Page 19 of Saxon Lady

M athieu nearly shot out of his chair to go after Aelia, but grabbed hold of the table to steady himself instead. He reminded himself that she was his prisoner, nothing more.

He blew out a breath and calmed down. “I assumed you had confined Lady Aelia to her chamber,” he said to Hélène.

The lady laughed. “She is a slave, is she not? And I had need of additional help tonight.”

“My lady, you overstep your bounds.”

Hélène’s cheeks flushed with color, whether in embarrassment or anger, Mathieu could not tell. “She is merely a Saxon, my lord. Likely to be hanged with her brother when King William sees them.”

Mathieu clenched his teeth. ’Twas unseemly to make anything of the way she was treated. Hélène was correct. Aelia was no more than a Saxon slave, and subject to the whims of the Norman nobility, whatever they may be, though he found that he no longer cared quite so much for the company of his Norman peers.

’Twould be best to turn his attention to the acro bats who jumped and tumbled adroitly before the dais and let Aelia do whatever she was bade. Yet Mathieu could not take his eyes from her, watching as she moved among the tables with trays of food, pitchers of ale.

Mathieu sipped sparingly of his wine as Roger freely imbibed, laughing and clapping at the antics of the entertainers. Hélène sat back in her chair and watched dispassionately, as if it would suit her just as well to leave the company and retire.

“Where is the Saxon boy?” Mathieu asked the lady as Aelia left the hall.

“In the stables…sweeping floors, I imagine.”

“’Tis a recipe for trouble,” Mathieu muttered.

“I beg your pardon, my lord?” Hélène said.

“’Tis naught.”

Aelia never looked toward the dais. No doubt she knew he was there, but she refused to glance toward the table where all the Norman nobles sat. He took note of his men, sitting at a nearby table, perhaps vaguely aware of Aelia’s role as a serving maid, but most certainly unaware of Osric’s location. They should know better than to leave the boy to his own devices here.

Mathieu’s attention was drawn by an outburst of laughter in the crowd of men to his left. He glanced toward them and took note of a blond serving maid who was the brunt of their joke. Her long braid swayed as she pushed their hands away, but they grabbed at her and prodded her unmercifully.

She suddenly dropped the tray she carried, then turned and ran. ’Twas Aelia.

Lady Hélène tittered with laughter and beckoned a few of Rushton’s soldiers to come to her.

“The Saxon prisoner seems to think she is above serving our men,” Hélène said. “Go find her, and show her what her place is.”

Roger roared with laughter, then kissed his wife’s hand. “Well done, my sweet.”

With tears of anger clouding Aelia’s vision, she ran through the cold until she reached the stable, but when she called to Osric, he did not answer. There was naught he could do to help her, but ’twould be a comfort just to see him.

She would not think of the Norman bastard, Fitz Autier, who had abandoned her. She did not care that he sat upon the dais beside Lady Hélène, listening to the Norman woman’s patter, and doing naught to rectify what had been done to Aelia. She shouldn’t have expected him to intercede for her. ’Twas clear he denied what he felt when he saw her, refused to acknowledge any connection between them.

Her one decent kirtle had been taken from her, and now she wore a rough, woolen rag given her by the old woman who followed Hélène’s every move. Aelia had been required to assist Hélène in dressing for her fete, and had been sent to the kitchens to assist the other Saxon servants in preparing for the Norman festivities.

’Twas not so terrible a fate. She should not feel like weeping just because Mathieu Fitz Autier had not corrected her situation. There could be no more denying she was naught but a slave.

Wagons and saddles, harnesses and other equipment were stored in the next building. Aelia looked for a lamp and called Osric’s name once again. She heard a voice behind her, but ’twas not her brother’s.

“There she is,” said a man at the far end of the corridor.

Three Normans staggered toward her, one carrying a torch. Aelia backed into the building and shoved the door shut in their faces. She hurried to the rear of the structure, but smashed her knee on something and could only stagger in pain as the three men sang drunkenly outside.

The door crashed open on its hinges and the Normans shoved their way in, laughing and staggering. Aelia retreated, hoping she would be able to find a door or window to escape the drunken louts. If they were inebriated enough, she should be able to get away from them.

But she could find no other door.

“Thought you’d evade us?” asked the tallest one, who swayed the most as he walked.

Aelia pretended not to understand him, and kept moving, feeling her way along the wall, searching for a shuttered window. But the men stalked her purposefully.

“You’re going to enjoy this,” said the one with the torch. He’d tossed it in the dirt in order to free his hands, then joined the game with his comrades. For that was what it was: a game to them. She was to be used and discarded the way Durand had used Rowena.

The men flanked her sides, and one of them grabbed her arm to spin her ’round and off balance. Another one yanked her toward him. Aelia swung a fist and caught him under his eye. He howled and knocked her to the floor.

The others laughed noisily as she kicked and pummeled him, desperately trying to push him away. “That’s it—pull off her skirts, Herve!”

She managed to turn over and start crawling on her hands and knees, but one of them grabbed her ankle and pulled her back. “No!” she cried, kicking again.

She reminded herself she’d been in more dangerous situations in recent months—she still had the wound in her neck as evidence. Somehow, she was going to survive this.

Their hands were on her clothes now, and one of them suddenly tore her gown from her legs. She screamed, though she knew her cries were of no avail. Surely no one would be able to hear them, and there was no one to know—or care—where she was.

The flickering torchlight cast them in shadows, and Aelia imagined them as demons biting and tearing, hurting her as they tore her kirtle from her body. All that was left was the threadbare chemise given her by Lady Hélène’s servant.

“Look what we’ve got here!” said one of them with a laugh.

As drunk as they were, the men were surprisingly determined against her struggles. They pinned down her hands, but when Herve flattened himself on top of her, panic gave her a sudden burst of strength and she managed to free one arm.

She shoved Herve and slammed her knee into his groin. He howled in pain, and when he rolled to his side, Aelia pulled his dagger from the sheath in his belt, slashing the first man who touched her.

“She cut me!” the Norman howled as she scrambled to her feet, brandishing the knife.

While Herve rolled on the floor, whimpering, the man she’d stabbed stood frowning at her in shock as the wound in his hand dripped blood.

Keeping the knife in front of her, and her distance from the attacker who remained unscathed, Aelia made her way to the door. The man made a sudden move to seize her, but she jabbed at him. He dodged away from her, taking a step back.

Aelia kept her eyes trained upon him as she backed through the doorway. But when she stepped outside, an obstacle blocked her path. ’Twas a wall of muscle and bone—another Norman.

“I’ve got you, Aelia,” Mathieu said, taking hold of her upper arms as much to steady her as to restrain his urge to destroy the three imbeciles who had ripped off her clothing and cornered her in this dark building.

Her skin was cold and she was shivering, but he felt a great shuddering sigh escape her as he pulled her back against his body. He did not insult her by asking her to release the knife, but set her behind him and faced her attackers, while she kept hold of the back of his belt.

“I’ll see you whipped.”

“Baron, she would have gutted me!”

“She unmanned me!”

“’Tis no defenseless maid who stands before us, my lord,” said the third man, the only one unscathed. “Her reaction was much too exaggerated for our horseplay. The whore doesn’t understand innocent fun!”

Mathieu backhanded the buffoon, splitting his lip and knocking him to the floor. “You three will present yourselves to your baron,” he said in a low and dangerous tone. “Tell him you assaulted my prisoner and—”

“But ’twas Lady Hélène who gave us the nod.”

“Said we were to put the Saxon wench in her place!” another added.

Aelia gave a mad shriek and lunged, but Mathieu caught her and lifted her into his arms. As angry as he was, he had to get her—and himself—away from these three before either of them committed murder.

The knife fell from Aelia’s hands when he tossed her over his shoulder. She kicked and pummeled him as he carried her to the hall and up the first staircase they encountered. He gave her a sharp pat on her bottom. “Kick me again, demoiselle, and I’ll be forced to do violence.”

He was close enough to it already.

Her struggling did not stop, but when Mathieu reached the door to the chamber that had been given him, he kicked it open and strode in, dropping Aelia unceremoniously to the floor.

“You had no right!”

“Not to let you kill those men? Aye, I had the duty.”

She tried to shove past him, but he barred her path. A fire had already been started in the grate, and Mathieu saw her clearly for the first time in its flickering light. She wore naught but a sheer linen chemise that was torn and stained, and the scrape at her shoulder had started to bleed again. She looked like a warrior princess, fierce and proud.

“Duty!” She quivered with anger.

“Do you know what Roger de Saye would have done had you killed one of his men?” He shook her once, then pulled her into his embrace. “ Gesu, Aelia…”

His mouth came down hard upon hers, but she resisted, pulling away from him even as she kept a death grip on his tunic. She turned her head, though her hands remained closed upon his chest. “I don’t want this, Norman!”

“Neither do I!”

She did not release him. With fire in her eyes, she pulled his head toward hers, and kissed him with a fierceness that took his breath away. He tipped his head to deepen the contact, tasting her anger and her passion.

He broke the kiss and leaned his forehead against hers as he caught his breath. “You belong to no other, Aelia.”

She fisted her fingers in his hair, and Mathieu felt the flutter of her pulse in her throat, the quickening of her breathing, and knew that her arousal matched his own. But he had no intention of rushing this lovemaking. His lust had burned too hot, and for too long. He would woo her, and seduce her until her nerves were as taut as bow strings.

Like his.

Her taste was intoxicating, more sensuous than any kiss he’d shared with more experienced women.

She began to untie the laces at the neck of his tunic, tugging the sherte away from his chest. Mathieu pulled it over his head, then slipped the torn chemise from her shoulders and lowered his mouth to her breast. The nipple responded to his tongue, tightening into a hard pebble. She made a soft moan and slipped her fingers ’round to his nape, holding his head in place as he slid his hands down her belly, to the very heat of her.

She was hot and moist, the hard bud of her arousal ready for his touch. Her knees buckled when he caressed the spot, but she placed her hands upon his shoulders and steadied herself against his intimate touch.

Mathieu turned his attention to her other breast, sucking and licking until she whimpered with need. It aroused him to know he was the only one who had touched her this way. He was the only one who’d roused her to the peak of desire, and he would carry her over the edge. He would own her, heart, body and soul.

Taking her hand, he pressed it against the front of his braies and shuddered with the painful pleasure of her touch. She was untutored and hesitant, but before night’s end, she would know about pleasing him, and learn the limits of her own pleasure.

Her eyes glittered in the firelight and she gazed up at him heatedly. Mathieu was certain he had never seen anyone so beautiful.

Or so beguilingly innocent. She trembled with nervousness.

“No need to fear me, ma belle, ” he whispered.

“I am not afraid of you, seignior.” She showed it by opening the belt that held his braies, and pushing them down his legs with his hose. But when he was fully naked, her eyes widened and she began to tremble again.

Mathieu did not give her time to think, but lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed, gently placing her in the center of it.

“So beautiful.” He kissed her then, deeply, as he slid one hand down her body, from her throat to her thighs. He’d never felt anything so soft or so fine as her skin.

He traced slow kisses down her neck, then pressed his mouth to the tip of each breast. Encircling her waist with his hands, Mathieu felt her flesh quiver at his touch.

She took his head in her grasp and guided him back to her mouth for her kiss. Though she was untutored in lovemaking, she’d learned from their earlier encounters.

And more.

Her tongue was hot and sweet as it darted into his mouth. She raked her nails over his shoulders, then down to his hips, pressing his body tightly against her as she moved restlessly upon the mattress. Mathieu took one of her hands and placed it upon the hard shaft of his arousal.

“Touch me, Aelia.”

She closed her hand around him, and when he groaned, pulled her hand away. “I hurt you?”

“No.”

Gingerly, she tried it again, and Mathieu placed his hand over hers, guiding her, showing her how to please him.

Her breath quickened as she made him burn, his flesh seething, pulsing with need. He pressed his mouth to her breast once again, sucking, laving the nipple with his tongue. He wanted to be inside her—now. Yet her pleasure was as important as his own.

He wanted her aching for him as badly as he throbbed for her.

He arched suddenly, then pressed his lips over her skin, skimming to her belly and below. When he kissed the heat of her, she gasped and opened to him.

“Mathieu…” Her voice was low and husky, and the sound of his name upon her lips burned a path to his heart.

“Aye. Say it again. My name.”

“Mathieu!”

She was hot and moist—ready for him.

He shifted his body, slipping between her sleek thighs as she clutched at his shoulders. He was huge and impatient, and wanted naught but to possess her. Placing his hands on either side of her head, he kissed her deeply as he eased into her, unwilling to cause more pain than necessary.

But she made a sudden move, and Mathieu found himself buried deep within her, sheathed so tightly he thought his heart would burst.

When she made a small sound, Mathieu released her lips. “Aelia…”

“More.” She sighed and wrapped her legs ’round his waist. Her gaze burned into his, searing him with her passion, her desire. Never had this act seemed so intimate, so intense. ’Twas as if she had become part of his body…and his soul.

Her hands framed his face and he closed his eyes, turning into her touch, kissing her palm. She let her hands slide back to his shoulders and chest, finding his nipples fully erect and anxious for her touch. Mathieu nearly came out of his skin when she brushed them with her fingertips.

He plunged deeply and Aelia arched beneath him, crying out as spasms of pleasure overcame her. He felt his own release, a fiercely pulsing completion that was incomparable.

Mathieu eased his weight off her, but did not withdraw. Kissing her, he rolled to his side, taking her with him.

She fit him as though she were made for him.

“Are you all right?”

“Aye,” she said, her voice barely more than a sigh.

’Twas good that someone here was all right, Mathieu thought. Because he certainly was not.

Aelia awoke sometime during the night to find there was no light coming in through the window and the fire had burned low. She did not know how long she’d slept.

Nor did she care.

She lay on her side with Mathieu curled against her back, her head pillowed upon his arm, her heart in his hands.

She had never wanted to care for him. More than anything, Aelia had wanted to hate Mathieu Fitz Autier for taking Ingelwald from her.

Instead, she had fallen in love with him.

He sighed, his breath ruffling the hair at her ear. She shivered, and he pulled her tightly against him, shifting his leg until it rested between her own. Then he whispered her name in sleep.

Naught in her life was certain, only what she felt for Mathieu.

He moved against her, his free hand cupping her breast, teasing the nipple. Aelia’s breath caught in her throat when he shifted his attention to the sensitive place where her legs joined.

“Mmm. So sweet,” he murmured in her ear.

He nuzzled her neck, then pushed her hair aside to press his lips down the exquisitely sensitive ridge of her spine.

Aelia turned to him. So many questions burned in her throat, but she could not bear to ask them now, not when he touched her this way.

He made love to her slowly and gently, each touch intended to give her more pleasure than his last. He kissed her and lingered wherever it seemed to please her most, and showed her how it felt to be cherished. With his eyes locked upon hers, he showed her a depth of intimacy with each thrust, with every caress.

“You were made for me, ma belle. ”

And Aelia knew it was true.

When ’twas over, and he lay imbedded deep within her, her muscles still tense with the last shudders of her release, he kissed her with such tenderness that Aelia felt another kind of release. It could only be the ecstasy of their spirits fusing as one.

Yet she doubted the reality of what she felt when Mathieu suddenly left the bed. In the dim light, Aelia saw him jab his fingers through his hair before tossing another piece of wood on the fire. She felt at a loss, awkward and alone.

“While you slept, I had someone gather your belongings,” he said without turning to face her. “’Tis nearly dawn and we need to leave Rushton.”

The rose-colored kirtle that had been taken from her lay across a wooden bench, with her shoes placed neatly below it. When Mathieu began to clothe himself, Aelia arose from the bed and did the same, feeling cold and abandoned. He was no longer her attentive lover, but a warrior with an assignment.

“Will Osric and the men be ready?” she asked, pulling on her own chemise. The torn rag she’d been given was nowhere to be seen.

Mathieu sat on the bed and drew on his boots. “No. Raoul and the others will bring him and follow shortly. The sooner we leave here the better it will suit me.”

“Why? Has something—”

“No. No more than Roger’s lady sending his vassals to accost you.” He stood and strapped on his sword. “Or putting you in rags to serve his men.”

Aelia took a shuddering breath of relief when he turned her and pulled her kirtle over her head, pushing her hair aside to reach the laces. “Hurry. ’Tis almost dawn.”