The Conqueror (Hot Knights) (9 page)

Very deliberately, Edeva looked at his groin.

He made a low noise, a sound of hunger barely mastered. Then he pushed her onto the bed and climbed up beside her, his eyes like pools of desire. “You know not what you ask for,” he said.

He bent over her, his hands suddenly rough as he pushed her thighs apart. Edeva gasped as he touched the part of her that yearned and pulsed the most. She closed her eyes as he stoked the fire there, his fingers parting and fondling her. Helplessly, she moaned. It seemed the more he caressed her, the more she wanted. Her hips shifted restively.

She tried not to think how wanton she must appear. How wet and eager.

His provoking fingers changed position, and when she opened her eyes, his face was near hers. He leaned closer and teased her lips with his tongue even as he used his hand to tantalize her lower regions. Then his lips slanted hard across hers and his tongue invaded her mouth as he slipped a finger deep into her silky wetness.

The shocking sensation of him penetrating her body both soothed her and drove her to madness. Her hips pushed violently against him, seeking some perfect magic position that would fulfill her.

His thumb found the top of her cleft and supplied the miracle she sought. Waves of heated pleasure drenched her. She writhed and twisted, falling into dazzling sensation.

She was barely aware of his fingers leaving her and then pressure, impossible pressure as he fitted his shaft against her opening. He thrust deep, and Edeva gave a cry of surprise and pain.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

She stared up at the ceiling, wondering if anything could have prepared her for the feel of his big shaft deep inside her.

He lay quiet, letting her catch her breath, then he began to move. A rhythm she fought against, wincing at each thrust, then gradually giving way. Her body stretched, adjusted. The discomfort turned to a nagging pang and then spiraled into a familiar longing. Each time he moved inside her, she felt a twinge of pleasure. The twinges grew to something more. A great heaving energy.

He raised himself above her, neck arched and straining. His eyes were closed and his hair poured over his shoulders like blood. She reached up to stroke his chest and urge him on. Then she clutched his upper arms and closed her eyes, finding her own release.

He collapsed onto her, sweating and panting. “Sweet heaven,” he whispered. She caressed his back, feeling a remarkable sense of fulfillment.

After a moment, he rolled away. He lay panting a moment, then leaned on his hip and regarded her, his eyes a pale, shining green. “What a wench you are, Edeva. I vow there is fire in your veins. And you have burned me to a cinder.”

She basked in his admiring gaze a moment, then slowly grew uncomfortable as the languorous heat of her passion ebbed away and the implications of what she had done struck her.

God help her. She had lain with her enemy. Passionately. Wantonly.

A kind of numb horror replaced her feeling of contentment. She started to get out of bed. He caught her wrist. “Rest now,” he said.

She pulled away. “I must see to the evening meal... I must... there are many things I must do.”

When she stood up, she felt the wetness of his seed between her thighs. Dread afflicted her as she realized that he might have planted a babe in her womb.

She hurried to get her clothes, desperate to get away from him. Away from the shameful thing she had done.

He sat up on the bed. “Let me help you wash.”

“Nay! I’ll wash later, after I have seen to things below.”

She jerked on her gunna, not bothering with her shift or stockings, then jammed her feet in her shoes and fled the room.

Jobert stared after the woman, frowning. What had come over Edeva, that she ran from the bedchamber as if demons were in pursuit? Did she really regret what they had done that much?

Well, she’d had no doubts earlier. Never had he bedded a woman so responsive, so eager. Indeed, he had not even realized a woman could be like that, had not imagined they might be made that way. The females he encountered previously had been of two kinds, either bored and businesslike harlots, eager to have him finish so they could collect their payment, or pure, untouchable virgins like Damaris.

Edeva was different. Her desire seemed as strong as his, her release as uncontrollable. ’Twas a revelation that a woman’s craving for lovemaking could be as intense as a man’s.

But Edeva’s boldness was mixed with a confusing sort of innocence. She had been a virgin, touchingly new to the wonders of sex, and he had hurt her with his lack of control. He had not meant to, ’twas simply he was so aroused by her uninhibited release that he could not hold back in seeking his own.

He winced as he remembered her cry of pain. He’d promised to be gentle, but she’d taken him so by surprise. From her thrilling acquiescence when he first kissed her to the ease with which she allowed him to undress her—he’d been so keenly, wonderingly aware that she wanted him.

Or her body had. Her mind and heart might be another matter. Mayhaps that was why she could not wait to get away from him. Though she desired him, she still saw him as her enemy.

Jobert rose from the bed, discomfited by his thoughts. He had not meant to get so involved with this woman. He’d rescued her out of pity, and then later realized that her help was essential if he meant to fulfill his plans for Oxbury. But things between them seemed to grow more complicated by the day. Now he had bedded her and discovered exactly what he feared—that he felt things for Edeva that he’d sworn never to allow himself to feel again.

Casting an uneasy glance at the bed, Jobert began to dress.

T
wo red-and-white oxen stamped and paced in the corner of the yard, bellowing anxiously. A short distance away, a newly butchered animal hung from a scaffold, its blood draining into a huge pot, while axes thudded as workmen chopped brushwood to stoke the cooking fires. Near the kitchen shed, women armed with cleavers and knives cut up the meat, while other servants pursued the unpleasant task of cleaning the animals’ entrails to make casings for sausages.

Edeva moved through the noisy, chaotic atmosphere giving directions. She had already overseen the mixing of spices to season the sausages and tasted the salty brine that would be used to preserve most of the meat. Now she must make certain the bones were kept to boil down for soup stock, the hides carefully stripped and the sinews saved for bow strings. Nothing would go to waste if she could help it.

She’d been able to persuade several of the villagers to come to the palisade and help with the butchering. Although they were obviously uncomfortable around the Normans, at least they no longer cowered in terror at the sight of them. Two of the sokemen had even agreed to allow their daughters to live at the manor house and help Edeva with the weaving and sewing during the winter months.

She scanned the yard for the two young women now, remembering her promise to their parents to keep them safe. Eadelm would be no trouble. She was stocky and plain, with a cheerful moonface and lank brown hair. The knights would not bother her. But Wulfget... As she caught sight of the girl, dutifully mixing the sausage spices, Edeva sighed. Wulfget was a rare beauty, with a delicate, almost fragile build, huge blue eyes and hair paler than cornsilk. Edeva had already caught the knights staring at the maiden, then talking among themselves in low voices.

Mayhaps she should send Wulfget back to her family and ask for another village girl to train. But that did not seem right. Wulfget’s beauty was no fault of hers. Edeva would simply have to keep a close eye on her—and make certain Brevrienne controlled his men.

The Norman was busy at the butchering pen, holding the animals’ heads while another man cut their throats. ’Twas exhausting, messy work. His face gleamed with sweat, and his ancient hose and ripped chainse were stained nearly as red as his hair.

Despite his dishevelment, Edeva could not glance his way without a shiver of longing coursing down her body. She could not forget what they’d done in the bedchamber two days past, nor how it had felt.

Since then, she had gone out of her way to avoid him. She slept downstairs with the other women and spoke to him only when necessary. Which was actually quite often. Planning for the butchering required they converse at length on several occasions. It had been torture, but she had managed to get through it with her dignity intact. She simply reminded herself that he was her enemy, and she cooperated with him only for the sake of her people.

Fortunately, he had said nothing regarding that fateful afternoon. His manner continued to be courteous and respectful, giving no hint of the intimacy they had shared. She blessed him for his discretion, but also wondered what it meant. Had their lovemaking meant nothing more to him than a release of sexual tension?

Of course that’s all it was, for her as well. They had both acted like animals, but it changed naught of the circumstances between them. They were still foes. Nothing could alter that.

“Milady, do we have any more casks?” Beornflaed’s voice awoke Edeva from her musings. She gaped at the cook, realizing the crucial thing she had forgotten. “The meat won’t be ready for several days,” Beornflaed added, “but I thought we should plan for how much we will salt.”

“Mother of God,” Edeva cried. She turned and ran toward the storage buildings.

Panting, she finally reached the small stone structure that was used as the buttery. She peered into the low-ceilinged chamber, then found a stick and propped the door open so the light from the outdoors shone in.

The air of the buttery was ripe with the sour smell of the rounds of curing cheese piled on shelves around the chamber. Edeva brushed past flitches of bacon hanging from the ceiling and carefully stepped around large jars of honey. Behind the spare butter churn and a broken vat, she found a dozen wooden casks. “Not enough,” she whispered. The sinking feeling inside her deepened.

She hastened back to the buttery entrance, slammed the door closed, and began to search the other buildings.

When she was climbing out of the root cellar she saw the Norman’s tall form looming at the top of the stairs.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “I saw you running off, but no one knew where you’d gone.”

She shook her head, still breathless from her exertions. “We don’t have enough barrels.” She felt near tears to think that after all her careful planning she had overlooked something so important. “I’ve found two dozen in all. Already, we’ve enough meat soaking in brine to fill those, and there are more cattle to butcher.”

Her words triggered a sudden thought, and she took off running again. She called over her shoulder to the Norman, “Hurry, we must stop them before they kill the last few animals.”

“Why?” He ran along beside her, his long stride matching two steps of hers.

“Because the meat will be wasted,” she gasped. “We don’t have enough barrels to store it in.”

“Can’t the workmen make more?”

Edeva shook her head in exasperation. “The wood slats must be cured before they are fitted together. ’Twould be several weeks before the casks were ready. In the meantime, much of the meat will rot.”

They reached the yard. The absence of lowing animals told Edeva that they were too late. She came to a halt and sighed. She had imagined she was being so efficient, remembering every detail of the butchering process.”

“’Tis not the end of the world,” the Norman said. “We could always kill more of the pigs and cure their meat in the smokehouse. Bacon will fill our bellies as well as beef.”

“But the waste.” The Norman’s patient understanding distressed her all the more. How could she have been so stupid?

“We’ll not let the meat go uneaten,” the Norman said. “We’ll have a feast and dine like kings. Invite all the villagers, anyone who wishes to come.”

She stared at him.

He shrugged. “I’ve been seeking a means to let your countrymen know I am not cruel or unjust, that if they will work for me, I’ll treat them fairly. A feast would be the perfect means.”

She did not know what to say. Never had she imagined the Norman would do something like this. ’Twas beyond generous. Even her father had only held a feast at Yule.

“I’ll go tell the men to leave the last two animals whole for roasting.” He strode off, back into the commotion. Edeva gaped after him.

The Norman was a constant surprise. The manor was already better off for his stewardship. Her brothers would never have concerned themselves with something so mundane and messy as butchering, yet the Norman dove into the task, unafraid to dirty his hands or to sully his dignity working side-by-side with servants.

She glanced at him now, watching him use his formidable body and exceptional strength to help drag a whole carcass across the yard. The muscles in his arms bunched and rippled, his broad shoulders strained beneath the sweat-soaked chainse, and his long hair swirled around his face like a vivid banner.

Her turmoil deepened. The Norman was always doing things that met with her approval, even admiration. How could she despise him when he showed himself to be reasonable and fair? How could she hate him when he did so many things to win her regard?

Of course, she did not hate him. That was the problem. She was fast learning to like the Norman, or even, dare she think it, falling in love with him.

She was a traitor to her people. Only a weak, malleable woman would allow her loyalty to be suborned so easily. She must remember her duty.

She stoked the old hatred as the Norman approached. He smiled at her, his teeth very white in his blood-stained countenance. “Do not fret,” he said. “I have marked the animals we will roast for the feast. When this is finished, we will all celebrate, Saxon and Norman.” He reached out and touched her face, wiping at some streak of dirt on her cheek. His green eyes glowed with lazy warmth.

Edeva froze as heated memories whirled through her brain. The Norman saw her distress and withdrew his hand. “I think they need you for the sausage-making. Why don’t you go see to it?”

She nodded jerkily and left him.

Edeva walked along the pathway that ran behind the scattering of daub and wattle dwellings. From here she could see the gardens and backsheds of the villagers. The gardens were now bare dark squares, covered with refuse from the middens to enrich the soil for next year’s planting. Here and there a goat was tethered to a stick or a few chickens pecked in the dirt, but most of the other livestock had been slaughtered. The villagers knew there was often not enough corn to keep both beasts and people through the winter.

As she started toward the forest, she saw a yellow striped cat moving among the tall, dry grasses edging the common pasture. It ignored Edeva as she passed by, and she wished it well in its pursuit of mice and other vermin. They could do with more cats in the palisade, she decided, to protect their store of grain. She would have to ask around the village to see if any of them knew of any recently born kittens. If she transferred the cats to the manor while young, they would probably make their homes there.

But that task would have to wait for another day. She’d already been gone from the palisade long enough. When the Norman had asked her to personally extend his invitation to the villagers to come for the feast, she’d jumped at the chance to walk out in the fresh air and smell the crisp scents of autumn. To her surprise, he had not asked the young soldier, Rob, to accompany her, but allowed her to walk down to the village alone.

Her news about the feast had been greeted with wariness. Many of the villagers were concerned that they might not be allowed to leave once they had entered the palisade. Did she trust the Norman? they asked her.

Edeva had reassured them, telling them that she had seen the Norman do nothing deceitful or unjust since the hangings. She even mentioned Brevrienne’s remark that he wanted them to know he would treat them fairly if they did their duty.

The villagers nodded and whispered among themselves. Then one of the men had asked her if she was going to wed with the Norman.

The question caught her completely off-guard. Her face grew flushed and hot, and she had mumbled something about having no say in the matter.

That had angered them, and before she knew it, the villagers were debating whether they should go to the Norman’s feast if he would not do the proper thing and wed with their lady.

Exasperated, Edeva had finally told them that nothing was decided yet, and that if they were wise they would show good faith by coming to the feast. They would eat well, she told them. The Norman was roasting not one, but two oxen for the meal. The promise of fresh, rich food distracted the villagers. By the time she left the common, there was no more talk of her wedding the Norman.

But the whole incident had aggravated her already frazzled nerves and she’d decided to take a walk before returning to the palisade.

She moved briskly now down the pathway toward the river, trying to quell her unsettled thoughts. God in heaven, she was having enough trouble recalling that the Norman was her enemy without the villagers suggesting she wed with him! Did they truly expect her to share the bed of a man who had seized her home and killed her countrymen? To forget her brothers, living like outlaws in the woods?

Of course, there was the fact that she had already given the Norman her maidenhead. Willingly. Eagerly.

Her face grew hot. There was no excuse for what she had done. Raw lust and jealousy over Golde had driven her into the Norman’s arms. And there was no way to take back what she had done.

In truth, the villagers were probably right. She should wed with the Norman. If he would have her.

Which was questionable. He thought her a hellcat, a virago, and now probably a slut. What man would want to wed a woman like that?

Edeva was so deep in thought, she did not see the man standing among the trees until he stepped forward and called her name.

“Beornwold!”

“Aye, little sister.” His voice was harsh with mockery. “I’m surprised you recognize me. It seems you have spent the last few weeks making every effort to forget your kin.”

Edeva said nothing. Although she had not forgotten her brothers, she had failed them in other ways.

Beornwold moved closer. “The time draws near when you can aid us. I have come from the village, which is all abuzz with the news that the Norman bastard means to hold a feast. ’Tis clever of him to try to win their loyalty through their bellies, but I mean to turn his plan our way.”

Beornwold smiled, but it was a bitter expression and did little to soften the grim lines marring his handsome face. “The Norman says he welcomes all Saxons to his table. ’Twould be easy for a group of warriors to enter the palisade, pretending to be sokemen.”

Edeva’s blood ran cold as she saw the direction of Beornwold’s thoughts. “Your plan is too risky,” she said. “The Normans still outnumber you greatly. And your weapons are inferior, your armor nothing compared to theirs.”

Beornwold moved even nearer. “But we have an advantage, Edeva. We have you. With your aid, we have a chance.”

“What?” Edeva asked breathlessly. “What do you want me to do?”

“Cause a distraction to keep all the Normans occupied in the hall. Once the doorway is blocked, ’twill be easy to pick them off.”

Edeva was horrified. “There will be women and children inside! How can you think of involving them in a battle?”

Beornwold’s blue eyes grew hard. “’Tis war, Edeva. We will try to spare those of our own, but if a few perish, it cannot be helped. This is our only chance. The only way we can regain Oxbury.”

“Nay,” Edeva whispered. “I will not help you. I will not be part of this.”