Page 51 of The Saxon Lord's Unwanted Bride
She flinched, then shook her head and forced a smile.
“’Tis as Lord Beauvisage says—a mere game.”
She lied. Even in the throes of terror she had always looked him straight in the eye, but now she averted her gaze.
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“Very well,” he said. “If you insist, I shan’t pursue it. Do you wish to sleep in my chamber tonight?”
She nodded, and her body relaxed as he led her into his chamber. She slipped off her soaked overgown and crawled under the fur, trembling as she pulled it up to her chin. She stared at him, eyes wide with fear. But fear of what?
He undressed, then approached the bed. She kept her gaze on him as pulled back the furs and climbed in beside her. His cock, stiff with want, nudged against her body and she whimpered.
“Go to sleep,” he said. “I promise I’ll not touch you.”
She rolled onto her side and eventually her breathing grew steady with sleep. Devil be damned, it was not for want of desire that he vowed not to touch her. The fear in her eyes stirred his conscience, and he could not conquer the instinctive need to protect her. Despite his body screaming to touch her, he shifted himself until they no longer touched, and drifted into sleep, lulled by the sound of the breathing and the gentle heat of her presence.
Thunder rolled around his head as men on horseback bore down on him, cutting a path through the pile of bodies. The air turned red as blood rained upon him—the life essence of his friends, soaking the field to mark the Normans’ claim over his homeland. A roar of anguish erupted from his throat, the primal sound of defeat. He lifted his axe to slice the first rider, whose mount reared up, the animal’s hooves a hair’s breadth from Harald’s head. He swung his axe and lost his balance, falling backward into the mud which claimed his body.
He looked up at his enemy—the Norman soldier about to cut him down. Dark hair framed blue eyes which glittered with pure hatred—teeth bared, a handsome face twisted almost beyond recognition.
Almost, but not quite.
Beauvisage laughed and his horse reared again. Harald lifted his arm and threw his axe which buried itself into the horse’s chest sending an explosion of hot red liquid which filled his nostrils, drowning him.
“I’ll kill you—you fucking Norman!”
The horse screamed and the ground shook, until his ears burst with pain…
He sat up, sweat pouring down his forehead, stinging his eyes. He was not on the field—he was in his chamber.
Sweet heaven—it had been so real!
He placed his hand over his heart which pulsed thickly against his ribs. The roaring in his ears subsided, until a different sound broke through the dream. A woman’s scream.
He reached for his wife but the other side of the bed was empty.
Where the devil was she?
He climbed out of the bed and pulled on his breeches, then he heard a faint whimper. One of the wall hangings concealing an alcove, shifted in the candlelight. He picked up a candle and drew back the hanging.
Curled up on a stone seat in the alcove, was his wife.
She looked even more childlike than usual—her thin arms wrapped around her legs. Her misshapen elbow protruded, casting an ugly shadow across the wall in the flickering candlelight. Her body shuddered and another cry escaped her lips, followed by incoherent murmuring.
Had she lost her wits?
Her skin was cold. How long had she been there? A freezing draft circulated in the alcove—the draft the hanging kept at bay. What was she thinking? The cold could kill her. His chest constricted at the thought, but he shook his head and dismissed it. He didn’t care for her. He couldn’t.
He must listen to his head—his heart had led him to such betrayal in the past.
He set down the candle and lifted her into his arms. She cried and thrashed against him. He tightened his grip but she only fought more desperately. She opened her eyes but they were unseeing.
He placed her on the bed and held her down when she tried to sit, biting his lip at her cry of pain when he touched her deformed arm. The misshapen bones twisted beneath her skin, protruding in sharp little points under his hands.
“Be still!” he cried.
