Only when his smile broadened and he leaned toward her as if to take another nibble, did she come out of her stupor.
“No!” she cried, jerking away. But his grip on her wrist held. Beneath her other hand she suddenly became aware of his thigh, so hard and firm beneath the thin layer of his fine woolen braies. So warm and unfamiliar.
“Let go of me,” she muttered, refusing to meet his eyes.
His hand shifted slightly upon her skin, but did not loosen. “Only after you complete your ministrations,” he answered, amusement clear in his tone.
She resisted the urge to glare at him, for in her present unsettled state, she feared the devastating impact of his eyes. “Let me go now!”
“Only after you put the salve on my hands,” he replied with maddening persistence. “You deliberately sent me to that bed of noxious weeds. Now you shall see me healed.”
In the end Wynne deemed it prudent to comply. Though she was infuriated by his bullying tactics and dismayed by his bold overtures, she could think of nothing else to do. If she went along with him, he would let go of her wrist. If she just slapped the potion onto his hands, she could escape his overpowering presence.
And at the moment escape was the most important thing. She had to get away from him.
Yet even submitting to his demand did little for her peace of mind. As she scooted back from him, glancing swiftly—almost desperately—around for any sort of help, he chuckled.
“ ’Tis only you and I, my fair Welsh witch. No one else is near, so do not try to delay. Apply your wondrous ointment with its mystical healing powers. Heal me where I burn.”
She scowled at him. “I despise you,” she hissed as she snatched up the small pottery bowl. She scooped out a glob of the yellow goo and practically flung it onto his hand.
“Careful. My skin is very tender. And be sure you work it between my fingers. Here also, in the creases of my palms.” In anger she grabbed his outstretched hand, hoping she hurt him with her rough handling. But when his hand curled around hers, his fingers twining with her own, she knew she suffered far more discomfort than he, for her entire being seemed to jump with awareness of him.
“This spot in the very center of my palm is especially sensitive,” he murmured, holding her eyes captive with his. “Rub it in very gently.”
Wynne hardly remembered applying the salve. She had never worked so quickly—nor fumbled so badly. Once the task was done, however, she jumped up and backed away.
“I despise you,” she vowed once more, though that vehement statement was sorely weakened by the shaky quality of her voice.
His mocking eyes raked over her. “I desire you,” he replied. “Very much.”
Wynne did not stay to hear any more. He was the most horrible man she’d ever had the misfortune to run across, she swore as she fled to the manor house. A godless heathen. A heartless bastard. A man who would steal babies and seduce women—
Cleve’s thoughts followed a similar path to Wynne’s as he watched her flee. She was truly a witch, worshiping ancient gods not known to the one true faith. But she was heartbreakingly beautiful. Though he’d come here to procure Sir William’s child from her, at the moment all he could think of was how much he wanted to touch her. How badly he needed her in his bed.
She was as exquisite as any rose, though she bristled now with thorns. But if he could just get near enough and get past those sharp edges of hers, he knew his reward would be sweet indeed.
8
BEYOND THE OPEN DOOR of the stone kitchen building, Cook bustled back and forth, busier than was normal with her tasks. The manor household numbered only six adults and five children, so the seven English visitors had a profound impact on her work, Wynne realized. Added to that, Druce—loyal friend that he was—had come up from Radnor Village with his brother and two others. Although Wynne was pleased by his show of support in the face of the English threat, it did, however, complicate things for her.
She clutched the small pouch in her fist as she peered into the kitchen. How was she going to manage it? She dared not involve Cook or her helper in this plot. Gwynedd would be furious enough, and Wynne did not wish for her aunt’s anger to fall on anyone else. She herself would shoulder the blame—the credit, she amended bitterly. But how she would manage to sicken only the Englishmen was proving a most difficult problem.
She ruled out the gravy for the venison. Everyone would partake freely of it, and besides, if one of the men proved to be a glutton, he could easily take too much. She glanced down anxiously at the ground root of yew in the pouch. She didn’t want to do any permanent harm to the Englishmen. She just wanted to frighten them away.
Maybe in the wine. If she slipped it into one of the ewers and then was careful to fill the Englishmen’s goblets from only that particular ewer …
She knew she couldn’t put it in the pears or the soft cheese. The children too often sneaked a taste before the meal or begged Cook for an extra serving afterward. No, it had to be the wine. None of the children would be tasting the wine.
She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. This was the only way, she reassured herself. She had to rid them of their enemy, no matter how Gwynedd might react.
She still could not understand her aunt’s easy acceptance of the loss of one of the children. Though Gwynedd had never married or had children, the old woman had raised the orphaned Wynne as her own. Would Gwynedd have given her niece up to the first Englishman who’d come along, claiming her as his own? Wynne knew she would not. And Wynne was just as unlikely to give up one of her charges. Why couldn’t Gwynedd understand that?
She saw Druce across the yard—speaking to that despicable Cleve FitzWarin. Shoving the pouch into the working purse that hung from her girdle, she strode toward them, the hem of her bliaut flaring. She was determined that the Englishman not try to smooth-talk Druce as he’d obviously done with Gwynedd. To a poor Welsh lad like Druce, the Englishman’s offer to make one of the children so wealthy might sound awfully enticing. Castles. Vast demesnes. She could not take the chance that FitzWarin might try to sway her one ally away from her.
“—tin mines. But that’s farther south,” Druce was saying in a guarded tone as Wynne drew near.
“I’ve also orders for potions and special herbs,” Cleve said.
Druce looked up at Wynne’s approach. “You should speak to Wynne about that. She’s the one who knows the herbs. She gathers them and prepares them to suit her customers. She’s received orders from as far away as Anglesey—”
“Could you seek out the boys?” she interrupted Druce. “If you’ll recall, you promised to help them make bows and a target.”
Druce gave her a steady look. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather I stay with you?” He gestured with his head toward Cleve as though the man were not there.
Wynne shrugged, emulating Druce’s nonchalance. “I’ve no intention of lingering to speak with him.”
“Actually I want to speak to you about purchasing some specific herbal remedies,” Cleve stated, ignoring her words completely.
“I’m not selling anything to you. Anything,” she repeated dismissingly.
“I’ve come with coins to pay,” he insisted. His lean face showed the faintest hint of a grin, trebling her irritation. He hefted the purse hanging beneath his tunic.
At the clinking sound elicited, Druce’s brows arched in interest. “You know, Wynne, you do have a need of coin. Remember? You were saying just last week—”
“I’ll thank you to let me decide what I do and do not need.” She made an exasperated face at him.
Druce sighed and gave a frustrated shake of his head. He glanced from her to Cleve. “Talk or don’t talk. You’re both on your own.” Then, avoiding meeting her furious glare, he ambled away.
Wynne would have left as well, for in spite of her irritation toward Druce, at least she’d succeeded in separating him from the Englishman. Druce was her only ally. She didn’t want the Englishman to win him over wi
th his glib promises. But as she turned on her heel, she was halted by FitzWarin’s hand on her arm.
“You’re always fleeing me, Wynne,” he said, drawing out her name in a manner that was far too familiar. “We’ve business together.”
“I’ll not do business with you,” she vowed, shrugging out of his grasp. “Not this pretense of purchasing herbs, nor the true purpose of your presence here. I’ve nothing whatsoever to sell to you!”
“By damn, but you are a fiery little dragon, aren’t you? But for once you’ll hear me out. Now, the women of Kirkston Castle had me commit their orders to memory.” He dragged her over to a wooden garden bench and pushed her down upon it. “Don’t interrupt my litany, or I’ll be forced to begin again.”
Though she glared at him, not attempting in the least to disguise her outrage to be manhandled thus, he released her and straightened up with a half smile. “Lady Anne wished shepherd’s-heart and thousand-leaf. The Lady Bertilde desires althea root and lad’s love for her babe, and something for her husband’s ailment: ground thistle, sea parsley, and Juno’s tears.”
Wynne snorted contemptuously at that. Lady Bertilde’s husband obviously needed to improve his performance in the marriage bed if his wife sought Juno’s tears. But Cleve’s quick scowl warned her to silence before she could speak.
“Catherine asks only for woodruff. And Edeline—” He broke off, and for a moment Wynne actually thought he looked uncomfortable. But why?
“Edeline wants a decoction of rose hips. Plus linden flowers to keep her complexion clear; chamomile for a hair rinse; and belladonna to deepen her eyes.” He shrugged as if to say he had no idea what deepening the eyes meant, but Wynne knew. Almost any portion of that plant, properly prepared and taken in small drops, caused the center of the eyes to grow larger, giving a mysterious dark-eyed cast to an otherwise ordinary woman. But it was a dangerous remedy, even for medicinal purposes. Using it for cosmetic reasons was completely foolhardy.
“This Edeline, she is vain and frivolous, I take it.”
To her surprise her scornful words only increased his discomfort. But he quickly hid it behind his reply. “Her only failing is that she is very young. She will settle down once she is wed.”
But Wynne was in no mood to be charitable to anyone, least of all a vain and frivolous English girl who’d probably never suffered a moment’s want in her entire life. No, nor any heartbreak, pain, nor suffering either.
“Why, Sir Cleve,” she sneered. “You speak as if you are the one who must wed her but do fear to admit what a pitiful pairing you do make.”
She’d thought only to make a general attack on the horrible nature of all English people by her criticism of the absent Edeline. But the oddest sensation suddenly overwhelmed her. Not a vision precisely. Still she knew at once that he did plan to marry this silly English noblewoman.
Wynne should have rejoiced at her discovery and laughed out loud to know what a misery awaited him in England. But instead of mirth she felt only another spurt of unreasoning anger toward him.
“So I am right. Well, perhaps when I make up the belladonna for your Lady Edeline, I should also prepare something for you. Something that will fire your ardor a little higher. Or no, maybe what you need more is a good portion of thorn apple, so that you may attract some more congenial woman to your side.”
She tapped one finger against her chin and paused as if in consideration, not in the least dismayed by the warning look in his eyes. If anything, his growing temper urged her on. “You know, it could be only that your manners are so crude. I’ve noticed that myself. If your wooing were less rough and more persuasive instead …” She leaned back and gave him a disdainful glance. “Oh, well. I doubt even I can help you in your plight. Englishmen haven’t the vaguest notion of how to please a woman—”
“I pleased you.” He bit out the words, giving her an insultingly thorough once-over. “Very well, as I recall. And Wynne, you pleased me.”
“That’s not—I didn’t—you—” Wynne broke off her sputtering under his gloating stare. Though she knew her cheeks were stained with heated color, she shook her head in denial. “I loathed that kiss,” she swore, though she knew it was a complete lie. “No doubt your tepid bride will loathe them as well!”
They glared at each other from across a span of only inches, her eyes bright with anger and his darkening now to fury. He was taller, stronger, and clearly able to punish her for her hateful words, but at that moment fear was the last emotion she felt. She was filled instead with a strange exhilaration, as if she were girded for battle, ready to ride out and face her enemy, even though it might be a fight to the death. Blood surged in her veins; every muscle in her body tensed for the conflict.
When he jerked her to her feet therefore, pressing her fully against him and lowering his head to hers, she was completely unprepared for the response that ripped through her. Oh, this was indeed a battle, she dimly realized when his mouth caught hers. The struggle for dominance, lips against lips and tongue against tongue, was never so fiercely fought. His arms sought to still her; his violent kiss struggled to make her submit. But Wynne was a warrior, too, and as her mouth opened to the wondrous onslaught of his tongue, she thrust back, seeking to make him submit this time.
In this oldest of struggles they were the newest combatants. He found fresh territory, cupping her derriere and pressing his fingers, despite the bulk of her skirts, into the unchartered place between her thighs. She fought back by circling his neck with her hands, claiming his thick hair with her fingers, holding his head where she would have it, preventing him from ending the kiss.
They strained together, chest to breast, rigid loins to concave belly, until their need for breath broke them slightly apart.
“You are drug enough,” he muttered against her temple, seeking her ear with his lips even as he gasped for breath. “Do you know, my fiery little dragon, my thorny rosebud, just how you fire my blood? Do you know all the things I would like to do to you? With you?” He punctuated that with an almost painful tug on her earlobe with his teeth, then a slow, stirring kiss in the same place.
Wynne arched instinctively against him. It was as if every portion of her body were connected to and controlled by the touch of his mouth. No matter where he used it—upon her lips, her neck, her ear—she had no defense against it. Nor did she want one either. For that one perfect moment when he pressed her belly hard against the rigid arousal beneath his braies, she understood the thrill of battle that men spoke of. The blood lust they described with glowing eyes and raised voices. She wanted to wage this battle ceaselessly, to fight him in this sultry, drowning manner until they were both burned to cinders in the fire.
She turned her face toward his seeking lips, blindly groping for more as her hands tightened around his neck. But he pulled slightly away and held her, with one hand tangled in her hair, so that she was forced to stare deep into his eyes.
“Where can we go?” he murmured as his eyes roamed her flushed face. He bent forward to capture her lower lip very briefly, sucking on it but refusing to satisfy her with the deep kiss she wanted. “Where can we be alone to finish this—”
“Wynne!”
The sharp cry of an alarmed child sent Wynne and Cleve stumbling apart. For a moment she was too disoriented to respond. She only stared at the worried faces of Rhys and Madoc, looked back at Cleve, then turned once more to the confused twins.
“Rhys. Madoc. What … ah … that is, did you—did someone need me?”
Madoc continued to stare at her with mouth agape. But Rhys turned to scowl at Cleve. “What did you do to Wynne? If you hurt her, then … then I’ll hurt you back.” He started toward Cleve, followed after only an instant by his brother.
“No. No, Rhys. Wait, boys,” Wynne interjected. “It’s all right. He wasn’t … he wasn’t hurting me.”
They stopped, still confused by the situation, but obviously relieved that the man they’d grown to like had not betrayed them. Little did th
ey know, Wynne thought as a wave of humiliation washed over her. Not only would this man willingly rip them from their home and family, but she—she who loved each of the children so desperately—was apparently ready to capitulate in his favor at the mere touch of him.
She took a shaky step back, pressing one hand to her throat and the other to her kiss-swollen lips. What had possessed her to behave so with him? And why, even now, did her very blood seem to run hotter and faster in her veins?
“Was that …” Madoc’s gaze turned curious. “Was that a wet kiss? You know, like Barris said?”
“Madoc!” Wynne risked a glance at Cleve only to see him beginning to grin at the boys.
“That was indeed a wet kiss, Madoc. But where have you two heard of wet kisses before?” Cleve asked.
Rhys answered. “Barris said that if Druce chased the—well—the English away, that maybe Wynne would give him a reward. You know, a big wet kiss—”
Wynne wanted nothing more than to creep into the thick grove of beechwood behind them and disappear. Why must her children choose now to practice their honesty? Why couldn’t they be as evasive with this man as they so often could be with her?
“Go on back to the manor,” she interrupted before they could say anything further. But Cleve was apparently enjoying himself too much to let them leave just yet.
“Wait, lads. Just tell me whether Wynne rewarded Druce as Barris had suggested.” He turned the full force of his grin upon her, watching her with a gloating expression and yet still somehow conveying the very disturbing impression that he could devour her with only his eyes.
“Well, of course not,” Madoc replied with the simple reasoning of a six-year-old. “He didn’t chase you away. You came here, so he can’t get his reward.”
Rexanne Becnel Page 9
