There was a brief silence, and it wasn’t until Arthur spoke that Wynne realized she’d been holding her breath.
“But why?” the child asked in a suddenly trembling voice. “Why would you want him to go away?”
Wynne’s eyes flitted to Cleve’s, and though she couldn’t read his expression, she knew he waited for her to tell the truth—to reveal everything to Arthur. Before she could answer, however, Arthur continued.
“Is it because of the kiss? Because he took Druce’s reward?”
Wynne closed her eyes. Oh, how could she possibly explain that to the children? She reached out a hand to touch Arthur’s knee. “It goes far beyond what has happened during the past few days, Arthur. There are things I need to tell you and the other children.” She bit her lower lip nervously. “If you’ll come with me now, we’ll all of us have a long talk, and I’ll answer every one of your questions.”
To her chagrin Arthur did not respond at once. He looked up at Cleve as if for permission. Only when Cleve patted the boy’s shoulder reassuringly did Arthur look back at her.
He sighed. “All right. I’ll go.”
Wynne stood up, her hands clenched together at her waist, while Cleve lifted Arthur down, then stood up himself. “Go along, lad. Wynne and I will catch up with you in a moment.” Then he caught Wynne’s wrist to make sure she didn’t leave. “Go along,” he repeated, rumpling Arthur’s hair fondly. “Find the other children so they can all listen to what Wynne has to say. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Wynne watched Arthur disappear across the dark meadow with a sinking feeling in her chest. It wasn’t bad enough that she must face the five children tonight and explain the terrible circumstances of their births. Now she must also deal with Cleve.
As if to underscore her dismal thoughts, he jerked her to face him, none too gentle in the movement. “Now, mistress witch, are you going to end this ridiculous campaign of yours to chase me away? It should be clear by now that the only ones you hurt by your actions are the ones you are supposed to care for—your children. Only they’re not really your children, are they?”
“They are mine,” Wynne bit out angrily. “And no lleidr Englishman is going to steal them away on the pretext of bringing them to their father—if indeed this lord of yours is truly father to any of them.”
“If I wasn’t convinced he sired one of these five children before, I’m convinced of it now. We’ve found no other bastard offspring of the English of this age anywhere in Radnor Forest. I’ve spoken to Druce and Gwynedd and even old Taffydd.”
Wynne felt as if his words were a noose tightening around her. “The child might have died long ago. Or this woman your lord claimed bore his seed—she might not have brought the child to life. She might have lost it—perhaps even forced it from her womb as soon as he was gone.”
Even in the dark she could see the distaste on his face. “No God-fearing woman would do such a thing.”
“If she felt she bore the devil’s seed, she would. And no one would blame her for it! These were children of rape, remember? Brutal rape,” she went on, growing more and more hysterical. “Sometimes over and over again, by an endless stream—”
“Stop it!” he snapped. Then, in an unexpected movement, he pulled her hard against him, holding her there with one strong hand on her back and the other cupping her face to his chest. “Don’t dwell on a past that was so terrible. No good can come of it. You must think of the future now. Of these children’s future.”
Though his words came out in a harsh growl and his tone was demanding, Wynne found a most perverse comfort in them. More than anything she would like to put that dreadful time behind her, never to think of her sister’s tortured cries or her long months of suffering and horrible death. But how could she forget? The children were a constant reminder. And now he was here, confusing her, stirring up all these awful emotions. Old hatreds. New longings. And most of all fear. She was terrified of the new future that threatened to take from her everything she cared about.
For a moment longer she let herself rest against his strong body, not ready to resist him just yet. She was simply not strong enough. Then she took a shaky breath and forced her hands against his chest.
He didn’t budge. Nor did he loosen his grip in the least.
“Unhand me,” she muttered, embarrassed that she’d let herself go weak against him for even a moment. She should never have given him a glimpse of her vulnerability. Men like him—Englishmen—always took any advantage they could. She shoved at him harder. “I said, let me go!”
But for all her efforts she succeeded only in leaning far enough away to meet his inquisitive gaze. That was hardly her goal, but when she tried to look away, he tangled one of his hands in her loosened hair and forced her head back so that their faces were but inches apart.
“I’ll release you when you’ve heard me out and not before, Wynne. Do we understand each other?”
She glared rebelliously into his darkened face, yet she knew as well as he did that the choice was not hers. When he was satisfied by her silence that he had her attention, he cleared his throat.
“You must give them the truth, Wynne. Not colored by your own feelings or prejudices.”
Her jaw clenched. “And do you think the truth will not damn your people?”
She felt his sigh, for her breasts were pressed firmly against the gray kersey bliaut that covered his broad chest. “The children will not understand the horrors of war,” he replied. “Nor the horrors of rape. They’re too young to understand that such things happen, nor why.”
“Understand why?” She scoffed at the idea. “No woman can ever understand why rape happens. Nor war either. How can we? Only men understand those things—or at least they pretend they do.” Her gaze bored into his. “Maybe you can explain it to me, Sir Cleve. Why do men make war on each other? Why do they rape?” Then, unable to stop herself, she blurted out. “Have you ever raped a woman?”
He stiffened, and his hands tightened painfully on her arms. Then he thrust her an arm’s length away, as if she were a burning brand against his body.
“No! No, never.” He shook his head as if he sought to shrug off his anger. “Not all men are the same. Surely you know that. What of your friend, Druce—”
“Don’t you dare to compare the foul deeds of those English soldiers to Druce, nor to any of my people! We Cymry are a people apart from the likes of you!”
Once more he shook his head, but this time, even in the face of her contempt, he seemed to feel sorry for her. “You call yourself Seeress. The people of Radnor look to you for advice and guidance. Wisdom, even. And yet was ever a woman so unwise? So naive and innocent? We English are not so unlike you Welsh. There are both good and bad among us. Honest and dishonest. Loyal and disloyal.” He gave her a little shake, and his eyes burned into hers. “We are not so different, Wynne. There are men of Wales who rape and pillage amidst the insane glories of their wars. Do you think there are no Welsh bastards in the outlying villages of England?” He shook her again. “It is not right, not for either side. But we cannot change the fact that it has happened. These children you raise have English fathers. The fact that one of their fathers wishes to right the wrong he’s done should not condemn him in your eyes.”
“Nor should it exonerate him,” she answered, though the heat of anger had somehow fled her voice.
“He can’t change the past, Wynne. But he can change the future.”
But I don’t want him to, Wynne wanted to cry. Only she couldn’t.
A cold fear of that very future seemed to grip her, filling her with a terrible dread. She shivered, and when she did, he folded her into a warm embrace.
“I know this is hard for you,” he murmured against her hair.
Wynne squeezed her eyes tight against the tears that fought for release. “No, you can never know …”
She felt the movement of his throat as he swallowed, and against her chest his heart thudded strong and steady. Why had h
e come here? He’d disrupted her life thoroughly, and yet at that moment she was comforted by his presence. For a moment she could almost believe he was right and that his quest was a good one.
But to give up one of her children …
Her emotions were so raw, so tangled and painful, that she could hardly think straight. When he tilted her face up to his, she stared at him through eyes damp with tears. “I love them so,” she whispered, unable to control the tremble in her voice and the fear in her soul.
“I know,” he murmured back as his gaze swept her shadowed features. “And I …” He took a sharp breath, then groaned. “And I’ve been waiting to do this too long.”
The kiss he abruptly forced on her was not entirely unexpected, nor did Wynne pretend to herself that it was unwanted. A part of her had longed for this ever since their kiss earlier in the day, and yet she’d suppressed the very idea. It was too traitorous of her. Too absolutely foolhardy.
But now as his lips came down on hers without the least semblance of gentleness, she shed the need for pretense. It was too, too glorious, this press of warm, damp flesh to warm, damp flesh.
His lips parted hers so easily, as if it were always meant to be thus, and at once their tongues met in a wet and fiery battle. He pulled her tongue wholly into his mouth. Then when she surged excitedly to him, he thrust back, taking full possession of her mouth, filling her in the most erotic manner imaginable. He surged in and out, rubbing the sensitive inner surface of her lips, and something deep in her belly leaped to fire.
Unaware of what she did, Wynne pressed her belly hard against his muscular thighs and hips. He responded with equal fervor, and she felt the rigid contours of his quick arousal. He bit at her lip, then lifted her up off the ground, holding her fully within his grasp.
He kissed her as if this were a battle they fought, and some distant part of Wynne’s mind knew he fought to win. Yet in succumbing to him she felt not vanquished, but rather victorious.
He lifted her higher, with one arm tightly wrapped under her buttocks. Only when her face was above his, when she was lifted into the dark mist of the night, looking down into his face, so faintly lit by the silver moonlight, did she consider what she did. Her arms were wrapped about his neck. Her hands were filled with his hair. One of her legs was lifted, curved wantonly about his lean flank, and had anyone been about, the conclusions would have been obvious. They would be lovers. It was ordained by whatever powers governed both the earth and the stars—God the Father in heaven, or the Mother Goddess of the earth.
His eyes shone up at her with the most possessive of lights. Then he lowered his face and nuzzled the fine wool fabric that covered her chest. Nudging her amulet aside, he rubbed his cheeks against the soft peaks of her breasts, nipping at the loose, braided neckline with his teeth.
“Ah, woman. You are indeed a witch. Can you not make these unwieldy garments of ours disappear so that we may properly finish what we have begun?” Once more he rubbed against her breasts, seeking the taut nipples with his teeth.
“Oh,” she groaned as he found one, causing her to arch in mindless pleasure. “Cleve … oh, please …”
“Yes, yes. You do please me well. And I want nothing more than to do the same to you,” he murmured against the bared skin of her collarbone. His tongue found the gentle indentation above the bone, then trailed small, heated kisses along it to the soft hollow of her throat. She swallowed, and he marked the undulation with more fiery kisses up to her chin and then on until he found her lips once more.
“I want you, Wynne ab Gruffydd.” He kissed the words against her mouth. “My sweet seeress. My wicked Welsh witch …”
“Wynne? Are you out there?”
Like an icy stream of water, Druce’s voice brought Wynne to reality with an abruptness that had her sputtering. “Oh! Let me down! I must … I can’t …”
But Cleve would not let her go. He only let her slide down along the hard length of him, all the while holding her fast in his arms.
“Wynne is just discussing something with me,” he called through the darkness to Druce. “We’ll be in very shortly.”
There was a pause during which Wynne was acutely aware of every inch of Cleve’s body melded so intimately to hers. A part of her still yearned for more of the seductive thrill he filled her with. But the practical side of her struggled to break free.
“Shhh,” he admonished her with a forceful kiss that left her breathless all over again.
But Druce was not done with them. “Wynne?” he called once more, a trace of concern clear in his tone.
“I … I am here,” she managed to choke out. “Wait for me. I was … I was just coming in.”
She met Cleve’s still-ardent gaze and felt a sinking desperation when she spied the frustration on his face. One of his hands forced her face nearer his until their breath mingled. She truly thought she would faint from the terrible pull of too many divergent emotions.
“Ah, witch. You have but prolonged the moment when we shall find our pleasure in one another. If it is your intention to torture me, then you have well achieved your aim. But know this, cariad. My turn will come. And I promise you a sweet torture of your own.”
Then he kissed her hard and possessively, as if he meant never to release her. When he finally did set her free, Wynne stumbled back, disoriented, confused, and unable whatsoever to marshal her thoughts.
“Wynne!” Druce was nearer now, and his tone had become demanding.
“Yes … I … I’m coming,” she managed to answer him, though her eyes were riveted upon Cleve. The man was a sorcerer in his own right, her disjointed thoughts decided. And he was far too strong for her to stave off.
She jerked about and walked stiffly toward the distant lights from the manor, toward the vague outline that was Druce. At that moment Druce appeared a gift from a protective God, a savior sent to rescue her from the clutches of the devil himself.
“Are you all right?” he whispered when she reached him.
Wynne could only nod. She did not stop nor even pause. She only fixed her stare on the distant manor and continued across the meadow, unmindful of the tall grasses that parted before her and of the two sets of male eyes that followed her. She wished only to find a safe and private place where she could hide from prying eyes and try to mend her shattered nerves.
“What did you do to her?” Druce challenged when Cleve drew abreast of him.
Cleve gauged the other man’s reaction before answering. “I did what any hot-blooded man would do to her, given half a chance. I kissed her.” When Druce’s gaze narrowed, he went on. “Are you telling me you’ve never once tried to do the same?”
To Cleve’s surprise Druce looked away in quick chagrin, and his words came out awkwardly. “I’ve wanted to, I’ll admit as much. Most of the lads in the village have wanted to. But no one’s ever boasted of succeeding.”
A sudden rush of possessive feelings caught Cleve unaware. She’d not kissed another as she’d kissed him!
He and Druce fell in step together, both aware of the slight form that hurried on ahead of them. Cleve cleared his throat. “Has she not been promised to any other man, then?”
Their muffled footsteps and the cry of a nighthawk somewhere beyond the tree line was the only sound for a few moments. Then Druce sighed as if in resignation. “This is not England. While a father may deny his daughter permission to marry a man of whom he does not approve, no Welshwoman may be forced into a marriage she does not want. As Seeress, and with no father to guide her, Wynne’s choice is even more her own.” He shrugged. “Though at one time or another we’ve all thought to win her, she’s never allowed any man to court her. We thought perhaps she never would. But now …”
His words trailed off into the night air, but not before they had imprinted themselves on Cleve’s brain. Court her. Was that what he was doing? He suppressed an uncomfortable spurt of guilt. He was betrothed to Lord William’s youngest daughter—or at least he would be, once he succee
ded in returning Lord William’s bastard son—or sons—to him. So why was he dallying with this woman whom he must necessarily abandon?
Wynne’s earlier words suddenly rang in his memory. “Have you ever raped a woman?” she’d asked. Though he had not, he knew nonetheless that he had deliberately seduced more than his fair share. And he’d very nearly succeeded in seducing Wynne tonight. If Druce had not interrupted them …
“I’ll bid you good night,” Cleve spoke curtly to Druce as he veered toward the English encampment.
“Wait. I would know—” Druce broke off, then after a moment’s consideration continued. “What are your intentions toward her?”
Cleve took a slow breath. What indeed? “She is a beautiful and intriguing woman.”
“I doubt you’ve any maidens in England quite like her,” Druce boasted, abandoning his cautious tone. “If you’ve a mind to win her over, well, I wish you good luck. You shall need it,” he added with a lighthearted chuckle. “Mind you, however, do not press her beyond where she would go, else you shall answer to me.” Then he turned and walked away, still laughing despite his last warning.
But though he had heard Druce’s words, and even wondered at the man’s amusement, Cleve was too consumed by his lingering desire for Wynne to think clearly. How he wanted that woman, prickly rose though she was. Yet he could not escape the guilty feelings that assailed him. He would have her if he could, and then what? Leave for England with one of her children in tow? What if there was a child of their joining?
She could avoid that, he told himself. She was a healer, after all—a witch, as she so often proclaimed. She must know all the methods to avoid bearing an unwanted child.
Yet if she was as untried as Druce said … If she was truly a virgin …
Cleve flung himself down on his blanket, curled one arm beneath his head, and stared up at the faint form of the moon behind the high, leading clouds. Of course she was a virgin. Why should he ever have thought otherwise?
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