Her brother was dead.
He ignored the twinge of sympathy that arose from some place deep within him. ’Twas the way of war. Soldiers as well as innocents lost their lives, especially when those innocents did not surrender peacefully to the conquering armies. Mathieu had made warfare his business, and he was not in it to save anyone—particularly not this Saxon wench who stood between him and his deepest wishes.
Mathieu rose to his feet and placed the woman’s knife on top of his hauberk as he considered what to do with her. At first he thought of taking her to the supply wagon and leaving her there with her brother, but decided against it. Better to keep them separated.
“Who is in charge at Ingelwald?” he asked.
She raised her chin and refused to meet his eye.
“It does not matter.” He tossed a fur pelt down to the floor beside the one where the Saxon woman sat. “Tomorrow morn, when you arrive at Ingelwald gate, trussed up and draped over my horse’s rump, someone there will deal with me.”
“Where is my brother?” she snapped.
Mathieu laughed. “You are in no position to demand answers, demoiselle.”
“He is just a child—send him home.”
Mathieu reached for the knife. “You do not yet understand, Lady Aelia. The boy no longer has a home. Nor do you.”
She let out a huff of breath as if he’d struck her. If there had been any compassion in him, he might have spared some of it for this proud woman who’d braved the dark forest paths, then a legion of enemy soldiers, to rescue her young brother. If Mathieu were of a baser nature, he would allow her beauty and her womanly curves to entice him.
But he had one purpose here. He was to win Ingelwald for William, who in turn would grant it back to him as the king’s trusted vassal. ’Twas a rich holding, and a far greater reward than either of his brothers had achieved. He had already been named baron of Ingelwald by King William.
He reached for a length of rope and wrapped it twice ’round the Saxon woman’s waist, tying it behind her. Then he took the loose ends, tied them to one of his own wrists and lay down upon the extra pelt.
Aelia twisted her body to take hold of the rope that bound her to him, and tried to pull free. “If you think I’m going to lie here—”
“I am weary, wench,” he growled as she continued to struggle. She kicked him and tried to beat him with her fists, but Mathieu shoved her to the floor once again and took hold of her hair at the nape of her neck, where the long plait of gold-red began. He leaned down and spoke softly in her ear. “I can call to my men, and if you prefer their company to mine, you can pass the night with them.”
“You would do such a thing, Norman!” she cried, wriggling to get away. “Set an innocent woman—”
“Innocent?” He turned her and pulled her face close to his. “This bloody gash in my cheek had naught to do with innocence. The arrows that rained down upon my soldiers were not meant as goodwill tokens, demoiselle. Be grateful that I am more civilized than you, and be still. Sleep or not, but rest assured that your continued good health and that of your bratling brother will depend upon your conduct tonight!”
Aelia could see no way out. Fitz Autier had turned away from her and settled down to sleep, but she could not rest.
Nor could she escape.
One tug on the rope that bound her would rouse him from slumber, and he was even more formidable at close quarters. ’Twas appalling to her to admit it, but she was afraid to cross him.
She’d thought him comely from a distance, but now that she could see his features and his massive chest and arms, bared for sleep, she knew that there was much more to Fitz Autier than a handsome face. His nose bore a slight bump at its bridge, indicating that it had once been broken. A narrow scar marred his forehead, cutting through his thick dark brow. And from this day forward, he would always bear a reminder of her arrow upon his cheek.
Would that it had been a true shot! Then she would not be in this predicament.
She tried to loosen the bindings on her wrists, but could not. The knots he’d tied at her back were unreachable, and she was unable to twist them to the front, where she could see them and work on them.
The walls of the tent were staked firmly to the ground, so Aelia could not slip underneath, even if she were to manage to free herself. She glanced ’round the shadowy interior of the tent, looking for anything she might be able to use as a weapon, or to cut herself free. Of course, Fitz Autier had placed her knife upon his far side, and she could not reach it without climbing over him.
An unlit lamp hung from the center pole, and a small wooden trunk stood fast against the far canvas wall, a wooden carving of a wolf lying on top. Besides the Norman’s armor and his discarded tunic, hauberk and boots, there was nothing else. No way to kill him, and no way to escape.
Even if she could somehow slip past him to get out, she did not know Osric’s location. If she left, she would have to search every inch of the camp for him, and if she failed to find him and take him back to Ingelwald, Aelia had no doubt the Norman would make good his threat.
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
