A distinct probability, as Rhys had been in England over a month and was just now able to make his way toward Wales. Immediately upon docking at Dunwich, he had been handed a summons from King Richard’s brother John, a command he dared not ignore. After a frustrating fortnight waiting in John’s Windsor antechamber and hurling silent oaths at a closed door, Rhys was finally granted an audience.
Ignoring the new lord of Glynllew’s request to be allowed to make haste for Wales, John had soothed Rhys’s concerns with a reminder that Glynllew’s steward held the keep for him and was no doubt equal to the task—then sent him on a mission to Oxford. A messenger had caught up with Rhys on the way back from completing the task of attendance on the abbot. The familiar signet of Glynllew sealed the letter from his father’s steward. Written in Owain’s shaky scrawl, the letter directed Rhys to go to the church in Coventry and wait for the messenger he would send to meet him three days after May Day. Though terse, the rest of Owain’s message was clear—Rhys had enemies who threatened Glynllew.
An understatement. The rebellion that had seen his father killed had also claimed two older brothers, leaving Rhys as heir. Never had he thought he would return; now all was changed. He could finally return to Wales after twenty-one bitter years away, but it was as lord of Glynllew.
Glynllew. Lost by treachery. Gained by death. A trick, an illusion, a sleight of hand, and it was his after all these dark years . . . as if magic.
Thoughts of magic summoned an image of the maiden who had warned them of danger and then faded into the night like a shadow. She was not English. But neither was she French, though she spoke the tongue well. Too well, with insolence and mockery. If he saw her again . . .
A breeze sprang up, and he reached for the linen undertunic he wore beneath his leather gambeson. There were red welts on his body where the metal rubbed against bare skin even through leather and linen. He’d been so long in his armor that it had seemed grown to his skin when he peeled it away to wash. Even now, the cuts and abrasions pricked him more than the cold.
Rising to his feet, he hesitated, loathe to don the heavy mail again. This brief respite was sweet and welcome. Peaceful. An eddy of wind lifted a tattered shred of mist and whirled it across the water’s surface. There was a distant, muted sound, like that of church bells echoing across a valley. Rhys lifted his head to listen, and the hair on the back of his neck prickled a warning that he was not alone.
“Who is there?” he asked sharply in French, then English. There was no answer, only the faint whisper of the wind through the tree branches overhead. He looked around, reaching for his sword.
A high, rocky ledge glowered across from the pond, half-hidden by hawthorn bushes and thick-trunked oaks. Ancient, painted men had extolled the deity of oaks at one time, preaching that the trees had souls. There was a time he’d thought it true, for oft could he swear primeval faces peered at him from twisted limbs and rough-barked trunks.
Quickly, he donned his linen tunic, cursing the clumsiness of his cold-numbed fingers. His sword clanked softly against a lightning-blasted stump when he lifted it. Again, he had the inescapable feeling that he was not alone. In a casual gesture meant to be a warning, he hefted the sword and gave a few expansive swings at an imaginary foe. Deadly light glittered along the length of the blade.
“Brave warrior,” came a soft, mocking voice in perfect French, “do you fight the wind?”
Rhys recognized the accent at once. It belonged to the maid who had warned them of the bridge’s ruin. He straightened swiftly, eyes searching for her in the mist-tricked wood.
“Show yourself, good lady, so I may thank you for the warning.”
There was a slight rustle of leaves and bushes at one side, but no sign of her. Only her voice, soft and teasing. “Did you trust my warning, or did you go to see the bridge for yourself?”
“Neither. I sent a man to verify its condition.” He paused. “In the near-dark we likely would have come to grief if not for your warning.”
Silence fell, save for the whisper of leaves and wind. Rhys narrowed his eyes at the leafy gloom and waited. When she spoke again, it was farther from where he’d first thought her, but much closer to him. He turned slightly toward the sound of her voice.
“Come out where I can see you, or do you intend to dismiss the sun again?” He made a show of peering up at the early light streaming through tree branches. “No. It still shines. Show yourself.”
“I go where I wish. And it amused me to dismiss the sunlight. It might not be so amusing on this day.”
“Ah, an easy explanation to deceive only fools. Why are you afraid?”
“If I recall, ‘twas not me bleating prayers and quaking at shadows. Why would you think I am afraid?”
“If you weren’t, you would show yourself instead of hiding behind trees like a child or a wood sprite.”
Laughter sounded softly. He caught a teasing hint of fragrance again: jasmine. It drifted to him on a gentle breeze, seeming to surround him.
“I fear no man,” came the formless reply, and he remembered that she’d said the same words the night before.
“No? Yet you quiver in the brush like a hare. Am I so grim a knight that you fear to come too near?” Deliberately, hoping to coax her from hiding, he stabbed the tip of his sword into the damp ground between his splayed feet and stepped away. The hilt swung gently back and forth.
Silence fell again, then branches rustled and leaves shivered. For a moment, Rhys could not see her, so perfectly did she blend into the green leaves around her. Then she was visible, a graceful glide across fallen leaves and limbs, jasmine and beauty and mystery approaching with a smile.
He’d not forgotten how lovely she was. High cheekbones accented wide black eyes lined by even blacker lashes, and her golden skin had the rich texture of a dark rose. Arrogance teased the curve of her lips, softened by a slight dimple at one corner. This time, he registered trivial details: Her garb was simple. The long cotte and mantle were of finely woven wool, yet without elegant fur trimming the edges. No embroidery adorned the deep green wool, nor gold brooches held the mantle closed.
Though her garments were worn and frayed, her demeanor was that of a queen as she approached with regal solemnity. No highborn lady perhaps, but neither was she a milkmaid.
When she paused beneath the prickly branches of a hawthorn, a ray of sunlight broke through the leaves and pierced the mist to lend a luminescent flush to her face. Rhys moved forward. He held out his palm with all the practiced gallantry of a knight at court, bowing over her hand when she placed it in his. Long, slender fingers trembled slightly in his grasp, soft, fine-boned, and delicate. Yea, a merchant’s daughter wandering the wood with seductive eyes . . . He looked up at her and smiled.
Her mouth curved in response. There was a glow in her night-dark eyes—moonlight behind clouds, soft, shadowed, and promising. A light breeze teased a dark skein of her hair. The scent of jasmine was heady, and he dragged in another deep breath.
Her head tilted to one side, eyes sweeping him with a long, considering gaze. “Dread knight, do you wish to dance?”
Amused, he looked around them, then back at her. “Dance? Here?”
“Aye. ‘Tis May Day, a time of feasting and celebration. We have whitethorn as decoration, the wind in the trees for flutes, and the rush of water for a harp. You can dance, can you not?”
“I learned to dance when still a squire,” he replied, “though ‘twas in great halls, and not a weald.”
“Then you may be a worthy partner.” She held out her other hand. Her gaze was challenging, her smile alluring.
Brian would have declared him moon-mad, and indeed, he wasn’t too sure of his sanity at that moment. But the sun was shining, the wind soft through the trees, and there was a fey quality about the maid that was elusive and powerful and heady. Feeling suddenly r
eckless and much younger than his years, he smiled. Then he took both her hands and swung her around, his feet finding the rhythm of a silent dance. She laughed softly.
Dew wet his feet, glistening on his boots with a silvery sheen. The hem of the lady’s cloak grew damp, dragging through grass to leave a darker trail where the morning sun had not burned away the night’s dewy residue. Delicate bells tinkled lightly in the wind. He lost track of time as they danced, making up steps as they went, playing children’s games, careless of anything but the pleasure of the day and laughter. Drifts of vivid bluebells nodded beneath saplings. He plucked a flower and tucked it behind her ear, although she needed little adornment to enhance her beauty.
Sunlight warmed his face, and whitethorn scented the air. Soft, balmy days had come to England, a time when men’s thoughts turned to other pursuits than war. Jésu, it had been months since he’d taken time to linger with a woman, and never with one as lovely as this. She was intoxicating, teasing, drawing close to him, then stepping lightly away when he tried to hold her, shy and alluring at the same time. Sly vixen. Sweet temptress. Diana the huntress and Venus the goddess of love and beauty in one small form.
Rhys drew her closer, sliding an arm around her waist, pressing his body against hers. She was slender but firm, definitely not a mist-maid as Brian had gloomily warned. Ah, she was flesh and blood, warm in his arms, her mouth soft, a contrast of fire and ice with heated skin and cool glances. She sparked a fire that threatened to engulf him.
Breathless, laughing, with limbs grown weary from their exertions, they stopped at last beneath a tree. Her head tilted back against the trunk, laughter parting her lips. Rhys bent to kiss her. His hand moved behind her head, fingers tangled in her hair to hold her still. The bluebell caressed her cheek. His mouth hovered over hers, waiting. Her breath came swiftly, rising and falling with rapid movements that lifted her breasts. His grip tightened in her hair, fingers sliding through silken strands in a leisurely glide. She didn’t draw away, and his hand slid low to rest on the curve of lissome hip cushioned by her bulky cloak.
Impatient with this barrier between them, he pulled it aside, slid his hand beneath the folds of wool. His palm caressed the slender span of rib cage and waist, then moved to the small of her back. With his mouth still barely grazing her parted lips, he pulled her forward, an abrupt motion that brought her hard into the angle of his thigh and hip. Without his mail and her voluminous cloak, the heat of her thighs pressed temptingly against him; his physical response was instant.
But then she turned, a graceful twist that evolved into a retreat, and he let her go. His hand was still beneath the cloak, holding a wad of green and purple wool in his fist. He smiled slightly. She hesitated, looking up at him, and he saw the indecision in her eyes as he held fast to her cloak, slowly drawing her back into his embrace.
“Sweet flower,” he whispered and buried his face in the curve of her neck to drink deeply of her perfumed hair; she shivered. The blood pounded in his ears, the beat rapid and loud, drowning out any lingering qualms he might have.
Rhys stepped back to draw her with him down into the grass beneath the tree. With a few deft motions, he loosened her cloak and spread it for them, then eased her down to the wool and grass cushion. She sat gracefully, her hand still clinging to his arm, a tentative smile on her lips.
Stretching out beside her, he kissed her softly. She didn’t protest or move away, and he drew one hand down her side, his fingertips sliding over her cotte and curves to come to rest on the swell of her hip. Still kissing her, he urged her down with firm pressure, until she lay beside him. He lifted his head, regarding her for a long moment. She looked up at him with a gleaming promise in her eyes, the bluebell resting wantonly on her brow. He wound a long strand of her hair around his finger, then released it, brushing the tips of dark hair against the dewy slope of her cheek.
Neither of them spoke. It would ruin the spell, break the bonds of enchantment that held them, set the stars out of alignment and shatter the heavens—he kissed her again, mouth tracing the outline of her lips, his tongue coaxing them apart to allow entry.
Her lips parted for him. At the touch of his tongue to hers, she made a small sound in the back of her throat, one of those soft animal noises that was so inherently female, and so seductive. His desire grew hot and sharp, nudging him hard, and he reached down to loosen the laces to his braies. He managed it with one hand, easing the heavy burden, shuddering at the sensual slide of her so close to him. Still kissing her, he spread his palm over the sweet curve of her breast. She drew in a sharp breath but didn’t try to move his hand. Encouraged, Rhys dragged his thumb over the small bud he felt through the wool. It grew harder beneath his touch, a beckoning lure that took his fingers to the neckline of her tunic.
She caught his hand, and he looked up at her flushed face. Her lips were slightly parted, and her breath was erratic and swift. A pulse beat wildly in the hollow of her throat.
“Nay,” she whispered, shattering the spell, tilting the world, scattering his thoughts so he could only stare at her, “‘tis not right that we should—”
His throat was thick, and he cleared it to mutter hoarsely, “I think it well meet, sweet maid. You are the fairest flower I’ve yet seen.”
A smile trembled on her lips, but her grip didn’t relax on his hand. “And you, dread knight,” she said softly, “are the most valiant and courteous of men.” As his head lowered toward her, she added, “A man who would never forswear an oath of chivalry.”
Unfair, to remind him of his knight’s oath at a time like this. Discouragement cooled only a small bit of his ardor. It was a game, after all, such as those played by the sly ladies at court. They teased and tempted, feigned reluctance until he had met whatever whim they sought to appease before their inevitable yielding. But he was no novice at love play. Years of experience had taught him to play the game too, and he knew that persistence often gained a man great rewards.
Smiling, he murmured, “I will do nothing that you do not wish me to do, sweet maid.”
“You are a gallant knight,” she whispered, but Rhys barely heard her over the staccato beat of his heart and the effort it took to breathe steadily. It had been too long. Much too long. She was much fairer than any maid he’d seen since his return, and she was here and willing, even if wavering a bit. Lately, he didn’t have patience with such play, preferring experienced partners and swift release.
Yet she was truly soft and sweet and would be well worth the extra effort. He curbed his desire with a brief struggle and drew a hand idly along the curve of her cheek. His fingers drifted lightly over her mouth. The blood raged in his veins, and he clung tightly to his impatience, determined to overcome her resistance by slow and relentless persuasion. Caressing her, he pressed light kisses along her smooth brow. Then his mouth strayed to the curve of her ear, and he breathed softly until he felt her shudder. When her breath came in unsteady gulps of air, he bent to take her lips again, sensing victory near.
But he had done no more than press his lips to the dimple at the corner of her mouth when Rhys heard a voice calling his name, far away and insistent. He tried to ignore it, but the persistent sound grew too near. Halting, he looked up with impatience at the interruption. It took a moment for his surroundings to come fully into focus, then he saw with some surprise that he was far from the wooded pool where he’d first met her. An alder sheltered them beneath its branches, and a small burn trickled merrily by, water splashing over the rocks. A grassy meadow sloped downward from the trees.
She shifted, then laid her fingers against his cheek; her eyes glowed softly when he glanced back down at her. “I must go,” she murmured. “It grows late.”
He caught her hand, holding it. “Nay, wait. ‘Tis only Brian. I’ll send him away.”
She slowly withdrew her hand and rose to her feet, and he followed reluctantly. “I cannot linger.�
�� She cast a glance over her shoulder as Brian’s voice grew louder and nearer. Gathering her cloak and putting it around her, she took a step away from him, repeating, “I must go.”
He took her hand again, held it tightly. “Wait. Tell me your name and where you reside, fair maid. I will meet you once I send Brian away.”
Her smile deepened as she removed her hand from his clasp and took a backward step. “Yea, we shall meet again.”
He started to reach for her anew, determined not to let her go so easily, but Brian’s voice was close. “Rhys!” came the strident call, followed by pained yowls that dwindled into rough oaths directed at a clump of brambles.
Curse Brian. He glanced toward the brambles, glimpsed the knight, and turned back to coax the maid. She was gone. She’d been there one moment, standing near the crowded branches of flowering hawthorns, but now was not to be seen. He looked around, dumbfounded and frustrated.
“Rhys,” Sir Brian called again, breathless as he crashed toward him through a raspberry patch. “Where have you been all day?”
“All day?” Rhys swore under his breath and turned to face his knight. “‘Tis but early morn. Why are you here? Did you not mark that I was occupied—Jésu!”
The snarled oath made Brian swallow hard. “Yea, my lord,” he said, looking down at his arm, “I marked it well, yet—”
“Yet you chose to ignore it.” He shook his head irritably. “Now she has fled, and time here is short.”
“She?” Brian looked up from plucking a thorn from his forearm, blinking rapidly. “You met with a woman, my lord?”
The Magic Page 3
