His Captive Princess (12 page)

Her old friend had never uttered his opinions on either of the clans’ positions against the Normans, but she detected a trace of relief that the Welsh hadn’t been successful in their attempts to regain the stolen land. Still, she’d known Sayer long enough that she could tell when he resented something—usually something she’d said or done in a burst of impulse.

Since when had her faithful servant sided with the enemy?

“And Deheubarth? How go the negotiations between Prince Lew and England?” Her sire’s gaze flicked to hers briefly as he spoke her brother-in-law’s name. “Has our revolt had any impact on our friends in the south?”

Sayer shook his head. “They were still awaiting the king’s envoy. Prince Lew sends his assurances that no matter the offer, he will fight with Gwynedd when the time comes. He says you need only say the word, my liege, and he’ll offer his best men, as well as himself—truce with King Stephen be damned.”

Gruffydd nodded, and she recognized a spark of satisfaction in her father’s ancient eyes. “We will send them more men, then. The settlements I made with England years ago dissolved the instant Henry Beauclerc died and that usurper took his throne. ’Tis time for Cymru to return to the rule of the royal Aberffraw.”

Vaughn grinned, shifting in his seat with shared excitement.

Feeling queasy, she rubbed her temple. More war meant more losses. Her father had been successful in his dealings with King Henry in his younger days, but he was getting older now. He hadn’t left his court in Bangor in years to know how harried his people were or how many Normans now colonized the south, and how peacefully some coexisted with the newcomers, as she’d seen while staying in the abbey.

Nor how intelligent and cunning a good man, like Warren, could be.
Pride in him and a sense of great loss conspired to prick her eyes with fresh tears. She blinked them away.

“What requests do the Deheubarth make for this pact with Gwynedd?” One of the lords of Powys asked Sayer.

Her guard glanced at her again with a slight frown on his brow, and a ripple of apprehension ran through her.

“Prince Lew wants independence as much as the rest of us. He sends only his wish that the princess return to his court and her husband’s people. He also,
ahem
,” he dropped his gaze to the table, lifting one shoulder as if trying to shake an offending fly from his back, “wishes my liege to know both these latest thwarted attacks were met by the same throng of Norman knights, led by the same merciless commander.”

The invaders didn’t scare her. She would return, of course. She’d expected Lew’s summons to come eventually and dreaded it. She no longer felt at home in Deheubarth.

“Aye, we’ve heard of a new leader.” Gruffydd nodded, as did a few of the men in the circle. “Maurice of London, lord of the district—”

“Nay.” Sayer lifted his bleak face to stare directly at her. “The name on the lips of the routed men—those who
survived
—was Warren de Tracy.”

Nest had been right. She hadn’t been eating enough.

Settling into a slow canter behind Lord Vaughn and the other Gwynedd warriors in their riding party, Eleri held one slender hand before her eyes. Her fingers shook, looking more pale than usual.

Swearing under her breath, she wiped the sweat from her brow and exhaled softly, determined not to let Sayer and Nest see her in such a state.

Her gaze took in the familiar forest of Cantref Mawr, the woods that had long been the hiding place of the Deheubarth, providing protection and camouflage for their rebel attacks.

The further south they’d come, the harder her heart beat against her ribs knowing Warren might be in Deheubarth even now. Ignoring the sign of the white stag in the woods and whatever taboo she might be transgressing, she had to find Warren and warn him to leave the district and had to…apologize.

“We shouldn’t fall back, my lady.” Sayer’s courser trotted nervously on her right side.

“She’s ill. Leave her be,” Nest groused, slowing to match her speed as she took her left side. “We should’ve waited another fortnight.”

She forced warmth into her voice. “Sayer had naught to do with my decision to leave, Nest. ’Twas my idea to come with Vaughn. Not his.” Spying a tall clump of blooming mugwort, she reached down from her saddle and took a handful of the herb. Pinching a bite of the heady leaves for a chew to relieve her fatigue, she continued to explain, “I would prefer to reach the prince before Vaughn does. Who knows what that oaf might convince poor Lew to do if no one is there to stop him.”

Nest grunted. “We have a while before we reach the castell. Imagine if Lord Vaughn took a fall in the woods.” She gestured at the backs of the courtiers riding far ahead of them. “Would anyone mourn him?”

Although Nest’s expression was serious, Eleri chuckled as she slipped the extra mugwort into her tunic for later. “Don’t put those evil thoughts in my mind.”

“Dywysoges!”

Sayer’s warning call had her whirling toward him, but too late. Four Norman soldiers emerged from the brush, arrows aimed at Sayer.

Eleri swung left, urging Nest to do the same, but another group of soldiers in mail blocked their exit.

Nest called for help, but a knight rushed her, putting the edge of his sword to her throat. Her friend’s hand curled around the knife on her hip.

“Don’t, Nest!” Eleri cried frantically. There were too many men against the three of them. She yelled to the offending group, “What do you want?”

One of the soldiers came forward. Mounted on a tall black horse and wearing a tunic emblazoned with three green dragons, he looked at her, then Nest, scanning them from head to toe. Unlike the others, he’d left his mail hood pushed back, exposing wavy dark hair threaded with silver which also seasoned his beard. Nevertheless, he looked youthful despite the gray. His flint-colored eyes flicked back and forth between the women as if making some decision.

Nest brushed her captor’s mount aside, riding out to meet this man who was no doubt the commander. “Take what you will. You’ll be in the grave before the morrow.” Her dagger was out in the blink of an eye, aimed at the leader.

An arrow whizzed over her shoulder, barely missing her.

“Nay!” Eleri cried, launching her courser at the archer. Another soldier cut her off, the movement too quick for her horse to recover from. The beast reared on its hind legs. She couldn’t hold on with her thighs. Her muscles were too weak. She grasped for the saddle, but she was too slow. She tumbled backward to the ground, landing sideways, hitting her cheek on a rock.

While the horses moved in a chaotic swirl above her, a soldier dismounted. Grabbing her elbow, he roughly pulled her to stand. Her face throbbed from the blow, but her trembling fingers found only a scratch as she brushed the grit from her cheek.

Still held in the Norman’s grasp, she stood her ground as the leader dismounted.

Tall and self-assured, he strode forward. His men parted like the Red Sea before him.

“Bon sang.”
Stopping, the commander spat on the boots of the soldier who’d caused her to fall. Then turning on Nest, who fought the clutches of two knights, he ground out, “Which of you
women
is the Princess of Deheubarth?”

Eleri caught Nest’s movement from the corner of her eye. Her guardian would lie to protect her identity, possibly risking death. Before Nest could say anything, she blurted out, “I am.”

The leader stepped closer to Eleri and towered over her. His lips twisted in a grimace as he surveyed her more thoughtfully. Then his black eyes darkened as they fastened on her wounded cheek. “I see. A damned pity, your fall. Well,” he sighed, slipping his hand under his tunic as he fished for something, “this is for you then.”

He reached out to grip her chin, making Eleri flinch, but his lackey held her in place. “I am Domenic de Tracy,” he announced. “My sister and brother send their regards.” He let go, and in one quick motion, pulled a hood over her head.

Chapter Twelve

Poisoned
.

The word formed in her murky thoughts after she tried to lift her head but found it was too heavy. Images and sounds floated through her mind in obscure forms as if she were trying to see through the morning fog on the River Tywi. Something had laced something she’d drunk, making her sleep.

What did I drink?
Wine. Only a sip, along with a tasty bite of bread.
Was I traveling to Castell Dinefwr?

Nay, she’d not been taken to Lew’s stronghold. She wasn’t lying on her stiff, straw-filled bed in Owain’s royal chamber, too near the kitchen to be comfortable in the summer. The feather mattress beneath her was soft with luxurious fabric, while cool air surrounded her. She could almost return to sleep right now, but something on the edge of her mind teased her.

She turned her head to snuggle into the feather pillow, when her cheek sparked with pain. A flood of memories rushed back: Normans surrounding her, falling from her horse, and a very long ride wearing a hood over her head. Then, her yelling endlessly at the leader who ignored her while he rode ahead.

Domenic, or
Dom
as she recalled Warren calling him, would likely know where his brother was. Mayhap the brother had even brought her to him. Her spirit soared at the idea of seeing Warren again.

Yet if he hadn’t come to greet her himself, could he be ill? Or he hated her. His opinion of her suddenly meant the world. A cold sweat sprang to her brow as she pieced together the remaining bits of her recollections.

If Warren had led the defenses against her father’s revolt as Sayer’s sources reported, Warren was presently an enemy.

And one with a grudge.

Keenly aware of the seriousness of her situation, she struggled to sit upright, but something prevented her. She forced her eyelids open, though the blinding daylight assaulted her senses.

Goddess, her head clanged! She pulled her hands but they were held firmly in place. Twisting her wrists, she felt silken cords, tight yet not painful, rendering her hands useless. Not only poisoned, but trussed up like a pheasant.

She blinked again, focusing on her bonds. Getting free wouldn’t be easy.

Belting out a curse at the top of her lungs, she yanked against the knots.

“By the gods. She wakes!” A woman she hadn’t noticed before muttered in Welsh from somewhere in the blurry room. Seated by the wall, she jumped up and scurried out the door like a startled brown mouse.

Eleri called out to her, begging for help. When no one answered, she tugged repeatedly at the ropes, making the wooden frame of the bed scrape the floor, but the binding only seemed to get tighter.

She studied her options, or rather, her lack of them. Her legs were free, but she could only flail on the bed like a fish. No one would likely come close enough to let her kick them. Without her hands or her weapons, she had only her wits to protect her. And if she ate more of the tainted food the Normans offered her, she wouldn’t even have
them
.

Her stomach rumbled in disagreement. Laced with sleeping draught or not, food sounded wonderful.

She lay regaining her breath from her exertions when the door opened and the mouse returned with a basket. Grim-faced, she moved to the opposite side of the bed away from the door. Her eyes darted over Eleri as if she were as untrustworthy as a snake.

Speaking in perfect English, the woman said, “My lord says you’re to eat, get your strength up.” She placed the basket on the floor out of Eleri’s view.

The idea of taking a directive from her captor—whether he was Warren or his brother or someone else—wedged under her skin like a hateful splinter. “I will not! ’Twill only be something to make me sleep again.”

The woman’s eyes widened at her Welsh, and she slid back into her native tongue. “I wouldn’t know about what you had before you came, but this broth came from this evening’s boiling hens. I saw Cook ladle it meself.”

Soup sounded heavenly. Eleri sniffed the intoxicating aroma of herbs and chicken, and her gut squeezed with longing. It would be easy to tell if the woman was lying. “You first.”

The mouse’s eyes narrowed, thinking. Then with a nod, she bent over the basket and reached for its contents.

While the woman was distracted, Eleri pulled the bonds keeping her hands far above her head. Mayhap she could stretch them loose enough to squeeze her hands through. She could almost get her teeth on her right hand’s restraints. Almost. The fabric needed to be a tad longer…

Turned away from the door, she didn’t notice someone else had entered the chamber until warm tingles spread under her clothing. But unlike when she’d seen the mouse guarding her from the corner while she slept, the sensation of being watched swept her like the tide in a thunderstorm.

Warren
.

She rolled on her side to face him.

He stood leaning against the doorway, strong arms crossed over his chest. She hardly recognized him. A commanding figure in all meanings of the word, he wore a deep blue tunic edged in gilt embroidery over a second skin of form-fitting chain mail. His face cold and impassive, he stared past her to the woman holding the bowl up to her mouth.

“Nay. Don’t take orders from her, Gwen.” His words were stern yet quiet.

“Sorry, milord.” The servant lowered the bowl, glancing about as if unsure where to put the broth.

He lifted a brow, continuing to make his point. “If I’d wanted my enemy poisoned, she’d kill you instead.”

After everything they’d been through,
now
they were enemies? Her heart sank.

“I see your meaning.” Gwen nodded emphatically. “I didn’t think you…but of course I see now.”

“Leave us. I’ll make sure the prisoner understands her place is to take commands, not give them.”

The woman curtsied and sidled past him, leaving them alone.

A mixture of anger and relief brought tears to Eleri’s eyes. She wanted to rail at him for the way he’d treated her, yet how could she forget the look he gave her that fateful night months ago when he’d realized who she was, disguised as one of the abbey brothers when she’d surrendered him like some common war booty.

“Warren.” Her voice cracked.

Pathetic. Be the princess that you are!

Seemingly oblivious, he closed the door and stalked into the room. Avoiding her glance, he dragged Gwen’s vacant chair closer to the bed and sat.

She surveyed the changes in him since she’d seen him last. His hair had been trimmed, and he looked healthy with skin more bronze than when she’d left him.

Her relieved breath rushed out. At least that burden was off her shoulders.

His intelligent gaze finally rested on her, but with none of the wonder she’d shown him, leaving her to guess he’d come to visit before she’d awoken. She’d wager her best longbow he had!

“Eleri,” he echoed in a cold greeting, leaning forward as he rested an elbow on his knee. His gaze, dark and steady, held hers for a long moment, leaving her desperate for his thoughts and feelings, some sign of his current emotion. He swallowed, but said nothing.

She could’ve returned his stare for hours through unshed tears and all, but at the moment her arms ached from her struggles. “I demand you untie me.”

“And have you attack me? You’ve proven I can’t trust you.” His face hardened, gaze cutting into her. “And
that
is why I had my brother put a sleeping draught in your wine. That and…I didn’t want you killing anyone in the process of capturing you.”

A knot formed in her throat. She forced her voice around it, working to keep her rampant emotions in check. “You know I would never! And you didn’t have to ambush me. I would’ve come to you willingly if you’d asked.”

For a moment he was silent, as if mulling over her answer. “I came to you willingly once, and the end result was far from what I had in mind.”

He reached for the sheet she must’ve kicked off her feet in her struggles. Picking it up from the floor, he spread it across her legs. His hand smoothed the wrinkles from the fabric in an idle pass, and her body responded with an immediate jangle.

He leaned over the bed, stroking away the smallest kinks in the fine linen. “Now that I have you, I can finally control the outcome of my mission. I’ve grown weary of others having dominion over me—my father, my king, you. Now ’tis my turn to seize what I want and please myself. No mercy, save that which I feel is deserved.”

Her face flushed at his ministrations as well as the sudden realization someone had not only removed her boots, but also her clothing, exchanging her riding clothes for a thin chemise.

When she glanced at his face again, she found him looking at her with a bemused expression, eyes crinkled slightly at the corners. “Do you remember my promise to you when you first came to my holding chamber at Dinefwr, when I begged you not to return me to the king?”

He meant that he’d threatened the king would soon return to retaliate against the Deheubarth, but her traitorous body quickened at the memory of her own dark fantasies of that day. Of her imagining he would someday come back to ravage her. That imagined threat was more personal, carrying far more potency now that she had intimate knowledge of him and what he was capable of doing to both her body and soul.

She shifted her legs to try to end the fluttering of her insides.

“I had no choice but to turn you in, Warren. ’Twas the best thing I could’ve done,” she rasped. “I did not mistreat you while you were with us, and you know it.”

He moved to the edge of her bed, sitting beside her hip. Leaning over her, his mail snagged repeatedly across her gown as he reached for her binding. Her heart sank again as he touched each of her wrists, inspecting her bonds. His fingertips swept over her pulse points. Checking perhaps for chafing…or for signs that the restraints might fail to keep her.

Seemingly satisfied, he planted his hands on either side of her head and gazed into her eyes. The corner of his mouth quirked in wry smile, though his gaze was smoky and serious. “I remember every detail of how you treated me,
ma cœur
,” he murmured, leaning closer, “and I shall do…
exactly
…the same for you.”

His armor grated as he moved in, his face mere inches from hers so that their breath mingled and she could almost feel him. His unreadable eyes searched hers. Conquered by his glorious proximity, she surrendered herself, closing her eyes for his kiss, and waited. And waited.

He fidgeted against the pillow, pushing his hand beneath it. She opened her eyelids to see him frowning as he looked for something beneath her head. His expression smoothed when he withdrew a long wilted sprig of green and held it between them.

She recognized the mugwort she’d picked before they were ambushed.

“I believe this is yours. Gwen has more of the herb if you need it still.” He traced her chin with the feathery stalk, his gaze lingering on her lips, giving her hope he wasn’t unaffected by her, either. He trailed the silken leaves between her breasts. For an instant, raw hunger revealed itself in his expression, old longings overruling his cool demeanor. Pausing on what appeared to be the brink of decision, his heavy-lidded eyes lifted to hers. Then catching a glimpse of her wounded cheek, his brows pinched with guilt. “Your scratch is healing. Eleri, I did not mean for any harm to come to you or to your—”

She gasped. “Sayer! Nest!”

Her words managed to squash his warmth.

He set the mugwort on her pillow. “They’re fine. They have everything they need. They’re angry and fit to kill someone—
me
—but ’twas expected.” Leaning back, he gestured an open palm at her surroundings. “Your chamber is far from theirs.”

“And where exactly would we be?” She took a deep breath, regaining her righteous anger with the distance he put between them.

“Cardiff Castle. My stronghold for the moment along with its forces borrowed from De Braose, my brother Dom and his men.”

“And my father’s men? How are they?”

He arched an eyebrow. “You mean your Lord Vaughn.”

“He’s not
my
anything!” Frustrated, she kicked the bed.

Humor lit his eyes for a moment. “The rest of your traveling party went unmolested. One of the reasons Dom is the king’s favorite mercenary is his ability to be discreet.”

Goddess
. So no one knew what had happened to her and her guards? But someone did, or else Dom wouldn’t have known where and when to overtake them. This would require more thought later, but now her mind was too befuddled to concentrate.

Her captor stood, still staring at her.

“Warren, you wanted revenge, now you’ve had it. You caught me. Let me loose…please.” She tugged on the bindings. Fear crept into her chest. Would he actually leave her this way?

“
Mes excuse,
but I do not trust you after you surrendered me so easily.”

He was right. She had betrayed him, but he had no idea how much that decision had tortured her. She’d only done it to save his life, not to hurt him. “Wait! You must be careful. We were returning to Deheubarth to meet with Lew. Father wants more strikes against the Norman colonists. He knows your name, that you stand in his way, and he won’t stop his revolt after you’re dead or even after he’s taken a Norman castle, not until Stephen relinquishes power—”

He laughed, incredulous. “You worry about me
now
?” His mail rattled as he rubbed his thumb across his brow. He turned, shook his head, then moved toward the door.

Good heaven, he couldn’t leave. “Warren, if you go to defend another fort in Deheubarth, you’ll go to your death.”

He wheeled around. “Don’t worry, Princess. I’m not leaving today. I have to see to the preparations for the wedding party.”

Wedding? She squeezed her hands into fists as outrage and something appallingly similar to flattery slammed through her.
That was what this was about?
She gasped, “You had me captured to force me into marriage?”

The light in his eyes faded. “
Non.
You won’t have to worry about that either. I’ll not trouble you further with the idea of marrying me. You’ve made your position clear on that account. While I was your captive, Stephen engaged the Deheubarth in peace negotiations of his own. After my failure to wed a Deheubarth princess, my liege made arrangements with your prince to betroth him to my sister Claire.”