That last disturbed, but as she tried to come back to herself, his fingers pushed into her hair. When he pressed their tips to her scalp, her own hands did as they wished, going around his neck and into his hair to hold his head near.
“Vilda,” he groaned and slid his mouth off hers and over her cheek to her ear. “Vilda.”
She had not thought she could be nearer him, but his arm around her waist tightened, leaving only enough space to draw shallow breaths. As long as she could hold to this feeling of being precious as she had not felt to anyone since the death of her grandsire, she needed no more, she assured herself. And a moment later found herself supported by the door again. No arm around her nor hands in her hair, she opened her eyes on the warrior before her.
Not only had he set her back, but he stood out of reach, and from his face shone regret as ought to be upon hers. Though it occurred she should don an expression even greater than regret—perhaps outrage—her pride would have to suffer since it would require too much effort to feign innocence, especially with the return of fatigue and ache.
When he thrust a hand back through his hair, she saw it was disheveled—by her as was her hair by him, the weight of one braid draping her shoulder still felt, the other loosed. Then there was the shift of the tunic off her shoulder, exposing the homespun gown beneath.
Imagining she looked wanton, recalling her scorn for Theta, and longing to lighten the moment, she said, “Oh, my my me, what have we done, Sir Guy?”
Having settled his hand at the base of his neck, he dropped it to his side. “Forgive me. I should not have done that.”
“We should not have done that,” she corrected. “Not only is it unseemly behavior, but despite the kindness and consideration shown me, you are and shall remain my enemy as I remain yours.” She tugged up the tunic’s shoulder. “And even were neither of those obstacles, still it would be wrong, for I am not her.”
He frowned. “What say you?”
Surely he knew she referred to his broken betrothal. Surely he did not need her to point out this Saxon possessed a plain face, and though her figure was nothing to be ashamed of, it was sturdy unlike what he must be accustomed to—delicacy that, shaken by the currents of adversity, required a man’s arms to relieve the burden of carrying light bones and slight muscles.
Though more greatly feeling the weight of her own, Vilda straightened from the door. “Just as I am not a Norman but a Saxon noblewoman—and that in name only since what remains of my nobility is but dust in the corners—I have no wish to be Elan Pendery.”
His frown deepened. “I did not say you were, Lady, nor did I think it.”
Of course he who reverted to her title would not entertain such a relationship with her. But was that not the point? That what they had done was wrong in the absence of commitment regardless of how stout the wall between them?
He set a hand on his sword’s pommel, and she knew soon he would be gone and all he would recall of what should not have happened was regret also to be forgotten. “Regardless, you are right to remind me of your place and mine,” he said. “Now I leave you.” He bowed and strode the corridor.
When he went from sight, Vilda closed herself in the chamber and, dropping to the mattress, acknowledged that were she to attempt an escape, there could be no better opportunity than this and it would not last long.
Still, she was face down when boots sounded, remained face down when the door opened to confirm she was within, turned her head to the side as the door closed, and sank into sleep when the click of the lock ensured she could not behave more recklessly than already done this day.
It was not merely admiration for her strength that made him exceedingly aware of the beat of his heart. It was not only fear for her well-being that jolted what ought to remain still in the cage of his ribs. It was not all sympathy for her plight that softened what was best hardened. He was exceedingly attracted to Vilda.
And that is not all, he silently admitted as he and his men rode toward night in the east while what remained of day passed overhead. Accept it, Guy, and once more you will know yourself well. Reject it, and you shall have no defenses at the ready should you find yourself alone again with one who professed to hardly know herself in your company.
Closing his eyes, he saw her again and heard her express kindred feeling that had further drawn him to her as he should not have allowed lest it prove as dangerous—if not more—than foregoing the opportunity to prevent Princess Margaret from becoming Queen of Scotland.
Then came memories of what followed after she granted him permission to be familiar with her name and intimate with her mouth. Suppressed emotions once more rising, Guy returned his gaze to fairly level ground that, in places, would become perilous as they neared Ely.
He tried to immerse himself in the landscape and all that must be accomplished in preparation for the next siege, which he feared was being rushed the same as the first so sooner William could turn his attention elsewhere, but to no avail. As if once more Vilda perched on the fore of his saddle, she distracted him. Though he was able to push aside memories of their kiss and his hands on her and hers on him, he saw her where he had set her back against the door—garments askew, hair mussed as if from a night of troubled sleep, lips brightly flushed and slightly swollen.
She was no beauty, but in
