At first she thought the pounding was in her head. Then she heard shouts and the distinctive clatter of steel upon shield and her throat turned dry. Quickly she rolled onto her stomach, looking towards the ridge of the hill where the Normans were...fighting each other?
She blinked, relief vying with surprise. It was no battle. They were practising their sword skills in hand-to-hand combat, though the sparring looked ferocious enough, even from a distance.
Instinctively her eyes sought Svend. He was there too, flicking a sword from hand to hand as he circled his opponent, wearing just a coat of light chainmail for protection, his windswept hair shining like burnished gold in the sunshine.
Her breathing quickened. He looked like a born warrior, with every stroke of his sword slicing the air with cool, measured precision. Sweat gleamed on his biceps, accentuating every bulging muscle as he swept the weapon up in an arc and then spun around, blocking a counterblow before knocking his opponent to the ground with a quick twist and thrust. She hadn’t seen his arms uncovered before, had only felt the taut strength of them around her waist, but they looked impossibly large. Arms that could hold her close and keep her safe...
If she wanted them to.
No! She shook her head to banish the temptation. He was her enemy. She had to remember that even if he felt like the opposite. He was her enemy, no matter what else her instincts might tell her. She had too much to lose—couldn’t trust another man or he’d fail her just as Edmund had done. Even if Svend’s blue eyes promised differently. Even if they seemed honest and trustworthy as he watched the fighting with a smouldering intensity that seemed to make the space between them fizz with tension.
Except that he wasn’t watching the fighting.
He was watching her.
She dropped down quickly, squeezing her eyes shut and pretending to be asleep. She wasn’t ready to face him—not yet and definitely not naked! She had to steel herself first...build up her defences to resist him.
For a few minutes she lay perfectly still, listening. But there was nothing—not a sound besides the distant clamour of metal and her own pounding heartbeat. She exhaled, cautiously opening one eye to find herself staring at a pair of black leather boots.
‘You’re awake, then?’
She squeaked in surprise. She hadn’t heard footsteps and yet he was crouching beside her, looking amused and wary at the same time, as if he were trying to gauge her reaction. He must have stopped to exchange his mail for a leather gambeson, but it hung open in the middle, exposing a line of pale hair that tapered down his chest like an arrow, dragging her gaze along with it.
She tore her eyes away as her cheeks flared bright red.
‘Hungry?’ He proffered a chunk of bread. ‘Or would you prefer some water to cool down?’
She batted the bread away, furious at herself for looking and at him for noticing.
‘Where are my clothes?’
He nodded towards a bundle on the ground beside her. ‘There. Clean and dry, thanks to Renard.’
‘Then why...?’ She stopped, suddenly reluctant to bring his attention to her nakedness. ‘I mean, why aren’t I wearing them?’
He took a bite of bread and chewed it thoughtfully. ‘They were wet.’
‘So you took them off?’
‘You had a fever. Wet clothes would have made it worse.’
‘So you brought me here and...’ she gritted her teeth ‘...undressed me?’
‘No.’ He took another bite. ‘They had to come off at once. Then we came here, far enough away to be safe from your rebels, and waited for your fever to break. That was two days ago.’
She stared at him in growing horror. Two days! Not to mention the fact that he’d seen her naked! That idea bothered her more than the fact of her long illness.
He leaned forwards conspiratorially. ‘I did my best not to look.’
She spluttered, too angry even for words, before a new, more alarming thought occurred to her. ‘So what did I wear on the journey?’
He jerked his head towards one of his soldiers, a barrel-chested giant who seemed to be using his vast bulk as a battering ram. ‘See Bertrand over there? His under-tunic made a passable dress.’
‘You mean I’ve been roaming the countryside in Norman undergarments?’
White teeth flashed in a broad grin. ‘So it would seem.’
She blinked, her anger suddenly forgotten. She hadn’t seen him smile properly before—hadn’t thought such a thing was possible—and the effect was strangely disarming. When he smiled like that she could almost forget they were enemies. A lock of white-gold hair hung over his forehead and he appeared not to have shaved in days. The layer of stubble made him look almost Saxon.