Border Bride

by Hale Deborah

  Where was a ready, undemanding woman now, when he so sorely needed one?

  Enid’s sister-in-law, Helydd, was a comely lass and she had shot more than one encouraging glance his way since he’d come to Glyneira. But a tumble in the hay with Helydd would only come at the cost of a wedding pledge. There wasn’t a woman alive whose favors were worth the price of his cherished freedom to Con ap Ifan!

  Not even…

  Con rolled onto his back and tucked his hands behind his head.

  No. It didn’t bear thinking of.

  For as long as he could remember, his ambition had been to see the wide world and make a place for himself in it. Though the knowledge that Enid must one day belong to another man had gnawed at his heart, he’d never entertained the possibility of wedding her himself. Only in part because her proud father would have slain him on the spot for such presumption.

  Yet in some strange way, she did, and always would, belong to him.

  The notion brought a smile to Con’s face as he lay there, wrapped in the warm, sociable darkness, lulled by the comforting harmonies of grunts, snores, and the rustle of straw, all rendered to the rhythm of slow, regular breathing.

  He had almost drifted off to sleep at last when another thought brought him bolt upright, his gut knotted and sweat beading his brow.

  Perhaps he had always belonged to Enid, and always would.

  Chapter Six

  “Are you sure Macsen ap Gryffith is coming here?” Con asked Enid as he leaned against the broad trunk of an old oak with a mug of cool, refreshing cider in his hand. “I’ve been hanging about almost two weeks without a sign or a word of his approach.”

  “Of course he’s coming!” Too late Enid realized she might have rid herself of Con if only she’d given him a false answer. “At least that was his intention when last I received word. Perhaps some matter has arisen to delay him or change his mind.”

  Something about Con’s barbed tone and the intense, unwelcome feelings he’d set brewing inside her for the past fortnight made Enid speak sharply. “Did you suppose I only pretended to expect Lord Macsen in order to detain you here? You think highly of yourself, as ever, Con ap Ifan. If you aren’t content to tarry, be on your way to Hen Coed at once, with my blessing!”

  The prospect of his going sickened her worse than the miserable morning retches when she’d been with child. How she despised herself that weakness.

  “Don’t take on so. I’m more than content to stay, and grateful for your hospitality.” Con offered her a glance of such winsome repentance it might have moved a stone saint.

  But Enid was made of flesh that melted, and blood that burned. And she was far from a saint.

  Con’s words reminded her of what a shrill little voice in the back of her mind had been nagging about for the past several days. Lord Macsen would be here before much longer, and young Bryn with him, no doubt. The image of her son, so like his father’s younger self, spurred her to roust Con from Glyneira without further delay.

  Why had she not sprung her trap before this? Con had given her chances aplenty. Each time she had found some excuse to delay. It was not fair to punish him for her failing.

  “You’ve more than earned your bread and brychan since you’ve come.” She relented. “It would be enough if you only entertained us every evening with your music and stories. But you’ve stocked the larder with fish and game, all the while cheering Idwal happier than I’ve seen him in ages. You’ve kept Myfanwy and Davy out from underfoot, and the three of you have fetched in more kindling than we’ll burn at Glyneira in a year. As for the plowing…”

  She gazed over the wide expanse of meadow, its freshly turned earth a fertile red-brown. “I can’t tell you how many springs Howell swore he would see that patch of fallow ground tilled and sown. But something always came up to prevent it. Trouble with the Normans mostly, foul vipers.”

  Con took a deep draft of the cider she’d brought him. Why didn’t he look better pleased with the praise she heaped on him? Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he looked out at the partly plowed field. Avoiding her eyes…or so it seemed to Enid.

  “I never was a sit-about. I’d rather keep busy, though I like a little variety in my chores. Idwal’s a good fellow. I’ve enjoyed his company and the children’s. And…yours.”

  That last word came out like a rotten tooth yanked by the blacksmith’s tongs.

  Was he offering her one last chance to make him run away? If so, did she have the will to take it before it was too late?

  “I can’t say I’m sorry Lord Macsen hasn’t come sooner.” She reached out and swiped her knuckles against Con’s chin. “It’s been a treat to have you around the place, and would be even if you had played the sit-about. I know it wasn’t an easy life you had back when we were young, Con, but you and I had some fine times together. I’d almost forgotten how fine.”

  “I’ve never been able to forget.”

  Before she could pull her hand back, Con caught it in his, and pressed it to his lips. The acute carnal ache he felt for her hadn’t abated, but something else overwhelmed it now and again. Something gentler but at the same time far more powerful.

  “I beg your pardon if I made it sound as though I was anxious to get away,” he said. “It’s been a boon to me, spending time with you again…almost like the old days. Better, in some ways.”

  Enid nodded, the hint of a fond smile warming her dark, fey features. “We’re not a pair of foolish children anymore. We’ve both seen something of the world. You more than me, but me as much as I want. And we don’t need to answer to my father for any mischief we get up to.”

  “Do you see your father often?”

  “Not since I left Gwynedd.” For a moment Enid’s voice tightened as though speaking of a painful subject.

  Then she chuckled, convincing Con he must have imagined the other. “Tad was never one to travel far from home, any more than I. We hear news of him now and again, though. He’s well. Prince Owain holds his llys there on the banks of the Conwy betimes, which flatters Tad no end. I expect he gives fiery, warlike counsel which the prince is wise enough to ignore.”

  Con felt the bottom drop out of his belly, as if a barely contained enemy force had suddenly despatched fresh troops against him.

  “What’s wrong with warlike counsel?” He let go of her hand so abruptly, Enid almost stumbled forward. “The Normans have been pushing into Wales ever since they subdued the Saxons. Chester and Salop have chewed up half of Powys. Now that they squabble among themselves, is not the time ripe to regain what we’ve lost?”

  “At what price?” Enid sputtered. “You sound just like old Blethyn, for shame. My children lost a father to this feud with the Marcher Lords. You can’t imagine what Idwal’s lost, poor fellow. I don’t want to lose my son—”

  Such thoughts had been worrying at the edges of his mind. He didn’t need Enid setting them after him in full bay. Downing one last deep draft, Con shoved the empty cider flagon back at her. “That’s enough mincing air. I want to get the rest of this field plowed before I have to leave.”

  Why did he find it so hard to speak those last five words?

  A dozen days he’d been at Glyneira, and already Con ap Ifan seemed like he belonged there.

  A shiver went through Enid as she listened to him spin stories in the evening after their meal. Everyone else in the room hung on his words, from young Davy to Father Thomas, as he described the battle for Brantham Keep and the ruse his friend Lord DeCourtenay had employed to gain entrance. A ruse concocted by his lordship’s audacious bride.

  “After we caught a party of DeBoissard’s men hunting for Lady Cecily,” Con told the Glyneira folk, “the lass bade us don their clothes and ride back to the keep in the middle of the night when the watchmen at the gate would not be wary.”

  Enid could hear the ring of admiration in Con’s voice for this crafty, courageous woman, now the wife of his friend. Twin peas in a pod they sounded, this Cecily creature and
Con ap Ifan. If any woman could tempt him to abandon his wandering ways, it would be such a one.

  An enchantress who could make every day a fresh adventure. Or a warrior maiden who might just as lief heft her own sword and follow him on a Crusade.

  Tossing back a deep draft of cider, Enid made a face. Had this brew gone a little sour?

  More likely it was her own mood gone sour, she acknowledged with a sigh. Not that she wanted to domesticate Con—like the Normans did with their falcons. Nor did she have any desire to follow him into distant, dangerous lands, far from the comforting familiarity of home.

  What she did want was to send him on his way before Lord Macsen arrived with young Bryn in tow. After that, she wanted to wed the border chief, who promised to give her everything she truly prized in life.

  Except the heart-pounding passion that gripped her every time she saw, heard or thought of Con ap Ifan, her contrary heart protested.

  Passion? Enid barely contained a snort of bitter laughter. What had passion ever brought her but trouble? It was a capricious emotion, as dangerous in its way as any far-off, foreign land.

  Respect, fondness, affinity: those made a much safer foundation on which to build a marriage and a life. If only she had Con’s skill at argument, she might convince her stubborn heart of it.

  Enid forced herself to concentrate on what Con was saying, rather than on the way the firelight caressed his lean, striking features and burnished his rich brown curls.

  “Then I drew back my bowstring, hardly daring to breathe. I knew if DeBoissard marked me, he’d put an end to Rowan before I could get a shot off.”

  A wonder he hadn’t put an arrow through his friend’s throat, rather than into his enemy’s elbow. Enid’s stomach churned just thinking about it. But that was Con for you—ever willing to risk the unthinkable, recklessly confident in his ability to prevail over impossible odds. Little wonder he frightened her every whit as much as he stirred her desire.

  She could not afford to let him bide here much longer, carving out a place for himself at Glyneira that he would never stay to fill.

  After he brought his story to a close with a flourish that had everyone cheering as though it had taken place before their very eyes, Con rubbed his throat. “I’ll spare you my singing tonight. I’m as hoarse as a wooden nightingale.”

  Spying her chance, Enid seized it. “Are your legs too tired to dance, then? We have other musicians who can play a tune to accompany us.”

  She beckoned the head shepherd. “Nye, have you your pipe?” To the blacksmith she asked, “Your tabor, Math?”

  The two men came forward with their instruments, sporting self-conscious grins as though they’d hoped for just such an invitation. The others pushed tables and benches back against the walls to clear a space for dancing.

  Fixing on a bold smile she hoped would eclipse even Con’s precious Lady DeCourtenay, Enid approached him with outstretched arms. “Shall we show these Powys folk how quick the Gwynedd-born can step?”

  Con’s mouth stretched upward at the corners, all eager, but a faint shadow that bespoke uncertainty darkened his eyes. Had she offended him earlier when they’d argued about how the Welsh should treat with the Normans?

  Perhaps she had been too harsh. She didn’t want the men of Powys to sit back tamely while the outlanders gobbled up every acre from Offa’s Dyke to the Caer Naervon. Then again, as Father Thomas read from the Holy Scripture, there must be a time for war and a time for peace. Useless, petty hostilities would only drain her people of men and material they might need later when the Normans stopped feuding amongst themselves and turned their combined might westward.

  With a suddenness that took her by surprise, Con clutched Enid’s hands, all the more willing for his first hesitation. Knowing Con, perhaps it even added some perverse fillip to the venture. “You know me too well, lass. I never could resist a challenge, or the chance to show off a little.”

  He canted back, forcing Enid to do the same unless she wanted to pitch into his arms. Then he began a swift sidestep, sending them whirling in wild circles.

  Her heart tripped faster than Math’s rolling beat on the tabor, and a yelp left her throat, part terror, part exhilaration. By the time they stopped, she had no choice but to list against Con in an effort to keep from collapsing into a dizzy heap on the floor.

  As she clung to him, enjoying his closeness so much it frightened her, she heard Gaynor say, “Powys will not yield pride of place to Gwynedd tamely, will it, Idwal?”

  To Enid’s befuddled eyes, it looked as though a pair of Gaynors and Idwals took the floor along with doubles of several others. By the time her head settled, the musicians had agreed on a tune and begun to play.

  “Into the round with you, now!” Gaynor and Helydd pulled their sister-in-law away from Con and into the circle of women.

  Some of the men pressed Con into service for their outer circle, which moved counter to the women’s. So many steps, then the man opposite Enid grasped her by the waist and twirled her about. The couples linked arms and skipped a circuit before breaking up into male and female rings again.

  On the second pass, Enid found herself opposite Con. His hands, strong from his archery yet gentle for his harp, almost spanned her waist. Even through her linen smock and woolen kirtle, she felt their warmth. A ripple of heat spread down from her waist until it lapped at her thighs.

  Only a few times in her marriage had her lawful husband’s touch roused her like this, always to end with some vague dissatisfaction worse than feeling nothing in the first place.

  After the carol had reached its boisterous climax, Enid raised a hand to her brow. “That should shame me from boasting. I haven’t the head for dancing I once had, especially on a full belly. If I don’t get a breath of air, I may flay the goat.”

  She could picture herself crouched in the straw retching her poor guts out.

  Clinging to Con, she begged, “Will you lend me your strong arm to step outside awhile? The last thing I’d need just now would be to turn my ankle or fall and twist my wrist.”

  His muscles tensed. Enid could feel it through his clothes, and she wondered if he meant to refuse her.

  Then Math and Nye struck up another tune and folks began dancing again. Under cover of all the exuberant noise, Con pressed his lips so close to Enid’s ear, it was almost a kiss.

  “Seeing as I’m to blame for making you dizzy,” he murmured, “I’d better provide the remedy. A slow walk in fresh air sounds like the best tonic. Come along.”

  As he led her away from the hall, no one seemed to mark their going. Outside the spring night enfolded them in cool, soft intimacy. The new moon hung like the silver bow of some heavenly huntress in a deep black sky shot through with thousands of glimmering stars.

  “We should have brought a brand to light our way,” said Con. “Don’t want to trip in the dark, do we?”

  Enid chuckled. “It’s not like you to be practical. Let’s just sit on the stairs and bide here, so we don’t go blundering over a sleeping hen or some such. I’m content we didn’t bring a torch. It would have blinded us to the starlight.”

  As they settled on the steps, Con’s fingers found their way to the nape of her neck in a delicate caress, quite chaste…yet powerfully intimate.

  “It’s not like you to be fanciful, Enid. For all that, you’re right. Sometimes too garish a light obscures another that’s more modest…but far and away more beautiful.”

  Was he talking about the Powys night sky, or something else? Enid wondered, wishing this starlit moment was a dream, so she could give in to it without reserve.

  Softly, as if thinking aloud, Con added, “That same moon sheds her light on the Holy Land now. Wherever you go, she always watches you. Many a time when I longed for home, I’d look up at the moon’s haunting face and think of her keeping vigil over you far away in Wales.”

  “You longed for home?” Enid could scarcely imagine it. “I thought you’d count yourself well rid of th
e place.”

  “Oh, I did…by times. Then other times I’d feel an empty place inside me and I’d rush to fill it with whatever came to hand—harping, gaming, drinking…”

  “Wenching?” She hadn’t meant to say it!

  Con made no word of reply, but somehow she sensed him nodding in agreement.

  She clamped her lips together, not trusting what might come out if she parted them. Silence settled between her and Con for a while, as the muted music drifted down from the hall to wrap around them in the darkness.

  Telling herself it was part of her plan and nothing more, she let her head loll, until it came to rest on his waiting shoulder.

  “Did they fill that empty place?” Strangely, she almost hoped he would say yes. Better that he’d found comfort in the arms of other women than going uncomforted all those years when the hiraeth, the homesickness, had taken him.

  A great sigh heaved out of Con, a sound that put Enid in mind of distant breakers from the Irish Sea hurling themselves against the rocky coast of Llyn. “I fancied so at the time. Now I think I was cozening myself. There’s a difference between taking up space and truly filling it.”

  He inclined his head to rest against the crown of hers, grazing her hair with his cheek.

  “One, two, three things are past my skill.” He whispered the words of the old riddling song. “One, two, three things I cannot master. How to count all the stars in heaven on a winter night. How to polish the silver face of the moon. How to fathom the mind of my beloved.”

  There was something she was supposed to say, now. It tugged at the skirts of her memory with small but insistent hands.

  But how could her mind concentrate when her heart tumbled over and over, and her lips tingled with the need to kiss the only man she had ever loved?

  Slowly, as if pulled by a spell of the Fair Folk he was trying to resist, Con angled himself toward her.

  He’d heard it said there was witchery in moonlight. At that moment he did not doubt it. Something drew him and compelled him, something not of his own will. It drew him to engage Enid’s full, soft lips when he knew he shouldn’t.