Margo Maguire by Saxon Lady Page B

her hips.
    Was she remembering the better times when she was the lady of Ingelwald?
    “I want to see my brother,” she said without turning.
    Mathieu dropped her shoes to the floor. “No.”
    She turned then. Though she tried to keep her expression neutral, she could not hide the fury in her eyes. “My cooperation ensures Osric’s well-being, does it not?”
    He ran one hand across his face. “To some extent, demoiselle. But his own behavior also helps to determine how he is treated.”
    She came to him in two steps, placing her hand upon his arm. “He is just a child! He cannot be held responsible—”
    “He is without discipline.”
    “But he’s a good lad.”
    Mathieu found Auvrai’s salve in a small pouchwithin the satchel. He untied the string that held a thin hide over its top, and uncovered it. Taking Aelia’s chin between his thumb and finger, he raised it to gain access to the cut in her neck.
    She would not look at him, but kept her eyes downcast. Mathieu could not help but notice the thick crescent of russet lashes that shadowed her cheeks. The pulse in her throat raced, and he could imagine how it would feel against his lips.
    He cleared his throat and ignored the delicate curve of her neck. He would not think of how close she’d come to losing her life. “Turn toward the light.”
    She did, and he smeared the musty-smelling ointment on the wound. When he stopped, she backed away.
    He caught her hand. “I’m not finished.”
    She took an unsteady breath and waited for him to wrap a length of white linen ’round her throat, then remained still as he examined the scrape on her shoulder.
    “The salve will do some good, but it will rub off on your clothes.”
    “That does not seem to be a problem, seignior,” she said with a pointed glance at the tear in her tunic that left her shoulder and arm bare.
    “I’ll have someone find you some clothes.”
    “Do not trouble yourself,” she said, and this time, walked away from him. She bent down to pick up her shoes. “What would a slave need with decent clothing?”
    “You are not a slave.”
    “A prisoner, then. Tell me, Fitz Autier, what will you do with us—with Osric and me?”
    If she’d intended to neutralize the intimate moment between them, she succeeded.
    “I have orders to take you to the king in London.”

Chapter Nine
    A elia would not go to London. The thought of facing that murderous Norman, William, was more than she could stomach. She was not afraid of the man, but she could not deny that Fitz Autier’s orders unnerved her. What could the bastard king possibly want with her?
    Ingelwald was her place. She was needed here in the aftermath of so many battles and such devastation. The people had always looked to her father and his men for direction, and there were many who owed work or rents. Now that Wallis was gone, ’twas up to Aelia to take charge of the holding. There were hundreds of acres under cultivation, and huge numbers of livestock, with pounds of grain and weights of meat owed to her bondsmen, food that would sustain them throughout the year. ’Twould soon be time for harvest, and Aelia had yet to miss one.
    She lay back upon the lumpy straw mattress in her room and tried to find a comfortable position. How could she refuse to go with Fitz Autier? She had no power, no say in what happened to her. In that, she was no better than the lowest slave.
    At least she’d been given one day’s reprieve. Fitz Autier had not been able to leave Ingelwald as soon as he wanted. Too many of his men had been injured in the skirmish with the renegade Saxons, and now there were even more prisoners to deal with.
    She spent a restless night locked in her own chamber, and was awakened from an uneasy slumber by a knock at her door. ’Twas Rowena, one of the housemaids. She was much younger than Aelia, a very pretty girl who’d garnered much attention from Ingelwald’s young swains. She carried a bundle of cloth in her arms and spoke