The afternoon sunshine eventually gave way to the dusk of evening, but Haydn did not leave his chamber. He sat in the dark. He sat in silence. He sat alone and pondered his future.
“They want us to depart within the hour, my lady,” Sir Colwyn told Bethan the following morning.
“But we cannot leave! I have yet to see the Warrior of the North and made my proposition.”
Colwyn shook his head. “Bonvalet was most adamant in his instructions. I suspect we will get our innards spilled all over the great hall if we remain much longer.”
Bethan rubbed her temples to alleviate some of the pain that was throbbing over her eyes. Her initial worry of having her proposal soundly denied by Lord Meifod seemed like a ridiculous concern, considering that she was finding it almost impossible to even present that plan.
“Tell him that I am ill,” she said.
“My lady—”
Bethan held up her hand to silence Sir Colwyn’s protests. “Tell the steward that I am ill, unable to rise from my bed. Explain this is a usual occurrence, one that happens each month to me.”
“Each month?” Sir Colwyn’s bushy brows drew together in confusion, and then a blush of red heated his cheeks.
“Precisely.” Bethan paced between the window and bed, trying to release her nervous energy. “I am hoping the hint of womanly difficulties will embarrass the steward enough to buy us another day inside these walls.”
“But what good is another day? Lord Meifod has refused to see you.”
“True, he has refused me a formal audience. But a casual meeting will serve me just as well. Today you must discover the location of the master’s chambers and plot a route from my room to his. I shall wait until the castle sleeps and then go to him in the dead of night to plead my case.”
“Lady Bethan, you are a maiden! You cannot present yourself to this warrior in his bedchamber. Whatever will he think of you?”
“He will think I am serious,” she retorted. “And desperate. Both of which are true.”
“I cannot allow it,” the knight declared. “I am sworn to protect you and this plan puts you directly in harm’s way.”
Bethan threw back her shoulders. She knew Sir Colwyn was right. Her unexpected, uninvited appearance in Lord Meifod’s bedchamber would put her in a very precarious position indeed.
But she had little choice. Time was running out. Her tale of a womanly illness would not work beyond today. She must see him tonight or else forever lose the chance to save herself, to save her people.
“No arguments. Just find that bedchamber, Sir Colwyn.”
The hallway was dark, cast in shadow by the few lit torches scattered along the wall. Bethan had spent the past two hours memorizing the directions Sir Colwyn had given her and she was grateful to have committed the details to memory, for her nerves were making it difficult to think. Tamping down her doubts, Bethan allowed her feet to carry her forward, through one corridor, then up a steep set of stairs to the next level and chamber where Lord Meifod slept.
She felt the goose bumps rise on her skin and she sent up a hasty prayer that she would find him soon. Biting her lip, she hurried onward into the darkness. She took but two more steps before the hair on the nape of her neck rose in warning, giving her the heart-stopping sensation that she was being watched.
“Hello? Is anyone there?” she whispered.
Icy silence was the only reply. Bethan drew herself up, paused, and listened. She froze, allowing her senses to sharpen; then slowly pivoting her head, she studied the shadows behind her, half expecting someone to materialize and confront her.
But there was nothing.
Shaking her head at her foolish nerves, she continued, until suddenly from out of the darkness came a dark figure, large and imposing. Bethan gasped and took a step backward, nearly stumbling over her clumsy feet.
The noise catapulted the figure into action. The shadow moved, so swiftly she was unsure she could trust her eyes that it had in truth been real. Then suddenly a bulky arm came out of the shadows and snaked around her waist. Before she had a chance to utter a sound, a second hand clamped over her mouth, snuffing her cry of alarm.
For the space of a heartbeat, pure terror pounded through her veins, rendering her immobile. Her captor dragged her down the hall and Bethan came to life. Kicking, thrashing, and twisting, she fought to escape the iron bonds that held her prisoner.
Oh, why had she not listened to Sir Colwyn? It was utter madness to put herself in such grave danger by wandering the hallways of a strange castle in the middle of the night. Tears of frustration came to her eyes when she realized she might very well pay for her foolishness with her life.
“Cease your struggles at once or else you shall wake my guards.”
The voice that spoke was low and arrogant. Bethan winced and tried to calm herself, knowing this must be the man she sought. She remained perfectly still and he removed his hand from her face. But the other arm, strong as steel, remained around her waist.
Bethan could barely breathe, was terrified of moving. Yet slowly she turned and looked up at her captor, straining to see the features hidden within the hooded cowl of the man’s mantle, but it was too dark.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
His tone was menacing and angry. The panic tightened in her breast. Bethan tried to summon a smile, but her lips trembled so forcefully she knew the effort was a failure.
Stay calm. Keep your wits. “I am Bethan of Lampeter. My men and I arrived yesterday afternoon.”
“There are no guest chambers in this section of the castle. What were you doing here?”
“Looking for you.”
A rumble of displeasure rose from deep within his chest. “Well, now you have seen me. I bid you good night, my lady.”
He released his grip and turned to leave. Bethan felt despair tear at her soul. “Wait! Please, I must speak with you on a matter of grave importance. Is there somewhere private we may converse?”
“Private?”
“Your bedchamber, perhaps?”
He shifted and his hood fell from his head, revealing his face. Bethan was almost afraid to look, worried he might be hideously scarred or disfigured. But her fears were unfounded. The Warrior of the North was an uncommonly handsome man. Black hair, silky thick and straight, hung to his shoulders. The arch of his brow was noble, his cheeks chiseled, his jaw square and strong and perfectly symmetrical. His eyes were pale and silver, alert and intelligent.
For one brief, fanciful instant she thought there was something familiar about him, but knew that was impossible.
“There is but one reason for a woman to come to a man’s chambers in the middle of the night.”
“I just want to talk,” she muttered.
“That’s what they all say.” A menacing smirk quirked one corner of his mouth. “Come.”
Bethan stared at him, sensing it could be dangerous to trust him, yet all the while knowing he was likely her only hope of defeating her stepfather. Her breath rasped out of her lungs in thin puffs. She swallowed hard, her courage dwindling for a moment. Then burying deep the fear that choked her throat and robbed her of speech, Bethan held out her hand and let the volatile stranger lead her away.
Three
Haydn kept his stride purposefully long, but the woman kept up despite her smaller stature. Her breath came in panting puffs and he felt a brief flash of sympathy, but he did not slow.
Though he had not shown it, he had been startled when she revealed her name. Bethan of Lampeter. He remembered well the young girl who had risked all to save him from de Bellemare’s butchery. “Twas difficult to believe that this beautiful woman, with long golden hair that cascaded over her full bosom and a face boasting delicate, feminine features and luminous green eyes, was one and the same.
Why was she here? What did she want from him?
He shut the door to his bedchamber and faced her. With the curtain pulled aside, the light of the half-moon shone brightly through the
window, more than sufficient for someone with his keen eyesight. His gaze moved over her once more, marveling anew at her delicate beauty. He waited in silence, watching her shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
“You are in my bedchamber. As you requested. Speak.”
The pallor on her face increased. “I have come seek…seeking…” she stopped, stumbling over the words. “Forgive me, but I have the strangest sensation that we have met before.”
“We have met, my lady.” His gaze softened on her. “You knew me once as Haydn of Gwynedd.”
Bethan’s eyes widened. “You survived! I always wondered. And the others?”
Haydn shook his head. “I know not of the other men. We broke apart and each went our separate way, hoping to increase our chances of escape. Did the guards or de Bellemare give chase?”
Her eyes lightened with amusement. “My stepfather never knew you had escaped. The guard that watched the door to your cell changed at dawn. The new guard was brother to the first, so when they came to take the men from your cell to be executed, the second guard insisted you had already been moved. He knew if my stepfather discovered there had been an escape, both brothers would have been tortured and killed.”
“It seems that fate smiled upon us all that night.”
“Indeed.” A victorious grin stretched across her lips.
“Tell me, why have you come all this way, Bethan of Lampeter?”
“I need a husband.”
“You are a comely lass. ’Tis hardly necessary to travel such a great distance to find a man willing to marry you.”
“I need a man with the courage and skill to defeat my stepfather, to free us once and for all from his savage brutality.” She moved closer and placed her hand over his. “I believe you are that man, Lord Meifod.”
In the depths of her eyes, Haydn could see her haunted sense of desperation. Her agony. Yet he forced himself to ignore it. With this offer came trouble—he could feel it deep in the marrow of his bones.
“I have no need of a wife,” he answered. “I desire peace in my life, not vexation.”
“Peace?” Her eyebrows arched. “A strange word for such a skilled warrior.”
“I do not seek battles. I do not make war. I merely defend my own.”
“I also wish to defend my people. But I cannot do it alone. Please, will you not aid me?”
Her simple plea touched him in a way he had not thought possible. More than anyone, he knew precisely the kind of evil that surrounded de Bellemare. She had survived it for years, but her strength was ebbing, her fear increasing.
He took a step closer, surprised by the sudden, savage need within him to protect this proud woman, this lovely mortal whose eyes glimmered with an odd mixture of desperation and strength. Haydn’s gut clenched and he silently called himself a witless fool as his hand reached out to touch her face.
Lord Meifod’s nearness produced a most unexpected effect on Bethan. With one hand he skimmed his knuckles over her cheek, a touch so gentle it turned her insides to knots. Fighting to quell the clamoring of her heart, Bethan smothered the impulse to turn her face into the caress.
She swallowed against the dryness in her throat. “Do we have a bargain?”
“I told you, I have no interest in acquiring a wife.”
Bethan bit her lip in frustration. “Lampeter is a rich property. Our villeins are honest and hardworking, producing some of the finest goods in all of Wales. Once you defeat Lord Lampeter it will belong to you. As ruler, you will be a very wealthy man.”
“I have no need of great wealth. My lands provide a more than adequate life for me.”
“Is there nothing I can use to barter?”
The look he sent her made her heart skip a beat. “You are a lady. I will not dishonor you, tempting as it might be.”
Bethan’s cheeks stung with heat. That was not precisely what she meant, though in truth he had a mesmerizing, sensual presence that she found most appealing. Shockingly, she admitted if he had demanded she give herself to him in exchange for his aid, she would not have protested too hard or too long.
“You misunderstand, my lord. I know my—”
He curled his knuckles beneath her chin and slowly tilted her face to his. Their eyes locked. She read the passion simmering in his eyes and waited for whatever was to come.
“You saved my life and thus deserve my gratitude. For that reason only, I will journey to Lampeter and see what I can do to help you. I cannot promise marriage, but will seek another course.” His voice was low, lulling. Heat, like scalding flames, crackled through the air. “Now go, before I do something dishonorable that we shall both regret.”
A frisson of fear raced through her. Turning on her heel, Bethan scurried from the room. As she neared her chamber, her steps quickened, until she was practically sprinting. She yanked open the heavy door, ran through, then shut herself inside.
Bethan’s breath blew out in short pants. Flattening her palms against the wooden door, she leaned into it for support. As her breathing came under control, she pressed her ear to the heavy wood. She could hear no footsteps, no sounds at all.
She was safe. For now.
A week later, as the mist swirled and the steady rain pounded, Haydn, flanked by a contingent of his most loyal, skilled knights, rode through the gates of Lampeter. He had sent a rider ahead, announcing their arrival and asking for shelter, ensuring that he would be admitted.
They were greeted in the courtyard by the castle steward, a man who had perfected a subservient, bowing manner that was distinctly annoying. He led Haydn and his knights into the great hall where de Bellemare awaited them.
“Lord Meifod.”
“Lord Lampeter.” Though it cost him much, Haydn bowed graciously.
“I bid you welcome. ’Tis an honor to meet the man they call the Warrior of the North.”
De Bellemare did not rise from his seat on the dais, but instead looked down at Haydn, his arrogant expression revealing his belief of the power he held over everyone and everything around him.
“’Tis I who am honored to meet you, my lord.”
Haydn attempted a smile, but failed. The need for vengeance against his bitter enemy burned through his veins and pounced with an ache in his skull, but he restrained himself. The six guards flanking de Bellemare were all large, muscular men. Even with the element of surprise, he would never be able to successfully strike at him.
Haydn noted that two were pale and not as alert as the others. He surmised de Bellemare had most recently feasted upon those two. Though it was something he did not do, ’twas a common practice to keep a close contingency of mortals around to ensure a steady supply of fresh blood upon which to feed. That he took the risk of using his personal guards spoke of de Bellemare’s arrogance. But he was not a fool. The fresh blood kept his powers sharp, his strength nearly unbeatable.
Haydn sighed with genuine regret. When he agreed to journey here, he knew it was the perfect time to seek his revenge. He had hoped to do so without directly involving Bethan. But now that he had assessed the situation, he knew he would not be able to destroy de Bellemare as quickly as he had hoped.
He would have to stay, study de Bellemare’s movements, then plan a surprise attack. There was no other way. In order to stay, Haydn would have to marry Bethan.
“Tell me, Lord Meifod, was there a specific purpose for your visit?”
“I hear you have an unmarried daughter.”
“I do.” The eyes that assessed him were unblinking, hard and ruthless. “Do you wish to meet her?”
“I have no interest in her face or figure. I care only about her dowry. And forming an alliance with you.”
“I will not deceive you. She is not much of a woman; willful, outspoken, at times almost unruly,” Lord Lampeter remarked.
Haydn shrugged. “Even the most difficult creature can be beaten into submission.”
De Bellemare laughed, his eyes smoldering with delight. “You!” he barked, poi
nting a finger at a young servant, who paled with fright at being noticed by his master. “Bring us wine. I have important business to discuss with Lord Meifod.”
Bethan paced her bedchamber anxiously, waiting for a summons from her stepfather. She had seen Haydn riding proudly into Lampeter, his back straight, his chin raised, his banner of blue and gold snapping in the rain. But that had been hours ago. Surely by now something had been resolved?
The door opened and Sir Colwyn poked his head inside. “Your stepfather has ordered you to stay in your chambers tonight. If you behave, I can fetch you something to eat. If you complain, or disobey, I was told to lock you inside and guard the door.”
“But what about Lord Meifod? Is he still here? What is happening?”
“I know not.” The old knight shook his head. “Meifod is here, cozing up to de Bellemare like a calf suckling from his mother’s teat. There are rumors flying that he has asked for your hand in marriage, but nothing has been announced.”
Bethan’s lips quivered with agitation. Her stepfather and Haydn thick as thieves? The image did not sit well in her mind. Though she would dearly love to storm the great hall and discover what was going on, Bethan feared Sir Colwyn would be punished if she disobeyed her stepfather’s orders. “I shall wait here. Please, promise you will bring me word the moment you learn anything?”
The knight agreed. Left alone for the next few hours, Bethan fought to control her worry. She paced the floor of her bedchamber until she had worn a path in the rushes. Finally, when she thought she would go stark raving mad, there was a knock at her door. She opened it, then gasped with surprise.
Lord Meifod stood framed in the doorway, his expression grim. “I need to speak with you.”
She glanced hastily down the corridor, thankful no one was in view, then yanked him inside and slammed the door.
“Our wedding will take place in two days,” he announced without preamble.
“So soon?”
Haydn’s somber gaze held hers for an unsettled moment, his gray eyes glowing in the flickering candlelight. “If you have changed your mind about the marriage, I shall tell de Bellemare I do not want it. ’Tis your choice.”
Nature of the Beast Page 13
