“Rhys, stop her,” she whispered.
He opened his mouth but caught himself. His sister’s assumption gave him an idea; in fact, he should have known it all along.
“Perhaps it is better this way,” he said quietly, listening to the manor come alive with more voices and doors banging. “We have, after all, been pretending we are married for the majority of this trip.”
Elizabeau’s eyebrows lifted. “What are you saying?”
He held up a hand before she could gain a head of steam. “You’re supposed to be hiding,” he said thoughtfully as he turned to face her. “Understand that my sister cannot keep a secret to save her life. I’ve been attempting for the better part of eight days to figure out a way around her finding out who you are. She’ll spread it no matter how much we tell her not to.”
Elizabeau’s eyebrows rose. “And you are just telling me this now? ’Tis a fine time to mention it, now when it’s too late.”
Rhys shook his head, his brilliant blue eyes fixed on her. “It is not too late. My sister has unknowingly provided the answer to the dilemma.” He took a step or two towards her just as more people began to pour from the door of the manor. “Would it be too much of an imposition to continue the pretext that you are my wife until we leave for Ogmore? We did it for the merchant. Now we must continue it for my family’s sake.”
Elizabeau didn’t know what to say. She stammered over an answer as Carys crossed the yard with a woman, young boy, and very small child in tow. She eyed the approaching group, still struggling, when Rhys reached out and grasped her by the chin gently.
“What is your mother’s name?” he whispered, his blue eyes glimmering.
Her eyes flickered with confusion but she answered. “Julianna,” she replied softly. “The Lady Julianna de Mawgan Treveighan.”
He didn’t have time to answer; the horde was upon him and a short woman with very dark hair and a lovely face was suddenly embracing him. Elizabeau watched as the woman kissed his stubbled cheeks over and over.
“Rhys,” the woman declared when she finally stopped kissing him. “My beautiful boy, you look marvelous.”
Rhys smiled down at the woman to whom he bore a striking resemblance. “ ’Tis good to see you, Mother,” he looked at the boy standing next to her, a lad of eleven or twelve years with dark hair and dark eyes. “Dylan, you scamp. I see you’ve been growing behind my back.”
Dylan de Titouan smiled broadly at his older, substantially larger brother. When Rhys ruffled his dark hair, the boy batted at him and Rhys gave him a good natured shove that nearly sent him to the ground. But that was as far as the horseplay went for the moment; standing slightly behind his mother, holding Carys’ hand, was a toddler of no more than four years of age. Rhys crouched his enormous bulk in front of the child but made no attempt to touch him.
“Greetings, Maddoc,” he said gently, his brilliant blue eyes soft. “Do you remember me?”
The boy looked up at Rhys’ mother, who nodded her head encouragingly. Then he looked back at Rhys. “Aye, Daddy.”
Rhys held out his arms, allowing the boy to choose whether or not to come to him. He was, after all, a virtual stranger to the child; he’d seen him a total of six times during his short life. After several long seconds, the child fell into his father’s embrace. Rhys stood up, holding his son gently against him.
“He’s grown a mile,” Rhys said with tenderness in his voice that Elizabeau had never heard before. “He’ll be a fine knight in no time.”
Orlaith de Titouan scowled at her eldest. “You’ll not hurry this one into combat. He’s still a baby and will remain so for quite some time.”
Rhys grinned as Maddoc stopped hugging his father long enough to begin playing with his helm. Rhys pulled it off, offered it to him to play with, and set the boy back to his feet as the child struggled under the weight of the helm. When Uncle Dylan tried to help him, the child screamed and pulled his new toy out of his uncle’s reach. Rhys drank in the sight of his son a moment before turning to Elizabeau.
His mother, sister and brother were already focused on the mysterious young woman. Rhys held out a hand to her and Elizabeau realized she would now be the center of their attention. With a bit of trepidation, she took his hand and allowed him to pull her close to him.
“Mother,” he had Elizabeau firmly in his grasp, sensing her reluctance. “This is my wife, the Lady Julianna. My lady, this is my mother Orlaith, my sister Carys, my brother Dylan, and my son Maddoc.”
Orlaith stepped forward, her brilliant blue eyes glittering and kind upon Elizabeau. The family resemblance was obvious. “Welcome, Julianna,” she said. “We are most happy to make your acquaintance.”
Elizabeau smiled weakly, feeling strange and apprehensive about the deception. “You are very kind, my lady. Thank you.”
She suddenly sneezed into her ever-ready kerchief and Orlaith looked stricken. “Rhys!” she said accusingly. “Your wife is ill. Why did you not bring her inside the very moment you arrived? What manner of careless husband are you?”
Rhys opened his mouth to reply but his mother was already yanking Elizabeau out of his grasp and hustling her towards the manor. Carys skipped after them while Dylan tried to convince Maddoc to come with him. Rhys sighed, watching his mother haul Elizabeau away and knowing he was going to catch an earful for the woman’s illness. But he’d already known that. He turned to his brother, still trying to coax the toddler.
“Dylan, take my horse,” he instructed the lad. “I’ll take my son.”
Dylan thought that handling a charger was the easier job of the two and gladly took to the destrier. Rhys swooped down on the baby, still struggling to hold the helm.
“Come along, lad,” he kissed the boy on the cheek as they headed towards the manse. “Let us go and reacquaint ourselves with one another.”
Maddoc screamed the entire way back into the house.
*
The water in the massive copper tub was so hot that it was nearly scalding, but Orlaith was convinced the only way to deal with the illness was to boil it out. As Elizabeau sat in a steaming tub that was scented with mint and other strange scents, she realized that she did feel much better than she had earlier.
Rhys’ mother was exactly as he had said; she bustled in and out of the chamber, drying linen in her hand or some manner of ointment to soothe the cough, or wine and cheese to ease the stomach. So in between bathing Elizabeau and washing her considerable mane, she fed her, soothed her, and otherwise fussed over her. Elizabeau had never had so much attention in her life but was quickly coming to appreciate it. After the hell of the past ten days, she was very grateful for the comfort.
While Orlaith said little other than inquiring about her general health or the temperature of the water, Carys was another story. She was a very pretty girl on the cusp of womanhood, very curious about Elizabeau in every way. She sat on a stool next to the tub while her mother washed and tended the new arrival, watching every movement, listening to every word. Whenever their eyes would meet, Carys would smile bashfully and look away. Elizabeau didn’t sense any hostility or standoffishness from her, but she came to wish the girl would say whatever she was thinking. All of the wide-eyed staring was making her uncomfortable.
Elizabeau had no idea where Rhys was during all of this time. She was terrified Orlaith would ask her where or when they were married and she would not have the correct answer. But Rhys’ mother remained silent on the subject as she gently ordered her newest daughter out of the cooling tub and wrapped her in warmed linen. Seating the woman on a stool by the hearth, she set Carys to combing through her wet hair to dry it in the warm air. So as Carys combed and Elizabeau struggled not to doze, Orlaith managed to stuff her with more cheese and wine.
The food only made the sleepiness worse. Elizabeau was having a difficult time keeping her eyes opened and Carys continued to carefully comb and fluff her hair, drying it out in the heat of the fire. When Orlaith left the room in search of servants
to empty the tub water, Carys finally summoned her bravery.
“Where were you born, my lady?” she asked softly.
Elizabeau had been close to dozing; her eyes slowly opened, dreading the series of questions from the young girl and not wanting to give her too much information.
“Cornwall,” she replied. “And please… you may call me by my name. It seems rather formal for sisters to speak to one another so formally.”
Running her fingers through Elizabeau’s hair, Carys blushed at the request. “Julianna is a pretty name,” she said timidly. “I… I like it a great deal.”
Elizabeau had to smile; the girl sounded very nervous. “Thank you,” she replied. “Now tell me; where were you born?”
“Here, at Whitebrook,” Carys replied. “I have lived here my whole life. I have never been anywhere else.”
“Not even to London?”
“Oh, no,” Carys said sincerely. “Mother will not allow it. She says it is a den of thieves, murderers and gluttons. She fears for my safety there.”
Elizabeau struggled not to giggle. “And she is correct. It is a wild place.”
Carys stopped combing; she came around to look Elizabeau in the eye, her expression a mixture of awe and curiosity. “Have you been there, then?”
“Aye.”
“Do… do women really paint their faces and put holes in their ears in which to wear jewels?”
Elizabeau did chuckle, then. “I have seen such things. But they are women we do not speak of.”
Carys’ eyes widened. “Whores?”
Elizabeau’s own eyes widened at the blunt response. “Where did you hear such a word?”
Carys’ looked stricken. “Do not tell my mother I said that; she’ll box my ears!”
Elizabeau laid a hand on the girl’s arm. “Have no fear. I would never tell on you.”
Carys smiled sheepishly, returning her attention to Elizabeau’s drying hair. She resumed combing. “How did you meet my brother? In London?”
“Aye,” Elizabeau replied truthfully.
“Did he champion you? Save you from a dastardly murderer?”
Elizabeau thought on the rough introduction she had to Rhys. “In fact, he did,” she replied with more truth. “Your brother is a very brave and noble man.”
Carys stopped combing, looking at Elizabeau with such a dreamy expression that Elizabeau found herself fighting off the giggles again. It was a silly, romantic gaze.
“He saved you?” Carys sighed. “How chivalrous.”
Elizabeau could see in their short conversation that Carys was a naïve young girl with a mist of romantic ideals fogging her mind. Elizabeau thought back to the days when she held such ideals. But those days were long gone, and she was sorry. She doubted she’d ever see those days again although there were times when Rhys looked at her that she could imagine feeling such a thing once more. But not with him.
“Aye, he is,” she replied quietly, reaching for the wine decanter that Rhys’ mother had left for her. “Now, would you mind finishing my hair so that I may dress? My sniffles have abated for the moment and I would hate for them to return and ruin your mother’s hard work.”
Carys resumed her task with a fury even though her thoughts lingered on her brave brother and his chivalrous deeds. She wished in her heart that someday, a knight would do the same for her. With a little furious combing and fluffing, Elizabeau’s golden red hair was shiny and soft, falling straight to her buttocks with no curl to it. It was like a waterfall of golden-red. But Elizabeau didn’t notice the beauty of her hair reflected in the firelight, or pay attention as Carys brushed the straight, glistening strands repeatedly. She drank her wine, thinking on the chivalrous knight that was Rhys du Bois and feeling pangs of disappointment such as she had never known. The more she drank, the stronger the pangs became.
Elizabeau woke up in the strange, dark room. The fire in the hearth was burning softly in the darkness and the smell of smoke was heavy. She lay there a moment, staring up at the ceiling and trying to orient herself. It took her several long, anxious moments to remember that she was at Whitebrook and this was the chamber she had bathed in. Shifting slightly, she could see that she was still wrapped in the large piece of drying linen. She remembered drinking too much wine and becoming very sleepy. Somehow, she made it over to the bed and passed out.
Rolling onto her side, she felt a bit woozy and she realized she was still a bit drunk. As she gripped the side of the bed, she saw very large legs seated in a chair next to her. With a start, her head snapped up to see Rhys gazing down at her.
“So you are awake,” he said quietly. “I thought for certain you would sleep well into morning.”
Her head was throbbing. “Why… why would you say that?”
He smiled faintly, sitting forward so that his elbows were resting on his knees. “Because you’re ill, we’ve been riding day and night for eight days, and,” he jerked his head in the direction of the table, “because you drank as much wine as I can.”
On her stomach, she propped herself up on her elbows and put both hands on her forehead. “God’s Bones,” she hissed. “What a mistake that was. I feel awful.”
His grin widened. “At least you are no longer sniffling.”
As if it just occurred to her, she wriggled her nose and sniffed for good measure. “Not much,” she looked at him. “Amazing. I thought for sure I was going to die of the chill.”
He shook his head, rising from the chair beside the bed. “You still might if you do not put on warmer clothing,” he indicated the fact that she was still wrapped in a sheet. “My mother wanted to wake you and put you in something warmer, but I stopped her. I told her to let you sleep.”
Elizabeau looked down at herself again, grunted, and shifted to an uneasy sitting position. “I find myself in this situation all too often when you are around, wrapped in towels and without my shift.” She looked up at him as he chuckled softly. “What are you doing here, anyway? And where did you go earlier? I was terrified your mother was going to ask me about our wedding and I would not have the correct answer.”
He went to the wine pitcher, swirling it around to see that there were only dregs left. “I am here because we are married and married people normally sleep in the same chamber,” he replied. “As for where I went earlier, I was visiting with my son whom I’ve not seen in six months.”
“Oh,” she scratched her scalp, looking around for the familiar satchel that carried her clothes. She spied it over by the hearth and rose on unsteady legs to retrieve it. “Did you tell your mother anything more about our wedding? She did not ask me a thing.”
He nodded, watching her rummage about the bag. “We were married in London ten days ago. We met one month prior at a marketplace near the Tower that is held every Thursday. It is when the nobles do their shopping so they will not be bothered by the rabble.”
She nodded, memorizing the lie. Pulling forth one of the two shifts she owned, she cast Rhys a long glance.
“Turn around. I’m not your wife and you cannot watch me dress.”
Dutifully, he turned about, but not before he muttered under his breath. “Pity.”
“What was that?”
“I said, of course, my lady.”
She looked at him as if she did not believe him, but quickly dropped the towel and pulled the shift over her head. Then she fussed about in the bag.
“Oohhh,” she groaned in frustration. “I do not have a sleeping shift or anything appropriate to sleep in. I do not want to wear one of my dresses.”
He crossed his enormous arms, listening to her shuffle around behind him. “Sleep in the shift tonight. Tomorrow I shall go into Llandogo and purchase something for you to sleep in.”
“Can’t I go?”
“No. We cannot take the chance that you will be sighted.”
She frowned. “You stand out more than I do. You’re a gigantic mountain of a man with black hair and blue eyes that glow. You could not blend into a crowd if y
ou tried.”
He snorted. “Be that as it may, you cannot go. And arguing with me isn’t going to magically cause me to change my mind.” He turned around to look at her as she stood in her shift beside her satchel. “Now, get back into bed and go to sleep. I am exhausted as well and would like to catch a bit of sleep before the sun rises.”
Her lips stuck out in a pout. “But this is my good shift. And it’s not nearly warm enough.”
“Get in bed.”
It was not a request. Elizabeau’s eyebrows rose and she glared at him for a few long moments, hoping to scowl him into submission. But the brilliant blue eyes remained strong against her. With a heavy sigh, she threw the surcoat she was holding back into the satchel and grumbled all the way back over to the bed. It was a small bed with a heavy coverlet and she tossed it back, revealing the soft bed linens underneath. The moment she climbed in, she howled.
“ ’Tis freezing!” she gasped, her teeth chattering. “The bed linens are like ice!”
With a heavy sigh of his own, Rhys gave her a shove and she fell down into the covers. As she squealed in protest, he pulled the heavy coverlet over her, tucked it in tightly enough to strangle, and threw himself down beside her. When Elizabeau realized what he was doing, her mouth flew open with outrage and Rhys had a fight on his hands.
“What do you think you are doing?” she demanded.
He shoved her down again when she tried to get up, being rewarded with an elbow to his gut for his trouble. “I am going to sleep,” he rolled her over onto her side, her back to his chest, and threw her into a bear hug. “I am exhausted, you are cold, and I grow weary of this foolishness. You’ve slept against me for eight days, Elizabeau Treveighan, so your protests at this stage are empty and foolish. This is the same as it was on horseback when you were cold and I used my body heat to warm you. Now, shut your mouth and go to sleep.”
She tried to move but he had her too tightly. “That was different,” she grunted. “I had no choice. But we are no longer traveling and this is improper to say the least.”
Fathers and Sons Page 8
