Castle of the Wolf

by Margaret Moore - Castle of the Wolf

  As Rheged marched toward the keep, the fox’s tail still gripped in his hand, Gareth let out a low whistle. “Our Rheged’s in a foul humor, Dan, and I fear he’s likely to stay that way until the lady leaves.”

  With a mournful frown, Dan nodded his agreement.

  * * *

  Rheged strode into the keep, then came to an abrupt halt. It was as if he’d marched into the wrong hall, one that smelled of beeswax and fresh herbs instead of sweaty men, beef stew and leather.

  The tables and benches had been washed and polished, the rushes covering the flagstones swept out, replaced and sprinkled with rosemary, and every single cobweb had disappeared.

  Sir Algar slumbered in the chair by the hearth, which had also been swept clean, and a fire of dry, snapping wood warmed the chamber.

  Most disconcerting of all, standing by the hearth and dressed in that pretty gown of green wool was Tamsin, her hands clasped before her, regarding him expectantly and looking for all the world like she’d been waiting for his return.

  He stood motionless until she started to limp toward him. He immediately walked toward her. “You should be sitting down.”

  In the chamber above, not waiting here as if you were my wife.

  “I’m feeling even better than yesterday,” she replied. She nodded at the carcass still in his hand. “You were successful, I see.”

  “Aye. I thought you could use this.” He held out the dead fox. “The fur, I mean. For a collar for your cloak, perhaps,” he added, feeling like a bumpkin, but not wanting her to think he meant it to be eaten.

  “Thank you, my lord,” she replied, taking the fox gingerly by the tail, her arm stretched out away from her.

  “It’s quite dead,” he assured her.

  “Yes, I can see that. And I’m sure the fur will be very warm. Elvina,” she called to the maidservant who had entered the hall and was sidling past them, “take this for me, please.”

  The slender young woman grabbed the beast by the tail. “Yes, my lady,” she whispered, blushing and nodding a bow before she hurried off with the carcass.

  Fortunately their exchange had given him a chance to compose himself. “I see you found a way to occupy your time.”

  “I noticed a few tasks that needed doing. I also had a bath prepared for you in the upper chamber.”

  “I don’t need a bath.”

  “God save me, that’s not a very gracious response when the lady’s gone to so much trouble,” Sir Algar declared, rising from the chair, and obviously wide-awake.

  “The bath is to keep you from taking a chill, not for any other reason,” Tamsin explained.

  He hadn’t thought she was implying that he smelled, although maybe he did.

  “There’s mulled wine waiting there, too,” she added.

  “Thank you, my lady,” he replied, bowing. “I am indeed grateful for all your efforts, and now, if you’ll both excuse me, I’ll enjoy the comforts you’ve provided.”

  “I’ll send one of the servants to tell you when the evening meal is ready.” Her tone was just the same, but he saw the tinge of a blush on her cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes that told him she was pleased.

  Such a little thing it was to say thank you, and yet it meant so much to her, he thought as he hurried up the steps and pushed open the door to the upper chamber.

  A brazier full of glowing coals heated the room. A linen-lined tub of water stood steaming in the middle of the room, with the stool beside it bearing more linen and a chunk of soap. Another curl of steam drifted up from a carafe on the table, and there was a goblet nearby. He glanced at the bed and noticed a clean tunic, breeches and stockings laid out in readiness. An old pair of boots that had been cleaned and polished was on the floor beneath it.

  No one had taken care of him, in any way, since his parents had died all those years ago. Ever since that terrible time, he’d been alone in the world.

  Self-sufficient, and beholden to no one. Needing no one.

  He went to the carafe and poured some of the warmed spiced wine into the goblet and took a sip. God, it was good, and warmed him all the way down. He drank some more, then walked to the tub and ran his hand through the hot water. How long had it been since he’d had a hot bath? Weeks, at least.

  Suddenly eager for the caress of hot water on his body, he put down the goblet, drew off his tunic and shirt, then tugged off his boots and stockings. He stripped off his breeches and gingerly stepped into the tub. With a sigh, he sat down and leaned his head back against the linen-padded edge.

  It felt good.

  Very good...

  * * *

  Surely he must have bathed and dressed by now, Tamsin thought as she knocked softly on the door of the upper chamber. Her leg was beginning to ache, so although she would have preferred to dine in the hall below, she thought it best to retire to the upper chamber before it got much worse.

  Rheged didn’t answer, so she knocked a little louder.

  It was possible he had dressed and left the chamber and she hadn’t seen him come down the stairs. She’d tried to keep watch for him, but Sir Algar had distracted her more than once with his enthusiastic demands to hear all about the fox hunt from Gareth and the others.

  Perhaps Rheged had suffered some kind of wound during the hunt and hadn’t told her about it. Maybe he’d even lost consciousness. She’d seen no sign of injury, but he was a proud man and would probably make light of a wound he didn’t consider serious.

  She immediately pushed open the door, to be greeted by the sounds of gentle snoring and the sight of Rheged still in the tub, his head leaning back against the rim, his eyes closed, his mouth slightly open and his broad chest rising and falling as he slept.

  She should leave, Tamsin told herself, except that she might not be able to climb the stairs so easily later. Besides, he had surely been in that water long enough. It must be cold by now. He could get sick if he remained in the tub. She ought to wake him.

  She took a few steps into the room. He looked so different when he was asleep—so much younger, as if he lost years when he was sleeping, or the cares of the world were forgotten.

  Perhaps if he could feel completely at ease when he was awake, he would look like that.

  Her gaze flicked lower, beneath the water.

  He suddenly sat up, sending water splashing over the sides of the tub and onto the stone floor.

  “I’m sorry!” she cried, reaching down to grip her aching calf as she backed away. “I knocked but you didn’t answer.” She pointed at the wooden tub. “You should get out. The water must be freezing by now.”

  “Aye, it’s a little chilly,” he agreed as he reached for one of the large squares of linen she had set out on the stool and began to rise.

  She averted her eyes before she saw...too much...and heard him step out of the tub.

  “Thank you again for all this,” he said, his tone unexpectedly calm. “It’s been many years since I’ve had anyone concern themselves with my comfort, although if I’d known the price was seeing me naked, I might have reconsidered.”

  She risked a glance. He’d wrapped the linen around his narrow waist. His chest was still bare, though, the water glistening on his naked skin as if he were Neptune newly risen from the sea, and reminding her of the night they’d spent together. “I thought you would be dressed.”

  “Surely you didn’t expect me to bathe fully clothed?”

  “I was certain you’d be out of the tub by now. It’s nearly time for the evening meal.”

  “Then I’m glad you woke me, or I might have slept right through it.”

  A more disturbing reason for his heavy slumber came to her. “Are you not feeling well, that you’re so tired?”

  “I never get sick,” he replied as he reached for his shirt. “It’s just that I’m not as young as I used to be.”

  “You’re far younger than Sir Algar.”

  Some expression she couldn’t decipher flashed in his eyes. It might have been triumph, but why wo
uld he be pleased when she’d simply stated the obvious?

  “I’m nearly thirty. How old are you? Eighteen?” he asked before he pulled the clean shirt over his head.

  “I’m almost twenty,” she replied, “and that is old for an unwed woman.”

  “Not so old you need throw yourself away on the first man who asks for you.”

  “I have no wish to discuss my marriage.”

  “I don’t doubt that,” he replied, reaching for his breeches.

  She started toward the door, but forgot her wound, and when she put her weight on her injured leg, she had to bite back a cry of pain.

  “Sit on the bed,” he ordered.

  “I’ll return after you’ve dressed.”

  “I’m dressed enough,” he declared, and the next thing she knew, he’d picked her up and carried her toward the bed.

  At least he had his breeches on, but still—! “Put me down!” she commanded, pushing at his rock-hard chest.

  “As you wish,” he said, letting her slide out of his arms, so she was standing close to him beside the bed.

  Very close to him. Beside the bed.

  His gaze locked on to hers. “I’ve heard some women prefer older men. Are you such a one?”

  “Preference has no place in my decision. My pledge has been given, and I will not go back on my word.”

  “What if a new arrangement could be made, for a different alliance, with a man equally powerful and with even more friends at court?”

  He couldn’t be speaking of himself. “What do you mean?”

  “Sir Algar is rich and has more influence than Blane at court.”

  Sir Algar? The thought had never crossed her mind, and yet it was possible her uncle could be persuaded to break the betrothal agreement with Blane to make a new one with Sir Algar.

  But there was still Mavis to consider—and that had to be the reason his proposal was so distressing. “Have you made this suggestion to Sir Algar?”

  “I believe he’s already thought of it.”

  Tamsin fought to keep the dismay from her features. She hadn’t, not for one moment, had any inkling that Sir Algar harbored that sort of feeling for her. He treated her like a daughter, not a potential wife.

  But no matter what he thought, she had to marry Blane. “If Sir Algar ever mentions such a notion to you, please advise him I won’t break the original betrothal contract with Sir Blane.”

  Rheged took hold of her shoulders and regarded her sternly. “There is doing a thing because honor demands it and there is being honorable to the point of madness. I tell you, it’s madness to marry Blane.”

  “I must because of honor and necessity both!” she retorted, twisting away. “You cannot possibly understand.”

  “Explain it to me.”

  “Why? What am I to you but something you took in place of a bogus golden box? And a few stolen kisses.”

  “I took you because I won’t see you wed to that monster from Dunborough!” He ran his hand through his long, dark hair and growled, “I’d rather see you wed to Sir Algar.”

  There was something in his voice, in his eyes, in his stance, that rooted her to the flagstones. “Is that the truth, Rheged? Do you want me to marry your overlord?”

  “It would be easier than seeing you married to Blane.”

  She looked into his dark eyes. She saw pain there, and a longing that matched her own. “Do you truly want me to marry Sir Algar, Rheged? Would that make you happy?”

  “God, no!” he said through clenched teeth. “I would rather—”

  He fell silent.

  “What?” she pressed, his manner and the look in his eyes making her heart race and her breathing quicken. “What would you rather?”

  “What I want does not matter, except that I would see you safe. You won’t be safe with Blane.”

  “I would be safe with Sir Algar, though,” she replied, “and cherished, no doubt, as well as given whatever material goods my heart desires.”

  “Yes,” he snapped.

  “That would be enough, do you think? And I should be content to be the substitute for the woman he loved and lost?”

  “No!” he said, his voice husky with need as he tugged her into his embrace and captured her lips with his own.

  Chapter Eleven

  Desire, lust and longing seized Tamsin.

  This was the man she dreamed of in the night, taking her to his bed and claiming her for his own. This was the man whose kisses stirred her, whose arms she yearned for, whose body she craved. This warrior, this man in his prime, not some ancient villain or heartbroken older man.

  Yet there was more than lust in her heart as she returned his kiss passion for passion. For so long she had yearned to be loved, and when she had dreamed of marrying, she had hoped it would be to a man she could admire and respect as well as love.

  Rheged had begun with even less than she. He’d worked and struggled and survived, overcoming deprivation, hardship and the disadvantage of his lowly birth. Yet she could see beyond the face he showed the world, to a heart as full of loneliness and longing as her own. Yes, he was hard and tough and proud, but so was she. In that, they were equals, as she was with no other.

  And so she would surrender to this man, this warrior, and give herself up to the pleasure and desire and need coursing through her, at least for a few all-too-brief moments.

  Sliding her hands under his shirt and tunic, her palms brushed lightly over his broad chest and around his back, his scars like ridges beneath her fingertips. His hand grazed her bodice, sending a new wave of excitement coursing through her—dangerous excitement. She wanted more; she wanted him. They were alone, with his bed behind her.

  Yet she must not ask for more. If she gave Rheged her body, she would have nothing left save her title. That loss would be too much to exchange for a few moments of bliss, even with him.

  “No!” she cried as she pushed him away, the command as much for her as for him. “This must stop. You mustn’t kiss me. Or touch me, ever again!”

  His eyes narrowed. “What game is this, my lady?”

  Game? She wasn’t toying with him like those silly noblewomen who flirted and preened and pranced about when there were men to see them. “This is no game to me, sir, nor should it be to you. I’m not free and neither are you. I have my name and reputation to think of, as you have yours. Have you not done enough to harm both of ours—and Sir Algar, too?”

  Ire replaced desire in his eyes as he sat on the bed and tugged on his boots. “I have never sought to harm you, my lady, as you should know by now,” he said, then rose to finish dressing, “nor have I any inclination for flirtation and other such sport.”

  He started for the door, only to turn back on the threshold and regard her with that cold reserve she had seen before. “Nor have I acted without encouragement, either here or on the road or in your uncle’s castle. Nevertheless, we shall call an end to...” Although he hesitated for an instant, his expression did not change. “To whatever it is that exists between us. Good day, my lady.”

  “Good day, my lord,” Tamsin said as he shut the door behind him.

  Then she sank down on the bed and covered her face with her hands. If she didn’t leave soon, she would beg Rheged to let her stay. To love her, even if he didn’t offer marriage.

  * * *

  Late the next afternoon, Gareth stood at the end of the makeshift tilting ground in the barren patch beyond the meadow and Rheged brought his destrier to a snorting halt close by. A quintain at the other end of the long, bare area was still spinning from the blow from Rheged’s lance. The small shield on one arm of the wooden dummy had been shattered and a mace that had been at the end of the other arm lay on the ground a few feet away, past the remains of the end of Rheged’s practice lance.

  “That’s the last, I see,” Gareth noted, nodding at the pile of broken and splintered lances near Jevan’s prancing hooves. “Destroyed them all, have you?”

  Rheged didn’t answer before he swu
ng down from his horse and started down the field to gather up the broken bits of what was indeed the last of the practice lances he possessed.

  Gareth fell into step beside him. “You’ve been out here since the noon.”

  “So what of that?”

  “So I’m wondering why. Your shoulders have got to be aching, and you’ve tired Jevan out, too.”

  Rheged glanced back at his warhorse. Jevan was tired. He shouldn’t have worked him so hard in what had proved to be a wasted attempt to get over his anger at Tamsin. That woman was like all the rest of her kind. Arrogant. Selfish. Using him. To her, he was just a wild Welshman, a bit of rough for sport.

  But he wasn’t about to explain, not even to Gareth. “Jevan can rest tomorrow.”

  “I know you can push yourself nearly to death, but it’s not like you to work Jevan so hard.”

  Rheged didn’t reply to that, either, before he bent down to retrieve the last of his broken practice lances.

  “What’s wrong?” Gareth asked, concern written all over his face.

  “Beyond having DeLac’s niece take command of my household without so much as a by-your-leave?” he replied and gathering up as much of the broken wood as he could carry.

  “Aye, there’s more afoot than that,” Gareth said, picking up the mace and chain. “You’ve been like a bear with a thorn in its paw ever since you went to that tournament. Did more happen there than you’ve let on? Is it worse than you’ve said with DeLac? If there’s a battle to come, Rheged, I ought to know.”

  “There’ll be no battle if I can help it,” Rheged said. He started back toward Jevan, doing his best to keep the pieces of wood from falling out of his arms. “You know all there is to know about my troubles with DeLac.”

  “Then it’s her, Lady Thomasina. You don’t want to take her back. You’re falling in love with her, aren’t you?”

  Rheged threw down the wood near Jevan, who whinnied and refooted. “Steady, Jevan,” he murmured, sorry he’d disturbed his horse. And overworked the poor animal. And been too wrapped up in his own troubles to see it.