This obviously hadn’t occurred to Huw. Perhaps Welsh customs were different. Whatever the reason, she had no intention of spelling it out to him. The thought of explaining that people would assume he had taken her virginity made her want to curl up in embarrassment.
A flare of anger burned in her heart. Of course Huw wouldn’t consider such a thing. It was another example of how men had made decisions on her behalf all her life without considering the deeper implications to her. Their only concern was their own ends.
Which begged the question: why was she so important to King Owain that he would send his spy to fetch her?
Whatever the reason, suddenly Matilda didn’t want to find out. If the king of Gwynedd had a plan for her, she wanted no part of it. She wanted to be mistress of her own destiny. She would use the remaining poppy syrup to escape Huw, then go to the king of Powys. He was a cousin, after all. Hopefully with him, she could set her own terms.
It wasn’t long before she heard a soft whinny. She must have walked through the woods in a daze because now they were in a clearing where a horse on a long tether stood beside a trickling spring.
Huw frowned at her. “You’re not exactly dressed for riding.”
“You don’t suppose Sir Reginald would have been suspicious had I arrived at the feast wearing my riding gown?”
He ignored her sarcasm, simply saying, “You’ll have to sit in front of me.”
He swung into the saddle in one fluid move and then pointed to a nearby tree stump. “Stand up there.”
As soon as she was balanced, he trotted up and grasped her around the waist, pulling her up until she was cradled in the crook of his left arm, sitting partly across the saddle and partly across his thighs.
Her worries about spending the night alone with him paled into insignificance. The sheer intimacy of their position made her face burn.
However, once they started moving at a brisk trot, she clutched at his shoulder, fighting to keep her balance.
Huw tightened his hold on her. “Trust me,” he said. “I won’t let you fall.”
And strangely, she did feel safe. Pinned between his arm and his broad chest, she knew the only way she could fall was if he let her go. Considering the trouble he had taken for her, he wasn’t going to do that.
As there was nothing she could do at the moment to effect her own escape, she should conserve her strength.
Bide her time.
****
Huw blew out a breath when they crested a hill, and the moonlight showed him the thatched roof of the cottage at its foot. It wasn’t the most difficult or dangerous journey he had made, but he had never been so glad to reach his destination.
They hadn’t been on the move for long before he had felt Matilda relax against him as she drifted to sleep. He tightened his grip to prevent her head from lolling uncomfortably, and was struck yet again by the irony of being forced to protect his enemy.
She was unaware. At his mercy. It would be the work of a moment to thrust his dagger between her ribs and throw her body into a ditch. No one would know. He could tell Owain they’d been ambushed by outlaws, and she’d been killed in the fight.
Maybe then the mocking words his great-uncle had used to taunt him all those years ago would be silenced.
He looked down at her face, innocent in sleep. The moonlight bathed her in a silvery glow, an angel in stained glass.
God’s blood! He couldn’t do it. Not like this. The need to fulfil his oath burned hot in his belly, but even so, he couldn’t kill her in her sleep. There was no honor in that.
A sneering whisper seeped into his mind, saying that already she had beguiled him, weakened him. And it was true, he was torn, struggling to reconcile this Matilda with the image of the Comyns he’d lived with all his life. Could an ugly soul truly reside in such a beautiful body? The honeysuckle scent of her skin, the softness of her breasts against his arm, the glimpse of a slender ankle peeping out beneath the hem of her gown… Only a dead man could fail to be moved by a woman who looked like Matilda Comyn.
Yet even the Devil could appear in fair guise. He would do well to remember that. He had a lifetime’s experience of ignoring his desires. He could do so now.
He would watch her carefully, because sooner or later her Comyn blood would tell. And he would be ready.
He halted the horse beside the house and shook Matilda’s shoulder, maybe a little more roughly than necessary. “Wake up. We’re stopping here for the night.”
She jerked awake and pulled herself more upright, then looked around, her eyes wide. “Are we in Wales?”
“Yes. This is Powys. It won’t take long to reach Gwynedd tomorrow.”
“And Fitzjohn can’t find us here?” She looked around as though expecting armed knights to spring out from the trees.
“If he got a full dose of the poppy, he won’t be awake enough to notice you gone until tomorrow, let alone send out a search party for you.”
She turned her face away from him and clutched onto the saddle boss. “Good. How do I get down?” There was a tremor to her voice. Odd. She hadn’t struck him as nervous before. Maybe she was still half asleep. He refused to let her fear move him. He couldn’t afford any weakness where she was concerned.
He put an arm around her waist and helped her slide down to the ground. Then he dismounted and tethered the horse to a post. “Make yourself useful,” he said. “Go inside and light a fire. I left some basic supplies and set some kindling in the hearth when I came past on the way out.” He unslung his saddle bag and pulled out his tinder box, which he tossed to her. “You’ll find a flint and steel in here. I’ll join you once I’ve taken care of my horse.”
By the time he joined Matilda, a fire was blazing in the hearth in the center of the room and a scattering of smoky rushlights cast a golden glow on the crumbling wattle-and-daub walls and the two straw pallets, which were the only furnishings. Matilda sat on one pallet, hugging her legs, her chin resting on her knees. A cup stood on the beaten earth floor next to her, together with a plate of bread and dried meat. She had left the same for him beside his pallet.
He pulled a blanket from his pack and handed it to her, then retired to the other side of the fire with a blanket of his own. All the while Matilda remained unmoving, eying him with an unwavering gaze, as though waiting for something.
Huw felt uncomfortable, as though she was stripping him bare, layer by layer. Needing a distraction, he picked up his cup and swallowed half the contents in a single draught.
At once, Matilda’s shoulders relaxed, and the watchful tension drained from her face. His senses instantly came alert. He recalled the tremor in her voice when she had replied to his comment. What was it he had said?
Hellfire! If Fitzjohn had got a full dose of the poppy, he wouldn’t be awake to search for her. Did that mean she hadn’t used it all?
He took a cautious sip of his wine and rolled it around his mouth. It was a rough drink, mixed with honey, but now he was concentrating, he detected a distinct bitter aftertaste.
He sprang to his feet, knocking over his cup upon the rotting rushes. Curse the devil-spawn to Hell! She had tried to drug him!
The floor rocked beneath his feet. Funny. He didn’t remember boarding a ship. The remains of the wine spilled out onto the floor, swirling, eddying. It was a whirlpool, threatening to swallow him whole and spit him out onto a cold, rocky shore.
No. That wasn’t right. Think!
It was Matilda. There she was. Regarding him with those wide eyes. Not an angel any more. No, by God. A cornered leopard, poised to spring.
He split into two men. One intoxicated, the other lucid, but trapped in a dream where all his movements were heavy, sluggish.
Matilda was going to escape. He had to stop her. He clung to that thought, willed himself to stay awake.
****
Matilda watched Huw, her heart pounding. Had he drunk enough to fall asleep? He swayed and clutched at the wall, then staggered to his knees, fallin
g onto his saddle bag. Maybe he wouldn’t fall asleep, but he was certainly disoriented.
It was time to act. She could be on his horse and away from here before he could stumble after her.
She rose to her feet. Not taking her eyes from him for an instant, she edged toward the door.
More swiftly than she would have thought possible, Huw sprang after her. Her breath coming in sobs, she ran for the door. Her fingers scrabbled at the latch, and she just managed to pull the door open when strong hands seized her around the waist and yanked her backward. Her feet caught in the hem of her gown, and she tumbled, hitting the floor with a painful bump. Before she could recover from her daze, Huw grasped her wrists. She struggled but couldn’t pull free.
“Devil spawn! Think you can outwit me?” His voice was slurred. She was amazed he could stand, let alone overpower her.
He stooped and with an ease that made her gasp, picked her up and carried her across to the wall. There, chinks of moonlight revealed gaps in the wattle-and-daub paneling, exposing one of the main support pillars.
“Have…tie you up.” He wrapped a strip of leather around her wrists—the strap from his saddle bag. Cold realization washed over her. He must have noticed the taste of the poppy syrup and exaggerated his intoxication to throw her off guard.
“Not s’comfble as bed but…can’t have you runnin’ ’way if I…fall sleep.”
He wrapped the strap several times around the pillar and tied it. The moment he stepped back, she jerked on the strap, hoping to free it, but the leather scored deeply into her flesh without the knot giving way even the smallest amount. She slumped to the floor and bowed her head to her knees. Her last chance of freedom was gone.
She heard Huw’s uneven footsteps cross the room, followed by the creak of the door. A moment later the splash of water reached her ears. There must be a water trough outside.
She raised her head when she heard his soft tread return and the click of the latch as the door closed. He was leaning against the door, water glistening on his hair and face, watching her with the concentration of a hawk seeking its prey.
“Not a stained-glass angel anymore,” he said, his voice still a little slurred. “Knew you’d show your true nature, given time.”
“What do you mean?”
He waved away her question and stumbled across to his pallet, where he sat down in an inelegant sprawl.
“Why’d you do it?” he asked. “I was helping you escape. Thought that was what you wanted.”
“What I wanted was to be free of men who make decisions for me without considering my wants or needs.”
He chuckled, taking Matilda by surprise. It was the first time she had seen him smile. If he had been handsome before, even with the perpetual frown lines, now he was…beautiful. There was no other word for it. Her pulse, which had only just settled from the escape attempt, sped up in an uneven tattoo.
“So you were going to run out, alone, into the night?” He laughed harder. “What would you have done if you’d met a band of outlaws? Sat them down and invited them to a nice, civilized drink of poppy juice? Even if you’d lasted the night, where would you have gone? You don’t know anyone here. You don’t even know where we are.”
A blush burned her face. Even inebriated, he made good sense. It was interesting, though, to see him in this state, his defenses down.
If he could relax enough to laugh in front of her, what else might he reveal?
Maybe she could salvage some good from her failed attempt. This was probably the one chance she would have to get the truth from Huw. If she could discover more about him, about his plans for her, she hadn’t used the last of the poppy syrup in vain.
“I decided I’d rather take my chances alone, than risk finding myself in the same situation as in Redcliff. What does King Owain want with me? Why won’t you tell me?”
“Because he refused to tell me.” Huw shook his head. “He’s always explained his reasons before.” The words burst out, and Matilda knew this was no lie. This was Huw, unguarded. Vulnerable.
An uncomfortable knot formed in her stomach, hard and cold. It felt wrong to use Huw’s state to her advantage. Hadn’t she just railed against men who used her to their advantage? Would tricking him into blurting out his secrets make her no better than them?
No. This was different. Her life could be in danger, and she needed to know what she was facing in Huw’s company.
“Are you close to the king?” She groped for the words that would release the information she sought.
“He trusts me, confides in me. Has to, considering the work I do for him.”
“Surely you must have some idea why he wants me?”
Huw shook his head. “Just told me it was for the good of Gwynedd.” He laughed and in a sing-song chant repeated, “For the good of Gwynedd.” It was as though he was repeating a lesson learned from a young age.
He picked up his cup and frowned at it. “Empty.”
He tossed the cup upon the floor and folded his arms behind his head. “I can guess why he wants you, though. He must’ve made a deal with Powys about you.”
Matilda’s mouth went dry. “Because I’m related to the king of Powys?”
Huw nodded again. “Has to be. He wants to strengthen ties with Powys by marrying you to one of his nobles.”
Matilda bit her lip. She should have expected something like this. To be passed from one man to another.
“Why so sad?” Huw asked. “You must have known you would have to marry. Better a Welshman than that Norman goat’s arse, Fitzjohn.”
Despite herself, Matilda giggled. No one had ever used crude language in front of her before. And the way Huw had said it, “Norman” had been by far the worse insult.
Yet how could she explain? “I know I have to marry. I just wish that for once, I could have some choice. All my life I’ve had to live with the consequences of some other man’s decisions. And it’s never worked out well. I know I could choose better for myself.”
“Who would you choose?” Huw’s voice was mocking. “A hero straight from a minstrel’s ballad? A gallant knight to rescue you from Fitzjohn and fight to reclaim your inheritance?”
“Only if he does me the favor of widowing me in the process. Then at least I’d have the chance to run my life my own way. And keep Coed Bedwen.” She gave the strap another savage tug, but it refused to give. “Better still, let me marry a man burning to go on crusade or a long pilgrimage. Then I would have Coed Bedwen with no chance of the king marrying me off to some other grasping monster.”
Huw’s eyes narrowed. “Coed Bedwen. So that’s all you want.” There was an undertone of dark malice in his voice that made her shiver.
She licked dry lips and nodded.
“Well, you’ll never have that.”
Sick dread washed over her. “What do you mean?”
“The king has already promised it to another.”
“Who?”
He laughed. “It’s a big secret. Mustn’t tell you.”
She sat up straighter and raised her chin. “We’ll see about that. Coed Bedwen is mine. I’ll—” She stopped. She was doing it again. Even under the influence of the poppy syrup, Huw had managed to get her to give him more information about herself. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go.
“What about you?” she asked. “Are you married?”
His lips wrenched in a bitter twist. “There’s no place in my life for a woman. I have nothing. Just danger, lies, and secrets.”
A log crackled on the hearth, sending up a shower of sparks. There was a brief flare of flame, casting a red glow over Huw’s face. Matilda winced when she saw the bleak expression on his face. Then the flames faded, casting his face back into shadow.
“Nothing,” he said again.
“Why do you have nothing?” she asked. “You’re King Owain’s trusted man. He obviously values you. He must reward you.” For some reason, even though he’d tied her up, forcing her to sit on the filthy rushes
, she felt the need to comfort him. It must be the healer in her, unable to see someone hurt or broken without wanting to fix them. And Huw, she sensed, was broken deep inside.
“Oh, he pays me well, but not with the thing I want. Not yet.”
“What’s that?” Her breathing quickened as she sensed that she was getting close to what drove him.
“My family’s holding, the llys—manor—and the lands that went with it. It was lost in my grandfather’s time.”
“How?”
Huw picked up the wine skin and emptied it into his cup. “The usual story. The Normans wanted it, so the Normans took it. They killed my grandfather. They would have killed my father too, even though he was just a boy, but a servant helped him escape. He went to live with his uncle, but what he’d witnessed twisted him. He never forgot what happened.”
He took a deep draught of wine and was talking with no need for Matilda to prompt him.
“He never forgot the home he had lost. When I was growing up, he was forever telling me about it and how it was my rightful inheritance. He would often take me to climb a hill from which we could see the llys where he had grown up.
“Then when I reached my majority—that’s the age of fourteen in Wales—he took me up the hill again, but this time he made me promise to do everything in my power to take back our lands from the Normans and avenge myself on the man that had taken it.”
“How was that possible? Surely he would have died by then.”
Huw gave a feral smile. “Oh, we have long memories here in Wales. Our blood feuds are passed down from one generation to the next.”
Something about that smile unnerved her. This was a side of Huw she didn’t want to explore. Not alone at night, miles from help.
She changed the subject. “Tell me how you ended up in King Owain’s service.”
“My father died not long after that day on the hill. The day of his funeral, my great-uncle…made it clear I was a burden. Not welcome. I decided the only way to get my land back—to obey my father’s last wish—was to fight for Gwynedd and earn the notice of the king. So I left and went to the King of Gwynedd—Owain’s father—and asked to be taken into his service.
Bound to Her Blood Enemy Page 4