Stuart, Elizabeth (17 page)

Richard
went painfully still at her touch. He frowned but made no move to thrust her
away.

"I'm
judged skillful with needle and thread," she continued. Dropping her hand,
she shrugged one shoulder. "But then perhaps you've some other woman to
see to your needs."

Suspicious
green eyes stared into hers as if he sought to uncover the dark secrets brewing
in her soul. "A few days ago you sought to end my life," Richard said
slowly. "Why this concern now?"

Elen
was ready. "Because you have used me well. Then I feared for my life, but
you are not as others have made me believe. You have not been unkind."

With
a fleeting glance to see how this speech was received, she dropped her gaze,
hoping desperately Richard wouldn't suspect the deception. She was new to this
game, but if she failed to play it well, Owain and the rest of her people would
pay the price. "Do not seek information from me, for I will not betray my
race," she continued in a soft, earnest voice. "But I must look to my
own well-being now."

Richard
caught her chin, lifting her face toward him. "I do not ask you to betray
them," he said, his voice softened with an understanding that made her
feel vaguely uncomfortable. His fingers lingered along her cheek with a
gentleness she hadn't expected. "Simon will bring you the clothing—and
needle and thread if he can find it in this place."

Elen
swallowed uneasily. Richard gazed at her as a man who desired a beautiful
woman. She forced herself to return his look. She would fight Richard of Kent
with the only weapon at her disposal—the weapon women had used against men from
the beginning of time.

The
long, gloomy afternoon slowly waned, but nightfall brought no sound of firm,
familiar footsteps outside Elen's chamber. Inside, she paced the narrow
confines of her prison room, nervously awaiting the next battle in her war with
Richard of Kent. He would return, tonight, if she was any judge of the matter.
And she must be ready to play the whore, ready and skillful enough to distract
him until she could put his own blade through his heart.

An
apprehensive shudder ran through her. She pictured Richard as he had looked
smiling down at her in those last few moments before he left this afternoon.
Somehow, knowing a man made it infinitely more difficult to consider taking his
life. Not that it mattered with Richard, she reminded herself. The Englishman
was her enemy, a man sworn to destroy everything she held dear. And the fact
that he was a capable soldier, easily able to follow through with his murderous
plan, made it all the more necessary that he be permanently removed from the
game.

Climbing
atop the stool below her window, Elen leaned her cheek against the rough,
timbered wall and stared out into the darkness. The night was damp with a heavy
blanket of fog shrouding the heavens. A light breeze blew fitfully against her
face, occasionally stirring the clouds so that a shaft of moonlight gleamed
along the log palisades, streaking the puddles in the meadow beyond the wall
with sparkling silver.

Elen
breathed deeply of the cold wet air, indulging the melancholy thoughts that had
plagued her all afternoon. This might well be the last night of her life. Her
small part in the battle for Wales would soon be over, for it would be check
and checkmate when she took Richard's life. If she were successful, his men
would kill her in reprisal. The action was only to be expected and she faced
the fact bravely. She had no desire to die, but Owain was now far more valuable
to the Welsh cause than she. And if it were her life for his, she would gladly
pay the price.

But
Holy Mother of God, she didn't want to die yet....

It
was one thing to risk her life on a brave impulse during the heat of battle.
But she had learned it was something else entirely to sit pondering certain
death through the endless hours of a lonely afternoon. She swallowed heavily
and closed her eyes, willing herself not to think of her mother's narrow grave
high in the Welsh hills where she had painstakingly erected a cairn of gray
stone. It was enough one person she held dear had died because of her
willfulness. Owain would not be another.

Suddenly
Richard's golden image swam before her mind's eye. She recalled the straight,
proud way he held himself, the effortless way he swung his heavy sword, his
tirelessness on that long trek yesterday when she was weary unto death herself.
For all that he was her enemy, a man like Richard of Kent deserved to die
honorably on the field of battle, not in bed at the hand of some treacherous
jade.

She
jerked away from the window and jumped down, angrily resuming her narrow
pacing. She despised herself for the part she was about to play but there was
no other way.

***

Richard
touched his spurs lightly to Saladin's sweating sides. He was annoyed by his
eagerness to return to Beaufort but strangely unwilling to curb his headlong
pace. Elen's abrupt overture of friendliness yesterday had surprised him, and he
had found himself thinking of little else on this trip to the Welsh village. In
fact, he had been so intrigued, he would have delayed the journey by at least
one night if he hadn't already given his men the order to march.

But
the brief expedition had served several purposes, and now it was almost done he
was glad he hadn't postponed it. He had retrieved his armor and had delivered
two barrels of beans and corn, an excellent milk cow, and a pair of sheep to
the astonished people of the tiny village. But he had also ridden in force with
an extra contingent of men from Beaufort, the ferocious red boars of his coat
of arms waving proudly on the banner Simon displayed. For once in his life,
Richard meant to make as much show as possible. He wanted those who acted as
eyes and ears for the Welsh Fox to be fully informed of his whereabouts.

Glancing
back along the line of his men, he frowned at the woman riding in the empty
supply cart. The beautiful Margaret of Chester had begged to return to Beaufort
with him, insisting that her life would be worth little if word of her
treachery leaked out. And she was right. The Welsh memory was long. These
people seldom forgot or forgave an injury.

With
that his mind spun full circle and he was back to thoughts of Elen. After
fighting him so fiercely, why had she suddenly softened? He had expected her to
continue to resist him as staunchly as ever.

But
then he found he couldn't think clearly where the girl was concerned—just the
memory of her hand lightly touching his shoulder, of her blue eyes gazing up at
him with a mixture of uncertainty and invitation sent his blood coursing
through his body in a way he couldn't control.

But
had her look truly held invitation or had he seen only what he desired? Had the
lovely child-woman merely been trying to thank him for his kind treatment—or
was she offering something more?

That
question had kept him twisting and turning uncomfortably in his blankets last
night long after everyone else in camp was asleep. It was simply a woman he
needed— any woman—he told himself irritably. The girl held no special
fascination for him.

Yet
if that were the case, he could have taken Margaret. The woman was young and
attractive and had offered herself to him openly and honestly in exchange for
his protection. But to his own surprise he had found himself making excuses to
send her away.

He
scowled at the bobbing bay head before him. Was that what Elen was seeking—a
protector? What manner of land was this that a woman must sell herself to one
man in exchange for protection for her life and virtue from others? He gripped
his reins with a mailed fist, realizing the answer to that question at once.
Wales was a land at war, and if they wished to survive, the weak sought
protection from the strong.

Saladin
stumbled on the rough trail and Richard steadied his mount, muttering a low
curse at his own inattention. If he didn't keep his mind on what he was doing,
he wouldn't live long enough to ask any more questions, much less find the
answers.

But
Elen's last words returned to plague him. "I must look to my own
well-being now," she had said. Perhaps she thought she must please him to
insure continued good treatment. No doubt she had been raised on blood-chilling
tales of English brutality. But he had offered her no harm. Surely she no
longer feared him.

Of
course, the girl's words could be taken another way. A cynical smile curled his
lips as he remembered his past mistresses. Every woman he had ever known had
sought gain from her relationships. Naturally, Elen would hope to better her
position by seeking his favor now that the Welsh cause seemed hopeless.

He
shrugged off the surprisingly sharp disappointment the thought brought him.
Somehow the girl didn't seem the type to sell herself for a bauble or a length
of velvet cloth. But if that's what she wanted, he would surely pay the price.

A
short time later, the wooden stockade of Beaufort came into sight. Richard
touched his heels to his stallion's sides, cantering easily across the meadow
and into the open castle bailey. Swinging down from his sweating destrier, he
gave his reins to one of the waiting lackeys.

Sir
Thomas came down the narrow stairs of the keep. "By God's grace, Richard,
I didn't expect you back before nightfall! Come inside and refresh yourself. My
people have yet to remove the midday meal."

Richard
glanced up. "I saw nothing in that godforsaken place to cause me to
linger, de Waurin. And with things as they are, I thought it unwise to leave
you poorly manned for longer than necessary." He stared down at his hands,
carefully removing his gauntlets. He longed to ask after Elen, but wisely
avoided it. "Any trouble here?" he inquired instead.

Thomas
shook his head. "It's been near quiet as the tomb."

The
two men entered the keep and Richard washed his hands and face from a laver a
servant brought him. With thoughts of the girl plaguing him he hadn't even
realized he was hungry, but now the smells in the hall made his mouth water in
anticipation.

While
servants hurried to bring fresh trenchers and goblets of wine, Richard and his
knights helped themselves to bread and cheese that were quickly passed among
them. Sir Thomas seated himself beside Richard with a broad smile. "A
courier rode in last night with news from my brother-in-law Henry St. Sanson.
There is little noteworthy in the letter, mostly communication from my
sister." He grinned and shrugged his shoulders. "Women's talk,"
he added disparagingly. "But there was a bit that will interest you. Your
brother Philip is in South Wales. Henry saw him at Chepstow Castle. It seems
he's taken service with Hugh de Veasy."

Richard
stiffened. So Philip was in Wales. And naturally the boy would have sought
service with a man like the Baron of Ravensgate. He reached for a goblet of
wine a servant held out, thankful for the interruption that gave him a moment
to collect his thoughts. "Philip will see little action of any import in
the South," he finally said, taking a sip of wine.

Across
the table, Sir William of Hereford snorted derisively. "So the young whelp
finally found a man fool enough to knight him. More's the pity, but he and de
Veasy should get along well!"

Richard
sent his old friend a heavy frown and Sir Thomas glanced from one man to the
other in confusion. "I thought you'd be pleased."

"My
half-brother and I are not on the best of terms, Thomas," Richard
explained. "Our opinions differ on everything." He smiled painfully.
"Everything, that is, except the fact that we wish to see as little as
possible of each other."

"Oh,
I... I didn't know."

Richard
reached for a steaming platter of roast venison. "It matters little,
Thomas. The injuries are old and long forgotten, but Philip and I avoid each
other whenever possible."

Giles
smoothly offered another topic of conversation and the talk of the men veered
off on another course. Richard ate in silence, willing himself not to think of
their last meeting over two years ago when his half-brother had petulantly
sworn to see him dead.

But
the painful memory wouldn't leave him. Philip was naught but the product of his
upbringing, Richard reminded himself; the only son of a spiteful and
manipulative woman who vowed her own child would have his elder brother's birthright.
From the cradle, the boy had learned to despise his older brother and to look
on the Basset holding of Waybridge Keep as his own. But he didn't plan to
oblige the boy by dying, Richard thought wryly. And he knew well enough how to
hold what was his.

Still,
he was irritated at the news that had set old wounds throbbing. Between them,
Philip and Jeanne had made what little time he spent with his father at
Waybridge a misery. Yes, Jeanne had ruined the boy, he told himself, spoiling
him. By all rights he should feel sorry for Philip. But somehow he didn't.

Having
finished his meal, Richard pushed back from the table, suddenly wondering what
mischief his brother might be planning. The fact that the boy was in Wales at
all was amazing. He liked luxury and easy living too well to enjoy the rigors
of camp life. But whatever it was that brought Philip there, it probably boded
ill for him.