Page 43 of Saxon Blade Norman Blood
The nightmare had been awful. Her mother had been talking to her through the polished silver mirror, her face as stern as that of a statue, her voice as cold as shards of ice, reminding her of her mission.
Kill him. It was my dying wish.
Rowena sat at the table as was expected of her and she listened to William talk, but she didn’t hear a word of what he told her. Instead, her mother’s voice played in her mind—over and over again.
You have not avenged us. I asked you to kill him, and you have not done so. Worse, you have forgotten all about your resolve to do so.
And it was true, she had. Against all odds, she’d had two opportunities to dispose of him, and she hadn’t seized either of them.
“Are you not hungry today?” William asked when she made no move to help herself to anything.
She usually fell on the food like a starving child, but this morning she had not yet touched a single thing. “No.”
One word, no more. This listlessness was out of character, but he didn’t ask her what the matter was. Hopefully he would assume her nightmare was still preying on her mind, and it was, only not in the way he imagined.
Watching him partake of the food as if nothing was amiss, she felt herself growing sicker and sicker. Her mother’s accusations jostled in her mind, threatening to make her skull explode. If only William had carried on talking, she might have been able to block them out, but he had fallen silent himself. For the first time since she’d arrived at the castle, she felt transparent.
This indifference did what nothing else had managed to do. It stiffened her resolve. Why should she spare a man who ultimately did not care for her, for whom it made no difference if she was there or not? She was not in his castle to be taught licentious words or lie in the comfort of his arms every night.
It was high time she remembered what she had to do.
Rowena reached for the cup in front of her. She normally would not have drunk any wine whilst breaking her fast but today she was going to need all the help she could get. After a few sips she felt something harden inside her.
Still, despite her new resolve, she could not ignore that it would be a hundred times more difficult to kill William than it had been a week ago. He was prepared and vigilant, but that was not what she feared the most.
She had spent more than a week in his company and shared his bed, he had saved her life and protected her when men would have taken her for their pleasure. William was not just a stranger anymore, he was a man of flesh and bone, a man she knew.
A man she had learned to like—if not more.
Besides, even if she hadn’t changed her mind about him, there remained a huge obstacle in her way. She was unarmed. He had ensured she never had access to a blade in his presence. What was she supposed to do,howwas she supposed to kill him in these conditions?
Had it been the other way around he would have had no difficulty in disposing of her without any weapons. It would not take him long to strangle her. He could have cracked her skull or broken her neck in a heartbeat. She had no such means at her disposal.
By now her throat was dry as parchment. Another sip of wine made little difference. His hands, his beautiful hands, frightened her. They were an instrument of death. Rowena shivered, knowing she would not be able to breathe normally until she had tried something. There was no point in prolonging the agony.
She stood up.
Her turmoil was so intense, she knocked an earthenware pitcher off the table. Without thinking, she bent to pick up the pieces and froze. The wine on the floor looked like blood. The pottery fragments appeared like the remains a smashed skull. It was a sign. She would do it now. And she knew how.
William arose to help her clear the mess. Their gazes met, blue against hazel. It happened in a heartbeat. Rowena tightened her grip on the shard in her hand and swung her arm in a wide arc, aiming at his throat. At the same moment, William, with the survival instinct of a trained soldier, twisted his chest and turned his head sideways. The sharp earthenware fragment never touched his neck, but sliced his cheek just below the eye.
Before she realized what she had done, she felt her wrist being taken in a grip so hard it made her drop her makeshift weapon.
William was staring at her with blazing fury. A trickle of blood ran all the way from the wound on his cheek to the collar of his tunic, staining the gold stitching a vivid scarlet.
“Oh my God,” she muttered in shock. “I’m—” She stopped when she realized she was about to apologize.
His mouth twisted in a snarl. “Were youreallyabout to say sorry for almost killing me? If so, you can save your breath. I am not in the mood to hear it.”
The grip on her wrist tightened, and his other hand landed on her shoulder. She saw the effort it cost William not to shake her in anger. His jaw was clenched, his nostrils flared, his chest heaving.
She was amazed he should strive for control after what she’d attempted. Clumsy and unpremeditated as her strike had been, there was no denying it could have been lethal. Had she caught his throat as she’d intended, he would have bled to death in no time.
Yet he was, if not quite his usual self, at least composed enough to stop himself from hurting her. Rowena exhibited no such mastery over her emotions. Her body began to shake violently.
She had never been so close to killing anyone. It horrified her. Had William been less quick, his blood would be on the floor right now, as red as the wine. She would never have borne the shock of it. It was bad enough to see the blood trickling down from the wound on his cheek.
He still held her, ignoring her efforts to try to move away. “Oh no. You are not going anywhere.”
