Rexanne Becnel (33 page)
Authors: The Knight of Rosecliffe
The following is an excerpt from
Rhys and Isolde’s story, the final
book in the Rosecliffe Trilogy:
The Mistress of Rosecliffe
coming soon from
St. Martin’s Paperbacks
Rhys and Isolde’s story, the final
book in the Rosecliffe Trilogy:
The Mistress of Rosecliffe
coming soon from
St. Martin’s Paperbacks
Isolde had heard very little, a dull thump from far away, a hushed voice on the nearby wall walk. She strained to hear better. Was it an English voice or a Welsh one? She’d not been able to tell. So she had lain there in the dark, cursing Rhys ap Owain, beseeching God’s help, and bemoaning her own stupidity.
How could she have been so blind? How could she not have seen the resemblance? The same black eyes. The same arrogant manner. She should have recognized him. She should have guessed.
She should have listened to Osborn.
He had not wanted to let the minstrel band inside the castle at all. But she’d been so sure of herself, so heady with her own power. Just look where it had brought her.
In the darkened chamber she silently raged and fought her bindings. But it was a futile battle, as futile as her vain attempt to put the worst of her many errors out of her mind. She’d given her innocence to a man she hated, one she’d loathed since she was but a child. Like the green girl she was, she’d been completely taken by him, besotted by his fine physique, his deep voice, and his intense gaze. And to think she’d been fool enough to believe he possessed the heart of a poet.
Once more she fought her bindings, chafing her already-scraped
wrists and ankles. Tears stung her eyes and slipped down her cheeks. Had she truly been so stupid as to think love was a part of her feelings for him? She groaned in shame. Bad enough that he’d evoked those incredible feelings from her body, traitorous creature that it was. But for a few moments she’d actually thought she loved the odious wretch!
wrists and ankles. Tears stung her eyes and slipped down her cheeks. Had she truly been so stupid as to think love was a part of her feelings for him? She groaned in shame. Bad enough that he’d evoked those incredible feelings from her body, traitorous creature that it was. But for a few moments she’d actually thought she loved the odious wretch!
Outside a voice sounded and she went still. Laughter. Had Rosecliffe’s guards foiled Rhys’s plans? Had they captured him and cast him into the deepest hole in the
donjon
? She prayed it was so. She prayed desperately that it was so.
donjon
? She prayed it was so. She prayed desperately that it was so.
But then a voice came more clearly through the window, a jovial Welsh voice. “Ho, Tafydd. What a night, eh?”
Isolde’s hopes died a swift, brutal death. He’d won!
She hardly had time to digest that awful fact when footsteps echoed in the stairwell, heavy footsteps rising nearer and nearer.
She twisted her head to see the door and shuddered when it opened, for the figure silhouetted there was tall and broad-shouldered. It was him. She knew it though he did not speak.
He closed the door and moved deeper into the room. Metal struck against flint, and each time she jumped. Once. Twice. The third time a tiny spark caught the bit of charred cloth in the bowl beside the bed, and with that he lit a fresh candle.
But as light filled the chamber, as he lit two more candles and stood them in the candelabra, it was a different man who turned to face her. He’d abandoned his rough tunic for a warrior’s leather hauberk, and his worn brogans for tall boots. A sword hung at his side, heavy and ominous, and a thin dagger dangled at his hip.
This was a man of war, not a minstrel. How had she not seen that before? Those thickly muscled arms came from wielding a sword, not a gittern. The wide shoulders and thick chest were built through years of battle and exercise, not through strumming and singing.
Then he raised the candles higher and she saw his face and gasped. Gone were the long wild hair and woolly beard. In their stead appeared a face she would have known. He was ten years older—and ten years harder—but he was the same
Rhys ap Owain who’d kidnapped her so long ago. He was her enemy no matter how comely his features and how manly his form. That his teeth were straight and his lips well formed only drove home to her the depths of her terrible mistake. He could have the face of an angel, yet still he was the devil’s spawn.
Rhys ap Owain who’d kidnapped her so long ago. He was her enemy no matter how comely his features and how manly his form. That his teeth were straight and his lips well formed only drove home to her the depths of her terrible mistake. He could have the face of an angel, yet still he was the devil’s spawn.
Isolde’s chest hurt, her heart pounded so violently. She should have been more wary. She should not have been so smug. She should have done as her father wanted and agreed to a marriage with Mortimer Halyard. Because of her vanity and stupidity, she’d been ruined, and had also opened the door to her family’s ruin.
As if he guessed her thoughts, he grinned down at her, the awful, beautiful grin of a predator who toys with his victim, knowing full well she has no escape. He crossed to the bed, then set the brace of candles on a table near her head.
“’Tis a great day at Rosecliffe, Isolde. The Welsh have regained what was stolen from them.”
She closed her eyes against the wolfish triumph in his face, then jerked them open again when he sat beside her on the bed. “I am victorious,” he continued in a huskier tone. “And you know what is said of the victor. To him go all the spoils …”
THE KNIGHT OF ROSECLIFFE
Copyright © 1999 by Rexanne Becnel.
Excerpt from
The Mistress of Rosecliffe
copyright © 1999 by Rexanne Becnel.
The Mistress of Rosecliffe
copyright © 1999 by Rexanne Becnel.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
eISBN 9781250011145
First eBook Edition : September 2011
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition/June 1999
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