She nodded happily, still grasping his sleeve as they entered the wood.
His soldiers were charging towards the lake in a stampede of hooves and catcalls, stripping off their armour and tunics barely before they’d leapt from their horses, splashing into the glassy water like a herd of thirsty cattle.
Aediva averted her face, blushing furiously. The prospect of quite so many naked Normans had never occurred to her. She’d been thinking of only one.
‘I don’t want anyone getting cramp!’ Svend shouted above the clamour. ‘Renard, keep an eye on them! Bertrand, take lookout!’
He dismounted and took hold of the destrier’s reins, leading him away from the uproar to the furthest end of the lake, where the trees were thickest, blocking out the sounds of shouts and splashing. The pool here formed an almost perfect oval, its water clear and inviting.
‘You’ll have to excuse my men,’ he commented drily, reaching up to help her dismount. ‘They’re not accustomed to travelling with ladies.’
‘I noticed.’
She slid into his arms, her cheeks still red with embarrassment. His gambeson gaped open at the neck and her gaze fell upon a jagged scar between his chest and his shoulder. She hadn’t noticed it before, but the collarbone protruded outwards beneath, as if it had been broken and reset badly. She stared at it distractedly. He seemed vulnerable suddenly, less like a Norman and more like any other man.
‘What’s this?’ Without thinking, she pushed the leather aside, tracing the line of the scar with her fingertips.
‘An old injury.’
‘What happened?’ Her fingers stroked the length of the bone. She was surprised by the soft texture of his skin. She would have expected a warrior to be rough and callused, but he felt silky smooth.
‘I fell out of a hayloft when I was ten.’
‘That’s not very heroic. You should say it’s a battle scar at least.’
His hands were still clasping her waist, but she didn’t pull away. No one could see them. They were surrounded by trees, and his destrier made a surprisingly effective screen. Slowly her fingers traced their way back to the point of the bone. It must have hurt when it had happened. Somehow she wanted to make it better. Instinctively she leaned forward, pressing her lips against the scar.
‘Cille...’
He groaned and she jerked her head back guiltily.
‘Did I hurt you?’
His eyes fell on hers with a look that was part desire, part amusement. His eyes were so clearly, blindingly blue that they seemed to mirror the lake beside them. Her stomach lurched, filled with a thousand fluttering butterflies. No, she hadn’t hurt him. She was close enough to feel the effect of her kiss pressing forcefully between them.
Svend cleared his throat and moved away, looking towards the lake as if nothing had happened. ‘Do you want to swim?’
‘I...yes...perhaps.’ She forced herself to sound light-hearted, as if she hadn’t just noticed the evidence of his desire pushing between her legs. ‘There’s a small pool below. No one will see.’
She walked away quickly, following the path that led to the dam, peeking back over her shoulder just in time to see Svend’s feet vanish beneath the surface of the water. She stared at the ripples, then saw him emerge ten feet further out, swimming away from her with long, practised strokes.
Could she tell him the truth?
She pushed the thought away, concentrating instead on her footing as she climbed down the side of the dam. The water levels were high where the edge dropped away suddenly, pouring over the rock in a smooth cascade into the smaller pool below.
She clambered down carefully, sighing with relief as she dropped out of sight of the others. It felt good to be alone, to be herself again however briefly. She felt as if she’d been holding her breath for days.
Could she tell him who she really was?
No! She kicked off her shoes and stepped into the shallow water. It tickled her feet, luxuriously cool and so crystal-clear she could see the sandy floor beneath. Hoisting her dress around her knees, she wandered further in, letting the water lap around her thighs. After the heat of the day the ripples felt like gentle caresses.
With a quick glance around, she pulled her dress over her shoulders, letting her body slide under the water. Then she lay back, listening to the bubble of water in her ears, trying to shut out her thoughts along with her senses. A willow was draped over the edge of the pool, its wispy tendrils swaying gently in the current, and a robin hopped along one of the branches, bobbing its head as if studying her. She smiled. Saxon or Norman, some things didn’t change. If only she could be as free.
Could she tell him the truth?
She kicked her feet in frustration. Had the fever addled her brain? Even if she could trust him, how could she tell him now, after what he’d said about Maren?
On the other hand, how could she not? He wasn’t Edmund. After everything he’d done for her, didn’t she owe him the truth? He’d shown he could be trusted. If she kept on deceiving him then she was truly no better than Maren. And at least if she told him the truth herself there was a chance he might forgive her. Whereas if he found out on his own...