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Authors: The Knight of Rosecliffe

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Then she heard it, the almost undetectable sound of someone trailing her, and she froze. Nightfall was imminent, but
not complete. The forest was still, as if holding its breath for the advent of the night predators. Keen-eyed owls. Wildcats. Wolves. Rhonwen held her breath too. Who was stalking her?
She pulled her dagger and crouched down with her back to a hazel tree. Pray God it was old Fenton, wanting to see her safe to Afon Bryn. She saw a movement and her stomach tensed. Her palm was damp around the dagger and her nails dug into the flesh of her palm. Then the man paused and she knew at once who it was.
“’Tis I, Rhonwen. Rhys. You needn’t fear. I … I’ve come to make peace with you.”
She shuddered with relief. Still, she was not ready to make peace with him. Not yet. He’d mistreated her too badly. “Begone from here, Rhys. I am well able to make my way though these woods without your aid.”
“I know that.”
“So leave.”
But he did not. He came nearer, straight to her as if the dark were no impediment at all to his movements. She’d always marveled at his ability to see in the dark like the other forest hunters. Today, however, she wished he were less talented.
When he reached her, he crouched down to face her. “I had no cause to abuse you.”
“No. You did not.”
“I sometimes go a little mad at the mention of those two. Those two English bastards.”
“I
tried
to kill him for you!”
“And I thank you for your efforts on my behalf. But you must leave him to me, Rhonwen. The day will come when he and I will face one another. I need no one to fight my battles for me, least of all a woman.”
“Least of all a woman,” she mimicked him. “You forget that I have bested you before.”
“We were children then.” He reached out through the darkness and touched her hair. “But we are children no more.”
The change between them was abrupt, from bickering friends to tentative lovers, and it frightened Rhonwen anew.
He had not forgotten the flirtation she’d initiated. Now she would see where it might end. So she waited, as still as a wild hare poised before a snare, wary and yet undeniably curious.
When she did not resist, his hand moved behind her head, tangling in her hair. He drew her forward until she felt his breath warm on her face. Off balance, she braced her hand on his leg. He groaned and swiftly caught her mouth with his.
He was rough and eager, and she knew he did not mean to hurt her. But he hardly gave her time to breathe. Then he pushed her backward onto the damp ground and covered her body with his, and she’d had enough.
She twisted her face away from his. “Rhys! Stop it.”
“I’ve wanted you forever, Rhonwen.” One of his hands grabbed her breast. “Do you like that?”
“Nay, I do not! Now stop it!” She squirmed, kicking and pushing until he finally realized she was serious.
“What’s the matter with you? I thought you wanted this.” She shoved his shoulder, then scooted back from him. She had wanted it, but it hadn’t turned out the way she’d expected.
“No woman wants to roll around in the dirt like a pair of weasels or stoats,” she muttered as she rose to her feet.
He stood as well. “Very well. We can go back to the camp, then. But I thought you would want to be away from the others.”
“What I want …” she exclaimed, exasperated that he could be so obtuse. “What I want is one man—any man—who knows how to treat a woman. And I don’t mean how to poke his … his thing in her and consider it a job well done!”
“And what is that supposed to mean? If you would just relax—”
“Just relax? I will not play the mare to your stud, Rhys. No woman will long be content with that.”
He glared at her. Though she could not see his features clearly, she nonetheless felt the angry weight of that glare. “Is that what you told FitzHugh? Is that how you put him off too? I caution you, Rhonwen, to have a care. No man will long countenance a woman who entices him, then pulls away. Who teases him.”
“I did not tease—” She broke off, for she knew he was right. She had teased him.
She wrapped her arms around her waist. “I’m sorry. I … I thought that we … that you and I—” Again she broke off, shaking her head. “You’re too much like a brother to me.”
She heard his harsh exhalation. Somewhere nearby an owl hooted. The wind moaned through the still-barren trees and she shivered in the night cold. Her cloak had come loose while they wrestled on the ground. He picked it up and tossed it around her shoulders. She stepped back when he tried to fasten it, though, and finished the task herself.
He cleared his throat. “Perhaps it is too soon for such a decision between us. We have been friends many years. It is bound to take a little time, Rhonwen. But we can change the bond that connects us from friendship into something more.”
“I don’t know.”
“There’s no need for a decision now. We will see what the days ahead bring.”
Rhonwen nodded. There was no other response to make. He was being so logical now, like a reasonable man, not an impulsive child. And yet she knew, without any pretense to logic, that he and she would never—could never—
Unaccountably an image of Jasper FitzHugh rose in her mind. He’d been dangerous and rough with her, then charming and honorable. As had Rhys. But one’s kiss had thrilled her, while the other’s had been vaguely distasteful. And though she didn’t think Rhys would make a very good husband for her, she knew the Englishman would be far worse. Not that either of them had anything more than a swift tumble on his mind.
Agitated by her confusing thoughts, she turned and left. She did not respond to his call of farewell. Nor did she complain when he silently trailed her to within hailing distance of Afon Bryn.
Something had happened today, something she’d not expected and never predicted. She was more like the women who gathered at the well than she’d ever thought possible. For her curiosity about men had been roused—and by the English enemy,
of all men. He hadn’t behaved like her enemy, though.
But that meant nothing, she reminded herself. It mattered nothing that the Englishman had not been particularly oppressive, as some of her own people were wont to be. The truth was, the English generally kept to themselves, laboring on their castle and constructing their town. They’d improved the main roads and kept a loose sort of peace in Carreg Du.
But by their very presence they oppressed the Welsh. For ten years now, Randulf FitzHugh, Lord of Rosecliffe and brother to Jasper, had chipped away at Welsh solidarity, seducing the people in the same way he’d seduced her friend Josselyn. He’d gotten himself Welsh lands and a Welsh wife, and children that were half-Welsh.
Now his brother chipped further, beguiling the women of the castle, then of the village. Now he was chipping at her. But Rhonwen knew she would not succumb to his blandishments. She understood what he was about, and that knowledge would strengthen her resolve.
She crept into her mother’s tiny cottage and found her pallet. But in the dark, with her stepfather’s erratic snoring, her mother’s softer breathing, and her siblings curled like puppies in their shared bed, Rhonwen could not sleep.
The facts were plain: She needed a husband. She did not want to live in her mother’s household any longer. Besides, she was old enough to wed, and if today’s reaction to FitzHugh was any indication, she was more than ready for it.
The trick would be to find the right man. Jasper FitzHugh certainly was not him, nor was Rhys. The former appealed to her body, the latter to her head. It was unfortunate that she could not make one good man of the two of them.
When sleep finally came to her in her narrow bed with its thin straw mattress, it came with dreams of men. Tall men, then short. Young men, then old. One after another she tried to avoid them. But no matter how she ran, they each managed to catch her. Even the old, bandy-legged ones. She could never quite escape, and though she fought them and struggled to be free, invariably they pinned her down, then stilled her with kisses.
Through the long hours of darkness they paraded through her dreams, kissing her into complacency.
And in her dreams each of them held her with strong arms, wet with cold river water.
 
 
Jasper settled himself in his favorite chair, positioned near enough the fire for warmth, but far enough removed to distance himself from the bustle of evening domesticity in the great hall. He’d partaken but sparingly of the supper. White bread and hard cheese and a gravy made of the meat left from dinner had not held its customary appeal. His earlier-than-usual bout of drinking, coupled with the icy swim and the long chase through the woods, had left him with a throbbing head and a chill that would not relent.
It had also left him in a state of semi-arousal every time he thought of the elusive Welsh maiden Rhonwen.
Nevertheless, it was thoughts of her he wished to savor now.
He signaled a passing boy to refill his cup, then groaned when he spied Josselyn studying him. The several knights in the hall might have been warned off by his brooding silence tonight, but Josselyn had never feared his ill humor.
She paused near the massive carved stone hearth and filled her own pewter cup with heated wine, then moved gracefully his way. Though Jasper did not relish her probing this evening, he couldn’t help admiring her. She’d made this raw castle a home for his brother and their children. Ten years had only increased her beauty, softening her figure and polishing her
style. But it had also sharpened her intellect—and it had not blunted her manner.
“So,” she began, pulling a cushioned stool beside him and settling herself upon it. “You return late and alone—and wet. You miss dinner, then eat but little of your supper. Is someone feeding you elsewhere, Jasper, and bathing you fully clothed?”
He shrugged and gave her an offhand grin. “I fell in the river, though I would prefer you not announce that fact to everyone.”
“I see. Did you perchance swallow a fish while you were underwater? Or did you dislike Odo’s efforts in the kitchen today?”
“You know that’s not it, and God help me if you imply as much to him, for he will sulk. You know what a peacock he has become.” He met her steady gaze, then looked away and blew out an exasperated breath. “How I spent the day is of no moment. The fact remains that I should have gone with Rand.”
She sighed. “’Tis a serious business. Simon LaMonthe is not a man to trust, and his allegiance to Matilda is not entirely to be trusted either.”
“And that means I cannot accompany Rand, because it is serious business?” he raised his cup and angrily downed its contents.
“It means no drinking—at least not to excess. It means no womanizing either.”
Jasper shifted in his seat and did not meet her gaze. It was one thing for her to chide him for his prodigious drinking. But his activities with women? That was a subject he was loath to discuss with his sister-in-law. “I would not have jeopardized Rand’s mission,” he grumbled.
She was silent a moment. Then, “Who did you meet today? And where?”
He scowled at her. “Leave off such questioning, woman. It is none of your affair.”
“I beg to differ. You were left to safeguard Rosecliffe, yet Rand is no sooner gone than you disappear.”
“It was not to find a woman.” Then, annoyed by that dishonesty, he threw his hands up in disgust. “All right. All right. I was angry at Rand and sought solace with a woman and a wineskin. There is no news in that.”
“You were not with Maud. Nor with Gert.”
He stared at her in horror. “You searched for me there?” Though he’d not blushed in years, he felt hot color creep into his face. “How did you … that is …”
“I have my ways, and I know you were neither in the village nor at Carreg Du.” She folded her arms over her chest. “So, where were you?”
“By the rood,” he swore. “Rand should have sent you to Bailwynn. You’d ferret out the truth about LaMonthe in far less than a fortnight.”
She only smiled, sweet but expectant still. Again he swore, then straightened up and gestured for a boy to refill his cup once more. Across the hall one of his men crowed at a lucky turn of the dice. The torchères hissed in their brackets and one of the hounds idly scratched his ear. In the comfort of the hall there was no reason not to discuss Rhonwen with Josselyn. Perhaps he’d learn something useful.
He looked at his sister-in-law. “I did not just fall into the river.”
She leaned forward, her brows arched with curiosity.
“I was avoiding murder at the hands of one of your old friends.”
“Murder?” She gasped and one of her hands went to her throat. “Oh, Jasper! You see? You should not go off alone. You make too easy a target, for everyone knows who you are. Did you recognize the fellow? I vow, he cannot be a friend of mine if he seeks to harm my brother.”
“No, I did not recognize her—at least not at first.”
“Her?” Josselyn pulled her stool closer to his chair. Gone was her amused, meddling manner. She was intent now, and rightly concerned. “A woman tried to murder you?” Then she drew back. “I hope you are not making some coarse joke at my expense, Jasper. For I warrant, if you are—”
Jasper shook his head. “I wish I was. No, your old friend—
and mine—tried to put an arrow straight through my heart.”
“What sort of friend would do that?”
Jasper grinned at her impatience. “A little girl, grown into a woman. A raven-haired warrior woman who—”
“Rhonwen.” Josselyn stared round-eyed at him. “Rhonwen. Are you certain it was her?”
“She boasted of it,” he ruefully admitted.
“But I do not follow your tale. If she missed you and you fell into the river …”
“She stole Helios but I caught up with her.”
“You did not harm her, did you?”
“Surely your sympathies cannot lie with that devious wench. She stole my horse and tried to kill me. Or have you already forgotten that?”
“What happened, Jasper? Tell me everything.”
He launched into his tale, though he had no intention of telling her
everything
. “When I realized who she was, I released her—unharmed—in thanks for the service she once did me.” He flexed his right hand, short one finger. He did not miss his little finger, not when he recalled how near he’d come to losing his entire hand.
“How did she look?” Josselyn begged to know. There was a wistfulness in her tone and Jasper understood why. Her marriage to Rand had alienated her from many of her people. Not all of them, but many, like Rhonwen, avoided the English with a vengeance. He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “She is a comely wench. And spirited.”
“Is she beautiful?” Then she frowned. “Did you try to bed her?”
“By the rood! That is not a matter a man discusses with his brother’s wife!”
Her blue eyes glittered smugly. “Aha. So you
did
try. Did you succeed?”
Jasper swore and surged to his feet. “Enough of this.”
This time she laughed. “So you did
not
succeed.” She grinned up at him, clasping her hands over her knees, and for a moment she appeared as young and merry as nine-year-old Isolde. “Tell me about her. How does she look? How did she
react to your honorable gesture?” Then her expression sobered. “Did she ask about me?”
Jasper knew Josselyn well enough to know she wanted only the truth. “No, she did not ask about you.”
“I see.” She looked away, silent a moment. “What of Rhys ap Owain? Did she mention him? I understand they have mended their differences.”
“Rhys ap Owain?” Jealousy sprang fully formed into Jasper’s heart. “Is she
his
woman?”
“I’m not certain. There is talk in the village, but gossip is not always reliable. Did she fail also to mention him?”
Jasper’s fingers tightened around his cup. “Ours was not a lengthy conversation,” he muttered in response. Inside, though, his gut knotted. He’d had Rhys ap Owain’s woman in his arms and in a moment of foolishness he’d let her go. Honor and lust had blended to make him behave like an idiot. He’d held the means to lure Rhys ap Owain in, to capture the troublesome young Welsh outlaw and thereby prove himself to Rand. But what had he done? He’d tried to seduce the woman, then allowed her to get away.
When Rand heard of this he would be more convinced than ever that his younger brother was unsuited for any real responsibility. And Jasper could not blame him for it.
“Bloody hell!” he swore and pushed to his feet. “If you will excuse me?” Then he stormed away.
Josselyn was not perturbed by the sudden turn of his temper, however. For a long while she sat as she was, her arms wrapped around her knees while she stared unseeingly toward the remains of the evening fire. One of the maids banked the blaze for the night, piling the embers, then burying them just so with ashes. The hall had begun to thin of people. Yet Josselyn remained where she was.
There had been an attraction between Jasper and Rhonwen. She was convinced of it. No matter that Rhonwen had tried to kill him, Jasper had been smitten with the girl. Except that she was no longer a girl. She was a woman, and a comely one, at that. Yes, Jasper had been intrigued by Rhonwen, but had Rhonwen been equally intrigued by Jasper?
Josselyn gave a wry chuckle. Unless Rhonwen was blind, she would have to be intrigued by Jasper. The man possessed a lethal charm. Tall and straight, with the natural arrogance of a confident man, he was blessed also with a pair of clear gray eyes that could coax a smile from a stone wall. She’d seen the effect of those eyes often enough: Every woman in the castle, from toddler to crone, jumped to do his bidding.
Still, he was English, and Rhonwen despised the English. She’d tried to convince Josselyn not to wed Rand, and when that had failed, she’d withdrawn completely from Josselyn’s life.
But Josselyn knew Rhonwen, and she knew the girl possessed a well-developed sense of integrity. She was brave and often impulsive, but she was honorable. Jasper’s gesture might have surprised her, but it also would have impressed her.
Josselyn smiled and pushed to her feet. Well, and well again. This had been a most interesting evening. She would have to think how best to encourage Jasper’s interest in Rhonwen. And perhaps she’d yet see him settled down with a good Welsh wife.
 
Isolde waited outside the great hall. Jasper would have to come this way eventually.
She was supposed to be asleep in the cozy nursery she shared with Gwendolyn. But once the younger girl had fallen asleep, Isolde had slipped away. She was too old to be confined still to a nursery. Too old to be sent to bed directly after supper. Why, in five years she’d be old enough to wed away from Rosecliffe. She’d overheard her father telling her mother that while he was at Bailwynn Castle he hoped to arrange a betrothal for Isolde.
If she was old enough to be betrothed, it seemed only right that she was old enough to linger in the hall after supper.
Her mother, however, did not agree. So here Isolde sat, huddled in the shadows, waiting for Jasper and hoping for the chance to share a few moments with him.
One of the heavy oak doors swung open. Pale light streaked
across the three stone steps, then shrank away when the door shut.
It was one of the other knights, not Jasper. The man ambled across the yard toward the stables and the barracks above it. Isolde sighed. She was sorry her father was gone, but thrilled that her uncle had remained.
If only he were not her uncle.
Marrying a member of your own family was forbidden, she knew. But cousins often wed one another. First cousins, even. So why could a girl not marry her uncle?
The door again swung wide and her heart began to pound. It was him! No one else in the castle was as tall and handsome as Jasper. She jumped up, eager and hopeful.
When Jasper spied her, he paused, but she could see he was distracted. He always had a smile and a joke for her. But tonight his smile was little more than a grimace.
“You’d best be forewarned, your mother is still about. Should she find you out here …”
“Mama is not nearly so strict as Father. She’ll fuss, but little more.”
His grin increased a fraction. “So, you have everyone figured out, do you?”
With damp, nervous fingers she smoothed the front of the new kirtle of holland cloth which she had just completed. “I had hoped to speak with you, Jasper. To tell you how glad I am that Father left you here to protect me—I mean to protect the castle. To protect us all.”
He reached out and patted the top of her head. “You needn’t worry, poppet. No harm shall befall anyone at Rosecliffe while your father is absent. Now go on. Be off with you.”
He steered her back to the hall, much to her dismay, then pushed her inside and closed the door behind her. Though she wanted to follow him, she realized that it would be pointless. He had something else on his mind.
But at least he’d called her poppet. She smiled and hugged that knowledge to herself. He called Gavin, Gavin, and Gwendolyn, Gwen. But he called her poppet. She was special to
him, and though she was only nine years old, in a few more years she’d be old enough.
BOOK: Rexanne Becnel
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