by Geri Borcz
She watched in a daze, until Father Duncan hurriedly finished scribbling two missives and handed one to Rhys's father and one to her brother.
Lord Richard ordered a man into the saddle with a brisk warning not to tarry until he reached Earl William at King Henry's court, and Rowland echoed the command for one of his men to ride to King David. Then, the new Lady Adington helped the tired Lord Adington to his chamber where he fell into an exhausted sleep before he even removed his boots.
Juliana eased the chamber door closed behind her and strode into the corridor with a nervous smile on her face. He was all hers, and she prayed he'd keep faith and honor her terms. And with that promise, God help her, she could make him love her, in time.
For now, she staved off any worry about him leaving in a few hours to aid in subduing Malcolm. She counted her blessings. At least he didn't ride to face down Roger.
And in that lay the only thunderhead graying her horizon. Adington was her home now, and all who resided within were her people. Their problems now became her problems.
For all their sakes, and especially Rhys's, Juliana vowed to forever guard Isobel's secret.
~~~~
CHAPTER 22
Rhys slept the remainder of the day and night, only to drag himself awake through a disorienting fog, dimly aware of where he was and of the warm body snuggled against his side. He cracked his eyelids. Gray light seeped under the hide covering the arrow slit. Dawn. He closed his eyes.
Never one to sleep the night with any ladylove, he rolled over and patted the silky bottom, then mumbled into a satiny curtain about asking his squire for coin to send her on her way.
The scent of roses filled his nose, jolting him to battle alertness. His eyelids flew open to see Ana—his wife!—bolt upright beside him and fling her head around to glare at him.
"Toad," she said, whipping her knees under her in a kneeling position. "Think to fob me off with payment?"
"Sweet, I didn't realize 'twas you," he fumbled to say, then immediately recognized this worst blunder and threw up his arm to ward off the pillow she violently slung at him.
"You'll have to do better, Rhys," she said, hopping off the bed and swinging around to face him. She tossed her hair over her shoulder, her gaze searching for something to hurl. "Or I'll send Rowland in to teach you—if you have so many bed partners, you can't keep them straight."
The rest of her irate words flowed over Rhys's head as his hungry gaze feasted on his lovely wife. Wife. The name twined around his heart. She was finally his. Forever his. His so that no man or king could tear asunder. Every gorgeous inch of curves, his. With her abundant hair cascading around her naked body in wild disarray and her eyes flashing and her color high, she'd never appealed to him more.
His body stood at attention and saluted her beauty. He wanted her. Now. Lunging toward her, he raked the linen sheet and coverlet off the bed in his wake.
She shrieked and jumped back, ready to run who-knows-where, but he caught her in one stride and sank with her to the floor.
"How can I keep my bed partners straight," he chuckled, brushing the tangled hair from her eyes, "when I've never had you in a bed?"
All humor fled, and tension gripped him.
Soft and dreamy eyes gazed back at him, haloed by a mass of satiny hair. The naked body squeezed beneath his cried out for his attention. With his thigh, he nudged her legs apart and settled his hardness against her moist softness.
"Ana," he whispered, cupping her face. "You look at me as no other woman ever has."
On a whimper, she trapped him within her legs and licked her lips. He groaned, then plundered the warmth of her mouth at the same time he penetrated her nether heat. Soft, hot, and hungry.
This time, as last, his iron control deserted him. She pushed him to the edge of the world, and he willingly flew off into her sun.
Harder and deeper, deeper and harder. The floor became the morning mist, the mist their bodies, his hand her face, her face his heart. She became him, and he became her.
Loved.
Spent with his release, he rolled to his back and carried her atop him. "We must end all of our misunderstandings this way."
She snuggled into his rising and falling chest.
Staring at the beamed ceiling overhead with a sleepy smile on his face, Rhys entwined her legs with his and cradled her in his arms so that every bare inch met. One hand traced the curve of her spine from mid-back to rounded cheek and back again, while her fingers idly teased the curls on his chest. They played lower on his torso and lower, until she reached between his legs.
Such a passionate woman he married.
She traced lower to the healing wound on his thigh and circled his skin with trembling fingertips.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I never meant for this to happen."
He grabbed her hand and brought it to his lips, laying a light kiss upon each knuckle.
"I wish we could stay like this," she whispered.
"We might embarrass Serle when he comes anon to fetch me," Rhys said with a grin.
She raised herself on her hands and peered down at him. "You will take care this day?"
He burrowed his hands under her veil of hair and cupped her cheek and jaw. "Aye, sweet. We'll spring the trap on Malcolm and then I'll return." And he kissed her. "And I promise to keep my women straight."
Her soft features grew hard. "Oh, you toad!" She raised her fist.
He caught her wrist easily and forced her back to his chest. "Ana. 'Twas a jest. I'm not he."
She ceased her struggle and stared into his face.
"Who?"
"The dead cur who hurt you," Rhys said. He watched emotions darken her eyes and willed her to trust in him. "I gave you my oath there'd be no others in my bed. And I keep my word."
"Hold me, Rhys," she begged.
So strong, his little wife, yet so fragile. He pulled her into his tight embrace.
"Only you, Ana," he whispered.
On Serle's knock, Rhys reluctantly freed his wife. Then with Juliana and the squire's assistance, he donned padding and mail, readying himself for the coming battle.
* * *
By early afternoon, Rhys and his men hid in the cover of trees within sight of Stanmore Castle. Squirrels leapt among the overhead branches, rustling the leaves, and Rhys brushed away the twigs that plunked to his shoulders and his destrier's mane. Ahead, beyond the shady copse, bright sunlight poured down on the barren land surrounding the castle, the sky above the treetops as clear as the sea.
The destrier perked his ears and snuffled. Rhys patted his thick neck and murmured to him, while squinting through the sun's glare toward a party of the earl's men who returned to the castle from other duties. His body tensed.
As he expected, Malcolm's men swooped out from the other side of the park; a screaming swarm of horsemen and men afoot to attack the seemingly unwary guardsmen within yards of the opening gate.
Few archers manned the walls, so the Scots understandably expected little resistance or aid from the castle. They soon realized their mistake.
Earl Baldwin directed a selective aerial assault from the walls, while from the side opposite Rhys's position in the park, Richard and his men and Rowland rode out to engage the Scots in a frontal attack first.
Rhys controlled the reserve force and held back. He watched on, keeping his gaze centered on his father and his flailing sword. His destrier sidestepped with impatience to join the battle, but he checked the horse, and waited.
"Hurry," he urged. "Malcolm, you cur. Come."
To his relief, his wait soon ended. Leading more of his rabble, Malcolm appeared atop a horse and broke from the trees to join the fray. At this signal, Rhys dug his spurs into his horse, leading his men to circle and come at the burly Scot from the right flank.
The odds were now even, man to man, the strongest to take the day.
"Alain. Behind you," he screamed and deflected a broadsword coming at his friend's blind side.
&nbs
p; In the close confines, Rhys spun his horse on its haunches and caught the downswing of a battle mace before the spikes connected with his neck. The destrier's blunted yellow teeth ravaged at will.
Time lost all meaning.
Sweat trickled into Rhys's eyes, horses screamed, men shouted and their voices mingled with the cries of the dying, dust swirled and choked the air. Every breath lay thick with the stench of blood.
"Son? Look," Richard cried through the melee.
Rhys slammed his destrier into the horse's side in front of him, and, as the Scottish rider reeled from the impact and toppled to the ground, he glanced up.
And saw Roger.
Rage, as quick and searing as any bolt of summer lightning, streaked through Rhys's brain.
"For God and King Henry," he bellowed, slashing his way toward the new adversary who joined the battle.
To his shock, Roger echoed the same battle cry as he and his men stormed in and circled on the left flank. The scarred man's blade sang again and again, his progress slow to what Rhys now recognized was his true target—Malcolm.
"Roger," Rowland roared. "To your side. 'Ware."
Out of the corner of his eye Rhys saw Roger's horse bleeding from a long gash in the underside. The enraged animal tried to rear on its haunches and buckled, dropping to his shoulder and unseating Roger.
Rhys shifted his gaze a fraction, aware that Roger was too seasoned a warrior to falter, but instinct alerting him to a danger yet unknown. Roger rolled and came up next to the dying horse to meet the onslaught of two broadswords at once. His own sword was bloody down to the hilt.
There! a third man barreled down on his unprotected back.
In that second, Rhys knew that to do nothing would see an end to the greatest threat to his family. Yet, he also knew he'd endure anything to never face Juliana's accusing eyes. For good or ill, she loved her brother, and Rhys loved her.
Without further thought, he reacted.
"Rowland?" Rhys screamed, dispatching the man in front of him with a hard sword thrust. "Guard my back!"
He goaded his wild-eyed destrier to plunge through the living barricade. With one clean swipe, Rhys severed the arm poised to strike a killing blow to Roger, then he flung himself from his saddle.
Planting his feet at Roger's back, Rhys sent to hell any man foolish enough to challenge him. United in strength and purpose, together Juliana's two big men proved an unbeatable bulwark.
The day became a rout.
Outflanked, surrounded, Malcolm and his rabble army soon recognized the advantage of cut and run. Confusion ruled as men bolted in every direction, crashing through the trees and leaving the dead and wounded to the uncertain mercy of their enemy. Behind them chased a scattering of victors in gleeful pursuit.
After assuring himself that Richard, Alain, Serle and Rowland came away intact, Rhys walked the dust settling on the littered battlefield and checked the condition of his men.
"You won't find him amongst the dead," said a rough voice to his side.
"Who?" Rhys said, glancing around, then he acknowledged the presence with a cool, "Roger."
Though the old earl now bellowed across the field like a bull, he wore his age and deadening fatigue like a tight garment, and Rhys suspected he'd pay dearly for the outburst.
"Malcolm," Roger spat, dragging his attention back. "The whoreson has escaped... for now. He's merely delayed his death, not deferred it."
He lifted his hand.
Rhys tensed, his fingers poised to grab for his sword.
Roger's eyes glittered an instant before he raised his hands to his head and yanked off the helm. He bent and wiped the sweat from his tortured face with his begrimed surcoat.
"Perhaps he'll think twice before he bothers us again."
Roger snorted, dropped the blood-smeared cloth, and his steel-gray gaze bored into Rhys.
"Why did you lend your aid?" Rhys said. Surprise flickered across Roger's face. "Had you waited, Malcolm would have done your work for you."
"He can't be controlled, only halted," Roger said, unfazed by Rhys's hint of sarcasm. "His greed commands his loyalty, and I'd be a fool to sit by and risk all, while he crosses me to gouge you for more."
Business.
Rhys nodded.
"And you, Monteux?" Roger asked, a subtle shading of—warmth?—to his bluntness. "What brings you to risk your neck?"
Rhys stared at his brother-by-marriage and said with a chilly smile, "A bond of blood."
Roger quirked his brow, but revealed no other emotion.
"I wed with your sister yester morn," Rhys added, "with your father's blessing and the priest, Father Duncan, attending."
A crooked line tugged at Roger's mouth, the contemptuous grin held tight by the scars. "So I must assume you've sent notice to Henry and David?"
"Of course."
Roger barked a staccato laugh, a sound without mirth, and slapped his helm under his arm.
"I owe you my life, Monteux," he said in a voice dangerously calm. He leaned forward. "And now, I'll repay the debt and give you yours in return."
For a chilled moment, their gazes held steady.
"You assume too much," Rhys said, dragging the words from a throat tight with rage. "It matters not a whit to me should you be damned and rot in hell. But it matters to Juliana."
Roger stepped back, bitterness and victory twisting his mouth. "I'll recognize you as my sister's husband, but expect naught else from me."
"He hardly expects your good wishes," Richard said, joining them.
"My lord," Roger murmured in acknowledgment. "So true, so true. After all, Juliana did grow to womanhood under my guidance. I reared her to be spirited, strong-willed, and with a temper to match the fire in her hair. Watch your back, Monteux." He sounded almost amused. "She is my sister."
"Rhys," Richard said, as they watched the scarred man walk away, "we've taken the day. You're not going to allow Roger's viperous tongue to sway your feelings towards Juliana? She cares for you, son."
For a long moment, Rhys regarded his father. "You're wrong. The day is not yet won, Papa. She may care for me—but does she care enough? Enough to forsake her brother?"
~~~~
CHAPTER 23
Her head throbbed. Inside, outside. Radiating down her neck. Juliana's eyelids refused to open.
She struggled to pull herself from a curious dream in which foul-breathed faces screamed and shouted, while she fought against their pull. If she could just get to Rhys, but he waited in a thick fog so very far away.
He'd been gone a month.
It was their first parting and the memory still swept longing through her body, a sweetness tangible in its intensity. . ..
Rhys returned from sending the marauding Scot scurrying back into his hole, only to spend the next two exhaustive days immersed in resettling the villagers. Laudable that a lord should take such an active interest in his people's welfare, but then, he'd departed before she had a chance to breach the many walls that lay between the two of them and seemed to grow higher.
"I know we have many things to talk about," he said, "but they must wait until I return."
"When will that be?"
Rhys shrugged. "I'm a king's man, Ana, and have neglected my duty too long as 'tis. Will you miss me?" He dropped his soiled tunic to the rushes, then clamped a warm hand over her obstinate mouth. "I said, will you miss me?"
She stared into his expectant eyes, at his chiseled face framed by tousled ebony hair. He was waiting, waiting for a declaration. Though he spoke no sweet words, he waited for her to lay bare her heart. And drowning in those sapphire pools that coaxed and promised and persuaded, she almost dropped her guard.
Almost.
But she was afraid. As if never saying the words aloud could keep the hurt of rejection at bay. Once again it seemed they all moved through her life as easy as through a swinging door, every man she'd ever loved tromped on her heart on his way elsewhere, thinking nothing of wiping his boots on
her hopes.
Aye, she loved Rhys and would miss him and think of him constantly, and the words nearly slipped out. But what did he feel for her? Anything? Nothing?
She was afraid to find out. Instead, she'd nipped the skin between his thumb and forefinger with her teeth and shook her head.
He skimmed his thumb over her lower lip and grinned.
"Liar," he whispered.
Then, he kissed her, a long, wet, thorough kiss. A kiss that ignited the smoldering embers into a blaze. And, as always between them, the last vestiges of conversation had died a joyous death.
Her worst, most vulnerable, moments came in the predawn hours alone in the massive bed, and she dreaded the coming of the empty day. But this morn had started out peacefully, and she'd given in to Isobel's incessant pleas to quit the mundane and go riding. . ..
Now, thinking hurt. The images flitted in and out. Nothing made sense. Warmth on her face. A soft breeze.
She'd gone... where? Home?
A warm breeze rushed past her face, the hoofbeats pounded in her ears, and with the animal beneath her strong and responsive, Juliana urged her surefooted mare to speed over the rocky ground to catch Isobel. Smiling broadly, she came abreast of the docile palfrey.
"Race you," she shouted over to the little maid, then goaded her horse to a faster pace.
Behind her, she heard Isobel's giggle and answering shout of challenge and the grumblings of their escort of men-at-arms.
Stretching way out in front, Juliana saw a clump of trees lay ahead, and she reined her horse to skirt the edges, staying in the open. A horseman suddenly emerged from the trees and startled her, but once she recognized him, she berated herself for allowing her thoughts to wander so far afield. Drawing rein on her galloping mount, she checked the impulse to turn around and whip her horse to a run. That would look cowardly in the extreme, and she'd run enough from Roger.
