The quick action brought the two men together, chest to chest. Their harsh breaths blew into each other’s faces, eyes glaring with enmity. Fair play was the last thing on Paxton’s mind. Hooking his leg behind Rhys’s calf, he shoved the man to the ground. Apace, his foot was atop Rhys’s belly, the tip of his sword pressing against the man’s throat.
“Be done with it, Norman swine,” Rhys declared, his words gritting through his teeth.
Paxton noted there was no fear in the man’s eyes. To die by the sword would be an honorable end indeed. “Nay, Welshman,” he said, lightly drawing the blade’s tip from Rhys’s neck up to his chin. He brushed the point of Rhys’s nose before he withdrew his weapon altogether. “Today you will live.”
His foot came away from Rhys’s stomach. Alana’s uncle rolled to his feet to face him. At the same instant, Alana came rushing up behind Paxton. She peered around his shoulder at Rhys.
“Is the bargain met?” she asked her uncle.
“Aye, Niece,” he answered, his eyes narrowing on her. “You may go with your Norman, and this time you may pass safely. But I tell you this: You have disappointed me yet a second time. As of this day, I no longer consider you my kin. Be gone with you.”
Rhys retrieved his sword from among the sickly looking tufts of oats that he and Paxton had trampled into the earth as they fought. Motioning to his men, he began marching up the hill, the others following.
Paxton gazed down at Alana and noted her crestfallen expression as she watched Rhys go. That she’d been disowned by her uncle had hurt her deeply. She’d been lotted to suffer the emotional trauma all because of him.
“I’m sorry he was so hard on you,” Paxton told her as he embraced her shoulders. “In time, he may have a change of heart.”
“I doubt it,” she said, her voice choked. She gazed up at Paxton with tear-bright eyes. “Come. Let’s leave here before he has a change of heart of a different kind.”
By now Dylan was beside them. “I’ll go with you… at least part of the way, until I know you will be safe.”
Alana touched Dylan’s arm. “What do you think he will do to you once you return?”
Dylan shrugged. “At the very worst, he’ll disown me just as he did you.”
“Oh, Dylan, I never meant that he should turn against either of us. But I could not allow him to slay Paxton.”
His fingers brushed Alana’s cheek, then he captured her chin. “Don’t fret, Cousin. His temper flares then subsides. In time, he will forgive us both. I’m sure of it.”
While Paxton listened to the interchange, he felt a growing envy inside him. The two cousins were close—very close. He wished it could be the same between Alana and himself. After the scare they’d just sustained, maybe their relationship would flourish, becoming more secure, more intimate. Paxton hoped this would be the case. Otherwise happiness might always elude them.
“Let’s be going,” he said, urging her up the hill. “If the river is down, Graham might decide to cross over and come looking for us. If possible, I’d like to avoid another confrontation between Welsh and Norman. For now, anyway.”
Once they reached the upper wall, Paxton assisted Alana over the stones. He and Dylan followed. They waited as Dylan walked the few yards and snatched up the leather bag that Paxton had dropped earlier. On his return, Paxton extended the hilt of the sword that he still held.
“I believe this is your brother’s,” he announced.
“Keep hold of it,” Dylan said. “You still might need it.”
Then the threesome wended their way down the trail toward the wood, Paxton attending his wife carefully. She held her head high. Not once did she look back. Inside, though, he knew her heart was breaking. To be ostracized by her family was a difficult shock to endure. For her sake, he hoped Dylan was right: Rhys would one day forgive them both.
They had traveled a long distance through the wood in silence and without incident when Dylan stopped. “We’re well over halfway to the river,” he said. “’Tis best I leave you here.”
Again Paxton attempted to return the sword to him.
“Nay,” Dylan declared as he held up his hands in refusal. “You have close to two miles to go. You might have use for it.” Then he pulled Alana into his arms and kissed her cheek. “Take care, Cousin. Be happy.” His gaze met Paxton’s. “Remember, Norman, what I told you about treating her well.”
“Aye. I’ll remember.”
Releasing Alana from his embrace, Dylan pressed the leather bag into her hands. “In case you get hungry.” Then he strode back through the wood whence he came.
Both Alana and Paxton watched until he disappeared over a rise.
“Do you wish to rest or continue on?” Paxton asked, his gaze now on his wife.
“Nay,” she answered, quickly brushing away her tears. “Not unless you do.”
Paxton’s heart ached for her, but he said not a word about Dylan as he took her hand in his. “Come, then, and show me the way. We’ll rest once we are at the fortress.”
In due time they came to the river. Paxton noted how the water rippled swiftly by their feet. It was high but not so high that they couldn’t cross over. Still, the memories Alana retained of her near drowning might make her wary.
“Do you want to attempt it?” Paxton asked on turning to her. “If you’d prefer, we could wait and see if the flow abates somewhat.”
Alana shook her head and gazed up at him. “There’s no need to tarry. If you’ll offer me your assistance, I’m sure we can make it to the other side.”
His knuckles feathering across her cheek, Paxton smiled down at her. “You risked your life to save me, my wife. Helping you ford this stream is the least I can do in return.”
Her wide, beguiling eyes entranced him as he continued to stare at her. A strange sort of warmth filled his heart. It was then that Paxton knew the question had to be asked.
“Why did you run from me, Alana?” When she tried to look away, he caught her chin. “Why?”
“Because you frightened me,” she said.
“Frightened you? How so?”
Her brow furrowed slightly. “Must I really say?”
Paxton could tell this was difficult for her, but he wouldn’t relent. “Yes. I want to know.”
She set her jaw, then released her breath. “The feelings inside me—after we, uh… well, after we, uh…”
“Made love?” he prompted.
“Yes, after we did that… well, I didn’t know what to think. I’ve never felt that way before. It frightened me.”
Paxton chuckled. “You’d better get over your fears, Alana. Once I’ve bathed and shaved this growth from my face, we will again be making love. In fact, we will be doing so each and every day for as long as we live.”
A blush crept across her cheeks, and Paxton laughed anew.
“Does the thought cause you embarrassment?” he asked.
“Nay. ’Tis just that I cannot imagine living very long if you’re forever taking my breath away as you did the first time.”
Paxton allowed his grin to fade. She had not an inkling of what was to come. The ways in which he planned to make love to her were as varied and as wild as anyone could imagine. Just thinking about her being beneath him again, soft, alluring, and welcoming, caused his loins to stir.
“You’ll live, sweet,” he said, his voice noticeably husky. “And you will enjoy every moment we are together. The pleasure attained and remembered on those occasions will be everlasting. This I promise you.”
A shout sounded across the river. Both Paxton and Alana looked to its source. Sir Graham stood on the opposite bank, along with several Norman men-at-arms. Madoc was there. Aldwyn also.
“We’d better get across,” Paxton said, then plunged the tip of Meredydd’s sword into the earthen bank. He spied the sack in Alana’s hands. “What’s in there?”
“Some cheese and the bread I made for Dylan’s and my trip.”
The recollection of her saying almost
the same to her uncle came to Paxton. And so did a frown.
If her fears were no more than the way he made her feel when they made love, why then was she so set on traveling through Wales, a perilous journey indeed?
She’d not been truthful with him, Paxton decided as he studied her.
Something else had chased her into the wood and away from him. Something that struck such dread in her that she would risk her life to flee him. Even more so than before, he was determined to discover what it was that had made her run, for it damn well wasn’t his lovemaking.
He took the sack from her and offered her a faint smile, hoping it would mask his rising suspicions. “Since you made the bread yourself, we’ll take the bag with us,” he said, pulling the looped ties up his arm and over one shoulder. He presented his back to her. “Hop on and I’ll carry you to the first boulder.”
Placing her hands on his shoulders, Alana jumped up and straddled his waist. He caught hold of each leg just behind the knees as her arms clamped around his throat.
“Not so tight, sweet. You’re choking me.” When she relaxed her grip, he inquired, “Ready?”
“Aye.”
“Then hold on and close your eyes.”
“Nay, I think I’d rather watch. At least then there won’t be any surprises.”
“Have faith, Alana. We’ll make it.”
On those words, he walked into the rushing stream. The water lapped over his boots, to his knees, then to his thighs. Attempting to keep his feet from shifting out from under him, Paxton fought the current as it pushed against him. One slip, and they’d both be washing down the river.
Slowly, steadily, he plodded onward, Alana holding on to his neck in a death grip. She was again choking him, but he said nothing, for he understood her fear.
Reaching the first boulder that jutted from the riverbed, he set her on its top, which crowned a few feet above the water. After he dragged some air into his lungs, to replenish the breaths that he’d lost, he pulled himself onto the large rock. Standing, he helped Alana to her feet, then he bounded to the next boulder. He stretched his hand out to her, assisting her across.
When they reached the last of the stepping-stones, Paxton again took Alana on his back. The last several yards were more difficult than the first, the current being far swifter on this side of the river.
He slipped once; Alana gasped, and Graham reached out to him. Releasing Alana’s one leg, which was wrapped around his waist like a snake constricting its meal, he grabbed the proffered hand. Graham pulled him up onto the bank.
“There,” Paxton said, allowing Alana to slide from his back to her feet. Turning around to face her, he saw she had gone quite pale. He touched her cheek. “We made it across, sweet. I told you we would.”
She pressed her face into his hand, and Paxton thought he felt the brush of her lips against his wrist.
“You did, my husband. For your care, I thank you. If you will excuse me now, I shall see there is hot water for your bath.”
His hand fell to his side. “Then go. I’ll be along shortly.”
Paxton stared after Alana as she, Madoc, and Aldwyn began climbing the trail to the fortress. At the same time, Graham started in with a series of questions and statements, all concerning his worry over the couple and his inability to cross the river to come searching for them. Though Paxton was listening to the knight, his eyes remained on his wife.
The gentle sway of her hips seduced him as she ascended the hill. His loins again stirred as he remembered their interlude in the glade. Not unexpectedly Paxton found he was eager to repeat the magic of their first joining, to feel anew the ecstasy that was theirs.
And more, he thought. Much more.
“Excuse me, Graham,” he said, cutting the knight off in midsentence while turning toward the path and the fortress. “I’ll explain all that has happened later. Right now, I want nothing more than to be alone with my bride.”
A lengthy sigh echoed through the closed chamber as Paxton sank into his bath.
Standing only a short distance from the wooden tub, Alana watched as he ducked beneath the steamy water. A second more, he broke through the surface, wiped his hands down his freshly shaven face, then up again, sweeping his hair back from his brow.
As he lazed there, with his eyes closed and his head propped against the tub’s rim, Alana worried her lower lip with her teeth.
She’d lied to him… again.
Alana amended the thought.
She didn’t lie exactly, just told him a half-truth as to why she’d run away.
His lovemaking did frighten her. Excited her as well. But it was her fear she might be falling in love with him that had driven her into the wood. That, and the worry over what he would do to her if he ever learned the truth about Gilbert.
She’d been foolish to go to Rhys. Had been even more unwise to think Paxton wouldn’t follow. She was his wife, his possession—at least according to the Church and his king, she was. It would stand to reason he’d give chase.
As she viewed his dark head, beads of water dripping from his sleek locks and puddling on the floor, she wondered what he expected of her next.
“Sweet,” he said, lifting his arm from the rim of the tub where it rested. His hand stretched toward her. “Come bathe me as a dutiful wife should.”
Alana felt her heart jump. Was he capable of reading her thoughts? She hesitated at first, then moved toward him. To honor his request was only fair, especially after everything she’d put him through.
Beside the tub, she shakily knelt and pushed the sleeves of her chainse well above her wrists. Wetting the sponge that she’d taken from the stool next to her, she squeezed out the excess moisture. Then she stared at Paxton’s face.
His eyes were again closed, his head yet resting against the tub’s rim. But it was his bruises and cuts that drew her attention, for they were far more noticeable since he’d shaved.
Alana’s heart ached unbearably. Oh, what he’d suffered because of her. Notwithstanding she knew it could have been worse. He might have died.
Swallowing the sob that had risen to her throat, she drew the sponge across Paxton’s wide brow, then more gently over each eyelid, down his straight nose, and very lightly over his one cheek that bore the most injury. Next, she dabbed at his chiseled lips, taking care not to reopen the cut at the corner of his mouth, whisked the sponge over his squared chin, then up his other cheek.
“You’re treating me as though I were a wee babe,” Paxton declared, his eyelashes parting. “Are you afraid I might break?”
The way he gazed at her with his entrancing blue eyes made the breath still in Alana’s breast. That strange feeling, where she went all warm and liquidlike, erupted inside her again.
“Nay.” Her nerves atwitter, she looked at the water and dipped the sponge anew. “I was merely taking care so there wouldn’t be any pain. ’Tis my fault you bear those bruises and cuts. I wouldn’t blame you if you punished me for the misery I’ve caused you.”
With her eyes downcast, Alana didn’t see the smile that teased Paxton’s lips. “So, you admit I have good reason to chastise you?”
Thus far he hadn’t shown any anger toward her, which surprised Alana. Had he been Gilbert, he’d be ranting at her about her stupidity, threatening to discipline her soundly. “Aye,” she answered on a nod. “You are my husband. ’Tis your right.”
“What penalty do you think would be appropriate?”
She shrugged. “’Tis your choice.”
Paxton sat up in the tub. “While you wash me, Wife, I’ll decide on what punishment I shall mete out. Now attend to my needs.”
Taking the soap, she lathered the sponge, then beginning at his neck, she worked from there over his broad shoulders, down one sinewy arm, across his muscular chest, masking the black springy curls with suds, and onward to the other arm, taking care not to disturb the superficial gash inflicted by Rhys’s sword. Finished with those areas, she sidled around the tub and washed his ba
ck.
All the while, Alana tried not to think about Paxton or his exceptional body. But the attempt was fruitless, for vivid pictures of him nude in the glade kept flickering in and out of her mind.
She again saw each remembered aspect of him while he made love to her: the sinew in his arms bulging and trembling slightly as he held his weight above her, the throbbing pulse in his throat as his sexual excitement increased, and his handsome features contorting as though he were in agony when he spilled his seed deep inside her.
Then there was his brief expression of amazement.
It was as though he’d never experienced anything quite so ultimately satisfying in all his life.
Alana knew he would come to her again expecting her to submit. Along with punishing her, that also was his right.
She had no choice but to defer to him, just as she’d done with Gilbert, allowing Paxton the use of her body to appease his needs. There was, however, one difference between the two men. She had abhorred Gilbert. Yet with Paxton—well, he evoked feelings inside her she never knew existed.
Miserably, she was aware she couldn’t shut Paxton out the way she had done with Gilbert. And that was what alarmed her so. Hence, it wouldn’t be long before her new husband—the man who was supposed to be her sworn enemy—had won her heart completely, and she’d be lost to him forever.
Damn Henry for sending him here! she railed in silence while she rinsed the soap from Paxton’s back. Why couldn’t Paxton’s king have dispatched a man who was old and unappealing? If she’d been forced into a marriage with someone such as that, she wouldn’t have any need to fear losing herself.
Moving back around the tub, intending to rinse his shoulders and chest, his arms as well, she again noted the discoloration on Paxton’s face, tokens of Rhys’s rage against all Normans. She groaned inwardly, her heart twisting anew. She wished she could rescind her impulsive actions, take back her sudden desire to flee, revoke everything that Paxton had suffered because of her.
It was then the dawning occurred.
For all her mental meandering, all her worry over losing her heart to this Norman, Alana understood that it was too late.
She already loved him.
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