‘You’re soaking wet!’
She looked down, surprised to find that he was right. Her dress was sodden, clinging to her body like a second skin, leaving little to the imagination. She hadn’t been aware of it until that moment, but now that he mentioned it she felt soaked to the bone. More than
that, she felt cold and shivery all over.
He made a move as if to touch her, then stopped himself.
‘We can’t stay here. Your rebels are still close by and I can’t risk any more of your heroics.’
She nodded, her teeth starting to chatter uncontrollably. ‘But the horse...’
‘You’ll ride with me.’
‘No!’ She shook her head, struggling to focus. She couldn’t ride with him—couldn’t touch him again. She didn’t know if she could trust herself.
She raised her arms as if to fend him off, then swayed dizzily. The meadow itself seemed to be tilting up towards her. Where was Svend? She spun round, then felt a pair of strong arms on her waist, scooping her up and gathering her to a broad chest that smelt of horse, leather and a musky male scent all of its own. She’d smelt it the first time he’d tackled her to the ground. She would have recognised it anywhere.
A feeling of immense tiredness swept over her. He seemed to be asking her a question, but she felt as though she were below water, straining to hear. What was the matter with her hearing? And her sight? His eyes were blurring together in front of her, coalescing into a single bright sapphire in the very midst of her vision.
‘Cille? Can you hear me?’
His voice seemed to come from a long way away. He sounded concerned. He was worried about her. The thought made her smile... Maybe if she said sorry, that she hadn’t meant to attack him, he would kiss her again. Now that the moment was gone she wanted it back again.
‘Svend...’ she murmured, enjoying the feel of his name on her tongue. ‘Svend du Danemark...’
And then the fog descended and she surrendered to it.
Chapter Seven
Aediva stretched, yawned and burrowed her way deeper inside the comfort of a fur-skinned mantle, smiling as the hair tickled her cheek.
She sighed contentedly, recalling a sensation of endless motion, of something warm and strong wrapped tightly around her waist, of feeling as light as a feather and then being laid down and wrapped in something soft and luxuriant. She vaguely remembered a blurry face, filled with concern, and the gentle touch of fingers on her forehead...
But it was all hazy. She couldn’t make sense of the dream and she was too drowsy and comfortable to try. She felt snug and peaceful, without a care in the world. If only Cille wouldn’t come and wake her up too soon...
Cille! Her eyelids flew open as memory came flooding back. Open to the sight of a cloudless blue sky.
She sat bolt upright, clamping a hand to her head as the dull throbbing in her temples became a sudden violent hammering. She felt dizzy, as if she’d drunk too much of Eadgyth’s mead, and strangely exposed...
She glanced down and gave a small shriek, clutching the blanket to her chest like a shield. She was naked!
She dropped to the ground, twisting around to see if anyone had noticed, but there was no one to see. Aside from a few bored-looking horses, the campsite was completely deserted.
Panic subsiding, she tucked the blanket under her chin and tried to gather her scattered thoughts. Judging by the position of the sun it was around midday, and as unseasonably warm as it had been cold before. How long had she been asleep?
More importantly, where was she?
The camp was strategically positioned near the top of a hill, with views that seemed to extend over the whole shire. The last she remembered they’d been north of the river, but now it stretched out behind them, a sparkling band in the distance. She had no memory of crossing the ford. Her memory seemed to stop with a kiss. One breathless and breathtaking kiss.
She inhaled sharply, caught off guard by the same giddy rush of desire, the same tingling sensation deep in the pit of her stomach. What had she done? She’d been swept off her feet, swept away from reason, had come dangerously close to forgetting who she was and who she was pretending to be all because of a kiss.
And it had all been her fault! She was the one who’d told Svend that she’d been trying to protect him. She was the one who’d leaned in for his kiss. How could she have been so weak?
But why had he kissed her? He’d done little but harangue her since they’d met. Did he think she’d make such an easy conquest? As if wanting her land wasn’t bad enough! Well, he could think again. She might have succumbed once, but she’d been taken by surprise. He was her enemy and he always would be. It wouldn’t happen again.
A mistake. It had all been a mistake. She’d been tired, overwrought, seeking comfort in the nearest pair of arms. And then something had happened. She’d pushed him away, felt a strange, dizzying weariness. Had she fainted? Was she ill? She pressed a hand to her forehead but it felt cool to the touch. Svend must have brought her here. Had he nursed her? Had he undressed her too? No, surely not. A knight would never do such a thing...would he?
And what was that noise?