His Enemy's Daughter (19 page)

H
e looked around the chamber, trying to enter quietly and not wake her. Soren loved the way she purred and stretched against him when he woke her in the night. He needed her to do that this night. The room was dark and only the light thrown by the torches in the hall lit his way…to an empty bed. Soren squinted into the dark, looking for her.

And found her.

‘Sybilla? Why do you stand in the shadows there?'

‘Light the lamp and close the door,' she whispered.

He did so and discovered that she stood by the loom in the corner, dressed in only the thinnest shift. It covered nothing and yet it did. He was hard in scant seconds.

‘Why are you standing in the dark?' The words were out before he could stop them. If the callous question bothered her, it did not show on her expression. ‘What are you doing?'

Soren walked to her side. The men had done a good
job repairing the loom and righting it as he'd asked. Even the threads hung evenly, all the clay weights in place as they should be.

‘I have spent hours trying to weave.'

‘And?' He looked at the last few lines woven and knew she'd not been successful. ‘It will take you some time to learn to do this again.'

She reached out, spreading her hands and lightly gliding her fingers across the threads, almost as he'd seen Tristan do as he plucked the strings of his harp. She traced the horizontal and vertical lines held in place on the loom. And she shook her head, dropping her hands to her sides.

‘I cannot see the pattern.'

He heard defeat in her voice and recognised the tone from countless times of voicing it himself when faced with the challenges of learning even simple tasks again after nearly dying. Two of the same kind, he thought as he moved behind her, remembering how Larenz had taught him to train his muscles again after the destruction. That had not involved holding an almost-naked woman in his arms, but this would.

Soren reached around her, lifting her hands and placing the shuttle in them. Then he guided her fingers over the threads.

‘Feel the pattern of the threads, Sybilla. You know it, you wove it already.'

She leaned against him and he whispered to her.

‘Think of it. See it where it matters—in your thoughts. Now find the pattern in the threads,' he repeated, letting his arms hold hers up and moving them across the surface of the loom. ‘Tell me the pattern you see.'

‘Every other, for one row. Then every second for another row and then every third.'

‘Do it, Sybilla. Count the threads as you touch them, in your mind, hear the numbers you need. Let the shuttle draw the pattern,' he whispered.

She counted numbers softly, easing the wooden piece over the number of threads, then under the next, then over, row by row until she'd completed a half-dozen or so. He could see they were not perfect, but that did not matter. She was regaining her weaving and would have years to perfect it or to simply enjoy working on the loom.

Just as he had moved through every step of using his sword, over and over in his mind, until his body could do it. Then his muscles had followed his mind and he had regained the skills necessary for a knight. It took months of pain and hard work, but he'd been successful. Her pain would be of a different kind, but the work would be worth it in the end if it gave her back a taste of what she could do before he'd arrived at Alston's gate.

She completed another few rows without his urging or his hands moving hers, but he did not move from her. Her body moulded to his and her head rested against his chest. Then she placed the shuttle down and silence filled the chamber. He knew her question before she asked it.

‘Why, Soren? Why did you give this back to me? Knowing who made it and what you must remember every time you look at it? Why?'

What could he say? How could he tell her that he did it because it made him feel like the man he was beginning to want to be? The one who had some good in him and did not live to hate. That helping her regain herself helped
him to find his soul. How could he say those things when he was not yet certain he was ready to accept them as true? In spite of coming here for vengeance, he had found a way to seek redemption. So, instead of trying to hide behind his rage and his pain, he told her the truth and prayed she would not know how much he was coming to need her.

‘It seemed the right thing to do, Sybilla.'

The words surprised him, for he had lived his life based on his looks without much care for anything more serious than finding women to swive and battles to fight. Then, without his looks, he lived on the need for vengeance. Now, she seemed to be his chance to find the real man buried deep within, the one who lived for more than hatred. ‘It was the right thing to do for you.'

She turned in his arms then and lifted her face to him. He kissed her, moulding his mouth to hers, giving and seeking something more than simply pleasure this time. Soren bent down and lifted her into his arms, carrying her to the bed. Instead of laying her on it, he stood her on it. He tugged off his own garments, down to his shirt, and then pulled her shift over her head. Because of his height, this brought her breasts level with his head.

He guided her to lean her elbows on his shoulders and then he feasted on her breasts, teasing the nipples into tight buds and making her sigh and arch against his mouth. Soren held her steady with his hands on her waist, then traced a path down her chest and on to her belly until she writhed in his hold. Soren had pleasured her in many ways, save one, and his mouth watered now in anticipation of tasting her in that intimate way.

He guided her down onto the bed now, on her back,
and climbed between her legs. Instead of covering her with his body, he eased her legs apart, leaned down and lifted her legs over his shoulders. He kissed his way along the inside of her thighs as she gasped and sighed with each touch of his mouth. He did not think she realised his intent until the first touch of his tongue to the heated place between her legs.

Sybilla's body arched against his mouth, but she tried to pull back from it. From him.

‘You must not,' she urged, even while her traitorous body opened to allow him access to her most private place.

‘Oh, but I must, Sybilla,' he said and he laughed in that deep, sinful way he did whenever he was pleasuring her. ‘Do you like it?'

He had licked her! He could not have. But he did it again and again until she gave up fighting it and moaned at the intensity of the waves of pleasure that spiralled through her with each touch. Somehow he found the centre of it, the place where everything she felt was focused, and suckled on it. She lost all thought then and could only feel… Feel the wondrous fire that moved through her blood. Feel the need for him that grew in her core. Feel the edges of her mind begin to fade as he forced her to the edge of the abyss and then over.

As she began to come apart, he lifted up and filled her, thrusting in so deeply and so hard that she keened out her release immediately. But he did not stop—relentless and unstoppable, he filled her emptiness with his body much as he'd filled her spirit. Over and over, thrusting and withdrawing, deeper and deeper, until he became part of her. She screamed out her release, praying his
name again and again until she could not speak. Just when she could take no more, when she had no more to give, she felt his manhood harden more within her and knew his peak was close. He withdrew just as his seed spilled.

He held himself off her, trying to catch his breath as she recovered hers. She took the chance at that moment and reached up to touch his face. He moved back from her, out of her reach.

‘Let me see your face the way I see the threads, Soren.'

When he did not come closer and did not answer, she whispered, ‘I know your skin is damaged. I know you have scars. You do not have to hide them from me.'

The silence that met her words continued until he climbed off of her and slid from the bed. ‘I cannot, Sybilla,' he said. ‘I want to, but I cannot.'

She sensed that his admission was a bigger step between them than if he had let her, so she dropped her hands to the bed, giving up her quest to touch him. He helped her get under the covers and then climbed in next to her. Soon sleep came to claim her and Sybilla wondered if he would ever consider keeping her as his wife.

 

They fell into an easy pattern over the next weeks. Brice stayed on and Giles promised to arrive once Fayth gave birth. Sybilla's chambers became their refuge, where Soren could remain uncovered without fear of being seen and stared at and where Sybilla could continue to learn and relearn many skills.

Each evening began in the hall where everyone ate at
the end of the day. Tristan's attempts to belittle Soren's upbringing or past grew fewer now that Sybilla clearly was not interested in hearing such things. But, she did enjoy his talent with the harp.

When they retired to her chambers, they would eat and talk over the day's activities. Sybilla remembered her parents' habits and thought of the changes in both Soren and herself as they toiled together for Alston.

But the best part of each day was the time after night had fallen that found her wrapped in Soren's strong arms, her desires appeased and her body exhausted from his strenuous attentions.

Soren knew that her counsel to Guermont about the coming harvest and her mediation with the people eased many rough spots as Normans, Bretons and Saxons learned to exist together. And, as she lived more easily with him, the people did, too.

Troubles continued to escalate in Northumbria and rumbles of it spread into Alston. The people were not happy with William's choice of earl, no happier than they had been with Edwin or Tostig before him, so it seemed doubtful that any plan to bring Edwin back into power would move forwards at all.

Soren, may the Almighty forgive him, prayed every night that Sybilla would remain blind, knowing that blind he still had a chance to keep her with him. With everything between them, he could not find a way to ask her to stay, so he continued to show her that she could find some happiness with him and hoped she would decide on her own when the time came.

And he lived in fear that she would recover her sight. Or worse, realise how much of her life he'd been
responsible for destroying. Either of those would end any chance of a future together. As autumn and the harvest arrived and knowing the winter would follow quickly, Soren knew that the rebels would have to make their move towards Scotland before the snows came. And, in his bones, he recognised that resolution of one kind or another was coming between him and Sybilla. He just hoped one or both of them would survive it.

 

Soren paused as he climbed the stairs. Those in the hall had grown silent after Sybilla had left and he heard the voices and conversations go back to their usual tones and volume once he did the same. Though her ease in his presence had lessened the tension between him and those he now controlled, it would take far more than their lady's approval for them to accept him.

As he reached the second floor and walked towards their chamber, he wondered if they ever would…or if she ever would. Shrugging off the wave of maudlin feelings, he lifted the latch and opened the door, never truly knowing what he should expect or what he would find within.

Or rather he could never believe what he found within.

Sybilla stood before the loom, her brow furrowed in concentration as her hands felt their way across the threads. She did not slow or stop, so he suspected that she had not even heard his entrance. He closed the door quietly, leaned against it and watched her.

She'd released her hair out of the tight confines of the netting and veils she wore outside this room and the length of it swayed even as her body did. He found her in
this position day and night, at any or all hours, applying herself to relearning to weave. Sometimes clothed, sometimes not. Soren smiled at that and hardened, knowing how this encounter would end. Glancing at the bed, he noticed the path to it from the loom was cleared.

On one recent night, a chair had been left in the way and he only managed not to fall by the sheer strength of his will. Regaining his balance and holding her body to his as he carried her to the bed, he stumbled and landed on the chair, pushing himself deeper into her and moaning from the pleasure of it. Instead of startling or pushing herself free, Sybilla had simply tightened the grip of her legs around his hips and echoed his moan with one of her own. Watching her now, Soren finally allowed himself to accept what a marvel she was.

‘Did you run up the stairs?' she asked in a soft voice. He'd been so lost in his thoughts he did not realise she'd stopped weaving and faced him. He drew in a deep breath and tried to calm the desire that controlled him.

‘Nay,' he admitted. Let her know how much he craved her body, 'twas safer than letting her close to the truth of his need for her.

‘Oh.' Her mouth formed the sound and he watched as a blush crept up her cheeks.

He wondered if her nipples had tightened at the thoughts of what could be between them. Her nipples responded to the slightest provocation. Soren stood away from the door and considered how to approach her when her stomach rumbled. Her soft laughter joined his own as another need made itself known.

‘Do you never eat enough, Sybilla?'

She clutched her stomach and shrugged. ‘Clearly not.'

Soren looked over at the hearth and saw a pot hanging there. A covered basket on the table held more. Knowing that their mutual pleasure would wait, he approached the table. ‘Come. Eat. Your day must have been a busy one if you have not eaten yet.'

She turned back to the loom and placed the shuttle in the threads before making her way to the table. Soren noticed her mouth moving silently as she counted her steps along the way. She'd stopped a bit short, so he directed her.

‘Another pace to the table,' he said.

Soren wondered at the ease with which he could speak to her here in the privacy of their chamber. He'd fought to keep himself from being too familiar with her, but he had no way to fight the effect she had on him. Determined to keep a distance between them, he had tried to remain aloof even during the nights in a shared bed. Someone should have warned him of the impossibility of it all.