A Lord for Haughmond

by K. C. Helms

  Without returning her gaze, Rhys dropped down on the bench beside her. “I thought only of you. As proxy, I can mitigate your anguish on the morrow. We cannot undo the king’s edict, but I wished to be with you, to lend you succor during the marriage ceremony.” He shook his head with a dejected look in her direction and took hold of her hand, gripping it tighter when she attempted to pull away.

  His words came in a rush. “Edward is angry. He does not appreciate my meddling and has embarrassed me apurpose. ’Tis a fault I willingly accept. You have been shamed, thereto.” A hiss of air escaped through his lips. “I meant you no harm.” He released her hand and stared at his trencher. “The king is an insensitive brute.”

  ’Twas true, her anguish had begun with the king and his despotic edicts. He was becoming as tyrannical as King John. Add the mockery from those within the hall, and the shame was far worse. A chill coiled around her heart. She had never felt so helpless.

  Sir Dafydd must own the fault!

  Anne flung her arms about Katherine. “How can you endure this shame?” she asked, her voice breaking.

  Katherine recalled the image of a shining cross, took strength from it. She disengaged herself from her sister’s cold fingers, knowing what must be done. “I have given my troth to the king.” She arose and faced Rhys with as much dignity as could be mustered. “My sacrifice for England commences on the morrow and thereafter, I must needs secure our lands against the Welsh. I must make ready. I bid you good eventide, sir knight.”

  With a startled glint, Rhys scrambled to his feet, capturing her hand again. Much to the captivated delight of the nearby spectators, he placed a lingering kiss within its palm.

  She swallowed the suffocating lump in her throat and turned aside, her fingers curling protectively around the precious kiss.

  “Come, Anne.” When her sister stood, she looped her arm through Anne’s. “We needs pack our belongings for the journey homeward.”

  Anne winced at her touch and she loosened her grip.

  “Recall you how Father provisioned and protected all who depended upon his lordship?” She asked, forcing a calm voice.

  “Yea, ’tis our turn to gather weapons and provisions?” Anne responded eagerly.

  Katherine nodded, keeping her gaze straight ahead, avoiding the stares directed at them. “The village needs to be safeguarded. Thank the saints planting time has not yet arrived, else our crops could be destroyed.” She strode through the crowded hall with Anne in tow and continued in a toneless voice, “When we are returned home, you must assist me, Anne. Haughmond will need us both to survive the coming months.”

  The royal falconer and a servant came hurrying through the passageway enroute to the mews, bearing along the king’s forgotten goshawk. As the men brushed past, the little bells attached to the bird’s feet jangled—the sound of captivity.

  A shiver of rage coursed through Katherine. She envisioned herself similarly ensnared by Sir Dafydd. She shuddered at the thought of that filthy moustache coming near to her, kissing her mouth. What had she gained with this royal bargain? A woman never achieved the upper hand. Sir Dafydd would have her castle, her people, her revenues. Sir Dafydd had won everything dear to her, including herself, to do with as he pleased.

  His chattel.

  Having endured Sir Geoffrey’s influence aplenty, she knew she would have no voice in her future. Would not the son be as despicable as his sire?

  But this day, this day alone, she yet had a choice—if she dared to pursue her plan.

  * * *

  ’Twas long past dusk when Katherine stirred. She moved stealthily, hoping not to disturb the other ladies and their curiosity. ’Twas a sin what she intended.

  Certes, she would repent on the morrow.

  She swung her long mantle over her shoulders and without a backward glance snatched up the only oil lamp in the chamber and slipped out the door. Down the curving stone steps she went and out into the bailey and through the sea of tents to the smallest and plainest.

  “Rhys!” Her breath created a steamy cloud in the dark cold air. Holding the small lamp aloft, her shadow gyrated across his pale canvas like an impassioned monster. “Rhys!”

  A grumble came from within the tent and a moment later Simon, in only his linen chausses, stuck his head past the flap.

  “Is Rhys within?” she demanded.

  “He is abed!” came the squire’s whispered reply. He glanced about and frowned. “What do you, wandering about unescorted?”

  “I needs speak with Rhys.” She brushed past him and found him stretched out along one side of the tent, bundled beneath a blanket on his thin mattress. “Rhys!” She shook his shoulder.

  The knight rose on an elbow and squinted into the flickering light. “What is amiss, Sweetling?”

  Captivated by his handsome looks, she gulped in dismay. Mayhap this was not a sound idea. The bare skin of his muscular arms rippled in the lamp light with his movement. The nasty laceration on his shoulder had knitted well, though ’twas yet a puckered red scar. Even so, Rhys looked splendid with his tossled hair and golden beard. Nay, he looked more than splendid—he looked lusciously desirable.

  Warmth filled the pit of her stomach.

  Before she had time to reconsider, before she lost confidence, she rushed out her plan. “I have decided I shan’t be a virgin when I wed on the morrow. I should require your assistance in this matter.”

  Behind her, Simon let loose a spewing cough.

  Rhys blinked once, twice, then started laughing uproariously. He fell back onto the mattress, his eyes sparkling with mirth.

  Taken aback by his reaction, Katherine thumped her lamp down on a leather chest. She crossed her arms, striving to hold up her fractured confidence, standing in silent umbrage until the knight sputtered into silence.

  “You cannot be serious,” he finally managed, raising himself back onto his elbow.

  “I am deadly serious. Sir Dafydd does not deserve the compliment of a virgin bride.”

  Expecting a response, all she got was his silent stare.

  Simon, muttering something unintelligible, swung out of the tent.

  “I seek your assistance,” she finally cried. “Will you take my maidenhead so Sir Dafydd can not have that claim?”

  Shaking his head, Rhys replied, “Nay, Katherine, I cannot dishonor you.”

  “’Tis no dishonor,” she protested. “’Tis an honest request. I beseech your help.”

  Rhys sat up, drawing the coverlet up around his bare shoulders. “I cannot do this deed, not on the eve you are wed.”

  “I thought you loved me.”

  “Yea, Katherine, with all my heart, but—”

  “Then help me!”

  “Nay, Sweetling. I can love you dearly, but you are promised to Sir Dafydd. You shall be his wife in every aspect. I will not trespass.”

  Frantic and frustrated, she could barely catch her breath. Did Rhys love her, how could he relinquish her so effortlessly?

  If roles were reversed, her sentiments for Rhys would never allow her to reject him.

  Shattered, staring down into Rhys’s silent, unflinching gaze, she realized ’twas a joust of wills, and one she could not win.

  So be it!

  Squaring her shoulders, she snatched up the lamp and whirled away.

  “Where are you going?” he asked sharply.

  “To find someone more willing.”

  She flung aside the tent flap and ducked out into the darkness. What was she to do? She had vowed she wouldn’t be a virgin when she wed Sir Dafydd. Divine guidance in the chapel had set her on this course. It hadn’t seemed a half-fledged scheme.

  But at present, stranded in the dark, she had sudden doubts.

  In dismay, she stood in the midst of the narrow muddy path with her misgivings overwhelming her. Then, through the flickering light, poised betwixt the tents, she spied the shivering squire.

  “Simon,” she called. Catching up her flowing mantle, she hurried after him.
“Simon, wait!”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Canting his head, Rhys heard Katherine’s gown sweep the grass and disappear into the night. Then came her frantic voice.

  “Simon, wait!”

  He bolted into action, scrambling from the pallet. Having spent years schooling in the art of warfare, he was wholly unprepared for the roiling emotions plowing through him.

  Simon had better not lay so much as one finger on Katherine!

  Clad only in his loin cloth, Rhys darted after her. Losing her momentarily in the darkness, he heard her voice again and raced on.

  “Will you or will you not?”

  He spied her determined face flickering in the lamplight betwixt two tents.

  Shoving past Simon, he took hold of Katherine’s wrist and yanked her to him. “My squire will not accommodate you, Madame!” His nose thrust down to hers. “’Tis madness what you ask!”

  “’Tis desperation,” she cried and promptly burst into tears.

  Lifting the lamp from her trembling hand when it threatened to spill, he enfolded her in his arms. Her pathetic sobs tugged at his heartstrings. “Seek a bed elsewhere this night, Simon. ’Twill take time to settle this matter.”

  “’Tis freezing out here,” the squire complained through chattering teeth. He rubbed his arms vigorously and stomped back toward the tent.

  “Thank you,” Katherine whispered unsteadily, looking up into Rhys’s face.

  “’Tis naught of thanks, Sweetling,” he murmured. “But of— ”

  He stopped himself before he repeated her distraught words. Forsooth, his actions were equally desperate. The thought of his beloved in another man’s arms made him tremble with rage. ’Twas worse than any wound the Welsh had dispensed.

  With an arm tightly about her waist, Rhys guided her back to his tent. Simon came staggering out beneath an armful of bedding. He held the tent flap aloft while his squire disappeared into the night with another disgruntled oath.

  He set the lamp on a traveling chest and turned to Katherine to admonish her for her foolish behavior. But she was before him, wrapping her arms about his waist. “Thank you, Rhys,” she whispered.

  “’Tis impossible— ”

  “I shall be forever grateful— ”

  “I haven’t said I would!”

  Helpless, standing with his arms in midair, he dared not touch Katherine. The scent of her—delicate lavender—blasted his senses, startled him with an intense longing. Jesu, ’twas impossible to touch her without losing himself.

  “You haven’t said you would not.” Katherine looked up into his eyes. She was too close for him to think with clarity. “But you needs guide me, for I have no knowledge of such things.”

  ’Twas akin to igniting a fire! He must extinguish the flame, even as it burst to life within him.

  “Katherine, Katherine, ’tis revenge you seek. Ought I know it?” Anger was his best defense. Taking hold of her arms, he gave her a small shake. “If done aright, ’tis an act of love betwixt a man and a woman. It must not be revenge.”

  With fresh tears in her eyes, she cast her sorrow up at him. “’I am not being given to a loving husband. He will not love me and I will not love him. He is Sir Geoffrey’s spawn.” Her tone dripped with contempt. “I am repulsed by him. I am sickened by the abhorrent idea of him kissing me.”

  Rhys went cold inside at her words. Hatred engulfed her, twisted her lips into a snarl. Gone was her sweetness and tenderness. Gone was empathy and kindness, and with it, hope.

  By all that was holy she needed to renounce him. He had tried everything in his power to bring it about, but she had ignored it all. She continued to ignore his innuendoes. Mayhap they were too subtle, for here she stood, brazenly demanding that he take her maidenhead.

  Her desperation would destroy them both, should he succumb to the tantalizing temptation—to the delight—of cradling her hips in his hands and entering her as no man had. Beset by the wondrous notion, his body reacted, his loins tightening and throbbing with anticipation.

  He wanted her more than anything—to hold her, to kiss her, to probe her depths—to give her pleasure. He had dreamt of the wondrous moment when they would come together as one, when they would lie together as husband and wife.

  But his quest for vengeance had poisoned that hope.

  With hatred draining her, how could Katherine ever find love with her husband?

  He dropped his hands to his sides and heaved a stuttering breath, trying desperately to quell his ardor. “’Tis more than kissing, Sweetling.”

  Katherine stared at him blankly and he realized she had no idea what he meant. “Know you what occurs in the marriage bed?” he asked quietly.

  Her eyes widened. Then she dropped her head, hiding her face against his chest.

  “Nay,” came her whisper.

  Rhys’s heart stilled. “Has no one explained to you what happens betwixt a man and a woman?”

  Katherine’s cheek brushed against his bare chest as she shook her head.

  His mouth went dry.

  “Will you?”

  “Will I what?” Once again his voice sounded harsh. Silently he chided himself. ’Twas not what he intended, but these fearsome emotions consuming him were, thereto, not planned apurpose.

  His instinct had been to protect Katherine, to fend off menacing perils. But while he had done, she had learned to trust him.

  He wasn’t free to love her. Other plans were in place the day he had stumbled upon Sir Robert’s daughters. This journey had been plotted with great care. Geoffrey de Borne was to pay the price for his wrongdoing. Naught must hinder his goal.

  Not even Katherine, whom he loved beyond reason. He had protected her from others but not from himself.

  He had grown accustomed to her manner, her quick wit, her dark sparkling eyes when she found something humorous. He admired her pluck and her strength. Never had he known a woman like her. And no matter the means he had sought to turn her affections from him, her certainty in him was steadfast. The captain of the castle guard should be so fortunate as to garner such faithful devotion from his troops.

  If only he could trust her.

  Therein lay the rub. She would not intentionally spill his secret. But ’twas inevitable when her face reflected her emotions and she spoke without thought. He’d lose the element of a surprise attack. To be sure, consequences would follow. Geoffrey de Borne possessed a vindictive nature.

  ’Twas not to be chanced. Naught must befall his mother. His promise to safeguard her, no matter the danger to himself, must be kept at all costs.

  Gladly would he have dispatched Sir Geoffrey to his maker that day in the castle storeroom, had it not been needful to protect Katherine from King Edward’s suspicions. With Haughmond in dispute, ’twould be easy for her to be blamed. She must not be tainted by the slaying.

  ’Twas meet that Geoffrey de Borne had lost Haughmond. And erelong, justice would be served at the end of his sword.

  Only then could he deal with Katherine.

  This intimacy she demanded would send him over the edge. How could he leave her afterwards? He loved her too dearly for a compromise of that magnitude. She must learn to depend upon her husband, and him alone.

  Katherine turned her head and looked up at him. “Will you instruct me?”

  Her pleading whisper wrenched his heart, stole his breath from him.

  He backed away from her hold. “Dear heart, there’s naught else I desire, but— ”

  With a gladsome cry, Katherine came at him in a rush and threw her arms about his neck. Lifting her face, she pressed her lips to his.

  The battle was lost. He caught her, lifting her off the ground, holding her as though she’d disappear. A moment later she was lying on his mattress and he was leaning over her, kissing her mouth, her eyelids, her neck. He was sure he’d drown in the delight of the emotions pitching through him. Katherine’s lips, meeting his own with an intensity he hadn’t expected, robbed him of his very soul.
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  Slathering kisses upon her, his hands roved across the contours of her body, spurred on by her gasps and murmurs and her hands clutching desperately at his face. Her lips searched for his in the flickering light. Gladly he claimed them once more.

  Rising onto his knees, he straddled her hips. In the next instant Katherine’s gown disappeared over her head and she lay naked to his eyes.

  “Sweet Winifred!” she exclaimed, shock infusing her voice. She covered herself, one hand clutching her breasts, the other covering the apex of her legs.

  “Nay, Dearest, ’tis necessary if you are to lose your blasted virginity.”

  Rhys tugged her resisting arm from her breasts. A deep flush bathed her cheeks at his thorough examination. Her arm returned to shield herself. Smiling, he entwined his fingers with hers. Lifting her hand away, he pressed his lips to her fingers.

  “Nay, Sweetling, you are most beautiful, as nature endowed you. Let me find delight in you.” Removing her other hand from betwixt her legs, it too, was drawn to his lips. “Let me behold your beauty,” he said, his eyes roaming her length.

  Her breasts, soft and round and ruby tipped, beaconed to him. Her waist, trim and lithe, begged for his attention, his touch.

  Katherine started as his hand slid across her belly and captured a soft, beckoning breast.

  “With practice, I misdoubt me you’ll soon find my touch more agreeable. I promise to be gentle, Sweetling,” he murmured, giving her an encouraging smile.

  Katherine’s eyes, so large and dark in the flickering light, stared up at him. ’Twas more of confusion than fear. Once again she was an artist’s fancy, with her emotions painted on her face.

  Her eyelids fluttered. “Shall we be finished erelong?” she stammered breathlessly.

  Rhys sucked in his breath. “Nay, Dearling, ’tis not uncommon for such to occupy most of the night.”