Svend tightened his knuckles over his reins, the sound of soft, feminine laughter shredding the last vestiges of his temper.
He’d let her rest for over an hour, afraid that the next sound he’d hear would be a thud as she fell out of the saddle, but he hadn’t expected her to wake up quite so refreshed. What was she laughing about? How could a sound be so infuriating and so intoxicating at the same time?
He cast a swift glance over his shoulder at his squire. He’d told Renard to keep watch on her, but apparently the lad had decided to entertain her as well. He didn’t know which of them he was angrier with, but now he fervently wished he’d left her to fall in the dirt. She was a shrew. Even when he’d been trying to help her, after he’d thought they’d established some kind of truce, they’d somehow ended up arguing.
So why was Renard so favoured? Why was the boy exempt from her hatred of Normans when he so clearly was not? He could almost imagine that she was doing it on purpose, to annoy him. He was not—would not—be jealous of his own squire!
He dug his heels into Talbot’s flanks, accelerating his pace to match his anger and frustration, his attention fixed firmly on the track ahead. If she had time for jokes and laughter, then clearly he was being too easy on her.
The wind battered his skin, brisk and invigorating, as they thundered up and over the rolling hillsides. He wasn’t jealous, he told himself, just irritated. Her very presence was irritating—unsettling, somehow—like a splinter under his skin that he couldn’t extract or ignore. But then he wasn’t accustomed to travelling with women. He was a soldier, not an escort, and the sooner they reached Redbourn and he was rid of her, the sooner he could claim his reward and the better for both of them.
‘You’re still one of them. I can’t help but hate you for it.’
Her words came back to him now, as if carried on the wind. She’d sounded exasperated, as if he ought just to accept them. Well, shouldn’t he? She was mourning her husband and her father, and he was her captor, returning her to Redbourn against her will. Of course she hated him. What else did he expect?
What else did he want?
He leaned over Talbot’s mane, trying to lose himself in the pounding rhythm of hoofbeats. He shouldn’t want anything. He shouldn’t be thinking about her at all. He was her escort, sent by the King’s cousin. Only a fool would abuse such a trust. Only a madman would consider it.
Besides, he wasn’t about to be distracted from his purpose now—and definitely not by a woman. He’d spent ten years rebuilding his life, following orders and earning the King’s goodwill. That was why he was here, fulfilling this one last commission. He was doing this for the reward, no other reason. Now, if he could just stop thinking about her...
* * *
The sky was darkening when he finally called a halt, setting up camp between a narrow brook and small copse of woodland. Svend slid from his horse, surprised to feel a protesting ache between his shoulder blades. He hadn’t been aware of any discomfort during the ride, but clearly he’d been pushing even harder than he’d intended.
She’d probably hate him for that too.
He turned to face her, expecting anger, and was taken aback by her pale, drained appearance. She was slumped so low in the saddle that she seemed in imminent danger of falling off, her eyes so red-rimmed and swollen they seemed to take up half her face. For a stunned moment he stood motionless, stung by a fierce pang of remorse, before he strode quickly to help her dismount, surprised when she let him. She slid down without even a murmur of protest, tumbling into his arms as if she were already half asleep, her very silence a reproach. No words of anger could have been so effective.
‘Lady Cille? Can you stand?’
Her legs quivered in answer and he caught her up, gathering her into his arms as she mumbled something incoherent, her eyelids closing even before her head hit his shoulder.
Guilt stabbed him anew. He’d done this, trying so hard not to think about her that he’d hurt her instead. He was accustomed to riding in all conditions, and for any length of time, but he should have considered the effect on someone unused to long marches—not to mention someone who’d spent the night before tending to a baby. He’d let his emotions get the better of him. Emotions he shouldn’t even be having. It would serve him right if FitzOsbern punished him—and not just for his ill treatment of her.
He laid her down gently on a bed of pine needles and she curled up at once, fast asleep by the time he came back with a blanket. He tucked it around her, careful not to let his fingers linger, trying not to notice the smooth contours of her body as narrow waist curved into rounded hip.
She hadn’t eaten—again—but he couldn’t bring himself to wake her. She could sleep for as long as she needed, then take it more easily tomorrow. They’d travel at a slow trot all the way to Redbourn if necessary. He’d even let her insult him if it made her feel bette
r.
He stood up and made his way around the camp, ignoring the inquisitive looks of his men and berating himself inwardly. He rarely second-guessed himself, or felt obliged to explain his motives, but something about her unsteadied him, made him feel dangerously out of control.
There was only one other woman who’d ever had such a powerful effect on him—one other woman who’d got into his head and ended up breaking his heart. But that had been a long time ago and he’d learnt a lot about women since Maren. Or thought he had. None of it had seemed to help with Lady Cille...
He volunteered for the first watch, his mind too preoccupied for sleep, settling down amidst the scattered rocks beside the water’s edge as his men bedded down for the night, positioning himself with a clear view of her sleeping body. After what he’d done, he didn’t want to let her out of his sight. The least he could do was make sure she wasn’t disturbed. It wasn’t that he wanted to look at her—not completely, at least.
He heard a crunching sound and reached instinctively for his dagger, his hand falling again as he recognised his squire.
‘Ale, sir?’
Renard proffered a cup and Svend forced himself to accept. After all, the lad had only been following orders—his orders. Even so, he found it hard to forget their easy laughter that afternoon.
‘You should get some rest.’
‘I will, sir. It’s just...about Lady Cille...’
‘What about her?’ Svend struggled to keep his expression civil. His squire’s tone was mildly reproving.