Margo Maguire (22 page)

As the sun rose, he was able to spur the horse to a faster pace, following the trail with much more ease. The Danes were overconfident. They had not taken care to cover their trail, certain they’d left no one alive in the Norman camp. Mathieu was going to use their arrogant attitude against them, and slip Aelia out of their grasp before they knew she was gone.

A
elia’s brutal captor pulled her off his horse and shoved her to the ground, laughing and shouting to the others. They had stopped only once during the night’s long ride, and that was to salvage Aelia from the river they’d crossed so recklessly in the faint light of a washed out moon.

She had let herself fall into the rushing water, hardly caring whether or not she survived. ’Twas pointless to go on, only to become a slave to these barbaric Danes. Mathieu was dead, and Osric, too. They’d killed every one of the Normans in camp.

To her great dismay, one of the Danes had hauled her out of the water. And now she was to become their sport.

They were at the base of a steep incline, with high cliffs all around them. One of the Danes yawned and stretched, then began to gather wood for a fire.

Aelia tried to scramble away into the nearby trees, but one of her captors grabbed her.

“Where do you think I would go?” she demanded indignantly. She shook off his hand, crossed her arms
over her chest and continued speaking, even though she knew they could not understand her words. Perhaps they would be able to grasp her intention. “I require a few minutes privacy, you swine.”

“Swine?” One of the men scowled down at her.

“Privacy.”

Aelia turned and walked a short distance into the woods, indifferent to whatever they might say or do to her. But the Danes just laughed and allowed her to leave.

She felt numb. Hollow inside.

She had told Mathieu of her love, and when he’d spoken of her to Raoul, he’d called her his slave. His mistress.

With tears in her eyes, she tripped over a rock and fell, landing hard on the heels of her hands. She did not get up, but remained where she lay, curled upon the ground.

Aelia’s love for Mathieu had not changed, in spite of what he’d said to Raoul. She could not bear to think of his death at the hands of the barbarians who awaited her. Nor could she allow herself to consider what had happened to Osric.

She heard them coming for her, and decided she would never submit. They might violate her body, but she was going to see that each of them suffered for it, and for the slaughter of the Norman soldiers, of Osric…of Mathieu.

She picked up a rock that fit in the palm of her hand, and slipped it into her bodice. Then she searched for a twig or small branch with a sharp end. They’d taken her knife, but she was not going to be entirely defenseless when they confronted her.

Two of the brutes came for her, taking hold of her
arms and pulling her back to the place where the others waited, their horses unsaddled and tethered, and a fire burning. The small clearing resembled the kind of area where Mathieu established camp when they stopped each night, with a fire blazing in the center. But instead of laying out blankets and food, these men opened their packs and dumped out the contents near the fire.

They were clearly pleased with the goods they’d looted. Cups of silver, bronze bowls embedded with jewels, necklaces, daggers…and Aelia knew she was part of the spoils. The Danes pawed through their booty, laughing and shouting to each other. They repacked their stolen goods, tossing their packs aside when Aelia came into their midst.

When the leader grabbed her and started to take her away, one of the other Danes challenged him, grasping his arm and spinning him ’round. An argument ensued, and then a fight. Suddenly released by the tall Dane, Aelia lost her balance and fell, but she cracked his skull with her rock before crawling away from the commotion when the rest of the men joined the altercation.

There had to be a place to hide.

Mathieu lost track of them on a rocky plain.

But Aelia’s captors had been heading steadily east, so he continued in the same direction. ’Twas nearly noon and he had not stopped since his near disaster in the river. He’d shoved aside the gold and bronze objects in the saddle pack and dug out what food there was. Then he’d strapped on the ax that had been tied to the saddle. He was much more proficient with a sword, but his own lay at the bottom of the river. The ax would have to do.

The smell of wood smoke attracted him to the edge of an embankment. He dismounted and looked down into the dell below, and noted that there was, indeed, smoke rising above the trees. He hoped the Danes believed there would be no one to follow them. ’Twould mean they’d actually stopped to make camp.

Mathieu descended, making as little noise as possible. He tied his horse at the base of the hill, and went forward on foot, keeping to the trees, out of sight. He soon heard shouts, and the sounds of a scuffle. It seemed members of the raiding party were fighting over their plunder…or over Aelia.

With even more urgency than before, Mathieu raised his ax and prepared himself for battle. He approached the camp cautiously, prepared to slay anyone who kept him from her.

When he entered the clearing, no one was there. Yet, spread upon the ground, were some of the spoils of these barbarians’ raids. Mathieu kicked away the inconsequential items and picked up a dagger, shoving it into his boot. Then he grabbed a sword in place of the ax he carried, and slipped back into the trees.

He went directly to their horses and turned them loose—all but one, which he mounted. Then he headed toward the melee happening several yards away.

Mathieu took them by surprise, all seven Danes, spearing two of them before the bastards could locate and draw their weapons against him. Searching the area for Aelia, he met all who tried to unseat him, slaying them before they could do any harm.

Where was she? Had she been lost along the way…in the river, perhaps?

No! He would not even entertain such a thought. Aelia was not lost to him.

One of the Danes tried to pull him from the horse, but Mathieu put his foot in the man’s chest and shoved him to the ground.

“Mathieu, behind you!”

He had no chance to rejoice at the sound of Aelia’s voice, but quickly turned and dispatched the warrior who attacked him from that quarter. Three raiders remained standing—until Aelia knocked one of them on the head with a rock. The man fell as Mathieu rode toward her.

She reached up as he grabbed for her, pulling her onto the horse’s rump. She straddled the gelding, then held Mathieu tightly ’round his waist, pressing her face to his back, and he rode away through the trees as the Danes shouted, scrambling to find their horses.

Her body trembled against his, and Mathieu wanted naught but to take her in his arms and hold her, touch her, breathe in her scent, feel her heartbeat against his. But he could not, at least not until they’d put several miles between themselves and the Danes.

Neither of them spoke as they covered the terrain, finally reaching the base of the trail where Mathieu had left his horse. There he dismounted and reached up for Aelia. A moment later she was in his arms, but he felt more shaken than ever before. He’d nearly lost her.

He kissed her soundly, then held her against his chest as she wept. “I thought they’d killed you!” she cried. “I saw you struck down.”

“I am not so easy to kill.”

“But Osric—”

“Is alive and on his way to London with Raoul.”

She nearly collapsed then, but Mathieu held her tightly. “He fought like a Saxon warrior. Aelia, are you unhurt?”

She nodded, and he brushed tears from her dirty face. “A few new scrapes, I suppose.”

“We must leave,” he said. “I scattered their horses, but they’ll soon gather them and come after us.”

He was reluctant to let her go, but they had no choice but to move on. They mounted the horses and started south, since ’twould take too much time to ride all the way to the peak of the escarpment. Mathieu wanted to be miles ahead when the Danes regrouped. Aelia’s fear was only going to carry her so far. She was exhausted, and the new “scrapes” on her body were not insignificant.

He had to get her to a safe place.

Their only obstacle was a shallow stream, which proved to be fortunate. Riding through it for at least a mile to eliminate their tracks, they came upon a rocky terrain where several small rivers met.

The river bed was uneven and treacherous, so Mathieu jumped down into the water, then helped Aelia dismount.

“If the Danes are still following us, we can lose them here. They won’t be able to find our tracks when we leave the water.”

For good measure, Mathieu reached up to the saddle pack and removed a dagger. He tossed the knife to the far bank in hopes that if the raiders followed them, they would notice it and head in that direction.

“This way.”

They continued walking south, but kept to the eastern banks when they finally left the water. Mathieu could see that Aelia was near collapse. They could not go much farther.

He lifted her onto his horse and mounted behind her, pulling her back against his chest. “Sleep awhile,
ma belle,
” he said, touching his lips to her forehead. “I’ll hold you.”

Mathieu had a few more miles in him, but there was no doubt he would also need to stop and rest soon. They crossed a hilly meadow, and soon came upon a dell where a small church lay visible in the distance. ’Twas in the midst of an orchard, and there were several stone-and-timber buildings nearby.

Leading Aelia’s horse behind them, Mathieu headed for the place. Aelia awoke when he stopped the horses. “It’s an abbey. We’ll stop here for the night,” he said. Monks gathered ’round when they approached.

Since it was clearly a Saxon holding, Mathieu spoke to them in Latin. “We were attacked by Danes,” he explained. “My wife and I escaped, but she is exhausted. Is there a place where we might sleep a few hours?”

“We want no trouble from the Normans,” the abbot said.

“We mean you no harm,” Mathieu replied. “We ask only for shelter until morning. No one will ever know we were here.”

The old man nodded, then spoke to several of the monks. Mathieu jumped down, then reached for Aelia. Her legs gave out, so Mathieu carried her as they followed the brothers to a cottage behind the church. When they pushed open the door and entered, one of the men lit a lamp.

“You can put her here,” the second said, pulling down the blankets on the only bed in the room.

“My thanks to you,” Mathieu murmured as two other monks carried in the saddle packs.

“We will bring food later,” one answered, “but you should tend to your wife now.”

“Aye. I’ll do that.”

They left, closing the door behind them. Mathieu pulled the shutters closed and went to Aelia, who barely
stirred when he knelt beside her and removed her shoes. He unlaced her torn and soiled kirtle and slipped it from her body. Once his own clothes had been removed, he climbed in the bed beside her, took her into his arms and held her as she slept.

He’d called her his wife. What he felt for Aelia threatened everything he’d hoped to gain when he’d come to England with William.

He pressed his face to Aelia’s hair and wished there were some way to keep her with him.

Every muscle in Aelia’s body ached.

She awoke to pain and stiffness in all her bones and muscles. She felt Mathieu’s arm over her waist, felt the heat of his body warming her back. She did not know where they were, but it seemed to be a safe place. They were warm and dry, and they were together. At least for now.

She thought it must have been hunger that woke her, for her stomach was making tortured noises. Careful not to wake Mathieu, she slipped out of the bed. Her kirtle had been draped on a nearby chair, and she pulled it over her head and laced it, then went to the hearth to build up the fire.

The two saddle packs lay upon the floor beside the door, and there was a large basket upon the table. She went to the basket first, and found food, along with two flagons—one of ale, one water.

Still weary, Aelia sat down at the table and helped herself to the bread and meat that someone had left for them, while she considered what to do.

She could leave. Osric was long gone. Everything that Aelia valued had been taken from her. She had no home, no family, no friends… There was only Mathieu,
who thought of her as his possession. When he reached London, he would wed the woman who’d been chosen for him.

And Aelia would have no place in his life.

Her heart clenched in her chest when she looked at him, sleeping so soundly. He’d ridden all night to rescue her from the Danes, yet he would soon give her up to her enemies when they arrived at their destination.

She trembled at the prospect of leaving him now. She loved him more than she’d ever thought possible. She could not go. She would take whatever remaining time they had together and make the most of it.

Using the bucket of water that had been left for them, Aelia removed her kirtle and washed, recoiling every time she encountered a new bruise or scrape. Then she crawled back into bed with Mathieu.

This time, she intended to disturb him.

She pushed the blanket aside and looked down at his chest. ’Twas broad and heavily muscled, with crisp, dark hair.

She guessed his nipples might be as sensitive as her own. His breath caught when she leaned over and flicked one with her tongue, and there was a distinct reaction in his nether regions.

Aelia’s heart fluttered when he responded so dramatically, and she continued laving his nipple as she stroked the hard length of him.

“Aelia.”

She felt him touch her nape, and continued licking and sucking his nipple while she learned the size and length of him with her hand. She was new to this kind of play, but when his muscles clenched in reaction to her touch, she knew she pleased him. And herself.

He started to turn to her, but Aelia pressed his shoul
der to the mattress, then straddled him. He did not resist. Pouring all her love into her actions, she kissed his lips, then moved her mouth to his throat and chest. She felt the hard muscles of his abdomen contract when she touched her lips there, then moved lower.

She felt as well as heard his sharp intake of breath when she pressed her lips to the smooth, taut tip of his arousal. “Aelia,” he gasped.

“Should I stop?”

“No!”

Aelia felt powerful then, and as aroused as Mathieu. She ached with it, and with the desire to make her mark upon him. She grew bolder, encircling him with her tongue, nipping with her teeth. She lowered her body and looked up at him, meeting his eyes, seeing the fever she’d aroused.