Rexanne Becnel (15 page)

Authors: The Knight of Rosecliffe

BOOK: Rexanne Becnel

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“To what end would I act such a farce?” he demanded belligerently.

“So that others will learn by your example and do the same. So that any hint of your impropriety with her is disproved.” She paused and stared at him. “She was untried, wasn’t she?”

He clenched his teeth until his jaw ached. Then he sat down with a weary sigh. Though it galled him to admit the truth, he could not lie. “She was.”

She nodded. “Let us hope you did not get her with child—unless, of course, you intend to set this shameful deed to rights.”

He did not honor that ridiculous remark with a response. Was the woman mad? She must be, to think he might wed so untrustworthy a wench, one who had lied to him, deceived him, and tried to kill him. And whether or not Josselyn held her at fault, the fact remained that she had participated in the kidnapping of Isolde.

Besides, if Rhonwen had cared about her innocence, she could have spoken up. He would never have gone so far had he known. He would have stopped.

At least he wanted to believe he would have stopped.

But none of that mattered now. What was done could not be undone. “I took precautions,” he muttered. “Since you insist, I will bring her to you. But have you considered that she will seek escape at every turn? Have you thought about the continuing threat she presents to your children?”

Josselyn waved one hand dismissively. “I trust you to prevent her causing any further trouble.”

“What—”

“Between the two of us,” she continued blithely along, “we shall turn my headstrong young friend into a lady fit to grace any hall in the land, Welsh or Norman.”

“The hell you say. I will not play lady-in-waiting, especially to a wench that—”

“You will do it, Jasper. You have created this disaster and now you must see it through.” She stood, more imperious in her simple garb of kersey and linen than any highborn lady in silks and gold braid. “Now fetch her here and let us make the best of these circumstances.”

Jasper stood, this time toppling his chair backward with a crash. Several servants looked up in alarm. But Josselyn only shooed him with her fingers. “Go fetch her. Go.”

There seemed no choice but to do as she asked. But as Jasper strode across the bailey he fumed—raged—with every step. God curse the day he’d ever laid eyes on Rhonwen ap Tomas. She’d caused him nothing but trouble with her interference, and there seemed no end in sight to it.

Her interference saved you once, a voice rose, accusing, in his head. He flexed the fingers of his right hand and stared at the place where his little finger should be. But for a little girl’s interference ten years ago, he’d be missing far more than one finger.

He ran his hand though his hair once more, and felt his anger ease. He would try it Josselyn’s way. He would prevent Rhonwen’s escape while his brother’s wife tried to tame their captive’s wildness. And he would treat her with the deference he knew should be accorded all women.

But he would be damned before he’d ever again trust the devious wench. And he’d be damned before he touched her again either.

He was damned the moment he unbarred the door.

He didn’t touch her. He managed somehow to restrain himself from that foolhardy mistake. But it was hard when he spied her, perched forlornly on the windowsill, peering between the cracks of the shutter.

She didn’t look at him. She stayed as she was, her arms wrapped around her bent legs, her chin resting on her knees. But she stiffened a little, and color rose in her cheeks, warm and telling. She was afraid, uncertain, and embarrassed to face him.

And he, curse his miserable soul, wanted nothing but to gather her up, lay her down, and make her smile again.

Blood rushed to his loins and he felt the rise of desire. Was he a fool or a madman to want her so?

Or was God punishing him for the many sins of his past—for too many sins with too many women?

Anger with himself made him curt. “Come with me. Now!” he barked when she did not leap immediately to his order.

Slowly she unfurled her arms. Stiffly she unfolded her legs. She slid from the high sill but remained with her back to the wall. “Where are you taking me?” she asked, still not meeting his eyes.

“You’ll know soon enough,” he muttered. “Come along.”

“Please, Jasper.” She raised her eyes to his, eyes round with uncertainty, sorrow, and resignation. “I know you have every right to your anger. But I implore you, do not make of me a whore.”

Sudden shame swept through him. Were a man to treat a woman of his family thus, he would kill him. But Rhonwen had no one to defend her—no one but Rhys, he reminded himself. But even the Welshman had betrayed her, for he’d claimed to be her lover and, in so doing, had tarnished her reputation.

Still, none of those details were proof against the entreaty in her face. Though he steeled himself not to care for her feelings, he did not entirely succeed.

“Josselyn has another punishment in mind for you. One that you will not find so repugnant.” The relief that flooded her face stung his pride. He was unable to prevent adding, “Though you did not seem to find the first few hours of your captivity here repugnant.”

At once color stained her cheeks and he saw her swallow. The skin on her throat was so smooth and sweet. It would be warm against his lips—

He jerked his eyes away from her and scowled. “Come along. My meal has been interrupted long enough.”

Rhonwen did as Jasper commanded. She crossed to the door, then, under his harsh gaze, proceeded past him. But with every step she was conscious of the huge change in their relationship. She was his hostage now, subject to his whim, and
earlier it had been his whim to take possession of her body. But in so doing—in seeking her pleasure first, in not forcing her in fear, but in seducing her with passion—he’d captured much more than merely her body.

She caught a sob before it could escape and she hurried through the barracks ahead of him. He desired her—or he had. But he hated her too. Were he to realize how she felt about him …

She quashed the rise of emotions that should never be. Enemies could not love one another.

Then she halted in her tracks, stopped by that insane thought. Love was not what she felt for this man. Passion, perhaps, and to an unexpected degree, respect. But that was not the same as love.

Was it?

“Come along.” His hand wrapped around her arm, propelling her on. But once she stumbled forward again, he released his hold. Did he find her that distasteful now, so much so that he could hardly bear to touch her?

They crossed the bailey, him herding her forward, much like a dog with a sheep. With every step Rhonwen became more depressed. He’d had what he wanted of her and though he’d been considerate of her feelings then, he made it plain now that he was done with her. He was turning her over to Josselyn, and clearly he could not wait to be rid of her.

She halted before the tall twin doors of the great hall. Just a few days ago she’d entered this same hall a welcome guest, but a secret enemy. Now she returned unwelcome, recognized as an enemy of Rosecliffe.

Then she’d hoped not to see Jasper. Now … now she didn’t know what she hoped for. But she knew what she dreaded.

Suddenly panicked, she turned to Jasper. “Does Josselyn hate me? Does she?” she begged to know.

“I don’t know,” he answered after a moment. He looked away, above her head to the door at her back. “I don’t know what Josselyn feels. Were it my brother who summoned you … Just be grateful he is not here.”

Their eyes met and held, and he leaned forward. Or perhaps
it was she who swayed toward him. In any event, Rhonwen’s heart began to race. But then the door opened behind her and, with an abrupt nudge, he steered her into the hall.

Josselyn observed the two of them enter with an avid curiosity. Rhonwen obviously worked hard to control her features, but there was a stricken look in her eyes and a shakiness about her that had not been there before. Was it fear of her punishment at Josselyn’s hands, or did it have more to do with her feelings about Jasper?

As for Jasper, what did he feel for Rhonwen? His handsome face wore a forbidding expression Josselyn had seldom seen on him, though it looked somehow familiar. She hid a smile when she realized why. In the beginning, Rand had often worn such a look when dealing with
her
. He’d desired her and hated her and yet had loved her all along. Though he’d not revealed that fact until after they were wed.

Could it be that their own Jasper, lusted after by women wherever he went, had finally found a woman able to touch his remote heart?

Josselyn studied them both as they halted before her. Hard, unrelenting man. Stubborn yet vulnerable woman. She almost smiled at the thought of the struggles they faced in finding love together. But smiling would not do. Not at this particular moment.

She drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair. “Well, Rhonwen,” she began. “I had not thought to see you back at Rosecliffe Castle under such circumstances—”

“What is she doing in here?” a shrill voice cried.

They all looked up to see Isolde staring down from the open balcony above them.

“She does not belong here with good, civilized people. Cast her into the dungeon, Sir Jasper.” She clutched the rail, glaring down at her foe. “She tried to hurt our family. If you love us you will cast her down into the dungeon and never, ever let her out again!”

Eleven

How Rhonwen wanted to flee. But of course she could not. She was Jasper’s captive. His prisoner. She had no choice but to stand there in the grand hall, silent as Isolde heaped insults upon her. Josselyn tried to still the child, but that only increased Rhonwen’s misery. When the little girl hurried down the stairs, then flung herself weeping into her uncle’s arms, Rhonwen wanted to die, to shrivel away to nothingness and slink shamefully from the suddenly cold chamber.

To be despised by a child was truly as low as a person could sink, she realized. That Isolde was totally justified in her contempt was bitter enough. To be defended by Josselyn, who by rights should also despise her, made it crueler still.

Jasper held the sobbing Isolde as Josselyn sought to console the child. “Listen to me, Isolde. The dungeon is not always the answer. ’Tis important that the punishment befit the crime.”

“To betray your liege is the act of a traitor. And … and traitors are always hung,” Isolde declared through her tears.

“Now, who told you that?”

“Gavin did. He … he said traitors are not to be tolerated.”

“It’s far more complicated than that, dear.” Josselyn smoothed a lock of hair back from her daughter’s damp cheek. “First of all, your father is not her liege.”

“But he is! How can you say he is not? These are English lands now, and Papa is lord here.”

“It is not that simple. We’ve discussed this matter before. And anyway, that’s not all that this is about, is it?”

Isolde swallowed a sob and sent her mother a guilty look. But when she glanced over at Rhonwen, obstinate dislike took the place of guilt. “She’s not a nice person. She made me go with those awful men! I don’t understand why you are taking her side!”

“I’m not taking her side,” Josselyn explained with admirable patience, more patience than Rhonwen possessed. She could no longer keep silent.

“Then why
don’t
you throw me in the dungeon?” she snapped. “I’m not denying my guilt.”

Josselyn folded her arms and stared sternly at Rhonwen. “Believe me when I say I am sorely tempted. But in the dungeon your unwarranted hatred of the English would only fester and grow. And you would become a martyr in the eyes of those who share your feelings.”

Rhonwen shook her head, bewildered. Jasper would not free her; Josselyn would not cast her into the dungeon. What did they mean to do with her?

She crossed her arms, mimicking Josselyn’s pose. “If I am not to be imprisoned, then what? I will not be your servant, if that is what you plan. I will not scrub your floors nor scrape your pots.”

“Watch your tongue,” Jasper ordered, grabbing her shoulder in warning. “There is no shame in honest work. You’ll do whatever you’re told.”

“And what will you tell me to do?” she asked, her voice bitter, her heart breaking.

He didn’t answer and Rhonwen wasn’t certain she wanted to hear it if he did. Would he avoid her or bed her? Two extremes with no middle ground, she feared.

He still had an arm around Isolde’s shoulder and the child stared up at him adoringly. He’ll break your heart, Rhonwen wanted to warn her. He’s your uncle, and anyway, he’s too old for you.

But Isolde’s heart would never listen to the likes of her. Isolde’s heart would have to mend in its own way—as would her own, Rhonwen dismally thought.

“’Tis I who have decided your fate,” Josselyn announced, drawing everyone’s attention again. “And I have decided to mold you into a proper lady.”

Rhonwen gaped at her. That made no sense at all. “A proper lady? An English lady, I suppose,” she added, sneering.

“But Mama! That’s not fair!”

“Ah, but I think it is. It’s the best punishment of all for our Rhonwen of the wildwood. To make someone see the error of their ways is always the best punishment. And you shall help me.”

“Not I,” Isolde vowed.

“Jasper has agreed to help.”

Both Rhonwen and Isolde turned to stare at him. He, however was glaring at Josselyn. But he didn’t contradict her, and Rhonwen took some satisfaction in seeing him bow to someone else’s bidding for a change. Josselyn had been ten years wed to an Englishman, and in many ways she seemed more English than Welsh. But under that polished exterior of fine cloth and impeccable grooming beat the heart of a strong-willed Welshwoman, it seemed, the same woman she’d been ten years ago: brave and determined.

That did not mean, however, that Rhonwen wanted to become like her. “You will never make me into a spineless English bitch,” she said, being deliberately coarse.

“You will do exactly as Josselyn tells you,” Jasper ordered, his voice cold and menacing.

For no reason that she could discern, tears pricked Rhonwen’s eyes. She refused to look at him, but inside, what little confidence she had left deserted her. Jasper would wed an English lady someday. Someone with a gentle demeanor and cultured manners, with silken gowns and golden baubles. No wonder he disdained her, with her plainspoken ways and pauper’s garb. No wonder he could hardly bear to look at her
now. She possessed only one thing of interest to him—and he’d had that. There was nothing left.

She swallowed her pain, bottling it up where no one but she could ever find it. “If you wish to play this game, so be it,” she said to Josselyn, shrugging.

“’Tis no game, Rhonwen. But only time will convince you of that. Very well. Let us eat.”

“But Mama—” Isolde protested.

“Enough, Isolde. If you cannot behave properly in the company of your elders, you may take your meal in the nursery with your sister.”

The sullen child made no response to that, and with a nod, Josselyn led them all to the table.

To her surprise, Rhonwen was seated at the high table between Josselyn and Jasper. Isolde sat on Jasper’s opposite side. A maid came around with damp cloths for their hands. Then red wine was poured and the platters of food presented to them before being circulated among the other tables. It was no particular feast day, so the food was ordinary fare. But it was well prepared and there were copious amounts of it. Jasper piled his trencher high with roasted capon, stewed vegetables, and steamed oysters, then ate with vigor. So did Isolde.

But though Rhonwen’s stomach growled with hunger, food held no appeal. Perhaps it was the stares directed her way from the other plank tables arrayed below the salt: hostile ones, curious ones. Leering ones. Let them think what they wanted of her. She didn’t care, she reassured herself.

It was more likely, however, that her distress was caused by Jasper’s proximity. It only increased her agitation to see how unaffected he was. He was enjoying his meal as if nothing whatsoever had passed between them.

Of course he was enjoying it, Rhonwen fumed. He felt none of the devastation she felt. He’d lost nothing, not his honor nor his home—nor his heart. She stared morosely at her food. How was she ever to return to her former life?

It was a foolish question, given that she didn’t even know how she was to eat without her knife.

Josselyn sensed her dilemma. “When you have proven
yourself trustworthy, I will restore your knife to you. Until then, you must make do with a spoon.”

“Like a baby,” Isolde sneered.

Rhonwen shot the girl a sharp look. A grown woman should not feel animosity toward a child, especially not toward a child who had every reason to behave as she was doing. But Rhonwen could not help it. Isolde’s animosity was not due solely to the kidnapping. The child wanted her uncle all to herself. She sensed his interest in Rhonwen, and therein lay the problem. In fact, the entire kidnapping would not have occurred if Isolde had not been so jealous of Rhonwen.

But Jasper’s interest in Rhonwen was only carnal—if indeed, that interest existed any longer. Rhonwen knew an innocent little girl could not be expected to understand such things.

Yet knowing that did not entirely help. There was still a perverse part of Rhonwen that wanted to defeat Isolde in this foolish struggle the child had created between them. It was only to prove a point, she told herself. It wasn’t because she truly wanted to win Jasper for herself. She could never succeed at that, nor did she wish to. But Isolde would learn a valuable lesson—two valuable lessons. First, that Jasper FitzHugh was not worth wasting her emotions on. And second, to pick her battles—and her enemies—more carefully.

Slowly Rhonwen straightened in her chair. That was advice she too should heed. Perhaps she could not win in a battle with Jasper. But it was Josselyn who controlled her fate now, and that changed everything.

Rhonwen’s mind spun. Josselyn wanted to change her into a lady.

She pushed her tangled hair behind her shoulders, cringing to think how shabby she must appear to Josselyn, and even to Isolde. But that was all right, she told herself. If Josselyn wanted to turn her into a lady, then so be it. Rhonwen would let her do it. And in the process she would learn everything she could about the English and their castle, and their curious ways. She would study and listen and learn.

But Josselyn was mistaken if she thought Rhonwen would
be seduced by their fine clothes and haughty ways. She pressed a hand to her heart. She was Welsh and she would ever remain true to her people. And to herself.

She glanced sidelong at her countrywoman, someone she’d much admired and tried long ago to emulate. She would affect that role again, only this time she knew better than to idolize Josselyn. She might practice how to hold her utensils as Josselyn did. She might emulate how to sit and stand and smile in the serene way that Josselyn did. She might even learn to be gracious and how to direct a castle full of servants.

But she would not forget how to fight, and eventually she would escape and help Rhys defeat the English who meant to subjugate them all.

Feeling better for having some sort of plan, she began to eat. The food was good and, to her surprise, she ate everything put before her. She was not surprised, however, to feel Josselyn’s gaze upon her.

“You see,” Josselyn said. “’Tis not so bad to be among us.”

Rhonwen looked at her, then away. “I will endure it.”

“Yes. I imagine you will.”

Josselyn raised her right hand in a faint gesture and at once a manservant appeared with a tray of sweets. The aroma was intoxicating. But when the man present the selection to Rhonwen, something obstinate prevented her from partaking of the stewed pears and fried sweet dough. It was one thing to eat the food given her. She had to eat to live. But to share in the dessert?

No, she did not want to enjoy her meal among her English enemies
that
much.

She stood as if to leave the table, and was promptly yanked back into her seat. “You’re not going anywhere,” Jasper snapped.

“Not even to the garderobe?” she snapped right back.

“Not alone.”

“Now, Jasper,” Josselyn put in. “In order for Rhonwen to become a lady, she must be treated like a lady. None of this yanking and ordering about.”

“God’s bones!” he exclaimed. “She’s a prisoner, and an uncooperative one, at that!”

Everyone in the hall had stopped to watch the goings-on, but Josselyn didn’t seem to care. “She doesn’t seem particularly uncooperative to me.”

“Just wait,” he warned her. “She’s not the sweet little girl you remember. She’s a—” He broke off, his jaw clenching an agitated rhythm.

“She is the same person she always was,” Josselyn stated with unruffled calm. Then she covered Rhonwen’s hand with her own and squeezed it, and Rhonwen felt unaccountably as if Josselyn were squeezing her heart.

She didn’t want to like Josselyn again. She didn’t want to respect her or be beholden to her. So she snatched her hand away. “I’m not the girl you remember,” she swore. “Nor the woman you would make me out to be,” she said to Jasper.

Again she stood. “I need a moment of privacy.”

After a short conversation with Josselyn, Jasper accompanied her, much to her chagrin. He waited outside the garderobe, not meeting her gaze when she came out. “Come along,” he ordered.

“Now what?” she muttered.

He didn’t answer but led her to the kitchen. There a young boy ferried pots of heated water from the hearth to a huge wooden tub. Josselyn entered with an armful of toweling.

“Ah, there you are. A proper bath and fresh clothing shall start you off well. Afterwards you may join me in my solar.”

“I’ll leave the pair of you to your task,” Jasper said, and turned to depart.

“But Jasper,” Josselyn asked, “what if she tries to escape?”

Jasper scowled. “She won’t.”

“I might,” Rhonwen countered, just to be contrary.

“You won’t,” he growled.

She shrugged and simply smiled.

“You’d better stay,” Josselyn told him, arranging the soaps and towels on a chair next to the tub.

A prickle of alarm skittered down Rhonwen’s back. Stay? In the kitchen? While she bathed?’