For the first time in ten years he’d wanted to tell someone about his past, wanted to share something of himself and not just his sword arm. He’d told her the truth, the whole truth, and her reaction had taken him completely by surprise. In his experience most people despised outlaws, whether they were guilty of their crimes or not, but she hadn’t condemned him—hadn’t questioned his innocence even for a moment. She’d actually seemed angry for him, not towards him, and there had been something else too—some emotion he couldn’t quite put his finger on...something like guilt.
But what did she have to feel guilty about? More likely she’d been offended that he’d compared her to Maren, making it sound as if he didn’t trust her either.
Did he trust her?
The thought gave him pause. She was still hiding something from him. Somehow he’d hoped that by telling her about Maren she might return the favour, but if anything she’d pulled even further away. She’d surrendered to his kisses eagerly enough, but when he’d asked about her husband she’d actually looked frightened, recoiling as if his very touch had scalded. Clearly she still thought of him as her enemy, still retreated into silence when he demanded answers.
That had been a mistake. He shouldn’t have pushed her to answer. But when she’d said she hadn’t felt the same way with her husband he hadn’t been able to stop himself—had hoped for one brief, thrilling moment that there was more than just physical attraction between them, that she might care for him too.
But it was hopeless.
If there were another way...
There wasn’t. He’d lain awake most of the night, faced with a choice that was none at all. If he cared for her, he had to let her go. As a lowborn knight he couldn’t challenge the Baron, but he could hardly run away with her either. He was a landless warrior, reliant upon the King’s goodwill, with nothing of value beside a skilled sword arm. Nothing to offer any woman—especially one used to a fine hall and a wealthy husband—and he wouldn’t wish the life of an exile on anyone, wouldn’t expose her to that kind of danger. She’d be better off with de Quincey.
At least he had the comfort of knowing she’d be well treated. The Baron was an honourable man, and would take good care of her. Though if he ever found out what had happened between them he’d have his guts on a spike. Svend shrugged the thought aside. Whatever punishment the Baron might devise paled beside the thought of her marrying him. That was punishment enough.
Talbot shied slightly and he reached forward, adjusting the bridle. For a heart-stopping moment his hand brushed her wrist and he found himself wanting to grasp it, to hold tight and never let go. But he had to let go. In a few hours he had to bid her goodbye.
When had she stopped being his prisoner? he wondered. And when had he become hers?
* * *
T
hey joined the approach road to Redbourn around noon. Aediva recognised their surroundings now—had ridden this way in the past with Cille. They were on the last leg of their journey...would be there that afternoon. Soon Svend would leave her behind, riding out of her life possibly for ever.
The thought of parting from him made her feel sick to her stomach, undermining all her resolve of the previous night. In the cold light of day the last thing she wanted was to let him go. Not now—not when she’d only just realised how much she cared.
She half turned her head, trying to fix an image of him in her mind. It wasn’t so much to ask, surely? Just a few more hours in his company? Time to treasure and savour once they were parted? It wouldn’t hurt Cille. If anything, it would gain her more time. Where was the harm?
She racked her brains, trying to think of a means of stalling. She couldn’t ask him outright. If he refused she’d feel humiliated. Could she pretend to be ill again? No, she had the feeling he’d see through any pretence. How else could she persuade him?
Renard cantered alongside and she could have kissed him in gratitude.
‘The men want to know if they can remove their chainmail in this heat, sir. ’Tis not far now to Redbourn.’
Svend scanned the vale, as if scouring every tree and shrub for a trap. ‘We’re close enough, I suppose. I doubt there’ll be rebels this far south.’
‘Perhaps your men would like to bathe?’ She asked the question casually, testing his reaction.
‘Bathe? I don’t see a river.’
‘See those two streams?’ She pointed up the valley triumphantly. ‘They run into that wood. There’s an old dam where the water pools into a lake. It’s stony, but safe.’
Svend hesitated for a moment, before shaking his head. ‘We can’t keep FitzOsbern waiting any longer. He’ll be impatient enough.’
‘But this way you’ll arrive fresh.’ She batted her eyelashes, mimicking Joannka.
‘Do we smell so bad?’
His lips twitched and she felt a frisson of excitement. She’d never been able to flirt with Edmund, but somehow it felt natural with Svend—enjoyable, even. He didn’t make her feel tense and uncomfortable. He made her feel as no man ever had before...as if her body finally made sense.
She cupped a hand to her mouth, testing the limits of her power as she stretched up to whisper in his ear, gesturing towards Renard. ‘Don’t tell him how bad he smells!’
Svend heaved on his reins, changing direction so abruptly that she had to grab the sleeve of his tunic to steady herself.
‘One hour.’ His voice sounded husky.