Sharon Schulze (13 page)

I
an’s journey to l’Eau Clair was wretched. The roads—poor to begin with—had become impassable in places. They’d wasted hours traveling around the worst spots.

He wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d discovered Catrin bogged down along the way, but they saw no sign of her.

Exhausted, mud-spattered and furious with his sister, Ian led his men through the well-fortified gates of l’Eau Clair with far less enthusiasm than he’d entered Gwal Draig two days earlier.

Only the thought that soon he could vent his anger upon Catrin herself made the journey bearable.

Gillian’s husband, Rannulf, met him in the courtyard, hand outstretched in greeting. “Ian, ’tis good to see you. Gillian will be thrilled.”

Ian removed his filthy glove and shook Rannulf’s hand. “How fares my cousin?” he asked as he dismounted and handed the reins to a waiting servant.

Rannulf signaled to one of his men. “Owen, take Lord Ian’s men to the barracks and see to their comfort.”

Ian nodded his approval. “You must have been expecting
me.” They headed for the stairs leading into the keep.

Rannulf’s eyebrows rose. “Nay, though you’re always welcome here.”

“Catrin didn’t warn you I’d be following on her heels?” He felt his anger build anew.

Rannulf stopped. “Catrin isn’t here, Ian. We haven’t heard from her in nearly a month. She sent word that you would escort her here once you’d finished some business for Llywelyn.”

Ian pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose, but it didn’t subdue the pounding behind his eyes. He met Rannulf’s worried gaze. “She and Padrig—the boy I offered you as a squire—left Gwal Draig four days ago with an armed guard.”

“You saw no sign of them along the way?”

“’Twas all we could do to make it here. We had to leave the trail several times, since the path was blocked. I would guess they had the same trouble—it’s been wet for weeks. Truth to tell, I expected—nay, I hoped—she was here.” He fought to rein in his frustration. “We found no sign of a fight or struggle. They could be lost, but I doubt it. Catrin has traveled that route often enough to know the way.”

Rannulf took his arm in a firm grip, pulling him to a halt outside the door to the great hall. “I’d rather you didn’t tell Gillian, not yet,” he said with surprising urgency. “She’s not been well. If Catrin is missing, I don’t know what effect it might have on her. She’s gotten it into her head that no one but Catrin can deliver our child.”

“Ian!”

Rannulf shook his head in warning, then ran down the stairs to meet his wife. Her movements cautious, Gillian
crossed the muddy bailey to the foot of the stairs, an enormous basket held in her arms.

Ian waited, wondering how he could explain his presence.

The truth would not do.

Rannulf snatched the basket away from Gillian, scolding her all the while. Ian tried not to gawk once he had a clear look at her. She must be carrying twins, her stomach had grown so huge!

Rannulf had reason to worry. Childbirth was always dangerous, but if the babe were large, or if there were two…

Clearly Gillian needed Catrin’s expertise as a midwife.

Catrin must be safe. But he couldn’t avoid the suspicion that she was in danger, a feeling he’d had since he spoke with Father Marc.

They had to find her.

Gillian scolded Rannulf for his foolishness as he swept her into his arms and ran up the steep flight of stairs.

By the time Rannulf lowered Gillian to her feet on the landing, Ian had thought of a lie and, he hoped, erased the worry from his face.

Never one to stand on ceremony, Gillian ignored Ian’s filthy clothes and moved into his open arms. “I’m so glad you’re here, Ian.” She kissed his cheek. “Where’s Catrin?”

He returned her embrace and forced a smile. “I haven’t been home yet. But since I was in the area, I decided to stop here and dry out. I may need to borrow your husband for a few days, if you’ll let him out of your sight.”

Gillian’s green eyes, so like his own, narrowed. “Don’t lie to me, cousin.” Ian backed away, but he’d waited too long. She reached up, grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled.

“Let go, you little she-devil.” She laughed at him and gave a final tug before she released him. “How do you stand her, Rannulf?” he asked as he rubbed his scalp.

“You should know better than to lie to me, Ian. I catch you at it every time.” She linked her arm with his. “Come inside and take your ease.”

He held his tongue until they had settled in an anteroom off the hall. He sprawled back against the padded bench and held the silver chalice he’d been drinking from against his aching head.

Gillian took the cup and refilled it. “Would you care to tell me why you’re really here?” She joined Rannulf on another bench. “In spite of the way my husband tries to shield me—” she drew her hand along Rannulf’s cheek “—I am not a dainty little flower, unable to bear the realities of life. You lie to protect me, and I’ll not have it”

“You resemble Catrin when you take a man to task.” Ian smiled at the flush that stained her ivory skin. “You don’t look much alike,” he reflected. “Perhaps it’s your tone.”

“Enough, Ian. Where is Catrin?”

Rannulf took her hand and kissed her palm, then laced his fingers with hers. “Why don’t you believe him, love?”

The glare she sent him would have scorched a lesser man, but Rannulf remained unmoved.

“I’m not a fool.” She jerked her hand free. “I want the truth, Ian. ’Twill harm me more to wonder what you’re hiding. You might as well tell me.” She sat back, folded her hands over the mound of her stomach and stared at him.

As he sought to avoid the accusation in her eyes, Ian’s gaze came to rest upon her stomach. He’d swear it moved. How could she sit there and ignore it? Should he add to her misery?

He didn’t want to distress her further.

“You might as well give in,” Rannulf told him, his voice tinged with resignation. “We’ll be here all night, otherwise.”

Ian slammed his goblet down and leapt to his feet. “You win, cousin. But you’re as stubborn as a damned ox.” He knelt beside her. “’Tis because I care for you that I didn’t want to say anything.” He took her hands in his. “Catrin did not wait for me, Gillian. She left without me, days ago.”

“Then where is she?” Gillian asked, her voice rising.

“I don’t know.” Ian stood. “You know as well as I that there’s no stopping her once she decides to do something. These past few years—” he shook his head “—it’s been worse. ’Tis as though she has no concern for her own safety…nor that of others, I’m afraid.”

“Perhaps the poor weather kept her away,” Gillian said hopefully. Her gaze shifted from Ian to Rannulf. “What danger could there be in traveling here?”

Ian sighed. “I’ve heard rumors of late, threats to me and mine. I don’t know yet who is responsible, but when I find them…When I think of the work I’ve done for Llywelyn, plenty of possibilities spring to mind.”

“You didn’t tell Catrin about these threats, did you?” Accusation lent fire to Gillian’s voice. “She’s a woman grown, Ian, with a fine mind.” Her eyes fairly shot daggers at both men. “You expect us to obey your dictates without ever giving a reason why we should.”

“Enough, wife,” Rannulf said sharply. “Don’t blame Ian for what Catrin has done.”

“Nay, Rannulf. She’s right,” Ian conceded wearily. “I should have warned her. I didn’t want her to worry when I’m away. Nor listen to her concerns, either.”

Rannulf stood, resting his hand on his wife’s shoulder. “When do we leave?”

Gillian tugged him down beside her. After a whispered consultation, he nodded and straightened. “We’ll find her, Ian. And if I know Catrin, once we do, she’ll tear a strip off our hides for believing she could be in danger.”

Although Rannulf appeared calm, Ian could see that worry shadowed his eyes. Unwilling to see his own fears reflected there, he nodded his thanks and turned away.

Gillian sighed. “As much as I want you to go, ’tis too late to set out now.” After Rannulf helped her to her feet, she came to Ian and wrapped her arms about him. He returned the awkward embrace, resting his head against hers for a moment. “Rest awhile and take your ease,” she added. “We’ll have a search party ready to leave by first light.”

Bryn Du

Steffan dug his spurs hard into the stallion’s sides, pushing the beast to even greater speed. Nothing compared with this! The heady sense of strength, the mighty thrust of the animal beneath him—though the steed was powerful, he held dominion over it.

His mastery was complete.

If only he could say the same about the rest of his life. In the months since the debacle with Gillian, Llywelyn had begun to question everything Steffan did.

He gnashed his teeth. Not so long ago the mighty prince Llywelyn had depended on him for counsel. His opinion had worth, his word carried power. Now his visits to his kinsman were filled with sidelong glances, sly references to courage—or lack of it.

They were insults he didn’t intend to bear for much longer.

He’d show them they were wrong.

Once he got his hands on Catrin he could manipulate
Ian any way he wished; ’twas well-known that the Dragon was a fool where his bitch of a sister was concerned. None would dare call him coward with Llywelyn’s Dragon under this thumb!

And he might even get l’Eau Clair yet.

He’d waited for several days for the man Huw sent after Ralph and his bumbling pack of idiots to return, or to send word about where they’d taken Catrin.

He could not believe she was dead.

He hoped she wasn’t. After his plans and schemes, his anticipation at finally getting his hands on his cousin, it couldn’t all be for naught. He rammed his heels even harder into the stallion’s sides as he considered the failure of his dreams.

At this point he didn’t much care which woman he got. Gillian or Catrin, it didn’t matter. Either of the wily bitches could provide him with entertainment—and the chance to gain more power than he’d ever have with only the puny estate of Bryn Du in his grasp.

Ah, the possibilities. Merely considering them sent a surge of power bursting through him, settling into an over-whelming ache in his loins. He squeezed his thighs more tightly around the barrel of the stallion, savoring the pounding rhythm between his legs. To gain dominion over either woman—or both—

He closed his eyes. ’Twould be the greatest pleasure he’d ever experienced. Pulling back on the reins, he jerked the stallion to a halt.

Women were mere vessels, receptacles for a man’s lust. Power—and the anticipation of that power—was the true aphrodisiac. Emptying himself into a woman’s body held little meaning to him beyond a temporary relief of tension.

Of course, if he could manage to get his hands on Gillian again once she’d rid herself of her Norman brat, she could be the means to greater power for him. She’d married
that bastard FitzClifford, but there were ways to be rid of him, as well. Steffan felt his body spring to life at the thought of spilling his seed within the lush confines of Gillian’s body.

That act would have meaning; impregnating Gillian with
his
child would ensure him possession of l’Eau Clair. The fickle hangers-on of Llywelyn’s household would respect him as they ought to then.

Pounding hooves sounded along the trail behind him. His troops had finally caught up to him.

Smiling to himself, he watched in silence as Huw and his guard of four men brought their inferior nags to a shambling halt. “What took you so long?” he asked Huw, enjoying Huw’s envious glare at his own magnificent steed.

“We were exploring, milord,” he replied, his lips curled into a sneer. “We discovered something you might be interested in, if you’ve the time.”

“What did you find?”

“It’s better if you come see for yourself,” Huw said. “’Tisn’t far.”

“Very well. Lead on.” Steffan shifted in the saddle, falling into line behind Huw’s rangy bay. He hoped ’twas something interesting. He was game for a bit of adventure. This was the first fine day they’d had for more than a week; he was sick of being caged up inside.

Huw led them through the rain-soaked trees to a copse not far from the walls of Bryn Du. Steffan recognized the place; he’d been there many times before. To his surprise a man-at-arms stepped out from the sheltering brush as they approached, running over to take the reins of his mount.

Motioning the others to remain on their horses, Huw dismounted and led Steffan across the clearing. “This
way, milord,” he said, pointing to a faint trail in the underbrush.

He followed Huw to a decaying tree lying alongside the path. Huw reached into the tall grass behind the tree, stirring up a cloud of flies and the stench of death, and dragged out a blood-smeared corpse. “Your spy didn’t get very far,” Huw said, rolling the body over to reveal the young soldier he’d sent to follow Ralph.

“Damnation! I knew there was more to those idiots than there appeared to be.” Steffan kicked at the log, sending pieces of rotten wood flying. “I should have realized that no one could be that inept.”

He whirled and grabbed Huw by the tunic. “Couldn’t you at least have chosen someone who knew enough to stay alive?” he snarled, leaning toward the other man and flinging the words into his face. He tightened his fingers in the coarse fabric, fighting the temptation to close them around Huw’s throat instead. “I need to know where they went.”

Cursing under his breath, he thrust Huw away, backhanding him across the face and knocking him onto his backside. “Find yourself another spy—one who knows his business this time—and discover where Ralph went.”

Huw rose slowly to his feet, wiping his bloody lip on his sleeve. Steffan noted Huw’s glare with a smile of satisfaction. He didn’t care if the man loathed him, so long as he did his duty. And it never hurt to knock some deference into servants, lest they forget their place.

Huw sketched a mocking bow. “As you wish, milord. Who would you suggest?”

“Must I do your job for you? How the hell should I know? Just choose someone capable of finding them.” Steffan poked at the body with his toe, wrinkling his nose at the noisome stench. “Have you anyone with a brain?
Look at this—stabbed in the chest. Did he walk up to them and ask their plans?”