The new arrival stalked menacingly towards them, sliding his sword from its scabbard in one slow, deliberately drawn out movement.
‘De Quincey!’ Svend stepped in front of her at once, using his body as a shield.
De Quincey? Aediva stared at him in amazement. This was him? The man her sister was supposed to marry? The man she already had a child with? In her mind she’d envisaged a monster, but this stranger was unquestionably one of the handsomest men she’d ever seen, with hooded grey eyes, a granite square jaw, almost impossibly s
ymmetrical features and a shock of dark hair.
Hair that was jet-black, just like that of Cille’s baby...
Cille... Her head was still whirling from everything Svend had told her—everything she hadn’t known about her own sister. And she cared less about any of it than she did about his behaviour. She’d tried to explain why she’d deceived him but he was still furious with her. Somehow she’d thought that he’d understand, but he seemed too angry to try. Couldn’t he see that she’d only been trying to protect Cille? Or was his pride hurt too badly?
Well, if he couldn’t understand why she’d lied then there was nothing else to say. He wasn’t the man she’d thought he was and she wasn’t going to beg for forgiveness.
‘It’s not what you think, de Quincey.’ Svend drew his own sword defensively, shifting his weight forward as he tensed for combat.
‘And what do I think?’ De Quincey’s voice was a sinister monotone. ‘Enlighten me.’
‘She’s not Cille.’
The Baron gave a disbelieving laugh. ‘Is that the best you can do?’
Aediva looked fearfully between the two men. De Quincey’s footsteps were curving ever closer towards Svend, and the tension in the room was so heavy she doubted even their weapons would be able to slice through it. Physically they were evenly matched, but she didn’t want to find out who would emerge the victor. In such a small space there would be hardly any room to swing a blade. The fight would be up close and personal, bloody and brutal. And the Baron seemed driven by an emotion more powerful than anger—something more akin to jealousy.
She felt a flicker of triumph. Apparently she made a more convincing Cille than Svend had realised. In the dim light of the tent de Quincey had truly mistaken her for her own sister.
But if she didn’t convince him otherwise there’d be bloodshed for certain.
‘Wait!’ She darted around Svend, evading his outstretched hand. She wasn’t going to risk him getting killed because of her—not when he’d just saved her life. At least this way they’d be even.
‘Get back!’ Svend’s voice was tense with fury.
She ignored him, staring down the length of de Quincey’s blade as she willed him to see the truth. ‘Look at me. I’m not Cille.’
‘What?’ The Baron stared at her for a long moment before dropping his sword to the floor, his face paling as if he’d just seen a ghost. ‘Your eyes... Who are you?’
She let out a breath of relief. ‘My name’s Aediva. Cille is my sister.’
He kept on staring at her, seemingly unable to drag his eyes from her face, though his words were addressed to Svend. ‘You told the steward... You were touching her... I thought the two of you...’ He rubbed a hand over his face suddenly. ‘Sweet mercy, I could have killed you.’
‘You could have tried.’ Svend lowered his weapon at last, throwing her a look that was part anger, part relief. ‘There’s been a misunderstanding. Lady Aediva is here on her sister’s behalf.’
‘But you found Cille? Is she all right?’
‘Yes.’ He hesitated briefly. ‘We left her a week ago.’
‘Then why isn’t she here?’
‘She’s well, but not fit enough to travel. Her sister came as a gesture of goodwill.’
‘Goodwill?’ De Quincey’s brows drew together in a thick black line. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Just that she intends to return to Redbourn as soon as she’s able.’
Aediva spun towards Svend indignantly. How could he promise that? They still didn’t know why Cille had run away—at least not for certain. What if she didn’t want to come back and marry de Quincey? How dared he simply assume?
She caught the Baron looking at her and adjusted her expression quickly. A gesture of goodwill ought not to be glaring, no matter how indignant she might feel. But he seemed distracted, his face haunted by some overpowering emotion.
‘I don’t understand what happened...’ He dropped down onto the bed suddenly. ‘Everything seemed all right when I left. I thought the problems between us were over. When they told me she’d run away I felt desperate. But I was too far away...the message had been delayed for weeks. I sent word to FitzOsbern as soon as I could.’