while standing beside her sister, Bronwen pictured herself—
a thin, angular, olive-skinned creature. No one, not even Enit, had ever called her beautiful.
Jacques reached out and lifted her chin. “So shy? A moment ago, you would have run me through had you carried a sword. My lady, you are indeed most lovely and desirable.
60
The Briton
You may recall I held you in my arms on such a night. And I kissed your lips.”
His fingers trailed from her chin, down the side of her neck to a wisp of hair that snaked between the folds of the mantle.
Bronwen shivered as he traced its course to the soft skin of her throat.
Her thoughts reeled as he wove his fingers through her hair.
Craving again the kiss of this man, she struggled for air. This must not be. She belonged to another man. A husband who had never spoken her name.
“How I am drawn to you, Bronwen the Briton.” Jacques’s breath was ragged on Bronwen’s cheek. “Though we have met only twice, you beckon me as no woman ever has.”
She lifted her eyes to his shadowed face. “Sir, you are wrong to hold me in this manner.”
“If I sin, then you sin, too—for I feel your desire as strongly as I do my own.”
“No,” Bronwen whispered. “I am another man’s wife. I know nothing of such wickedness.”
“All are sinners,” he said. “Even you, my lovely Bronwen.
But your words return me to my senses. You are wed. I cannot ignore a vow made before God.”
“Indeed, I must return to the hut.”
“Stay with me a little longer—on the beach, where we can be alone.”
“I dare not.” Bronwen backed away from him. “It is unseemly. And you…you are a Norman. My enemy.”
“I am not your enemy. My blood is that of a man, and yours is that of a woman. On this night, we are neither Norman nor Briton.”
“Blood can never lie,” she said. “I go.”
Turning from him, she pulled the mantle tightly about her.
Catherine Palmer
61
The sand felt cold beneath her feet as she started toward the hut. Dizzy with emotion, she brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. How could she have allowed this to happen? And how would she bear his memory now?
“My dearest lady.” Jacques’s long stride brought him to her side. “What troubles you?”
“ You trouble me!” Bronwen cried out. “You know I am a married woman. You know I am a Briton, and you a Norman.
Yet your words belie those facts. What is it you want of me, sir?”
Jacques fell silent for a moment. Bronwen sensed his presence beside her as they walked, but she could not bring herself to look at him. “Your question is well asked,” he said at last. “I don’t know what I want of you.”
She halted. “Then why do you pursue me? Why do you behave as a knave?”
“I am not a knave. I am a knight. And I cannot say why my training in chivalry has deserted me. I know only that I have never met a woman like you—a woman of such fire, such wit, such dark beauty. When I saw you in the great hall at Rossall, I felt my heart drawn to you. Yet I sat in silence as your father betrothed you to the Viking. You obey him in every way, do you not?”
“Of course,” Bronwen said. “He is my father.”
“But when we met later on the beach, and when I took you in my arms—though it was wrong to have done so by my code of knightly honor—”
“Indeed it was. It was wrong.”
“But I am more than a knight. More than a Norman. I am a man. And since that night, my thoughts have been consumed by you. Can you deny what passed between us then—
and now?”
62
The Briton
Bronwen looked away. “I must deny it. There was nothing between us, and there is nothing now. You say you are a man—more than a knight and a Norman. Are you a Christian, too, Jacques? Do you follow any guide that holds power over your passion? I do. More than woman, I am a Briton and a wife. We have met, as you predicted, but we shall not meet again. So when you chance to think on me again, know this—
I am a
a thin, angular, olive-skinned creature. No one, not even Enit, had ever called her beautiful.
Jacques reached out and lifted her chin. “So shy? A moment ago, you would have run me through had you carried a sword. My lady, you are indeed most lovely and desirable.
60
The Briton
You may recall I held you in my arms on such a night. And I kissed your lips.”
His fingers trailed from her chin, down the side of her neck to a wisp of hair that snaked between the folds of the mantle.
Bronwen shivered as he traced its course to the soft skin of her throat.
Her thoughts reeled as he wove his fingers through her hair.
Craving again the kiss of this man, she struggled for air. This must not be. She belonged to another man. A husband who had never spoken her name.
“How I am drawn to you, Bronwen the Briton.” Jacques’s breath was ragged on Bronwen’s cheek. “Though we have met only twice, you beckon me as no woman ever has.”
She lifted her eyes to his shadowed face. “Sir, you are wrong to hold me in this manner.”
“If I sin, then you sin, too—for I feel your desire as strongly as I do my own.”
“No,” Bronwen whispered. “I am another man’s wife. I know nothing of such wickedness.”
“All are sinners,” he said. “Even you, my lovely Bronwen.
But your words return me to my senses. You are wed. I cannot ignore a vow made before God.”
“Indeed, I must return to the hut.”
“Stay with me a little longer—on the beach, where we can be alone.”
“I dare not.” Bronwen backed away from him. “It is unseemly. And you…you are a Norman. My enemy.”
“I am not your enemy. My blood is that of a man, and yours is that of a woman. On this night, we are neither Norman nor Briton.”
“Blood can never lie,” she said. “I go.”
Turning from him, she pulled the mantle tightly about her.
Catherine Palmer
61
The sand felt cold beneath her feet as she started toward the hut. Dizzy with emotion, she brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. How could she have allowed this to happen? And how would she bear his memory now?
“My dearest lady.” Jacques’s long stride brought him to her side. “What troubles you?”
“ You trouble me!” Bronwen cried out. “You know I am a married woman. You know I am a Briton, and you a Norman.
Yet your words belie those facts. What is it you want of me, sir?”
Jacques fell silent for a moment. Bronwen sensed his presence beside her as they walked, but she could not bring herself to look at him. “Your question is well asked,” he said at last. “I don’t know what I want of you.”
She halted. “Then why do you pursue me? Why do you behave as a knave?”
“I am not a knave. I am a knight. And I cannot say why my training in chivalry has deserted me. I know only that I have never met a woman like you—a woman of such fire, such wit, such dark beauty. When I saw you in the great hall at Rossall, I felt my heart drawn to you. Yet I sat in silence as your father betrothed you to the Viking. You obey him in every way, do you not?”
“Of course,” Bronwen said. “He is my father.”
“But when we met later on the beach, and when I took you in my arms—though it was wrong to have done so by my code of knightly honor—”
“Indeed it was. It was wrong.”
“But I am more than a knight. More than a Norman. I am a man. And since that night, my thoughts have been consumed by you. Can you deny what passed between us then—
and now?”
62
The Briton
Bronwen looked away. “I must deny it. There was nothing between us, and there is nothing now. You say you are a man—more than a knight and a Norman. Are you a Christian, too, Jacques? Do you follow any guide that holds power over your passion? I do. More than woman, I am a Briton and a wife. We have met, as you predicted, but we shall not meet again. So when you chance to think on me again, know this—
I am a
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