“I shall ask the king to send his physician,” he said, reverting to her language as if realizing conversing with the usurper in Norman-French contributed to her fatigue.
Tears of gratitude pricking her eyes, Vilda said, “Nay, this is fatigue only, easily remedied by rest.”
He looked uncertain but released her. “Then I will leave you to it.”
She knew she should slip into her chamber and seek sleep so complete she would miss the turning of the key when the squire came to secure her inside, but she said, “You will be gone when I awaken, back to the Fens and…”
“Aye, I will return there and do my duty to my liege.”
She smiled sorrowfully. “Do you truly believe the fall of Ely will end Saxon resistance?”
“That is the hope. Granted, time and again it meets with disappointment, but if our two peoples are to share this kingdom, a relationship must be forged—one at least tolerable to both sides—and that cannot happen until resistance ends.”
Peace between Saxons and Normans…reconciled enemies living and working alongside one another… Was it possible after all her people had suffered?
“We have good cause to hate this war more than you,” she said, “so much that resistance might end were we assured what came before will not come after, if atrocities like that which I…”
Regret deepened the lines in Guy’s face that was young enough most had to have been gained from exposure to the elements, which was as much a part of daily life for an active warrior as a tiller of the soil. “I am sorry for what happened to you and your people that day, Lady. Some say assaults on innocents are simply part of war—the spoils of victors not only in search of coin but vengeance for their own losses—but I know it is wrong.”
Tears burned. “I thank you,” she said, then reminded of what he had somehow rendered less unbearable, asked, “What threat did you make against Sir Roul?”
She thought he might refute having done so, but he said, “I saw him slip outside last eve and followed. We exchanged words, during which I encouraged him to tell the truth that caused you to strike him with a platter. When he seemed receptive, we parted ways. I did not expect him to be as truthful as he was, and since his remorse seemed genuine, it is possible he would have been so without inducement. Regardless, you were spared punishment.”
Feeling a different hurt now, as if that in her head had moved to her heart, she said, “I do not understand why you concern yourself with me, but I am more grateful than I ought to be.”
He raised his eyebrows, and when that alluring mouth curved, she answered his unspoken question with too little thought. “I hardly know myself when I am around you.” Regret was immediate, giving rise to shame that warmed her as if she had made a declaration of love.
“As I can attest, that is a most unsettling feeling,” he said.
She stared. It had to be another of whom he spoke—the beautiful Elan Pendery lost to Harwolfson. But then why did his eyes lower to her mouth? Why did he step nearer?
A sting in one palm alerting her she had pressed her hands to the door behind, she guessed a splinter had slid beneath her skin, but she remained unmoving and whispered, “Chevalier?”
He raised his eyes. Glimpsing what appeared disbelief as if he were also surprised to find himself contemplating intimacy, to save both further discomfort, she said lightly, “Did I not know better, I might believe you truly tempted, Sir Guy. Now, I wish you Godspeed.”
It surprised when he did not draw back to provide space for her to turn, and she startled when he raised a hand to her jaw and drew calloused fingers to her chin. “You do not know better, Alvilda,” he eschewed her title. “I am tempted.”
Her heart beat faster, and when he touched his thumb to lips that parted, once more she felt the weak in her legs. The ache in her head was present as well, but she did not care. Tilting her face higher, she said, “I do not understand what this is, Guy.”
He smiled as if pleased she was as familiar with his given name. “Naught else I shall ask of you but a kiss. May I?”
She moistened her lips, and when she gave no answer, he lowered his head further.
This Norman provides time to refuse, she told herself as his nose brushed hers. You ought to, Vilda of the Saxons.
“May I try your lips, Alvilda?”
She searched his eyes, and though part of her hoped to see the predator there, the greater part was rewarded by its absence. “Vilda,” she breathed. “Ask Vilda.”
Breath fanning her mouth, he said, “May I try your lips, Vilda?”
“Pray do, Guy.” Then her hands came off the door, splayed on his chest, and slid upward.
When his mouth closed over hers with an intensity never experienced, her own kisses having been brief before she wed and one slightly longer after the vows, she gripped handfuls of his tunic and could not have said if it was she who drew him to her or he pulled her to him. Had she said anything, it would have been to ask him to show her more of what she knew only from stumbling on others locked in embraces. But no words were needed.
As if she was what he wanted, he deepened the kiss, and one hand at her waist slid inward and up her back—gently kneading muscles and lightly trailing her spine.
Is it supposed to feel like this? she pondered. So wondrous my body forgets all other aches save this one? Is this what makes harlots of women and
