Everlasting

by Charlene Cross

  Dylan knew her too well, and Alana now conceded there was no way around it. “I shall explain everything, but first you must swear that you won’t tell your father, your brothers, or anyone here what I am about to divulge to you.”

  His brow furrowing, Dylan inclined his head. His frown deepened, and he captured her chin, inspecting her more thoroughly in the candlelight. His face suddenly became a harsh mask.

  “Christ’s blood, Alana! You’re bruised. He struck you. Why? Damnation! He didn’t—”

  “Nay,” she cut in, knowing what he was thinking. “Not exactly.”

  “What do you mean ‘not exactly’? Either he ravished you or he didn’t. Which is it?”

  “Swear to me you won’t tell.”

  “I’ll swear nothing. If the bastard used you in an unseemly manner, your kin have the right to avenge your honor. I’ll kill the cur myself.”

  Alana caught his arm as he made for his weapons. “Dylan, he didn’t strike me. The bruise came by an accident of my own making. And he certainly didn’t rape me.” She swallowed, then drew a lengthy breath. “Dylan, he is my husband.”

  Dylan stared at her dumbfounded. “You married him?”

  “Aye. Now swear you won’t tell.”

  “If I want to hear the whole of this, I suppose I have no choice. I swear,” he said. “Now explain why the hell you married him.”

  “I had to, Dylan. He threatened to ride against you if I didn’t. Besides, Henry ordered that we marry. ’Tis done and nothing can change it.”

  “Why did you run away?”

  “That I cannot tell you. ’Tis private. But with my having fled, I fear he may yet ride here and destroy all of you. He is aware of your numbers. With his knights and men-at-arms, he has you outmatched.”

  Dylan snorted. “If necessary, we can gather five times our present strength and have them here by tomorrow morning, ready to fight him.”

  “How?”

  “Our neighbors to the north and west will gladly join against any Norman who dares to attack us. All we have to do is send runners to alert them. So, if you married him simply to protect us, you shouldn’t have.”

  “Could you find enough men to defend against Henry and all his knights?” she asked.

  “We could try, and might very well succeed. Owain Gwynedd would be more than happy to unite with us against England’s king.”

  “I fear, Dylan, all this fighting and death may be for naught. One day, whether we like it or not, we will be made to accept another’s rule.”

  “If that ever comes to pass, Alana, it will be a long while off. You know your countrymen would much rather die fighting than meet their ends lying in their beds. We will not give in to a conqueror. We will not accept another’s rule.” He paused and viewed her closely. “What happened to your staunch loyalties to your own kind? You never used to be this much of a naysayer. Not even Gilbert was able to defeat your assuredness that we would one day prevail. But this new Norman—well, the fight has suddenly gone out of you. Has he somehow managed to cloud your thoughts and win your sympathies?”

  “Nay,” Alana asserted. “My sympathies lie with my own kind. ’Tis the worry that has taken the fight from me.”

  “What worry?” he asked.

  “The worry that you, your father, your brothers—all my kin!—will one day die.”

  Dylan chuckled. “’Tis the way of it, Alana. Death will come to us all eventually.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it,” she snapped. “At the rate you’re going, with all this vengeance and warring, you’ll die far sooner than need be.”

  “And what would you have us do? Simply give in and allow them to swarm over us?”

  “Nay,” she said shaking her head. “That’s not what I want. As for my assuredness that we would prevail, if I had believed that, I wouldn’t have married Gilbert in the first place, being termed a traitor because I did.”

  “Rhys has since forgiven you for defying him. He thought you married Gilbert FitzWilliam merely to secure your birthright—the land. But I know you did it in hopes of ensuring peace between us all. The deed was rectified though. At least it had been until—when did you marry the bastard?” he asked.

  “This morning.”

  Dylan looked at the dripping clothes in her hand. All at once he threw back his head and laughed. “So, the bridegroom lies abed alone, does he? Is that what made you run… your abhorrence to the marriage act?”

  As Alana recalled Paxton’s wondrous lovemaking, the tiny flame that lingered in her loins blazed anew. Her skin was at once flushed; she ached for the man she’d deserted. Abhorrence? Nay. Not after Paxton.

  “I must warn you about something,” Dylan said.

  Alana blinked, surprised to see him standing across the way. While she stood there, speechless, thinking about Paxton, he’d taken the sodden garments from her hand. He was now spreading them over the table. Her slippers lay in the rushes by his feet.

  “Warn me about what?” she asked, the fire inside her now banked.

  “Rhys has been harping about your marrying one of us again. When he sees you, I’m certain he’ll try to press the issue, which is now decidedly dead. Since you refused his own proposal of marriage twice, I thought you should know he now has plans for us, Cousin. Be prepared.”

  Alana was in no way startled by the statement. The Welsh intermarried frequently in order to keep their bloodlines pure. Uncle and niece, cousin and cousin, brother and sister—it was quite common they should join. And though the Church insisted it was incest, a mortal sin, the Welsh cared little. The practice had gone on for centuries, and Alana imagined it would continue until they were forced to stop.

  Dylan was now striding toward her. “I would wed you—if you weren’t taken, that is—except the love we have for each other isn’t that sort of love.”

  It was true. She held deep affection for Dylan, but she could never envision them as lovers. Nor he her. “So what do I tell Rhys once he begins hounding me again?”

  “Nothing. But be forewarned: With your staying here on a permanent basis, he’ll be after you constantly. Mayhap we could pretend to cohabitate. That should appease him. In a year’s time, I could set you aside, paying you a stipend for your trouble.”

  What Dylan had proposed was the natural way for a couple to come together in Wales. The young woman’s family was paid in advance for her services, then the couple lived together, usually for a year, to see if they could abide each other before taking their vows. If it didn’t work out, the prospective groom simply returned the young woman to her family, another payment given for their trouble. It was similar to handfasting as it was called by others.

  “And how do you propose we pretend anything of the sort, especially with the five of us living together in one hut?” she asked. “Your father will know we aren’t cohabiting.”

  “You mean because we aren’t making love in the middle of the night?”

  Alana tossed him a quick glare. “You know what I meant, so you need not have mentioned it.”

  Dylan chuckled. “Because of your abhorrence. You know, Alana, had you married a man of your own ilk at the start, you wouldn’t be suffering from such disgust now. Unlike the Normans, we Welsh know how to treat our women.”

  Alana doubted it would be any better than the way Paxton had treated her. But then she would never know. “’Tis beside the point. Your plan won’t work. Rhys will know.”

  “He won’t know if I build us a hut of our own. Unless my father intends to stand outside with his ear to the door, he’ll be totally ignorant of what’s happening on the inside.” Dylan shrugged. “’Tis only a suggestion. Take or leave it as you will.”

  “Thank you for your concern, but I doubt Rhys will be harping at me for long. I won’t be staying here, Dylan.”

  Surprise showed on his face. “Where do you propose to go? Not back to him?”

  “Nay. I cannot.”

  “Then where, Alana?”


  “To Anglesey. Will you take me? If not, I shall journey there on my own.”

  Dylan viewed her at length. “You’re that desperate to escape him, are you? So much so that you’d risk life and limb by traveling there by yourself. Why?”

  Alana couldn’t hold Dylan’s gaze. “’Tis private, I said.”

  “Private?” Dylan returned. “Nay, Alana. The answer is written on your face. You’re running away from your home, from your kinsmen, from all you hold dear because you’ve fallen in love with the Norman. ’Tis true, isn’t it?”

  Alana didn’t have time to either confirm or deny Dylan’s words. In that instant, the door burst open. Along with the wind and rain blowing inside came Rhys, Caradog behind him.

  Her uncle stopped in his tracks. His head tilted while his dark eyes examined her. “Niece?” he inquired as though he didn’t believe what he saw. Then his laughter rumbled forth as he threw his arms wide. “By Saint David’s own shroud! You’re really here!”

  Rhys enveloped Alana in his embrace, almost smothering her. Apparently aware that he was getting her wet, he pulled back and grasped her shoulders.

  “Damn my eyes, I never thought I’d see you again.”

  Though she was smiling at her uncle, who was an older version of Dylan—still muscular, still handsome—Alana knew his jubilation would soon fade, understood the questions would come. She wasn’t disappointed on either count.

  “What are you doing here? The Norman—did he do something to chase you off?” He caught her chin, the same as Dylan had. “You’re bruised. He didn’t punish you after all, did he? By God, if he—”

  Alana hushed Rhys when she placed her fingers over his lips. “I came for a visit, but if you keep badgering me, I’ll take myself back the way I came. I will answer you this: The bruise was by my own making. He didn’t punish me, and he didn’t chase me off. Let that be the end of it.”

  “For now, Niece, I will accede to your wishes. But we will talk, and soon.” He looked down at himself. “I suppose I should change my clothing.”

  Before Rhys could move, the door opened again. This time Meredydd entered.

  “Alana,” he greeted brusquely. His gaze shifted to Rhys. “Father, I need to speak with you.”

  Her cousin and uncle moved aside. Alana watched as Meredydd whispered in Rhys’s ear. Her uncle frowned, then nodded. The two broke apart.

  “There is something that needs our attention, Alana. We shouldn’t be gone long. Caradog can entertain you until our return.” He turned to his eldest son. “Dylan, come with us.”

  Wondering what could be so pressing as to take the three men out into a driving rain, Alana stared at the door as it closed behind them.

  Paxton sat on the floor of a storage hut, his eyes kept fast on the three men who guarded him.

  A short while ago, with his hands bound behind him, he’d been pushed through the gates of the ringwork, guided up the muddy path, then shoved through the door of the small hovel.

  His feet were ordered tied. Next he was knocked to the floor. After spitting dirt from his mouth, he came to his knees, then angling over, sank to his rump, resting his back and head against a barrel.

  He’d led himself into this mess, had done so knowing that Alana was probably fleeing to the protection of the ringwork and her uncle.

  Unarmed and alone, he should have returned to the fortress and gathered the force that was needed to breach the palisade and take his wife back—if he were able to cross over the river, that was.

  But he’d not done what was wise.

  Instead, like a fool, he’d charged onward, his anger driving him, his confusion as to why she would flee him plaguing him all the way.

  And so here he sat in the clutches of his enemy. Paxton couldn’t help wonder if he would live to see the dawn.

  The door opened, and three men, including the one who had captured him, ducked inside.

  The oldest of the trio looked at the man beside him. “Is that him?”

  Aided by the candlelight, the younger man searched Paxton’s face. “Aye. ’Tis Paxton de Beaumont.”

  “Well, well,” the older man stated. “Welcome to my lair, Norman.”

  “I’ve experienced better welcomes than this,” Paxton returned, wondering how the younger man knew him.

  The man chuckled. “Believe me: It will only get worse.”

  Paxton was very much aware of that. Through narrowed eyes he stared at his foe. “You have me at a disadvantage, sir, in more ways than one. You know my name, but I have yet to learn yours.”

  “Rhys ap Tewdwr,” he announced. “These are my sons, Dylan and Meredydd.” He’d clamped a hand on each of their shoulders as he said their names. “Now that the amenities are out of the way, tell me: What were you doing in the wood?”

  “Taking a stroll,” Paxton declared. “Regrettably, I got lost.”

  “’Tis an error you will soon regret,” Rhys remarked. “One you will never again repeat.”

  “Do you wish to kill him now?” Meredydd asked. “If so, I captured him, therefore I claim the right.”

  “Nay,” Rhys responded in a low voice. “If we slay him here, we cannot carry his body out without Alana’s notice. And we cannot leave him here, for he’ll begin to stink. We’ll wait, and while we do, we’ll take pleasure in making his life miserable. Have patience, Meredydd. When the time comes, you will be the one who ends his life. This I promise.”

  Paxton had strained his ears to hear what was said, but the most he was able to glean was that his life would be made miserable and Meredydd was the one who would eventually end it.

  Things didn’t look very promising, Paxton decided, then he cursed himself for acting so impetuously. He thought about Alana and wondered if she’d made it safely to the ringwork. Or was she still wandering in the wood, cold, wet, and possibly in peril?

  Rhys broke away from his sons and strode across the clay floor toward Paxton. Standing above his prisoner, he glared down on the man he deemed as his enemy. “My niece denies that you in any way harmed her. But I suspect there is more to it than she is willing to tell. Know this, Norman: Your stay with us will be a brief and unhappy one. You might as well start reciting your prayers, for it won’t be long before you die.”

  Hatred gleaming in his eyes, Rhys delivered a backhanded fist to the side of Paxton’s face. The blow snapped Paxton’s head to the side. Tasting blood in his mouth, he turned his face around, to glare at Alana’s uncle.

  “That,” Rhys said, “was for whatever misery you’ve caused my niece these past weeks. ’Tis only the beginning, Norman, for I haven’t avenged her yet.”

  His jaw throbbing, Paxton attended the man as he spun on his heel and stalked toward the door. On his way, orders were issued to the guards.

  “Strip him from his clothing and boots, then tie him up, and leave him for the night. Make sure you bar the door on your way out. His ordeal will begin at first light.”

  With that, Rhys and his two sons exited the hut.

  It wasn’t long before Paxton found himself naked and huddled on the floor, his hands and feet bound, pitch blackness surrounding him.

  The dampness and cold penetrated his skin, chilling him to the bone. The one warm spot inside him was near his heart as he thought about Alana and the ecstasy they’d shared.

  But even that bit of heat began to cool as he contemplated her motive for running.

  Lying there, the impenetrable darkness and heavy silence reminding him of a tomb, he felt his mind whirl with uncertainties.

  She’d drawn him from the fortress, across the river, deeper and deeper into the wood.

  In the glade, they’d made love, wondrous and free, just the same as in his dream.

  Then she was bolting from him again, leading him on, ever closer to the ringwork.

  Had that been her purpose all along… that he should be captured by the man who hated him simply because he was Norman?

  He’d forced her into marrying him by threatening the lives
of her kin. That he was now Rhys’s prisoner smacked of the ultimate revenge.

  Gilbert.

  His friend and he had both desired her, had both married her.

  Alana.

  Was it possible she had betrayed them in the same manner?

  Death.

  Like Gilbert, he would soon pass into that eternal sleep.

  Paxton was inclined to believe that it was the dividend received for his ever having trusted her.

  CHAPTER

  15

  “Explain why you came here,” Rhys stated.

  Alana lifted her gaze from her food. She, Dylan, and Rhys sat in the rushes beside the hearth sharing their supper from the same trencher. Meredydd and Caradog were situated a few feet away, hovering over their own plate.

  “Can we not talk of other things as we enjoy our meal?” she asked. “It has been a while since I’ve seen you. Surely you have tidings of what has been happening here.”

  “’Tis the same routine, day in and day out,” Rhys announced. “Explain why you fled your home.”

  Alana glanced at Dylan. He offered her a hint of a nod, affirming that he’d back her in whatever she said.

  “The Norman and I don’t get along.”

  Rhys emitted a short laugh. “Did you think you would?”

  “I had hoped we could come to some sort of an accord, whereupon we’d be able to live in peace. But, my father’s kinsmen are close to rebellion. I’ve grown weary of trying to keep them all from each other’s throats. I came here to collect my thoughts and seek a much needed rest.”

  Rhys cocked his head and studied her closely. “Why is it I don’t quite believe you?”

  “You may accept what I say or not. ’Tis your choice. I have explained my reason for coming here. So enough said.”

  He looked at Dylan. “Did she tell you more than she’s willing to tell me?”

  Dylan’s dark eyes settled on Alana. “Only that the fight has gone out of her because of all the worry.”