by Brenda Joyce
To distract him, she conversed. “Was the hunt successful, other than this?”
“Yes, very. We took three deer, one with a sixteen-point spread. A wolf, and of course, the boar.”
“Of course. Am I to assume ’twas your lance that slew it?”
“Yes,” he said.
She finished with a sigh and looked up. For the first time his stark nakedness struck her, as she glimpsed his groin, its member flaccid now, the soft curve of his belly as he sat, the narrowness of his hips and the breadth of his chest. Flushed, she put aside the needle, preparing a poultice. “However did you manage to get gored?”
“It happens easily, the boar is mean and unpredictable.”
“They are too deadly to be hunted,” she replied, placing the herbs packed in linen upon his thigh.
“’Tis foolish for men to seek such sport.” She was careful to look only at what she was doing, but now she was keenly aware of his hard leg beneath her fingers.
“’Tis the danger that draws us,” he said.
She could feel his gaze on the top of her bent head. “’Tis a boyish need to prove a tardy manhood,” Ceidre retorted with feeling.
“You cannot accuse my manhood of being tardy,” he said softly.
His sensual tone brought a hot blush and she swiftly raised her gaze to his—only to glimpse the swelling of his organ. She faltered completely, at a loss. He smiled slightly, a smug, satisfied look in his bold gaze. “You are clearly not suffering,” she managed. She rose and turned, but he grabbed her hand.
“Do not leave me.”
“I am finished.” She was forced to meet his regard.
“Do not leave,” he repeated. “I am in pain.”
“The pain you are in is quite clear,” she retorted, angry now.
“You can ease it—if you would.”
“Your wife can ease it!”
“You think so?” He cocked a brow. “She cannot, only you can.”
“Do not say such things,” she hissed. “Let me go.”
“Only if you promise to return. I will allow no one else to tend me. The poultice must be changed, must it not?”
“Yes, but anyone—”
“You must tend me.”
“All right.” She surrendered.
“When will you come again?”
She hesitated. “Tomorrow.”
“Tonight. You will come tonight. Mayhap I will catch a fever.” He smiled.
There was, of course, that possibility, although Ceidre though it was indistinct. “I will come when I have finished my duties at the manor,” she said.
His face grew suddenly dark, blue eyes stormy. “Yes, of course, your duties. To your husband? Does he command your presence every night?” His tone raised. “Does he? Have you missed him these past two nights? Have you?”
She was stunned by his anger.
“Tonight,” he said through gritted teeth, “you have duty to me, your overlord. Do not,” he purred, “forget who I am. I gave you to Guy,” he warned, “and I can take you away.”
Ceidre shook with fury at his presumptive autocracy. The fact that he was right—that on Aelfgar his will was law, that he could order a divorce and Guy would willingly oblige him, that he could dispose of her, despite her husband, as he saw fit—increased her rage. “I am finished here. May I go?”
“You may go,” he said silkily. “But do not think that you are finished here.” He smiled, a tight, ruthless smile. “Do not think that we are finished.”
His leg throbbed, but Rolfe heaved himself up from the bed to limp to the fireplace and stare into its flames.
It was evening now, and his ears were attuned to the sounds outside his door, purposefully left ajar. He listened intently for movement, but there was no sound. Ceidre had not come.
He was angry—with himself. He had taunted her with sexual innuendo. He had not meant to. In truth, he never talked to any woman the way he spoke with her. Her bronze-haired, purple-eyed presence seemed to be his undoing. How could he have taunted her as he had? Mayhap it had to do with the fact that he hadn’t set eyes upon her in a sennight. Mayhap it was her touch, so gentle, so tender—and ultimately, despite the superficial tear in his flesh, so arousing.
But to taunt her sexually with his wife and her husband in the same room?
He could not control his physical arousal, but he certainly could control his words. There was no excuse. They had both heard, he had seen it on Alice’s tight-lipped white face and in Guy’s searching gaze. He was surprised, if not confused, with the young man’s response. Guy had not been angered, or, if he had been, he had hidden it well. Rolfe knew that if he were Guy and another man made such suggestive remarks to his wife, if she were Ceidre, he would kill. Of course, he was Guy’s liege lord, and Guy, he knew, worshiped him.
He regretted ordering her presence this night, just as he was disappointed that she had not come. She was probably, he thought with sudden depression, in Guy’s arms this very minute. And then he heard her.
His head whipped around, listening to the light footfalls approaching, waiting, watching as his door swung open. She appeared there then, in all her golden and bronze glory, a mutinous expression on her face, her lush lips tight, her eyes flashing purple fire. Rolfe realized he was smiling with his pleasure at seeing her.
“I see you have not succumbed to the fever,” Ceidre said curtly. “Therefore, may I leave, my lord?”
His smile widened. He hobbled to the bed and sat. “Come check my leg.”
She huffed her disdain, but obeyed. He was wearing only a tunic that came to midthigh. She did not pause or hesitate, but lifted it to reveal his thigh and the rest of his naked body. Damn, he thought, he was truly well, for he was rousing instantly into thick tumescence.
“This is a farce,” she cried, jumping away from him.
“I cannot help my response to you.”
“I refuse to cuckold my husband!”
His anger was instant. “Think you I called you here to commit adultery? To cuckold my best man?”
She flinched slightly under his icy stare. “Think? Oh, no, my lord, I know it!”
He grabbed her wrist and yanked her hard, right onto his bed, almost across his bad thigh. She struggled once and went still. “You flatter yourself, Ceidre,” he said roughly.
“You are a beast!”
“I do not cuckold my best man.”
“Then let me up—let me go.”
His other hand captured her chin, forcing her gaze to his. “You are so unwilling. You love him?”
“What?” She struggled anew now, but it was futile.
“Do you love him so soon?” His tone was harsh. “A few tumbles, and you are so loyal? Answer me!”
She shook, she said nothing. He saw tears well in her eyes.
“Does he please you so, Ceidre?” Rolfe said in a dangerous tone.
“’Tis not your affair,” she cried in a small voice.
“Answer me!”
“Yes,” she shouted, then wept. She would never let him know the truth, that her own husband found her repulsive and preferred the comfort of Lettie and Beth to herself. Never would she share this secret, this humiliation, with this man.
“I am not going to hurt you, I am not going to touch you, I am not going to rape you—cease your tears,” he said, his tone filled with loathing. He pushed her violently away off the bed. She stumbled and almost fell. She looked at him and saw the glittering fury. It was so strong, she thought it was hatred, and she shrank.
“Get out,” he said, low. “I have changed my mind, I do not need you—as you can see.”
Ceidre wiped her eyes and stood, squaring her shoulders. She could not look away from his dark, violent gaze.
“Go to your husband,” he said softly, ugly. “Go to him, charm him. But stay the hell away from me.”
For some reason, the urge to go to him and take away the controlled loathing in his tone swept her, and she did not move, unable to do so.
> “Why do you wait? Do you now play the seductress? Do you think to cast a spell, standing there honey haired, beautiful, trembling as if with hurt? What you have I have seen before many times. You are only a woman, like any other, and my response to you is the same as with all the others.”
His cruel words struck her with the force of a blow, and she turned, numbly.
“Tell Alice to come to me,” he called to her departing back. “Tell her to come to me, I have need of her now.”
Ceidre escaped.
A week later, Rolfe and Guy rode out to inspect Guy’s holdings at Dumstanbrough thoroughly. Rolfe’s leg was slightly stiff, which he deemed the riding would ease. They took with them a dozen men, in case of a run-in with Scots reivers, leaving Aelfgar well defended and under Beltain’s authority. They reached this outermost village belonging to Rolfe in a day and a half and had completed their inspection by that nightfall.
As his men lounged around the campfire, preparatory to sleep, Rolfe stood and stretched. His leg ached slightly. The village was quiet now, after the initial uproar that their arrival had caused. Apparently, being so far north, they saw little of their lord and master, and apparently cared just as little whether that lord be Saxon or not. Ample fare and atrocious ale had been provided for his men. Guy had already chosen a site for his manor. As soon as Rolfe could spare him, he knew Guy would be returning to see to its construction. This made him envision a day in the future that surely must come—Ceidre living here as the lady of Dumstanbrough.
Not that he cared. Let her have Dumstanbrough and the husband she already loved so well! Maybe Guy would bring her with him when he returned, and leave her here when he left to resume his services at Aelfgar. If it weren’t for Ceidre, Rolfe would be thoroughly pleased with the turn of events. Guy was a fierce knight, and having him on this northernmost border would be a boon to his defenses. Rolfe had already decided to take on more men, and some of these he would garrison here as well.
Ceidre. Did she pine for her husband? He felt the ugliness rising within him, and stalked away from the campfire, as if to outdistance his emotions.
She loved Guy. Fickle was the first word that raised itself, she was fickle. But how could that be? He snorted, feeling derision, directed at himself. A rape did not win her heart. But hadn’t they shared more after? And what did he care about her heart! Love was for fools—for women and boys. In truth, it did not exist, it was merely a polite excuse for lust. Could she have truly found such passion and such ecstasy in Guy’s arms? He reiterated to himself that he did not care, he had his choice of wenches, and in the dark one could barely tell them apart.
He stopped, realizing he had reached the village, about to turn around to return to the camp. There was a feeling of potency in the velvet night cocooning him. He was keenly aware of it; almost as if he was pierced with something, poignant and intense, like a need, but a need of what? As he started back to the camp, a husky laugh caught his attention. Despite the sexual note, he instantly recognized the tone as belonging to Guy, and pausing, his gaze scanned the environs.
In the darkness, he finally made out an embracing couple beneath an oak tree, the rays of the moon drenching them. His curiosity was not idle; he had to know if it was really Guy, and he approached until he was certain. It was Guy. He had the woman on his lap, her skirts tossed up, his hips rocking her rhythmically as he fucked her. Rolfe felt anger sweep over him.
He did not move, and presently they finished, the woman rising, shaking out her skirts, laughing, Guy adjusting his hose and patting her behind. He started when he saw Rolfe. The wench also noticed him, and she gave him a sly look, but Rolfe ignored her. She left, disappointed.
“You are looking for me, my lord?”
“No, I just happened upon you.” They started walking back to the camp together.
Rolfe looked bluntly at Guy. “You are not faithful to your wife.” It was, of course, a statement, yet it was also an opening, a question.
It was dark, but from Guy’s tone, Rolfe knew he was blushing. “No. Of course not. I am too young to grow old with one woman, and a witch at that.”
He felt the anger again. “She is no witch, Guy.”
“I am sorry, I forgot you believe otherwise.” Guy was nervous and it showed.
“I am surprised,” Rolfe said carelessly, “that after being in her arms, you would find the energy, or desire, for another.” His glance skewered the younger man again.
Guy was silent, with unease. Rolfe knew it, and wondered if it was his blunt reference to having been the first to bed his wife, or something more. Finally Guy shrugged. “I am young.” Head down, he trudged on.
Rolfe knew that if he were married to Ceidre he would not have the energy or desire for another. He stared at Guy thoughtfully. And he wondered how Ceidre would feel if she knew her husband was so eager to seek out other women.
“Arrest her,” Alice said.
Ceidre froze in the midst of lighting two tapers in the hall of the manor. Two Normans rushed forward, one of them taking her arm. Beltain stood with Alice, his face dark. “What is going on?” Ceidre cried.
Alice smirked, her face ugly with malicious intent. “You have committed treason one time too many, Ceidre, and in my lord’s absence I must protect him and what is his! Arrest her!”
“Treason?” Ceidre gasped. “I have not—”
Beltain interrupted her, waving a parchment that he was holding. He was grim. “A maid found this in your chamber, Lady.”
Ceidre looked at the paper. “I know not what it is.”
“It addresses you. ’Tis from your brother Edwin.”
Her heart stopped, then renewed its beat. “’Tis a lie! That is not mine! I have never seen it! I did not receive it! I did not!”
Beltain was very somber. “It addresses you, ’twas found in your chamber, and it is from your brother. Someone passed this on to you. Who?”
“No one, I tell you,” she cried, truly furious at this deceit. “This is all false, ’tis a trap!”
“You have committed treason before,” Beltain said. “The whole world knows this. Before your marriage, my lord had you guarded night and day because he did not trust you. Nor do I trust you, and the evidence is clear.” He paused.
“She is very shrewd, Beltain,” Alice remarked. “And she is a witch. If you do not throw her in the dungeons she could well escape—and my lord would be enraged.”
Ceidre froze.
“She will not escape,” Beltain said heavily. “She is Guy’s wife, I cannot throw her in the dungeons. But I, personally, will guard her.”
Ceidre closed her eyes briefly in relief.
“No!” Alice cried. “She will cast a spell and you, like the others, will be impotent to fight it! Believe me, I know!”
Ceidre could not believe this was happening, and she turned a cold, angry gaze upon Alice. “You did this, did you not? Tell me, as I know you cannot write yourself, who wrote this note, this forgery?”
Alice ignored her. “I warn you,” she said to Beltain. “I warn you! Remember Morcar’s escape!”
Beltain turned heavily to Ceidre. “I am sorry, but Lady Alice is right. Put her in the dungeons,” he said to the two knights.
“Wait!” Ceidre cried, frantic now. “Let me see that note!”
Beltain shrugged and handed it to her. Ceidre glanced at it, then lifted a desperate gaze. “This is not Ed’s writing!”
“It matters not whether he wrote it himself,” Beltain said. “He probably cannot write and had a friar write it for him. Take her down now.”
“No, please!” Ceidre grabbed Beltain’s sleeve. “Please, I beg you!”
She was propelled forward, Beltain regarding her with pity and disgust. She twisted to look at her sister. “Do not do this,” she pleaded wildly. “Alice, what will you gain? When the Norman returns—”
“He will have you hanged!” Alice cried.
With a thud, the rock door closed above her, immersing her in total blac
kness.
Ceidre did not move. She stood completely still, barely breathing, clutching herself. Her heart was thundering so hard she was afraid it might explode. She tried to take a deep breath and failed, choking. The air was thick and closed and foul with human excrement. Because it was summer, she had been barefoot, and now wet, slimy mud oozed through her toes. It was damp and cool in the dungeons, but that was not why she was trembling. Her tremors increased.
She was not alone, and she knew it. She could hear movement, slight, scuffling movement—rats. Tears came to her eyes. As much as she hated the Norman, she started praying frantically for his return. She was sure he would have her released the instant he returned, but even if they only stopped for a day at Dumstanbrough, that would still be two days away. At the earliest. She would not survive.
She moaned, a long, low sound. The shaking of her body became violent, her breathing became fast and shallow. And still she could not get air into her lungs.
Gasping for air, desperate to fill her constricted lungs, she started to cry. She had to get out of here! Somehow, she had to! She could not breathe—she could feel the walls caving in on her! She would suffocate, she was suffocating, she would be buried alive! With a scream, half a sob, Ceidre leapt for the trapdoor. It was way above her head, taller than two men, but she sobbed and leapt, tears streaming down her face, again and again, gasping for air, her heart speeding out of her chest. She had to get out, she had to! Somehow she had found the wall, the dirt hard and dry, and she began frantically, hysterically, to claw at it. “Let me out,” she screamed. “Let me out,” she sobbed. She clawed and clawed, ripping her nails, weeping, trying to climb up to the door. She would get a foot off the floor, only to slide helplessly back down. Finally she fell sobbing and panting onto the ground.