The Warrior's Reward

by Samantha Holt

  Rosamunde gave up massaging his scalp and came around to the side of the tub. She stroked along his arm with a light touch and smiled at him. Indeed the day had wearied her. Golden strands escaped her coiled braid, giving her a fuzzy halo of hair, and fatigue lingered under her eyes. But, by God, she was beautiful. A man would march a thousand miles for just one look at her.

  And he had treated her abominably.

  “I must apo—”

  She put a finger to his lips and shook her head. “No words, just actions. You are a man of action, are you not, Ieuan?”

  He gulped slowly. Did she have any idea what she did to him? How her words sent his heart thumping so hard against his chest, he feared it might explode out of his rib cage?

  Ieuan thrust a wet hand into her hair and drew her close. She wore nothing but a chemise, he realised. A thin, almost transparent chemise. One touch of water and he’d be able to see her shape through it. Hot need rushed through him and his mind grew foggy with desire.

  Her braid fell loose as he pushed his fingers deeper. He urged her forward until her lips touched his then he took her mouth in a greedy kiss. For all his desire to offer her apologies, his kiss was unapologetic. He didn’t have the control for that. Rosamunde turned him into a wild, primitive beast of a man with a mere touch.

  Her tongue met his and she kissed him back furiously. This was no tender kiss, no sweet welcome home. She was his equal here. It astounded him how quickly she had learned. From innocent maiden to seductress.

  One palm landed on his chest. Water splashed about him and the sleeve of her shift floated over his skin, like seaweed in the wash. It created an awareness of his nudity and her clothed state. He would have to rectify that.

  Tearing away, he sucked in a deep breath and noted the rosy stain on her cheeks. “Remove your chemise.”

  She let loose a coy smile, stood and stepped back to give him a show. He clenched his teeth so tightly it would be a miracle if he had any left by the morning. She bent, put her hands to the hem and drew it up slowly. First there were sleek calves, then soft thighs, the swell of hips and a stomach he longed to place kisses to. The shadows between her thighs held him captive until she drew it all the way off and his gaze landed on her breasts.

  Sweet. Merciful. Lord.

  He opened a palm in invitation and she swayed toward him as if pulled by an invisible force or mayhap the longing swirling between them. He sat up, making room for her in the bath, and she took the silent invitation and stepped into the tub. He urged her around so she settled into the cradle of his thighs.

  Ieuan couldn’t help himself. The first thing he did was cup those tempting breasts. He held her close, her back against his chest and she leaned her head against him. Her hair tickled his cheek and a burgeoning sense of protectiveness almost overwhelmed him. Here was a woman to kill for. To die for.

  Using his teeth to nip her ear, he relished the slight tremble of her body. His arousal throbbed and pressed into her back. Every time she moved, a sharp jab of pleasurable agony rolled through him. He skimmed a hand down her exposed stomach and found her core. Even through the water, he found her to be slick for him. She needed him as badly as he needed her. How many other men would be as lucky as him to have such a woman?

  With his fingers, he pleasured her, stroking her until she gasped and trembled in his arms. He pushed two fingers deep inside her and felt the pulsing of her inner muscles. It only took a few rubs of his thumb on her nub for her to dig her nails into his thighs and come apart.

  Ieuan savoured the hiss of breath and the tremble of her body. He vowed to remember these moments always. How odd it was he wanted to cherish such moments. He’d never expected to care so deeply for his wife. She had surprised him again and again and still she astounded him. This was so much more than desire.

  But he could wait no longer. He had to be buried deep inside her. Coaxing her up, he nipped at her ear and whispered, “On your knees.”

  She released a tiny sound of surprise but did so, presenting him with the finest view in all of England. He recalled how she had done this for him on their first night together and the utter agony it had caused him to reject her. But that night she had been trembling with fear. Now she trembled with yet more need.

  She gripped the edge of the bath and water sloshed over her back. “I thought...”

  He rubbed a hand up and down her back. “This position is no good for taking maidens,” he told her. “But for taking demanding, seductive wives, ‘tis very good indeed.”

  Her little intake of breath simmered through the air, making him grin. He smoothed a hand over her rear and lined himself up with her cleft. Then he pressed, smoothly and quickly to the hilt. She whispered his name.

  Ieuan rocked into her, feeling her enclose around him. Searing pleasure almost blinded him. So hot and tight. Each ripple of her body drew him closer, deeper until he was lost.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, even though she had said actions not words. He had to say it. “I couldn’t stand it...” In and out. He sucked in a sharp breath. “You’re mine, Rosamunde. I couldn’t stand to see you...” She bucked against him. “Always mine.”

  He gave up then. The pleasure had grown too great. He mindlessly thrust into her, his hands to her hips, the water sloshing around them until he splintered and spilled into her. She convulsed around him and he saw her knuckles whiten as she gripped the edge of the tub.

  Out of breath and spent, he leaned over her and pressed a kiss to her wet back. “Always mine,” he murmured against her skin.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Rosamunde awoke earlier than usual. She blinked away the grittiness in her eyes and gave a languid stretch. She likely had a wide smile too. Ieuan had upset her with his gruffness the previous night but she’d come to realise it wasn’t because of her. Owain hadn’t said anything directly but it was clear they didn’t get on and in some ways, she didn’t blame Ieuan. As charming as Owain was, she had been angry at him for putting Ieuan in danger. It was no wonder her husband had been angered by seeing him at their table.

  And Ieuan had more than made up for it. His words, the way he touched her. If this wasn’t love, what was it?

  She washed and dressed quietly, reluctant to wake the beautiful man from his slumber. She did, however, watch him for a few moments. They had gone to bed with damp hair and while hers would take an hour with a comb to detangle, his was beautifully wild and a lock hung across his face. His arms were sprawled and the sheet sat about his hips. Rosamunde watched the rise and fall of those muscles for a while before turning back to the dressing table and reaching for her comb.

  Movement outside caught her eyes. She pressed her nose to the shutters and saw a man on horseback—a messenger by the looks of it. Her heart skipped in her chest. Could it be bad news? A warning mayhap? Throwing down her comb, she put on her slippers and eased out of the solar.

  Downstairs, Owain and his men slept on. Snores rattled the rafters as they slept on their pallets and the day was too new for the servants to be up and about. The few who would be were down in the kitchen if the smell of baked bread was anything to go by.

  Forgoing her cloak, Rosamunde hurried outside. Drizzling rain splattered her face and mud clung to her slippers. She held her skirts high enough to avoid the slippery ground and peered at the gatehouse. A few men were scattered across the curtain wall but none were by the gate to open the portcullis. She wasn’t sure who was in charge of the watch overnight but it wasn’t Rhys or Huw—the two men she knew were most loyal to Ieuan.

  Well, she wouldn’t wait. If it was terrible news and they needed to flee, she’d rather know now. After all, she couldn’t stand by and let Ieuan be taken away by the king’s men. He’d be imprisoned and likely sentenced to death. The very thought made her stomach bunch.

  She pressed open the small gate and slipped out of the curtain walls. The messenger had stopped some way up the hill and one of the Ieuan’s men was speaking with him. She scowled. Why had
he not simply let him into the keep? She remembered the red-headed man to be Aron. She didn’t know him all that well as he took the night watch most nights.

  Something didn’t seem right. A tingling sensation swept from her head to her toes and her insides coiled tighter than ever. Could Aron be the traitor? When he handed over a missive to the messenger, she knew her instincts to be true.

  Rosamunde tucked herself behind a tree when Aron began to turn away after murmuring some more words to the man. Whatever was in the missive, she would wager it was meant for the king and was to do with Owain. She couldn’t let the messenger leave.

  The side of the path sloped down and was covered with trees and roots. When she tried to work her way around the trees to get in front of the horse and avoid being spotted by Aron, loose earth skipped and tumbled down the hill. She swallowed and tightened her grip on the tree. She tried not to imagine her body tumbling the same way.

  Steadily she worked her way around the trunks. Wood bit into her palms and the occasional sharp bite told her she’d have splinters in her hands by the end of this. But it mattered not. Through the dense leaves, she spotted the messenger turning his horse while Aron headed back to the keep. She picked up her pace until she was in front of the messenger. The slope of the path meant he hadn’t been able to move as quickly as she, for which she was grateful.

  Rosamunde hadn’t given much thought as to how to stop the rouncey. But when she spied a large stick and saw the mount trotting closer, she knew she had little choice. The risk was she would be trampled or struck.

  The risk was worth it.

  She jumped into its path, brandishing the stick and screaming as loud as she could. The noise pierced the air and sent birds fluttering from the trees. She thought it likely even Ieuan would have woken from his slumber.

  Hooves kicked, the horse whinnied. Metal horseshoes glinted in her vision and she waited for the inevitable impact. The ground rumbled beneath her when the horse landed, a mere pace away. Sure enough, the rider had been flung. She braved moving past the daunting creature and as the messenger pushed himself up from the ground, she swung the stick at his head. It made a sickening thud and the man collapsed into the mud.

  She turned her attention back to the horse who hadn’t managed to bolt because his reins had tangled around a branch. Rosamunde snatched up the missive from the mud and fisted it. Here was proof of Aron’s treachery.

  Before she darted back into the trees to make her way back to the keep, footsteps were upon her. Aron. He paused when he spotted the fallen man then he narrowed his gaze on her. She swung a glance around. Run down to the village? Try to push past him? He looked at the crumpled parchment in her hands and she saw his intention there. Snatch her or kill her mayhap, then take the message himself. With one swift rip, she tore the missive in two and flung it away. The wind carried the pieces away and down the hill. She grinned triumphantly at Aron.

  “Your message of treachery will go nowhere now.”

  He paced close as though approaching a horse that might startle at any moment. Would he harm her? The men must have heard her scream and would be upon them soon, surely? There was no tell-tale rumbling of the ground, however. No shouts or sound of impending rescue.

  Aron drew his sword and looked over her with cold disregard. She made to bolt left and he blocked her path. She darted right but he was there again, the steady point of his sword preventing her escape. Rosamunde spun then. She would run to the village.

  As she came upon the horse, who tugged upon the branch still, an arm latched around her waist and crushed the breath from her. Rosamunde fought her captor but her nails were useless against his leather gauntlets and the steely crush of his body.

  “Now I shall have to take the message myself,” he hissed in her ear. A hand came to her throat and encircled it. Panic threatened to close her throat. “And I shall take you too. The truth shall spill from your lips after mere days in the tower, I’d wager.”

  No screams escaped her, no words of protest. The press of his hand grew stronger and dark circles encroached on her vision. Her chest hurt with the need to draw breath while her eyes burned. Would she never see Ieuan again? Was she to die this day? Her frantic mind clawed for answers. Why strangle her if he needed her alive?

  And then her mind drifted to thoughts of what her survival might mean. Torture, imprisonment... she’d never break though. She would never betray Ieuan.

  Never.

  Her body convulsed and the blackness became whole.

  Chapter Twenty

  Ieuan didn’t need Huw telling him Rosamunde’s screams had been heard. The gut-clenching knowledge that she had been taken was no surprise. He’d known it as soon as he’d awoken—jolted from sleep by a sound his brain couldn’t comprehend. But the crawling itch making its way up his insides had told him it was to do with her.

  As he snatched his sword from the armoury, Huw thrust his mantle at him. “Screams coming from the mound,” he said curtly. “We have men in pursuit. ‘Tis Lady Rosamunde.”

  “Why was she out there?” he asked as he drew on the mantle, the fabric seeming to tangle itself around him. He cursed and pushed the wool out of the way so he could slide his sword into its hilt. He strode into the Great Hall, Huw on his heels.

  “Aron was with her. He is missing too.”

  “Hell fire and damn that man to hell.” There was his traitor. What other explanation was there? Rosamunde wouldn’t have been outside the castle gate unaccompanied, surely? He wasn’t even sure why she’d left his bed—not after last night.

  “Have my horse saddled.”

  “’Tis done.”

  His father and his men were awake and armed. With men and servants scurrying back and forth, it was no wonder. Ieuan barely slowed his pace when his father came to his side. “’Tis Rosamunde, aye?”

  “Aye. I suspect my man means to betray us. Why Rosamunde is involved, I know not, but I’ll not let the beast have her.”

  “I shall come with you.”

  He paused to eye his father. “There is no need. ‘Tis better that you go from here should I fail to catch up with them.”

  “I have placed you both in danger. I brought this ill fate upon you. I’ll not have it said Owain Glyndŵr is a coward.”

  His father was far from a coward, that they both knew. And none would blame him for going into hiding once more, but Ieuan appreciated his father’s support. Should they come up against the king’s men, he would need his blade.

  He scowled. It was the first time he’d ever felt thankful for his father.

  With their horses saddled, it wasn’t long before they were riding out through the village and onto the surrounding hills. Fresh hoof prints gave them indication of the direction Aron had taken. With his men in pursuit, it was hard to tell how many horses were following. He prayed it was enough. He prayed they were fast enough. Mostly he prayed to hold her once again. Rosamunde was an innocent in all of this—drawn in by the battles of men.

  Yet she had shown great courage at every moment. Would she still have her head lifted high, her shoulders straight? Or would the thought of being branded a traitor have her crying and slumped over? The last image shattered through him as though he’d received a blade to the chest. Lord, how he prayed not.

  “Be strong, anwylyd,” he murmured and hoped the wind would carry the words to her. If he concentrated, he was certain he felt her reaching out for him. Whatever had occurred between them recently, it seemed not even hills and miles of land could divide the connection.

  He loved her with all his heart. Inexplicably, that woman had burrowed under its stony walls and laid siege to his emotions. Her fate was entwined with his forevermore. If she died, so too would he.

  Therefore, he couldn’t allow it. He gripped the reins tighter and pushed the mount a fraction faster. He wanted his Rosamunde back.

  Ieuan and his father rode hard. While sunlight glinted behind jade hills, sweat rose from their horses in clouds of steam. He hadn
’t taken the time to put on chainmail or even a gambeson so his shirt clung to his skin. Swiping the dampness from his brow, he unfastened his mantle and tore it away, letting it float on the wind for a moment before it settled into the hoof-beaten mud. To his mind, even taking a moment to stow it away or drape it over his saddle was time wasted.

  When the rumble of their own horses became accompanied by that of others, only mild relief washed over him when he realised it was his own men. Up on the rise of a hill, he spotted them. They must have spied him too as they came to a standstill. And it was clear they did not have Rosamunde. He and his father rode up the crest of the rocky hill to join them.

  “What news?”

  “We’ve yet to catch sight of them, sir,” one of the men said. “But they are headed for the border.”

  He nodded. The horse tracks led down across the top of the hill—the speediest path to the border. “Let us continue.” He glanced around at the men here. “I am the fastest rider here. Should I come upon them, I will not wait.”

  “You would do better to wait for another blade, Ieuan,” his father warned.

  He shook his head. “My blade is enough. Should I catch up to her, I will not wait for her to slip away.”

  His father nodded solemnly. “I understand.”

  The fact was, should he find her, he couldn’t imagine delaying an attack in the hopes of support. He knew well enough, should he spot her, the desire to run Aron through, to have her safe in his arms, would drive him to attack, regardless of his situation. Whether that be wise or rational, he cared not.

  True to his word, he rode ahead, not waiting for his men or even his father. By the time he came upon the ruined remains of Pen-Y-Mynydd Castle, he was alone and likely would remain so for a good while. But he cared little for his lonely state once he spied a lone rider navigating the bluffs toward the ragged stone remnants. He drew his horse to a halt and narrowed his gaze at the rider. Sure enough, he seemed to be holding something—or someone.