The Beauty Bride (The Jewels of Kinfairlie) (15 page)

Rhys
gave her a hard look. “A man must do what must be done. Would you have
preferred that I had let him live?”

Madeline’s
knees shook with such vigor at the very prospect that she feared they would not
hold her weight.

“Bear
up, my lady.” Rhys held her hand with a firmer grip, though he did not touch
her otherwise. He offered her a cloth to wipe the blood from her throat.

“He
meant to rape me.” Madeline knew it was an unnecessary comment but she could
not keep the words from spilling forth. She felt her color deepen. “I should
never have trusted him. You must think me a fool.” She should never had left
Ravensmuir, much less with a man about whom she knew so little.

To
her astonishment, Rhys simply held her hand more tightly, as if he understood
his grip to be precisely what she needed. He was like a rock to which she clung
as her terror subsided.

“I
think you a woman of uncommon resource. It is a mark of your valor that he did
not succeed so readily.” Rhys spoke with such resolve that she did not doubt he
meant every word. “I applaud your quick thinking and your fortitude. Are you
unscathed?”

“I
am frightened, to be sure.” She took a deep breath and glanced over herself.
Her gown was mired and ripped, and there were scratches aplenty upon her skin.
She had torn three fingernails and was thoroughly adorned with mud. She realized
with horror that her shredded kirtle hung open and her breasts were bared.

Madeline
seized the torn fabric to clutch it closed and flushed crimson. Rhys, she
noted, did not look below her face. His gallantry encouraged her to summon a
tremulous smile. “But otherwise I am well enough, I suppose.”

“It
is a rare woman who can stand upon her own feet after such an assault.” Rhys
granted her a brief flicker of smile, the sight of which warmed Madeline’s
heart. “In Wales, we have great regard for stalwart women. Have ever you heard
of Gwenllian?”

Madeline
shook her head, even while the rest of her trembled.

“She
was the mother of Lord Rhys, the last king of Wales. He rose in rebellion
against the Normans in 1136. Gwenllian was his mother, and so great was her
valor that she raised her own army, and led it against the enemy in aid of her
son. Even when she witnessed one of her sons killed and another taken prisoner,
she fought on so valiantly that still that field of battle, in Cydweli in
Dyfed, bears her name in honor.”

While
he spoke, Madeline found herself drawing vigor from his words and his grip. “I
did not know. I had never heard of a woman leading an army to war.”

“And
now you have.” Rhys became solemn again. “I apologize for the tardiness of my
aid. There was no assistance I could grant while you were in the gorse, for I
was not close enough to have a clear sight of the villain. Your attempt to flee
offered me the necessary opportunity.”

“Had
I not been such a fool, I would not have had need of it.” She drew a shuddering
breath.

“Do
not judge yourself so harshly.” A smile touched Rhys’ lips. “I understand that
the prospect of wedding me must have been daunting for you to have taken such a
risk.”

Madeline
flushed. Not only had he perceived her fears but he must have anticipated her
flight. How else could he have followed her and Kerr?

“My
father employed Kerr’s services for years,” she said, needing to explain
herself. “I trusted him because of that, though he clearly had a darker scheme
than I realized.”

“I
trust that you have learned something about using more caution in your choice
of companions.” Rather than lingering upon his lesson, Rhys turned as soon as
Madeline nodded. He released her hand and Madeline felt bereft.

Then
he whistled. His destrier appeared, apparently having been hidden in the gorse,
and trotted toward its master. It was a fine dapple grey beast, its mane and
tail as dark as charcoal. A shaggy hound trotted beside the steed, and proved
to be a dog of formidable size. It surveyed at Madeline with shrewd eyes and
its tail wagged as it leaned against Rhys.

“This
is Gelert,” he said, and gestured the dog toward Madeline. She reached out a
hand, liking the hound’s friendly manner. Its tousled fur looked like shaggy
silver brows over its eyes, and those brows moved most expressively. It sniffed
her hand, then sat beside her, leaning heavily against her leg. Madeline sank
her fingers into the thick warmth of fur at the scruff of the dog’s neck and
found its presence reassuring. Indeed, the heat of it against her and its
appearance made her want to smile.

“And
this is Gwynt Arian,” Rhys said as he seized the destrier’s reins. The beast
tossed its head and flared its nostrils, as if in recognition of its name.

“Is
that a Welsh name?”

Rhys
nodded as he rubbed the beast’s nose. “It means ‘silver wind’.”

“It
is a fine name for a steed so regal as he,” Madeline said, taking comfort in
their mundane conversation. “But you travel with no squire?”

Rhys
shook his head. “These two bear witness, but tell no tales.”

Madeline
wondered who had betrayed him in the past, but Rhys clearly had no interest in
sharing confidences.

“Fasten
your cloak tightly about yourself,” he advised as he led his horse closer.

Madeline
complied with his instruction, grateful to have no need to make decisions
herself for the moment. Rhys lifted her into his saddle with a single smooth
gesture. He murmured to the steed, then rummaged in his saddlebag. Gelert stood
diligently beside the stirrup, as if guarding Madeline.

Rhys
offered a leather flask to Madeline along with a sharp glance. “Sip of this.”

“What
is it?”

“Eau-de-vie.”
Again that teasing smile curved his lips for just a heartbeat. Madeline wished
Rhys would smile more often, for he was less fearsome then. “It will persuade
you that you have not joined the dead as yet. Drink.”

Madeline
sipped cautiously. The flask’s contents burned her throat like fire and forged
a course to her innards. Her eyes watered and she choked as if she would cough
up her very liver.

When
her vision cleared, Rhys nodded, amusement in his eyes. “Take another.”

Madeline
did as she was bidden, though the second draught was scarcely easier to down
than the first.

“Better?”

To
her astonishment, Madeline did feel better. The liquid had awakened a heat in
her flesh and driven the shivers away. She nodded, and Rhys lifted the flask
from her hand. Their fingers brushed in the transaction, reminding Madeline of
his possessive kisses and awakening another warmth within her.

“Two
small draughts is a sufficient measure for a lady,” he said, then took a long
draught himself. For the first time, Madeline wondered whether he had been
troubled by Kerr’s assault.

Rhys
seemed so unconcerned, as if he routinely aided women attacked upon the moors,
as if he often killed mercenaries for the greater good. His desire for the
eau-de-vie hinted that he might have shared at least a measure of her fear.

Madeline
shook her head, certain she saw a vulnerability in this warrior that was not
there. Undoubtedly, he felt a responsibility toward her.

He
had bought her, after all.

Perhaps
he was a man who protected all of his possessions with such vigor. Madeline did
not know, but she was clever enough to admit herself glad in this moment of his
sense of obligation.

Rhys
winced at the liquor’s vigor but did not cough. He turned to scan the moors
with narrowed eyes, then nodded at the distant silhouette of a palfrey. “Your
steed?”

Madeline
nodded. “Tarascon. Kerr cut her flank to make her run away from us. I do not
know the depth of her injury.” Her fingers tightened on the pommel. “I hope she
is not sorely wounded.”

“She
runs yet, so it cannot be so dire a wound.” Rhys spoke such good sense that
Madeline wished she had realized as much herself. She seemed fated to show
herself poorly in this man’s presence.

Rhys
took the reins and led the destrier toward the mare. He whistled softly.
Tarascon turned to watch their progress, her ears twitching nervously.

“The
blood will have frightened her,” Rhys said, the very tone of his voice reassuring.
“Do you ride her often?”

“Almost
daily.”

“Then
she will have smelled your fear, as well, and been troubled by that.”

“I
can call her. She always comes to me.” The palfrey took but one step closer
when Madeline called, then retreated four paces, her tail swishing nervously.

“Does
she then?” There was humor in Rhys’ tone.

Madeline
sat straighter, wishing she could do something right in this man’s company.
“Usually she does.”

“These
are uncommon circumstances, my lady. Do not take her uncertainty to heart. Wait
until we are closer and she can be certain that it is you.”

“She
might flee afore then.” Madeline called again, then watched in horror as her
horse danced in the opposite direction.

Rhys
halted and still Tarascon fled another trio of steps. She was anxious as
Madeline had never seen her, though she could not blame the mare for her fear
of men.

“Look
in the saddlebag,” Rhys said softly. “See if a pair of apples are yet there.”

Madeline
was glad to comply and to be of aid. The apples were there, but Tarascon was
not as readily tempted by the treat as she might have been just hours before.

* * *

The
sun was approaching midheaven by the time they coaxed the palfrey to let them
approach her. Madeline was impressed by the gentle persistence Rhys showed in
pursuing the frightened steed. They had steadily drawn closer to Tarascon,
Rhys’ murmur obviously calming the horse’s fears.

That
Gelert had finally run behind the palfrey at Rhys’ signal and barked
aggressively, urging her toward Rhys, also had not hurt.

Madeline
held the palfrey’s reins once Rhys had captured her, spoke to the horse softly
and stroked her nose. Meanwhile, Rhys examined the creature’s wound with
careful fingers. There was kindness in this man, though much else that Madeline
could not name. The horse fidgeted but Madeline whispered to her, trusting Rhys
to give good counsel.

“Mercifully,
it is not as brutal as it might have been. I believe that the damage will heal
readily enough,” he said as he straightened. “I would have like to have a
better ostler than myself look upon it to be sure.”

“We
could return to Ravensmuir.”

Rhys
granted Madeline a steady glance and she could not guess his thoughts. “I think
it too far for your mare,” he said with care. “There is an abbey to the north
of here that we could reach by mid-afternoon, if you are willing. They have
granted me aid in the past, for my aunt is abbess there.”

Madeline’s
heart quailed that they would have to ride together, for her mare was too
injured to bear her weight. She could not imagine being pressed against any
man’s heat on this day, much less Rhys who kindled that unfamiliar fire within
her. Their gazes caught and held, an awareness crackling between them that
frightened Madeline to her core.

Rhys
turned away before she could protest and methodically tied Tarascon’s reins to
the back of the saddle. He whispered to his steed then strode away, with nary a
word of explanation. Gelert sat beside her, as bidden. Puzzled, Madeline
watched Rhys disappear into the gorse.

Was
he leaving her here?

Did
he prepare for whatever reward he would demand of her? She knew he desired her,
she had tasted as much in his kisses. In his absence, Madeline’s suspicions
seemed to feed upon themselves and multiply. Though Rhys had been kind, Kerr
had been kind until he thought she had no hope of summoning aid.

Had
she leapt from the fat to the fire?

Had
she only delayed her rape? What would compel a man of such dangerous repute as
Rhys to treat her with honor, now that they were alone upon the moors?

This
might well be her sole chance to escape! Madeline dug her heels into the
destrier’s sides, urging it onward.

The
beast did not so much as flinch, let alone move. It nibbled at a wildflower,
supremely indifferent to Madeline’s attempt to flee. The dog spared her a
glance, as if chiding her, then returned to its vigil.

Madeline
panicked. Had Rhys himself not advised her to choose her companions with care?
She whispered to the horse, commanded it, patted its flank, pulled the reins.
She did everything she could think of doing to persuade it to take a step.

All
to no avail. The feet of the beast might have taken root. She might have tried
to encourage a stone to move with better results. She made to dismount and run,
just as Rhys’ voice carried to her ears.

“Arian
heeds none but me, my lady.” He was striding from the gorse toward her, leading
Kerr’s destrier. Again, he seemed amused but unsurprised.