The Warrior's Reward (16 page)

“Rosamunde, Lord above... you consume me.”

A smile spread across her face, unbidden and unplanned. Here was the man who gave her her first kiss. Tenderness sat in his gaze while desperation appeared to govern his movements. His mouth came to her ear, nipping at her lobe, before landing on her neck and shoulder. He bit down on the flesh between her shoulder and neck and the slight possessive sting sent a fresh flood of arousal through her.

With his hands on her hips, he eased her forward. He was gentle at first, inching into her, spreading her, invading. He stole her breath and muddied her thoughts. Then when he was buried to the hilt, he began to move. Rosamunde kept her hands latched around his neck for purchase and he guided her. He took her deep, fast and passionately.

Her breasts crushed against him and her sensitive spot rubbed his body. It was almost too much. Sweat glistened on his skin and she buried her face into the crook of his neck. With a muffled cry, she fell apart. Her body tightened, tightened, tightened, then released. Tingles and warmth coursed through her to her very fingertips. She kept her eyes open, staring sightlessly at the carved headboard behind him. She was fairly certain a small fragment of her soul splintered away and joined with his.

If she’d had any doubt about the feelings burning inside her, when he spilled they vanished. He clutched her tight as if fearful of letting go and issued her name in a harsh whisper. To her ears, her name had never sounded more charming and exquisite. In that instant, she felt like more than a beautiful face, more than a prize to be won. She wasn’t a
treasure
—she was
treasured
.

Ieuan couldn’t help a languid grin from spreading across his face. It was rare he woke with a grin. Most mornings, he woke rapidly, a mind full of concerns and worry. This day, he couldn’t help pause to admire the woman bundled up against his side. She had splayed an arm across his chest and her mouth was open. With her hair spread across her face and her lips only just peeking out from the strands, she had likely never looked less attractive—so very far removed from the refined woman he had brought to Wales.

Yet her mussed hair and rosy lips were testament to their active night. His grin widened. Inexperienced, yes, but so eager. He would never have expected it. She moved naturally with no thought for seduction or games. They’d made love two more times during the night and no doubt she’d be exhausted.

He wasn’t, however. Instead he felt revived, relaxed. His muscles no longer seemed to ache with unspent tension. Something warm buzzed through his veins as he watched her in repose. He hadn’t expected her to be like this. Hadn’t expected his marriage to be like this. Perhaps he had underestimated her. She certainly didn’t seem to think him a barbarian between the sheets. Mayhap he could persuade her he wasn’t one out of them too.

A rattle from outside drew him from his damnably love-sick state. The portcullis. But who was arriving at this hour? He scowled and sat, coaxing her off him. She slept on. Rising from the bed, he paced across the cold floor. Cold air wrapped around his naked body and he lamented not being able to remain in the warm blankets next to an even warmer wife.

He peered through the gap in the shutters but was unable to make out the visitors so he eased open one shutter and winced as it creaked. Behind him, sheets rustled and he heard Rosamunde release a long sigh.

A hollow sensation sat inside his gut when he noted the gathering of men at the gate. Several men entered the bailey while around half a dozen lingered outside the gate. His men closed the portcullis to them. At least they had made some negotiations with the Englishmen to grant access only to a few of them. He recognised their crests and he knew what they wanted.

His father.

And him, if they knew of his birth.

As he began to dress, Rosamunde roused fully. The sweetest smile graced her lips making his duty to speak with the men even less appealing. If they knew of his identity, they could well take him away and hang him for treason. And if they didn’t, they had to suspect something or else why would they be here?

It put his wife in a dangerous situation. Even her father couldn’t protect her if connections would be made between his father and the Earl of Tynewell. They’d all be hanged and Rosamunde would be left unprotected.

“’Tis early,” she said with husky tones.

“’Tis indeed. But we have visitors.”

“Visitors?”

“Aye, but rest well,
anwylyd
.” The word had tripped from his tongue before he had thought about it. Beloved. What in hell fire had he meant by that? Before she could question the word, he tied his belt and slipped on his boots. “Stay up here.”

“Wherefore?”

“Because I am your husband and I command it so.”

The look of shock and mutiny on her face might have given him cause for amusement any other day but not this day. Not when their very lives were in danger.

Not trusting himself to say anything more or even look upon her further, he headed out of the solar and down the stairs. He regretted not having his sword but the Englishmen would have been ordered to lay down their weapons and his men would be ready to defend him—he hoped.

In times such as these, where desperation scorched every corner of the land it was hard to tell who was friend and who was foe. He had Phylip as a prime example. He had served by his side for many months but had tried to rape his wife.

When he entered the hall, he felt every inch the barbarian rather than a man of great wealth. Which he now was, thanks to Rosamunde. The gleaming armour of the three men along with their neatly embroidered surcoats made the keep—and himself—appear rough and primitive. They’d removed their helmets and were standing, warming themselves by the fireplace. One man, clearly of superior rank, was older with a greying beard and hair that brushed his shoulders. The other two were young—younger than he—and strong. For whatever reason, they expected trouble from him.

He approached. “Good morrow, sirs.”

The older man turned and eyed him, casting his gaze with dismissal over Ieuan’s simple shirt and chausses. Ieuan raised his chin and met his gaze head on.

“Sir Ieuan ap Rhys.”

“Aye.”

“I am Lord Reginald de Whitby.”

“My lord, to what do I owe this pleasure?”

“We have received word that the traitor Owain Glyndŵr has been seen on these lands.”

Ieuan released a laugh. “The prince has long been dead. Everyone knows as much.”

“And yet we continue to hear talk of him.” Lord Reginald eyed him shrewdly.

“My allegiance is to the crown. I assure you he has not set foot on these lands.” Ieuan spoke the truth. He hadn’t seen his father since he granted him the castle and they hadn’t been standing on Dolwyddelan land. For all he knew, the prince could be dead, but he doubted it. Even in old age, the man was wily and far shrewder than this lord. “The Welsh are great tellers of tales. Mayhap you should ignore this talk of him. We love to make legends of great men.”

“That great man is wanted for treason.”

Ieuan stiffened. He wasn’t sure if he even supported his father’s actions and he held little affection for the man who had sired him but he was still a hero to many of the Welsh. Before he could act rashly, Lord Reginald’s gaze landed on something—or someone—behind him, forcing him to turn.

Standing in the arched doorway leading from the stairs, Rosamunde appeared every inch the grand noble lady. He wagered she would put a princess to shame such was her beauty and grace. Gone was the filthy woollen gown and hair mussed from a bedding. She wore red silk, embroidered with gold on the bodice and at the end of the pendant sleeves. The gown was cut away at the sides to reveal glimpses of her cotton chemise, giving the impression that she could be naked within moments. Her hair was bound simply yet effectively into a winding braid. A golden circlet made her hair appear like that of an angel’s. He gaped at her for several moments. How in the devil had she managed to create such an image so quickly?

“My lord,” she greeted and it took him several moments to realise she meant him in his capacity as her husband.

Her
husband. Lord above, to think he could lay claim to this woman.

“Will you not introduce me to your guests?” She looped an arm through his.

He stared at her for far too long, aware of the admiration she was garnering in the periphery of his vision. “Of course, forgive me. This is Lord Reginald de Whitby. He comes from the king, do you not, my lord?”

“Aye. ‘Tis a pleasure, my lady.”

“This is my lady wife, Lady Rosamunde.”

Reginald bowed deeply. “My lady, ‘tis an honour.”

“You have come from London, my lord?” she asked.

“Aye.”

Ieuan noted the radiant smile she offered and how the lord’s eyes softened and the distrust in them near melted away.

“You must be weary.” She turned and called to the servants for food and drink with such command that it seemed she had been in charge of the castle for many summers instead of mere days. “You must be tired. Come and eat. We were about to sit down for the morning meal as you can see. I shall have some food and ale sent out to your men.”

The man cast a glance toward the men at his side then Ieuan and finally to Rosamunde. He released a cautious smile. “My thanks, my lady. We would be grateful to partake in your hospitality.”

Ieuan clenched his jaw. He only hoped they didn’t stay long. Many knew of his real identity—at least those who had served with him for a while—and it would only take a careless slip to reveal him as the son of Owain, and then he’d be up on the gallows and drawn and quartered. He grimaced at the image of his head on a spike.

Rosamunde directed them to the table and had them sit down. He couldn’t help but be grateful for her attentions to the hall the previous day. With the hole covered and the floor clean, the room looked less like ruins and more like a home than it had ever been. Some of the servants and men had cleared the debris of the crumbled staircase as well, thank the Lord.

Ieuan made a show of speaking with one of the servants before drawing Huw aside. “All is secure, aye?”

“Aye, the rest of his men won’t get past our defences should anything happen,” the soldier answered solemnly.

“I think they dare not act upon mere rumour but we must have a care. These are dangerous times.”

“Indeed,” Huw agreed.

Rosamunde approached, that same serene smile on her face, yet he saw through it. How was it possible she could know that an act was needed?

“Is all well?” she asked, hands clasped in front of her.

“Aye, Rosamunde.”

“What is their business here, Ieuan?”

“I know not,” he lied. “They were here only moments before you came down.”

“Ieuan...” She regarded him with a look that made him wonder why he had ever thought her fragile.

“They are looking for Owain Glyndŵr.”

“He has not been seen for years, has he not?”

“Nay.”

“So why are they here?”

He glanced at the men who were tucking into the food and being suitably distracted by Gwen and the other maids. “They believe he has been here,” he replied in hushed tones.

“And has he?”

Ieuan gave her a grim look.

“He has? But why?”

Should he tell her? Would she be scared to be married to a man who could be charged with treason and killed at any moment? When they had first married, he would have thought aye, but now... he wasn’t so sure.

“He has not been here as such. But he is my father,” he told her in a rush of words.

She blinked at him, then blinked again. Then she nodded and turned her attention to the men. Her shoulders straightened and she seemed taller. She walked as though she was visiting court rather than traipsing through his cold castle.

He couldn’t be prouder of his wife.

The men were gone and they were alone again. In their bedchamber. And while the events of the day had exhausted and surprised her, Rosamunde was astonished to find she wanted him again. This day they had come together as a true husband and wife. She had successfully convinced the men they had seen nothing of Ieuan’s father and Ieuan had added his assurances he had no wish for trouble. He didn’t lie there. She saw how much he longed to rebuild this castle and make his country prosperous again.

However, the realisation he was the Prince of Wales’ son made her stomach bunch. All of the prince’s children had been killed or had vanished. How had Ieuan escaped the same fate? While desire flowed through her at the sight of his wide shoulders and firm stomach as he stripped to his braies, she needed answers... and reassurance. The thought of losing him now made her heart feel as though it might drop into her toes.

He slid into bed beside her and immediately hooked an arm around her waist to draw her against his chest. She let the heat of his body seep into her for a moment before lifting her head to view him.

“Ieuan, why did you not tell me your father is the Prince of Wales?”

“Because ‘tis a dangerous position to be in.” Ieuan eyed her gravely. “I am not a legitimate son, Rosamunde, but that matters little to the crown. They will want the line of the princes ended. Myself and several of my kin have taken to hiding.”

“There are more of you?”

He smirked. “Aye, but I have met none of them. My father sired many a bastard.”

She flinched at the harsh word. He might be correct but she was beginning to wonder if Ieuan was not the most honourable man she’d ever met. She’d just had to work past his hardened shell to see that.

“Did my father know of your identity?”

“Aye.”

Rosamunde had tried to process this throughout the day. She thought it likely her father—in his position—had known as much, and also considered Ieuan’s lineage might have been why he had handed her over to him. But why give her to a wanted man?

“You must tell me, why did he agree to our betrothal?”

“He was captured by my father during the rebellion. In return for his release, he agreed to give you to one of his sons. Your father is a wealthy man and Owain knew the coin would not hurt his cause. My father came to me two months ago and told me to take you as mine. I had need of the coin and it seemed a fine suggestion. I was told if I could get close to your father, I would have my deal.”

She gaped for several moments. The cold way he stated it all wrenched at her heart. Talk of coins and deals. Tempted to draw her away, she let her hand still on his arm. He must have felt her stiffen as he clasped her tighter.

“Do not be angered with me,
anwylyd
. I knew not what sort of woman I was marrying. We have had our differences but I am mightily grateful you turned out to be my prize.”

Prize. The word shuddered through her and instinctively her hackles rose. But another word interspersed with it.
Anwylyd
. She had asked Gwen what it meant and had been told it was
beloved
.

Beloved. Did that mean she was loved? For something other than her looks or wealth? For he certainly didn’t love her when they first met or even as they journeyed together. She couldn’t be sure he did now—they were still so new to one another—but her heart was already swelling with a deep affection for the man she had misunderstood so early on. These softer moments, she had realised, were truly him. But he held this man at bay, for whatever reason.

“I must leave you for several days,” he told her, his breath brushing across her hair and preventing any response. “But do not fear, you will be safe here.”

“I have no fear for my safety—”

He chuckled at this. “Nay, of course you do not. You could likely charm any attackers away and turn them from foe to friend, could you not?”

Any lingering annoyance vanished. She had been proud of her conduct this day—in ensuring those men had no doubt they were entirely innocent of any wrongdoing. For once, her beauty had been something more than a hindrance.

She didn’t think he expected an answer so she squeezed his arm. “I shall fear for you though. Why must you go?”

He stilled at this. She wasn’t sure why. Then he pressed a kiss to her forehead and cupped her face to lift it toward him. Even in the dim candlelight, his gaze bore into her, intense and... she wasn’t sure what else. Every part of her longed for it to be love. She hadn’t realised how desperately she wanted it until now. Her father loved her, aye, but much of his behaviour had been dictated by her mother’s death. He had smothered Rosamunde because of her. And no other man could claim to have wanted her for anything other than her wealth and looks.

But if she longed for his love so much, did that mean she loved him? Nay, it wasn’t possible. It was too soon, surely? The incessant throb of her heart told her otherwise. It told her that if she did not already love him, she was at least falling in that direction.

“Those rumours came from somewhere,” he replied finally. “I must find the source. If I have enemies, I have a need to flush them out. So I intend to visit the surrounding villages and speak with a lord not far from here. He may have knowledge of those who wish me ill.”

“Your own countrymen would not betray you, surely?”

His expression darkened. “They would. Phylip proved to me few men can be trusted.” A tiny shudder ran through her at the mention of that name. “These are desperate times,” he explained, “and many feel the rebellion did more harm than good. They would be right.”

“Does that make you an enemy to some?”

“Aye, it does indeed. Few people know of my identity but too many know already.” Ieuan released her face and tightened a fist.

Rosamunde rested her cheek against his chest and absorbed what her husband was facing. A country still battle-scarred, enemies at every corner, a father of great importance. It was no wonder she seldom saw this side of him. He couldn’t afford to let down his defences.

“You shall take men with you, will you not?” Fear suddenly began a vice-like grip on her heart. The thought of him out there with enemies awaiting him sent icy water through her veins.

“Huw, Bryn and another. Fear not, I have little intention of coming to harm.”

“’Tis so dangerous...” she whispered.

Another shudder tracked through her. She couldn’t help herself. Thoughts of when her mother had gone on a journey when she was young began to consume her. She only remembered saying farewell and her mother never returning. But her father had used what had happened to her as a cautionary tale forever afterwards.

“Do you think me unable to defend myself, Rosamunde?” he asked against her forehead. She felt the curve of his lips and knew he was jesting. However, his hands rubbed up and down her back and she knew he could not mistake her fear.

“My mother died travelling. She had many bold and brave men protecting her but, alas, they did not succeed in saving her from a horrible fate. I fear the same for you,” she admitted.

“I did not know your mother had died in such a manner.”

Rosamunde felt tears well in the corner of her eyes and her nose tingled. She rarely cried for her mother these days. It had been so long ago and but a distant memory but Ieuan leaving seemed to have flooded her with dread for him.

“They were robbed and my mother beaten. I am told she was taken with the outlaws and held captive for many days—mayhap for ransom. But for whatever reason, they killed her after days of... of—” She couldn’t say the words. She ended on a sob, the images too horrible to bear. “’Twas why my father would not let me leave the castle,” she explained tremulously.

Ieuan shifted her so he could lie almost atop her and stare down. He pushed aside her hair and used his thumbs to brush away any tears. Then he used one to sketch a path down her nose to her chin where he lifted her face. “Do not fear for me. I will return to you, I swear. And have no fear for yourself. I promised your father I would protect you with my life, and I shall not fail either him or you on that matter.”

His impassioned words broke through the slight tremble wracking her. They warmed the ice in her veins and flowed to her heart. She studied his face, taking in the lines around his eyes, the dark hair on his chin and his crooked nose that for some unknown reason tugged at some invisible string inside her and sent a pulse of longing to her core. Palm to his face, Rosamunde stroked his cheek and savoured the brush of crisp hair.

It was no confession of love but it was enough. She had heard flowery confessions before—none of which ever seemed sincere—but Ieuan’s words meant more than he could know. He wouldn’t fail her. He wouldn’t fail their marriage, she hoped. And she was determined she wouldn’t fail him. Rosamunde had tried to prove herself to him and mayhap she had almost succeeded, but to truly become his partner rather than a mere chattel, she needed to do more. Not for him, but for herself. She simply had to erase any notion of her being this fragile, sought-after prize.

For now, she would prove that with her actions between the sheets, she thought, as his fingers trailed down the outside of her thigh and began to hitch up her chemise. She clasped his neck and kissed his cheek, the corner of his mouth, the cords of his neck. Darting a tongue out, she licked his skin and relished the salty tang. He groaned.

“No more talk this night, Rosamunde. No tears either.”

She nodded her agreement and gave herself up to him, body and soul.