She lifted her face to the stinging rain and let her eyes accustom themselves to the pitch-blackness of the storm. Even through the heavy clogs she could sense the gravel path that led toward the animal sheds. A hedge of roses, bent almost to the ground in the wind, loomed to her right, and she knew that the cedar grove was off beyond it.
A sudden flash of lightning lit the low-hanging clouds from above, then another. For a moment the manor grounds were lit with a pale and ghostly light. There was no color. All was shades of gray, light and shadow, with everything wet and washed out. Yet still she saw plainly the English encampment, shared now by the Welshmen as well.
Their fire was long gone, marked only by a blackened heap and a circle of lumpy forms. Each man was huddled under his own blanket, taking what miserable rest he could under the circumstances. The white tent Cleve had brought was flapping wildly, revealing several more huddled men crowded into it.
Wynne felt a flash of sincere compassion for them all. In the two minutes she’d been outside, her feet and lower legs had already become soaked. It wouldn’t take long for even her heavy mantle to be wet through and through. She hurried toward the camp, holding her hood in place with one hand and the front of her mantle snug with the other.
“Druce. Druce!” she called though the rain pounded in her face.
“I’m here, Wynne,” he answered from the edges of Cleve’s tent.
She gave him a disapproving look. Better that he be huddled in the storm than to be housed in an English shelter. But then, he seemed to be more in agreement with Cleve FitzWarin these days than with her.
“Come inside the manor,” she shouted, though without the least amount of graciousness in her tone. “You needn’t sleep in this storm.”
Another man moved to Druce’s side, and when lightning flashed again, she knew it was Cleve. Though she had only that instant of recognition, she read a wealth of emotions in his piercing stare.
“Thank you,” his voice came to her from the returning darkness.
She would have loved to have excluded him then and there, to tell him that only Welshmen were welcome in Radnor Manor. But she knew she could not. Besides, it was such a childish and emotional reaction. She’d displayed too much childish emotion to him already. It behooved her to play the role of Seeress with more dignity than she had so far.
How that would aid her cause, however, was very difficult to comprehend.
In an instant the men—English and Welsh alike—were scurrying en masse toward the manor. Wynne stood a moment more in the abandoned camp, clutching her mantle to her and wondering what the morrow would bring. Then a firm hand grasped her arm, and she found herself face-to-face with Cleve.
“Come with me to the stable,” he said. “I want to check the horses, and we can speak privately there.”
“No.” Wynne hung back, but it did not affect him at all. Through the muddy yard he propelled her, and at once any thoughts of dignified behavior flew right out of her head.
“Let me go, you vile wretch! I do not wish to speak privately with you!”
“That I can believe. But don’t worry, at least I do not plan to poison you.”
That caused her to dig her heels in even harder. In her struggle her mantle gaped open, flapping around her like the wings of a startled bird. But he was too strong and too determined. As if oblivious to her opposition, he dragged her relentlessly on through the downpour, her mantle trailing behind her.
At the stable door she caught the edge of the opening with one hand. “I shall scream,” she threatened in a furious voice. “I’ll scream, and Druce will be here in an instant. Do you really want to provoke the fight that shall surely ensue?”
She’d thought to best him with that. She’d thought it the one threat that would stall him. But Cleve only let loose a harsh, merciless bark of laughter, chilling her with his complete lack of concern.
“No one shall hear you over this storm, Wynne, so scream as loudly as you wish. Besides, I told Druce I required a word with you. Alone. He’ll not trouble us for a while.” Then he gave one last tug, and to her horror she found herself trapped in the stable with him.
“Now, shall we make ourselves comfortable?” So saying he began boldly to unfasten the ties that held her mantle on.
“Stop that! Don’t you dare—” She batted at his hands to no avail. The mantle was already drenched and heavy from the rain. Once loosened, it fell from her shoulders to land in a sodden heap behind her.
“You wretched man! You horrid cnaf!” she cried. “ ’Tis not your place to order me about. No, nor to handle me in so vile a manner.” Her hands curled into fists, though he held her wrists firmly in his grasp. “Were I a man, I would challenge you to battle, and I would cut out your villainous heart—if indeed you do possess one!”
“Ah, but you are not a man, are you, my Wynne?” For emphasis he surveyed her slowly and thoroughly, from the top of her rain-soaked brow to the muddy tips of her now-bare feet.
With just those few words and that piercing look, she was undone. She realized just how she must appear to him, with her hair loose and wild, her clogs lost in their muddy struggle, and her plain linen kirtle thoroughly soaked. She was an absolute mess, and yet she was most convincingly displayed through the wet linen as a woman fully formed. That was the one thing he seemed to notice most. Her breath caught in her throat, and she swallowed convulsively.
“This is not proper,” she managed to whisper, straining away from him. But his hold was unyielding.
“No, ’tis far from proper,” he conceded. “But I fear it is nonetheless inevitable.” He pulled her nearer, then reached out one hand to touch her face. His palm slid down the length of her wet and tangled hair, down past her neck and shoulder, along the length of her arm to rest finally at her waist. “The things I wish to do with you are far from proper.”
He frowned then and exhaled a long breath. Wynne had gone from cold with the rain and her icy rage to an uncommon warmth. Though she understood the actual workings of a man and woman’s joining, she had never understood the desire that was spoken of by other women in such hushed and giggling tones. What she remembered were her sister’s cries of fear and pain. Beyond that she’d never comprehended.
But this man made her understand.
No, not “understand.” She would never understand why he made her feel this way. She knew only that he did. Without thinking she stepped nearer, into the circle of his arms. He was so warm, even more so than she. She turned her face up to his, wanting the kiss that she knew was coming. Wanting it though every logic told her it was all wrong.
But Cleve did not kiss her. He only pulled her near, tucking her head under his chin. For a moment they clung together, while the storm beat tirelessly against the small thatch-roofed barn. The animals shifted now and again in the few crowded pens, but within the barn there was a certain peace and comfort. Nothing could touch them here, not the most violent storm flung at them. The sturdy walls held the world at bay, and Cleve’s strong arms protected her from reality.
She burrowed nearer, not wanting to think at all, but only to be close to him.
“Ah, woman. How easy it would be to lose myself in you,” he murmured low and very near her ear.
In response she turned her face up to his once more. But when she met his gaze, she knew he would not kiss her. Not this time. With a groan he banked the heated ardor that burned in his eyes. Then he stepped carefully back, only holding her at arm’s length.
“As much as I would like to lay you down here and now and bury myself in your sweetness, I gave my word to Druce.”
At her shocked, and then humiliated, expression he grimaced ruefully. “First we talk, Wynne. We talk and settle this business once and for all. After that … well, after that we shall just see.”
12
“SIT OVER THERE.”
Wynne obeyed Cleve’s command only because she did not know what else to do. She had careened from one difficulty to another the whole day
long. From one uncontrollable emotion to the next. Now it was the dead of night, she was trapped in the stable during a nasty storm, facing a man whom she desired in the most frightening manner, but who perversely seemed to wish only to talk.
She heard the sharp click of flint to steel as he worked to light the horn lantern that hung from a peg near the door. When the light finally caught, the low-ceilinged interior of the barn filled with a thin, yellow light.
Wynne slumped dejectedly and stared down at the wet linen that so clearly outlined the curves of her thighs. No village whore had ever looked so shamelessly wanton as she did at that moment. Any proper woman would be relieved beyond the measuring that a man would not take immediate advantage of her vulnerable situation—especially given how obviously willing she had been. Yet she … she could not deny that she was crushed with disappointment.
Ah, sweet Mother, what in the world was wrong with her? While her head rejoiced that Cleve had thrust her away, her body fairly hummed with desire for him. Like a desperate hunger it was, and she was no longer able to ignore it.
She looked up at Cleve and noted the strained expression on his face. He, too, was wet, and his chainse clung to his wide shoulders and finely muscled torso. He’d pushed his long hair back from his brow and wiped the rain from his face. But his eyes burned into hers, and she knew that his distraction was not caused by the rain. It was her, and she took what meager satisfaction she could from the knowledge.
He paced the narrow width of the stable’s central aisle, then turned back the other way. With a frustrated oath he finally stopped and faced her.
“The thing is, Wynne, no matter your objections, Sir William has the right to know his son—his child,” he amended. “The law supports this—”
“Whose law?” she demanded, shedding her tumultuous emotions for the far safer feelings of anger. “England’s or Wales’?”
“Both, dammit. And beyond the laws of men, there is the law of God. Or do you presume to deny that law as well?”
“Where does God proclaim that a rapist has the rights to his child? Where?”
“Bedamned, Wynne. You but make this harder than it already is,” he muttered, raking both hands through his wet hair. Then he fixed her with a penetrating stare. “What is the Fourth Commandment? Honor thy father and mother. But you would deny this child the chance to honor his father.”
“And you deliberately choose to interpret the Commandments in their most narrow sense,” she countered. “I raised these children to respect and honor those who care for them. That is all that God asks.”
He straightened with a scowl. “That is not the point. These children deserve to know whatever parents they have, especially if that parent is willing. And Lord Somerville is willing.”
Wynne sighed, and for a moment she closed her eyes against the pain that gripped her so intensely. “He may be willing, but I am not,” she finally answered in the merest of whispers.
There was a silence between them, when only the howl of the wind could be heard and the distant roll of thunder. She watched him uneasily, waiting for an angry response from him. To her surprise, however, he took a three-legged milking stool from its perch astride a half-wall and set it on the hard-packed dirt floor directly in front of her. She leaned back in alarm when he seated himself on it, then took her two hands between his own.
“Listen to me, Wynne. Just listen. This has gone beyond your ability to control. This child will go back with me. Gwynedd knows it must be this way, and so does Druce. And now, by your own recklessness, you have made the children wonder at your reasoning. Tell me, how did your talk with them go?”
Wynne swallowed hard and looked somewhere past his left shoulder. She could not avoid this awful conversation, but she didn’t have to look into his far-too-perceptive eyes.
“I talked to them.”
“Did you explain their parentage to them?”
She nodded.
One of his hands rubbed hers. “So they know why I am come to Radnor Forest?”
She shifted her gaze back to his, not trying at all to hide the pain he was causing her, nor the anger either. “They know you’ve come to steal one of them from the only home they’ve ever known.”
He exhaled noisily, but when she tried to withdraw her hands from his warm grasp, he only held her tighter. “So which one is Sir William’s child?”
This time she did jerk her hands free. “I don’t know!”
“Wynne, this is pointless. Tell me the truth.”
“That is the truth, cnaf! Lleidr!” she added for good measure.
“Knave, perhaps. But thief?” He eyed her grimly. “No, I am no thief, Wynne, and even you, in your heart, must eventually concede that point.”
Unable to bear the thought that he could be right, she leaped to her feet. But he caught both of her arms and with a rough jerk forced her to sit again. His brow lowered, and he gave her a thunderous look.
“You cannot run away from this, Wynne. If I have to drag every fact from you, so be it. But you will avoid me no longer!”
Though she struggled to remain calm in the face of his fury, Wynne feared he could see through her. She had pushed him into a corner, and now he was pushing back.
“Now.” He released her, but continued to lean toward her, one hand propped on each of his knees. “Isolde is your niece; you’ve told me that. And her father—” He broke off, suddenly disconcerted.
“Her father is unknown,” Wynne finished for him in a strained tone. “He could be any one of many English soldiers who … who raped my sister.”
He cleared his throat. “Lord Somerville speaks of a woman who he kept as his … his companion during the three months he was in this area. She was dark-haired—”
“So are most Cymry in these southern mountains.”
“Yes, but he said she was called Angel.”
“That’s hardly a Welsh name.”
“I think he may have called her that as an endearment.”
She gave him a scathing look. “How uniquely English—to give endearing names to your victims.”
“Bedamned, Wynne. You’re only making this harder for us both.” He glowered at her. “Now, you said Bronwen’s mother was very young.”
“Twelve,” she spat. “Twelve when she had her babe. But only eleven when she was raped!”
He gritted his teeth. “That rules out Bronwen, then, for Sir William said Angel was a young woman, but she was not a child.”
Wynne lifted her chin contemptuously, though inside her dread only increased. “How convenient for you. You came in search of a boy, and now both girls are ruled out. I fear, however, that you can narrow your choice no farther. The boys’ mothers are both dead. They were not from villages but from individual households deep within the forests and hills. And I’m certain none of them was ever called Angel.”
He studied her a minute, and she felt a renewed shiver of fear. “What were their names?”
“I don’t know.”
“You lie.”
“I do not! I was but a child myself at the time. Ask Gwynedd. Oh, but you’ve already done that to no avail, I’d wager.” She smiled bitterly. “So you see. No one knows their names. The trail runs cold, Sir Cleve. Your fine English lord can never know which of these boys is his true heir—if indeed any of them is.”
For a brief moment she savored her victory, for his frown conveyed most clearly his frustration. But then his eyes narrowed, and his expression grew determined.
“Perhaps Sir William could determine his heir were he to meet the boys. Some feature, perhaps, that can identify whom he sired.”
“He will not be welcome here. Don’t you even think to bring him to Radnor, for I’ll—”
“Your threats are futile, Wynne, so do not waste your breath. Besides, I did not think to bring him here.”
“Then how—” She broke off as the awful truth of his intentions struck her. “You cannot mean to—No, not even you would be so cruel as to attempt to take
them all.”
But that was what he intended. She knew it from the way he sat back and averted his eyes from hers. He knew it was wrong and even felt a certain amount of shame for it. But what was a small portion of shame when weighed against the reward that awaited him in England? Wynne had to catch her breath at the pain that welled up in her chest. How could he think to take all three of her boys from her? How could he? And yet the ache was caused almost as much by her profound disappointment in him as it was by her fear for her children. Despite the depths of their conflict, Wynne had still—foolishly, she now knew—attributed some sense of honor to him. Some shreds of nobility and decency. But now …
She shook her head in disbelief, staring at his shadowed face. He was lit on the one side by the lantern, while the other half of his face was cast in darkness. Like good and evil. Like beauty and the ugliness it often hid. He was as fair and handsome a man as she’d ever laid eyes upon. But his soul … his soul was black as sin.
“I will never allow it,” she warned in a voice that shook with the strength of her feelings. “Never,” she repeated, willing him to raise his coward’s gaze to hers.
“Once the truth is revealed, the other children will be returned to Wales,” he said when he met her menacing glare. But his words were not all that Wynne heard. His face was carefully blank, displaying neither triumph nor guilt. His every emotion appeared under tight control and hidden behind his shuttered eyes. Yet as clearly as if he stated them, Wynne suddenly sensed his thoughts.
She should have rejoiced, for her Radnor vision had been none too active these past days since he’d arrived. Only once since she’d foretold his presence in her forest had she felt even a glimmer of the unnamed sense that usually helped her, and that was when she’d realized he planned to wed one of his Sir William’s daughters. Now, however, she sensed that he not only planned to take her three boys with him to England, he also planned to take her.
She drew back in alarm, filled suddenly with an overwhelming fear. England—source of all her pain. The place she’d hated forever. The very thought of venturing there caused her to cringe inside.
Rexanne Becnel Page 14
