his chest.
‘Norman pig!’
She shrieked in her anger and he heard voices outside, followed by footsteps running in their direction. He called out, ordering his men to stop even as she screamed and hurled herself bodily against him, sending both of them sprawling into the rushes.
Svend landed heavily, trying to shield her from both the fall and herself as she thrashed recklessly against him, heedless of the blade still between them, pummelling at his chest as if she wanted to pound him into the ground. The scent of flowers filled his nostrils—honeysuckle and daisies, like a meadow he wanted to bury his face in. He tossed the weapon aside and captured her arms above her head instead, clamping his hands over her wrists like iron manacles.
Still she refused to yield, flailing against him like a cornered animal, fists beating impotently at thin air. He felt a vague sense of surprise. Pretty she might be, but she was also half wild, with an impressive temper to boot.
He rolled on top of her, pinning her legs to the floor with his own, struggling to keep his weight on his arms. She wasn’t the sort of woman he was accustomed to having beneath him, so slight and slender he was almost afraid he might break her.
Then he waited, letting her fury wear itself out. Trapped beneath him, she flung herself from side to side, arching her back and squirming as she tried to escape. Her small breasts heaved against his chest and he felt a stirring in his loins, quickly suppressed. This was hardly the time for such thoughts, but her endless writhing was bringing to mind other, more enjoyable pursuits.
‘I’m not going to hurt you!’ he muttered through gritted teeth, dragging his mind away from the snug fit of her body beneath his. He’d never taken advantage of a vulnerable woman before and he wasn’t about to start now. If she’d only stop wriggling...
‘Scum! Son of a Norman bitch!’
She kept on thrashing against him, venting her anger in a torrent of what he assumed was Anglo-Saxon abuse. Long hazel hair tumbled over his chest like a silken blanket, stirring his senses, and his gaze fell to her lips. They looked full and soft and suddenly desirable. But her eyes...
If looks could kill he’d be dead a hundred times over. Her eyes were aflame with anger. He couldn’t blame her. He was a Norman and she’d lost her husband at Hastings. He’d seen the same look of raw loathing in the faces of her countrymen every day for months, and yet it unsettled him to see it so close. He wanted her to look at him with something other than hatred, with a very different emotion...
Damn it, he must have been without a woman too long if he was drawn to this Saxon wildcat.
With an effort, he steered his thoughts in a different direction. Why was she still resisting? He felt an unwanted flicker of admiration. From long experience he knew that most opponents would have surrendered by now, but by the determined gleam in those fiery eyes it was clear that she’d never submit. She would fight to the bitter end.
And he didn’t want to fight her. She was just one of the Conquest’s many victims—a woman whose whole existence, like that of her people, had been overturned by the Norman invasion—but at that moment he was the one holding her down. And he didn’t want to.
Something inside him rebelled. He’d seen enough injustice in his life, didn’t want 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.’
‘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
