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Authors: The Knight of Rosecliffe

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What would her captor do with her?
She was afraid, and yet a part of her—a tiny part of her—knew an unexpected anticipation.
Anticipation!
She shook her head at such a perverse thought. Jasper had every right to despise her, he had every right to punish her for the things she’d done. Whether he would or not remained to be seen. In either event, she would find out soon enough.
 
Rhys ap Owain marched across the field, the last of the line of prisoners. Like the other Welshmen, he was ebullient. One and all, they considered this trade—their freedom for FitzHugh’s daughter—a victory.
They would not think so for long, Jasper swore as he rode alongside them.
He had not told Rhys that Rhonwen must pay the price for his freedom. The youth had been so cocky when Jasper interviewed him, it had grated on Jasper’s already raw nerves. Had he ever been that obnoxiously sure of himself? Perhaps. In his own case, Rand had doused the flames of his overweening pride. There was nothing so effective as an older brother who thought his younger sibling an inept fool.
Since no one else seemed likely to perform that role for Rhys, Jasper was more than satisfied to do so.
“Anxious to regain your freedom?” he said conversationally.
The youth shot him a smug look. “There’s not an English gaol that can long hold me.”
“Mayhap a Welsh one can do it.”
The boy snorted. “You’re a fool if you think my people would cast me in gaol. I fight for them and they love me for it. Especially Rhonwen,” he added with a sly, superior grin.
“Especially Rhonwen,” Jasper echoed, tamping down an unwonted spurt of jealousy. “You are fortunate to have the affection of so brave and loyal a woman.” He took great pleasure
in watching the boy’s confident expression turn suspicious.
“If you think by your admiring words to cast doubt on her loyalty, it will not work. I am no fool to be manipulated so.”
“Perhaps not by me. But there is no man living who has not been made a fool of by a woman. I caution you, lad, not to think yourself immune.”
“Damn you to hell—and your advice with it!” Rhys snarled. “And don’t call me lad. I’m a man and have been since the day you killed my father.”
“Ah, yes. Your father,” Jasper drawled, his temper roused now. “The brave Owain. I recall that day very well. He was holding a blade to a Welshwoman’s throat when my arrow felled him. To Josselyn’s throat. Considering his craven behavior, it comes as no surprise that his son would seek to hurt Josselyn’s innocent daughter. You are both brave enough to attack women and children,” he taunted. “How you fare against men is another matter—as is evidenced by your stay in Rosecliffe’s gaol.”
“But we go free, don’t we? Don’t we?” Rhys goaded right back.
Jasper studied him through narrowed eyes. “Yes. You go free. But, as always, the cost must be borne by a woman. Ah, there they are now.”
He kicked his horse forward, as much to distance himself from the irritating Welsh rebel as to get a better look at Rhonwen. Did she have some sort of trick planned?
He’d brought sufficient men to stymie any such plot, and he’d secretly positioned more men in the forest to intercept anyone who might attempt to foil the exchange of hostages. He did not want her plotting any more deviousness. He wanted her to concede that he had bested her.
But another, more primitive part of him hoped she would try to renege on the deal. For if she broke faith with him, he would be justified in doing the same. He would secure Isolde’s freedom, then he would recapture the rebels and cast them back into the dungeon. And he would have Rhonwen too.
He halted his horse and signaled his men to hold the captives
back. Rhonwen stood alone on the far side of the burial vault. Newlin sat on the flat top stone of the domen, rocking back and forth in the faint motion familiar to him. But Isolde was nowhere to be seen.
“Where is she?” Jasper demanded. “I have brought my captives. Where is Isolde?”
“Here.” The muffled call came from within the
domen
and Isolde burst out grinning. She ran unrestrained toward Jasper and in an instant he scooped her up before him.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes. Though I am hungry, and I would like to change into clean clothes.” She sat across his lap and threw her arms around his neck. “I hate her,” she muttered, glaring at Rhonwen. “I hope you cast her down in the dungeon and never let her out.”
“I kept my word,” Rhonwen called. “Will you keep yours?”
Jasper met her hostile gaze. She was dressed in her green cloak and most of her body was hidden. But he could envision what he could not see. She was slender yet womanly. She appeared vulnerable and frail, yet he knew she had a will of iron. She hated him, yet she returned his kisses with passion.
Did she respond that way to Rhys?
Probably so, and more, he decided, clenching his jaw rhythmically. With a gesture he signaled his men to release the prisoners. The four Welshmen scurried forward, two of them carrying one of their injured comrades in a crude litter between them, while the fourth one limped ahead.
“What is this?” Rhys shouted, struggling against the two stout guards who held him back. “He is betraying his word! You see, Rhonwen? You see!”
Jasper kept his eyes on Rhonwen and he saw the accusing look in her eyes. “You didn’t tell him?” she asked.
“I concede that pleasure to you, Rhonwen. ’Tis your sacrifice, and he sets such a great store by the affection you feel for him.”
Slowly she came around the
domen
. She paused to speak to the wounded man on the litter, to assure herself that his
wounds would not prove fatal. Then, taking a breath as if it might give her strength, she marched over to Rhys.
Disentangling himself from his niece’s embrace, Jasper slid over the horse’s rump, leaving Isolde in the saddle. Ignoring the girl’s objections, he caught Rhonwen by the arm before she reached Rhys. “You won’t mind if I watch his face when you tell him the cost of his freedom?”
“
Asyn ffiaidd!
” she swore. But though the words were angry, in her eyes he thought he saw a flash of pain. She abruptly turned from him to face Rhys.
“You are set free. You can go. But I must stay,” she said to him in Welsh.
“No! No, Rhonwen! How could you agree to such a thing?” Rhys struggled against the men who held him. “How can you choose him?”
“I’m not choosing him! It was the only way I could secure your freedom.”
Jasper flinched at her words and his hand tightened on her arm.
“I was afraid for you in that English gaol,” she told the stunned Rhys.
“What of your safety? You know what he has planned for you—” Once again Rhys fought fruitlessly for his freedom.
“I will not be harmed. If nothing else, Josselyn will see to it.”
“Josselyn.” He spit on the ground. “She is a traitor to her people! She would not hesitate to betray you.”
“My mother is not a traitor!” Isolde screamed from her perch on Jasper’s horse. “You’re a horrible man and I hate you!”
“Enough!” Jasper roared. He hauled Rhonwen backward and grabbed his destrier’s reins.
“You can’t take her! No!” Rhys twisted and kicked but to no avail.
Jasper signaled one of his men to take Isolde up before him. Then he lifted up a struggling Rhonwen and mounted behind her. “Be grateful, boy,” he growled at Rhys. “Were it not
for her, your head would no longer be attached to your shoulders.”
“Yours will not long be attached!” Rhys threatened.
In the midst of all the confusion and angry shouting, Newlin finally reacted. His rocking ceased and he stood up on the
domen
. His tattered cloak fluttered around him, rising and falling, though there was no discernible wind.
Isolde gasped. Rhonwen froze in Jasper’s lap, and even Rhys ceased his struggling. The tiny bard seemed to grow and expand, and though Jasper knew it was but a trick of their imagination, he was nonetheless impressed.
Then the bard spoke, his words slow and somber. “’Tis oft said that man is born to struggle—for his first breath, for every bite of bread, to protect his family. To protect his land. God gifts us with eyes to see and ears to hear, lips to speak. A mind to reason. To use those gifts wisely is to honor the Creator.”
He spread his arms and let his unfocused gaze sweep over all of them. “Go forth and be wise. Be wiser than you have been heretofore.”
Then he sat down and became again the squat little man they knew.
With a last hard look at Rhys, Jasper wheeled Helios about and took off for Rosecliffe. He’d be wise, all right. He’d not let his emotions interfere again in his dealings with Rhonwen. And the next time he had that damned Welsh rebel in his clutches, he would not let the hothead off so easily.
Rhonwen too vowed to search for wisdom, for she knew the coming days would be a trial for her. The man who held her so impersonally was the same man who had forced her to confront passions she’d not known she possessed. To keep those passions under control … she feared that would take a strength and a wisdom she’d never before needed.
Riding behind them, her eyes burning with angry tears, young Isolde kept her gaze on Jasper. How she hated that woman in his arms. But she must do as Newlin said. She must be wiser than she had been, wise enough to drive Rhonwen out of Jasper’s life forever.
Of them all, only Rhys ignored the old bard’s words. Wisdom was not what he needed to bring down the English. Finely honed blades of steel, and sufficient men to wield them—that was what he needed. Horses enough and shields enough and armor enough.
The English soldiers released him, then mounted their horses and thundered away. But he stood in the clearing, the
domen
behind him, the castle village beyond the fields to the right and, in the distance, Rosecliffe Castle looming over all.
The time would come when he would bring them down, all of them. Or else he would die trying.
 
 
Would God that it were so
As I coude wishe betwixt us two!
 
—
anonymous medieval verse
 
 
The mad gallop back to Rosecliffe was blessedly short. But for Rhonwen it was unbearable all the same. What was to become of her? What would Jasper do with her when they reached the castle?
The gate tower looked far more forbidding today. The moat was wider; the gate impenetrable. As they thundered across the bridge, the clatter of the horses’ hooves gave way to cheers. It seemed as if everyone in both the village and the castle crowded the bailey to welcome Isolde home.
The little girl fell into her mother’s arms weeping, and the cheers grew. Jasper dismounted to receive Josselyn’s heartfelt thanks, and the people shouted until they were hoarse. Only when he turned to face his prisoner did silence fall. But it was not a true silence. An uneasy muttering rippled through the throng as they all glared at her.
“Bitch …” someone yelled.
“Whore …” another snarled.
Rhonwen sat the horse as straight and unbowed as she could. But inside she cringed at every insult. She did not blame them for their ill will, and that made it even more painful. She met Josselyn’s eyes, and saw disappointment in them. For a moment she thought her old friend meant to approach her. But Isolde held her back, and Jasper blocked her way.
“I need to question her,” Jasper told Josselyn. “Take Isolde inside. I’ll join you in the hall before too long.” Then he turned his attention on Rhonwen.
Everyone watched him approach her. Rhonwen watched too, afraid in a way she hardly understood. He had demanded her in exchange for Rhys’s freedom. He’d wanted her in his grasp and, like a fool, she’d complied. It was because she feared for Rhys, she told herself. Jasper would punish Rhys in ways he would not punish her.
But she was afraid for herself now, though not entirely of physical punishment. Nor did she fear imprisonment, though God knew she should. To be locked up, away from her beloved wildwood, to never see the sun or feel the wind … She should be terrified.
No, it was an entirely different sort of fear that gripped her now. For she had the awful feeling that this man had the power to rip her heart to shreds.
It made no sense. She should be able to master her foolish reactions to him. But she seemed unable to, and she knew with a sinking certainty that he sensed that weakness in her. And that he meant to use it to his advantage. She feared also that she knew just what that advantage would be.
He did not speak to her, but grasped her by the waist and effortlessly lifted her down. Without thinking she braced her hands against his shoulders. When her feet touched the ground they stood, just for a moment, face-to-face. In differing circumstances it might have been a lovers’ embrace. But when he caught her by the wrist and hauled her behind him toward the slate-roofed barracks that illusion vanished. The crowd parted, then closed again as they passed, and the muttering grew more threatening.
“ … to harm a child!”
“Heartless …”
“The spawn of Satan.”
Then something struck her in the back, something flung with angry strength, and she stumbled forward. Jasper turned, frowning, and started to yank her upright. Then he must have
realized what had happened, and his fury turned on those who crowded in on them.
“She is my prisoner and I alone will decide her fate. Harm her without my approval and you will suffer the same punishment in return, only more so. Do I make myself clear in this?”
The throng fell back but Rhonwen was not much reassured, for the expression on Jasper’s face was fierce, and his grip on her wrist unrelenting. He alone reserved the right to punish her.
Even Josselyn could not help her now, not that she would want to.
Rhonwen scrambled to her feet and scurried to keep up with him, dreading with every step the fate that awaited her.
The garrison lay quiet and empty, save for the horses stabled on the lower level. Jasper slammed the steel-strapped door and bolted it, then dragged her up the stairs to the men-at-arms’ quarters. Down the row of pallets he strode, dragging her behind him until he reached another heavy door. He pushed her inside, then followed her in and bolted that door as well.
Light fell thought one window, illuminating a simple room with a bed, a chest, and garments hanging from hooks on the wall. His private quarters, she realized.
She must have gasped, for he looked up sharply from the lamp he lit. “My quarters,” he confirmed. “Get used to them.” Then he lowered the rare glass lamp front, and as the pale glow warmed the room, he bolted the shutter too.
She was alone with him, with no hope for escape and no one to intercede on her behalf. Rhonwen swallowed hard, beating back the rise of panic. She must not succumb to fear, she told herself. She must be brave in the face of her enemy, as brave as so many of her countrymen had been. To lose her life—or anything else—was no more than a thousand Cymry had done. But to lose her dignity … that would be the true tragedy.
So she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, and met his contemptuous glare without flinching. “What is to be my punishment?”
“Your punishment?” He gave a bitter laugh. “An apt punishment
would be to turn you over to that mob out there. They want your blood, you know.”
“But you have something else in mind. Something worse. So tell me what it is.”
He didn’t answer. Instead he unfastened his girdle and hung it and his sheathed sword on one of the wall pegs. But his gray eyes, dark and opaque, remained fixed on hers. The message they sent was unmistakable: He would have her, here. Now. There would be no gallant gesture this time, nor was there a little child to awaken and prevent him finishing what they’d begun twice before.
A shiver ran down her spine and settled in the depths of her stomach, where it writhed in heated agitation.
She was appalled by what he intended, and yet a part of her was mesmerized. She hated him, and yet felt the perverse edge of anticipation. Like a mountain hare caught in the fixed, unblinking stare of the lynx, she knew her fate and the futility of flight.
Only when he drew his tunic over his head and broke the contact of their eyes was she able to look away. She crossed her arms, holding her fears inside. “So you will rape me. That is to be my punishment?”
“I do not intend to rape you.”
Rhonwen’s eyes jerked back up to his. But he forestalled her words. “I do not intend to punish you, Rhonwen. Your loyalty to your people is understandable, and on one level, at least, commendable. Rather than punish you, I have decided to reward myself and thereby punish the outlaw who commands your loyalty.”
At her look of confusion he laughed once more. “I want no more from you than what you give to Rhys ap Owain. I have spared your lover his life, Rhonwen. You should be grateful. So, show me your gratitude.” He took one slow, confident step toward her, then another. “Show me how very grateful you are.”
Rhonwen stared at him, unable to comprehend. She understood well enough what he wanted of her. She just did not comprehend why. The silence of the small chamber beat like
a drum in her head.
Show me your gratitude. Show me. Show me
.
She shook her head and hugged herself tighter. “Call it what you like. But if you mean to rape me, then do as you will and have done with it.”
“I take no pleasure in rape.”
“Then we are at an impasse, for I will not—” She broke off, shaking her head vehemently. “I will not agree.”
His eyes glittered with dark amusement. “My pleasure will be in proving you wrong. Twice now you have protested your disinterest, and twice now you have succumbed to the heat that bums between us. This time will be no different. You have a passionate nature. Your young lover has tasted that passion. Now I would do the same.”
“Ryhs is not my lover!”
It was clear he did not believe her, for he laughed. “’Tis pointless to lie, and anyway, he has boasted otherwise.”
“What?” Stunned by that remark, she watched as he shrugged out of his linen chainse. The air was cool and his bare skin should have prickled with the chill. But the warmth of his flesh was plain. Hard muscles, taut skin, and the whorl of dark hair on his chest started a fire in her own belly.
“You but delay the inevitable, Rhonwen. I traded him for you. Now I would have my reward. Let me see you.”
She didn’t realize she had backed up until she hit the door. He did not advance on her. But then, he did not need to. There was no place for her to hide and no one for her to run to. He could afford to be patient, she realized.
So do as he asks, a part of her urged. Do it and get it over with.
But Rhonwen could not be so practical as that, so unemotional about the use of her body for a man’s pleasure. She raised her hand as if to ward him away. “I have not been Rhys’s lover. Nor will I be yours.”
“He says otherwise. He says you are his woman.”
“I am my own woman!” she cried. “No one else’s.”
Surprise flickered in his eyes, but it was swiftly replaced by
skepticism. “When first I spied you along the river, you deliberately shed your clothes to entice me.”
“I did not shed them.”
“You started to.”
“I thought I was alone. I … I meant only to bathe myself in the river.”
“You meant to lure me out so that you could shoot me. That’s hardly the behavior of an innocent.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Enough of this foolishness, woman. Remove your clothes so that I can see what I have purchased.”
Without weighing her actions, Rhonwen snatched up a pottery vessel sitting on a shelf on the wall. “You have purchased nothing!” she shouted. The she threw the vessel at him, spun about, and yanked at the bolt.
She managed to get the door open. But with one hand he slammed it shut. Then he jerked her around and she found herself trapped. The door behind her, his powerful male torso in front of her, and his thickly muscled arms framing her. She shoved at his chest, then drew back when her hands met with bare skin. Warm bare skin. She flattened against the door and met his mocking gaze.
“I despise you,” she muttered between clenched teeth.
“I desire you,” he answered, slowly pressing nearer.
He was so close they nearly touched. Then she took a breath and they did touch. Her breasts grazed his chest, then pulled back. He pressed nearer still and her nipples, now stiffened, were agitated further by the feel of his chest through her thin chemise and plain kirtle.
“I despise you,” she whispered again. She turned away from the triumph she saw in his eyes.
“You desire me,” he corrected. One of his knees slid between her legs at the same time he shifted his chest from side to side. The friction was exquisite. Her nipples tightened into highly sensitive nubs, and the knot in her stomach began to writhe. Was this desire, this dark magic he worked on her body? With hardly a touch he struck sparks inside her. How did he manage it? More importantly, was he aware how easily he achieved his aim?
She willed herself not to reveal it to him. “Shall you rape me against the door, then?” she hissed, keeping her face averted from his.
He nuzzled her hair. “No.” The word was hot in her ear. His knee shoved higher, abrading her inner thighs and making her insides quiver. “But I might make love to you against it.”
“Call it what you will.” She could barely get the words out.
“I shall.” His weight came fully against her. Then his hands moved down to cup her derriere and he lifted her up so that her feet left the floor and she straddled his leg.
She gasped and caught his arms for balance. How had she come to so dire a circumstance as this? The intimacy of their position was overwhelming. She was wholly in his power and though she knew there was much more involved in the mating process, she could not imagine anything more intimate. His face was but inches from hers. She felt the heated touch of his breath and the hot touch of his eyes. He pressed his hips against hers and her legs opened to deepen the contact. Everywhere they touched—breasts and hips and thighs—was on fire.
Then he bent nearer, seeking her mouth.
For one rational moment she avoided his kiss. She twisted her head away from his and pushed against his shoulder. “Don’t do this,” she pleaded. “It will accomplish nothing.”
His teeth caught her earlobe, then began a devastating trail of bites and kisses down her neck to her shoulder, then over to her throat. She could feel herself dissolving, melting, becoming his to do with as he pleased.
“If nothing else, it will douse this fire that rages between us. Once we have exhausted ourselves together, mayhap we can get on with finding a way to peace between our people.”
“No.” She was panting now and pressing as hard against him as he did against her. “This will make matters worse …”
The remainder of her words were lost in their kiss. It was a hard kiss, savage and hungry, very nearly brutal. He devoured her mouth, demanding entrance, demanding submission. She was pinned to the door, her arms and legs wrapped
around him, her body open and welcoming. And it was that welcome, that intense longing for a closeness with him, that saved her from feeling completely out of control.

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