Authors: The Knight of Rosecliffe
Rexanne Becnel (5 page)
He approached her and, though she should have run, she
did not. He stopped but inches from her; then, reaching slowly forward, smoothed a tangled strand of her hair back from her cheek. “You have grown into a beautiful woman, Rhonwen.”
did not. He stopped but inches from her; then, reaching slowly forward, smoothed a tangled strand of her hair back from her cheek. “You have grown into a beautiful woman, Rhonwen.”
“We are enemies,” she answered. But her words sounded mild when she meant them to be accusing. She frowned. “It was not for your sake that I convinced Owain to spare your hand.”
“Yes, I know. Josselyn explained everything to me. Who you were. How you held the boy Rhys captive so that his father, Owain, would not kill me. And all to save Josselyn from Rand’s clutches. No matter your reasons, I am grateful for the results. So, Rhonwen, wild creature of the wildwood, I give you your freedom in thanks for the boon you did me ten years past.”
Rhonwen could hardly credit it. He was serious, even though she had just tried to kill him. Her brows drew together in a V. “This changes nothing. We are still enemies, and I will do everything in my power to drive you from these lands.”
“You’ve made that abundantly clear.”
“I would do it again,” she warned.
His eyes narrowed. “I see no reason for us to battle one another to the death. No good can come of it.”
“You are English. I am Welsh,” she said, and in her mind that explained everything.
“I am a man. You are a woman,” he countered in a voice so low and warm that Rhonwen felt it in the center of her belly. It was like nothing she’d ever felt before, a melting feeling, a sucking away of her will to reveal a completely illogical, completely mad desire to linger awhile with him.
He was a man and she a woman. She was old enough to make her own decisions regarding men and certainly old enough to have lost her innocence. But she hadn’t because no man had attracted her in that way. How could it be that this man—this Englishman—did?
“Nay,” she said, sidestepping him. “We are enemies. We can be no more.”
He caught her hand before she could flee. “Have you a husband?”
“Nay.”
Perhaps if she’d lied and said yes he would have let her go. But she didn’t say yes and he didn’t let her go. Instead he pulled her toward him and when they were face-to-face he said, “Before we become enemies once more, I would have us see whether we ever could have been lovers.”
Rhonwen gasped. “I don’t think—”
“Don’t think,” he commanded. “Just feel.” Then he bent nearer, slowly, keeping their gazes locked until their lips met.
Only then did Rhonwen’s eyes close. She could not escape him, she told herself. This was merely an experiment, she rationalized as his warm mouth moved over hers, merely an exercise in curiosity.
But her body deemed otherwise. Her insides melted. Her limbs trembled, and her skin prickled. Fire raced over her and yet she shivered.
He slanted his mouth over hers for a closer fit, and his teeth plucked at her lower lip. Then, when she took a breath, his tongue stole between her lips, strange and yet wholly seductive.
So this was why the village women gossiped about him.
She tried to pull back, for she could feel her body succumbing to him. But the wretch would not let her go. His arms came around her, gentler than before, but no less binding.
Though she should have, she did not fight him. He had charmed her with his unlikely sense of fair play and his hypnotic eyes. And now with his kisses. She knew it and yet she could not prevent it. If she’d known kissing could be like this, she might not have avoided the several fellows who’d tried to steal a kiss from her in the past.
“Ah, sweetling,” he murmured, moving his clever lips in a trail down her throat, then over to her ear. “You taste like salt and honey.”
“And you taste of wine,” she murmured without artifice.
A harder kiss, forceful and demanding, put an end to further conversation. This time his tongue slid deeper into her mouth,
possessing it in a way that seemed to scorch her from the inside out. She pressed up into him and felt his arousal, bigger than before, and though it still frightened her, it was now a different sort of fear. She did not fear rape any longer. But loss of control? Suddenly that loomed dangerously real and even more terrifying than the threat of rape.
possessing it in a way that seemed to scorch her from the inside out. She pressed up into him and felt his arousal, bigger than before, and though it still frightened her, it was now a different sort of fear. She did not fear rape any longer. But loss of control? Suddenly that loomed dangerously real and even more terrifying than the threat of rape.
“Nay. Stop.” She twisted away, panicked by the strange emotions he’d roused in her. He’d nearly seduced her with the promise of pure physical pleasure, just as the village gossips whispered he could do. But she would not allow it. She could not!
She faced him, hugging her arms about herself, afraid of him but for entirely different reasons than before. “We are enemies, you and I. Nothing has changed.”
He smiled and she could see the heat of desire in his eyes. She could feel it as his gaze ran over her. “Everything has changed, Rhonwen. We were meant to be lovers. We
will
be lovers. If not today, then sometime soon enough.”
will
be lovers. If not today, then sometime soon enough.”
“No, you are wrong in that.”
“I’ve never been more right.”
Rhonwen refused to bandy words with him any longer. It was far too dangerous. Slowly she backed away, keeping her eyes on him. “We are done,” she whispered, though the words were more for her benefit than his. “We are done.”
He grinned, a wicked, knowing grin, and raised his hand in farewell. “Till we meet again, fair Rhonwen.” Then he blew her a kiss.
Rhonwen didn’t wait. Ludicrous as it was, she could not let that kiss land—that gesture of a kiss, of affection. So she turned and she ran, and she did not stop until she reached the safety of the rebel camp where Rhys and the others would drive thoughts of Jasper FitzHugh clean out of her head.
As for Jasper, he shook his head as she fled, amazed at what had transpired. So that was Rhonwen. She’d been but a girl he hardly recalled, save that she had inadvertently protected him from Owain’s vengeance. On occasion he had wondered about her, especially at Josselyn’s sorrow for having lost the child’s friendship. But the years had passed and the little
Welsh girl had lingered in his mind only as a story to be told when the hour grew late and the wine flowed long.
Welsh girl had lingered in his mind only as a story to be told when the hour grew late and the wine flowed long.
But today all that had changed. When he’d first spied her alongside the river, he’d thought her an erotic vision—a drunken erotic vision. Then in short order she’d gone from temptress to murderess to horse thief, then back to temptress once more. She’d used no artifice to attract him, only the natural beauty of a fair complexion, a voluptuous mouth, and luxuriant masses of exquisite hair. And her sweetly shaped body—he could not forget that. Her simple garments could not hide the perfection of those curves.
He wanted her, more now when he was sober than before when he’d merely been drunk and horny. “Damnation,” he swore, astounded by what had transpired between them.
He whistled for Helios, who grazed alongside the narrow trail. He could not ride the destrier, however. Not just yet. He grinned to himself as he caught Helios’s reins and headed on foot back toward the river and Rosecliffe Castle. The feisty little wench had left him with an arousal that might take miles to walk off.
But the next time they met—and there would be a next time, he vowed—she would not leave him in this same wretched state. The next time he saw her, he would finish what they had begun this day.
He would have the unruly vixen in his bed and teach her that it was far more pleasurable to make love to your enemy than to wage war.
Rhonwen speared a haunch of roasted venison with her dagger and grabbed a horn cup of ale, then retreated to a crude bench propped up beside a twisted old oak. Rhys was not in the transient rebel camp, but that was just as well. She needed time to think how best to tell him of her little adventure with Jasper FitzHugh. One thing she knew, however. She would not reveal to Rhys—or to anyone else—that she’d kissed the Englishman.
She bit into the overcooked venison and stared around the temporary campsite. The accommodations were rude: five lean-to huts, a central fire pit with a poor excuse for a spit. No pots or bowls. Even her mother’s household was better equipped, and it was mean indeed.
Just once she would like for her mother, Gladys, to live in a comfortable house with a chimney so the smoke would draw properly, a raised hearth so she need not stoop to prepare the meals, and private sleeping quarters. It wasn’t fair that the English lived in such a spacious abode as that castle they’d been building for the past ten years, while the Welsh eked out their harsh existence in tiny cottages.
Not that all the Welsh lived that way. But many did. Certainly her family had, especially since her father, Tomas, had died. Unfortunately, her new stepfather, Cadoc, was a good-for-nothing
layabout and their living accommodations had not much improved. It was for that reason Rhonwen stayed away so often.
layabout and their living accommodations had not much improved. It was for that reason Rhonwen stayed away so often.
She sighed and slowly chewed the stringy meat. She was more than weary of this nomadic existence, sometimes in her mother’s household, sometimes at the rebel camp. What would it be like to have a home of her own to tend?
The answer was simple. Whether spacious or cozy, a cottage of her own would be truly divine. But she would never possess such a home unless she wed.
For the first time ever she allowed herself to imagine what it would be like to take a husband, to let him hunt and fish while she cooked and gardened—and raised their children.
Unaccountably she recalled the kiss Jasper FitzHugh had given her, and she felt her cheeks grow warm. A husband would want to kiss her and make use of her body. That was how a woman got with child. Only Rhonwen had never particularly wanted to do that with a man.
You wanted it today.
Her face grew warmer still. She swallowed the tasteless meat, then washed it down with ale. She hadn’t
wanted
to do anything with him. She’d simply been curious. And even if he had made her desire him a little, at least she knew now that she could desire a man. Perhaps it was time for her to get herself a husband.
wanted
to do anything with him. She’d simply been curious. And even if he had made her desire him a little, at least she knew now that she could desire a man. Perhaps it was time for her to get herself a husband.
Perhaps she should consider the possibilities around her.
Across the clearing, Oto hawked, spat, then scratched his crotch and belched. Rhonwen grimaced.
Fenton limped up with firewood. He was gray-haired and toothless, too old to father any children.
Garic tore a piece of red meat from the roasted deer, cursed when he burned his hand, then grabbed the hot meat again. Rhonwen blew out an exasperated breath. He was too simpleminded.
Rhys and his rebel band harried the English, foraged the wildwood, and lived as best they could. But the fact was, all of the men were misfits. It was no wonder she spent so much time among them; she was as much a misfit as they.
She set down the meat, dismayed. Was this to be her life, then, hoping to kill enough Englishmen to drive them from her homeland, meanwhile never finding a husband and the love and joy which should go along with marriage?
The hoot of a long-eared owl sounded from the woods. “Aye, and it’s Rhys!” Garic cried, though his mouth was stuffed with meat.
“What ho, friends,” Rhys called as he and Daffydd strode into the clearing. Like a magnet the handsome young man drew all the others to him, and Rhonwen was no exception. There was an intensity about Rhys, an energy. A fervor. He hated the English with a violence that made everyone else’s hatred pale. Through a harsh childhood and an even harsher adolescence he’d thrived so that now, though three years her junior, he seemed years older. He was taller than her now and stronger too. More importantly, though, he thought like a man and fought like a man. In truth, though he was now but six-and-ten, he’d been an old man since he was a lad of six or seven.
Still, she’d always considered him a child and lorded her advanced years over him. She was nineteen and he but sixteen. Yet now she stared at him differently. Twice in the past she had rebuffed his clumsy advances toward her. The first time he’d been three-and-ten, gangly and curious about women. The second time he’d been five-and-ten, still gangly but old enough to be horny too. Now, though, he was more sure of himself. And not entirely unattractive.
Her brow wrinkled as she studied him. His tunic was too small for his wide shoulders. His strong thighs filled out his braies, and his calves strained the limits of his threadbare hose. But his well-worn and patched garments did not lessen his rough appeal. Could he make her body tingle in the same way Jasper FitzHugh had?
Rhys must have felt the weight of her scrutiny, for after a moment his black eyes fell upon her. Though she should not, she couldn’t help comparing him to Jasper FitzHugh. He looked nothing like the Englishman. Not as tall, nor as powerfully muscled. Nor as virile. Then again, Rhys was not fully
grown. But there was more. Their eyes. Their hair. Even their attitude. Jasper was all confident charm and easy smiles. But with Rhys, nothing was easy.
grown. But there was more. Their eyes. Their hair. Even their attitude. Jasper was all confident charm and easy smiles. But with Rhys, nothing was easy.
Since she did not want a man like Jasper FitzHugh, however, perhaps it behooved her to look at Rhys in a different light.
He grinned when she did not look away, and once he’d given the deer carcass he carried to Fenton for butchering, he sauntered to her side.
“So. What brings you out into the wildwood today, Rhonwen? Your stepfather does not still harass you, does he?” he added, raising a knotted fist. “For if he does, I will swiftly cure him of the habit.”
Rhonwen stared steadily into his eyes and, though it was uncomfortable, refused to look away. “You would do that for me?”
She saw the exact moment when his awareness of her changed.
“I would kill him if you asked it,” he earnestly vowed.
She looked away. “That is hardly necessary.”
“I will decide that. Has he bothered you again?” He caught her arm. “Has he?”
“No. That is not why I came here today.” She pulled her arm from his hold, then frowned at the dirty imprint he’d left on the faded plunkett cloth. “Look what you’ve done now!” she exclaimed. “Go wash yourself, Rhys. You’re still bloody from the hunt.”
He backed away, a confused expression coming over his face. And why shouldn’t he be confused? She usually treated him like a younger brother, and he accepted the role. Now, though, with her deliberately long eye contact she’d changed the rules. Should she try to change them back?
She wanted to, but she forced herself to wait. She took a slow breath, then looked up at him again. “Would you like a cup of ale?” she asked in her sweetest tone.
“Yes. Ah, no. That is, yes. But … but let me go wash and … ah, perhaps we can sit and sup together.”
She smiled at his returning eagerness. He was not gone five
minutes, but during that time he scrubbed his face and hands, slicked his hair back with water, and changed his tunic. He even cleaned his nails, and Rhonwen was touched by his efforts. She was also amazed that one lingering gaze on her part could effect such a transformation. Were all men so easily controlled? Was it a weakness peculiar to them—or a power peculiar to her? Or perhaps a little of both?
minutes, but during that time he scrubbed his face and hands, slicked his hair back with water, and changed his tunic. He even cleaned his nails, and Rhonwen was touched by his efforts. She was also amazed that one lingering gaze on her part could effect such a transformation. Were all men so easily controlled? Was it a weakness peculiar to them—or a power peculiar to her? Or perhaps a little of both?
She needed to find out, and Rhys was the only man she could experiment with. She fetched him a cup of ale and presented it to him with a half-smile and that same steady gaze. “Here you are. You must be so weary after such a long hunt. Garic said you left before dawn.”
“Me, weary? Nay. I’m not in the least affected. I could have hunted all night. It was Daffydd who wanted to return. But I’m glad now that we did,” he added. “Otherwise I might have missed you. How long will you stay with us this time?” He stared at her, handsome and hopeful in the waning light of the forest clearing.
She shrugged. “I’m not certain. I had not meant to come today, but … well, something happened.”
“What? Is it Cadoc?”
“No. He’s harmless,” she said with a dismissive gesture of her hand.
“Then what?”
She looked away, then gritting her teeth, met his concerned gaze. “I came upon Jasper FitzHugh today.”
From fumbling suitor to dangerous hunter, Rhys’s transformation was instantaneous. “You came upon him? How did you happen to come upon
him
?”
him
?”
“In the woods. By the river below the log crossing. I shot him with my bow, then tried to steal his horse.”
She explained everything—everything but how she’d finally escaped from him. But Rhys had cast aside his starry-eyed reactions to her. His expression was grim as he stared at her. “Why did he let you go?”
“I escaped. He was still drunk and I escaped.”
Rhys shook his head. “No. There’s more. Did he make any untoward advances?”
A blush crept over Rhonwen’s face. She could feel the heat and knew he must see the color. “No. He did not,” she lied.
He caught her chin in his hand. “Do not lie to me, Rhonwen. Don’t ever lie to me. I know what the women say of him. He has a talent for charming wenches.”
“How would you know what the women say of him?”
He hesitated, then cleared his throat. “I have my ways.”
“Your ways?” She planted her fists on her hips and studied him through narrowed eyes. “You question the women who have shared his bed?”
He looked away, reddening with guilt, and the truth suddenly hit her. “You have lain with the same women he has. Do I have the right of it, Rhys? You have, haven’t you?”
His expression turned belligerent and she was reminded of the stubborn little boy he’d once been—and still was. “That’s none of your affair, Rhonwen. But even if it’s true, what of it? He spies on us. I spy on him.”
“And what of the women? While you two do whatever it is you do with these women, I wonder what it is the women are doing. Perhaps comparing the two of you?”
He bristled. “They have their fun, which is more than they deserve. Any woman who cavorts with the English is a harlot. And a traitor.”
“I see. Well, I believe I shall ask some of those traitors how you compare to FitzHugh.” She turned to leave, but he caught her by the arm.
“What does that mean? What did that damnable Englishman do to you?” He caught her other arm and gave her a harsh shake. “What did he do? What did
you
do?”
you
do?”
The rest of the men in the camp had begun to stare at them, but none came to Rhonwen’s aid. They all feared Rhys’s temper and she knew she should fear him too. But she was too angry to be afraid. She glared up at him.
“He tried to seduce me, and he nearly succeeded. But when I asked him to release me, he let me go.”
Rhys shook his head in disbelief. “Why would he do that?”
“Because I did not let your father cut off his hand all those years ago. He remembered and he thanked me for it.”
“You bitch. You should never have done that. My father would be alive if you hadn’t done that.”
“Now, now, lad. That’s old history,” Fenton put in, though from a safe distance away. “You was both children an’ then there was Josselyn’s safety to consider.”
“That bitch?” he swore.
“We are all bitches to you, aren’t we?” Rhonwen tried to pull away from him but his grip was merciless. She glared at him. “Let go of me, Rhys. You’re hurting my arm.”
He was so enraged she thought he might strangle her. His frigid black eyes bored into hers but she didn’t look away. “Let me go,” she repeated, and with a string of foul oaths he did.
“Begone from here and never come back! Crawl into his bed and become sister to those other …”
“Bitches?” she furiously prompted.
“Harlots,” he finished. “Whores. They are whores to the English, as you too will be.”
His words were awful to hear, but Rhonwen had never been one to suffer in silence. “You have no reason to speak so cruelly to me, Rhys. I have done nothing wrong—except to miss my shot. I thought you would be pleased that I struck a blow against the English. But no, you are so consumed by your hatred that you strike out at everyone, friend and foe alike. But I am
not
your enemy!”
not
your enemy!”
She stormed away, not waiting for his response. Nor did she want him to see the tears that stung her eyes. She was not prone to weeping. She’d learned very young that it did no good and, worse, revealed weaknesses which should remain hidden. But she could not hide her emotions today. They were too muddled, too perilously near the surface.
So she hurried through the wildwood, wiping the tears from her cheeks and muttering angrily to herself.
“Unfeeling brute. He’s nothing but a stupid outlaw anyway. He’s always been a single-minded, thick-skulled fool. I never should have expected anything better of him.”
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