Rexanne Becnel

by Where Magic Dwells

  But Wynne was too tormented by conflicting emotions to reply. She was as limp as a well-worn length of old linen. Burned almost to ashes by the fire he’d lit within her, yet aflame still and not able to cope with the new and tumultuous feelings he’d roused in her. She stared up at him in helpless appeal, close to tears and yet still trembling uncontrollably with desire.

  She saw the grim humor flee his face, to be overtaken by an expression closer to pain. “By damn, woman. Don’t—” He broke off and scrambled to his feet. With a low but vicious curse he rounded on Druce. For a moment Wynne thought he meant to attack the younger man, and with a supreme effort she, too, managed to rise.

  “No, Cleve. Don’t you dare.” She placed herself between the two and placed a hand on Cleve’s chest. “Leave him be. Just … just go away,” she pleaded as his dark gaze moved from Druce to her. At once she pulled her hand back. Touching him was far too dangerous. It weakened her so. It made her want to draw ever nearer.

  She shook her head. “Just go away.” She whispered the plea brokenly.

  He took a long breath, slow and shaky. Then another. Finally he nodded and stepped back. His eyes flitted to Druce, who had moved closer, and Wynne felt the crackle of quick animosity begin slowly to ease.

  “You told me, Druce, that an unmarried Welsh maiden is free to make her own choices.”

  Druce nodded. “So she is. But I did not say she was immune to advice from those who have had a care for her all the days of her life.”

  Cleve seemed to consider this, then he smiled ever so slightly, and his midnight gaze moved back to Wynne. “Your lifelong friend does wish to speak with you.” He gave her an abbreviated bow. “Until tonight,” he added in a tone reserved for her ears alone. Then he strode away.

  Wynne watched him go. He headed along the edge of the Dyke, then made his way down and across it so that he walked now on Welsh soil. That simple choice of paths seemed a clear omen to her, and she felt a quiver of anticipation. But Druce was there, and she could not ignore him any longer. She turned to him, willing her heart to control its thundering and her nerves to ease their clamoring. Yet she could not quite erase the color from her cheeks.

  “You’ve bits of grass and seeds in your hair,” Druce said when they faced each other.

  Wynne smoothed her wild hair back with hands that still shook. Why must he have such a knowing expression on his face? Why was he prolonging this lecture she was certain he planned?

  “There. Is that better?” she snapped.

  He gave her a thorough once-over, then grinned. “I suppose it depends on who’s looking at you. I’d say your Cleve much prefers you with your hair loose and tangled in the grass.”

  “Cnaf!” she swore. “What do you want of me? First you do throw me at him and now you snatch me back. I do not understand you at all!”

  To her vast irritation he only grinned and settled himself on the ground. “Do not turn your frustration against me, Wynne, for ’tis not of my doing. I do but act your friend in this matter.”

  “Hah!”

  He looked up at her and shoved a hank of hair back from his brow. “ ’Tis clear to me you want him. And he most desperately wants you. I do but ensure that his need for you overshadows any plans he has with this Lord Somerville’s daughter.”

  Wynne stared at him in horror. How could he speak in so reasonable a tone about such an outrageous plot! “You would not … Surely you do not …” She trailed off under his steady grin. “Druce. Listen to me in this. I do not under any circumstances wish to usurp this poor girl’s place. He may marry her in all good faith—though that is not likely to happen. She is, after all, his reward for succeeding in his quest, and I shall make certain he does not succeed.”

  Druce snorted in exasperation. “How shall you make certain, Wynne? And why? So you may claim him for yourself?”

  “No! I told you. She is welcome to him.”

  “Then what is it you plan to do with him? ’Tis clear even to a fool where you two were headed just now. What I cannot fathom—since you are apparently so willing to cede him to this English maiden—is why you were heading there with him.”

  “That should be plain, even to a fool such as you,” Wynne hissed, her fists planted on her hips. “You know where we were heading. And how do you know? Because you’ve been there before yourself with some maiden—probably several. But you are not wed. No, nor even betrothed. Well, I seek no more than you’ve already found. I am well past marriageable age. But since I do not intend to marry, I see no reason not to exercise my freedom of choice. And if I choose to … to …”

  “To what?” he asked quite pointedly.

  “To … to … you know! Anyway, ’tis my choice to make. Not yours.”

  He stared at her, a steady, probing, and most disturbing gaze that seemed to strip away her weak defenses. She might have been but a child and he a wise and all-seeing parent, so patient and understanding was his expression. In frustration she spun away from him and stalked off in the opposite direction Cleve had gone.

  Only when she reached a pair of oak trees that sprung awkwardly from the peak of the Dyke did she stop. It was her choice, she knew, and in the end if she chose to meet with Cleve in that most intimate joining of man and woman, Druce could do nothing to prevent it.

  But why in heaven’s name would she choose to do such a foolish thing?

  She touched one finger to her kiss-swollen lips, then swallowed hard at the sweet thrill of remembered passion that at once rose from her belly.

  The answer was unsettlingly clear. For this feeling, rising so unexpectedly in her, overtaking her body, her mind, and even her heart. That’s why she was set on so precarious and destructive a course. She sought the culmination of these feelings he’d stirred to life within her. Yet what of the consequences?

  She glanced over her shoulder to where Druce still stood, staring now back toward their homeland. He was right, of course. He was her friend, and though they did not agree on this matter of Lord Somerville—nor obviously on the matter of Cleve FitzWarin—she knew he wished only the best for her.

  But who knew what was best any longer? Even if she eventually returned to Radnor Forest with all five of her children, nothing would be the same. She could never be the same anymore.

  She sighed and touched her mouth once more. How could one man affect her so? How could he make her body sing and her heart beat faster just by his touch. Or simply from a solitary look?

  Those were questions without any hope of answers. Yet the nearer they came to this Kirkston Castle, the more essential it became for her to decide what she was going to do about them. To lie with him as her body longed desperately to do would be an easy choice, one she knew she’d already made. It seemed only a matter now of when or where. But there was still the matter of her sons. Of Sir William’s heir.

  She looked back toward the camp, searching for the children. When she did not see them at once, her eyes darted about, seeking them with renewed concern. A shriek and a giggle, followed by a burst of laughter, put her racing heart at ease. There beyond the tent, beneath a canopy of beech boughs, Rhys and Madoc appeared, pushing and tumbling about, laughing and pointing back toward the shaded copse. Bronwen followed more slowly, looking back as well, but curiously.

  Wynne turned toward them, wanting their company and reassuring presence around her. As she made her way through the thickly grown wild grasses, she saw Isolde and Arthur depart the shade of the beech trees. Isolde was scowling at the twins, a thunderous expression on her little face. Arthur, however, seemed lost in thought.

  “You’re both the stupidest boys in the entire land,” Isolde shouted. “The stupidest in the whole wide world!” She turned back to Arthur, and her expression changed. “Don’t pay any attention to them. They’re acting like children.”

  Arthur rubbed his mouth with the back of one hand. “They are children,” he replied matter-of-factly.

  “Well, then. They’re acting like babies.”

&
nbsp; “What are you children up to?” Wynne asked.

  Isolde whirled around in surprise, and a guilty expression colored her face. Bronwen, too, looked suddenly discomfited by Wynne’s unexpected presence.

  But Arthur only shrugged. “We wanted to see what it was like.”

  Wynne’s brow arched in inquiry. “What what was like?”

  She saw Bronwen’s eyes widen in alarm, and Isolde sent Arthur a quelling glare. But Arthur was squinting at a hawk circling high in the distance.

  “Kissing,” he answered unconcernedly. “We wanted to see what was so important about kissing.”

  That was the very last thing Wynne had expected, and her mouth gaped open in surprise. “You wanted to know about kissing?”

  Isolde sighed in exasperation. “Arthur!” Then she peered up at her aunt. “He can’t keep a secret for anything.”

  “Can too.” He stared at her for a moment. “I just don’t see why it has to be a secret—”

  “What exactly is the secret?” Wynne interrupted. “Exactly what were you doing?”

  When neither Isolde nor Arthur answered, Wynne turned toward Bronwen. “Well?”

  Bronwen smiled timidly. “They kissed. Arthur and Isolde kissed. On the lips.”

  “Oh.” Wynne pursed her mouth, trying hard to repress the smile that threatened to break free at such an innocent revelation. “And what did you think of it?”

  Arthur shrugged. “It was all right. I suppose.”

  Isolde glared at him all over again. “It was very nice. Just like grown-ups do.”

  “But we aren’t grown-ups,” Arthur reasoned. He focused on Wynne. “It’s all right, isn’t it? I mean, we’re not really brother and sister, because we have different mothers and fathers.”

  “It’s just like Wynne and Sir Cleve,” Bronwen said with a dreamy smile.

  At once Wynne’s amusement vanished. But before she could form an appropriate reply, Arthur focused his watchful gaze upon her.

  “If you kiss him, you must like him, Wynne. And if you like him, then why don’t you marry him?”

  “Oh … well, you see …” Wynne pressed her lips together, anything to stop such foolish babbling. Arthur’s face was so earnest that she knew she must pick her words very carefully.

  “Cleve is … well, he is an impressive man. Strong. Handsome. I like him well enough but … well, he’s English and I am Welsh. We could never marry.”

  “So you only kiss each other?” Bronwen asked.

  “But why can’t you marry him?” Arthur interrupted. “I mean, if Rhys and Madoc have to stay in England, or even if I do, when we grow up, we’ll probably marry English maidens. But we’re Welsh.”

  “It’s not precisely the same thing,” Wynne began.

  “You can’t marry an English girl,” Isolde broke in. “We’ve already kissed. You can’t marry anybody but me.”

  Wynne looked from her niece to Arthur and then back to Isolde. “No one is going to stay in England,” she vowed, though it was hard to feel the same conviction she’d felt in the beginning.

  Arthur shook his head. “I think you might be wrong about that, Wynne. ’Tis very likely that one of us is Sir William’s son. I don’t think you’ll be able to keep us if we are.”

  Of all the pronouncements, conjectures, and arguments advanced on behalf of Lord Somerville’s quest, this one, coming from such an innocent yet wise young child, was the hardest for her to hear. “I shall keep you,” she countered. “None of you belongs to this Englishman, no matter what he says.”

  “I don’t want Arthur to live in England,” Isolde began to cry.

  “What about Madoc?” Bronwen joined in the wailing. “And Rhys?”

  “Oh, don’t cry, my darlings. Come here.” Wynne gathered the two weeping girls into her arms. “Everything is going to be all right. You’ll see.”

  As she hugged them tight, she met Arthur’s serious gaze. “I … I don’t really want to live in England,” he admitted. She could see he was struggling to control his emotions. “But it wouldn’t be so terrible if you were here too.”

  She reached an arm to him, and he quickly scurried to her side. But she had no answer to his words. She could never stay in this godforsaken land. Never.

  But a part of her would stay, she realized. Her heart would be torn into bleeding pieces if any of her children remained behind.

  She swallowed the lump that formed in her throat and hugged the children all the tighter. Beyond the copse of trees in the distance someone came into view. It was Cleve, she recognized at once, the one man who appealed to every part of her—to every one of her senses.

  But not to her head. She knew in that last bastion of reason that he was all wrong for her. Every moment she spent with him, looking at him, or even thinking of him was all wrong.

  Worst of all, however, was her knowledge that even if she did return to Wales with her little family intact, she would still leave a huge portion of her heart behind. Cleve would have it always, though he would never be aware of it.

  If nothing else, she must never let him know how thoroughly he possessed her heart.

  16

  DARK CAME EARLY TO their encampment. Heavy clouds pressed low, although Wynne knew there would not be rain. The birds did not hurry at their feeding. The air was soft with the humidity, not oppressive with the surging energy of a storm. At worst they might receive a light drizzle, a soft, cooling bath for the heated summer earth.

  Wynne sat in the entrance of the tent, staring out at nothing in particular, hearing only in the most superficial sense the rising buzz of the grass crickets and the comforting rush of the night winds in the arcing branches of the beech trees above them.

  The men had all departed to their bedrolls, and no voices carried to her any longer. At least no spoken voices. But in her head—no, in her heart—she felt herself being called, as clearly as if a voice rang out in the dark silence, calling her by name.

  What was she to do?

  Already her body fairly hummed in answer to that call. Would she truly lose anything by giving in to it?

  She turned her head slightly, smiling fondly at the sprawl of six-year-old bodies that took up the entire floor of the tent. They were all blessedly asleep, lulled by the healthy exhaustion so typical of children. How she wished she could tumble into that same oblivion they’d found and experience the same deep peace. At the moment, however, peace seemed far beyond her.

  Refusing to think about where her actions might lead, she rose on silent feet and eased out of the tent. The air was cooler, and the breeze caught at her unbound hair, lifting it as if in a caress. She moved on sure feet, heading toward the Dyke and the same familiar hummuck she’d perched on most of the day, staring toward Wales.

  Cleve was waiting there.

  He’d spread a rug upon the grass, and he lay on his back, his arms crossed beneath his head. When she stopped but one pace from him, he looked up at her. It was dark, and the moon was partly hidden by the clouds, yet she saw him almost clearly. He saw her too, for she felt the vivid imprint of his gaze moving down her body. From the top of her dark hair past her eyes and mouth to her breasts and belly and all the way down to her bare feet. Then up again, stroking her entire length until he stopped at her face.

  “I’ve prepared a nest for us, love. Come he beside me.” He sat up and reached a hand to her.

  But Wynne would not take it. She wet her lips nervously, and only when he lowered his hand back to his side did she speak.

  “The thing is, we must talk. We must understand each other.”

  “I understand far more than you think, Wynne,” he answered in a voice so low and husky that her knees began to tremble. “You also understand. Come here beside me and you will soon see.”

  Wynne shook her head. “Not yet. Not until we have agreed.”

  He rolled to his side and propped his head on one hand. “Agreed? ’Tis clear we are in complete agreement. I am here. You are here.”

  “ ’Tis no
t so simple as that.”

  He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “You do but make this more complicated than it is.”

  “And you would rather believe it is as simple as … as an easy tumble with some … some whore!” A sudden fit of trembling caught her in its grip. “Oh, I am a fool even to be here.”

  She turned, prepared to flee, to run and hide her awful shame. To lick her wounds. But Cleve was faster than she. Before she’d even reached the crest of the Dyke, he bounded up, caught her arm, and forced her to a halt. Her chest heaved with both emotion and her efforts to get away as she stood before him. Though she faced him, however—forced to do so by his unrelenting grip on both her shoulders—she did not look at him.

  “I know it is not simple, Wynne. Anything but. There is a vast chasm between us. But there is also this … this passion. It’s been there since I first laid eyes on you in the forest, looking like some wild, magical creature who might disappear at any moment. Like one of your Welsh fairies, a figment of my imagination, not wholly of this world.”

  Her eyes raised to his, drawn by the compelling force of his words. He’d wanted her from the first?

  Their eyes met and locked, trading secrets in the darkness of midnight. “I should not … should not feel this … this passion for you,” she whispered. “You are my enemy.”

  He shook his head. “No, I’m not your enemy. I could never be your enemy.” His voice became more husky. “I could never be your enemy.”

  She had become less and less rigid in his grasp. Now, as he pulled her closer, Wynne felt herself fairly dissolving into his arms. When he lowered his face to hers, she leaned against him, more than ready for his kiss. Then his lips met hers, and she sighed with relief, though the turmoil inside her increased a hundredfold. But it was a different sort of turmoil from before, demanding, not doubting. Joyful, not fearful.

  He pulled her fully against him so that they met, belly to belly, chest to breast. How could they fit so perfectly together? a part of her wondered. He was so tall and hard; she was so much smaller and softer. He was the wrong man, from the wrong country, and with all the wrong ideas. Yet he made her body sing and her heart soar.