She felt her resolve weaken. Why did he have to look so heart-stoppingly attractive? More like a carefree youth than a battle-hardened commander? She didn’t know which alarmed her more—the fact that he was smiling or that her heart appeared to be doing somersaults in her chest.
She remembered to breathe at last. Clearly the illness had affected her nerves. ‘And where is Bertrand’s dress now?’
‘Ah.’ Svend rubbe
d his hands together, brushing away crumbs. ‘You were extremely feverish. After a while it simply became easier to change your blankets than your wet clothes.’
‘My wet—!’
He raised a hand in mock gallantry. ‘No need to be embarrassed. Even Norman ladies sweat.’
She glared at him, fuming inwardly. He thought this was funny! He was enjoying her humiliation. How could she ever have kissed him?
And yet someone had nursed her back to health...someone with caring blue eyes utterly unlike the ones mocking her now. But if it wasn’t him, then who?
‘I suppose I should thank someone for taking care of me?’ she asked vaguely.
‘You should—though I doubt that you will.’
She bit back a retort. ‘Renard, I suppose?’
He regarded her steadily for a moment before standing up, his lips set in a tight, thin line. ‘Who else? The lad was worried about you.’
She felt an unexpected twinge of disappointment. ‘Well, please give him my thanks.’
‘You can thank him yourself soon enough. I see your illness hasn’t affected your manners.’
* * *
Svend made a stiff bow and strode away, determined to put as much distance between them as possible. She was ungrateful—as ungrateful as Maren had ever been! Even if she looked so much like a Saxon wildcat, wide-eyed and tousle-haired, lips still full and pouting from sleep, that it had taken all his self-control not to lie her back down again.
So he’d gone in on the offensive and deliberately made her angry. After what had happened between them in the meadow he’d had no choice. He should never have kissed her—had had no right to touch her at all—but he hadn’t been able to stop himself. He’d been too relieved that she was safe...his blood had still been hot and pumping from the chase. She’d infuriated him, but then she’d said that she’d been trying to protect him...
The words had caught him off guard. When was the last time anyone had cared enough to want to protect him? So long that he couldn’t remember. Desire had rendered him powerless.
He stormed furiously back up the ridge. It was typical of her to wake up now! He’d barely left her side for days, but his men were bored and irritable, in need of some physical exertion to distract them. After her fever had broken in the night, he’d known that she was out of danger. But of course she assumed that Renard had nursed her! Did she ever miss a chance to think ill of him?
As for her clothes—surely she understood that he’d had to undress her? He’d have done the same for anyone. And he’d truly done his best not to look...even with her shift clinging so tightly to her skin as to have been almost transparent. When he’d imagined undressing her it certainly hadn’t been like that. He’d been trying to save her life, dammit! He could hardly have asked one of his men to do it. Under the circumstances, it had had to be him.
Even if it definitely should not have been.
He snatched up a sword and charged back into the fighting, trying to concentrate on the swing of the blade. Bertrand ran towards him and he darted quickly to the left, then switched sides again, pretending to aim for a high blow before sweeping his arm down to swipe the backs of his legs.
She was just like Maren—throwing his help back in his face!
A massive arm swung towards him and he ducked, spinning away and then quickly back again, thrusting his dagger up and under Bertrand’s shield until he conceded.
Maren. He hadn’t thought of her in so long that her face—that smooth oval he’d once thought so perfect—was no more than a blurred and indistinct memory. Barely a day went by that he didn’t think of his lost homeland, but his reason for leaving was long buried. What had brought her to mind now?
He accepted a fresh challenge and circled absently around his new opponent, twirling his sword in his hand as he considered the question.
Were they alike, Cille and Maren? He racked his brains. Maren’s hair had been red—a cascade of copper-coloured spirals. And her eyes...green like the sea. Beautiful and enticing, but empty and cold. Whereas Cille’s... Her eyes were so deep he felt he’d barely skimmed the surface. Except when they’d kissed. Then they’d been warm and vulnerable, shining like molten gold, beautiful and beguiling and utterly impossible to resist.
She’d kissed him back—he was sure of it. He hadn’t imagined her gasp of surrender or the way her hands had coiled around his neck, pulling her up towards him as if she’d wanted him as much as he had wanted her. She’d responded to his touch like an instrument, perfectly in tune, more sensual and desirable than any woman he’d ever known. Wildcat she might be, but something about her called out to him—not just to his body, but to a deeper, buried part, one he thought he’d sealed off for ever. Just thinking about her made his groin tighten and his blood heat anew.
He lunged forward, trying to banish the memory of full soft lips, battering his opponent’s shield with a flurry of hard, punishing blows.
No, they weren’t alike in appearance, Cille and Maren. So what was it about one that reminded him so vividly of the other? Half-buried memories tugged at the edge of his consciousness, tantalisingly close but elusive. There was something about Cille...something he couldn’t quite put his finger on—a nagging intuition that something about her was...not wrong, exactly, but not right either. As if the real woman were hiding behind a mask. She was a phantom, in truth, impossible to pin down or decipher. Who was she? The woman who’d kissed him or the woman who’d pushed him away? What was she hiding?