Margo Maguire by Saxon Lady

band of Saxon warriors.
    An unbearable sadness filled Aelia’s heart. As numerous as they were, the Saxons stood no chance against these Normans. Her vision blurred with tears when Fitz Autier suddenly came into sight, riding into the thick of battle, wielding his sword like a coldhearted executioner.
    She could not tear her eyes from his powerful form. He moved like a proud stag of the forest, swift and dangerous, yet light and agile. Aelia experienced the same wrenching heat she felt whenever she watched him from afar. ’Twas difficult to catch her breath when she saw him like this, in full mastery over his enemy—her own people.
    Fitz Autier shouted orders to his men, and they started to hem the Saxons in a wide circle, with no room to maneuver. Aelia could not bear to watch.
    She backed away, shaking her head to clear it. Her mother had to have been mistaken about the odd feelings engendered by the sight of him. Fitz Autier could not possibly be her one true mate—not even if his touch made her heart flutter and her bones turn to ash.
    With overwhelming sadness, Aelia turned away. She started to run, but someone came at her from behind and shoved her down. She landed hard, and before she could make a sound, her Saxon attacker drew his ax and swung.
    Aelia screamed and rolled to the side to escape the blow, then quickly pushed herself up to her feet and ran. ’Twas not her fate to be hewn this way—by a man who was likely once an ally of her father.
    “Now you die, Norman whore!”
    The words cut her to the bone and she stumbled, with the Saxon right behind her. This was not the time for tears. She had to keep her wits about her or she surely would die. In a desperate attempt to keep her balance, Aelia scrambled up and ran ahead, but the Saxon fell upon her and shoved her to the ground. Dropping his ax, he grabbed her hair, yanked her head back, placed the cold steel of a knife blade against her throat.
    Aelia held her breath and stayed perfectly still, even when he muttered another insulting remark about her. Telling him that she was also Saxon would do no good. The man would only see her as a traitor.
    She felt the burn of the sharp edge and the trickle of blood down her neck. But before she could react, the Saxon let go, dropping her to the ground.
    “Aelia!”
    On hands and knees, she scurried away, but Fitz Autier’s enraged voice, and the clash of swords, caused her to turn. Too shaken to do more than press one hand against the cut on her neck, she drew her legs up to her chest and wrapped one arm ’round them. She took a shuddering breath when the Norman baron finished off the man who would have killed her.
    Fitz Autier gave her no time to recover, but took her hand and pulled her to her feet. With one finger under her chin, he tipped her head back and looked at the wound. “’Tis not deep.”
    Aelia could not speak, and it galled her to stand trembling before the Norman.
    “Hold still,” he said, gripping her torn sleeve and ripping it the rest of the way off her tunic. He slid it down her arm and folded the cloth, then pressed it against the wound in her neck.
    Aelia wished he would not be so kind. She wanted her hatred for him to be a clear, pure thing, uncomplicated by any demonstration of compassion or benevolence.
    At the same time, she wished he would hold her until the trembling stopped.
    “Let’s go.” A moment later, she found herself being lifted and tossed upon his horse, with Fitz Autier mounting behind her.
    “I can ride,” she said, though her voice sounded thick and unsteady to her own ears.
    “Not this time.”
    “I have seen battle, seignior. I have never…”
    “I know, demoiselle. I will forever bear the scar of your arrow upon my face.” He shifted in the saddle, then draped something warm about her shoulders. ’Twas the mantle she’d worn earlier, and she was grateful for its heat.
    “You…saved my life,” she said. She would have to thank him for that, at