Saxon Lady

Osric would be killed.

Aelia sighed in frustration and lay down uneasily behind Fitz Autier, watching him breathe deeply and regularly in sleep. He was remarkably relaxed for a man who lay beside a captive bent upon destroying him.

He was uncovered, yet his body radiated heat. The thick muscles of his shoulders rippled with every breath, and Aelia swallowed uneasily as she took note of his size and remembered the strength of his grip on her wrists.

He could crush Osric—or even her—between his big hands.

Aelia could not relax. She had never slept beside a man before, and was not about to start with a Norman, particularly this bastard. She pushed herself as far as possible from him, inadvertently tugging the rope and waking him.

She cursed his quick reflexes as one of his hands shot out and grabbed her. He pulled her inexorably toward him and quickly enveloped her in his arms.

“By all that’s holy, wench, ’tis the last time I’ll tell you to settle yourself, else I’ll send you to the guards. Lie down!”

Aelia knew she would be worse than a fool if she tried to fight him. ’Twas not just her own life at risk, but Osric’s, too.

She lay back on the fur pelt beside him, but he allowed her no space. He stayed facing her, and she was caught between his broad chest and the taut canvas wall.

As his breathing quieted, Aelia turned her thoughts from the brawny Norman and considered the coming morn. She had to think what to do when she was offered in exchange for Ingelwald.

Selwyn would not care as much about her safe return as he would about keeping Ingelwald for himself. Aelia had had to remind him far too many times since her father’s death that the holding was Osric’s birthright. King Harold had promised that Wallis and his heirs would continue as earls of eastern Northumberland. With her brother, Godwin, gone these past two years, the honor fell to Osric. Certainly not to Selwyn, whose stature was insignificant in the English hierarchy.

Aelia eased herself down beside Fitz Autier and shivered, whether with cold or nerves, she did not know. But seeming of its own accord, her body inched closer to his warmth, and he threw one arm over her waist. The quiet sound of his breathing relaxed her, and she found her eyelids drooping. Her thoughts became disjointed.

Ingelwald’s warriors would battle the Normans to the death. Selwyn would not yield until the walls were breached and every man, woman and child was killed.

But what if Selwyn could be eliminated first? ’Twas possible her father’s huscurls would trade her and Osric for peaceful entry.

How many lives would be spared if Ingelwald accepted the Norman’s terms?

Ingelwald’s warriors were vastly outnumbered by these Normans, whose stores of armor and weapons—and food—seemed unending. The supplies at home were growing scarce. There were only so many arrows left, and even fewer bags of grain until the fields were harvested. Aelia did not know how long her people could hold out before starvation, if not slaughter, vanquished them.

Aelia saw the face of her brother’s young friend, Grendel, before her eyes, and those of his sisters and his parents. There were countless others whose lives were precious to her. There was Beorn the Carpenter, who built lyres and harps, and all manner of other musical instruments. And Erlina, daft as she was, who made potions and poultices for any who had need of them. If Ingelwald surrendered, would the Normans allow her people to live in peace, working their land as they’d done for generations?

’Twas a disturbing question.

Fitz Autier tightened his grip on her, as though he had heard her painful thoughts and wanted to give comfort. He pulled her close, sliding one thick knee between her soft thighs. Afraid of waking him, she did not pull away, but held her breath while his hand caressed her back, sliding down across her buttocks.

Aelia’s eyes drifted closed and she did not resist when he increased their intimate contact. She did not have the energy to fight him, and the warmth of his body drew her to him, as did the sense of being gathered into a cocoon of security. It had been so long since Aelia had felt safe. She’d lost her brother, then her father, in skirmishes against the bastard king’s armies. Now she had to contend with Selwyn, who wanted to take Ingelwald from Osric. It sometimes felt as though the strife would never end.

Fitz Autier made a soft sound in his sleep and changed position slightly. Though he might be indifferent to what he was doing, Aelia could feel her pulse pounding in every sensitive part of her body. And when his leg slid even higher, she could not breathe.

She was as fatigued as she’d ever been in her life, yet the pressure of his thigh made it impossible to sleep. Her sense of security and repose was soon replaced by a strange tension and a pleasure so acute she had to press her mouth closed to keep from sighing aloud. Inadvertently, she clasped her legs tightly ’round his and shifted slightly, finding the most responsive part of her body and moving against him.

She was afraid of waking him, yet she could not make herself stop. Every nerve within her seemed centered in that one extraordinary place, and when the urgent sensations flooded together and peaked, Aelia thought her heart would burst from her chest. She closed her eyes and let the strange euphoria wash over her, feeling exquisitely sensitive to everything around her.

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.

Chapter Three

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. Ingelwald 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?”