Free The Conqueror (Hot Knights) by Mary Gillgannon

he did not beat her, or worse, when she attacked him. There was an element of restraint to his actions that baffled her.
    Mayhaps he was being cautious. In truth, he was a clever, devious bastard. It had not taken him long at all to guess that nothing horrified her as much as the feel of his hands on her.
    She closed her eyes, swallowing hard. ’Twas unthinkable that her enemy could beguile her traitorous body. Why, he had made her wet... he had made her want...
    She tried to force the distressing sensations away, but they seemed imprinted on her flesh.
    Edeva took a deep breath. She must stop thinking about the way he had touched her. Instead, she should turn her mind to escaping. His vigilance over her grew lax. Gone was the guard from the stairs. Now all that stood between her and freedom was a dagger jammed into the door to secure it.
    She went to the heavy oak door and pushed. The heavy iron weapon barring it seemed to move a fraction. She tried again, throwing all her weight behind the effort.
    She drew back for another attempt. The sound of a sudden commotion in the yard stopped her. The Norman had returned.
    She could hear his loud voice berating the soldiers, and when she went to the window, she saw him, dressed in his new hose and old tunic, pacing up and down the yard, gestulating angrily. He, too, had noticed the idleness of the women and other servants. He was yelling at the men to find something for the “damned Saxons” to do. He rattled off a dozen tasks that needed attention.
    Edeva considered all the things he forgot in his tirade. The Norman was concerned with the livestock and the defense of the manor, but he had no comprehension of the many other things that desperately needed attention before winter.
    And she would not tell him. Let him discover that there were no tallow candles or oil for the lamps to light the hall during long winter evenings. Let them live on bread and cabbage because the Norman had not seen fit to see to their other foodstores. Let them all go barefoot next season when there was no cured leather to make new shoes.
    A twinge of guilt went through her. The villagers and their families would suffer most. They depended upon the manor workshops for the goods they could not raise or make themselves. If she allowed the Norman to make an utter muddle of things—to set the skilled workmen to menial tasks, permit the weaving women to act like slothful whores until their bellies swelled with half-Norman brats, endured his men behaving like brainless squires—’twas her people who would pay the price.
    Edeva sighed and went back to her sewing. She would like to think that her brothers would reclaim the manor before any of those disasters befell them, but she no longer had much hope. Oxbury could not be taken unless some of the Normans left. Only against a smaller garrison could the Saxon rebels succeed. And it did not look as if the Normans were going anywhere.
    * * *
    “Jesu, Jobert, you are in foul temper this day,” Alan said as they went into the hall. “You’ve done naught but yell from the moment you rose from your sleeping place.”
    Jobert grunted and took a seat on one of the benches. Something stuck to his hose and he stood up, bellowing, “This place is a pigsty! Don’t any of the women know how to clean?” He reached down and swiped at the bench, grimacing at the gob of honey encrusted there. “Christ’s bones! My new clothes!”
    Alan snapped his fingers and a puffy-faced woman left the group of other servants standing in the corner. He gestured toward the filthy bench. She took an already soiled rag and rubbed at the spot.
    “As if that will help,” Jobert said sarcastically. “How long has it been since they did any laundry? Their own clothes look disgusting, and I doubt there is a clean piece of linen in the place.”
    Alan shrugged. “’Tis Hamo’s responsibility to order the women.”
    “Well, see that he does it,” Jobert grumbled, then added, “Nay, I