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Ceridwen suppressed the leap of joy his words evoked. She could not go home, and he needed to be jolted out of his rude disregard. She glared at him, with what she hoped was an expression of fierce independence. “I am Ceridwen of Llyn y Gareg Wen. My father is Morgan ap Madog. And you are my husband.”
Raymond’s head snapped up, his face pale. He stood, then sat down again. “Nay…she is but—you cannot be—”
“Why not? ’Tis not the person that is important, but the pact. If I do not please you, that is regrettable, but be assured I find the prospect of wedding you no more appealing.”
“I did not expect you to find me appealing. I will force myself upon no one. Do as you will, go where you like.”
His defensive attitude surprised Ceridwen. She had feared once he realized she was his betrothed he would simply take what was his due. All the more frightening a prospect when she was not certain exactly what constituted…his due.
He continued, “However, Lord Morgan can count upon my good faith. I will marry his daughter, as promised. If in fact you are who you claim to be.”
“My word is as good as yours, sir.”
Raymond studied her, his blue eyes sharp and unforgiving. “You might have told me sooner.”
“I tried. I kept getting interrupted—”
“And you fear me.”
“Nay,” Ceridwen lied, twisting the blanket in her fingers.
A rueful smile curved Raymond’s lips. “If you do not, you would be wise to.” He reached down and stroked the shoulder of a large, hairy dog snoring in the rushes at his feet.
“What is that?” Ceridwen peered in alarm at the great beast, with its tangle of impossibly long legs and rough fur.
The knight narrowed his gaze. “You did not meet, whilst he was your…guest?”
So this was the hostage wolfhound. Her rival. The Lord of Rookhaven’s first love. The thought was so ludicrous Ceridwen had to cough in order to smother a giggle. Both actions hurt dreadfully, and she forced herself to be still. “Nay. I assure you I had nothing to do with that, sir.”
Raymond returned his attention to the dog. “This is Hamfast. My wolfhound. He hunts with me, eats with me, and sleeps with me. He will not harm you.”
His pride in the ungainly creature was evident.
Ceridwen nodded. “My brother, Rhys, cared for him with all due courtesy. But, sir…” She swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. “We had trouble in the beech-wood pass of the mountains, and I was separated from my people.”
He arched one dark eyebrow. “You astound me. ’Tis a long way to come afoot and alone, milady.”
“Mother Mary smiled upon me.”
Raymond eyed her dubiously. “No doubt.”
She fought the stinging behind her eyelids. “I am afraid they are lost. P-perhaps dead.”
His perpetual frown deepened. “I will send a search party.”
“I thank you for that, sir. And please, get word to my father that I yet live.”
At this, a pained look crossed Raymond’s face, and he gave her a curt nod. Not knowing what to think, Ceridwen forged ahead. “Do I or do I not have your word that I may take up residence as your lady—in name only?”
She shivered again, this time at her own audacity. If he did not want her, she’d not be used as a…a convenience. He could keep a—what were they called?—concubine for that. There it was again. She was not quite sure what that meant, or what concubines did. It was an area she must address, and soon. But for now…“Y-you said you would not force—”
“I know what I said.” Raymond placed his palms on his knees and rose to his feet. “Once we are wed I care not what you do. Just keep out of my way. And do not have a mind to changing things. I am happy with my current arrangements.” Hard-eyed again, he turned toward the door.
Ceridwen sniffed. “You do not look happy to me.”
Raymond’s back stiffened, and he reversed his departure. His gaze bored into Ceridwen as if he could see through her and liked not what he saw. “Right you are, milady.”
It was not what she had expected him to say. He snapped his fingers at the hound. Hamfast woke and sat up next to her bed, one huge paw resting on the blankets, his brown eyes sorrowful. Tentatively, Ceridwen held her hand out for him to nose.
Halfway to the door, Raymond turned and spoke a quiet command. The dog’s lips drew back as if in a smile, then he returned to his master’s side. The door flew inward and Alys narrowly missed careening into her lord as she trundled through, her arms full of linens. After a last swift glance at Ceridwen, Raymond guided Alys back out into the hallway.
Ceridwen could hear the low rumble of his voice, but could not make out the words.
After a few moments Alys returned.
“Himself says yer poorly, and to take extra good care ye don’t give up the ghost,” the old nurse said bracingly.
“Did he, now? There’s naught wrong with me. I am only a bit tired.” Ceridwen tried to swallow the tendril of fear creeping higher within her. He must know, merely by looking at her, that the wound had gone bad. She could feel it too, though she did not want to face it. The fever, the chills, her clammy skin.
“Here. These are the finest linens anywhere’s out of Ireland. You’ll be more comfy swaddled with them betwixt ye and this wool. And now for my special hot compress, to draw the churl’s evil humors from ye.”
“What’s that you said?” Ceridwen asked weakly, not sure that she wanted to know. English terms still challenged her.
“Sir Raymond said his sword carried the churl’s evil humors, from his foul gut into yer own sweet body. I’m to draw them out, or he’ll see my hide nailed to the barbican.” Alys chuckled.
Alongside numerous others, no doubt. “Oh. Ahhh!” The steaming bag of herbs settled on Ceridwen’s wound.
“If yer not better by the morrow, Himself’ll send young Wace to find a physick, to bleed out the illness right proper.”
“I will be better. I promise.” No one would bleed her. Himself’s plan must be to frighten her into wellness, to be rid of her faster. Would he be disappointed if she did not recover? That he might be pleased wasn’t out of the question. He would have her lands without the trouble she herself represented. Had he not killed his first wife, once he had spent her wealth?
Ceridwen pushed the dreadful thought to the back of her mind. No Beauchamp would outdo a woman of the Cymraeg. She would leave only when it suited her to do so. After she found the knight in Alonso’s pay who had slain her cousin, and made him dearly regret what he had done.
Perhaps as Raymond’s wife she might achieve that end…if she survived. But right now she could not face the prospect of his hands on her again. His touch made her so very uncomfortable. Hot and cold and tingly. As though there was an emptiness within herself she had never known needed filling.
A cricket chirped from a corner of the candlelit sickroom. Raymond gnawed his thumbnail as he gazed at the sleeping girl. Her limbs twitched with fever. Her skin was translucent, and her body had wasted over the last several days. He had watched many a good man die slowly, and it never got any easier.
The pompous fool of a physician he had summoned from Chepstow had done nothing helpful. Alys’s simples and balms had better effect. Now it was only a matter of time. Ceridwen’s pain would cease, either through death or recovery.
But he could scarcely believe how he seemed to feel—as though he would shatter if he had to witness either her demise or her departure. And if she stayed, he would eventually destroy her. As he had his young wife.
Why was he drawn to this woman? Why had he sat here each night until the wee hours, guarding her sleep like some great oaf of a dog? She was no one to him. Of no concern at all. But if he did not follow through with the marriage the clever lord Morgan would plague him without end. Not to mention the fact he would lose the lands of her dowry.
Raymond winced at the memory of how Ceridwen had taken his clumsy description of her. Small and dark indeed. He had wanted to explain, to tell her the truth—that in his eyes she was perfectly formed, of ebony and cream. Spun of mountain mists and heather, so fragile she might break at his touch.
But he could not allow himself to become fond of her, or her of him. Even were it possible, she would only suffer for it. To love a Beauchamp was to court disaster. And a Beauchamp in love was a creature out of control.
If he had no feeling for her, and vice versa, it would not matter so much if they were wed. He might be a decent, dutiful husband, so long as his heart remained detached. But he was a mangler of love relations. Any small chance of happiness had been ground to dust by the circumstance of his birth into the noble family Beauchamp, where loyalty to one’s lord rose above all other virtues and desires.
Raymond leaned his head on his palm and gazed at Ceridwen. Her lips were full, now pale, but when first he had seen her, the color of sunlit wine. In spite of his determination to remain aloof, he wondered how they would taste. How she would respond if he were to kiss them.
She sighed in her sleep and her dark lashes fluttered. Raymond closed his eyes. His head ached. At least he could do her the honor of carrying on a bedside vigil without lusting after her. He had to leave the chamber, before he did something he would regret.
Rising, Raymond entered the adjoining room where Alys slept. From there he took the stairs of one of the corner turrets above the main living quarters. He climbed them to the top and found the watchroom empty. The trees below cast black shadows over the moonswept land, and the marsh waters glittered as the breeze caressed them, their dark depths reflecting silver. An enchanted night. Like the one that had put an end to his foolish ideas about love and faith.
Inexorably his mind dragged him back towards the place he swore never to return to, and yet despaired of ever finding again. He took a cautious approach to the slippery remembrance of when his heart had loved freely, with no taint of suspicion poisoning each glance and touch.
The memory was hateful to him, because to love meant willingness to embrace pain beyond measure. To trust was to risk the loss of not only the beloved, but his own soul. He had loved his wife. Immoderately. Passionately. Wholeheartedly and without reserve. And his love had been rewarded by betrayal and death. Never again.
Raymond ran down the stairs. He could bear no more waiting. To hell with the land, to hell with Morgan ap Madog. Ceridwen was as good as dead, with or without him as husband. And once he openly defied Alonso, he himself would not be long for this world. He must do what was best for her—and that meant getting her out of Rookhaven.
In the women’s chamber he searched for the nurse among the tangle of serving-girls she allowed in her bed to benefit from her warmth and protection. Nudging her awake, Raymond whispered to her, his voice fierce and desperate even to his own ears. “I must leave now. I will be away a fortnight. When I return, I want Morgan’s daughter gone from here.”
He heard an intake of breath. One of the maids—Shona, no doubt—was awake and listening. He turned his head in her direction and she vanished under the covers with a squeak.
“If—when she dies,” Raymond continued, “take the silver from the small chest in my solar. Pay for her burial in a great church, in a place far from here, and for as many prayers as it will buy. If by some miracle she lives, give the silver into her hands and send her to the convent near Usk, where Morgan can find her. Provide her an escort. Someone from outside the keep, unknown to me. I want it to be as if I had never brought her here. Do you understand?”
“Aye, milord, all too well. Oh, Raymond, what happened to the sweet lad I once knew? You’ll not wipe away the pain of Meribel this way.” Alys’s voice choked with tears. “This lass is the finest thing to come under your roof since—”
“What do you know, old woman? Keep your witchy words of wisdom for those foolish enough to listen. Do as I say or suffer the consequences.”
“You’ll be the one to suffer, Raymond. Mark my words.”
A chill shuddered through him, for she spoke with the certainty of an oracle. “Your words are too late.” Already he had suffered beyond endurance. Leaving Alys he wrenched open the door of the infirmary. He wanted one more look at his never-to-be bride.
She lay as though already dead, waxen and still. Raymond bent over her to reassure himself that her chest still rose and fell. His hand drifted toward her forehead, then withdrew without touching her skin. Why go through such torture, watching her fade? She hated and feared him like the rest, he had seen it in her narrowed eyes. He meant nothing to her but pain.
As Raymond lingered at the door, memorizing Ceridwen’s face, her eyes opened and met his. Her lips curved into a poignant smile that tore at his heart. Without thinking, he retraced his steps to her bed. He knelt beside her, his hands on either side of her face, and his mouth came down upon hers in an aching, sweet caress. He gave her all the tenderness he denied in himself, all the caring parts he no longer acknowledged, distilled and concentrated into one potent kiss.
Ceridwen drifted in and out of her dreamworld. She had seen Owain, standing by the door, love shining from his eyes. He had come to tell her he wanted her to return home to her family—to him. She’d smiled to let him know how grateful she was. How happy she was to have him here.
He came to her, to hold her once again, to give her a kiss of peace and absolution. His face was a blur—she could hardly see it—but she caught a flash of dark blue eyes. How could that be, when Owain’s were brown?
Instead of kissing her forehead, or cheek, or even the tip of her nose as he was wont to do when she was small, she felt his mouth upon hers. Warm and smooth. He smelled like freshly honed steel, and the oil to stop its rusting. Like horses and sheepskin. And something else, underneath it all, a rare, earthy aroma. It was intoxicating. His kiss burned like strong drink, heady and uplifting. She could feel it pouring into her, a humming vibration of weightless, light-filled energy. It was rich and pure and heavenly.
It was not Owain.
The realization hit Ceridwen as he rose to his feet and turned away. Her vision cleared and she saw his bright hair, his dark surcoat as he swept out the door. Raymond. Her enemy. Her betrothed. One of a whole fraternity of murderers and rapists. Her stomach lurched. She rubbed her lips, tried to wipe away the sensation of his kiss with her fingers.
But a part of him had already entered her, was one with her. He sang through her veins. He could not be expunged. And no matter what her head told her of his evil, her heart could only rejoice at how right his touch felt.
“There, there, pet.” Alys appeared and patted Ceridwen’s forehead and wrists with a cold, wet cloth. “Lie still, be easy. Himself’s gone now, don’t worry.”
Ceridwen gazed at the woman’s homely, comforting face. Her own hot tears spilled. They ran into her ears as she lay too weak to wipe them away.
“Now, now. You’ll be well soon, and ye should be thinking on that, not on him, the wicked thing.”
“But I was not—” Ceridwen began feebly.
Alys proceeded to ignore her own advice. “Y’know, he weren’t always this way, so dark and broody. Once he was a good boy, a golden boy. You’d not find a kinder, lovelier lad.”
“What happened?” Ceridwen whispered.
“That’s not fer me to say. He’ll be telling ye himself one day, no doubt. Then maybe he’ll come right again.” Alys stood. “I’ll be sending in a nice brew for ye, and I’m warning the lassie to see that ye drink it all down. So make certain ye do this time, or it’s her ears I’ll be boxing.”
“Aye, Alys.” Ceridwen smiled through her dwindling tears.
The afternoon was frigid and clear. Watery rays of sunlight made their way through the narrow, parchment-covered window. Ceridwen sat wrapped in a blanket, mending the long rent Raymond had made in her overgown.
From the day he had kissed her, her recovery had been rapid. The fever left her weakened, but soon she had begun to eat more than gruel, and could totter about the sickroom. The wound closed cleanly at last, leaving a raw, tender scar the length of her little finger.
Sir Raymond had not visited once. But Ceridwen did sometimes wonder where he was. Wisps of memory, or dreams returned to her, of seeing him sitting by her bed, watching her, his eyes churning with the color of the cold, blue ocean depths. She tried to shake away the confusing feelings even the thought of him stirred in her. She had not yet fulfilled her vow to accommodate this man, and she would be a disgraceful coward to betray her father’s trust. Somehow, she had to make it right.
Alys entered the chamber, holding a leather bag. “His lordship said yer to take this, and Godspeed.” The old woman’s hands shook a little.
“What is it?” The deerskin pouch was soft, and the weighty jingle of its contents answered her even before Alys replied.
“Silver coins, to see ye on yer way.”
“On my way? Why would I want his precious bits? Is Beauchamp going back on his word? Does he think he can bribe me to leave?”
“It’s been a good brace o’ sennights since he left, and I daren’t disobey any longer. If he finds the treasure still in his solar, there’ll be the devil to pay upon his return.” Alys wrung her hands and looked over her shoulder every moment or two.
Ceridwen had never seen the woman in such a state. Panic fluttered in her own stomach. She must stay. If she did not, Beauchamp had no incentive to keep the peace her people so desperately needed. He could claim she had run away from him. For Alys’s sake, she tried to sound indifferent. “Then bury the coins, or give them to the poor. I do not understand what they have to do with me.”
“What it has to do with ye is exactly what ye just said. I’m to bury ye with it, or give it to ye. Either way yer to be gone before his return and I expect him ere another setting of the sun.”
“Why would he want his silver to be buried with me? I am not dead.” Fresh apprehension filled Ceridwen, on top of her humiliation.
“Not with ye—for ye to be buried with. Oh, lass, I haven’t the wherewithal to explain it. Ye must go. I’ve food for ye, and a pony, and Shona’s best cloak. Now, old Nance will see ye safe to the village. He’s deef as a post, but a good sort. From there ye can hire a man to take ye to the cloisters nigh Usk. Then send word to your da.”
Hiding her dismay, Ceridwen reached out to touch Alys’s arm. “I thank you for all you have done. I know ’tis your lord who forces you to this. I will not forget your kindness, but neither shall I take his silver, nor aught else I did not bring with me.”
“Please, lady, leave the treasure if ye must, but take the pony and the rest, to keep ye safe.”
The old nurse’s pleading eyes swayed Ceridwen’s proud heart. “Ah, Alys, I will come back soon and repay you.”
Alys wiped her cheeks and nodded in a resigned fashion before she hurried away. Wearily Ceridwen slipped her overgown back on. She could hardly blame Sir Raymond. What a disappointment as a bride she must be, under the circumstances.
But that was neither here nor there—too many lives were at stake. Willing or no, the arrogant marcher lord would simply have to make good on his promise to the Cymraeg.
And she was the only one who could see that he did.
Chapter Five
The fortnight had passed. Ceridwen was gone. Raymond launched the last of the glass goblets he owned towards a certain triangle-shaped stone in the wall of his solar. It struck dead center and burst into a thousand green shards. He had steadily shattered his precious glassware over the past few hours, each display of his deteriorating mood more vehement than the one before.
“Hey, what goes, my friend? Is this how you greet me?” A familiar, imposing figure lounged in the doorway.
