Authors: The Knight of Rosecliffe
Rexanne Becnel (11 page)
Rhonwen feared Jasper would try to stop her and she wasn’t at all certain what she would do then. When he dropped his horse’s reins and closed the distance between them, she fell back a step. But when he knelt on one knee and offered her the other as a step up, she realized he meant only to help her mount behind Nesta.
She did not want to accept his aid, though, for that meant taking his hand and placing her full weight on him. Were it any other man she would not have hesitated. But this was Jasper FitzHugh, the man she’d tried to kill and meant still to drive out of northern Wales.
He waited, and Nesta waited, and in the end, Rhonwen let
out a frustrated breath. She took his proffered hand—it was too warm. She stepped up on his knee—it was too strong and steady. She was about to push up behind Nesta when Jasper suddenly caught her about the waist and lifted her onto the horse.
out a frustrated breath. She took his proffered hand—it was too warm. She stepped up on his knee—it was too strong and steady. She was about to push up behind Nesta when Jasper suddenly caught her about the waist and lifted her onto the horse.
His large hands nearly circled her waist, and though he held her suspended for a scant second only, the gesture seemed incredibly intimate. Erotic, even.
Then he released her and sanity blessedly returned. By St. Agnes’s bones, was she losing her mind?
Angry and frustrated, she kicked the horse and with a grunt of surprise it started forward. She did not thank Jasper. She did not explain to Nesta. She only dug her heels into the disgruntled mare’s sides and sped them on their way.
She must put as much distance as possible between her and Jasper, and as quickly as possible. The man was a threat to her well-being in a way she’d never anticipated. But she would not underestimate him again.
Nor would she underestimate the depths of her own insane desire for him.
“But I cannot like it that you will be alone,” Nesta protested, when Rhonwen dismounted not three minutes later. The old woman stared down at her. “Why won’t you ride the rest of the way to Carreg Du with me?”
Rhonwen rubbed her palms up and down her arms. “I need to climb a tree and be alone,” she answered. “Please, Nesta. Just let me be. I will be safe enough. I spend most of my days alone in the forests near Afon Bryn. These at Carreg Du are no different.”
Nesta studied her a long moment with sad, worried eyes. “Do you go back to seek him? For if you do, I caution you not to be free with your—”
“I do not seek
him
! Anything but!” Rhonwen swore.
him
! Anything but!” Rhonwen swore.
“Humph. Do not pretend that you are oblivious to him, child. I am not so old that I have forgotten what passion is.”
Rhonwen started to protest that Nesta was mistaken, but the knowing gleam in the old woman’s eyes stopped her. Was every woman in this place drawn in by these Englishman? Josselyn. The women at the well. And now Nesta.
What of yourself? an uncomfortably honest voice whispered.
“I need to be alone,” she muttered. “Alone.”
Nesta shrugged. “As you wish. But I will expect you for dinner. Do not make me worry.”
“All right.” Then, knowing she sounded like an ungrateful child, she reached up and covered Nesta’s hand with her own. “I am troubled and … and I need time to think. That is all.”
Nesta smiled. “I understand.”
No, she did not, Rhonwen decided as Nesta’s mare started forward again. How could she? Nesta’s life was so simple. She’d met a Welshman, married him, and been a good wife to him for thirty years. She’d never been seduced by her own enemy. She’d never been kissed into submission by a man she’d sought to kill. She’d never been betrayed by her own body into desiring a man that she ought to hate.
That she
did
hate.
did
hate.
Rhonwen stood on the muddy path, watching through forlorn eyes the side-to-side sway of the other woman as she and her horse departed. What is wrong with me? she wondered. Carreg Du had been the home of her childhood, but she didn’t belong there anymore. Afon Bryn had become her home, but there, too, she did not fit in. Rhys and his rebels of the wildwood offered some respite. But she felt like an interloper among them.
She knew her mother’s solution—and probably everyone else’s too: Find a husband and make a home with him. But if she’d been unenthusiastic about that possibility in the past, she was doubly so now. And all on account of Jasper FitzHugh.
A curse upon his head! she swore. A thousand curses! She snatched up a stalk of bog grass and, slapping it restlessly against her leg, waded through the dried field of wild wheat and winter scarlet, kicking angrily at the bent-over seed heads as she went. He’d robbed her of what little certainty she’d had in her life, hatred of the English.
She slumped against a linden tree. She still hated the English, she reassured herself. It was only that she hadn’t known any Englishmen before, so it had been easier to think of them as ogres with no redeeming value whatsoever. Now, though it was painful to admit, she knew better. Jasper was her enemy, but he was also charming and beguiling, just as his brother
was probably a good husband to Josselyn and a good parent to his three children.
was probably a good husband to Josselyn and a good parent to his three children.
But that changed nothing. She still must fight Jasper and all he represented. And she still must make young Gwendolyn her hostage.
Rhonwen sat a long time beneath the linden, mired in unhappy thought. The sun shifted nearer the horizon. Riding the wind, an occasional sound from the English village wafted to her ears. A dog’s barking. A woman’s shrill call to her child. Though out of sight, the town and the castle beyond it were inescapable.
Then she heard another sound, and her senses sharpened in alarm. Someone was approaching, not along the road, but through the woods behind her. On silent feet she rose, flattening herself against the tree trunk. Her hand stole to the dagger on her hip and though the feel of it in her hand was reassuring, it did not ease her fear. She was too close to the English settlement. She should have gone on with Nesta.
The sound grew nearer. A twig snapped. Some tiny forest creature scurried away. Rhonwen peered cautiously in the direction of the intruder—and was stunned by what she saw.
Isolde, Josselyn’s eldest child, picked her way warily through the wildwood. When she spied Rhonwen, she went still.
It took but a glance to determine the child was alone. But on the heels of relief came exasperation. Rhonwen sheathed her dagger and advanced on the girl. “What are you doing out here alone? Does you mother know where you are? No, of course she does not.” She crossed her arms and stared sternly at the young girl. “What were you thinking, Isolde? What were you thinking, to leave the castle unchaperoned?”
Isolde’s guilty expression turned mulish. She glared up at Rhonwen. “I might ask the same of you. Why are you sitting out here all alone? Who are you waiting for?”
“Waiting for? Why, no one—” She broke off, for suddenly she understood. Her voice became caustic. “I’m not waiting for anyone, most especially not for your uncle.”
Isolde’s chin jutted forward. “I saw how you looked at him.
You can’t fool me. But you’re wasting your time if you think his attentions to you will amount to anything. He acts that way with all the women he meets.”
You can’t fool me. But you’re wasting your time if you think his attentions to you will amount to anything. He acts that way with all the women he meets.”
“I’m sure he does,” Rhonwen muttered. “But you’re wrong if you assume the man impresses me, for he does not.” She gestured toward the road. “Get yourself back to Rosecliffe, Isolde. Go home before your absence is noted and a search party is formed.”
The nine-year-old hesitated, and on her face Rhonwen read uncertainty. “You say you don’t want him, but how do I know you’re telling the truth?”
Losing patience, Rhonwen snapped, “You don’t. The fact is, you have no control over his behavior. Nor over mine. Nor over any other woman’s who might attract him. Besides, why should you care whom he chases after? He is a man and you are still a little girl. He’s your uncle, Rhonwen. You and he—”
“No!” Isolde clapped her hands over her ears and clenched her eyes shut. “I’m not listening to you. I’m not! So you can just cease talking!” She opened her eyes, and when she spied Rhonwen’s shocked expression, she warily lowered her hands. “Just go away,” she ordered. “Go back to wherever you came from and leave us alone.”
Rhonwen could not help but admire the child’s bravery. Although her motives were misguided, she was at least willing to fight for what she thought was hers. Then again, Isolde was half-Welsh. Prior to marrying Randulf FitzHugh, her mother, Josselyn, had been as brave a woman as there had ever been. And although Isolde’s father was English, even Rhonwen would not call him a coward. The girl came by her courage honestly. It was only her girlish affection for her undeserving uncle that was tripping her up.
Then again, misguided affections were too often the weakness of brave woman. Josselyn had fallen that way, and Rhonwen had very nearly done the same. How could a mere child be expected to do any better?
In spite of the animosity in Isolde’s face, Rhonwen smiled kindly at her. “’Tis not I you need fear when it comes to
your uncle, Isolde. No doubt there are any number of willing women who will draw his fickle eye. Do you mean to warn every one of them away?”
your uncle, Isolde. No doubt there are any number of willing women who will draw his fickle eye. Do you mean to warn every one of them away?”
“You think because I am a child that I am helpless. Well, I am not!”
“I would be the last person to ever think you helpless.” Rhonwen’s own childhood experiences were testament to that. “Still, ’tis not safe for you out here. Get you home before any evil can befall.”
Isolde glared at her. “
You
go home. I am entitled to be here, for these are Rosecliffe lands.”
You
go home. I am entitled to be here, for these are Rosecliffe lands.”
Rhonwen’s fists tightened. English brat! These were Welsh lands. Welsh lands.
She stared at Isolde as realization struck her. She’d never have a better chance to take one of Josselyn’s children hostage that this. To strike a blow for Cymru.
Though she had decided upon Gwendolyn, could she afford to waste this unforeseen opportunity?
She glanced around, filled suddenly with mixed emotions.
Just do it
, her Welsh heritage demanded.
Take the girl and ransom her for the castle.
Just do it
, her Welsh heritage demanded.
Take the girl and ransom her for the castle.
But what if she is harmed
? her nurturing side countered.
I could never forgive myself if she was harmed in any way.
? her nurturing side countered.
I could never forgive myself if she was harmed in any way.
Then a whistle sounded, the call of a hunting kite. But Rhonwen knew it was not a kite. She knew also that the decision whether or not to capture Isolde had just been stolen from her.
Reluctantly she responded to Rhys’s signal with a whistle of her own, and in a moment he and two others appeared on silent feet from out of a stand of willows.
Isolde gasped and tried at once to dart away. But Fenton caught her, and though the child fought gamely, he was too strong. Rhonwen hurried up to them. “Give her to me,” she demanded. “You’re frightening her.”
“She ought to be frightened,” Rhys remarked, sauntering up and grinning wolfishly. “But tell me, Rhonwen. What curious game have we captured today?” His eyes lit briefly upon
Isolde, then turned back to Rhonwen. “’Tis the eldest. Isolde. I had not expected success so swiftly.”
Isolde, then turned back to Rhonwen. “’Tis the eldest. Isolde. I had not expected success so swiftly.”
“Truth be told, you did not expect success at all,” Rhonwen muttered, clasping Isolde to her. “Be still,” she added to the child. “We mean you no harm.”
“Why do you say that?” Rhys asked her.
“I hate you!” Isolde screamed.
“I’m sure you do.” Rhonwen responded to Isolde first. To Rhys she said, “If you trusted me to succeed, you would not be lurking in the forest spying upon me.”
Rhys shrugged. “I prefer to term it ‘lending you my support.’ Here. Give the brat to me.”
“No!” Isolde shrieked, clinging now to Rhonwen, from whom she’d been struggling to escape.
“I can manage her,” Rhonwen told him.
Fenton, who’d been silent up to now, chuckled. “Bad enough a woman telling you what to do. Are you now to jump for the both of ’em?”
Rhys swore. “Give her to me, Rhonwen.” So saying, he pulled Isolde out of Rhonwen’s embrace. Then, grasping her by the shoulders, he scrutinized her face. “Outwardly she favors her mother. But inside … you’re purely an English wench at heart, aren’t you? Aren’t you?” he repeated giving the child a hard shake.
Tears spilled over Isolde’s face and Rhonwen’s heart ached for her. She grabbed Rhys’s shoulder. “You’re frightening her.”
“Good. She ought to be frightened of me. For if she misbehaves, she’ll have me to answer to. Do you understand?” he said, staring coldly at Isolde.
Gone was Isolde’s bravado. She was a little child who’d stumbled into the clutches of her father’s enemy. Tears rolled down her cheeks, but she managed to nod an answer to him.
Mollified, Rhys relaxed his hold. “All right, then. Here.” He thrust her at Fenton. “Keep a close watch on her while I speak privately with Rhonwen.”
But Rhonwen did not want to speak privately with Rhys. Her emotions were too disarrayed, her loyalties too unsure.
Added to that, she did not like the suddenly possessive look in his eyes. “We can speak another time, Rhys. ’Tis more important that I reassure the poor girl that she is safe. I doubt any of you is equal to the task.”
Added to that, she did not like the suddenly possessive look in his eyes. “We can speak another time, Rhys. ’Tis more important that I reassure the poor girl that she is safe. I doubt any of you is equal to the task.”
For a long moment he stared down at her, and she knew she was but delaying the inevitable. She’d made a terrible mistake kissing him that one time. He seemed bent on repeating the act, and pursuing it further still. She needed time to figure a way to deal with his newfound lust for her, and Isolde’s plight seemed her best way to achieve it.
“We can speak later,” she repeated. “Now is not the time.”
He shrugged and gestured with his head. “Go to her, then. Meanwhile, I’ll post men to watch for riders from the castle. Soon enough they will realize she has gone missing. It will be my pleasure to watch the search for her, and see when they discover my message.”
The message was written in Welsh. It was already dark when one of the searchers found it pinned to a tree by a Welsh arrow. Though Jasper spoke Welsh fluently, reading the language was more difficult. He did not want to misinterpret anything, so he reluctantly showed it to the worried Josselyn.
She read it in silence, but when she looked up at Jasper, the color had drained from her face. “He wants the castle in trade for her life.” In her hand the single sheet of coarse parchment trembled. “Isolde for Rosecliffe. We must send word to Rand.” Her voice only wavered a very little when she added, “Do you think he truly would go so far as to kill her?”
Jasper clenched his jaw. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. But he forgets that two can play at this game. There are Welsh hostages to be had.”
A shudder ripped through Josselyn. “But no hostage you take will have a personal kinship to him,” Josselyn countered. “For he has no one. Besides, if you take Welsh hostages, it will only strengthen his position with the people who presently remain neutral, and he would welcome that.” Then her composure broke. “Oh, Rhys. Rhys! How could he do this to her,
to my little Isolde, whom he once so admired?” She dropped the parchment onto the floor and, with her head bowed and her face in her hands, she began silently to weep.
to my little Isolde, whom he once so admired?” She dropped the parchment onto the floor and, with her head bowed and her face in her hands, she began silently to weep.
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