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Rose sat up, just as Gunnar got to his feet. He was still bare chested from their last bout of lovemaking, although he had pulled on his breeches. He was like a dream come true, thought Rose, and felt a spurt of jealousy as she thought of all those mere women drooling over him.
Gunnar stooped beneath the roofline to save cracking his head as he went to the doorway. The door itself was made of withy sticks twisted into a thick mat and fastened to the jamb with leather straps. He pushed the door aside and there was Godenere, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun, patiently waiting. Behind him…
Rose sighed. It was as she had feared. Behind Godenere was gathered what looked like the entire village.
Nervous suddenly, Rose, too, quickly got to her feet. She twisted her long dark hair back over her shoulder, brushing down her gown, smoothing her sleeves. Her body still tingled from Gunnar’s touch, and ached pleasantly in places it had never ached before. She was untidy, her skin and clothing were salty, and she felt frighteningly vulnerable to the gaze of others.
She had always been quick before to hide that vulnerability under her lady-of-the-manor face, but here she had no authority. She might as well be a serf, a peasant at the whim of the great ones.
Coming up behind Gunnar, she placed her hand against his broad back. His skin was smooth, apart from the scars, the evidence of his dangerous life. She wanted to wrap her arms about him and breathe in his scent, press close and forget.
Gunnar glanced questioningly at her over his shoulder. Perhaps he read her need in her face, for he reached around and drew her to his side. She settled into the curve of his body, and his big hand came to rest on her hip as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Godenere was saying something about Normans in his quick tongue. Gunnar answered him, his own voice low and measured, but Rose felt his body tense and knew the news wasn’t good.
Behind Godenere, men, women, and children peered at the two of them, some curious, some stifling giggles, some suspicious. Rose couldn’t blame them for the last. If she and Gunnar were bringing danger to this island by being there, it was better they left now.
Gunnar nodded to what Godenere was saying, his fingers smoothing thoughtfully over Rose’s round hip. The warmth in her blood began to simmer. She kept herself still, trying to concentrate on the conversation between the two men, but the feel of his long fingers was distracting.
Suddenly Godenere nodded in Rose’s direction. “This lady belongs to you?” he asked.
Rose understood that. She froze and dared not look at Gunnar. Was that how it seemed to these people? she asked herself bleakly. Did it already appear that she was Gunnar’s woman, to do with as he pleased? As her father had made her mother his creature?
Gunnar was taking his time in replying, his hand had stilled on her hip. The crowd shifted forward curiously, the pretty serving girl to the front.
’Twas just as well she did not mean to cling to Gunnar Olafson forever, Rose thought crossly. How could she endure this every day? It would drive her to distraction…
“No.” Gunnar smiled at the old man, and there was a hint of regret in his tone. “I am her man, that is all. But she does not belong to me, or any man.”
Godenere looked doubtful. He said something to the watching crowd, and there was a questioning murmur. Some of the women sighed in disappointment. Rose felt her face heating up under their continued scrutiny, and was glad when Godenere and Gunnar finished their conversation, and she was able to retreat into the hut.
“What did he say?” she asked curiously, avoiding his eyes as she bent to warm her hands at the smoldering peat fire.
He crouched down beside her, the black breeches stretching deliciously over his thighs. His copper braids swung forward as he leaned toward her, and his voice was low. “They have seen Normans searching in the Mere. For us, they think—why else would they be here? Miles must have Somerford in his fist now, but he will not feel safe until he has killed me and taken you.”
She turned and met his gaze. There was something hot and angry in his storm-blue eyes, a sense of terrible danger. But it was not a threat to her—it was Miles
whom Gunnar meant to hurt.
He reached out and touched her cheek, his fingers gentle—it always surprised her how gentle he was, as if because his hands were used to wielding a sword, they could not do anything else. He had proved her wrong in that, at least.
“We are no longer safe here,” he went on, and dropped his hand. The peat fire shifted, a piece falling out onto the floor beyond the stone trough, and he used his boot to push it back to safety.
“Then what will we do?” she ventured, watching the stirred peat flare before returning to its usual sulky smolder.
“Our presence puts these people in danger. If Miles and his men come upon us here, they will kill them for giving us shelter. Fitzmorton rules his lands by terror, Rose. He isn’t like Radulf, he isn’t like you.”
“I know what Fitzmorton is,” she said quietly.
“Godenere wants to move us onto another island, a place where nobody lives. Then, if we are captured, no one can be punished for sheltering us.”
“I see.” Rose felt herself shrink with disappointment. She had hoped that, somehow, they would be able to return to Somerford, regain what was lost. Now they must travel even farther into the bewildering Mere. Mayhap they would still be there when they were old and gray, traipsing from island to island, an old exiled couple…
Gunnar interrupted her bleak vision.
“Godenere and I have made a plan.”
“What sort of plan?” Rose felt her stomach clench. Would she have to decide whether to trust him again? Jesu, why did it always come down to trust?
