Defiant Passion (Sons of Rhodri Medieval Romance Series) (6 page)

“They’re Welsh, they’ll get through.”

***

Rhodri was mistaken. The blinding snowstorm howled out of the frigid peaks and caught the messengers unawares. Though autumn blizzards weren’t unheard of in these mountains, the sudden ferocity of this one forced them to seek shelter in a shepherd’s hut.

The snow stopped after two days, but they had to wait another sennight before the weak sun melted it sufficiently to make the track safe enough for travel. They had used up their supplies. If they got to Ellesmere, it was unlikely there would be time to return to Cadair Berwyn with the reply to the ransom demand they carried. If they left Ellesmere alive, they would have to winter in the foothills, and return to the mountains in the spring.

“
Milord
, there are messengers from the barbarian, Rhodri.”

Roused from his constant berating of himself for not adequately protecting his family and household, Ram de Montbryce tore his gaze from the embers in the hearth, leapt to his feet and instructed his commander to lead him to the Welshmen.

Once they came to the cells, he could see the four prisoners had undergone a difficult journey. They were dirty, their beards unkempt. Yet there was dignity in their bearing. He could sense when a man was afraid, and these men showed no sign of fear as he strode into their dank cell. He wondered how long they had been on the road to his castle with the message.

Their leader did not wait to be spoken to. “Earl of Ellesmere,
Comte
de Montbryce?”

His enemy was an educated man, a warrior. “I am he. Who are you and what is your message?”

“Aneurin ap Norweg,” the Welshman replied curtly, withdrawing a small metal tube from inside his sheepskin jerkin. He handed it to the Earl. “I have a message from Lord Rhodri ap Owain, Prince of the
commote
of Powwydd.”

The Earl snatched the tube, willing his hands not to shake in front of these enemies. He pulled out the parchment coiled tightly inside. It was damp, but the message was still legible.

To Rambaud de Montbryce, Earl of Ellesmere

Herein my requirements for the release of your wife, children and household servants.

Two thousand pounds in Fleury pennies to be brought back to Wales by the messengers.

If they are killed, and no ransom paid, you will not see your family again. I guarantee the safe return of the captives upon payment.

Rhodri ap Owain, Prince of Powwydd.

Montbryce’s gut tightened. It was impossible. He shook his head. “I can’t comply with these demands. This sum is the equivalent of a year’s income from all my properties. For all I know they’re already dead.”

He could barely speak the words, and yet, in the depths of his despair, he had never sensed his wife and children were dead. He thrust the document back at the Welshman.

Aneurin refused to take it. “Lord Rhodri is a man of honour. He has sworn an oath none in your family or household will be harmed, if the ransom is paid.”

The Earl smirked. “Your Lord must have a different code of honour if he believes kidnapping women and children is honourable.”

He spat out the words, though he knew many Norman knights thought such misdeeds acceptable in time of war. Aneurin remained silent. Montbryce looked at the Welshmen for long minutes. “We’re both aware of the atrocities men are capable of. However, I will not send you off with a chest full of coin. You wouldn’t make it back before winter. I assume you’ve taken them deep into the mountains. My family is trapped. Why have you come so late?”

Aneurin reluctantly agreed, explaining the delay of the blizzard. “We’ll take whatever message you send back to the foothills, and wait until the spring to return to the mountains.”

The Earl wanted to shout that his cherished wife was pregnant and he feared for her life if she gave birth in the wilds of the Welsh mountains, but his fear made him swallow the words.

“But Rhodri will believe you’ve been killed,” Gervais interjected.

The Welshman shook his head. “He will not act upon his suspicions until our deaths are confirmed.”

These men obviously held their leader in high regard. “I could order you be tortured until you reveal where Rhodri is holding my family.” It was an empty threat. Such men would not succumb to torture.

“I’ll save you the trouble and tell you they are safe and well in the fortress of Cadair Berwyn. If you could find it and arrive there alive, it would profit you nothing.”

A flicker of hope blossomed in the Earl’s heart. Aneurin spoke as though the Montbryce family was alive and safe in Cadair Berwyn. He paced in the dark cell, trying to ignore the bile rising at the back of his throat, brought on by the stench in this squalid place and his own fear.

He gave a curt order. “Gervais, escort these men to a chamber in the North Tower. Provide them with pallets and a bath, and food. Bolt the door.”

He left the cells before Gervais could protest.

“Aneurin has not returned, Rhodri. It’s been a month since they left. The Earl has executed him and his men. We must kill the hostages.”

Morwenna and Rhodri were at supper in the
neuadd
. The Earl of Ellesmere’s family and servants had been given leave to eat their meals in the hall. The Countess, Rhonwen and Giselle ate at a separate table from the others. Rhodri sensed the noblewoman appreciated this bit of decorum and privacy as her pregnancy became more evident. He worried about her condition. It was an unforeseen complication he would rather have done without.

Morwenna had badgered Rhodri with her demand the hostages be killed every day for a sennight. The failure of the messengers to return worried him too, but why did the woman have such a blood lust? It was less and less clear to him how he had become involved with her. How had their betrothal come about? He supposed when her father had proposed the union, he had been smitten with her beauty, but now hatred distorted her lovely face. Even her ample breasts did nothing to rouse his lust. She sickened him. He also suspected, if they married, she would not come virgin to his bed.

And now I’m smitten with another.

He understood passion. He was as passionate as anyone for his beloved country but had no personal hatred for the Earl of Ellesmere, whom he recognized as an able administrator, a fair man who strove to better the lives of the people who lived in his lands. He could have killed the Earl years ago, at Ruyton, if he had wished, if he was the sort of man who killed adversaries knocked into oblivion by a blow to the head. He wanted none of the Norman usurper’s earls ruling his own country, and would fight to keep them out, but had no reason to slaughter the Earl’s wife and children. He had given his oath they would remain safe and he reminded Morwenna of it again.

She leapt to her feet and stormed out. Though the hostages were too far away from the dais to hear what had been said, he suspected they knew the woman thirsted for their deaths.

Despite his best efforts, his gaze kept returning to the hostages. He made the excuse he was preoccupied with the possibility the baby would be born in his fortress, but in his heart he knew it was Rhonwen who drew his eyes.
He longed to take her small, delicate body in his arms and bury his face in her long black hair. Those enormous grey eyes had him bewitched.

***

That same night, the Prince of Powwydd had a dream. He sat contentedly amid his children. There were five of them, and two had flaming red hair. A hazy vision of his grandfather, Dafydd, drifted across the dream, his copper hair ablaze in the sun. It was a happy dream, different from the ones he usually had when he returned from raids. He did not enjoy killing and death often stalked his nightmares.

Belief in the power of dreams ran deep in his Celtic blood. In this dream, Arianrhod, the virgin white goddess of birth, was revealed to him. It was a dream of hope and promise for the future. The goddess conjured an image of the mother of his children. She was a diminutive woman with long black hair, high cheekbones and eyes like grey pools, the woman he had been unable to stop thinking about since setting eyes on her.

When he woke, he whispered her name. “Rhonwen.”

He felt calmer than he had in many a year. Perhaps there was an end in sight to his loneliness. He gave thanks for the honour the gods had bestowed on him. The healer was not high born. Her mother was Welsh, but her father? She had never lived in Wales, only in the Marches, and he sensed she burned with a desire to kill his betrothed, to avenge her mother’s murder.

He only hoped he would be worthy of her and could win her heart. Then the dream could be fulfilled. He resolved to begin his wooing this very day.

***

The Normans had been escorted back to their chamber after the meal, and Giselle soon had the yawning boys tucked up in their pallets. In consideration of her condition, Rhodri had provided a bed for the Countess, but the lads liked their pallets.

“What brave little soldiers you are,” their mother whispered, gazing at their tousled heads.

The noise of the bolt being thrown back and a tapping at the door made them instantly wary. They were usually left alone at night. Rhonwen opened the door a crack. Andras stood on the threshold. He spoke to her in Welsh. “Lord Rhodri requests you come to his chamber.”

Her shoulders tensed. “Me? He
requests
?” she whispered.

He nodded.

What could this mean? Dread and excitement churned in her belly. She turned to her mistress. “Rhodri has sent for me, my lady,” she whispered.

“For you?” the Countess asked.

She nodded and left. Andras barred the door. His impassive face betrayed no emotion and she was afraid to ask him why Rhodri had summoned her. She suspected the other women thought she would be harmed, but she felt no fear of the chieftain. Her intense feelings for him were more terrifying.

***

Phillippe did not knock at Morwenna’s door, knowing she would be alone in her chamber, waiting impatiently. They exchanged no greeting. By the time he reached her, she had torn off her shift and bared her body. He devoured the site of her thrusting breasts and the heated promise in her eyes. Their kisses were ravenous. Their mouths remained locked together as they worked frenziedly to remove his clothing. She sucked his tongue into her mouth. He bit her lip, then her earlobe. His hands squeezed her breasts roughly and she arched her mons to meet his erection. His tongue darted in and out of her mouth and she groaned huskily. “Phillippe, Phillippe. Fill me now. I need my Norman stallion.”

He tossed her onto the bed, leapt on top of her and rammed his phallus into her throbbing sheath, already weeping for him. She sank her teeth into his neck and her nails raked his back. She liked him to be rough and that suited him too.

“We’re a perfect match,” he rasped.

After their passion had taken them to the edge and over it, they lay physically spent but still full of anger and plotting.

Morwenna pouted. “The weak-willed Rhodri refuses to kill them.”

“He’ll come to his senses. I’ll make sure of that,” Phillippe replied casually. “Mabelle de Montbryce will pay dearly for her father’s crimes against my family.”

She nibbled his earlobe. “And, my lusty Norman knight, you’ll repay me for my help by taking me as your bride to Normandie, and I’ll be the
Comtesse
de Giroux.”

He shrugged her away and reached for his clothing. “I must return to my own chamber. We don’t want anyone becoming suspicious.”

He kissed her carelessly, opened the door carefully, made sure no one was in the hallway, and stepped silently from the room.

A perfect match! I wouldn’t trust the Welsh bitch as far as I could throw her.

Phillippe grimaced. He would have to be careful not to let his disdain show. He mustn’t give away that he had no intention of taking this barbaric woman as his wife.

To Normandie? His family and friends would think him as mad as his father. When she had served her purpose, he would be rid of her, or perhaps leave her to make Rhodri’s life wretched.

Rhonwen trembled as she stepped into Rhodri’s chamber. She was afraid of what this Welsh warrior might do to her but had been drawn by his magnetism each time she had set eyes on his Celtic beauty. She was afraid he
would not
do the wild things she had imagined him doing to her. She too had Celtic blood in her veins.

He sat in a massive wooden chair by the hearth in the centre of the room, the sleeves of his pale red linen shirt rolled up to his elbows. A string of beads, reflecting the firelight, drew her gaze to his neck. She licked her lips, suddenly aware she was perspiring. His long curly hair was tied back at his nape with a brown leather thong. The tight braids were gone, making him seem less intimidating. Leather breeches clung to his muscular thighs. His feet were bare, and she noticed fleetingly how long his toes were.

His usual weapons were nowhere in evidence. The only light in the room came from the flickering flames. A bluish pall of smoke, wending its way up to the smoke-hole canopy in the roof, hung around him. The chair beside him was empty.

“Don’t be afraid, Rhonwen.” His deep voice was soft and held no threat. “Come, sit by me,” he said in Welsh, holding out his big hand. “Let the fire warm you.”

She shivered and walked towards him slowly. Her breasts tingled and a strange ache throbbed in her nether regions. “I’m not afraid, my lord,” she lied as she sat in the other chair, her hands holding on to the arms tightly, in case she might have to flee suddenly.

He leaned forward to rest his bare forearms on his thighs. He stared at her. She blushed as the fire of his gaze warmed her body. She tried not to look at him but was held by the depths of his green eyes.

“It’s as I suspected,” he pronounced huskily after several minutes.

Rhonwen frowned.

“You’re as drawn to me as I am to you.”

She gripped the chair more tightly and stared at her knees. “You’re betrothed to my enemy, my lord.”

He sat back in the chair, his frustration evident. “Ah yes, the lovely Morwenna.”

He remained silent for several minutes. She couldn’t take her eyes off his face as he seemed to wrestle with his demons.

“I’ll not marry her.”

Icy chills raced up and down her spine. It was what she wanted to hear but made the situation more confused. “My lord?”

He stood and said softly, “Please, call me Rhodri.”

She suspected this powerful man did not use the word
please
often. She trembled as he moved to stand behind her chair and placed his big hands on her shoulders. As soon as he touched her, she felt the heat of his body flow into hers. She stifled a groan.

“Lord—Rhodri,” she stuttered, “I cannot—we cannot—I’m your captive—I’m a maid.”

He bent his head to whisper in her ear. “My Rhonwen, it’s you who have captured me. I can’t stop myself from wanting you, from making you mine. But I’ll not force you against your will. I’ll resolve the problem of Morwenna and send her back to her father. He will not be pleased I’ve broken the betrothal, but I have no wish to live my life with her blood lust. It’s you I want.”

Her mouth fell open. The room had tilted. “But you’ve known me only a short while.”

Rhodri chuckled. “The same could be said of you, and yet you’ve no doubt as to your feelings for me. Do you?”

She longed to tell him her feelings for him threatened to overwhelm her, but remained silent. He took his hands from her shoulders and a moment later she felt him fasten something around her neck. It made her shiver. Reaching up instinctively, her hands felt the smoothness of his amber beads. She looked down. How beautifully formed they were—an object an artisan had worked on lovingly, an object of great worth. The heat of his body lingered in the cold beads. She wanted to turn, to look up into those piercing eyes, but was afraid of what she might see there.

“Return to your chamber, Rhonwen. The fates have determined we meet. My heart tells me our future paths lie together. Accept this as a token of my pledge to you. You’ll come to my bed when it’s the right time, and you will be my wife.”

He took her by the arm and helped her rise from the chair. Stunned by his words and his gift, she could barely make her legs work as he walked her across the room to the door.

“Take the healer back to her chamber,” he said to Andras.

Andras looked at the beads around her neck and a shiver ran up her spine. He shot a questioning glance at Rhodri, who nodded. She swayed as the floor seemed to move beneath her feet. Andras put his hand under her elbow, barely touching her. He returned Rhodri’s nod and led her away.

***

Rhodri sank back into his chair. His body had betrayed him the moment Rhonwen had entered the room. He had moved to stand behind her so she could not see the physical effect she had. He had already been aroused, but his erection became rock hard when he touched her. He’d had to remove his hands from her. Good thing she had not turned to look at him when he fastened the amber beads around her neck. Looking into those round grey pools would have undone his resolve. He had not intended to give her the beads, yet suddenly it seemed the right thing to do. His mother would have approved.

He had been afraid to kiss her when she left—afraid of the emotions such a kiss might unleash. It had taken a great deal of effort to keep his voice steady when he asked Andras to take her back to her chamber.

***

Agitated and conflicted, Rhonwen stumbled along in an effort to keep up with Andras who held the torch lighting their way. Her mind was a jumble of emotions.

A furtive figure emerged unexpectedly from the dark shadows of the corridor where Morwenna’s chamber was located. He paused for a moment, but then continued to walk toward them. Andras did not seem pleased to see him and moved closer to Rhonwen. His grip on her elbow increased. She gasped as they came face to face. She recognized him as a Norman by his shaved head and was sure she had seen him before, in Ellesmere. Who was he and what was he doing here? He gave her a look of pure hatred and she immediately looked away. His eyes terrified her.

When she stepped hastily into their chamber, the other women mistook the cause of her trembling.

“What has that brute done to you, Rhonwen?” the Countess demanded.

“No, my lady. Rhodri did nothing to harm me. He was kind to me.” She felt her face flush. “But I’ve had an encounter in the hallway which has scared my wits out of me. There’s a Norman soldier here, one of your husband’s men. I remember now Myfanwy warned me about him. She said you didn’t trust him.”

“It’s Giroux,” her lady hissed, clenching her fists. “I see clearly the malevolent hand behind the Earl’s riding accident, Myfanwy’s murder, the loss of my child, and my own near death. Now comes this last betrayal, our kidnapping and probable death at the hands of a Welsh rebel.”

“Who is he? Why has he betrayed you?” Rhonwen asked.

Giselle told Rhonwen the story of how the Countess’s father, Guillaume de Valtesse had blinded and mutilated Charles de Giroux. As a result he had endured years of wandering exile with his daughter when the Giroux family retaliated by seizing his castles.

The Countess slumped onto the edge of her bed. “I didn’t know you knew the whole story, Giselle, but I’m relieved I didn’t have to tell it.”

Rhonwen had listened open-mouthed. “But if you and your father were cast out of your home, was that not revenge enough for the Giroux family?”

“Apparently not. When my father died several years ago I inherited Alensonne, Belisle and Domfort. I can’t believe his reckless actions long ago have resulted in this threat to my own life, and those of my children and servants. From the grave he reaches out to hurt me and mine.”

Rhonwen grasped her mistress’s hand. “Forgive me, my lady,” she cried tearfully, “It’s not just that I saw the soldier. He knows I saw him. He came from the direction of Morwenna’s chamber.”

A cold certainty seeped through her. “It was he murdered Myfanwy,” she whispered.

The Countess nodded grimly and murmured, “We must think.”

The three women huddled together on the bed, careful not to wake the sleeping children. “What did Rhodri want of you anyway?” Giselle whispered.

Rhonwen blushed. “He’s drawn to me.”

The maid sneered. “You mean he lusts after you.”

“No. He was kind and gentle. He spoke of—love—of my becoming his wife.”

It sounded ridiculous.

“He gave me this necklace of amber beads.”

It was incomprehensible.

The Countess looked at Rhonwen and whispered, “And you feel the same for him, don’t you?”

Fearing the censure of her lady for her foolish feelings, Rhonwen could barely murmur, “Yes.”

The Countess squeezed her hand. “Rhonwen, a woman never knows when love might come along and knock her off her feet.”

Rhonwen couldn’t believe she had heard these words from the Countess of Ellesmere. She looked wide-eyed at Giselle, who for some reason was silently nodding her agreement. “We must hope Rhodri’s love for you will protect us from Giroux,” the maid whispered.

***

Phillippe burst into Morwenna’s chamber. “They know it was I who betrayed them.”

She looked up at him with a bored expression. “It’s not a good idea to come here during the day, Phillippe.”

He strode towards her. “That’s not important now. The healer has seen me.”

Morwenna rose immediately from her chair. “Does she know who you are?”

He ran his hand back and forth over his shaved head. “Perhaps not by name, but I’m sure she recognized me as a Norman. It’s only a matter of time before she and her accursed mistress deduce who I am. The Earl believes I’m in Normandie, and must never find out who betrayed him. My life would be worth nothing.”

“We’ll wait and watch for a good time to kill them, my lover,” she purred as she pressed her body to his and kissed him. “I suddenly like the idea of bedding you in the afternoon.”

***

Thereafter, Phillippe made no effort to avoid being seen by the hostages. He appeared for meals in the
neuadd
and scowled at them, his hatred and lust for vengeance plain to see.

Rhodri thought it curious but did not reprimand him. He did notice, however, the heated glances that passed between Giroux and Morwenna. They had conspired in England to trap the Countess. He’d had his suspicions before but now had serious questions about their relationship.