His chest vibrated with laughter, and he swept her from her feet and laid her atop the bed. Steel gray eyes gleamed with humor as he leaned over her. “There are no more lies between us, chérie, and I would keep it so. Your first time may not be as pleasant for you as for me.”
She took his face between her palms, whispering, “Then be quick so that we may get to the second time.”
It occurred to her a few minutes later that her idea of quick and his may lie leagues apart in execution. He slowly removed her clothes, untying her laces, drawing her cotte, then her linen undertunic over her head, pausing to caress and stroke parts of her no man had touched before. It left her breathless, with a flame growing inside that threatened to devour her if it was not soon quenched. He had discarded his tunic and boots and wore only his undertunic and braies as he lay next to her, exploring her most sensitive spots with hands and tongue. He licked a path from one breast to the other, lavishing attention on nipples that were tight and aching. When he drew a taut bead into his mouth, she gasped at the tantalizing sensation that shot straight to her belly and lower. A pulse throbbed between her legs, in the most intimate part of her, and he seemed to know it. His hand moved lower, the touch of his thumb against the top of her cleft provoking exquisite reactions until she could barely breathe. Then, catching her by surprise, the tension he summoned swelled, rose, and burst into a shuddering release she had not expected.
It was wonderful. Glorious. An astonishing resolution to the mysteries. It explained the whispers in the night, the furtive fumblings beneath skirts in alcoves, the whimpers and cries she had heard and never understood. Now she knew. But she also knew there was more to come, for she had seen that, too, the couplings in stairwells and stables, and after this newest revelation, it must be even more wonderful.
This time she helped Rhys remove his tunic and untied the cords to his braies, pressing kisses on his chest, his neck, and then his mouth, clinging eagerly to him, letting her hands roam bands of muscle from chest to belly as he shed the last of his garments. Yes, this was what she remembered from that night at the inn, the taut muscles that ridged his torso, marked in places by old scars and new, yet beautiful in the same way his stallion was beautiful. He was magnificent, she thought, sighing as he stretched out next to her on the feather-stuffed mattress.
Turning to face Rhys, she wondered if she should be more modest, but instead gloried in the freedom of lying naked in bed with him. It was probably indecent and against all modesty, but she could finally appease her curiosity.
“It is bigger than I remembered,” she said frankly, touching him, tracing his length with her fingers, marveling as it stiffened and increased in her hand.
“Chérie,” he said after a moment, his tone husky, “you undo me.”
She shot him a mischievous glance. “You don’t like it? Should I stop?”
He groaned and pushed into her hand. She liked that, and stroked him, fascinated by the reaction she could provoke with just her touch. Exploring further, she curled her fingers around him and moved gently up and down, until he grabbed her wrist. His eyes were smoky in the pale light, his voice hoarse.
“No more, chérie. Let us finish what we’ve begun while I’m still able to function.”
Smiling, she lay back against the bolsters, expecting him to lie atop her, but he did as he had done before, caressing and kissing her, from her mouth to her breasts, teasing her by rubbing his member against her cleft, creating exciting frissons. He licked a circle around her nipples, drawing them into his mouth, and when she moved restlessly, arching her hips toward the same release, he slid into her the tiniest bit. It felt good, hard, throbbing, and slowly filling her. He pulled her leg over him, easing inside a bit more, and the fullness became a dull ache. It did not hurt; he kissed her mouth, tongue sliding inside, thumbs and fingers teasing her nipples, and then he shifted, his knees spreading her thighs wide for him. She reveled in it and arched toward him.
The tension drew tighter as he bent his head to suckle her breasts, a quivering sensation leaving her breathless. A little whimper escaped her as she sought to get even closer; then he moved swiftly, catching her by surprise, sliding into her in a shocking thrust. It burned. Gasping, she clutched at him, wondering how the pleasure had turned to pain. Would it get worse?
Rhys kissed her cheek, blew softly in her ear, stroked damp hair from her face, murmured words in Welsh she couldn’t understand, then told her in French she was beautiful, a precious gift he didn’t deserve, and he would never hurt her again.
Disgruntled, she answered, “I may not be so eager next time.”
He laughed softly, his breath tickling the hair over her ear. Resting his weight on his elbows, he stroked the hair from her eyes, moved inside her a little, watching her face. It was so tight inside her, she did not think he could move, but he did, settling even deeper. Her muscles clenched around him, and he groaned. He kissed her again, gave a few more thrusts that weren’t as bad as the first but nothing like the sweet release she’d had earlier, his pace increasing, then he quickly withdrew, breathing deeply between his teeth, and sagged against her. His breath was harsh in her ear this time, his heart beating hard in his chest so that she felt it, finally slowing. He was heavy atop her as he relaxed, and he shifted to the side, pulling her with him, holding her against his chest. Murmuring soft words of endearment, he nuzzled her hair.
Then he reached over her to pull the edge of the coverlet over them, soft material that was heavier than it looked. She snuggled close to him, secure in his embrace, her breath trapped between them as an unfamiliar lassitude flowed through her body. Candlelight flickered in the shadowy bedchamber, while the light in the antechamber beyond was still bright; it filtered through the cracks in the screen, cast rectangular patterns on the stone floor. Welsh suddenly penetrated the gloom, not spoken aloud but in thoughts, and she looked past Rhys.
A shadow appeared, darkening the stones, and she heard Owain say, “My lord?”
Then he stopped, and she heard his thoughts in Welsh, saw what he saw, the garments scattered on the floor, the two figures in the bed, and immediate comprehension.
“I will come back later, my lord,” he said tactfully and withdrew. The antechamber door closed softly behind him.
Rhys tightened his arm around her, his voice sleepy. “Owain is discreet.”
Sasha did not tell him that Owain had not been alone.
MORNING HOURS spent in the bedchamber were an illumination, Sasha mused as she rested her cheek against Rhys; he lay next to her, bare as a newborn babe, his long limbs sprawled atop the coverlet in abandon. Candles had guttered, shadows deep inside the bed with hangings drawn and sunlight shifting toward the west.
Rhys lay upon one of her long braids; she was trapped, a willing captive, content to gaze at him or trace ridged muscles with curious fingers. Never had she thought she would gaze as if besotted upon a man; not for her the troubadours’ tales of courtly love, nor even the female poets who sang songs of love. While she admired the verse and songs of Tibors de Sarenom, the most famous of the fabled French trobairitz, she had always viewed them skeptically. Granted, Tibors loved and was loved by many men; perhaps she ascribed to the courtly love written about by Andreas Capellanus in De Amore, where the best love is of the mind and not physical. But as he was a chaplain, Sasha thought Andreas’ work spoke more against physical love than for it. It was a popular book with noblewomen in France and Italy, though only a few English women she had met seemed to care for it.
Nor did she.
Perhaps love of the spiritual mind was more pure, but in her opinion, the love she shared with Rhys that morning transcended all she had ever experienced. In her travels, she had cared for few men, none enough to share more than a few kisses, so she wondered what it was about this one man that had lured her to give everything. It wasn’t just the prophecy. She knew that. At first
she had thought it was what mattered most, but in the past month of acquaintance with Rhys ap Griffyn, she knew she was drawn to him like a moth to the flame.
But love had not been mentioned.
Was it love? There was definitely desire in her regard for him, and reluctant admiration, but her hope had been for him to be her champion. She had not surrendered that hope, but neither did she have great expectations as to him taking up her cause. In truth, she did not know love for any man was possible. She didn’t feel at all like in the tales of courtly love, nor in Tibors’ songs and verses of love, but there was something there, besides appreciation of his expertise in battle and the delight of love-play. A softer emotion, a yearning to remain close to him.
After all, he had been ready to lay down his life for her, tossing aside his sword when Vachel would have cut her throat. He had to know he risked death, but he’d done it to save her. He must feel a tenderness for her. She closed her eyes, trying to remember the aftermath of that night, but it was all hidden from her. She recalled only the certainty that death was near, and fear it would claim Rhys. Then that dark descent with Vachel into the mist . . .
“Chérie,” Rhys murmured in her ear, and she opened her eyes. He drew a finger over her brow, down her cheek, then caressed her lower lip. “I tarry when I should not, but you are too sweet to leave.”
She smiled. “Am I? Then do not leave me, beau sire.”
He kissed her, lingering a moment, still tasting of cherries and honey. His breath was warm, his arms strong around her, and for a moment she felt as if nothing could ever touch her as long as he was near. His embrace tightened.
“Do you not think ‘beau sire’ is a rather formal address when you are lying naked in my arms?” he asked, amusement threading his words.
“Not as formal as ‘my dread lord’ but not as familiar as ‘sweet flower,’ I acknowledge.”
“When have you ever called me ‘my dread lord’? I rather like the sound of it.”
“No doubt you do. It appeals to your vanity, I warrant.”
“And do you,” he murmured, kissing the tip of her nose, “not like being called”—another kiss, this time on the corner of her mouth—“sweet flower?”
“Yea, I very much like that,” she said, shivering as he found the spot below her ear that elicited intense sensations. “‘Tis my name.”
He laughed softly. “Indeed, sweet flower. And what would you like to call me?”
“In public, beau sire or my lord is best, but in private . . .” She thought a moment, then whispered, “Ameli.”
“Is that Arabic for something nice?”
“It is very nice, ameli.”
“I would ask what it means, but I find my courage faltering. So in private, I shall call you calon bach, and when you tell me what ameli means, I will tell you what calon bach means.”
She wound her arms around his neck, smiling up at him as she said, “I have only to ask any man here, and they will tell me.”
“That,” he said, as he moved over her, fitting his body to hers, “would be cheating. Will you play fairly, calon bach?”
His mouth found the tip of her breast, creating a frisson of desire, and she sighed, “Aye, ameli.”
Then thoughts of names and emotions faded as Rhys captured her lips, using his hands and mouth to sweep her to dizzying heights. It was all about Rhys, her champion: ameli. My hope.
THE GREAT HALL had been cleared of trestle tables and the midday meal, the wooden screen that shielded the kitchen from view pushed aside, guards stationed at intervals along the walls, and Owain had the ledger at a small table. Rhys took his place on the dais, seated in his father’s chair, with the gryffin carved into the high back. It was, he knew, the best way to reinforce his position as lord of Glynllew. And it would remind Gareth of his place as Lord Gryffyd’s son and rightful heir.
First Bowen ap Owain came before him, charged with aiding the enemy. It was a serious charge, one he regretted but must publicly address in order to set a precedent for any other man who might consider it. Owain read the charges before the assembly, his voice remarkably steady for a man whose son stood in danger.
“You have heard the charges,” Rhys said when they’d been read aloud, “and I’ve heard your witnesses.”
Bowen nodded. “Yea, lord.”
“How do you plead?”
“Guilty with reason.”
Rhys studied him. “State your reasons.”
Bowen shifted from one foot to the other. Clearing his throat, he said evenly, “I was given the choice of taking up my father’s duties or watching him die. I chose the first, my lord, despite my loathing for it.”
“Yet your father languished in prison to be starved to death. What did you accomplish?”
“I could not prevent that, but by my efforts, he was taken enough food to keep him alive.”
Rhys studied him. The story had the ring of truth to it. That Owain was still alive and in reasonable health despite his ordeal was proof that he’d received enough sustenance. He was inclined to acquit Bowen of any blame on that charge. But it was not the only matter before him.
“Who sent the messages to me signed with Owain’s name and seal?”
A glance at his father, a reassuring nod from that direction, then Bowen said, “‘Twas I who wrote and signed them, at the behest of Gareth of Glamorgan.”
“And the purpose of those false messages?”
After a brief hesitation, Bowen said, “I was not given a reason, but it was plain to me that he sought to delay your return to Glynllew.”
“What else did Gareth bid you do?”
It was a deceptively simple question. Rhys already knew much of what Gareth had asked of Bowen, but those gathered in the hall must hear it.
Sweat beaded his forehead despite the coolness of the hall, and Bowen bowed his head before looking back up. “I sent routiers to attack you on the road from Coventry and more to set upon the knights and soldiers you hired in London. It was all meant to delay you.”
“And now? Where do your loyalties lie?”
Bowen flushed. “My loyalties have always been with Glynllew, my lord. You are Lord Griffyn’s son, his rightful heir, and I swear fealty to you.”
As a sergeant, Bowen was a horseman used as light cavalry, trained in knightly arts but not a knight, often carrying the lord’s banner into battle. But he was for hire, as were most, save those yeomen bound to the land and knights who were vassals of the king.
“Did Gareth of Glamorgan pay you in his service?” he asked Bowen.
“No more than other soldiers. I received no payment for my services as scribe.”
“No reward for additional services? On your oath?”
Bowen knew what he asked and did not hesitate. “I swear it, my lord. On my oath, to forfeit my life if I lie: I did what was demanded of me in service, but I did nothing other than what I admit to here, for all to know.”
“Should you prove to be false, you know the penalty, do you not?”
Bowen paled. “I do, my lord.”
Nodding, Rhys looked at Owain, then back to his son. “Bowen ap Owain,” he said, “I believe that you were forced to submit under pain of your father’s unjust punishment, but that does not completely absolve you. Because you had no hand in the rebellion that saw my father and brothers slain, I grant you your life. Nor will I maim you for taking up arms against me, but you shall not go unpunished. I sentence you to ten lashes, and you will assist cleaning the cesspits, after which you shall be freed.”
Bowen grimaced, then nodded. “Aye, lord, I accept your judgment.”
Rhys met Owain’s eyes. A faint smile pressed the corners of the steward’s mouth; he nodded slightly and held up a scroll.
“The next to be brought up on charges is Arnallt of Cymllew, who
brought no witnesses to swear for him . . .”
It was late before all judgments were given. Only one remained—Gareth.
After a week in the dank, dark cell, Gareth’s finery looked bedraggled; his hair and beard were unkempt. He reeked, even from ten feet away. Chains clinked, manacles attached to wrists and ankles so that he shuffled over the rushes, bunching them up in places, the long reeds snared by metal links. A guard at his side pushed Gareth to his knees.
Refusing to be cowed, Gareth stared up at Rhys. “We meet again. Not, I regret, as I had intended.”
Rhys ignored that. “Tell me why I should not put your head on a pike at the castle gate.”
An ugly pallor suffused Gareth’s face. “I did not kill your father and brothers. I liberated the castle from siege.”
Leaning forward slightly, Rhys said softly, “I know all. Consider that before you speak.”
“Raglan besieged the keep. I captured it. You have not been here for over twenty years. For all we knew, you were dead in Cyprus. Why should I not petition princes for my inheritance? Your own father preferred me over you.”
Rhys sat back in the chair, viewing his cousin with distaste. “I have talked with Raglan’s vintenar. He remained with twenty men to help you secure the keep at Prince John’s pleasure, agreed to by the Prince of Deheubarth on false premises. You are not eligible to inherit.”
“This is Wales, not England. The same customs do not necessarily apply. Lord Gryffyd could name his heir, just as King Richard has named Arthur of Brittany as his heir instead of his brother.”
“Primogeniture applies. Arthur’s father was Prince Geoffrey, King Henry’s son, and he first named him his heir should Richard die without issue. I am my father’s last remaining son.”
Gareth made an impatient gesture, chains rattling. “If you die without issue, I am married to your sister, and I am also your cousin. Cyfran. Blood kinship.”
The Magic Page 27
