Bound to Her Blood Enemy

by Tora Williams

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Bound to Her Blood Enemy

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  Also available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc. and other major retailers

  She gave a harsh laugh.

  “Coed Bedwen. Even now, is that all you can think about?”

  “What else is there?” He certainly wasn’t thinking about tasting her lips, teasing them into a smile. No. She was a Comyn. He mustn’t forget his oath. He forced his face into an expressionless mask and faced her.

  She had blotted away her tears and was standing straight, her chin up, face composed. “Our…our marriage, for a start. We should discuss it.”

  “What is there to say? I already know your thoughts on the matter. You want me to die or journey to the Holy Land. Believe me, I have no intention of doing either.”

  Matilda winced. “So you haven’t forgotten that.”

  “I rarely forget anything. You can be sure I’ll check my food and drink very carefully from now on.”

  “I’d never—”

  “But you did.” He rubbed his temples. Tried to ignore the beguiling scent of honeysuckle. “All I want is Coed Bedwen. As the king has made it clear the only way I can achieve that is through marriage to you, then marry we must.”

  Bound to

  Her Blood Enemy

  by

  Tora Williams

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Bound to Her Blood Enemy

  COPYRIGHT © 2018 by Victoria Beeby

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Debbie Taylor

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Tea Rose Edition, 2018

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-2076-2

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-2077-9

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  In memory of my dad

  and rainy days in Welsh castles.

  Chapter One

  April 1146

  A hunting horn echoed around the walls of Redcliff Castle. Heart hammering, Matilda picked up her skirts and hurried toward the huntsmen by the gate. They were about to set out. This could be her last chance. One moment alone. With any of them. That was all she needed.

  One of the men turned. She stopped, her fists bunching in the soft wool of her gown. Saints preserve her! It was her guardian. How had he got here so fast? She could have sworn she’d seen him enter his wife’s chamber.

  She dropped into a curtsey. “Sir Reginald, I didn’t realize you were joining the hunt.”

  “Come to wish us luck, have you?” The knowing glint in his eyes sent a chill down her spine.

  She drew a deep breath. She’d come this far; she couldn’t give up now. There might still be a way to get what she wanted. “And a safe return.” She risked a flirtatious glance at the nearest huntsman. “I hope to see our guests unscathed at the Easter feast.” Please God, let him take the hint and seek her out when he returned.

  The nobleman looked her up and down, his eyes lingering on her breasts. “It would take a catastrophe to keep me from your company.”

  Matilda wiped her palms on her skirts, fighting queasiness. For the first time she doubted her ability to keep up this charade. If only Sir Reginald had invited pleasanter men to Redcliff.

  A rattle made her turn her head. A beggar, bent double beneath his ragged cloak, shuffled toward them. He held out a wooden dish containing a few coppers. He shook them again.

  “Alms for the poor, my lady?” The hood shadowed his face, but he spoke in the reedy, tremulous voice of the old or infirm.

  Before she could reply, the huntsman who had just spoken stepped between them. Matilda cried out in shock when he lashed out at the beggar, striking the poor man in the face and knocking the dish aside.

  “How dare you address a lady? Stay away from her, you cur.”

  He raised his arm again, but Matilda flung herself between them. “Stop! Don’t hurt him.”

  The huntsman lowered his fist and stepped back, giving her a stiff bow. “As you wish, my lady. But if I were you, I’d throw him out. No good ever came of inviting vermin into a house.” He mounted his courser.

  Sir Reginald moved as if to follow but turned back to Matilda at the last moment and seized her arm in a bruising grip. “You’re playing a dangerous game,” he said, his voice as smooth as butter but with an edge of malice. “If I ever catch you making sheep’s eyes at one of my friends again, I’ll have you flogged. Understand?”

  Matilda nodded, pressing her lips together to keep them from quivering. Sir Reginald gave her one last hard look before he released her and joined the other huntsmen. She watched, rubbing her arm, as the men filed out of the gateway. As they descended the causeway leading off the sandstone escarpment that gave Redcliff its name, she had a mad impulse to dash out of the gates herself. It was a futile dream. The man on the gate threw a wary glance in her direction. Sir Reginald would have given him strict orders concerning her. No doubt her guardian would also have a word with the nobleman during the hunt. He would warn him off, just as he did all the men who crossed her path.

  The gates creaked shut, and she turned to leave. The beggar still scrabbled in the mud for his coins. “Are you hurt?” She tried to examine his face to see if he was bleeding, but his hood obscured her view. “That was a brutal blow.”

  He fended her off and turned his head away. “I’ve taken worse.”

  “Maybe, but I’d like to help.” She grasped his hood and pulled it back, revealing a shock of chestnut hair and the strong, angular face of a man no older than thirty. She recoiled with a small cry, her pulse racing.

  Her first thought was to run, but the man grasped her wrist while with the other hand he covered his face again. In a low voice he said, “Don’t give me away. I won’t harm you, but Sir Reginald would see me hanged.”

  Matilda darted a swift glance about the bailey. The guards on the gate had their backs to her, watching the departing hunt. The workmen who had come to see the hunt off were drifting back to their various bothies around the edge of the bailey. No one had noticed her unmask the beggar.

  “An honest man wouldn’t need to disguise himself,” she replied. “Why should I care if you are caught?”

  “If that was the case, you’d have called for help by now.”

  She couldn’t deny the
truth in that. Her fear of him was balanced by the possibility that he was the answer to her prayers. As long as Reginald Fitzjohn didn’t know the man was here, he couldn’t stop her enlisting his help.

  “Who are you?” she asked. “What are you doing here?”

  “The bailey isn’t the place for this conversation.”

  Of course not. She forced her whirling mind to come up with a solution.

  “Come with me to the stillroom,” she said finally, raising her voice to ensure the guards heard. “I’ll tend your cut myself.” Then she added in an undertone, “We’ll be alone there, but within earshot of the armorer. I’ll scream if you make so much as a threatening move.”

  The man nodded, and she led the way to the keep and down the stone steps to the undercroft.

  Once in the herb-scented stone chamber, she turned to the stranger and drew in a sharp breath. “Merciful saints! How did you manage that?”

  “Manage what?”

  “I could swear you’re a whole foot taller.”

  His lips twisted in a wry smile. “People see what they expect most of the time. Wear rags, and they dismiss you as a beggar.” He pulled his cloak closer about him and appeared to shrivel before her eyes.

  She crossed herself, startled. But as her eyes became accustomed to the dim light, she saw the man was indeed only bent double beneath his cloak. Now she came to look closely, she saw the outline of broad shoulders and a muscular back. He straightened again. Blessed saints, how had he managed to conceal his height? Her face didn’t come any higher than his chest. She ought to avert her gaze, but she stared, fascinated, at the thin rag he wore as a shirt. Or, rather, it wasn’t the shirt that fascinated her, but the firm muscles beneath. She had to press a hand to her stomach to still the curious fluttering within.

  “Sit there,” she said, indicating a stool beside the lit brazier. Maybe she would be less flustered if he wasn’t looming over her.

  She busied herself with lighting the tallow candles ranged on the wooden table to supplement the light slanting in from high windows in the vaulting. Then she gathered a flask of strong wine, a jar of comfrey ointment, and a soft cloth from the shelves on the back wall before turning to the stranger.

  He had thrown back his hood and was watching her, his hazel eyes gleaming in the reflected light from the brazier. For a moment she froze, her fingers tightening upon the jar. What was it about this man that caused her wits to scatter? She set the flask and jar upon the bench but kept hold of the cloth, needing something to occupy her hands.

  “We’re alone now, so tell me who you are.” She fought to keep her voice steady. No easy task, when her examination of the bruised cut below his eye forced her to take in the strong lines of his cheek and jaw.

  “My name is Huw ap Goronwy.”

  “You’re Welsh?”

  He smiled. A crooked smile that spread a curl of warmth through her belly. “You’re quite safe. I ate my fill of Norman maids last night.”

  She’d been too flustered to pay attention before, but the musical lilt of his accent summoned happy memories from her childhood. “I didn’t mean it that way. My mother was Welsh.” That must be why he had this strange effect on her. He reminded her of the yearning gap in her life. Relieved, she uncorked the wine.

  “Was?”

  “She died when I was five.” Matilda tipped a little wine upon the cloth and dabbed at the cut, wincing at the pain she must be inflicting.

  Apart from a slight tightening of the jaw, Huw gave no sign of discomfort. “And your father?”

  “Dead the following year.” The desolation of those days came back in a rush, but at least it served a useful purpose. It reminded her that men were unreliable. She would attempt to enlist Huw’s help, but she wouldn’t make the mistake of trusting him.

  She reached for the ointment, only to gasp when Huw gripped her wrist.

  “Hold—you’re Reginald Fitzjohn’s ward?” There was an odd look in his eyes that she couldn’t read.

  “Yes. What—?”

  He let her go. “You’re Matilda Comyn.”

  A shiver of unease trickled down her spine. “How do you know my name?”

  “I keep my eyes and ears open.”

  “That’s no answer.” Suddenly she was afraid. Not the same fear she held for Sir Reginald, but the fear that came when standing on a precipice, knowing one misstep would send her plunging into the unknown. She moistened her lips which had grown dry. “You still haven’t told me why you’re here. Give me a reason why I shouldn’t turn you in.”

  “Even if I tell you, what guarantee do I have that you won’t turn me in anyway?”

  “Because I’m no…” She stopped. This wasn’t how the conversation should be going. So far, she’d learned his name, and that he was Welsh. She’d as good as told him her life story. Trying to get information from Huw ap Goronwy was like wrestling with eels.

  “There’s no guarantee. You’ll just have to trust me.”

  “I trust no one.”

  This was getting them nowhere. “You’re right. I could turn you in.” She stabbed a finger up toward the main body of the keep. “There’s any number of men up there who would be very interested to know why a Welshman is here, disguised as a beggar.”

  “What’s stopping you?”

  “In case you hadn’t noticed, Sir Reginald and I are not on the best of terms. If he caught you and found out I’d spoken to you, he’d punish me. So, believe me, I want you to stay hidden.”

  Huw’s face darkened. “He beats you?” It gave her a thrill to hear the concern in his voice. It wasn’t something she was used to from a man.

  “Only when…” She caught herself. She was doing it again. Giving him information when he volunteered none. “That’s not your concern.”

  Huw shifted on the bench as she was speaking, and his cloak parted. The tunic underneath was just as ragged, but a glint caught her eye. Before he pulled the cloak closed again, she caught a glimpse of a dagger at his hip. Although its ornamentation was simple, the quality of the workmanship was clear. No ordinary man would bear such a weapon. A suspicion of the truth formed in her mind, and she grasped it. Anything to break through this man’s reserve.

  “You’re Owain Gwynedd’s man, aren’t you?” She’d heard rumors that the king of Gwynedd was seeking to reclaim the lands taken by the Normans, taking advantage of the chaos in England.

  A muscle jumped in his jaw, betraying him.

  “That’s it.” Her voice, which she had kept pitched low, now rose in excitement. “You’re here as his sp—”

  “Quiet!” He clamped a hand over her mouth and spoke in an undertone. “Do you want to get me killed?” He glanced over his shoulder toward the open doorway, his body tense. Matilda forced her breathing to calm. If he’d wanted to kill her, he would have done so by now.

  The sound of the armorer whistling, accompanied by the rasp of whetstone upon iron, drifted into the room. Huw relaxed and loosened his grip. “Promise to keep your voice down, and I’ll let you go.”

  She nodded. His reaction had dispelled any doubt about the rightness of her guess. The plan that she had been turning over in her mind was looking ever more possible.

  He removed his hand from her mouth, and she stepped back, rubbing her arm.

  “Did I hurt you?”

  She shook her head. She picked up the jar of ointment and fumbled with the stopper, fighting the urge to speak. Two could play at this game. This time he was going to talk, and she was going to listen.

  One corner of his mouth tilted up. “Very well,” he said. “You’re right. I am the king of Gwynedd’s man.”

  “And you’re”—she dropped her voice to a murmur—“spying out the Norman strongholds for him?”

  He nodded.

  “Is that why you’re here at Redcliff?” She frowned. Redcliff was a few miles east of Shrewsbury. Not far from the Welsh border, but surely not close enough for the Welsh to have a claim.

  “Not in this inst
ance, no.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “I came to find you.”

  ****

  The jar slipped from Matilda’s fingers, clattered upon the wooden table, and rolled off the edge. Huw caught it and set it down without shifting his gaze from Matilda’s face.

  “Me?” Matilda’s face was all wide, blue eyes. Odd that devil spawn should look so innocent. “Why me?”

  “Because you could be useful.” He mustn’t give too much away. He would wait to see what more she volunteered about herself before he revealed his hand.

  “I don’t see how,” she said. “Sir Reginald never tells me anything. And now I’m not even allowed outside the bailey.”

  “Why’s that?”

  To his frustration, she clamped her lips shut. She picked up the jar, removed the stopper, and dipped her fingers into the ointment. “It’s comfrey, for your bruise.”

  Huw nodded and tilted his face, allowing her to smooth on the ointment. He would have to be patient with her. She was as skittish as a newborn foal, and no wonder, considering how Fitzjohn treated her. His interest had been roused from his first sight of her, when she had marched across the bailey, armed in all her finery, radiating tension. And that was before he’d learned she was the girl he’d been sent to find.

  Prickles of pleasure coursed through his flesh at her light touch. The ointment might be soothing, but having her lean close—so close he caught the scent of honeysuckle rising from her skin—was anything but.

  Concentrate! he told himself. But it wasn’t easy when his task involved him with a girl whose full, tempting lips and alluring curves reminded him how long it had been since he had last bedded a woman. Only one thought kept him from pulling her close and stealing a taste of those lips: she was a Comyn. It was enough. Just. And yet…

  She was starved for love. He’d stake his favorite horse on it. How could she be otherwise, as the ward of a whoreson like Fitzjohn? And that was her weakness. If he paid her some appreciative attention, she’d do anything he asked.

  “That feels better.” He indicated his bruised cheek. “Thank you.” He looked around the vaulted room, taking in the shelves crammed with pots and bottles and dried herbs hanging from hooks on the ceiling. “Is this all your work? If so, you’ve a great deal of skill for one so young.”