Welshman's Bride

by Bancroft, Blair

  Well, that was good, was it not? I huffed a sigh and once again curled up in the wingchair, chin in my hands, a frown on my face. A whole slew of people might have killed Hugh, but who would murder the talented and much-favored Eilys, mother of a small child? I was not so naive I didn’t know love could turn to hate, but in my heart I had already acquitted Rhys of the other crimes, and there was no way I could believe he had murdered the mother of his child.

  Wearing blinders, are you? my inner voice mocked.

  No! I shot back. I am no longer the naive and shockingly spoiled girl who came here as a bride. I’ve grown up. Truly I have.

  Ha! Such sentiments will be small comfort to your parents when they come to your funeral.

  It was true, of course, that Daffyd or one of his men, could have carried out Rhys’s orders to shoot Matty . . . But no! Rhys knew full well I was not going out that day.

  Or did he? After all, he was out and about so much, I seldom saw him until dinner time. It was possible Matty’s expedition without me had not come to his attention.

  Nonsense! I would not consider it. So who else might be a villain?

  Gruffydd, like Gwendolyn, could order any action, no matter how heinous, and all too many would leap to obey, their loyalty so strong I had no doubt they would die before betraying either one. The same for Daffyd . . . except I could not see him killing Eilys, whom he so clearly admired, and his anguish when he brought Matty back had seemed quite genuine. And there was always an aura about him, as if he wore a shining cloak labeled “Noble Warrior” that made it impossible to picture him as a villain.

  So where did that leave me? With Lady Aurelia and Emily, the mouse, Farnsworth? A speculation even more absurd than Gwendolyn’s insistence that someone was trying to discredit Rhys.

  Hugh’s father seeking vengeance? A valid possibility, though it offered absolutely no reason why Hugh was killed in the first place.

  If he had been murdered, that is. Perhaps Hugh’s death was truly an accident.

  Disgruntled mine workers? I dismissed that thought. There had been no rumblings in the village. It seemed as if everyone was willing to wait, trusting Rhys to pass along any benefits that might come from the copper mine. Another point in favor of my husband as a hero, not villain.

  Dissension on the board of the copper mine? Were there men who did not like Rhys buying a controlling number of shares? Did they blame Hugh’s family, who also owned shares in the copper mine? That was possible, I knew, from all the years of listening to talk at the Hawley table, where business was not a forbidden topic. But no, I was being fanciful. I knew business could be cut-throat, but literally? I simply could not believe business, no matter how tumultuous, could have led to deaths so personal to members of the Maddox family.

  Personal. That was it. Hugh and Eilys had died because someone wished them ill. Yet perhaps not the same someone. And someone—possibly a third villain—wished me ill. And was not above implicating Rhys.

  And there I was, right back where I started. Multiple villains, multiple motives, and my head spinning in a dozen different directions. Not for the first time I was glad for the guard who stood outside my door. Had Rhys blocked the door to the secret passage? I shivered, picturing myself sprawled dead on the floor when Alice came to dress me for dinner, the guard still standing, oblivious, at my door.

  Grimly, I made a mental note to ask Rhys about the secret passage.

  Matty, granddaughter of a blacksmith, was indeed made of stern stuff. Though she developed a fever, as was only to be expected, she withstood it like a trooper. I doubted I would have endured half so well. When I was not sitting by her side, a succession of guards followed me from room to room, their constant presence more comforting than annoying—if for no other reason than demonstrating that my husband was not eager to become a widower. Not, of course, that it couldn’t all be a sham, but . . .

  Nonsense! Whoever the villains were, Rhys Maddox was not one of them. I would never concede that my instincts had gone that far astray. Not on the day I agreed to marry the near-stranger from Wales, and not now when I was a bride of three months. But belief in Rhys was little consolation, for a murderer or murderers still walked among us. The gloom permeating Glyn Eirian was palpable, an evil miasma that affected us all, right down to the lowliest kitchen maid. I continued daily visits to Carys in the nursery and made sure she was brought down to the drawing room each afternoon, where we all made an effort to perk up and be as cheerful as one could in the presence of a child who had just lost her mother.

  As for the secret passage that led from my husband’s study to his bedchamber, and on up to the floor above, Rhys not only assured me access to the passage had been closed off, he insisted on showing me the solid wooden bar fixed across the door. Unless that bar was lifted from inside Rhys’s bedchamber, there was no way that door could open. “Thank you,” I murmured, embarrassed that he clearly harbored doubts about my accepting his word.

  “Jocelyn?” Rhys suddenly looked almost as awkward as I felt. Puzzled, I waited to hear what he wished to say. “I have not properly thanked you for being kind to Carys, for accepting her as one of the family.”

  “I . . .” I bit my lip, tried again. “But she is family. She needs a mother. Not that I can ever take Eilys’s place,” I added hastily, “but she must have someone besides Nurse—”

  “Hush.” Rhys laid his fingers over my lips. “No excuses are needed. I am indebted to you, Jocelyn. Not every bride would be so generous.” My lips quivered, tears threatened as he added, “In spite of all that’s happened, I chose well. We will get through whatever horror grips us at the moment and come out the other side the stronger for it. I promise you a long and happy life at Glyn Eirian, Jocelyn. We will make it so.”

  Who would not have believed him? Certainly not I. Even if we were discussing his bastard child and his mistress who had just been murdered.

  Former mistress. I had to believe that.

  That night Trystan performed for the first time since Eilys’s death, delivering a passionately mournful elegy to Eilys that touched us to our souls, even though I caught only a few words of the Welsh. His stance, the timbre of his voice sang her praises, cried out against her untimely death, and exalted even as he brought us to tears—Gruffydd and Daffyd included. Truthfully, when the last word fell into silence, I felt shattered. A glance at Daffyd showed him with his hands gripped into fists, teeth clenched, his dark head thrown back against the wall. Gruffydd, taking note, laid a comforting hand on his shoulder and quietly spoke a few words into his ear. Slowly, Daffyd straightened, resuming his customary eyes-front, statue-like stance, by the main entry door.

  I had been right then. Daffyd had likely loved Eilys. But how had she felt, I wondered. Had something come of it, or had he suffered in silence until she scornfully rejected him, ending all possibility of Happily Ever After. Inwardly, I groaned. I did not want to suspect every last adult in the castle of murder. But anything that worked to put down fleeting suspicions about Rhys . . .

  Gwendolyn, back to Gwendolyn. The worm in the woodwork was surely Gwendolyn Maddox, whose long-time minions would do anything she asked. Anything they only thought she asked. Gwendolyn, whose loyal followers undoubtedly included members of the household guards. My guards. Goosebumps rose on my arms. A few of my brothers’ more colorful epithets popped into my mind. My husband had told me he was marrying me for my intelligence. What a plumper! I had allowed myself to become the tethered goat, just waiting for the slaughter. Had my dowry really mattered that much? Enough for Rhys to marry me for the money, planning all along to make sure I did not live out the year?

  If Eilys still lived, I might consider that insidious thought more seriously, but . . .

  But if Rhys had broken with Eilys before our marriage, as he alleged, then perhaps she too was an obstacle. But to what? The answer to that was not long in coming. To the Welshwoman from the North whom Gwendolyn had chosen for him. The woman Rhys had allegedly gone to London to
escape. But what if it was all a lie intended to pacify me until my “accidental” death could be arranged—after my dowry was safely in my husband’s pocket?

  Oh dear God, I was so alone. Matty, my only true friend, was confined to her bed. Lady Aurelia, bless her heart, might suffer an apoplexy if I alerted her to my fears. And neither of us had any power to command the guard, even if there might be sympathizers among them. The vicar, the pastor? Derec Pryce, the colliery manager? Edmund Wilbanks at the foundry? A smidgin of relief swept through me, though it lasted but a moment. Yes, Mr. Wilbanks was English. Yet he, like the others, owed his living to Rhys Maddox.

  “Was it not beautiful?” Liliwen said, breaking into my dire thoughts. “But I suppose you understood not a word.”

  “I understood the gist of it,” I returned, congratulating myself on keeping my temper in the face of her disparaging tone. “Trystan’s ode was truly exceptional. He is remarkably gifted.”

  Suddenly Liliwen’s face crumbled from snide to grief-stricken. “She–she was always kind to me, even when Mama was not. I shall miss her.”

  Guilt struck me. After my doubtful interactions with Liliwen when I first arrived, I had done my best to avoid her. When, as my sister-in-law and the person nearest my own age, we should have been friends.

  Friends? Her mother—and possibly her brother—may be trying to kill you! You truly are the most naive bride in the history of Britain!

  I managed some bland response to Liliwen, bade everyone a polite goodnight. Ignoring Rhys’s raised eyebrows at my sudden departure, I fled to my bedchamber, my guard’s footsteps echoing down the corridor behind me. Hands fisted, I stood just inside my bedchamber door, my head whirling with the question, What to do, what to do?

  One moment, my Hawley common sense told me I was making a mountain out of a molehill. The next, primal instinct exploded into warning. I was naive, vulnerable, a plum ripe for the picking. For devouring. There had been too many “accidents” for that approach to be attempted again. Most likely, I would simply disappear. Carried away in a surging torrent of water, dropped into the ice cold depths of a mountain lake, sealed forever in some abandoned coal pit, or shut up in one of the castle’s secret passages.

  My whole body shook in terror. I knew what would happen if I spoke to Rhys of my fear. In but a few moments he would have me believing every word that came out of his mouth. I would melt like a snowflake under the winter sun. I could not chance it. I must go. I would send Matty’s parents to care for her, while I contemplated the many variations of the truth from the safety of Hawley Hall.

  But first I must write a note to Matty. And to Rhys, because I knew my fear of him was likely groundless. But I was no one’s fool, and I would not be a sacrifice on the altar of greed. I would fight to live, while still hoping I could salvage the life I had hoped to have, the one I had only seen in occasional tantalizing glimpses since crossing the River Dee.

  Rhys had not come to me since Eilys’s death, and I had respected his grief. Tonight, I prayed he would continue to stay away.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  My preparations were few. After several hours of brooding and plotting, while waiting with baited breath to see if I remained alone, I began to assemble the necessities for my journey back to England. My warmest woolen gown, to be worn over two chemises. My thickest stockings, stout and well-worn half-boots. Incongruously, over this drab ensemble I would have to wear my Sunday-best cloak, as the one I usually wore for a cold-weather walk was now blood-stained as well as pierced by an arrow. I added a knit cap that could be tugged down over my ears beneath the cloak’s hood. Two pairs of heavy gloves went into a deep pocket on one side of my fur-lined cloak, my ring of chatelaine keys into the other.

  After assembling all I would need, I lay down on my bed, still wearing the gown I had worn to dinner. Although it was now close on three o’clock, I still feared Rhys might come striding through the door at any moment.

  He did not, for which I offered a strong prayer of thanks.

  At half four I slipped off my bed and began to dress, carefully cinching a belt around my waist before donning my gown. Depending from the belt was a coin-filled leather pouch. Much of the contents had come from wise parents who had not blithely sent me off to Wales with no means of my own. Some of it was from Rhys, who made me a generous allowance which I seldom used. Money and warm clothing were all I needed. And courage. For I had no intention of stopping until I was safely within the walls of Hawley Hall.

  Rhys . . .

  No, I would not think of him! Absurd as my fears might be, I must think only of myself. I must get far enough away to see the problem from the clarity of distance. Surely the pieces of the puzzle would fall into place when I was not constantly fearing for my life.

  Matty . . .

  Matty would be safe, well cared for. She had taken an arrow meant for me. I was confident no one at Glyn Eirian was depraved enough to let her die now the mistake had been revealed. Lady Aurelia would look after her.

  Coward!

  And fool if I stay!

  The day after Matty was shot—the day I had begun to think that escape might be my only option—I sneaked a dark lantern out of the kitchen storeroom. I lit it now then closed the slide completely, leaving only the holes in the top of the lid to provide air for the flame. Escaping my bedchamber would likely be the most challenging part of my journey.

  A final mental check of my garments—money, lantern, a flint in case the sturdy candle blew out—and I knew I was as ready as I would ever be. I threw open the draperies over the two windows in my room, blew out the three candles in the candelabrum on the dresser and waited while my eyes adjusted to the dark. Ah . . . moonlight—I’d counted on that. Not full, but enough to keep me from having to open the lantern all the way, an act of sheer folly which would scream “Here I am” to all and sundry.

  Oh dear Lord, now the moment was upon me, I nearly faltered. Moonlight or no moonlight, it was dark and cold out there. Even when pre-dawn lit the sky, I would be finding my way over rough terrain I had never traveled before . . .

  If you mean to go, go!

  Utterly terrified, I moved with utmost stealth toward the dressing room door. It was the only way out—the only door without a guard. But what on earth could I say if Rhys woke up?

  Perhaps he wasn’t there. Perhaps he had found consolation elsewhere?

  That horrid thought was enough to get my feet moving faster—through my dressing room into his. And now, with my fingers on the latch, came the moment when I almost turned back, scurrying to the safety of my bedchamber like a frightened rabbit. Ashamed of my cowardice, I lifted the latch and slid inside. The coals in the fireplace still cast enough glow for me to see that the curtains were firmly fixed around Rhys’s bed. A slight snore revealed he truly was in his own bed and asleep. Thank you, Lord!

  I glided across the room, found the bar on the secret passage with little difficulty, though I held my breath as I lifted it up. Not a sound from Rhys. I stepped inside the passage, shutting the door behind me with great care. When all remained quiet behind me, I slid the side of the dark lantern half open, giving me enough light to find my way down the narrow stairs. When I was safely in Rhys’s study, I sank into his well-upholstered leather chair and indulged in a moment of quivering relief.

  Silly, you’ve barely begun. You need to be up and about.

  I’m escaping hearth, home, and husband. I’ve a perfect right . . .

  Brava, Jocelyn. You are arguing with yourself when the servants could be stirring at any moment.

  I shut the lantern, again allowing time for my eyes to adjust, and somehow made my way through the corridors to the tapestry room without being detected. The castle would be more of a challenge. Daffyd and his men slept there, the corridors like a labyrinth, the circular staircases treacherous, forcing me to use at least a portion of the lantern’s light. I could only hope that anyone seeing the glow would think me one of the many ghosts who allegedly haunted
the place.

  Moving with painstaking care, I found my way to the stairs that led down to the dungeon. Down and down again, past the three barred cells, a slight pause as I opened the armament room. And then I was through, the door shut behind me. I sucked in a breath of relief as the door to the tunnel—wonderfully fitted into the paneled wood so no one not looking for it would ever notice—loomed before me. Escape. I’d done it.

  My fingers trembled as I slid the lantern to full open and found the right key. The lock resisted. I bit back a moan. Tegan had seemed to turn it with ease. Did I have the wrong key? No, it fitted perfectly. It was my fault. This close to escape, I was letting my emotions fly away with me, making me weak.

  I tried again, grimacing with the effort. The lock clicked, the door swung open. Before taking the final step into the tunnel, I sagged against the jamb, giving thanks. I was as good as out.

  At the far end of the tunnel, I unbarred the door, closed my lantern, and cracked the ancient wood open just enough to peer through. Black night eventually gave way to an eerie pall of moonlight. Enough to see my way? I could only hope so, as I planned to be out of the gorge by the time pre-dawn lit the sky and I had to find my way to the next village to the east.

  My plan worked. Though the cold permeated my layers of clothing, nipped at my nose, and chapped my lips, I made the long journey without incident, grateful for the practice I’d had in walking the environs of Glyn Eirian. The village was small, alas, a convenient post chaise out of the question. In the end, after ordering a packet of food suitable for travel, I hired a horse to take me to a larger town, where, I was assured, I would find a stage coach heading east. My sore feet cried out their gratitude as I was boosted into the saddle, riding astride, grateful for the generous cut of my skirt, though my chemises slid up high enough to make me blush even though no one could see them.