Rexanne Becnel (15 page)

She had to forcibly stop herself from rushing over and snatching Arthur away.

Cleve looked up first, then Arthur. The boy shifted slightly, leaning nearer to Cleve, it appeared to her. That simple movement drew her up more abruptly than any words might have. Once more she felt the unwelcome sting of tears. She, who so rarely cried, now seemed ever on the verge of a veritable flood. Like a statue she stood there, staring at them, knowing her emotions were plain on her face, but unable—and unwilling anyway—to hide them.

“Arthur,” she spoke his name tentatively. A long-eared owl hooted three times from the lurking blackness of the forest beyond them. The meager light of the moon gleamed for a moment as the clouds cleared before it, and Wynne could vaguely make out the closed expression on Arthur’s face. She also recognized the irritation on Cleve’s.

“Arthur,” she tried again, moving a pace nearer.

She saw Cleve’s hand tighten slightly on Arthur’s arm. “Don’t be rude, lad,” he murmured gently.

Arthur lifted his chin a fraction, and Wynne tried to take heart. At least Cleve was not trying to interfere between them. “Arthur, I … I know you’re angry with me—”

“You tried to kill Cleve!”

His accusation made her swallow hard. No doubt that’s how it must appear to everyone. “No, I didn’t try to kill him. I just—”

“Yes, you did!”

“Hush, lad. Let’s listen to what Wynne has to say.”

Wynne crouched down at the edge of the low rock so that her face was just a little below Arthur’s. “I did put something in the wine,” she admitted in a low and miserable tone. “But only to make him ill—”

“He
might
have died!”

“He would only have retched for a while. And had the runs,” Wynne added weakly. “But he wouldn’t have died. I just wanted to frighten him and his friends away from here.” She searched Arthur’s shadowed face, desperate to make him understand. “I only wanted them to go back where they came from and leave us alone.”

There was a brief silence, and it wasn’t until Arthur spoke that Wynne realized she’d been holding her breath.

“But why?” the child asked in a suddenly trembling voice. “Why would you want him to go away?”

Wynne’s eyes flitted to Cleve’s, and though she couldn’t read his expression, she knew he waited for her to tell the truth—to reveal everything to Arthur. Before she could answer, however, Arthur continued.

“Is it because of the kiss? Because he took Druce’s reward?”

Wynne closed her eyes. Oh, how could she possibly explain
that
to the children? She reached out a hand to touch Arthur’s knee. “It goes far beyond what has happened during the past few days, Arthur. There are things I need to tell you and the other children.” She bit her lower lip nervously. “If you’ll come with me now, we’ll all of us have a long talk, and I’ll answer every one of your questions.”

To her chagrin Arthur did not respond at once. He looked up at Cleve as if for permission. Only when Cleve patted the boy’s shoulder reassuringly did Arthur look back at her.

He sighed. “All right. I’ll go.”

Wynne stood up, her hands clenched together at her waist, while Cleve lifted Arthur down, then stood up himself. “Go along, lad. Wynne and I will catch up with you in a moment.” Then he caught Wynne’s wrist to make sure she didn’t leave. “Go along,” he repeated, rumpling Arthur’s hair fondly. “Find the other children so they can all listen to what Wynne has to say. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Wynne watched Arthur disappear across the dark meadow with a sinking feeling in her chest. It wasn’t bad enough that she must face the five children tonight and explain the terrible circumstances of their births. Now she must also deal with Cleve.

As if to underscore her dismal thoughts, he jerked her to face him, none too gentle in the movement. “Now, mistress witch, are you going to end this ridiculous campaign of yours to chase me away? It should be clear by now that the only ones you hurt by your actions are the ones you are supposed to care for—your children. Only they’re not really your children, are they?”

“They
are
mine,” Wynne bit out angrily. “And no
lleidr
Englishman is going to steal them away on the pretext of bringing them to their father—if indeed this lord of yours is truly father to any of them.”

“If I wasn’t convinced he sired one of these five children before, I’m convinced of it now. We’ve found no other bastard offspring of the English of this age anywhere in Radnor Forest. I’ve spoken to Druce and Gwynedd and even old Taffydd.”

Wynne felt as if his words were a noose tightening around her. “The child might have died long ago. Or this woman your lord claimed bore his seed—she might not have brought the child to life. She might have lost it—perhaps even forced it from her womb as soon as he was gone.”

Even in the dark she could see the distaste on his face. “No God-fearing woman would do such a thing.”

“If she felt she bore the devil’s seed, she would. And no one would blame her for it! These were children of rape, remember? Brutal rape,” she went on, growing more and more hysterical. “Sometimes over and over again, by an endless stream—”

“Stop it!” he snapped. Then, in an unexpected movement, he pulled her hard against him, holding her there with one strong hand on her back and the other cupping her face to his chest. “Don’t dwell on a past that was so terrible. No good can come of it. You must think of the future now. Of these children’s future.”

Though his words came out in a harsh growl and his tone was demanding, Wynne found a most perverse comfort in them. More than anything she would like to put that dreadful time behind her, never to think of her sister’s tortured cries or her long months of suffering and horrible death. But how could she forget? The children were a constant reminder. And now
he
was here, confusing her, stirring up all these awful emotions. Old hatreds. New longings. And most of all fear. She was terrified of the new future that threatened to take from her everything she cared about.

For a moment longer she let herself rest against his strong body, not ready to resist him just yet. She was simply not strong enough. Then she took a shaky breath and forced her hands against his chest.

He didn’t budge. Nor did he loosen his grip in the least.

“Unhand me,” she muttered, embarrassed that she’d let herself go weak against him for even a moment. She should never have given him a glimpse of her vulnerability. Men like him—Englishmen—always took any advantage they could. She shoved at him harder. “I said, let me go!”

But for all her efforts she succeeded only in leaning far enough away to meet his inquisitive gaze. That was hardly her goal, but when she tried to look away, he tangled one of his hands in her loosened hair and forced her head back so that their faces were but inches apart.

“I’ll release you when you’ve heard me out and not before, Wynne. Do we understand each other?”

She glared rebelliously into his darkened face, yet she knew as well as he did that the choice was not hers. When he was satisfied by her silence that he had her attention, he cleared his throat.

“You must give them the truth, Wynne. Not colored by your own feelings or prejudices.”

Her jaw clenched. “And do you think the truth will not damn your people?”

She felt his sigh, for her breasts were pressed firmly against the gray kersey bliaut that covered his broad chest. “The children will not understand the horrors of war,” he replied. “Nor the horrors of rape. They’re too young to understand that such things happen, nor why.”

“Understand
why?
” She scoffed at the idea. “No woman can ever understand
why
rape happens. Nor war either. How can we? Only men understand those things—or at least they pretend they do.” Her gaze bored into his. “Maybe you can explain it to me, Sir Cleve. Why
do
men make war on each other? Why
do
they rape?” Then, unable to stop herself, she blurted out. “Have
you
ever raped a woman?”

He stiffened, and his hands tightened painfully on her arms. Then he thrust her an arm’s length away, as if she were a burning brand against his body.

“No! No, never.” He shook his head as if he sought to shrug off his anger. “Not all men are the same. Surely you know that. What of your friend, Druce—”

“Don’t you dare to compare the foul deeds of those English soldiers to Druce, nor to any of my people! We
Cymry
are a people apart from the likes of you!”

Once more he shook his head, but this time, even in the face of her contempt, he seemed to feel sorry for her. “You call yourself Seeress. The people of Radnor look to you for advice and guidance. Wisdom, even. And yet was ever a woman so unwise? So naive and innocent? We English are not so unlike you Welsh. There are both good and bad among us. Honest and dishonest. Loyal and disloyal.” He gave her a little shake, and his eyes burned into hers. “We are not so different, Wynne. There are men of Wales who rape and pillage amidst the insane glories of their wars. Do you think there are no Welsh bastards in the outlying villages of England?” He shook her again. “It is not right, not for either side. But we cannot change the fact that it has happened. These children you raise have English fathers. The fact that one of their fathers wishes to right the wrong he’s done should not condemn him in your eyes.”

“Nor should it exonerate him,” she answered, though the heat of anger had somehow fled her voice.

“He can’t change the past, Wynne. But he can change the future.”

But I don’t want him to
, Wynne wanted to cry. Only she couldn’t.

A cold fear of that very future seemed to grip her, filling her with a terrible dread. She shivered, and when she did, he folded her into a warm embrace.

“I know this is hard for you,” he murmured against her hair.

Wynne squeezed her eyes tight against the tears that fought for release. “No, you can never know …”

She felt the movement of his throat as he swallowed, and against her chest his heart thudded strong and steady. Why had he come here? He’d disrupted her life thoroughly, and yet at that moment she was comforted by his presence. For a moment she could almost believe he was right and that his quest was a good one.

But to give up one of her children …

Her emotions were so raw, so tangled and painful, that she could hardly think straight. When he tilted her face up to his, she stared at him through eyes damp with tears. “I love them so,” she whispered, unable to control the tremble in her voice and the fear in her soul.

“I know,” he murmured back as his gaze swept her shadowed features. “And I …” He took a sharp breath, then groaned. “And I’ve been waiting to do this too long.”

The kiss he abruptly forced on her was not entirely unexpected, nor did Wynne pretend to herself that it was unwanted. A part of her had longed for this ever since their kiss earlier in the day, and yet she’d suppressed the very idea. It was too traitorous of her. Too absolutely foolhardy.

But now as his lips came down on hers without the least semblance of gentleness, she shed the need for pretense. It was too, too glorious, this press of warm, damp flesh to warm, damp flesh.

His lips parted hers so easily, as if it were always meant to be thus, and at once their tongues met in a wet and fiery battle. He pulled her tongue wholly into his mouth. Then when she surged excitedly to him, he thrust back, taking full possession of her mouth, filling her in the most erotic manner imaginable. He surged in and out, rubbing the sensitive inner surface of her lips, and something deep in her belly leaped to fire.

Unaware of what she did, Wynne pressed her belly hard against his muscular thighs and hips. He responded with equal fervor, and she felt the rigid contours of his quick arousal. He bit at her lip, then lifted her up off the ground, holding her fully within his grasp.

He kissed her as if this were a battle they fought, and some distant part of Wynne’s mind knew he fought to win. Yet in succumbing to him she felt not vanquished, but rather victorious.

He lifted her higher, with one arm tightly wrapped under her buttocks. Only when her face was above his, when she was lifted into the dark mist of the night, looking down into his face, so faintly lit by the silver moonlight, did she consider what she did. Her arms were wrapped about his neck. Her hands were filled with his hair. One of her legs was lifted, curved wantonly about his lean flank, and had anyone been about, the conclusions would have been obvious. They would be lovers. It was ordained by whatever powers governed both the earth and the stars—God the Father in heaven, or the Mother Goddess of the earth.

His eyes shone up at her with the most possessive of lights. Then he lowered his face and nuzzled the fine wool fabric that covered her chest. Nudging her amulet aside, he rubbed his cheeks against the soft peaks of her breasts, nipping at the loose, braided neckline with his teeth.

“Ah, woman. You are indeed a witch. Can you not make these unwieldy garments of ours disappear so that we may properly finish what we have begun?” Once more he rubbed against her breasts, seeking the taut nipples with his teeth.

“Oh,” she groaned as he found one, causing her to arch in mindless pleasure. “Cleve … oh, please …”

“Yes, yes. You do please me well. And I want nothing more than to do the same to you,” he murmured against the bared skin of her collarbone. His tongue found the gentle indentation above the bone, then trailed small, heated kisses along it to the soft hollow of her throat. She swallowed, and he marked the undulation with more fiery kisses up to her chin and then on until he found her lips once more.

“I want you, Wynne ab Gruffydd.” He kissed the words against her mouth. “My sweet seeress. My wicked Welsh witch …”

“Wynne? Are you out there?”

Like an icy stream of water, Druce’s voice brought Wynne to reality with an abruptness that had her sputtering. “Oh! Let me down! I must … I can’t …”

But Cleve would not let her go. He only let her slide down along the hard length of him, all the while holding her fast in his arms.

“Wynne is just discussing something with me,” he called through the darkness to Druce. “We’ll be in very shortly.”