He could barely speak the words, and yet, in the depths of his despair, he had never sensed his beloved wife and children were dead. He thrust the document back at the Welshman.
Aneurin refused to take it. “My Lord Rhodri is a man of honor. He has sworn an oath that none in your family or household will be harmed, if the ransom is paid.”
Ram smirked. “Your leader must have a different code of honor from ours if he thinks kidnapping women and children is honorable.”
He spat out the words, though he knew some Normans thought such misdeeds acceptable in time of war. Aneurin remained silent. This was war and they were both warriors.
Ram stared at the Welshmen for long minutes, trying to gather his thoughts. The cool control that had stood him in good stead in many a skirmish helped slow his racing heart. “We’re both aware of the atrocities men are capable of. However, I will not send you off with a chest full of coin. You wouldn’t make it back before winter. I assume you’ve taken them deep into the mountains. My family would not be able to travel out in the winter. Why have you come so late?”
Aneurin reluctantly agreed, explaining the delay of the blizzard. “We’ll take whatever message you send back to the foothills, and wait until the spring to return to the mountains.”
Ram wanted to shout that his cherished wife was pregnant, that he feared for her life if she gave birth in the wilds of the Welsh mountains, but his fear made him swallow the words.
“But Rhodri will believe you’ve been killed,” Gervais interjected.
“He may think that, but won’t act upon his suspicions until our deaths are confirmed.”
These men obviously held their leader in high regard. “I could order you be tortured until you reveal where Rhodri is holding my family.”
It was an empty threat. Such toughened men would not succumb to torture.
Aneurin’s expression didn’t change. “I’ll save you the trouble and tell you they are in the fortress of Cadair Berwyn. If you could find it and arrive there alive, it would profit you nothing.”
A spark of hope flickered in Ram’s heart. Aneurin spoke as though he truly believed they were alive and safe in some fortress. He paced in the dark cell, trying to ignore the bile rising at the back of his throat, brought on by the stench in this squalid place and his own dread.
He gave a curt order. “Gervais, escort these men to a chamber in the North Tower. Provide them with pallets and a bath, and food. Bolt the door.”
He left the cells before Gervais could protest.
The Dream
Rhodri granted permission for the Montbryces and their servants to sup in the hall, for which the countess was grateful. “Thank you, Lord Rhodri. It has given the boys a chance to mix with the other children in the fortress, and ease their boredom. It’s amazing that children can ignore the circumstances that have brought them together, and treat each other as friends.”
She and the other two women ate at a separate table from the Welsh, and as her pregnancy became more evident, she seemed to appreciate this bit of decorum and privacy.
Morwenna had badgered Rhodri with her demand for their deaths every day for a sennight. “Aneurin has not returned. It’s been a month since they left. The earl has murdered him and his men. We must kill the hostages.”
He too worried about the messengers, but why did the woman have such a blood lust? He deeply regretted becoming involved with her. He supposed he had been smitten with her beauty, but now hatred distorted her lovely face. Even her ample breasts did nothing to rouse his lust. She sickened him. He also suspected, if they married, she would not come virgin to his bed.
And now I love another.
He understood passion. He was as passionate as anyone for his beloved country, but had no personal hatred for the earl, whom he recognized as an able administrator, a fair man who strove to better the lives of the people who lived in his lands. He could have killed the earl years ago, at Ruyton, if he had wished, if he was the sort of man who killed adversaries knocked into oblivion by a blow to the head. He wanted none of the Norman usurper’s earls ruling his own country, and would fight to keep them out, but saw no reason to slaughter the earl’s wife and children. He had given his oath they would remain safe, and he reminded Morwenna of that again.
She rose to her feet abruptly and angrily stormed out of the hall. Though the hostages were too far away from the dais to hear what had been said, he suspected they were aware the woman thirsted for their deaths.
My constant staring probably makes them nervous too. They likely think I’m musing on how best to kill them. They would be surprised to learn who it is that draws my gaze. They must know the messengers haven’t returned. The countess will have to soon accept her child will be born in these mountains.
That same night, the Prince of Powwydd had a vivid dream. He sat amid his children. There were five of them, and two had flaming red hair. A hazy vision of his grandfather, Gwilym, drifted into view, his copper hair ablaze in the sun. It was a happy dream, different from the ones he usually had when he returned from raids. He derived no pleasure from taking lives, and death often stalked his nightmares.
Like his Celtic ancestors, his belief in the power of dreams ran deep in his blood. Now, Arianrhod was revealed to him. It was a dream of hope and promise for the future. The virgin white goddess of birth conjured an image of the mother of his children. She was a diminutive woman with long black hair, high cheekbones and eyes like grey pools, the woman he had been unable to stop thinking about since setting eyes on her.
When he woke, he spoke her name, “Rhonwen.” He gave thanks for the honor the gods had bestowed on him. She was not high born. Her mother was Welsh, but her father? She had never lived in Wales, only in the Marches, and he sensed she burned with a desire to kill his betrothed, to avenge her mother’s murder.
He had to prove himself worthy of her and win her heart. Then the dream would be fulfilled.
The Normans had been escorted back to their chamber after the meal, and Giselle soon had the yawning boys tucked up in their pallets. In consideration of her condition, Rhodri had provided a bed for Mabelle, but the lads liked their pallets.
“What brave little soldiers you are,” Mabelle whispered, gazing at their tousled heads.
A tapping at the door made them all instantly wary. They were usually left alone at night. Rhonwen opened the door a crack, and Mabelle heard a voice speaking Welsh.
Rhonwen’s shoulders tensed and she turned to her mistress. “Rhodri has sent for me, my lady,” she whispered, her big grey eyes wide with apprehension.
“For you?”
Before Mabelle could do anything to prevent it, the healer was gone and the door barred once more. She and her maid exchanged desperate glances. Being called to Rhodri at this time of night could mean only one thing for the girl. They wept for the loss of her innocence, and for the failure of the barbarian Rhodri to keep his word none of them would be harmed.
A Perfect Match
Phillippe didn’t knock, knowing Morwenna would be alone in her chamber, pacing impatiently. They exchanged no greeting. By the time he reached her, she had torn off her shift and was naked. He devoured the site of her thrusting breasts and the heated promise in her eyes. Their kisses became ravenous. Their mouths remained locked together as they both worked frenziedly to remove his clothing. She sucked his tongue into her mouth. He bit her lip, then her earlobe. His hands squeezed her breasts roughly and she arched her mons to meet his erection. His tongue darted in and out of her mouth and she groaned huskily. “Phillippe, Phillippe. Fill me now. I need my Norman stallion.”
Throwing her onto the bed, Giroux leapt on top of her and rammed his phallus into her throbbing sheath, already weeping for him. She sank her teeth into his neck. She liked him to be rough and that suited him too.
“We’re a perfect match,” he rasped.
After their passion had taken them both over the edge, they lay physically spent but still full of anger and plotting.
; Morwenna pouted. “The weak-willed Rhodri refuses to kill them.”
Phillippe yawned. “He’ll come to his senses. I’ll make sure of that. Mabelle de Valtesse will pay dearly for her father’s crimes against my family.”
Morwenna cuddled into him, curling her finger into the hair on his chest. “And, my lusty Norman knight, you’ll repay me for my help by taking me as your bride to Normandie, and I’ll be the Comtesse de Giroux.”
Gooseflesh marched across his nape, but he would have to be careful not to let his disdain show. He mustn’t give away that he had no intention of taking this barbaric woman as his wife.
To Normandie? His family and friends would think him as mad as his father. When she had served her purpose, he would be rid of her, or perhaps leave her to make Rhodri’s life wretched.
He reached for his clothing. “I must return to my own chamber. We don’t want anyone becoming suspicious.”
He kissed her carelessly, opened the door carefully to make sure no one was in the hallway, and stepped silently from the room.
Amber
Rhonwen trembled as she stepped into Rhodri’s chamber. The escort remained outside. She was afraid of this Welsh warrior’s intentions but had been drawn by his magnetism each time she’d set eyes on his Celtic beauty. She was equally afraid he would not do the wild things she’d imagined him doing to her. She too had Celtic blood in her veins.
He sat in a massive wooden chair by the hearth in the center of the room. He wore a pale red linen shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The firelight glowing in the depths of a string of amber beads drew her gaze to his neck. She licked her lips, suddenly aware she was perspiring. His long, curly hair was tied back at his nape with a brown leather thong. The war braids were gone, making him seem less intimidating. Leather breeches clung to his muscular thighs. His feet were bare, and she noticed fleetingly how long his toes were.
His usual weapons were nowhere in evidence. The only light in the room came from the flickering embers. A bluish pall of smoke, wending its way up to the smoke-hole canopy in the roof, hung around him. The chair beside him was empty.
“Don’t be afraid, Rhonwen.” His voice was soft and held no threat. “Come, sit by me,” he said in Welsh, holding out his big hand. “Let the fire warm you.”
She shivered and walked towards him slowly. Her breasts tingled and a strange ache throbbed in her nether regions. “I’m not afraid, my lord,” she lied as she sat in the other chair, her hands holding on to the arms tightly, in case she might have to flee suddenly.
Slowly, he leaned forward to rest his bare forearms on his muscular thighs, and stared at her. She blushed as the fire of his gaze warmed her body. She tried not to look at him but was held by the green depths of his eyes.
“It’s as I thought,” he pronounced huskily after several minutes. “You’re as drawn to me as I am to you.”
Rhonwen stared at her knees. “You’re betrothed to my enemy, my lord.”
He sat back in the chair, his frustration evident. “Ah yes, the lovely Morwenna.”
He remained silent for several minutes. She couldn’t take her eyes off his face as he wrestled with his demons.
“I’ll not marry her.”
Icy chills raced up and down her spine. It was what she wanted to hear but made the situation more confused. “My lord?”
He stood and said softly, “Please, call me Rhodri.”
She suspected this powerful man didn’t use the word please often. She trembled as he moved behind her chair and placed his big hands on her shoulders. When he touched her, she stifled a groan of pleasure as the heat of his body flowed into hers.
“My lord—Rhodri,” she stuttered, “I cannot, we cannot. I’m your captive. I’m a maid.”
He bent to whisper in her ear, “My Rhonwen, it’s you who have captured me. I can’t stop wanting you. But I’ll not force you against your will. I’ll resolve the problem of Morwenna and send her back to her father. He won’t be pleased I’ve broken the betrothal, but I have no wish to live my life with her blood lust. It’s you I want.”
Her mouth fell open. The room had tilted. “But you’ve known me only a short while.”
Rhodri chuckled. “The same could be said of you, and yet you’ve no doubt in your mind about your feelings for me. Do you?”
She longed to tell him her feelings for him threatened to overwhelm her, but remained silent.
He took his hands from her shoulders and a moment later she shivered when he fastened something cold around her neck. Reaching up instinctively, she felt the smooth amber beads. She looked down and saw how beautifully formed they were—an object an artisan had worked on lovingly, an object of great worth. The heat of his body lingered in the cold beads. She wanted to turn, to look up into those piercing eyes, but was afraid of what she might see there.
“Return to your chamber, Rhonwen. The fates have destined we meet. I know in my heart our future paths lie together. Accept this as a token of my pledge to you. You’ll come to my bed when it’s the right time, and you will be my wife.”
He took her by the arm and helped her rise from the chair. She was so stunned by his words, and his gift, she could barely make her legs work as he walked her across the room to the door.
He gave a terse command to her escort. “Take the healer back to her chamber.”
Rhodri sank back into his chair, breathing deeply to calm the arousal brought on by Rhonwen’s presence. He had moved to stand behind her so she wouldn’t see her effect on his body. His erection turned to granite when he touched her. It was as well she hadn’t turned to look at him when he fastened the amber beads around her neck. His mother would have approved of his gift, but looking into those round grey pools would have undone his resolve.
He had been afraid to kiss her when she left, fearing the emotions such a kiss might unleash. It had taken a great deal of effort to keep his voice steady when he’d spoken to the guard.
Agitated and conflicted, Rhonwen stumbled along in an effort to keep up with the escort holding the torch lighting their way. Her mind was a jumble of emotions. A squeak escaped her dry throat when a furtive figure emerged unexpectedly from the dark shadows.
The man paused for a moment when he saw them, but then resumed his pace, and she gasped as they came face to face. She recognized him as a Norman by his shaved head and was sure she had seen him before, in Ellesmere. Who was he and what was he doing here? She averted her eyes from his malevolent stare.
When she stepped hastily into the chamber, the other women mistook the cause of her trembling.
“What has that brute done to you, Rhonwen?” Mabelle demanded.
“No, my lady. Rhodri did nothing to harm me. He was kind to me.” She felt her face flush. “But I’ve just had an encounter in the hallway that has scared the wits out of me. There’s a Norman soldier here, one of your husband’s men.”
“It’s Giroux,” Mabelle hissed, clenching her fists. “I now see clearly the malevolent hand behind the earl’s riding accident, Myfanwy’s murder, the loss of my child, and my own near death after the abortifacient, and this last betrayal, our kidnapping and probable death at the hands of a Welsh rebel.”
“Who is he? Why has he betrayed you?” Rhonwen asked.
Giselle told Rhonwen the story of how Guillaume de Valtesse had blinded and mutilated Charles de Giroux and consequently endured years of wandering exile with his daughter.
Mabelle slumped onto the edge of her bed. “I didn’t know you knew the whole story, Giselle, but I’m relieved I didn’t have to tell it.”
Rhonwen had listened open-mouthed. “But if you and your father were cast out of your home, was that not revenge enough for the Giroux family?”
Mabelle sighed. “Apparently not. My father died several years ago, and I inherited Alensonne, Belisle and Domfort. I can’t believe his reckless actions have resulted in this threat to my own life, and those of my children and servants. From the grave he reaches out to hurt me and mi
ne.”
Rhonwen grasped Mabelle’s hand. “Forgive me, my lady,” she wailed tearfully, “it’s not just that I saw the soldier. He knows I saw him.”
“We must think,” Mabelle murmured.
The three women sat huddled together on Mabelle’s bed, careful not to wake the sleeping children.
“What did Rhodri want of you anyway?” Mabelle whispered.
Heat rose in Rhonwen’s face. “He’s drawn to me.”
Giselle sneered. “You mean he lusts after you.”
“No. He was kind and gentle. He spoke of—love—of my becoming his wife.” It sounded ludicrous. “He gave me this necklace of amber beads.” It was incomprehensible.
Mabelle looked at Rhonwen and whispered, “And you feel the same for him, don’t you?”
Fearing the censure of her lady for her foolish feelings, Rhonwen could barely murmur, “Yes.”
The countess squeezed her hand. “A woman never knows when love might come along and knock her off her feet.”
Rhonwen couldn’t believe she’d heard these words from the Countess of Ellesmere. She looked wide-eyed at Giselle, who for some reason was silently nodding her agreement. “We must hope Rhodri’s love for you will protect us from Giroux,” the maidservant whispered.
Phillippe burst into Morwenna’s chamber. “They know it was I who betrayed them.”
She looked up at him with a bored expression. “It’s not a good idea to come here during the day.”
He strode towards her. “That’s not important now. The healer saw me.”
Morwenna rose immediately from her chair. “Does she know who you are?”
He ran his hand back and forth over his shaved head. “Perhaps not by name, but I’m sure she recognized me as a Norman. It’s only a matter of time before she and her accursed mistress deduce who I am. The earl believes I’m in Normandie, and must never find out who betrayed him. My life would be worth nothing.”
Conquest (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 1) Page 24
