Elspeth paled. “Holy Mary, Mother of God, protect us,” she moaned. “Child, child—you do not still have it?”
“I do not, no. But,” she added before Elspeth could speak, “neither does the courier or the prince. I hid it.”
“Doom,” Elspeth whispered. Sasha nodded.
“Yea.”
“What will—oh, the prince must know. He will remember you. Aiyee, child, you should have told me.”
“It would do you no good, nor does it now. If we could have found the courier, we would have tried to return the pouch, but he was gone.”
“Dare I ask where it is hidden?”
“It may endanger you to know.”
“Hah! Do you think the prince would believe for a moment that I do not? He would put me to the torture, the same as you, to find it if it means his life, for it must be a plot against the king. No other does that unholy man fear.”
It was true. They would all suffer for it, and she was sick from the knowledge. Sagging against the stone wall, a hanging tapestry brushing against her as it shifted in the breeze through the window, she said, “Do you recall the Fair Rosamond . . . ?”
DARKNESS LAY UPON the land beyond the castle. Sasha sat silently at the window, her heart heavy at what she must do, but knowing no other resolution. It had been decided between the three of them what was best, though none of them held hope it would end well. There had been some disagreement, but Sasha was adamant they be well and away from Glynllew so no fault would fall upon Rhys ap Griffyn.
“I still say we slip away in the crowd,” Biagio had muttered, but she would not yield.
Elspeth was unknown to the prince, and her departure must be secured before the tourney began. One more cart on the road would earn little regard.
Two days before the tournament, and her time left at Glynllew was precious. She yearned to linger with Rhys, to savor their moments, yet he had been so busy he came to his chamber late of a night, and rose early in the morn. Tonight, she waited for him in the solar, a wanton eager to be with her lover.
He came at last, opening the door, a smile curving his mouth as he saw her in the chair before the window. “Chérie. I thought you long abed.”
“Nay, lord, I await your pleasure.” She stood and held out her hand. “Come. For you are tired, and I have a remedy.”
He crossed to her, smelling of wind and rain, and took her hand to draw her to him. “If it is sleep, I would rather it be delayed. There are other pleasures I fancy.”
Warmth spread through her at the light in his eyes, the husky timbre of his voice as he lightly touched her face with one hand, drawing his fingers over her cheek to skim her lips. He brushed her lower lip with his thumb, tasting faintly of wine and ink.
“You have been with Owain,” she murmured, and he lifted a brow as his head lowered.
“Aye. How did you know?”
His mouth pressed against hers, tongue sliding between her lips, stealing her breath and stirring her senses. Potent, powerful need swept through her, and she ached for him, but meant to draw out their enjoyment.
Pulling away, holding onto his arm, she said, “Ink. You taste like charcoal and gum.”
“Ah, you wound me. Where do you take me, my lusty wench? To the bed already? I do not protest.”
But he paused when they reached his bedchamber; lamps and candles illuminated the room, and a fire burned on the hearth. A tub sat next to the fire, towels folded on low stools, pots of soap and buckets of water heating. A servant stood quietly, and at a gesture from Sasha, lifted a bucket and poured water into the wooden tub. It was lined with linen to save him from splinters when he sat in it, and when it was filled a third full, she dismissed the servant.
“Do you approve, my lord?”
He stood silent, and she looked up at him anxiously, then saw his expression and smiled. “It will ease you, I think,” she murmured, and began undressing him.
“You amaze me,” he said as he held out his arms for her to unbuckle his belt and pull it away. “I had not known there was a tub in the entire castle. I’ve been using a bucket or the Wye. ‘Tis not as comfortable, I vow.”
“I would think not. In my father’s home we bathed frequently. There were entire rooms for nothing but baths, marble pools beneath palm trees, cool, clear water tumbling to fall into the fountains. Of course, cool water here would not be as comfortable.”
“I agree.”
She had his tunic off, folded it neatly, and laid it atop a chest at the foot of the bed, then knelt in front of him and unlaced his boots; leather strips tied them up the sides to his knee, worn over long stockings, thick soles, and a small heel that fit into a horse’s stirrup. When he stood in only his braies, his chest bare and undertunic folded atop his other, she tugged at the cords, the back of her hand brushing over his lightly furred belly. His muscles tightened in reaction; she felt it beneath her knuckles and glanced up.
Familiar tension rode his face, his eyes hot beneath the brush of his dark lashes, faint lines on each side of his mouth deeper as he set his jaw. She knew the reason; it nudged her hand as she pulled the cords free, pushing against linen restraints. The linen fell away, and she caught her breath, heart pounding, a delicious heat spreading through her body. Yet she concentrated on her task, ignoring the curious tremble in her legs and knees as she stood up.
Rhys put a hand on her shoulder, a warm weight, and stepped into the tub. In the light of fire and candle he glowed a golden color, a light pelt of blond hair on his arms and legs, darker on his belly and lower. She reached for the pot of soap and a sponge as he sat down in the tub, and water sloshed around him. Sighing a little, he leaned back against the sloped rear, rested his long arms atop the rims, watched her with eyelids half-closed as she lathered up a sponge.
The water was warm, the soap a pleasant scent of sandalwood, with perhaps cedar in the mix, a fragrance that would have been favored in Shirvan. She washed the back of his neck, soap leaving bubbles in the long fringe of his hair; he wore it shorter in the Norman style, but it had grown longer over his ears and on his nape. Sliding the sponge over his broad shoulders, she paid attention to the small cuts that were nearly healed, testament to the rough leather gambeson worn under his mail. Down his arms, hairless above his elbows, to slide over muscled forearms thick with light curling hair, then up again, to his armpits, then over to his chest. He tilted his head up so she could wash his throat, teasing him a little with a swipe at his jaw so that he wore a soap beard, and he grinned at her lazily, his body relaxing. The dark shadow of beard stubble lent him a slightly wicked appearance, and she decided she liked it. The stool she sat on next to the tub gave her access to wash his chest, dragging the sponge over brown, curling hairs and hard bands of muscle, then to his belly, where water lapped at his waist. Just below the water, his body increased in size as she worked the sponge over his navel, then lower. She pretended not to notice, but it was there, rising to meet her as she pushed the sponge lower. Gentle strokes of the fat sponge brought it to attention, and she slanted a glance at his face as she worked.
Long lashes lay against his cheeks, but his quickened breathing let her know he did not sleep. A faint smile curved her mouth, and she drew the sponge over him more slowly, the slick soap gleaming on his body.
“Lady,” he murmured, “you will undo me if you continue.”
Another glance at his face showed her his eyes still closed, but she grinned anyway. “I beg your pardon, my lord. Shall I stop?”
He opened one eye and gazed at her thoughtfully. Then he let out a long sigh, closed his eye, and said, “Nay, pray continue.”
Laughing now, she splashed soapy water in his face, enjoying his sputtering reaction, but was unprepared for the swift reach of his arm as he grabbed her.
“My lord! Do not,” she wailed as he pulled her into the tub atop him.
“My gown! My shoes! Oh no, you mustn’t . . .”
But it was all no use, for he would not be stayed, grinning up at her as he settled her atop his thighs. Warm water lapped all around her, and she fumed that he had ruined her last pair of shoes.
“I only managed to loose one—now see what you have done,” she scolded and held up a shoe that floated atop the water. He reached for it, and she held it away from him, but again he was too quick. He pulled it from her hand and tossed it to the hearth.
“I will buy you more shoes. Move down a little . . . yea, right there is good.”
She realized that her wet tunic and cotte had ridden up so that her bare thighs straddled him, and she perched atop his pintel. Hot and slick, it rubbed against her as material bunched up to her hips, sodden and heavy. She had lost the sponge and kept her balance with a hand on each side of the tub.
“Really, wicked man, you have left me nearly naked, as my garments are gone to ruin.”
“Naked sounds delightful. Here. Be still, and I will release your belt so we can take off these wet clothes.”
Despite faint, unconvincing protests, he soon had her garments off and tossed at the hearth. A slow throb beat in the pit of her belly and lower as he slid his hands over her wet skin, shaping her belly with one hand, testing the cushion of her hip with the other, then teasing the taut bud of a nipple with this thumb and finger. Her breath came more quickly, breasts rising and falling, and he caressed her wet skin, soap-slick hands plucking at her nipples, his body hard and strong between her thighs. She shifted position, thrilling at the slide of him over the sensitive cleft, moaning a little when he thrust upward. His hands fell to her hips, and he cradled her in his palms, sliding her back and forth over him, her excitement growing as tension gathered. Exquisite sensations quivered through her, her fingers held tightly to the edges of the tub, linen bunching beneath her grip as she held on. Water sloshed over the sides of the tub onto the floor as she arched her back and rocked against him, then he put his hand down, finding the center of her pleasure under the water, stroking, and she found release, crying out.
No sooner had the last shudder calmed than he lifted her slightly, fed his body into her, and brought her slowly back down, impaled upon him, a slow, burning slide that made her clench around him. Still breathing raggedly, she looked down at him where he inclined against the rear of the tub, and his hands urged her toward him. His mouth found a nipple, tongue lashing it, then drawing it between his teeth, gentle nibbles that sent tremors through her body. Panting slightly, she leaned forward, arms trembling as she held her weight, head back, damp hair loose and falling over her shoulders, trailing in the water, nourishing him with first one breast then the other. The fullness inside her, cooling water around her, heat from the fire and tug of his mouth drew whimpers of need, and she rose and fell, her knees braced against the bottom of the tub. Each thrust of him inside her sparked another frisson of delight; a fever gripped her, and she rode him fiercely, hungry for him as deep inside as possible, wanting it to never end.
He thrust upward, holding her hips still, a groan deep in his throat, and she felt his release just as she found her own, the wave washing over her, cresting, ecstasy a whirling tide carrying her to peace. She rested on his chest, face pressed into the curve of his neck and shoulder, tiny aftershocks shivering through her. It was hard to catch her breath, her heart still beat so fast, and she felt the rapid thud of his heart beneath her bare breasts; heart to heart they lay there, his arms loose around her, his body still inside her, and all the world held at bay. Nothing mattered but this: this moment, this man, this love. She ached with it, wanted to cry yet exulted that she had found it. At least for a while.
After a few moments he shifted beneath her, put his palms on each side of her face, and held her still for his kiss. It was lingering, sweet, with none of the urgency of earlier, and when he pulled away, he said softly, “Calon bach, you are mine. Now and always.”
“Yea,” she whispered the lie, “always.”
RHYS STOOD HER next to the fire, naked, wrapped her in a towel, drying her arms, her back, then rubbing the towel over her breasts to her belly and hips. He gloried in the feel of her beneath his hands, soft skin warm and damp, luxurious to the touch. She let him attend her, shivering slightly despite the heat of the flames behind her, and he dragged the towel to her thighs, then her slender calves before taking first one foot, then the other in the towel’s embrace to dry her skin. Long hair as black as the night fell to her waist, an unplaited strand falling over her breast to tease him, and he rose to the challenge. He found the sweet nipple and drew it into his mouth, tasting the jasmine of her shampoo and the sandalwood of the soap. Her breath quickened, and he moved again to the other breast, gentle kisses as her hands moved to curve over his shoulders. His body reacted as she sighed, and he licked a path over her ribs to her navel, going to a knee to hold her as he dragged his tongue over the flat surface of her belly and then lower.
A soft exclamation of shock, and her hands tangled in his hair as he held her hips and stuck his tongue to the top of her cleft. He ignored her effort to halt him, his thumbs moving to the still-damp folds that hid her from him. He found the sweet bud, blew softly on it, then drew it into his mouth. Another shocked cry, this one throaty, as he lavished attention on the sensitive peak, until she pushed into his tongue and mouth, her fingers clutching at him, moans drifting above his head. This he would do for her, his need to hear her pleasure as great as his own need for release, and when she rocked against him, hands tightening in his hair as she held him to her, her thighs trembling with strain, he brought her swiftly to climax.
He caught her before her knees gave way, sweeping her off her feet to carry her to the bed and put her on the mattress. His body ached for her again, a marvel, for it was as if he had not already found release. Candlelight barely reached beyond the bed hangings, so he moved a lamp closer, the light gleaming over her sweet form.
Now that he had made his decision, he didn’t hold back as he had before, desire liberated from the necessity for reserve. Never before had he loved a woman, wanted her in his life for all time, felt such a strong need. But Sasha was not just any woman. She was strong enough to face whatever came, a woman to stand by him, give him strong sons and daughters, love him as fiercely as he loved her. Aye, he loved her well, probably since that day in the meadow, when he had danced with a faerie queen through the bluebells.
He lay beside her, pulled her against him, nuzzled her ear as she relaxed into his arms. It was torment, lying beside her as she lay loose-limbed and content, his body urging him to take his ease, but he waited. Stroking the hair from her face, murmuring words in Welsh and English, love-words that had never come easily to him, he watched her surrender to sleep and smiled. He pulled the coverlet over her, held her close, and was content.
ST. JOHN’S EVE dawned bright and clear. The castle was crowded with barons and their retinues, a much larger group than Rhys had thought would come. The Marshal had arrived the afternoon before, his retinue surprisingly sparse and self-sufficient.
Tall, broad, and still muscular despite his years, for he was near fifty, William Marshal had brought his young wife, Isabel. She had given him two children and was very much in love with her husband. It was obvious in their shared glances, his indulgence, and desire to see to her every comfort. This, the man of legend who had bested hundreds of men in tournaments that brought him wealth and the favor of a king, was besotted. It took nothing away from his fierce reputation. Or his renown as a fair, just man whose code of honor was strong.
Looking around the keep at the defenses, he nodded approval, then looked back at Rhys. “I knew your father. He was a notable warrior of honor. It was a sad day when he was betrayed.”
“Aye, my lord.” They stood atop a battlement that overlooked the Wye, Gloucestershire on the other side, English and yet Welsh, for it straddled the border
in places. Boundary lines were still being drawn.
“He spoke of you to me,” said the Marshal, studying the field beyond, where tents sprouted like linen flowers, galleries lined two sides of the lists, and vendors plied their wares to those who came to participate or just to watch. It had the atmosphere of a county fair; beasts and peasants, nobility and merchants, all rubbed shoulders.
“He spoke of me, my lord?” Rhys echoed, surprised and wary.
A faint smile tilted Marshal’s mouth. “I am also a younger son given as hostage for my father’s fealty.”
All England knew the story, of how William Marshal’s father had given King Stephen his six-year-old son as hostage but waged war, and when told his son would hang for it, told him to proceed, saying he had the “hammer and anvil upon which to forge another” just like him. Fortunately for William and for England, the king had not acted upon his threat, but kept William in his court until his uncle took him in and trained him as a knight. The Marshal remained loyal until King Stephen’s death, then transferred his allegiance to King Henry, and now to King Richard. He dealt fairly with Prince John as well, a politic man forged in adversity.
“I did not know my father spoke of me to you, but you know I am your man, your sworn vassal.”
“As was he,” replied Marshal. His marriage to Isabel de Clare had given him the castle of Pembroke as well as others, but its title of earl yet eluded him. Richard delayed, perhaps not quite having forgiven the Marshal for unhorsing him in a skirmish when Richard rebelled against his father. Marshal could have killed him; instead he had killed his horse to make the point. It had been the only time the Lionheart was unhorsed, and he resented it still. Yet even the king recognized that William Marshal was a man of honor and loyal to his overlord.
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