Rexanne Becnel (4 page)
Authors: The Knight of Rosecliffe
Ten years ago she had saved him but only so he could be exchanged for her friend Josselyn, who’d been taken hostage by Randulf FitzHugh. But Rhonwen’s efforts had all been for naught, for Josselyn had eventually wed her captor. Jasper FitzHugh had recovered from his wounds and stayed to become one more Englishman oppressing her people.
Across the river, FitzHugh raised a hand to her in drunken salute. Rhonwen frowned. The past was past. She could do nothing to change it. But the present … the present demanded that she act. So she waved back at him, all the while wondering what Rhys would do were he here.
The answer was uncomfortably clear. Rhys passionately believed that Wales should be purged of the English by whatever means necessary. Those who would not leave willingly must be killed.
The FitzHughs had long ago made it clear that they did not intend to leave.
So she steeled herself to do what she knew any true Welsh loyalist must do. Slowly she reached back for the small hunting bow she carried. Carefully she eased an arrow from the quiver that hung at her waist.
Then, not allowing herself time for doubt, she swung the bow into place, notched the arrow, and let it fly.
When Jasper slammed into the frigid river, the impact sobered him at once. She’d tried to kill him! That vision beside the river, that siren with the curvaceous body and black silk for hair, had tried to kill him.
Had her arrow struck home?
He took quick stock and realized it had not—but only by chance. God protected children and drunkards, he’d oft heard said, and he believed it must be true. For his bleary eyes had not registered the siren’s murderous intent until too late. It was not self-preservation that had protected him from her deadly arrow. His drunken swaying and a stray gust of wind had tilted him off balance, and in the process saved his life.
But for how long?
The water dragged him along, pulling at his tunic and braies, sucking him down into its icy depths. The urge to swim toward the shore was overwhelming. But somehow he beat it down. If the wench thought she’d succeeded, she would not pursue him. Not that he feared her. But she might not be alone. Once he was far enough downriver, he could double back and trap the devious bitch.
The river was stronger than he’d thought, and it carried him a goodly distance before he could escape its hold. When he finally clambered out on the opposite bank, his teeth were
chattering and his entire body shuddered with the cold. He was drenched, chilled to the bone and a long way from home. Added to that, once he caught his attacker, he would have to cross the river again to reach his horse.
chattering and his entire body shuddered with the cold. He was drenched, chilled to the bone and a long way from home. Added to that, once he caught his attacker, he would have to cross the river again to reach his horse.
His horse!
The Welsh were notorious horse thieves and Helios was as fine a piece of horseflesh as could be found outside of England. Rage burned off Jasper’s chill and, despite his exhaustion, he began to run, dodging willows and holly bushes, sometimes slipping but never letting up. She would not have Helios. He refused to let a mere woman best him.
But best him she had.
Jasper arrived at the place on the river where she had been. Across from him rose the great boulder he’d sprawled upon. What an arrogant idiot he’d been to sit exposed upon the most indefensible spot along the river. And now Helios, who’d foraged in the meadow just beyond the boulder, was gone.
Rand would be furious.
“Hell and damnation,” he swore. She’d even taken his wineskin. “Bloody hell and damnation!”
But cursing did him no good and after a moment reason took charge. He shoved his hair back from his brow and considered his situation. If she’d crossed the river to steal Helios, she would have to cross back again in order to return.
Return to where?
Where was she from?
Not the village of Rosecliffe. He knew all the women of Rosecliffe. Perhaps Carreg Du, or even Afon Bryn, though that was a fair distance for a woman to travel. In order to escape capture, she would have to take Helios far from Rosecliffe.
Afon Bryn it was, he decided. And he must intercept her before she reached that village and its hostile populace.
He started off at a steady pace, scanning the riverbank for signs of a horse, and a hundred paces upstream he was rewarded for his efforts. Hoofprints in the muddy bank, then clear signs of a large creature headed south through a stand of arrowhead.
Jasper felt for his daggers, the large one in its hip sheath,
and the smaller one inside his boot. She thought he was dead and would be careless in her escape. He gritted his teeth and pressed on faster, ignoring the stitch in his side and the dull thud in his head. She would not escape him, this devious wench. She might be exquisite in form, and deadly in intent, but she was only a woman. He would capture her and he would make her pay.
and the smaller one inside his boot. She thought he was dead and would be careless in her escape. He gritted his teeth and pressed on faster, ignoring the stitch in his side and the dull thud in his head. She would not escape him, this devious wench. She might be exquisite in form, and deadly in intent, but she was only a woman. He would capture her and he would make her pay.
One way or another, she would pay dearly for this day’s foul work.
Rhonwen trudged through the forest, leading the destrier. She’d struck a blow for Cymry this day, and she should be consumed with joy. But she didn’t feel joy. In its stead she felt a miserable guilt. She’d killed a man—killed him!—and even though he was an Englishman, she felt terrible.
But there was no undoing what she’d done and so she pressed on toward home. At least the beast was docile and followed her reasonably well. It refused to let her mount him, however, adding further to her guilt. As if the animal knew what she’d done, it rolled its eyes when she approached, and sidled away. He was too tall for her to jump on, and anyway, she was not so used to horses as to be that confident of her riding skills.
But she had no intention of losing such a valuable prize, so she led the animal toward the campsite between Carreg Du and Afon Bryn. Rhys would be there and he would know what to do with the Englishman’s destrier. And he would be elated to hear she’d killed the man—except that he’d wanted to kill Jasper FitzHugh himself.
Then again, had she really killed the man?
Rhonwen gnawed her lower lip. She’d shot him and he’d collapsed into the river, so she must have struck him. If the arrow hadn’t killed him, surely he had drowned. She’d watched his body catch in the current, then careen down the swollen river. Yes, he was dead. He must be. But she could not be glad for his death.
She trudged forward, up an embankment, following a dim trail through the newly budding forest, and with every step
guilt plagued her. She’d never killed anyone before. She’d hunted, of course, and killed fish, fowl, and small game animals. But that was for food. That was for survival.
guilt plagued her. She’d never killed anyone before. She’d hunted, of course, and killed fish, fowl, and small game animals. But that was for food. That was for survival.
Then again, her people were fighting for survival against the English, and he
was
an Englishman.
was
an Englishman.
But she couldn’t put him out of her mind. Had he died easily or not? Had the arrow quaffed his life quickly, or had he slowly bled to death? Or had he drowned, desperately sucking in water instead of the blessed air?
She paused on the narrow trail and inhaled great breaths of the cold spring air. Death by drowning. She shuddered at the thought. Somewhere above her a crow let out a raucous cry. She looked up, startled. The horse behind her blew a hot breath onto the back of her neck and she jumped. Then it nudged her with its nose, nearly knocking her over.
“Stop that, you great, overgrown beast,” she swore in a shaking voice. She tightened her fingers on the reins and twisted the leather around her hand. She was behaving like a frightened child, starting at shadows. Let her mother fret and worry; Rhonwen was made of sterner stuff.
“Come along,” she muttered, starting forward again. Rhys’s rebel camp was not too much farther. But the horse had turned balky. It started forward, then stopped. “Come along!” she repeated, yanking on the leather reins.
The animal only eyed her, staring down his long nose from his superior height.
What if he refused to go any farther? How was one to bully so large a creature?
“If you come along, there will be cool water and a lovely meadow waiting for you,” she said in Welsh. Then, realizing he was a Norman lord’s horse, she translated the words to the best of her ability.
The destrier stared at her with dark, intelligent eyes. His ears pricked forward and she could almost believe he understood what she’d said. Once more he blew out a hot breath. Then his ears flickered backward, heeding the soft call of a wren.
All at once Rhonwen’s skin prickled. A wren? Wrens were
not found in these parts until midsummer. Something was not right.
not found in these parts until midsummer. Something was not right.
At once she backed up the path, tugging for the horse to follow. But the huge animal did not move. The reins tightened around her hand, nearly jerking her off her feet. Then, before she could free herself from them, a man burst out of the woods. A tall, wet man with murder in his eyes.
He wasn’t dead!
“No!” Rhonwen grabbed for her dagger with her left hand, but it was too late. He caught her wrist in a harsh grip and, with a jerk, ripped the reins from her other hand.
She struck at his head with her fist, then tried to claw his eyes, to no avail. She could not best him physically. He was too big, too strong, and too furious. Yet she could not let herself acquiesce. So she twisted and kicked, and tried to knee his groin. She bit him and clawed him and screamed curses with every breath.
“Plague among men! Scourge of the earth!”
He grunted when her elbow caught his chin.
“Snake!” she screeched. “Coward! Impotent bastard!”
“Not hardly,” he muttered in her native Welsh. Suddenly he lifted her off her feet, then threw her up into the air.
Rhonwen shrieked—was he mad?—and braced herself for a painful landing. But he caught her and before she could react, he had captured both her wrists and twisted them behind her back. Then he pulled her hard up against him, holding her so tight she could barely breathe.
Her face was smashed into his padded wool tunic. Her breasts flattened against the studded chest piece, and her thighs felt the muscular weight of his legs.
“Give in, vixen. You have been caught, and in a trap of your own making.”
His smugness enraged her, but she could not free her hands no matter how she fought. So she fought him with the only weapon left to her. She bit him.
She got a mouthful of wet wool, but he jerked just the same. “Damnation, but you’re a feisty one.” He caught a handful
of her hair and yanked down so that she had no choice but to look up at him. It was a terrifying experience.
of her hair and yanked down so that she had no choice but to look up at him. It was a terrifying experience.
His eyes were gray. Not blue, but a true gray. Like wet slate. Ten years ago he’d been captured by the Welsh and she’d seen him up close. But he’d been too concerned with his own survival to notice a little Welsh girl. She’d not actually looked into his eyes that time, and since then she’d kept her distance from him.
But there was no distance between them now.
She stared up into those gray eyes, and she remembered the whispers of the women at the well. Even the devil could not best him when it came to the pleasures of the flesh, they said.
Then he smiled and she began to shake.
“I’m neither a bastard,” he said, his low voice rumbling from his chest into hers, “nor impotent.” As if to provide proof of that, he shifted his hips and she felt the unmistakable outline of his manhood.
“My mistake,” she muttered. “I should have called you a coward and a rapist.”
He laughed. The sound was ludicrous under the circumstances. But whether furious or amused, he was dangerous. Rhonwen did not delude herself on that account.
“Pray tell, wench, what are you called?”
Rhonwen did not answer.
Holding her gaze, he shifted again, and she felt the strength in his hard warrior’s body. If he meant it as a threat—a reminder of her vulnerability—he succeeded very well. She swallowed hard.
“What are you called?”
“Rhonwen ap Tomas,” she spat.
“Why did you try to kill me, Rhonwen ap Tomas?”
“You are English,” she replied. Was he a simpleton?
“I am English, so you would kill me and steal my horse and consider it a good afternoon’s work. Where were you taking Helios?”
Rhonwen glared at him. She could do little else. How long did he mean to continue this ridiculous conversation? How long did he mean to hold her crushed to him?
The answer was obvious and her heart sank: Until his arousal was complete and he could begin raping her.
She tried to look away. She didn’t want him to see her fear. But he moved his hand up to the back of her head and made her face him once more. “Where were you taking my horse? Afon Bryn?”
“Yes. What difference does it make?”
“’Tis always wise to know where my enemy sleeps.” She laughed. “Your enemy sleeps all around you. Even in the village beneath the castle walls.”
“So you know I am of Rosecliffe.”
“Jasper FitzHugh. Brother of the man who styles himself lord of these lands.”
“Brother-in-law to Josselyn. Yes,” he added when her eyes clouded over. “I know you once were friend to Josselyn. I know who you are, Rhonwen ap Tomas. And I know also the debt I owe you.” Then, to her utter surprise, he loosened his hold on her and stepped away.
Rhonwen stumbled back, bewildered by so abrupt a change in her circumstances. She shivered with the sudden cold, for she’d grown warm in his embrace.
Across the narrow path they stared at one another. He was tall and well formed. His thick brown hair had begun to dry, but his damp clothes clung to his shoulders and arms and legs. Yes, he was well formed. Straight and strong, with comely features and all his teeth. And those intense gray eyes. She hated him, yet she was a woman and she could see now why women flocked to his side.
Was he fool enough to think his magnanimous gesture might win her over? Was he fool enough to think he might lure her into his bed?
She crossed her arms over her chest and backed farther away. “You are letting me go?”
He lifted his right hand, the one missing a finger. “My hand is attached to my arm still, thanks to a brave little girl named Rhonwen. So this once I will let you go. But only once. Of course, if you would like to linger with me awhile …”
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