Caitlyn Box Set

by Elizabeth Davies

  A fat row of pebbles, tossed to the shore by previous tides, lined the top of the beach. As long as I stayed this side of them, I would be safe. I debated turning inland, but my chosen path was more direct, and visibility was down to less than a few feet ahead, so I clung to the narrow strip of land where the heaving waves met the earth, hunched my shoulders and trudged on.

  I must be nearing the castle soon. On horseback, at full gallop, the distance from the castle to the outcrop of rocks where I had left the beach, seemed much shorter. I stopped, turned my back to the sea and peered towards the land, seeing nothing but a grey-green smudge. At the Criccieth end of the bay, where the castle sat perched on its rocky outcrop, the beach swept up underneath the towering rock of the castle’s foundations. The sand quickly tapered to nothing, until the cliffs were the only demarcation between land and sea. My intention was to leave the beach well before that point, to ensure I wasn’t caught between sea and shore. As it was, I would have to clamber across the rocks to reach the narrow path which led from the village to the castle and the headland it was built on.

  The howl of the wind and the smash of the waves on the shoreline hid the booming of deeper water on rocks, and I ran out of beach in a spectacular misjudgement. Spray doused me from head to foot as a soaring wave crashed into the cliff, throwing salt water high into the air. It cascaded down in a thick, white curtain, followed swiftly by another, the retreating wave sucking around my legs. I was shin-deep in water, and each subsequent wave was higher than the last.

  I crabbed backwards, the tide-line of pebbles treacherous underfoot, rolling and rumbling with each pull and push. The tide was coming in higher, faster, and earlier than I thought possible. Either I had taken far too long to traverse the three-mile length of beach, or the storm was fiercer than I anticipated.

  Tipping my head back, I stared up at the cliff looming above me, dimly making out the difference between the hand of God and the hand of man. The castle sat atop the huge chunk of rock, squat and menacing, its towers and battlements lost to the low cloud and water-laden air.

  My skirts hung heavily from my waist, dragging through the edges of the waves, and threatening to pull me down, so I inched backwards, careful of my footing, watching the sea and waiting for it to strike.

  Another crashing, sucking maelstrom smashed into my legs. I braced myself, and dug my toes into the pebbles. My footing slipped away, the stones washed out from underneath me, and I grabbed the nearest jagged boulder and held on, caught between a rock and a watery place, the stupid thought almost making me laugh aloud. I was verging on hysteria, my mind gibbering. Let me live, oh, please, let me live. I didn’t want to drown, caught inside a wave, to be repeatedly smashed against the rocks until my body was a broken, bloody mess.

  Another wave reared up. I took a stumbling step backwards, and another, and another. This time the water only came to mid-shin. I resisted the pull of it, waiting until its grasp weakened and retreated once more. Move and brace, move and brace.

  Sea and wind howled their fury as I staggered out of reach and collapsed onto a rock, panting hard. Violent trembling wracked me from sodden head to squelching boot, and I waited for it to pass before I turned my back on the sea and picked a cautious way across the rocks. The climb up to dry land was steep, but mercifully short.

  Ha! Dry land? Rain pelted unrelentingly down, gathering in rivulets and streaming over the ground, like miniature waterfalls cascading over the sides of the cliffs, threatening to wash the very castle into the deep.

  Panting and puffing, teeth chattering, and body shaking like one of the blancmanges that came out of the castle kitchens, I made it onto the land-bridge and its cobbled surface. The gates, taller than three men standing on top of one another and wide enough to take two carts abreast, were shut, but a smaller entrance set inside the left-hand gate was open, where a lone sentry stood guard, dripping and miserable.

  Perhaps I would call for a hot bath. I would definitely ask for warmed wine, and afterwards, some broth. Yes, broth, to warm me from the inside out. I looked forward to stripping off my soaked clothes and handing them to a servant for them to be cleaned and dried and returned to me. Luxury.

  ‘Hie! You there!’

  The call came from behind. I glanced over my shoulder.

  A dark figure sat on a dark horse against a darker sky. I couldn’t make out the face, but I knew the voice. Instinctively, my hand went to the saddlebags around my neck, because the voice belonged to Ifan.

  Chapter 12

  The saddlebags hung around my neck. With one swift motion I lifted them over my head and opened the front of my cloak, securing them about my waist, then I turned to face Ifan and waited, shivering violently, teeth chattering, rain sluicing down my face. I briefly, and for one silly moment, considered running, but with the guard behind, him in front, and a treacherous drop onto rock either side, I had nowhere to go.

  Ifan clattered over the cobbled land bridge, steel-clad hooves echoing on stone, and stopped, his horse rearing over me, snorting. A typical battle-trained steed, the stallion’s impulse was to trample me, and he pawed the ground and tossed his head. I flinched but stood my ground.

  ‘You are soaked,’ Ifan said.

  Nothing escaped this man, it seemed.

  ‘Come, we need to get you inside.’ He leaned down and held out his hand.

  I did not want to mount that horse. I’d had enough of horses for one day, and it was only a short walk. The horse agreed, crabbing sideways in annoyance at his master’s effrontery.

  ‘Hold still.’ Ifan jerked on the reins and dug in a heel, bringing the stallion back to my side. He held out a hand again.

  Given little choice, I took it, his flesh as cold and wet as mine. With the other hand, I hiked my skirts above my knees, baring my white goose-bumped legs, and bounced on the balls of my feet before swinging up onto the beast’s haunches. More crabbing and head tossing from the stallion. My arms wound around Ifan’s waist, and I scooted closer, settling in behind him, my legs gripping the horse’s flanks. Ifan kicked his heels and the horse obeyed, breaking into a slow canter. My fingers seized the folds of Ifan’s cloak in a desperate clutch, fearful of falling backwards.

  The guard swung the small gate open, and the stallion darted through, probably as eager to find his dry stable as I was to get out of my saturated clothes. I expected to ride between the two towers protecting the inner bailey, but the stallion swerved left, and I almost fell off.

  I knew where Ifan headed and I sighed with frustration.

  Why him? Why did he have to be the one to find me? I guessed my palfrey, returning riderless, had given rise to the alarm, but Ifan had men to do this kind of thing for him? Why would a commander of such rank waste time and energy on searching for a missing rider? Unless he knew it was me who was missing. Had someone told him I had ridden forth this morning? Did he think I had left the castle for a rendezvous? Wales was not at war with the English, despite the skirmishes and battles, but treachery was commonplace, and I did not hold Ifan’s suspicion against him. I suspected he thought me a spy for the English.

  Ifan drew the stallion to a halt in front of a wooden palisade. The two men stationed outside straightened and glanced at each other.

  ‘Open it, and help the lady down,’ Ifan instructed.

  I hesitated, then reason came to my rescue. Three men and a horse against a lone woman were odds I would not bet on. Anyway, whatever Ifan thought he knew about me was so far from the truth it did not matter. He couldn’t keep me in gaol.

  Rough hands reached up and caught me about the waist, and I swung my leg over the stallion’s back and slid to the ground. Ifan dismounted lightly, tossing the reins to the guard.

  ‘Get someone to see to him. Make sure they give him extra grain. And bring dry clothes,’ he instructed.

  He did not wait to see if his orders were acknowledged, but pushed me ahead of him, none too gently. So, this was how he was going to play it? I reminded myself he had no pro
of, only a suspicion of treachery on my part, and as long as I kept my nerve eventually my gaolers would leave me alone. A few heartbeats were all that was required to become Cat: I wanted to speak to Lady Joan and ensure our stories matched.

  I pushed the hood of my cloak back from my head, the material heavy around my shoulders, my hair loose and dripping, and my boots squelching with each step. The cold had set so deep in my bones I no longer shivered.

  Ifan marched me past the guards’ room. Two men sat in front of the fire, clothes steaming, mugs of heated wine in their hands. That made four guards altogether, two inside, two out, taking turns to brave the weather. Both men jumped to their feet when they saw Ifan. He waved them down and picked up a ring of keys off the table. Neither man returned to his seat.

  We tramped down a narrow passage, the warmth of the fire quickly receding. Most cells were empty.

  A shout came from inside one of them, and a dirty, bearded face peered out. ‘Ere, put ’er in wiv me. I could do wiv some company.’

  ‘Shut it, Conah. The only reason a woman would look at you twice, is if you paid her,’ Ifan said, his hand between my shoulder blades, propelling me forwards.

  He stopped at the next dank box, opened the door and pushed me inside.

  Once over the threshold, I turned to face him, feigning bewilderment, anger, and more than a little worry; every expression I thought an innocent woman might display. The anger was not feigned – I had been my true self for such a short period of time and was not yet resigned to playing the cat again for the next several decades.

  ‘Do you treat everyone who falls off their horse this way? It is a harsh penalty, especially since the beast made her way back. I take it she is none the worse for her adventure?’ I demanded.

  ‘The mare is fine.’

  ‘So why imprison me?’ We were going to have this conversation sooner or later, so it may as well be now. Anyway, a woman with nothing to hide would want an explanation.

  Ifan studied me. Even with water dripping off the end of his nose, this man was impressive. Over a head taller than me and with shoulders twice as wide, his build alone was intimidating. Add the hardness in his eyes and a determined jaw, and I knew I would not find it easy to talk my way out of this.

  Raindrops caught in the fine, brown hairs of his neatly-trimmed beard glittered in the light of the flames from the brands outside each cell. I studied them, anything to avoid his intense stare.

  Footsteps. One of the guards thrust a cloth bundle at Ifan.

  He shoved it at me. ‘Get changed.’

  I took it and stared at him, my own expression flat, waiting for him to be a gentleman. He raised his eyebrows, urging me to do as he bid. I waited some more. Was he going to watch? It seemed he was, because he made no move to look away.

  ‘Is this the only way you get to see a woman naked?’ I asked.

  He blinked and his lips twitched, but he continued to stare. ‘Take off your clothes. I don’t want you catching a chill.’

  ‘It would save you killing me yourself,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Who said anything about killing you? I merely want to ask a question or two. Now, are you going to put them on, or do I have to do it for you?’

  Damn the man. I turned my back and fumbled at my waist, pretending to undo the ties on my skirt, hoping to release the saddlebags and let them slip to the straw-strewn floor without him noticing.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Removing my clothes.’

  ‘Turn around so I can see.’

  He was beginning to try my patience. I was unlikely to forget this insult, and I ground my teeth in frustration. He could search me if he suspected a weapon, but his aim was humiliation.

  Head held high, I did as he commanded, letting the cloak fall open, revealing the half-undone saddlebags and the belt holding my short dagger.

  ‘Give them to me.’

  Ifan took a step closer. I stepped back and fumbled with cold-clumsy hands to loosen the straps. My only consolation was that he would have no idea what those bags contained, and the one person he could ask would not tell him the truth. I hoped he was greedy enough to eat a berry or two. Six might be sufficient to kill him.

  He caught hold of the bags and took them. He had what he wanted, and I waited for him to leave.

  He stayed.

  Temper threatened to overwhelm me, and I clenched my jaw with such force my teeth ached. He would not humiliate me. I wouldn’t let him. I had been naked in front of men before, although admittedly under different, more pleasurable, circumstances and I had not been ashamed then. I refused to be now; my body, firm and ripe, was all woman. If he intended to watch me strip, then strip I would. My days as Caitlyn were at an end for the foreseeable future, so I might as well have some fun with him. It didn’t matter what he thought of me, or what he suspected – he would never see me again. Or if he did, he would never know it.

  I smiled, a slow seductive smile. His expression didn’t change. We shall see about that, Sir Ifan…

  I undid the clasp at my throat and the cloak puddled at my feet. My outer skirt followed. I stepped out of it, bringing me closer to him, and stared into his eyes made dark by the gloom, then licked my lips, a tiny sweep of pink tongue.

  His expression did not change.

  I bent down and took off my boots, lifting my skirts to expose my leg up to the thigh, and rolled each stocking slowly down, tossing them to the side when I had peeled it off my delicately pointed toe.

  His expression did not change.

  I took a deep breath and met the challenge head-on.

  Deliberately I offered him my back, a silent plea for him to untie the laces of my bodice. I swept my hair to the side, the waist-long strands beginning to curl at their ends. Still too cold to shiver, and glad the shadows hid the blue tinge of my skin, I wondered how far I wanted to take this. What would I do if watching gave way to something more? I played a dangerous game.

  A feather-light finger.

  I stiffened, the skin on my back flaming where he touched. For the first time in hours, I felt warm. Just that one little spot at the top of my spine where my skin disappeared beneath the fabric. My response, unexpected and unwanted, angered me. Whose game was this – mine or his?

  Firm hands at my waist deftly untied the laces, his breath hot on my neck. I tingled. Inching around to face him, slow and deliberate, I shrugged out of the bodice until I stood before him in my petticoat and chemise. The petticoat quickly joined the growing pile of clothes on the floor.

  All that was left was a white linen chemise, nothing else between my nakedness and Ifan but a thin layer of linen. It too, had ties, individual ones from breast to waist. I undid one, exposing the creamy skin of my chest.

  Not cold now. Warm. Too warm.

  His expression did not change, but I thought he was breathing a little harder.

  Another tie undone. More skin. A hint of erect nipple.

  He stared at my breasts, their form clear and defined through the thin material.

  Another one. The chemise was nearly undone. One more.

  I played with the remaining ties, fingering them, tugging them gently. Then it was done. No more linen ties to tease him with. My lips parted and my eyes widened. A tilt of my head, followed by a slight shrug of my shoulders, and the small sleeves of the chemise slipped down my arms. I opened the front of it, taking my time, an inch for every heartbeat.

  His expression did not change, but was there a bulge in the front of his breeches that had not been there before? A rather large bulge?

  One step. He needed to take one small step.

  I realised I intended to seduce him, here, in this stinking hole. I intended to bind him to me with sex and feminine wiles. My purpose was unclear, led by instinct and intuition, but I had learned long ago to trust that intuition. I was like no woman he had ever encountered before. This, as much as what I had between my legs, would enthral him. Seduction was a far easier solution than any other I could
envisage.

  His hands were warm, one on each of my shoulders as he pushed the material away to slide down my body like a lover’s caress.

  Naked. Just how he wanted me.

  I watched his gaze travel the length of me with slow deliberation. The tiny hollow at my neck, pulsing with frantic haste; the twin globes of my breasts, with their tips of hard pink nipple; the narrow waist, flaring to rounded hips.

  And the triangle of black curls at the juncture between my thighs.

  His eyes lingered on them.

  In one molten movement he bent down, and I gasped, anticipating a finger. A tongue? I closed my eyes. A shudder of unexpected and unwanted excitement surged across my skin. Did I want this? Want him?

  He didn’t touch me.

  When he straightened again, he was holding my clothes.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said as he turned on his heel and walked out of my cell.

  His expression hadn’t changed.

  Chapter 13

  Bastard! The bloody bastard! Fury engulfed me. I kicked at the lump of clothes lying in the straw, sending them flying.

  Ow! Pain flared in my unshod toes, and I hopped up and down.

  Who had been playing whom? The humiliation stung. There was I, thinking myself irresistible, and all the time he was laughing at me behind that blank face. I bet he was even now sitting with his cronies, regaling them with tales of my strip-tease and how he had easily resisted my ‘charms’. Oh! He might not have had to resist me at all. I probably looked hideous, all wet with goose-bumped skin and a crow’s nest for hair. Ifan, with his position as Llewelyn’s right-hand man, could take his pick of women, most of them noble-born. He had no reason to stoop to a bedraggled nobody, especially a prisoner, even if said prisoner had thrown herself at him. He wasn’t that desperate. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if Llewelyn suggested that Ifan marry one of his own daughters; he had plenty of them. If the Prince was willing to wed his son to an English girl, then he was more than capable of rewarding Ifan with one of his children. One step nearer the Welsh throne for you, eh, Ifan?