by Lynn Kurland
He advanced, his expression thunderous.
Gwen found, to her dismay, that she had no more room for retreat. Her back was against the cold stone of the wall, and Rhys was standing toe-to-toe with her. He put his hands against the wall on either side of her head and glared down at her.
“Let me tell you why we cannot,” he said in a low growl. “We cannot because I have spent every day of the past two years on fire for you. I have clasped my hands hard enough behind my back to draw blood and leave scars, all in an effort not to touch you. I have worn Connor and Jared down to the bone in the lists in an effort to tire myself so that when I was with you, I would have energy to speak of nothing more interesting than the condition of your damned herbs or the bloody weather.”
“Then I wasn’t boring you—” She shut her mouth at the look on his face and thought it a very wise move indeed.
“I cannot remain here one more hour when all I am allowed is to look at you.”
She could only look up at him, mute.
“I cannot remain another hour near you and have nothing but speech with you.”
He was leaving. She should have been prepared for it, but she found she wasn’t.
“And above all else, I will not listen to one more bloody word about me being a noble, chivalrous, and unrequited champion!” he exclaimed.
“You made a good one,” she offered.
“At the cost of two years of no bloody sleep at night!” he shouted.
She blinked. “You couldn’t sleep?”
“I could not.”
“But I slept very well.”
“Did you?” he demanded.
“Aye,” she said hesitantly, “I did indeed. Well, mostly. Surely your bed—”
“It wasn’t the bed.”
“Then your chamber—”
“It wasn’t the chamber.”
Gwen frowned. Perhaps lack of sleep had addled his wits. “I do not see—”
Without warning, she found herself enveloped in his embrace. Had there been any space between them before, it was there no longer. He could not have molded her to him any more successfully had she been nothing but the cook’s finest pastry dough. Not that Alain’s cook made a fine pastry dough, for it was always full of lumps and sand.
“Gwen,” Rhys growled.
She blinked up at him. “Aye?”
She wondered what he had meant to say to her, then she realized he had merely been seeking her full attention. As if he didn’t have it already. She was all too aware of his unyielding frame and the strength of the arms that held her captive against it . . .
And then he kissed her.
And she thought she just might faint.
Indeed she would have, if he hadn’t had such a grip upon her. And it was surely no chaste kiss a champion might give his unattainable lady.
It was a kiss of raw possession.
All she could do was clutch his shoulders and cling to him. It was devastating enough to have his mouth on hers once again after two long years of wondering if she’d imagined how sweet his lips were. Even more unfortunate, however, were the memories his present kiss brought to mind. He had kissed her thusly before, kissed her long and hard and so thoroughly she wondered if there possibly remained a part of her mouth he hadn’t investigated. But that had come as a prelude to his claiming the rest of her body.
And her soul.
She felt tears begin to leak from her eyes, but she didn’t bother to brush them away. Oh, how much they had missed! How many hours of loving, how many days of simple touches and soul-stirring kisses.
It would have brought her to her knees if she’d been able to get there.
He started to pull away, but she stopped him.
“Nay,” she said against his mouth. “Not yet.”
“Now do you see?” he rasped.
“Aye,” she managed.
“I never forgot,” he whispered, pressing gentle kisses against the corners of her eyes, tasting her tears. “Never once. Never for a moment. I don’t know how you could have.”
“Perhaps my imagination is my downfall.”
“You should use it less.”
“How else was I to survive?”
His only answer was another kiss, and then another, and then she began to lose track of where his kisses began and ended.
And when she thought she could truly bear no more, he merely rested his forehead against hers and drew in great, ragged breaths.
“I’ll leave you Montgomery and the twins,” he said quietly.
She pulled back quickly. “You’ll what?”
“I’m taking John and leaving today.”
Her mouth fell open. She was certain it was passing unattractive to gape at him thusly, but the saints preserve her, it was all she could do.
“Think you I can remain?” he asked with a dry smile. “After that?”
“You’re leaving me?” she demanded.
“Of course—”
“You unfeeling oaf!” she said, shoving him smartly. “You do that”—she gestured helplessly at the space now between them—“then merely walk away?”
He put his hands on her shoulders, ignoring her attempts to shrug them off.
“How else am I to raise an army?” he asked gently.
She frowned. “An army?”
“To take possession of Wyckham.”
“Ah,” she said, “then it comes down to this again.”
“Saints, woman, how am I to care for you properly without soil to build a home on? Without soil to grow crops in? Without soil for our children to roam over?”
She closed her eyes briefly and prayed for strength. “It cannot be, Rhys—”
“You have no faith,” he said. “Either in me or in love.”
“I have a great deal of faith in both.”
“Then you’re failing to use your imagination. If you can imagine me content to live as your comrade-in-arms for two years, can you not imagine me capable of taking you for my own?”
She looked up at him. “And Robin?”
He took a deep breath. “Robin as well.”
“Impossible.”
“Difficult,” he conceded. “But not impossible.”
She shook her head. “I don’t see how.”
“Then stop trying to see. Trust me.”
“But there are no grounds for consanguinity.”
“As if that has ever stopped anyone before,” Rhys said with a snort. “Eleanor divorced Phillip of France on those grounds, and she surely had no relation to him.”
“But the sanctity of marriage vows . . .” She didn’t bother to finish her thought.
She had kept her vows. Alain had not. Indeed, she wondered when he had first returned to his whores—the day after their wedding? A se’nnight later?
“You were mine first,” Rhys said quietly. “Does that mean nothing to you?”
She bowed her head.
“A true vow is more than words spoken, Gwen. It must also be made with the heart.”
She looked up at him, feeling her heart begin to break. “He’ll never let Robin go.”
“He might.”
“He never will,” she repeated, “and you know it well. And I cannot leave my son behind.”
He was silent for several moments. “I would not ask you to choose between us, Gwen. I will find a way to free him as well.” He cupped her face in his hands. “Will you trust me?”
She sighed. “Aye.”
“I can ask no more of you than that.”
“You’ll leave today?”
“Within the hour. I’ve no doubts Alain expects it.”
“And return when?”
“Within a year—”
“A year?” she demanded.
He lifted his shoulders helplessly. “Raising an army takes time, Gwen. I’ll have to hire mercenaries, see to their expenses and training, retain men to see to their gear . . .”
“A year,” she said in astonishment. “That is such a long time.”
“’Tis a far sight shorter than the rest of our lives,” he pointed out. “You’ll find something to keep yourself amused, I am certain of it. Perhaps you should take up minstrelsy.”
She blinked, then smiled suddenly. “I could train with the twins.”
“Absolutely not!”
“Then I can help you fight your war!”
She would have elaborated on her scheme, but he seemed determined not to hear any of it. And the longer he kissed her, the less appealing truly becoming a mercenary seemed.
At least for the moment.
“Lose sleep over me,” he said, when he lifted his head. “Think pleasant thoughts of me. Trust me.”
And before she could clutch him to her, he had crossed the chamber to the door.
“Rhys,” she said, realizing just exactly what she stood to lose.
He turned and looked at her a last time.
“Wait for me,” he said.
And then he was gone.
An hour later Gwen stood near the barbican and didn’t bother to pretend to have business there. She was flanked by the twins, who stood in their usual poses with arms folded over their chests. Montgomery stood nearby, his shoulders having been pressed into service as a place for Robin to perch.
Rhys and John stood speaking together not far away. Gwen watched as Rhys and his squire mounted their horses and turned them out of the gates.
Gwen fully expected Rhys not even to mark her. He hadn’t before in the two times she’d stood at gates and watched him go out to see to his business.
This time, though, he turned his head and looked at her.
No words were necessary.
Wait for me.
And so she would.
She had no other choice.
23
Rhys walked through the abbey’s small outer garden, following a plump, slow-moving novice. He did not attempt to invite her to hasten. He had learned, over the course of his long life, that annoying the Lord’s brides while at their duties would only earn him a thorough tongue-lashing. At least he only had his own tongue to guard. The saints preserve him had he been forced to guard John’s as well. Unfortunately for them both, John seemed determined to prove to himself things that he could have more easily learned had he merely used his ears to their best advantage.
At present, however, the lad was safely ensconced with Rhys’s grandfather in a nearby inn with their horses and all their gear. It had left Rhys free to proceed to the abbey unhindered and in disguise. Rhys could only hope his grandsire would be able to keep John free from trouble for as long as was required. He would have been unsurprised by any of either Sir Jean or John’s antics. Perhaps it had been less than wise to leave the pair of them together.
Well, there was little he could do about it now. He adjusted his very fragrant cloak as his guide neared their journey’s end. Rhys was ushered into a comfortable chamber where three chairs were occupied by three imposing women. There was the abbess, of course, with her assessing gaze fixed upon him. Rhys stared at her, amazed that such a beautiful woman should find herself in such a place. He shook his head. How strange were the twists of fate that drove women to such seclusion.
The abbess was flanked by women who Rhys knew were her second and third in command. They were no less unswerving in their appraisal of his person. He went down on one knee, as it seemed the prudent thing to do.
“My lady,” Rhys said, inclining his head to the abbess. “God be with you.”
“And with you, my son.”
Rhys looked up in time to see the abbess dismiss her companions with a small wave of her hand.
“This one looks none-too-dangerous,” she said placidly. “I think I am able to ascertain his business without your aid. There are other things more pressing than speech with a passing traveler.”
Obviously the other women were accustomed to not arguing. They departed without sparing Rhys another glance and closed the door behind them. They wouldn’t have recognized him anyway. He never came to this abbey twice wearing the same disguise.
“Rhys,” the abbess said with a long-suffering sigh, “could you not have chosen a less fragrant pretense?”
“Swine herding is a very reputable calling, Mother.”
The abbess rose and beckoned to him with a sigh. “Come give your mother a kiss, my love. But no hug, if you please.”
Rhys laughed as he rose and bent to kiss his mother heartily on the cheek. “Surely you are happy enough to see me not to mind my smell.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Could you not have chosen a friar as your disguise? Or a minstrel? They at least smell of smoke and ale, not pigsh—”
“Mother!” Rhys laughed. “By the saints, your novices would be appalled could they hear you.”
She only smiled as she drew him over to sit down next to her. “They fear me too greatly to trouble themselves over paying me any heed. They scuttle by and pray they don’t attract my notice. Especially when it has been months since I’ve had word from my son, for that puts me in an especially foul humor.”
Rhys rolled his eyes. “I would have written—”
“But you feared to reveal my whereabouts. Aye, I’ve heard that excuse before.”
He started to protest, but she waved away his words.
“You protect me well, and I am grateful for it. Now, tell me of your news and why you find yourself in France.”
“Well—”
“Your grandsire says you have fallen in love with a girl you cannot have.” She leveled him a very piercing look. “I wonder why it is you have not shared this with me.”
“I wasn’t sure you would approve.”
“Is she so shrewish then?”
He shook his head, smiling. “Nay, she is passing sweet.”
“Hard to look upon, then? Knock-kneed, cross-eyed, palsied—”
“Nay, nay,” he said, staving off any more descriptions, “she is well formed and quite pleasing to the eye. I only feared you would disapprove of my looking above my station.”
“Why?” she asked dryly. “Because you are but a knight?”
“Others would find that enough to deny her to me.”
“You bear an honorable name, love. There is no shame in your heritage.”
“Knight, healer, heretic.” He smiled. “My father had an illustrious career, did he not?”
“Your father is a prince among men and braver than most. You have no reason to be ashamed of him. And if you doubt his courage, look to your grandsire. They are very much alike.”
Rhys looked at his mother and wondered if she realized her mistake. “Was, Mother. My father was a prince among men.”
“Hmmm,” his mother agreed. “Very true.”
It wasn’t the first time she had made such a slip when speaking about her late husband. Rhys wondered if the solitude of the convent had begun to prey upon her mind. Did she believe Etienne was still alive?
There was reason, he supposed. His father had never received a proper Christian burial. That would be enough to cause some to wonder if he’d truly been laid to rest. Rhys had always assumed that he had no grave marker because of the slanderous label of heretic which had been placed upon him. It was enough to deny him entrance into any church’s graveyard.
From time to time, however, Rhys wondered if it was because his father wasn’t buried at all.
“Unfortunately, neither your father nor your grandsire bore any noble titles,” his mother continued absently.
“Aye,” Rhys agreed, pushing aside his foolish thoughts. His sire was dead. He’d been dead for almost twenty years. “A title would have aided me greatly.”
“Ah, Rhys,” his mother said, fixing her gaze upon him and smiling, “I daresay there is enough nobility in you for any woman. Now, tell me more about this girl. She is beautiful and her eyes are straight. What is the difficulty?”
“She’s a baron’s daughter.”
His mother waited.
“And she’s wed.”
&nbs
p; “Ah,” his mother said. “I see.”
“Hence my arrival in France.”
His mother blinked. “Of course.”
“I need gold. For bribes.”
“What else?” she said. “You don’t intend to steal her away?”
“’Tis a tradition, is it not? Grandfather stole Grandmother.”
“And your father stole me.”
“I, on the other hand, have been a dismal failure when it comes to this snatching of women.”
“All the more reason to remedy it, my love.”
Rhys sighed and leaned back against the chair. “I fear my only choice is to pay for what I wish to have.” He looked at her and smiled grimly. “I’ve never succeeded at bribery before.”
“Sword strokes are a much more direct way of solving problems,” she agreed. “But the slaying of nobles is still frowned upon in England, is it not?”
“It was the last time I asked.”
“She has a son, true?”
Obviously his mother was more versed in the events of his life than she admitted to being. He wasn’t surprised. How she came by her knowledge of events outside her walls was a mystery, but her spies were thorough.
“Aye,” Rhys said, “one she will not leave without.”
His mother reached for his hand. “I cannot blame her. It fair broke my heart to let your grandsire take you away when he did, even though I knew I had no other choice.”
“What else were you to do? My sire was dead.”
His mother didn’t argue that. “And it wasn’t as if I could have traveled about with your grandsire. I do not regret my choice. It is a peaceful enough existence.”
“Is it?” he mused. “Has Grandfather given up his spying for Phillip?”
“How would I know, love?”
“You would know, Mother, for he sends all his information through you. Peaceful existence, my arse,” he said with a snort.
She only smiled. “I do what I can to uphold the family tradition.”
“One I haven’t carried on. Am I such a disappointment to Grandpère, then?”
“I daresay the king is more disappointed than your grandsire, but he will not press you. He knows you intend to make your home in England.”
“A pity he cannot help me obtain the bride I want.”