s reaction was instinctive. She began to rush forward. She was a healer, and someone was hurt and in need of her. It didn’t matter who it was, or even if it was an animal. As she rounded the corner, she heard it again—but too late did she realize her error. That it wasn’t a moan of pain, but of pleasure.

  She gasped the instant she realized, which was the same instant she saw them.

  Ceidre knew the woman, Beth, dark and voluptuous and a widow. Her white, fleshy thighs were spread wide, her hands grasping wildly at the broad straining shoulders of the man above her. She was pumping rhythmically. So was he.

  The Norman. She was mesmerized, she couldn’t move. He was clad in his undertunic and hose, moving like a stallion, covering her, his power immense, yet restrained. He poised over her, his organ huge and red and slick. Then he plunged into her. Beth thrashed violently in pleasure, crying out, again and again. He gasped. She could see his face clearly, dark with passion, with ecstasy. He collapsed on top of her.

  Ceidre’s heart was slamming in her ears. She realized they could both see her, they would both see her, the instant they became cognizant of their surroundings again. She started to back away. Her eyes stayed glued on the two of them. And then he turned his head.

  Their gazes locked.

  Ceidre was frozen for one instant, then she began to run.

  She knew he was chasing her, chasing her again. His presence behind her was as tangible as imminent thunder. She had taken ten steps when he knocked her flat and hard to the ground, landing on top of her, causing her to cry out. His arms were around her rib cage, tight, pressing into her full breasts. His mouth was on her neck, just below her ear. His breath was warm, still coming hard and fast from his romp with Beth. “Spying again?” he murmured.

  Ceidre wanted to scream, she wanted to cry. She wanted to turn around and claw him. Furious, frustrated, she began to struggle. He loosened his hold to let her twist around, but then he was straddling her. She poised her fingers like talons and aimed for his eyes. He caught both her hands in his and pulled her hard upright—into the hot strength of his groin.

  Ceidre instantly twisted to bite his wrist. He realized her intent before her teeth could touch his flesh, and he cursed, pulling her hands behind her back and pressing her more intimately against him. She shrieked in outrage. She felt him hardening against her navel. She tried to bite his shoulder. He caught her braid and yanked her head back, pinning her in a precarious position, twisted, braced against his unmistakably powerful male body, anchored by her own braid. She let out a sob of frustration.

  “Stop twisting,” he growled, “or by God, I’ll take you here and now!”

  Ceidre froze.

  He was panting. “How did you get past Guy?” She found her breath. “He fell asleep.” His blue eyes were bright, suspicious. “Guy? Guy does not fall asleep when he has duty to me.” “He fell asleep,” she retorted, eyes blazing. He stared back.

  Ceidre hated him. Then she watched his eyes move to her mouth. She went rigid. “No.” She remembered, vividly, the feel of his tongue, hot, wet, in her mouth.

  His look was sardonic. “And will you say no when you are my wife?”

  “Always!”

  He laughed, without mirth, released her, and rose to his feet. Standing above her, he was immensely tall. “I think not.”

  “Think whatever you like.”

  “You have the tongue of a witch-—or a viper.”

  “My tongue is honeyed for some.”

  His blue eyes blazed. “For whom?”

  “For those I respect—and love.”

  “For whom?”

  Her chin lifted. “It is not your affair!”

  “No matter,” he said, after a moment. “For soon it will be my affair, and then it will be ended.” His look was unyielding in its purpose. Ceidre decided not to respond. But when he rudely dragged her to her feet, she cursed and twisted away.

  “A viper,” he muttered.

  “Go back to your leman,” she hissed.

  “I have no more use for her,” he said.

  Ceidre folded her arms and leered. “No?”

  He started to smile. “The only use I have,” he said, “now, is for you.” His tone, amazingly, had softened. Now it cajoled. “Come here, Alice.”

  Ceidre was incredulous.

  “We are going to be wed, you and I, and there is nothing you can do to change that. Reconcile yourself to your fate. Come here.” Silky soft.

  “No.”

  “Show me your goodwill.” Softer still. “I have none!”

  “Think again. I know you are not dumb.” “I have none!”

  “So you will fight me to the end.”<
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  “Yes,” Ceidre said stubbornly, desperately.

  His eyes glinted. “We shall see.”

  “What did you do to him?”

  Ceidre stood behind Rolfe as he bent over Guy, now sound asleep. Rolfe straightened and turned, grim and angry. “Answer me, wench.”

  She stepped back, her heart starting to slam.

  He took a step toward her.

  “Nothing.” She gasped.

  He grabbed her before she could react. “You put something in the ale! What?”

  He was shrewd, and she would remember it well. “Just a sleeping potion,” Ceidre cried. “He will awaken shortly!”

  Rolfe released her. “Are there any other effects?”

  “He will be sleepy for a while, but then he will be fine.”

  Rolfe’s flashing look told her she was very, very lucky she had not truly harmed his man. “Where did you get this potion?”

  Her heart picked up its thick beat. Ceidre flushed. She took another pace back. That was when she became aware of all his men, standing behind them tensely. She heard someone whisper the word witch and another said something about the evil eye and a curse. Her color deepened.

  “The potion, Alice,” Rolfe said. “Let me have it.”

  “It’s all gone,” Ceidre lied.

  He stared at her, then took her arm and led her, ungently, to the tent. He raised the flap. Ceidre knew an immense relief and she scurried into the safety of the hide shelter, wanting nothing more than to put as much distance as possible between him and herself. She was barely inside when she heard him ordering his men to disperse, and then, suddenly, his huge frame dwarfed her, seeming to fill the entire space of the tent. Ceidre inhaled in alarm.

  He dropped the door flap closed behind them.

  “What are you doing?” Ceidre cried, shrinking back against the far wall-—as far from him as she could get. In truth, it wasn’t far at all, a bit more than an arm’s span.

  He didn’t answer. It was dim inside now, yet she could make him out well enough as he lighted a torch. He carefully placed the rushlight upright in the ground, then turned fully to face her. “Need I ask again?”

  If only there were somewhere to go—somewhere to run too.

  “Alice.”

  There was so much warning in that one word. “I lied! ’Twas a curse. You are pressing me too far! I will curse you too!”

  He smiled then, the first genuine sign of amusement she had ever seen from him. He did not believe her. He truly did not believe she was a witch. She was disappointed—she was thrilled.

  “Mayhap,” he said slowly, eyes sparkling. “You have already cursed me—or was it a blessing?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Did you smite me with this unnatural and ungodly desire I have for you?”

  She moved completely against the hide wall, seeing the sparkle turn hot, glimmering. “No.”

  “No? You did not bewitch me?” “No, I swear.”

  “I don’t believe you.” His hands snaked out. She had known he would grab her, but still, he was too fast for her, and even if she could have been swifter, there was nowhere to go, nowhere to escape to. He pulled her so close she could feel the softness of his breath— feel the heat of his body. “The potion,” he murmured. “Give it to me.”

  “I don’t have it,” she whispered, his hands, on her waist, like hot irons. So large, so strong. She attempted once to twist free, and realizing it was hopeless, she went still. She tried to brace herself away from him with her hands on his chest. He was as hard as a rock, but warm, alive, beneath her fingertips.

  “Your waist is so small,” Rolfe said, low.

  Ceidre looked into his gaze and could not look away.

  “My fingers almost touch one another.” She could not breathe.

  “You are too beautiful to be mortal,” he said huskily.

  His hands, on her waist, tightened. Her own body was throbbing, her blood racing madly. “Let me go,” she said weakly.

  “Mayhap,” he said, and his mouth was closer, his lower lip fuller than its mate, beautifully carved, “you are a witch.”

  “No,” she heard herself say fiercely. I am not a witch — she wanted to tell him the truth—she wanted, desperately, that he should know this and believe it.

  One of his hands moved up to her rib cage. Ceidre shuddered at the gentle—impossibly gentle—caress. She tried to push herself away but could not. He was unyielding. His hand paused beneath the full weight of her breast. Surely he could feel her heartbeat vibrating throughout her body. Surely he would not dare touch her more intimately—or would he?

  No man had ever dared to touch her like this.

  His hand swept up with the delicacy of a hummingbird’s wings, barely brushing the full, aching globe of her breast, the flesh of his palm grazing her erect, swollen nipple. A tiny gasp, half shock, half pleasure, escaped Ceidre. And then his hand slid over her back and he leaned down, his lips closing over hers.

  She forgot that he was the enemy. There was only his mouth on hers, slightly open, soft, seductive, this time, and his hand gently stroking her shoulder. So this was kissing—so this was the pleasure of the flesh. When he drew away she blinked at him, dazed.

  He was staring at her. He smiled, ever so slightly. Ever so smugly.

  She struck him.

  The blow was furious and reflexive, and all of her anger and desperation were behind it. He ducked to avoid her palm, so she only grazed his jaw. Her heart was thundering right out of her breast, and she froze, stunned with what she had done.

  For one split instant, he froze too, shock and disbelief and incredulity written all over his face. And then his lips tightened grimly and her offending hand was seized by his—and he jerked her hard up against the steel wall that was his body. His reaction had been instantaneous.

  “No!”

  His other arm imprisoned her and his mouth found hers, and this time there was nothing soft or seductive about his kiss. He was the conqueror, she the vanquished. His mouth bruised hers. His mastery was total, his domination complete. Ceidre felt his teeth actually grating hers as he forced her mouth open. She struggled like a wild, snared fox, but her movements were impossibly futile. When he released her she choked on what was a sob and a gasp for air, her breasts heaving.

  “No one,” the Norman said, his face flushed, his breathing harsh, “has ever dared what you have dared.”

  “The devil take your soul!” Ceidre cried, fists clenched. “Damn you, damn you to hell!”

  He stared, his own fists clenched and trembling at his sides.

  Ceidre took a step back and felt the wall of the tent. Trapped. She was trapped. And although she would never show it, she was afraid, oh-so-afraid.

  Their gazes locked, warred. She would not look away, no matter what, despite her pounding terror. His lips seemed to curl up at the corners.

  And then, like lightning, his hand delved into her bodice.

  “What is this?” He held up the leather pouch.

  Rage swept her. “Give it back!”

  He pulled it from her before she could respond and slipped it over his own head, tucking it into his tunic.

  “Bastard!” Never, in her life, had she flung that most vile epithet at anyone. “Rotten bastard!”

  “I do not want my men poisoned,” he said grimly.

  She was panting, furious. “You tricked me!”

  “Tricked?” He grinned. “Call a scythe a scythe, sweetheart. I am a man. You, only a woman. I took what I wanted. Would you rather I’d beaten you?”

  She gritted her teeth, fists clenched.

  “Do not fight me, Alice. As you have seen, we shall do well together, very well.” His glance swept down, lingering over her heaving bosom, her pointed nipples.

  “Never!” Ceidre meant it.

  He smiled broadly, his ruthless features exquisitely transformed into a picture of pagan beauty. “Deny it now, while you still can, for very shortly you will no longer be
able to deny it.” He paused at the door of the tent. “Or me.”

  She always had the dream when she was anxious or afraid. And it came to torment her again that night.

  She was a child of seven, standing on the steps of the manor, blinking in the bright morning summer sunlight. She could hear the sounds of childish laughter, squealing, shrieking, and Ceidre smiled at the happy tones, turning to locate their source. She saw a group of boys and girls, from her own age to twelve or so, all her familiars, children from the village whom she had grown up with. Her half sister, Alice, two years her junior, played tag with them.

  Ceidre lifted her skirts and ran down the hill, skipping in her eagerness. She quickly darted into the game among the milling, racing children. A boy named Redric was the catcher, and Ceidre just dodged his outstretched hands, squealing with laughter.

  In the confusion, she knocked into Alice and sent the little dark-haired girl tumbling into the grass. Alice cried out, and at the sound, everyone stopped to gather around and see that she had skinned her knee.

  Ceidre was instantly remorseful. “I’m sorry, Alice, I—”

  “You pushed me!”

  “I didn’t mean to.”

  “She pushed me!”

  “Alice,” Redric said, being the oldest, almost thirteen, “’twas an accident. Let me help you up.”

  Tears filled Alice’s eyes. “Who asked her to play anyway?”

  Ceidre felt a familiar stabbing and backed up a step. “I’ll go get Granny,” she offered, wanting to help Alice, wishing with all her heart that she hadn’t hurt her sister, wanting desperately to make everything all right. The only problem was that it would never be all right, for Alice seemed to hate her.

  “No!” Alice screamed. “Mama says she’s a witch, and I won’t have that witch touch me!”

  It was a hated word, and Ceidre felt herself tensing up inside. It was a word she had been hearing whispered around her for her entire life. In confusion and dread, she had always shut her ears and turned away. “She is not,” Ceidre managed.

  “Mama says so, everyone says so,” Alice cried, glaring at her. The children ringing them began shifting uncomfortably, and there was a murmur of agreement. “My mama said so too,” blond Jocelyn said quickly.