‘Most brides don’t need to run away in their wedding clothes.’
‘I left before I married.’ Her teeth worried her bottom lip. ‘I... I am going to become a holy maid. I had a vision.’
Sandulf tilted his head to one side. He knew little about fashion in this kingdom, but he doubted nuns wore gowns as revealing as the one Lady Ceanna wore or answered back in quite such a bold fashion.
‘Came on you suddenly, did it?’
The corner of her mouth twitched. ‘Crystal clear. Better to know before the marriage.’
Sandulf pointed towards where a large oak stood at the side of the track. The tree had become gnarled and windswept with age, but its leafy canopy would offer some semblance of shelter. Even now, Lady Ceanna’s eyes drooped with exhaustion. ‘There is a hollow in that tree. It should serve our purpose. Unless you would like to chance the rain.’
As if on cue, the rain began to lash down, pelleting them with hard wet drops.
Lady Ceanna crossed her arms. ‘Where will you shelter?’
‘Beside you. We should keep dry enough.’ He kept a carefully neutral face. ‘I promise I don’t bite unless you wish me to.’
Her back went straight and her eyes flashed fury. ‘A holy maid is a noble calling. If a holy maid says something should be protected, it is done without question, as she speaks directly to God. No one wishes to risk eternal damnation.’
Sandulf rubbed a hand against the back of his neck. ‘I’ve never forced myself on an unwilling woman and have no intention of starting with you.’
She ducked her head, hiding her expression, but he saw the redness in her cheeks. ‘Another oath, Northman?’
‘I’m more at home with warriors than holy maids.’
‘Then we will pray our acquaintance will be of short duration.’
She stalked over to the tree and sat while Sandulf collected an armful of bracken fronds which he laced over their heads for a roof.
‘It will keep the worst of the wet out,’ he said.
Ceanna eyed the makeshift structure. Already she could hear the rain starting to hammer on the fronds, but they were dry underneath. ‘I shall pray that it works.’
Vanora immediately curled up at her feet. The dog wagged her tail furiously when she realised Sandulf meant to sit next to her mistress. Sandulf sat, trying to make himself as small as possible, but their arms brushed. She moved as if he had burnt her.
She eased off her slippers. Her stockings were torn to shreds and several blisters had formed. Her gown tore even more as she leant forward to examine her foot. He frowned, but handed her the ointment he’d acquired in Constantinople.
‘A little goes far.’
‘It smells pleasant.’
‘Frankincense. Shall I assist?’
‘I can do it.’ She rapidly put some on her feet and sighed as the ointment worked its magic. ‘Thank you. They feel better already.’
He was about to ask her if she wanted any of his hard cheese when he heard a gentle snore.
Sandulf broke off a bit and gave some to the dog. ‘I’ll keep the first watch.’
Chapter Three
Ceanna woke with a start and a head swirling with confused images about broad-shouldered warriors who were willing to fight for her and protect her; who had gentle touches and cherished her. Nonsense dreams which had no business in her practical waking life.
Her hand encountered fine wool, warm and soft. Ceanna snatched it back. She froze. Her head was nestled against the crook of Sandulf’s arm. At some time in the night, rather than sleeping propped up against the oak tree as she’d planned, she had turned into his chest and now was snuggled up to him in the most intimate way possible. She started to move, but his arm tightened, pinning her against him. If she lifted her mouth even the slightest bit, her lips would brush his. The thought made her go warm all over. Her mouth tingled as if he had indeed placed his against hers. She ran her tongue over it.
His eyes flared slightly as he looked down at her, but Vanora snuffled, breaking the spell.
Ceanna rapidly scrambled away, nearly tripping over Vanora as she did so. So much for her proud declaration that she had a vocation to be a holy maid. She’d practically offered herself to him. Uninvited.
He stretched his arms above his head. In the early morning light, his muscles rippled, making her more aware than ever of their close proximity. ‘You’re awake. Excellent.’
Ceanna swallowed hard, unable to rid herself of the knowledge that he knew where and how she’d been sleeping and that it amused him. Amused him. The thought was like a bucket of cold water poured over her head. He wasn’t interested in her, not in that way. Men never were. They were interested in the dowry she could bring to their marriage, rather than her limited charms. ‘I slept soundly.’
‘You snored.’ At her look, a dimple creased his cheek. ‘A solitary snuffle and very soft at that.’
‘I forgot to do my beatitudes.’ She screwed up her eyes and rapidly recited the various sayings she’d sworn to remember. ‘There, that is all. Oh, and remember to put ointment on my feet.’
She belatedly crossed herself and gave thanks. Holy maids were supposed to speak to God, rather than making lists.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Going over yesterday so that I can make today better.’ She rolled her neck and arms, trying to remove the pins and needles from how she’d spent the night. ‘I normally say them at night while I plan how my next day will go. I like the certainty of knowing what to expect.’
‘Sometimes it is best to adapt and let things evolve.’
‘My feet are not as sore as they were last night. It is amazing how restorative a
