Castle of the Wolf
Margaret Moore
PASSION FOR HER PROTECTORFacing marriage to a man she loathes, virtuous Thomasina is forced to choose family duty over her own happiness – until a high-stakes tournament ends in her abduction! Trapped with her fearless captor, the legendary Wolf of Wales, she soon finds herself irresistibly drawn to the man beneath the armour.Though Rheged captured Tamsin in the name of revenge, he can’t ignore his instinct to protect her. Although to love her might bring the wrath of his enemies down upon them…
PASSION FOR HER PROTECTOR
Facing marriage to a man she loathes, virtuous Thomasina is forced to choose family duty over her own happiness—until a high-stakes tournament ends in her abduction! Trapped with her fearless captor, the legendary Wolf of Wales, she soon finds herself irresistibly drawn to the man beneath the armor.
Though Rheged captured Tamsin in the name of revenge, he can’t ignore his instinct to protect her. Although to love her could bring the wrath of his enemies down upon them….
Rheged took hold of her shoulders and regarded her sternly.
“There is doing a thing because honor demands it and there is being honorable to the point of madness. I tell you, it’s madness to marry Blane.”
“Do you truly want me to marry Sir Algar, Rheged? Would that make you happy?”
“God, no!” he said through clenched teeth. “I would rather—”
“What?” she pressed, his manner and the look in his eyes making her heart race and her breathing quicken. “What would you rather?”
“What I want does not matter, except that I would see you safe. You won’t be safe with Blane.”
“I would be safe with Sir Algar, though,” she replied, “and cherished, no doubt, as well as given whatever material goods my heart desires.”
“Yes,” he snapped.
“That would be enough, do you think? And I should be content to be the substitute for the woman he loved and lost?”
“No!” he said, his voice husky with need as he tugged her into his embrace and captured her lips with his own.
Praise for USA TODAY bestselling author Margaret Moore:
‘Moore taps into the culture and mores of Scotland to create a colourful Highland love story.’
—RT Book Reviews on
HIGHLAND HEIRESS
‘The talented Moore has penned another exciting Regency.’
—RT Book Reviews on
HIGHLAND ROGUE, LONDON MISS
‘The story is fresh, fun, fast-paced, engaging and passionate, with an added touch of adventure.’
—The Romance Readers Connection on
THE NOTORIOUS KNIGHT
‘Readers continue to ask for “Moore”. Her latest book is a sparkling, dynamic tale of two lonely hearts who find each other despite their pasts and the evil forces surrounding them.’
—RT Book Reviews on HERS TO DESIRE
‘Colourful and compelling details of life in the Middle Ages abound.’
—Publishers Weekly on HERS TO COMMAND
‘A lively adventure with enough tension and romance to keep me turning pages.’
—International bestselling author Roberta Gellis on HERS TO COMMAND
‘This captivating adventure of thirteenth-century Scotland kept me enthralled from beginning to end. It’s a keeper!’
—Romance Junkies on BRIDE OF LOCHBARR
‘When it comes to excellence in historical romance books, no one provides the audience with more than the award-winning Ms Moore.’
—Under the Covers
Castle of the Wolf
Margaret Moore
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
With thanks to Nalini Akolekar, everyone at Spencerhill, and my writing buddies for their advice and support, and to my family for all the love and laughter.
Award-winning author MARGARET MOORE actually began her career at the age of eight, when she and a friend concocted stories featuring a lovely, spirited damsel and a handsome, misunderstood thief. Years later, and unknowingly pursuing her destiny, Margaret graduated with distinction from the University of Toronto with a Bachelor of Arts degree in English Literature.
Margaret began writing while a stay-at-home mum, and sold her first historical romance to Mills & Boon® Historical in 1991. Since then she’s written over forty historical romance novels and novellas for Mills & Boon and Avon Books, as well as a young adult historical romance for HarperCollins Children’s Books. Her books have been published in France, Italy, Germany, Great Britain, Australia, Belgium, Switzerland, Brazil, Korea, Japan, Sweden, the Netherlands, Russia, Poland and India.
Margaret currently lives in Toronto with her husband and two cats. She also has a cottage on the north shore of Lake Erie, in an area that first became home to her great-great-grandfather.
Previous novels by the same author:
THE OVERLORD’S BRIDE
COMFORT AND JOY (in The Christmas Visit) BRIDE OF LOCHBARR LORD OF DUNKEATHE THE VAGABOND KNIGHT (in Yuletide Weddings) THE UNWILLING BRIDE THE DUKE’S DESIRE HERS TO COMMAND HERS TO DESIRE THE DUKE’S DILEMMA MY LORD’S DESIRE THE NOTORIOUS KNIGHT HIGHLAND ROGUE, LONDON MISS KNAVE’S HONOUR A LOVER’S KISS THE VISCOUNT’S KISS HIGHLAND HEIRESS
And as a Mills & Boon
HistoricalUndone!eBook:
THE WELSH LORD’S MISTRESS
Did you know that some of the novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Contents
Chapter One (#u5e86788a-e0f5-5615-8345-80dc788fff2b)
Chapter Two (#u5135e776-6bcd-5d0a-a6c2-3cbef38e8ac6)
Chapter Three (#u0a85280c-2cfa-597f-a98f-488f73a1340d)
Chapter Four (#u98e930bf-1062-5a5b-8643-c843247f8c0e)
Chapter Five (#u621dfea8-b39c-5358-9571-01a5258b74a0)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
England, 1214
The flickering light of the torches and beeswax candles in the great hall of Castle DeLac threw huge, moving shadows on the tapestries depicting hunts and battles hanging on the walls. A fire blazed in the long central hearth, warming the chill of the September evening. On either side of the hearth, knights and their ladies sat at the tables closest to the dais where Lord DeLac, his daughter and the most important guests dined on a sumptuous repast. Hounds wandered among the tables, snatching at the bits of food that fell into the rushes covering the flagstone floor, while a weak-chinned minstrel, dressed in blue, warbled a ballad about a knight on a quest to save his lost love.
Sir Rheged of Cwm Bron didn’t care about the feast, or the ballad, or the other guests. Let the nobles spend the rest of the evening amusing themselves with banter and drink, dancing and music. He would rather be well rested for the tournament on the morrow.
As he rose from his place, straightened his black tunic and started for the door leading to the courtyard, he ran another measuring gaze over the knights who would compete with him in the melee, a contest more like a true battle than a tilt in the lists. Some of them, like the excited young fellow dressed in bright green velvet, or the old knight already dozing over his wine, could be dismissed outright, being either too young to have much experience or too old to move swiftly. Others had clearly come more to enjoy the feasting and entertainment than to win the prize.
Rheged glanced again at the prize resting on the high table, a golden box embossed with jewels. That was what had brought him here, as well as ransoms for arms and horses from those he defeated in the melee. Since he was a veteran of many a real battle, a melee was more familiar to him and, he thought, a better test of true skill.
While he strode down the side of the hall, whispers of the other knights and nobles followed him like the wake after a ship at sea.
“Isn’t that the Wolf of Wales?” one drunken Norman nobleman slurred.
“By God, it is!” another muttered.
A woman’s voice rose above the minstrel’s music. “Why doesn’t he cut his hair? He looks like a savage.”
“My dear, he’s Welsh,” another nobleman drawled in equally disdainful reply. “They’re all savages.”
There had been a time those whispers and insults would have infuriated Rheged. Now it didn’t matter what they thought of him, as long as he triumphed on the field. And if his long hair made them think he would fight with all the fierce determination of a savage, all the better.
Taking a deep breath of the fresher air, Rheged stepped into the courtyard and looked up at the cloudless sky. The full moon lit the yard as bright as day, yet there was a hint of rain on the wind. It would be a light rain, though. Likely not enough to postpone the melee.
A door opened in a long, low building to his left that was attached to the hall, sending a shaft of golden light onto the cobblestones. The noise of clattering wooden bowls, chopping and the querulous demands and orders of a harried cook told him it was the kitchen.
A slender, shapely woman in a dark gown and lighter over-tunic, carrying a large basket, slipped out of the kitchen into the courtyard. As she nudged the door shut with her hip, he recognized Lady Thomasina, his host’s niece, dressed in nunlike garments, her long, dark braid swishing down her back like a living thing. When he was introduced to her upon his arrival, he’d been impressed by the bright intelligence gleaming in her brown eyes. Later it became clear that she ran the well-regulated household, and not Lord DeLac’s beautiful daughter, Mavis, although that should have been her responsibility.
Rheged watched as Lady Thomasina crossed the yard to the wicket gate, the smaller door inside the huge double gate. Despite her relatively plain attire, Lady Thomasina had a dignity and a graceful carriage that no garment, however costly and well made, could enhance.
She spoke a few quiet words to the guards, who opened the wicket. Then he heard voices that sent his mind racing back to his childhood—the grateful words of the poor and hungry who would receive the remains of the feast.
“Thank you, my lady!”
“Bless you, my lady!”
“God save you, my lady.”
“There is plenty for all,” she replied. “Come closer, Bob, and take something for your mother, too.”
There would be no bruises or black eyes from scrambling for the scraps, or bellies left empty here, tonight.
Once upon a time, he had been among the beggars waiting at a lord’s gate with starving bellies and desperate hope, anxious to get even the smallest bit of bread or meat. The person doling out the remains—always a servant, never a lady—had usually dumped the food on the ground like so much refuse and looked at those eagerly awaiting as if they were worth even less.
Leaning back against the wall, his eyes closed, he tried to shove the memories of those days of hunger and need, loneliness and desperation into the back of his mind. Those days were long ago. He was a knight now, with an estate of his own. It wasn’t a rich one yet, but in time, with effort—
“Sir Rheged?”
He opened his eyes to find Lady Thomasina standing in front of him, her empty basket over her arm, her brown eyes regarding him with grave concern. “Are you ill?”
He straightened. “I am never ill. I merely sought a breath of fresh air.”
She frowned, her eyebrows drawing together, her full lips turning down at the corners. “You found the hall too smoky or stuffy?”
“No more than most.”
“Nevertheless I shall see that more of the shutters in the hall are open.” She turned as if she intended to do that at once, and by herself.
“I wouldn’t bother. It’s going to rain soon,” he said as she started to hurry away.
She turned back. “Rain? The sky is clear.”
“I can smell it on the breeze—not a heavy rain,” he hastened to assure her. “Likely just a shower during the night, so not enough to delay the melee.”
“I hope not.”
“I’m fairly certain.” He gave her a little smile. “I grew up where it rains much of the time, Lady Thomasina.”
“Tamsin,” she said quickly, then just as swiftly added, “That’s easier to say than Thomasina.”
“Tamsin,” he quietly repeated.
She moved the basket in front of her. “I’ve heard you called the Wolf of Wales,” she said, repeating the nickname given to him after his first tournament triumphs. “Are you so ferocious?”
“Not as much as I was in my youth.”
“You’re hardly an old man!”
“Older than some here.”
“Surely that gives you the benefit of experience, as well as reputation.”
“Experience, aye, and a reputation has its purpose, although it’s not for fame I fight. Unlike your uncle, I’m not a wealthy man.”
The moment he mentioned his poverty, he regretted it. She didn’t need to know about that, nor did he want her to think the less of him because of it.
“You fight for money.” To his relief, she didn’t sound appalled or disgusted. She sounded...matter-of-fact. Practical. Accepting.
“I fight to earn more, to keep what I have.”
She nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “Life gives us all battles to fight and we all try to win as best we can. I wish I could fight some of mine with sword or mace.”
“I don’t doubt you’d be a worthy foe. The clever ones are always hardest to beat.”
“You flatter me, my lord,” she replied, and not in the usual manner of coy young ladies.
She said it warily, with suspicion, as if she doubted his sincerity or perhaps wasn’t used to receiving compliments.
Thinking it might indeed be the latter, he made a sweeping gesture encompassing the inner courtyard. “It takes intelligence to run a household the size of Lord DeLac’s, and there’s no doubt in my mind that falls to you. You do it well, my lady. I’ve never experienced such comfortable accommodations or fine food.”
“My uncle is known for the excellence of his feasts.”
“Because of you, I’m sure.”
He saw the hint of a shy smile. Charmed and encouraged, he went on. “You have grace and beauty, too. That is a rare combination, my lady.” He ventured closer. “I think you are a rare woman.”
She stepped back and to his dismay, that suspicious wariness returned. “Are you trying to seduce me, sir, with empty words of praise?”
“I meant what I said.”
“And now I suppose you will tell me that Mavis is lacking compared to me.”
“She looks lovely, I grant you,” he replied, “yet I do find her lacking. She seems almost a shadow compared to you. I doubt she concerns herself with anything more than what gown she’ll wear or who she’ll dance with at the feast.”
The lady bristled. “Mavis is not such a ninny and you earn only my enmity if you criticize her.”
Clearly Tamsin loved her cousin dear and he hurried to mend his mistake. “I admit I have little knowledge of her, and no doubt she’s a fine young woman, but vitality and passion shine in your bright eyes, my lady, and you cannot deny that you take responsibility for the running of the household of DeLac.”
His words didn’t have the effect he desired, which was to make her linger.
“Thank you for your compliments, sir knight,” she said, starting toward the kitchen once more. “If you’ll excuse me, I do have many responsibilities, so I give you good night.”
“Sleep well, my lady,” he murmured in his low, deep voice as she hurried away.
* * *
It was all Tamsin could do not to break into a run as she left the unexpectedly grateful and flattering Wolf of Wales.
To think of such a man saying such things to her—plain, dutiful, responsible Tamsin! He was by far the most intriguing man she’d ever met, and not just because he was handsome, although he was the sort of man to make a woman look twice in spite of his stern visage. His eyebrows were like black lines above watchful dark eyes, and the planes of his cheeks and line of his jaw were as sharp as a sword blade. He dressed plainly in black, with no jewelry or other adornment.
He needed no adornment to draw attention to his powerful warrior’s body, and as for those watchful and intense dark eyes, he obviously saw things others did not, like the way she worked—something no other guest had ever mentioned.
But she was no fool, just as she was no beauty, no matter what he said, and it would surely be wrong to let him know how much his words had affected her.
As she entered the kitchen to return her empty basket, Armond, the burly, aproned cook, red-faced after the efforts of overseeing the feast, looked about to have an attack of apoplexy. The shoulders of the exhausted scullery maids slumped from the effort of scrubbing the numerous pots and roasting pans and forks. Middle-aged Vila, who had been at Castle DeLac since her youth, wiped down the long table still snowed with flour that stood in the middle of the chamber. Baldur, the bottler, was excitedly urging Meg and Becky, two of the younger maidservants, to hurry as they headed to the door leading to the hall with more wine.
She followed the maidservants back to the even noisier hall. She swiftly surveyed the chamber and then the high table, where her uncle was comfortably settled with a goblet of wine in his hand. Mavis, attired as befit a wealthy lord’s daughter in a gown of scarlet with embroidered trim of delicate blue and yellow flowers, sat with downcast eyes beside him, looking every inch the demure maiden. Later, though, when they were alone, she would have plenty to say about the guests. She could be surprisingly insightful and was very clever in her way, something Sir Rheged, like most men, failed to appreciate. The other nobles at the high table—lords of importance in the south and London—appeared to be well sated with food and drink. Old Lord Russford at the far end was already dozing in his chair.
Below the dais, several of the younger knights were moving about the hall, speaking to friends and being introduced to the other guests. Some of the mothers with daughters of a marriageable age looked like peddlers hawking their wares at any fair in the land.
Sir Jocelyn was Mavis’s favorite of the moment, a handsome young man of good family, and the most expensively attired in emerald-green and bright blue velvet. He reminded Tamsin more of a peacock than a warrior, and he was also one of the most boring young men Tamsin had ever met. She was quite sure Mavis would tire of him soon, too.
Sir Robert of Tammerly was even younger, and not nearly so good-looking, but Tamsin didn’t doubt that someday he would be a knight to be reckoned with. He seemed wary and watchful, and ate and drank sparingly, like Sir Rheged. He was very unlike the Welshman in one way, though. Like the others, Sir Robert wore his hair cut around his head as if a bowl had been placed upon it, which only seemed to emphasize the roundness of his face.
Although he was clean-shaven, Sir Rheged wore his dark hair—thick and wavy enough to make a woman weep with envy—to his shoulders.
She shouldn’t be thinking about the one man who’d already left the feast, no matter how flattered she’d been by his compliments.
She spotted Denly, one of the stronger servants, and told him it was time to start taking down the tables to clear a space for dancing. Then she went to have a few words with Gordon, the minstrel, about the music for dancing. She herself never danced, but Mavis enjoyed it.
First, though, she would speak to Sally, a young and particularly voluptuous and overly friendly maidservant lingering at the table where the youthful squires sat.
Until tonight, Tamsin had never understood how any woman could give up the precious possession of her virginity to any man outside of marriage. There was too much to lose, even for a poor girl.
Now, though, when she remembered Sir Rheged’s dark eyes and voice, she was beginning to understand how a woman could succumb to desire regardless of the consequences. His compliments had sounded so sincere, she could believe his words were not mere meaningless flattery, but spoken from the heart.
Even so, any pleasure to be gained from giving in to lust surely outweighed the risks, especially for a highborn lady. Bearing a child out of wedlock meant telling the world you were too weak to resist your base impulses. You were a woman of shame.
As for Sally, one of these days, she would probably come to Tamsin in tears to say she was with child and what should she do? Tamsin would see that some kind of dowry was provided and perhaps even a husband, if there was another servant willing to marry her.
But she would deal with that when and if it became necessary. In the meantime... “Sally!”
The maidservant with thick auburn hair and a pert little nose knew better than to linger any longer and came forward at once. “Yes, my lady?”
“Open the shutters near the doors. The hall is getting too stuffy.”
“Yes, my lady,” Sally replied, doing as she was bid and wisely ignoring the obvious disappointment of the young squires.
Tamsin couldn’t imagine Sir Rheged ever being like those boys, giddy with excitement over the tournament, trying their best to look manly and to persuade a woman into their bed.
Determined, even ruthless she could see, but never giddy. As for looking manly, she could well believe Sir Rheged had always exuded that sense of contained and controlled power. And when it came to persuading a woman into bed, she wouldn’t be surprised to learn women had fought for the privilege.
“Careful, my lady!” Denly called out as she nearly stepped into the path of the servants moving the top of one of the trestle tables out of the way.
“I shall be,” she murmured, and not just when it came to moving the tables. She would avoid Sir Rheged of Cwm Bron for the rest of his visit there. It would surely be better—and safer—that way.
* * *
Late the next morning, after the light rain had let up just as Sir Rheged had said it would and the melee had commenced in the far field, Tamsin headed to the kitchen to check the progress of the preparations for the feast that would mark the end of the tournament. As she neared the entrance, she heard the unmistakable sound of a slap, followed by Armond’s loud and angry voice. “Get up, you lazy, good-for-nothing scamp!”
Tamsin hurried into the kitchen to see Ben, the little spit boy, holding his cheek, while Armond towered over him, hands on beefy hips. “Armond!” she snapped. “You know I don’t allow any servant to strike another!”
Armond glowered at her. “He was asleep when he has work to do.”
“You know my rules,” she replied. “If you don’t wish to obey them, you may leave the castle.”
“Your uncle—”
“Has no desire to be involved in any household disputes, as anyone will tell you. The servants are in my charge, and I keep the peace, not him. If you don’t wish to obey my rules, there are plenty of other cooks who would be glad to have your place. Hit Ben or any other servant again, and—”
Mavis burst into the kitchen like a howling gale. “They’re coming back! The melee’s over already!” She came to a startled halt. “Oh, am I interrupting?”
Tamsin turned her back on the cook. “Are you sure?”
“Charlie says one of the guards saw their armor gleaming in the sunlight down the road, so they’re coming back. Let’s go to the wall walk and see if we can tell who won,” Mavis eagerly suggested.
Despite Tamsin’s avid curiosity, that news could wait. The returning knights would be wanting hot water and fresh linen to wash before the feast. Their ladies, too.
“I can’t,” Tamsin replied before she addressed some of the younger maidservants. “Sally, Meg and Becky, start taking hot water to the guest apartments.”
The young women sighed in unison, for carrying the buckets of hot water was no easy task.
“Oh, please come with me, Tamsin!” Mavis pleaded. “There’s time and you don’t have to stand near the edge of the walk. They haven’t reached the outer gate yet.”
“Charlie could be wrong, then. Meg, Sally, Becky, don’t bother with the water until we’re sure, or it might be too cold when they return.”
“That’s right—we should be sure,” Mavis agreed. “Let’s go look ourselves.”
“All right, but I can only spare a little time,” she said, giving in. After all, she should know if the melee was really over or not, and she could stand against the tower, where she couldn’t see over the edge to the ground below. She had always been afraid of being up high, even as a little child and before her parents died of the ague, and for no reason that she could name, other than a vivid notion of what a fall from a great height could do.
Together the two young women hurried through the corridor connecting the kitchen to the great hall.
Mavis wore a finely woven green gown with a lighter green overtunic, her blond hair gleaming like molten gold; Tamsin wore a plainer gown of doe-brown wool, the sleeves rolled back to expose slender arms and capable hands, her long braid of chestnut hair swinging down her back as always.
Skirting the excited and ever-present hounds, they walked quickly through the hall bustling with servants spreading clean linen on the tables and sprinkling fresh rosemary and fleabane on the rush-covered floors. Denly was putting new torches in the sconces. Despite their hurry, Tamsin made sure all was as it should be as she passed the servants, giving each a nod and a smile.
“I’m sure Sir Jocelyn won the day,” Mavis said as they climbed the steps to the wall walk near the main gate in the inner curtain wall. “He was the squire of Sir William of Kent.”
“He’s very comely, too.”
“That isn’t why I think he’ll win,” Mavis replied with a toss of her head. “He’s very well trained.”
That might be, but he’s no Sir Rheged, Tamsin thought, then silently chastised herself for even thinking of the Welsh knight.
As they came out onto the wall walk, Mavis went right to the edge, while Tamsin stood with her back against the solid tower. Her cousin pointed at the group of men in the area between the outer and inner curtain walls. Some were mounted, a few walked and behind them came the squires, carrying shields and swords. “There they are. I can’t tell who won. Can you?”
Tamsin scanned the group. No man was obviously triumphant. No one rode out in front, or with a victor’s proud poise.
She spotted Sir Jocelyn, his shoulders slumped. Clearly not the winner. Her gaze passed over a few others, until she saw Sir Rheged. He was among the last, walking and leading his huge black warhorse, while another man leaned on him for support.
She shouldn’t feel so disappointed...but she did.
“There’s the Wolf of Wales,” Mavis said as if she’d been reading Tamsin’s mind, “and that’s young Sir Robert of Tammerly limping beside him.”
“Sir Robert must not be badly hurt, or he would still be in the tent or in a cart,” Tamsin noted. She’d arranged for a physician and servants to be at the site of the melee to take care of anyone injured on the field.
“Sir Rheged doesn’t look so fierce now, does he?”
“No,” Tamsin agreed.
“Since he’s lost, perhaps he’ll cut his hair. He’s clearly not another Samson.”
“I wouldn’t venture to suggest it.”
“I wouldn’t venture to talk to him at all if I could help it,” Mavis said with a sniff and a second toss of her head. “I’ve never seen a grimmer fellow. I think he’s barely said three words since he arrived.”
He’d said more than three words to Tamsin, but she didn’t bother to correct her cousin. She didn’t want to tell Mavis about that meeting in the courtyard, or what he’d said, or how he’d looked at her, or how she’d felt when he looked at her, and she certainly wasn’t going to tell Mavis about that dream.
“And he’s so poor, he has absolutely no influence at court. Indeed, he’s only got the small estate he has because Sir Algar gave it to him.”
“Who is Sir Algar? I don’t recall the name.”
“A minor lord who used to be friendly with my father. He hasn’t come here in years, though. The poor old man must be in his dotage, Father says. I gather the estate he gave Sir Rheged is barely enough to maintain a household and the fortress is a ruin. He can’t have more than a few soldiers and servants. And he’s called it Coom Bron, whatever that means in Welsh.”
“Lady Thomasina!”
They both turned as Charlie came rushing up the steps. The lad was small for his age, lively and inquisitive, and often delivered messages about the castle. A lock of his brown hair was forever flopping over his forehead and a score of freckles spanned his wide nose. “Lord DeLac wants to see you, my lady,” he panted, addressing Tamsin. “Right away, he says.”
Chapter Two
Tamsin and Mavis exchanged glances. Such a summons on such a day could herald nothing good.
“Did you hear who won, Charlie?” Mavis asked as Tamsin started down the well-worn steps, wondering what she’d forgotten or failed to anticipate.
“Aye, my lady. The Welshman with the hair to his shoulders.”
Tamsin came to an abrupt halt and glanced back at the grinning boy. “Sir Rheged?”
“Are you quite sure?” Mavis demanded.
“Aye, my lady. I had it from Wilf at the gate, who got it from the messenger himself come from the field. The Welshman bested seven knights and should be getting a pretty penny in exchange for their arms and horses, as well as the prize, o’ course.”
Tamsin started on her way again, smiling to herself as she headed to her uncle’s solar. She stopped smiling when she reached the solar and knocked on the heavy oaken door, entering when she heard her uncle’s gruff response.
A quick glance assured her nothing was amiss with the chamber itself. The brazier full of coals glowed brightly, the tapestries were clean and free of dust and the rushes on the floor newly laid. The candles, not lit during the day, had been well trimmed, and the cloth shutter over the arched window was open just enough to allow a bit of fresh air, but not enough to create a draft.
Her middle-aged, gray-haired, bearded uncle sat behind the large table polished with beeswax. As always he was richly dressed in a long tunic of finely woven brown wool, with an embossed belt around his ample middle and a long necklace of heavy silver links. Several rings adorned his thick fingers. The golden box studded with gemstones, which was to be awarded to the tournament champion at the feast that night, rested near his elbow.
Uncle Simon tapped the parchment open before him with his stubby index finger. She should have been relieved he didn’t immediately launch into a litany of complaints, but there was something about the look in his beady gray eyes that did nothing to lessen her trepidation.
“You’re finally going to pay me back for all I’ve spent on you,” he announced.
Tamsin’s heart leapt to her throat. She was a lady, a nobleman’s daughter, and couldn’t repay him in coin. There was but one way, and his next words confirmed her dread.
“I need an ally in the north, so you’re going to marry Sir Blane of Dunborough. He’s on his way for the wedding and should be here in a fortnight.”
It was no more than she had expected, and yet— a fortnight! Less than a month. And who was Sir Blane of Dunborough?
The answer crashed into her mind like a boulder. He was the bone-thin, lecherous old man who’d visited Castle Delac in the spring. She’d noticed at once how he’d stared at Mavis like an aged satyr, and she’d immediately declared that her cousin was feeling unwell. One look at Sir Blane, and Mavis had just as swiftly agreed, taking to her bed for the duration of his visit. Tamsin had kept the younger maidservants away from him, too, and even the oldest ones, who’d had years of experience fending off unwanted advances, had complained that he was the worst they’d ever encountered.
All the women of the household had breathed a sigh of relief when he had gone, and Tamsin had considered herself fortunate that she’d managed to avoid getting within ten feet of the man.
And now to hear she was supposed to marry him!
Her uncle’s eyebrows lowered as he frowned. “Well? Where is your gratitude?”
She’d rather spend her days in the coldest, most barren, inhospitable convent in Scotland than marry Blane of Dunborough, but it surely wouldn’t be wise to say so. “You surprised me, Uncle. I didn’t think I would ever marry.”
“What, you expected to live off my generosity forever?”
As if he hadn’t begrudged every coin he’d ever spent on her and cast up her dependence on him nearly every day since she arrived after her parents had died when she was ten years old. “I had hoped I could remain in Castle DeLac.”
“Living off my largess for life?”
There was no hope for it. “Or perhaps a convent...?”
“Good God, girl! It costs money to have the sisters take you. You expect me to pay for that?”
“Do you not have to provide a dowry to Sir Blane?”
Glaring, her uncle hoisted himself to his feet. “How dare you question me, you insolent wench? Where is your gratitude for everything I’ve done for you? Your thanks that I’ve found a man willing to take you?”
A man? Sir Rheged was a man. Sir Blane was more like a degenerate fiend in human form. “While I’m grateful for all you’ve done for me, Uncle—”
“You don’t sound grateful! You sound just like your damned mother!”
The words stung like a slap. Nevertheless she had to object. If she didn’t speak now, she might regret it for the rest of her life. “Sir Blane—”
“Is willing to take you off my hands and that’s the end of it,” her uncle said as he threw himself back into his chair. “Say nothing of this to anyone until I announce it tomorrow. I won’t have you taking the attention from my feast, or the champion, even if he is an ignorant, uncouth Welshman. Now go.”
She stayed where she was. “Uncle, I appreciate that I came to you with little, and you were forced to take me in. But to marry me off to a man like Sir Blane! Can you really be so callous and cruel, and to your own flesh and blood?”
Her uncle’s face was like iron, hard and cold. “If you refuse him, another must take your place, so either you marry him or Mavis must, for the agreement has been signed and the alliance made. But if it must be Mavis, know that I’ll marry you off to the first man I can find willing to take you for nothing except an alliance with me.”
Her choice was no choice. Making the merry, gentle, loving Mavis wed Sir Blane would be like murdering her. “I shall abide by your agreement, Uncle, and marry Sir Blane.”
“On your word of honor?”
She wanted to scream. She wanted to refuse. She wanted to tell him exactly what she thought of him. “On my word of honor,” she replied, each word like a nail in her coffin.
“Aren’t you going to thank me?”
She looked at the man who had never loved her, despite all her efforts, until his gaze faltered.
Then she turned and left him.
* * *
Feet planted, hands clasped behind his back, his stoic gaze sweeping over the hall and those gathered there, Rheged stood on the dais in the great hall of Castle DeLac waiting to receive his prize. The torches and expensive candles gracing the tables burned brightly, illuminating not just his prize and the fine clothes of the guests, but their less-than-pleased expressions, too.
His arms ached and he would have a few bruises come the morning, but what was that, or the angry and jealous looks from those who’d lost, if he received that valuable golden box?
Even so, it was not the box that commanded his attention most. It was Tamsin, far down the hall, half-hidden behind one of the stone pillars. Something had obviously upset or disturbed her. Gone was the lively gleam in her eye and the proud carriage of her head. The vitality that had seemed to shine forth from her slender frame and made him think she would be capable of managing everything and anything in a lord’s castle, even to commanding the garrison if need be, had apparently ebbed away.
Lord DeLac came toward him holding out the prize.
Perhaps she was ill, but if so, surely she wouldn’t be in the hall at all.
“A fine effort, Sir Rheged,” Lord DeLac said, his smile more than half a smirk.
Maybe she was simply exhausted. It must be tiring running a large household, and there were many guests here, and feasts to arrange, with dishes of fish, fowl like swans and geese, roasted beef, pork and mutton, pottages of peas and leeks, greens and fresh bread.
“I congratulate you on your victory,” Lord DeLac continued. “Not unexpected, given your reputation, but well earned nonetheless.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Rheged replied, not troubling to feign a smile in response when Lord DeLac placed the box in his hands. It was heavy, and the jewels decorating it glinted in the torchlight, reminding him of the reason he had come to Castle DeLac—to win this prize and collect ransoms. He needed money to begin the necessary repairs to his own fortress, to rise another step on the long ladder to power and prosperity.
He had not come here to concern himself with the troubles of Lord DeLac’s niece.
An elderly priest appeared from the corner near the dais to bless the meal. When he finished, it was as if he’d given a signal for everyone to speak at once while they took their seats. Rheged had been given the place of honor to the right of Lord DeLac. Lady Mavis sat on Lord DeLac’s left, with Lord Rossford beside her, while the elderly, stone-deaf Lady Rossford, who had been nursing a chill and seemingly recovered, sat on Rheged’s right. He couldn’t have conversed with her even if he’d wanted to, and her pursed lips made it clear she had no desire to speak with him, either.
The rest of the noble guests were seated below the dais, enjoying excellent wine as they talked and laughed, chatted and whispered and gossiped, while a bevy of servants tended to them under the ever-watchful eye of Tamsin, who barely touched her meal. Looking for all the world like a defeated general, she sat at a table that was far enough away to seem an insult.
Something truly serious must have happened to affect her so.
“Well, Sir Rheged, do you not agree?” Lord DeLac asked, his tone slightly impatient as the last course of baked fruit and pastries came to an end.
“I beg your pardon, my lord? The magnificence of your feast has taken all my attention,” Rheged replied, thinking it probably wouldn’t be wise to voice his concern about the man’s niece now, or ever.
Wiping his greasy fingers on a pristine linen napkin, Lord DeLac smiled. “I said, between the prize I offered and the ransoms for horses and arms you captured in the melee, you have become somewhat richer today.”
“The prize is a most magnificent and generous one, my lord, and your hospitality is without parallel.”
Lord DeLac leaned back in his chair and reached for the silver goblet in front of him, the jewels in his rings twinkling like the thick chain around his neck. “I understand you have no wife. You must be thinking of taking a bride soon.”
“Thinking of it,” Rheged agreed, certain the man was not about to propose Rheged marry his daughter, or his niece. A man like DeLac would surely seek rich, influential husbands for his female relatives, not a Welshman who’d been born of peasant parents and fought his way to a knighthood and an estate.
Nevertheless, to flatter the lady and his host, he bestowed a smile on Lady Mavis. Yes, most men would call her beautiful, with her fair hair and milky white skin, fine features and swanlike neck, but she was not the one Rheged had thought about before falling asleep last night, or when he was waiting for the melee to begin. Nor, he was sure, would she be in his thoughts tonight.
Nor would he be in hers, for although Lady Mavis blushed, she did not return his smile.
On the other hand, that wasn’t so surprising. Women always responded to him in one of two ways: either with fear and trepidation, avoiding his gaze like Lady Mavis; or with avid interest and not a little indication that they would enjoy sharing his bed. Sometimes he took one of them up on their offer. Most times he did not.
Only Tamsin had ever seemed concerned about his well-being and comfort.
He glanced down the hall again, in time to see Tamsin rise and leave her place. He continued to watch her as she threaded her way through the hall to the corridor that led to the kitchen, no doubt to give the remains of this feast to the poor tonight, as well.
He was a knight sworn to protect women. She was definitely troubled or upset. Surely it was his duty to help her if he could.
“If you’ll excuse me, my lord,” he said, pushing back his chair, “I must retire. I have a long journey tomorrow and the opponents I faced today sorely tested my mettle. I am too weary to remain for the no doubt excellent entertainment.”
“Oh, surely you can’t be that tired!” Lord DeLac protested. “A fine young fellow like you! Why, in my youth, I could fight all day and drink all night and be none the worse for it come the dawn.”
“Alas, my lord, I am not so fine a fellow then, for rest I must. I give you good night, and you, too, my lady,” he added with a polite bow in Lady Mavis’s direction.
The young woman nodded in acknowledgment but said nothing.
“If you must, then, Sir Rheged,” Lord DeLac grudgingly and ungraciously replied.
Rheged rose and picked up his prize. Once more ignoring the hushed comments and disdainful whispers of the Norman nobles, he took the box to the chamber that he’d been assigned. It was on the second level of a long building near the hall and had a small window with wooden shutters opening about ten feet above the ground below. The chamber itself contained a bed, a washstand and a stool, as well as his armor on a stand and the two leather pouches he used to carry his belongings. There was nowhere to hide his precious prize, or so it seemed, but he had hoped to win and so had planned a way to conceal it. Moving swiftly, he put the box in the smaller pouch and removed the drawstring from the larger one, which he tied to the first. Then, getting up on the stool, he tied the free end of the string around the iron bracket for the shutter and lowered the bag out the window until it rested about a foot from the opening. He moved the stool away from the window and stepped back.
From where he stood, he couldn’t see the knot or string, and even if someone outside noticed the pouch in the dark, it would be too high to grab.
Satisfied, he left the chamber and went back to the yard. He found a deep doorway in one of the many storehouses, a spot where he could watch the entrance to the kitchen without being seen from the wall walk or by any of the guards. It was also out of sight of the servants hurrying to and fro from the hall or kitchen or stables, and he ducked inside to wait.
The night was cool, with more than a hint of autumn in the air, and he wrapped his arms around himself for warmth. Not that he was as cold as most of those wealthy, coddled nobles would be in a similar situation. He’d spent more nights than he could remember sleeping beneath the open sky, or huddled in a doorway or an alley, often with no blanket or cloak to cover himself.
Nevertheless he was glad he didn’t have to wait long before Tamsin emerged from the noisy kitchen carrying her basket. Once again he watched her cross the yard with that grace that could not be taught and deliver the remains of the food from the feast to the poor folk gathered there. He heard their thanks, recognized their heartfelt gratitude and admired her gentle voice as she assured them they were welcome to all they could take.
But he still saw defeat in her slumped shoulders, and despair was evident in her slow steps back to the kitchen.
When she drew abreast of where he waited, he softly called her name.
She gasped and stepped back, clutching the basket before her as if it were a shield. “What are you doing here, Sir Rheged? What do you want?”
He spread his hands wide and kept his voice calm and gentle, as he would to a frightened horse. “I only seek to know if all is well with you.”
“I am quite well, my lord.”
“You’re lying.”
“How dare you, sir!” she demanded in a whisper. “How dare you make such an accusation?”
At least he’d brought the vibrant light back into her eyes. “Because something has happened to disturb you. You sat like a stone through the whole feast.”
Her steadfast gaze wavered, but only for a moment. “I wasn’t aware I was being studied with such scrutiny.”
“What’s happened to upset you so?”
“Nothing that need concern you. I give you congratulations on your victory today, Sir Rheged, and I wish you Godspeed on your journey home,” she said before turning to go.
He put his hand on her arm to keep her there. “My lady, please. It’s a knight’s duty to help and protect women. If there’s anything—”
“Let me go!” she ordered. “Or I’ll call out the guard! Don’t think I won’t!”
Fearing she would indeed summon the guards who would likely take a dim view of anything a Welshman did even if he was the tournament champion, Rheged silenced her the first way that came to mind.
He kissed her.
Kissed her full on the lips. Kissed her first with hard, swift desperation and then, when she didn’t pull away, with increasing need and desire. Kissed her as he had never kissed another woman, because until this day he had only ever wanted a woman for physical release.
Until tonight.
Until now, when he held Tamsin of DeLac in his arms and surrendered to the powerful, passionate yearning she aroused within him, as no other woman ever had.
Chapter Three
Tamsin knew she should protest. Make him stop. Push him away. Call out the guards if need be. Sir Rheged shouldn’t be kissing her or embracing her in the dark. She was a lady. She was betrothed.
Yet she did not resist him. She could not. Not when his kiss gentled and his strong arms slid around her as if offering her sanctuary.
Not even when her empty basket fell unheeded to the ground and he opened the door behind him. Nor when he drew her into the deeper darkness of the woolshed, where the bundles of bound wool seemed to breathe, expanding and contracting with soft sighs as his lips found hers again.
But this thrilling embrace couldn’t last, because duty must be done, or more than she would suffer.
Putting her hands on his broad chest, she pushed him back. “Stop,” she commanded, her voice low and firm despite the quiver she couldn’t suppress. “Please. Stop.”
“As you wish, if that is what you truly wish,” he replied, his deep voice like a caress in the darkness.
No, she didn’t wish it, but it must and would be so. “It is.”
“Very well. But something upset you before this, something that happened during the melee, or shortly afterward. Please, for my sake if not your own, tell me, and if I can help you, allow me that honor.”
To have such a man make such an offer, at such a time, in such a voice, was nearly enough to make her weep. But she must not weaken. Nevertheless she simply couldn’t resist the urge to tell him what her uncle had done. “I have been betrothed.”
“Ah,” he sighed, and she could read nothing in that long exhalation. “To whom?”
“Sir Blane of Dunborough.”
He started as if she’d struck him. “That dog?”
His response, so like a curse, nearly undid her. But she had to be strong and do what she must, for Mavis’s sake—and this man could not know her true feelings. After all, in spite of what he’d said about his knightly duty, there was nothing he could do. “I must remind you that you’re speaking of a nobleman, and my betrothed.”
“I know who he is,” Rheged replied. “I know what he is. Does your uncle? Do you?”
“I’ve met him.”
“And yet you’d marry him?”
“I’ve agreed to do so,” she answered, although now more than ever she wished she’d refused.
“You said you’ve met Blane. Where?”
“Here, if it is any of your business—and it’s not,” she tartly replied.
“Not at his castle, then. You haven’t witnessed him in his own household. You haven’t seen how terrified his men and servants are of him—and with good cause. He’s the most vicious, evil tyrant I’ve ever met. His sons, save one, are little better, and even Roland quarrels constantly with his brothers. Marry Blane, and you’ll be walking into a nest of vipers at war with one another.”
God help her if this was so, and yet she must marry Blane. For Mavis’s sake she had agreed, and for Mavis’s sake, she must honor that pledge.
And she had to get away from Rheged. It would do her no good to listen to him. To be with him. To let him take her in his arms and kiss her passionately.
Yet it seemed as if every muscle in her body had turned to water when she tried to leave. She stumbled and nearly fell, until Rheged took hold of her shoulders to steady her.
“I don’t say these things to frighten you, my lady,” he said quietly, his gaze searching her face. “I seek only to warn you, and protect you. If you don’t believe what I’ve said about Blane, ask some of the other guests here about him. Even if they praise him, they will hesitate before they do, and the hesitation will tell you that I speak the truth.” His grip on her shoulders tightened. “Whatever your uncle’s promised, you have the right to refuse. You cannot, by law, be compelled to marry.”
It was like a lifeline thrown to a drowning man who must choose whether to grab it himself or save the one member of his family who loved him, and whom he loved. “Let go of me, Sir Rheged.”
He did, and then he moved to block the door. “I have talked with priests on my travels about many things. I’m as certain as I’m standing here that you cannot be forced to marry against your will.”
She believed him, yet if he spoke the truth about Blane, it was more important than ever that she marry him and not Mavis.
So Tamsin straightened her shoulders and faced Rheged squarely. “Did I say I was being forced? Did I complain the betrothal was without my consent? I am going to marry a rich man who will give me rank and a comfortable household, as well as create an alliance between my uncle and a man with power in the north.”
“Who will make your life a living hell.”
“What woman doesn’t want a household of her own, and children?” she demanded, even though the thought of sharing Sir Blane’s bed filled her with revulsion. “As for his alleged evil, surely you don’t think my uncle would—”
“I think your uncle will do whatever he thinks will serve his own ends,” Rheged interrupted, “and I think you, my lady, know that far better than I.”
“So you say. But I may find it easier to please a husband than my uncle.”
“How? In his bed? I doubt any woman has ever found happiness in Blane’s bed.”
“No doubt you would prefer I shared yours.” She forced away the sudden, vivid image of being in Rheged’s bed, in his arms, loving him and being loved, just like her dream last night. “You have a novel method of seduction, I grant you, but it will not succeed with me.”
“I don’t want to seduce you,” he retorted. “I truly wish to help you, my lady.”
His sincerely spoken words made it all the more difficult for her to pretend to be unmoved by his offer, and his compassion. “I thank you for your concern, sir knight,” she said, keeping her voice cold, “but my fate is my own business, so unless you intend to keep me here against my will, you will let me go.”
“Leave, then,” he replied just as coldly, obviously angry now and with good cause—or so she thought until she put her hand on the latch.
“If you change your mind,” he said with a quiet, yet firm, resolve, “send word to Cwm Bron and I will come for you and take you anywhere you choose to go, whether to a friend, or a relative’s or a convent—any place of sanctuary where your uncle cannot compel you to marry against your will.”
She had to get away from him before her resolve crumbled into dust, yet she couldn’t go without some sign that she was grateful. That she appreciated and cherished his offer. That she respected and admired him for more than his looks and prowess in battle, although those were considerable.
That she wished they had met in different circumstances. That she was free, or even a maidservant, so that she could go to his bed and no one would bat an eye.
So she kissed him. Passionately. Letting loose, for just this once, all the need and longing and desire he aroused within her.
Just this once, so she would have something to remember in the long, lonely nights to come.
Just this once, since she would surely find nothing but selfish, demanding lust in Sir Blane’s bed.
Just this once, to show Rheged how she truly felt while he held her close and his lips moved over hers with slow, sure deliberation and desire.
Nevertheless this kiss must end, lest she forget who and what she was, and what she had to do to keep her cousin safe. She simply could not succumb to the need and yearning coursing through her, no matter how much she wished he would lay her on the fleece and have his pleasure of her, for loving him would surely give her pleasure, too.
She forced herself to release him. “We will forget we ever met here, Sir Rheged, and we will not speak of my marriage again. Now I give you good night, sir, and may you have a safe journey home.”
“My lady—”
“Enough, Sir Rheged!” she cried, her words a plea as much as an order. “I will marry Sir Blane and you will go back to Cwm Bron.” Her voice softened. “It must be so, my lord, so please respect my wishes.”
“Very well, my lady, and may you have more joy in your marriage than I foresee,” he replied as she opened the door and left him.
* * *
Rheged slumped back against one of the large bundles of wool. Perhaps the lady truly did want to marry a man of wealth and position, regardless of who he was, or the toll it might take upon her. If so, that was her decision, and he must abide by it.
He went to open the door, then hesitated. He was sure no one had been watching when he called out her name and that they’d been shielded from prying eyes in the doorway. Nevertheless it might be wise to wait awhile yet before leaving. It could mean trouble for them both if people knew they’d been together in the woolshed, even for a short time.
With a sigh, he climbed onto the bundles of fleece and stretched out, sinking down with a sigh. He would to stay here a little longer. After all, he’d wanted to save her from her troubles, not add to them.
* * *
Still holding the empty basket, Tamsin hurried to the small chamber she shared with Mavis. She didn’t go back to the kitchen where a host of servants would be, nor to the hall, where all the lords and ladies were still gathered. She ran like a frightened deer or a mouse that sees a cat to the servants’ stairs leading to the family chambers. Mercifully she met no one as she dashed up the steps, or in the corridor. Panting, she opened the door—to find her cousin already there, her hands clasped anxiously before her and a worried expression on her lovely face.
Mavis’s expression grew even more concerned as she looked from Tamsin’s startled visage to the empty basket in her hands.
“I was so busy thinking about all the guests leaving tomorrow, I forgot to return this,” Tamsin said, her excuse sounding weak even to herself.
“I was right—you are ill!” Mavis cried, taking the basket from Tamsin and setting it down on the nearby dressing table. “You’re flushed and out of breath and you were so quiet during the feast.”
“I’m not usually a font of merriment,” Tamsin noted with a smile only slightly forced as she picked up a taper and stuck it in the brazier warming the small chamber. “I was thinking about the cook. Armond may have to go. He struck the spit boy, and if he does it again—”
“I’ve seen you worried about household matters many times before, and this is different,” Mavis interrupted, blocking Tamsin’s way as she went to light the rushlight beside Mavis’s curtained bed. Tamsin’s smaller cot was on the other side of the room, along with the small chest that held her few gowns. Mavis’s clothes were in a much larger chest at the foot of her bed.
Mavis put her hand on Tamsin’s forehead before she could move away. “No fever, thank God, but you must go to bed and rest before you fall seriously ill. I’ll do what must be done tomorrow while you rest—and I won’t allow you to refuse!” she added, looking as stern as it was possible for cheerful, pretty Mavis to look.
Which was not nearly so stern as Sir Rheged. But Tamsin would not, must not, think of him. And it would be better if she kept busy tomorrow, away from the guests.
“I’m quite all right,” she replied, moving farther into the room.
“No, you’re not,” her cousin insisted. “Something is wrong.” She went to Tamsin and put her hands on her shoulders, turning her to face her, her anxious gaze searching Tamsin’s face. “Please, Tamsin, won’t you tell me? I come to you with all my troubles, as if you were my sister. Won’t you treat me like a sister and tell me yours?”
If she had demanded the truth, Tamsin would have resisted. But this tender, heartfelt plea, from the cousin who had been the only one to welcome her with kindness when she first came to Castle DeLac, and from whom she would soon be parted, proved irresistible. “Your father was going to wait until tomorrow to make the announcement.”
Mavis’s blond eyebrows drew together in a query as Tamsin forced another smile onto her face. Mavis must never know what her father had threatened if Tamsin refused the betrothal. Mavis was a loving, loyal soul and Tamsin didn’t doubt that she would insist on taking Tamsin’s place if she knew the truth. “I am to be married.”
“Married?” Mavis repeated, as shocked as Tamsin had been. Or Sir Rheged. And no doubt as everyone else in Castle DeLac would be, too, when the news got out. “When? To whom? Is it one of the visiting knights? Sir Jocelyn?”
“No, it’s—”
“Not young Sir Robert. He’s barely twenty.”
“It isn’t one of our guests. It’s Sir Blane of Dunborough.”
“Sir Blane of...” Mavis repeated. Then her eyes widened and a look of horror came to her face. “Not that terrible old lecher! It made my skin crawl just to look at him! Surely Father wouldn’t be so cruel!”
Tamsin drew herself and spoke as she had to Sir Rheged, with pride and resolve, so that Mavis would believe her. “He’s rich and powerful. It’s a much better match than I could have hoped for.”
“But you yourself saw the way he went after the maidservants. If you hadn’t kept them—and me—away from him—”
“Surely once he has a new, young wife he won’t want to dally with servants.”
“I don’t think marriage would ever stop a man like him from trying to take advantage of any woman. And he wouldn’t have a wife,” Mavis said. “He would have you. You would be in that disgusting old man’s bed, Tamsin.”
Better her than Mavis, Tamsin thought, her cousin’s compassionate concern making it all the more necessary that she wed Sir Blane. “I’m aware of a wife’s duties—all of them,” she said, meeting her cousin’s gaze with all the cool composure she could muster.
“It may not be pleasant, but if I’m to have children, I will do what I must, and I do want children,” she continued, trying not to imagine little boys with flashing brown eyes and dark hair, or little girls with thick lashes and long, waving black hair.
She took Mavis’s hands in hers. “This may be the only way I’ll ever have a household and children of my own. I’ll no longer be a beggar at my uncle’s table, a glorified servant who must be grateful for every mouthful.”
Mavis regarded her questioningly for a long moment, until at last she lowered her head and pulled her hands free. “If that’s how you feel, Tamsin, then I must be happy for you, and wish you well on your betrothal.”
“Thank you, my cousin, who is more than a sister to me,” Tamsin said, embracing her.
Mavis threw her arms about her and hugged her close.
* * *
Rheged awoke to pitch-darkness and the scent of wool. God’s blood, he’d fallen asleep in the woolshed.
He rolled off the bundle and onto his feet at once. Moving his stiff arms, he bent his knees and straightened, then brushed any bits of fleece from his tunic before raking his fingers through his hair.
He opened the door and peered into the yard. It was barely dawn, the yard empty and quiet, with only the footfalls of the guards on the walk to break the silence. Like a shadow, Rheged crept out of the shed and along the wall, stealthily making his way back to his quarters, more glad than ever that he had a chamber to himself.
On the other hand, he thought as he slipped through the outer door into the guest quarters, he might not be the only man sneaking into his chamber in the wee hours of the morning. If anyone saw him, they would likely think he’d been sporting with one of the servants, like that pretty wench with the pert nose who’d spent most of the feast near the squires. Nevertheless he was relieved to get to his chamber without encountering anyone else.
Once there, he checked to make sure his prize was safe, washed, changed his clothes and packed his belongings, including his mail, helmet, plain surcoat devoid of any devices or crest, and gambeson, the padded garment worn beneath his mail. That done, he went to the hall to break the fast.
The only people in the large chamber were some servants cleaning after last night’s feast, a few soldiers finishing their early meal of bread and ale and the hounds. Tamsin was not there, nor were any of the guests, Lady Mavis or Lord DeLac. No doubt the lords and ladies were still abed.
As one of the maidservants—not that pretty pert one, but an older one—brought him bread and ale, stifling a yawn as she did so, he told himself to be glad Tamsin wasn’t there. She had made her feelings quite clear, so there was nothing more to say to her.
Trying to put Tamsin from his thoughts, he ate slowly, savoring the excellent bread and fine ale, better than anything he would have at his own castle. He watched with hidden amusement as some of the other knights and squires stumbled into the hall, clearly the worse for feasting too much and too long last night. None of the ladies appeared.
That was to be expected, he supposed. But he did hope to see Tamsin bustling about, giving orders and seeing that all was well later, when he was preparing to depart. Yet he never so much as caught a glimpse of her in the hall, the guest quarters or the courtyard.
It was as if Tamsin had disappeared off the face of the earth. Or been locked away.
Chapter Four
Rheged immediately went back to the hall. If Tamsin was being punished because they’d been together last night, he must and would make certain Lord DeLac knew the lady was innocent of any indiscretion.
Well, perhaps she wasn’t entirely innocent, but she’d certainly done nothing worthy of punishment.
When he entered the hall, he saw at once that Tamsin wasn’t there, although more of the guests were, including a few of the ladies.
Deciding he would wait until Tamsin appeared or Lord DeLac arrived, Rheged sat on one of the benches halfway down the hall, away from anyone else. Not surprisingly, no one moved to sit near him. Only the servants addressed him, hurrying to offer him bread, honey, wine or ale. He waved them away and paid no heed to their curious regard any more than he did to the sideways glances the Normans gave him.
“Not like her at all,” he heard a woman say behind him. “Normally she’s calm as can be, even after a feast, but I swear to you, Denly, she fair tore a strip off Baldur this morning for not telling her they was running short of wine.”
Rheged moved farther back in the shadow of the pillar and looked over his shoulder. Two servants, a man and a woman, were replacing the torches in the sconces.
“No wonder she’s snappish,” the man remarked as he lifted down a burned-out torch. “Poor thing’s bone-tired. Not that she’s resting. She’s been in the storerooms all morning, checking the stores as if the king himself were coming.”
So it seemed Tamsin wasn’t being punished. She was going about her daily business, as if nothing at all had happened.
And so should he.
* * *
So Rheged was still telling himself early the next morning as he rode the last mile toward his fortress. He had spent the night encamped in a wood halfway between Castle DeLac and his estate, in a ruin of a coal burner’s hut he’d spotted when he ventured from the road seeking water for his horse. As was his habit after years of being on his own, he always carried flint and steel, and had a loaf of bread he’d slipped into his tunic before he left the hall at Castle DeLac that morning. That meant he was able to save the cost of a night at an inn, as well as the worry that some outlaw or thief might guess that he carried something of value and try to rob him. Not that any thief or highwayman would have succeeded. None ever had before, not even when he was a boy. He fought fiercely to keep what was his, and had first learned to fight not from some honorable knight, but on the streets and in the alleys of more places than he could remember. He could use anything that came to hand to defend himself, or simply his bare fists, if need be.
Thank God those days of living hand to mouth, of never knowing if he would eat that day or starve, of fighting over scraps or holding off any who would take what little he had, were over.
His heart swelled with pride and satisfaction when he rode over the ridge and saw his fortress rising from the autumn mist in the valley—the White Valley, Cwm Bron. To be sure, compared to Castle DeLac, his castle seemed small and more than a half a ruin, but this was only a beginning. One day, he would build a new and better fortress with a moat, at least two curtain walls, an inner and outer ward and a gatehouse with a portcullis. Inside, there would be a larger keep, stables, a hall and a chapel, too. The family apartments would be spacious and comfortable, finely furnished with beds and perhaps even a carpet in his own chamber. Farmers, tradesmen, craftsmen and merchants would feel safe and secure under his protection, and the village beyond the castle walls would grow and prosper, too.
Now, though, only a very small village of wattle-and-daub cottages and wooden buildings had grown around the single outer stone walls of his fortress. Inside the wall only the ancient round keep and one other building were made of stone. The others were wattle-and-daub, or timber, and several were in a sad state of disrepair. So far, he’d managed to have the work on the keep completed and the mill, farther down the river, repaired. Recently his men had started on the outer wall. Later, when it was finished, the work on the rest of the interior buildings would begin.
He could achieve his goals faster if he wed a wealthy woman. Not a titled lady, who would likely look down on a man of his origins, but a rich merchant’s daughter or sister.
With snapping brown eyes and hair to her waist.
He must stop thinking of Tamsin of DeLac. She must be nothing to him.
He surveyed the wall walk nearest the gate and thought he could make out the stocky Gareth, his friend and garrison commander. Gareth had no doubt been watching for his return, ready to ply him with questions about the tournament, the fighting and, being Gareth, the women.
Gareth had lost three of his bottom teeth in a skirmish, most of one eyebrow was nothing but a scar and his visage had been none too pretty to begin with. Despite his lack of physical attractiveness, however, he rarely had trouble finding female company, for he was as merry as Rheged was serious. Nevertheless they had been friends and comrades-in-arms for over fifteen years, from the time a half-drunk Gareth had tried to knock Rheged down and instead had fallen, laughing, into a horse trough.
As Rheged raised his hand in greeting, Sir Algar, white-haired and agile despite his years, came hurrying out of the open gate of Cwm Bron. Rheged hadn’t expected to find his overlord waiting for him, and he was pleased and flattered. And relieved, too, a little, for now Gareth’s questions would have to wait.
“Greetings, my lord!” Rheged called out, riding closer. Unlike Lord DeLac, Sir Algar was slender and although his long tunic, embossed leather belt and polished boots had surely been expensive, he wore few jewels.
“I couldn’t wait to find out who the champion of the tournament was,” Sir Algar cheerfully explained when Rheged swung down from his horse to walk beside him.
“I was.”
“I knew it!” Algar cried, slapping his thigh with delight. “I knew nobody’d beat you!”
“Nobody at that tournament anyway,” Rheged replied.
They’d no sooner entered the yard than Dan the groom hurried out of the stable as fast as his short legs could take him. Between his lack of height, potbelly and red face, the groom was rather like an apple with limbs. He was also honest and good at his job, and that was what counted with Rheged.
“Rub Jevan down well, and have my mail and surcoat taken to the armory for cleaning,” Rheged said, stroking his destrier’s nose.
Dan nodded and took hold of the reins while Rheged retrieved the smaller leather pouch that had also been tied to his saddle.
“Well, then, no limbs missing, I see,” Gareth noted wryly after he joined them, running his gaze up and down Rheged’s frame, which was as long and lean as his was short and brawny.
“No,” Rheged replied, apparently equally serious. “Only a few bruises.”
“And he won!” Sir Algar exclaimed.
“Can’t have been much of a competition, then,” Gareth observed.
“Not much,” Rheged answered with a shrug. “I see the fortress is still standing, so no trouble while I was gone, I take it?”
“Not a thing.”
Rheged noticed Sir Algar fidgeting. “Good. Tell the guards the watchword for the night is...woolshed.”
Gareth looked a little surprised, but he nodded and strolled off toward the men standing near the gate while Rheged, with Sir Algar beside him, started toward the keep.
“What did you make of Lord DeLac?” Sir Algar asked as they went up the steps to the second level in the building that served as Rheged’s hall. The chamber where he slept was on the third level, just below the new slate roof.
“Rich and prosperous and pleased with himself,” Rheged replied as they entered. This room was half the size of Lord DeLac’s great hall, and had no tapestries or other decoration. The tables were scarred and none too clean, the benches likewise. There was one chair, also old and not in the best of condition. Compared to Lord DeLac’s hall... There was no comparison, but then, he had no wife to rule it.
Sir Algar chuckled. “That’s one way to put it, I suppose. He always was a vain fellow, and arrogant. Who else was there? Anyone to give you trouble?”
“It wasn’t my easiest victory,” Rheged conceded while they walked toward the smoking central hearth. “A few of the younger knights decided to try me, and one or two will be formidable when they’ve had more experience.”
Hopefully by the time those young bucks were skilled enough to be serious competition, his estate would be so prosperous that he wouldn’t have to travel to tournaments to augment his income like some kind of entertainer.
Sir Algar slid him a grin. “And the ladies? Any beauties among them? Did any quarrels break out over you?”
“I was thinking about the battle before the melee and was too tired to pay much attention afterward,” Rheged replied, deciding there was no need to tell Sir Algar about Lord DeLac’s niece and his encounters with her.
“What, you saw no one to make you think of marriage? What of DeLac’s daughter? I hear she’s very beautiful.”
Rheged wondered if that was why Sir Algar had been so keen that he go to this particular tournament. If so, he was going to be disappointed. “I don’t think Lord DeLac would consider me a fitting son-in-law, and Lady Mavis didn’t seem at all interested in me.”
The older man chuckled and settled into the chair. “I find that hard to fathom.”
Rheged sat on a nearby bench and called out for Hildie, a middle-aged maidservant with a mole on her cheek who was lingering near the door to the kitchen, to bring wine.
“I’m far from wealthy,” he said to Lord Algar, “and I’m Welsh to boot—hardly attributes to attract a Norman bride.”
“Plenty of women wouldn’t care about wealth or nationality when they look at you. Good God, man, you’re any maiden’s dream!”
“I didn’t appear to be Lady Mavis’s dream.”
Sir Algar sighed. Then his eyes lit up again. “What of the man’s niece? Is she not of marriageable age?”
“Yes.”
“What sort of woman is she?”
“Betrothed.”
“Betrothed? To whom?”
“Sir Blane of Dunborough.”
“That old reprobate?” Sir Algar cried with a disgust that matched Rheged’s own.
“I gather DeLac needs an ally in the north.”
“DeLac must truly be desperate if he’ll give his niece to that black-hearted villain!”
“Or she wants a rich and powerful husband,” Rheged answered, for was that not what she herself had said?
“Ah.” Sir Algar leaned back in the chair and stroked his beard. “That could be—and it would be understandable, too. She came to DeLac with nearly nothing as a child after her parents died of a sickness and has been dependent on his charity ever since. That cannot be a comfortable existence. But Blane! Surely there must be someone else she could marry in the north.”
“The lady has already agreed.”
“Well, then, there’s an end to it,” Sir Algar said with another sigh. “At least Blane is old, so she may soon be a widow. Perhaps she’s already considered that.”
“Perhaps,” Rheged agreed, although he found no comfort in that thought. He didn’t want to believe the passionate woman he had kissed could be so coldhearted that she would eagerly anticipate widowhood, any more than he wanted to see her in Blane’s household. As for spending even a single night in the man’s bed...
“But what of the prize, man?” Sir Algar demanded, his query breaking the silence. “And how much did you take in ransoms for arms and horses?”
From his belt Rheged drew out a purse of coins that would have delighted him at any other time and set it on the bench. “Fifty marks in coin, and this.” He opened the leather pouch, pulled the golden box from the leather bag and held it up. “This was the prize I won.”
“God be praised!” Sir Algar gasped, his light blue eyes widening as his white eyebrows shot up. “I can’t believe it! Either the man’s richer than I ever suspected or he’s grown generous over the years.”
Sir Algar reached out for the box and took it almost reverently. Then he squinted and rotated it slowly in his hands, examining it closely.
“What is it?”
“Did you think this was solid gold?” Sir Algar asked slowly.
“Isn’t it?”
Sir Algar shook his head. “The gems aren’t real, either. Could you not—”
“Tell? How could I?” Rheged retorted, taking the box from him and studying it just as intently. “I’ve never had any jewels, or anything solid gold, either. Are you certain?”
Sir Algar took the knife from his belt and scraped the bottom of the box. The gold peeled off, revealing the dull gray of some other metal underneath. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. DeLac’s always been a miser, unless he wants to impress his guests.”
Rheged grabbed the box, shoved it into the leather pouch and started for the door.
Sir Algar jumped to his feet. “What are you—”
“That damned miserly bastard won’t make a fool out of me! I’m going to get my proper prize!”
“Perhaps it might be wise to accept—” Sir Algar began as he followed Rheged.
“Being cheated? Never!” Rheged paused and turned to face the older man. “What would you do if a merchant sold you bogus goods?”
“I would either get my money back, or demand the goods I paid for.”
“I am going to seek the goods I paid for,” Rheged replied.
“Lord DeLac is a powerful man, Rheged,” Sir Algar said warily.
“And I am not. I realize that, my lord.” He managed a grim smile. “I am well aware that I lack sufficient power to risk the man’s enmity, my lord, but I must try to get a more proper prize, or I will have deserved to be cheated.”
Sir Algar nodded. “Farewell, then, and good luck—but be careful.”
“I will, my lord.”
His mouth a grim, hard line, his knuckles white as he gripped the pouch, Rheged left the hall and marched across the yard to the stable. Gareth, standing near the well talking to one of the maidservants—the quiet one whose name was Evie or some such thing—saw him and immediately hurried to meet him at the entrance. “What’s wrong?” he asked gravely, clearly realizing this was no time for jesting.
“I’m going back to Castle DeLac,” Rheged replied. He went into the stable and called for Dan, whose head appeared over the wall of Jevan’s stall, surprise on every feature.
“Saddle Myr,” Rheged ordered. Jevan was for fighting; Myr, his gelding, was for speed.
“Forgot something, did you?” Gareth asked.
“Not me,” Rheged grimly replied. “Lord DeLac.” He glanced at his puzzled friend. “He forgot his honor, and what is due a knight.”
“Want some company?”
Rheged shook his head. “I need you here.” He put his hand on Gareth’s shoulder. “The man will either do what’s right or he won’t, and if he won’t, I’ll come back and fetch you.”
Gareth grinned and nodded. “As you will, my lord.”
* * *
Tamsin shivered, pulled her cloak more tightly about her and checked the figure for the total number of baskets of neeps in the kitchen storeroom against the list in her hand. On other shelves were apples drying on racks, baskets of peas and leeks and clay jars of honey. Sawdust covered the floor and scented the air along with the vegetables and fruit. A few dust motes danced, and one or two must have gotten into her eyes, to make them water.
Thankfully the total of all the stores here was correct, so she could be sure she was leaving a good count for Mavis. She wanted to be certain all was in good order before Sir Blane arrived and she was taken away to the north, where it would be even colder.
Unfortunately what should have been a simple task was taking far too long. Her thoughts kept drifting to what she might encounter in her future, and what she would be leaving behind. She wouldn’t be sorry to see the last of her uncle, but she would sorely miss Mavis, and the servants. Even Armond. And she knew how to manage this household. What would Sir Blane’s be like? she asked herself as she wiped at her eyes. Because of the dust, of course.
A commotion outside jerked her back to the present. It seemed to be coming from the yard, near the gates. They weren’t expecting any visitors today, at least none that she...
Surely it couldn’t be Sir Blane! Her uncle had said he would arrive within the fortnight, not today—unless her betrothed had traveled more swiftly than expected, anxious for the alliance. Or the marriage.
Although that thought was enough to make her queasy, Tamsin put down the list, gathered up her skirts and hurried to the yard.
To see Sir Rheged of Cwm Bron standing near the gates, feet planted, his hands on his hips and obviously angry.
That explained why the guards were watching him so closely, even though he wasn’t dressed for battle. He wore a white shirt open at the neck beneath a boiled leather tunic, the attire of common men-at-arms. Despite the autumn chill in the air, the long sleeves of his shirt were rolled back to reveal skin bronzed brown by the sun. His breeches were of wool, his boots splattered with mud and he stood beside a foam-flecked gray gelding, not the powerful destrier he’d ridden in the melee. He did, however, carry a sword, the scabbard resting against his muscular thigh.
Despite her determination to keep certain memories locked away forever, she vividly recalled the thrill of being in his arms and the sensation of his lips on hers, especially when his gaze swept the yard and settled upon her.
Then he started toward her, as if his business was with her alone.
That must not be. That could not be. She must marry Blane, regardless of what this man said. Or did.
Straightening her shoulders, she walked forward resolutely, determined to send him on his way. “Greetings, Sir Rheged,” she said, managing to sound calm.
“I wish to see your uncle.”
So he hadn’t returned to offer her aid again, or sanctuary. Or so she thought, until she saw something deep in his eyes that revived her hope of rescue.
Her useless, wistful hope that must be nipped in the bud. “He rode out this morning, sir knight,” she said with cool detachment.
The Welshman skeptically raised a dark eyebrow. “He went riding?”
She, too, had been surprised to hear her uncle’s plan, until it had occurred to her that he might wish to avoid his niece as much as she wanted to be far away from him. “You’re welcome to wait in his solar, or you may tell me your business and I will see—”
Sir Rheged turned on his heel, went to his horse and took a leather pouch from the saddle. He opened it and, like a conjurer at a fair, held up his prize. “This is not gold, but painted metal and the jewels are false, too. Your uncle lied to every knight who fought here, and I demand a proper prize.”
Oh, she was a fool to harbor such romantic notions of rescue by a knight she barely knew!
Whatever her uncle had done, this was no place to discuss it, where so many could see and hear. Not only were the guards within hearing distance, but a quick glance around the yard confirmed that several servants and not a few curious guests were watching from doors and windows, including Mavis. “Please come to the solar, Sir Rheged. I will send a man to find my uncle. I’m sure he can—”
“Explain?” Rheged scornfully interrupted. “What explanation can there be? He played me, and every other knight who came to his tournament, for a fool.” He leaned toward her, close enough to kiss, except that wasn’t desire burning in his eyes. “And I assure you, my lady, I do not take kindly to being made to look a fool.”
“Nor do I,” she snapped, her own ire rising. If he could speak so to her, and in public, too, she’d been right to suspect that his motive for complimenting and kissing her had been seduction all along. “I had nothing to do with the prize, yet you stand here and upbraid me as if I were a naughty child. Now either follow me to the solar or get back on your horse and go!”
For an instant, she thought he was going to leave, until her uncle came strolling out from behind the chapel. He was clad in his thick cloak with the ermine collar and lined with fox fur, his silver broach glittering in the September sunlight, his hair sleek and smooth as his voice.
“Greetings, Sir Rheged,” he said genially, although his eyes were far from friendly. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon. Have you forgotten something?”
“Not I, but apparently you forgot you are supposed to be an honorable man. You played me false, DeLac, and all who fought in your tournament. This box is no more made of gold than I am, and the jewels are just as false. If you have a drop of honor in you, you’ll give me a more worthy prize.”
With a shrug of his beefy shoulders, her uncle answered as if he were innocence itself. “You received the prize that was offered. I never said it was real gold, or that the jewels were gemstones. It was on display in the hall the night before the melee, and you were quite welcome to examine it then. If you did not...” Her uncle spread his hands wide, as if to say, “What fault is it of mine?”
“And why such anger?” he continued. “Have you not won another victory? Will that not add to your fame and fierce reputation? Surely that was worth the effort.”
Rheged regarded the man with undisguised disdain and answered in Welsh. Whatever he said, it was obviously no compliment.
“Leave my castle, Sir Rheged,” her uncle ordered, all vestige of amiability replaced by indignant anger, “or I’ll order my guards to—”
“What?” Rheged demanded, his voice low and hard. “Try to make me go? If that’s your notion, think again, my lord. I have my sword.”
“And I have twenty archers with arrows nocked and aimed right at your head,” her uncle returned.
A quick glance at the wall walk confirmed the truth of what he said.
Rheged threw the box onto the ground with such force the lid flew off and it skittered to a halt inches from her uncle’s toe. “Twenty men to one. Why am I not surprised?”
He gestured at the windows surrounding the yard, proving that he, too, was aware that they were being watched by more than the men and servants in the yard. “Soon all will know what kind of honorable nobleman you are. Then we shall see how many friends you have at court.”
“More than you, at least,” her uncle retorted. “More than some peasant of a Welshman will ever have, no matter how well he fights or how many walls he climbs. Indeed, a monkey could have done what you did to earn your knighthood, so don’t think to threaten me. Now get out, Sir Rheged, before I have you shot.”
He would do it, too, Tamsin knew. Leave, Rheged, she silently urged, instinctively stepping forward.
The Welshman glanced at her, his expression unreadable, before he turned his attention back to her uncle. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have expected better from a man who’ll give his niece to a greedy, lecherous lout like Blane.”
“My niece’s marriage is no business of yours!” DeLac cried as Tamsin stood frozen where she was, rooted to the ground, afraid to move a muscle lest she make things worse. “And you’ve got the only prize you deserve. Now go, before I order my men to kill you where you stand!”
“Very well, my lord, who has given a prize worthy of the giver—false and cheap, good for show, but lacking any true value,” Rheged replied as he threw himself into the saddle. “Keep your prize and be damned!”
“Get out and never return, you stupid, stinking Welshman!” her uncle shouted.
Rheged lifted his horse’s reins, but instead of heading for the gate, he rode right at Tamsin, turning his horse at the last moment.
In that same moment, he reached down and grabbed the back of her gown. Gasping with shock and dismay, she kicked and struggled as he hauled her over his lap.
“Put me down! Let me go!” she cried with desperate panic. Ignoring her, he punched his horse’s sides with his heels and, with her slung over his horse as if she were a sack of grain, rode out through the gates.
Chapter Five
“Stop! Let me down!” Tamsin cried, noise and confusion surrounding her as she fought to get off the swiftly moving horse, despite the fear of falling to her death.
But Rheged held her tight, and as they passed beneath the portcullis, she could understand nothing of the shouts, except for Mavis calling her name.
And then her uncle ordering his men to shoot.
Something hit her calf. Like a bee sting, only worse. Her leg was wet. With blood?
“Stop!” she gasped again, trying to be heard over the pounding of the horses’ hooves and shouts from the castle. “Please...stop....”
Regardless of her desperate cries, Rheged didn’t stop.
* * *
He wouldn’t until they were well away from Castle DeLac, when it would be safer, Rheged thought as he held on to Tamsin with all his might so she wouldn’t fall. Thank God they had some time before DeLac’s men could mount and give chase.
At least she’d stopped struggling. Because she’d fainted, apparently. No surprise, that, considering how shocked and frightened she must have been at his impulsive act. He had never been impulsive in his life. Until today. Until he’d...
The magnitude of what he’d done hit him like a rock thrown from a great height. He’d abducted a woman, a noblewoman, stolen her away from an uncle with wealth and power and influence with the king. He’d acted without thinking.
Foolishly.
Although he hated the thought of Tamsin—or any woman—married to a man like Blane, he had no right to interfere. Regardless of the consequences, he must take her back at once, he told himself as he began to turn his horse. Perhaps there would be no serious repercussions if he left her near—
Myr suddenly shied, as if there was a snake at his feet. Or he was hurt.
Rheged slipped from the saddle, his motion making Tamsin moan. She must be waking up from her swoon. Then he saw the blood dripping from her foot onto the road beneath.
God help him! She’d been struck by an arrow! He could see the shaft protruding from her cloak where it had pierced her calf. He knew from experience that such a wound must be tended to at once. They had to return to Castle DeLac immediately, even if the jostling of the ride would make her bleed more and although every sense told him it was about to rain.
He grabbed Myr’s bridle and started back just before the rain began to fall. It wasn’t droplets or a drizzle, but a downpour. They would both be soaked through unless...
The coal burner’s hut! It was little more than a ruin, but it was a shelter.
Leading his horse from the road into the wood, he hurried toward the hovel. He looped Myr’s reins around a bush and lifted Tamsin down. She groaned softly as he carried her to the hut and kicked open the ramshackle door. The hard-packed floor was bare, and a circle of stones with a few charred and half-burned sticks were all that remained of the fire he’d built before. The pile of branches he’d slept on was still there, too, and he laid her on it. He unbuckled his sword belt and set it on the ground nearby before tugging off his leather tunic. He put that down beside her, then gently shifted her onto it.
Cold air blew in through chinks in the rough walls and rain began dripping through the hole in the roof made to let the smoke from the fire escape. They needed a fire tonight, both for warmth and should he have to cauterize the wound.
Thank God he had his flint and steel. He hadn’t taken the time at Cwn Bron to remove the pouch he always wore at his waist when he traveled. He grabbed some leaves from the branches and got them alight. He used a few of the sticks to build a fire, then ran out into the rain, seeking larger pieces of wood under the trees. He could get water from the stream nearby.
Gathering up a few more sticks, he made his way through the bracken, ferns and underbrush toward the stream. This time he spotted a broken pot on the bank. Fortunately there was enough of it left to hold water, so with his free hand he filled it and then hurried back to the hut. Crouching, he fed the wood into the fire, then put the broken pot near the flames to warm the contents.
Only then did he glance at Tamsin, to discover she was watching him, her brown eyes huge in her pale face, one hand clutching the arrow in her leg.
He rose and approached her cautiously. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to tend to that,” he said, nodding at the arrow.
“I’m sorry you ever came to Castle DeLac,” she retorted, her teeth clenched. “Take me home!”
“I can’t. It’s raining and it’s going to be dark soon.”
“I don’t care if it’s pouring. Take me back!”
“As soon as the water’s heated, I’m going to have to wash your wound.”
“You’re no physician.”
“No, but I’ve dealt with such injuries before, my own and other’s. The sooner it’s tended to—”
“Take me home!” she commanded, but now there was a tremor in her voice. “You must take me back. I have to marry Blane.” She moved as if she was trying to stand, then gasped, her face growing even more pale.
“Sit,” he commanded, “or you’ll bleed more.”
She didn’t answer. She didn’t say anything, her lips a thin line of anger and pain, but at least she didn’t try to move again.
He reached for the warm water. “It’s good you’re wearing a heavy gown,” he said as he knelt down and got a good look at the spot where the arrow had pierced her garments. “I’m going to break the shaft so I can pull the fabric of your clothes away from the wound. Stay still. It won’t be easy. Fletchers use the hardest wood for strength.”
“I know that,” she snapped.
“I suspect there isn’t much you don’t know,” he replied. He held the shaft against her leg with one hand and gripped the other end of the shaft near the feathers with the other. “How many days until Christmas?”
“What?”
“How many days until Christmas. That’s got to be a busy time for you.”
“I don’t—”
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