“Ah, for a measure of salt,” he said wistfully as they sat down by the fire, then granted Madeline an unexpected wink.
She sat, feeling all a-shiver in his presence, thinking of sons and their conceptions, and ate her meal. The fish was delicious, the warmth of the fire a delight. It was not all bad to be alone in the woods like this, night pressing against them on all sides, not now that Rhys sat beside her. The horses dozed, their tails swishing, and Gelert kept a keen watch over the camp.
Rhys cleared his throat. “I owe you a boon, my lady, for it was not my intent to frighten you.”
Madeline regarded him with interest. It was unlike Rhys to offer any concession. “No doubt you will name what manner of boon it must be.”
A crooked smile touched his lips. “What if I offer you a tale?”
“A tale of fancy, or one of your own history?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you would die before you confessed a morsel of your own history to me,” Madeline said, much fortified by a warm meal in her belly. “But I shall risk the asking.”
“God save me from this fearless woman I have taken to wife,” Rhys muttered, though his tone was warm.
Madeline chuckled, then licked the last of the fish from her fingers. “One must make the most of such a rare offer from you,” she teased and Rhys chuckled in his turn. She liked the twinkle in his eyes, the way he looked when he teased her, and that alone tempted her to ask what she really desired to know. “Who betrayed you?”
Rhys froze then, his gaze rising slowly to meet her own. Madeline did not blink, nor did she look away. His eyes were dark, his expression unfathomable, but he hesitated so that she thought he might answer her.
Then he shook his head and turned his attention back to his meal. “You do not know that anyone betrayed me.”
“I would wager it.”
“You have nothing with which to wager.”
“You offered me the boon of a tale.”
A muscle working in his throat and his voice dropped low. “Not that one, Madeline.”
She knew him well enough not to push on this matter. “Then tell me of Caerwyn.”
His quick glance was piercing. “Why?”
“Because you love it.”
“All love it. You shall see it when we arrive there.”
Madeline gathered her rapidly diminishing patience with an effort. “My aunt Rosamunde seemed to know you.” She wondered whether she imagined that Rhys stiffened at these words. “Does she?”
“Aye.” He would not meet her gaze.
“How?”
Rhys shrugged. “It is a long tale.”
Madeline grit her teeth. The boon he offered was not one he would fulfill readily, it was clear! “She said that I should not judge a man by his appearance, or even by his repute. Thomas said much the same thing of you. What do they know of you that I do not?”
“Who can say?” Rhys said. “You should ask them.”
“I am not likely to have the opportunity to do so for quite some time!”
He almost smiled. “I doubt you will forget your query, no matter how much time elapses.” And he helped himself to another piece of bread.
“Is it your intent to be the most vexing man in Christendom, or do you have an innate talent for keeping your secrets to yourself? I am certain that I have never had so strong an urge to injure another living being as I have had since meeting you!”
Rhys smiled fully then, the expression driving the shadows from his eyes. “Evasiveness is learned talent, but one I possess to be sure.” He finished his own meal and stretched out upon his cloak. He crossed his booted ankles and leaned his weight upon his elbow as he regarded her warmly. His eyes twinkled in a most beguiling way. “No more questions?”
“What would be the merit?”
“Surely you cannot mean to surrender your boon as readily as that? I thought you a woman of some persistence.”
Madeline glanced about herself, not knowing what to ask him that he might deign to answer. The hound rose, shook itself, then fairly pounced upon the discarded skins of the fishes. “Why did you name the dog Gelert?”
Rhys sighed, his gaze landing upon the dog. “It is a name from an old tale, one of which I am fond.”
“Tell me of it.” To Madeline’s relief, Rhys did not argue.
He snapped his fingers and the dog came to his side. He scratched its ears, the dog’s delight making both man and wife smile. “It is said that long ago, there was a knight. He had a castle to his name, as well as a village and some land. Because he had only his steed, his armor and his faithful hound, Gelert, to keep him company, he decided to find a wife. He met a noblewoman who found him as pleasing as he found her, and they were wedded. In time, they had a son.”
“Only the hound has a name in this tale?”
Rhys smiled fully, even as he scratched his own dog’s ears. “Only the hound is of import in this tale.” He smiled at her and Madeline had difficulty thinking clearly. The similarity between this tale and their own was evident, after all. It was easy enough to recall how Rhys’ flesh had felt against her own, no less to yearn for his caress again.
They did not, after all, have a son as yet.
“And so, what happened next?” she managed to ask.
“They found a nursemaid to care for the child. When the babe was still in swaddling, the parents went out to hunt, leaving the nursemaid with the care of the child. It was perhaps the first time that the mother had left her infant son. The dog remained beside the child, so diligently did it guard whatsoever its master held dear.”
“There is a hound worth the having. It knew the difference between mere possessions and what a man holds dear.”
Rhys flicked a glance at Madeline, but continued his tale without further comment. “While the maid slept that afternoon, an enormous snake slithered into the nursery. It had a thousand teeth and was a hundred ells long; its scales were red and black and green, and its eyes were yellow. It was an ancient snake, one which fed solely upon children, and it made its slithering path directly toward the knight’s only son.”
Madeline’s fingers knotted together in her skirt, even as Rhys’ own fingers moved in Gelert’s fur.
“The faithful dog attacked the snake, though the wicked beast was far larger and more vicious than the hound. The two battled over which should claim the child. The hound was bitten terribly by the snake, and though the dog fought with all its vigor, the loss of blood weakened it sorely. It sank his teeth into the snake, in a last bid to save the child, but the snake hit the hound with a mighty thump of its tail. The hound was dazed long enough for the snake to achieve its desire. The snake devoured the child whole, who screamed to no avail as he met his demise.”
“How horrible a tale,” Madeline whispered.
“It becomes worse. For the maid was roused from sleep by the screams of the child. She ran into the chamber, but arrived after the snake had disappeared back to its hiding place. She saw only the blood of the child upon the linens, and the blood of the snake upon the jowls of the hound, Gelert. She assumed that all the blood was from the same small body, and she screamed that the hound had murdered its master’s son.”
“Oh!”
“The knight returned from the hunt shortly thereafter, and was told of events. His wife was devastated, while he was furious. He called his hound, which came to him willingly for the beast knew that it had done no wrong. And the knight pulled his sword and killed his own hound with a single stroke. He struck the head from his loyal dog with his own blade in his own hand, he saw justice served for the crime he believed his dog had done.”
“Oh no,” Madeline whispered.
“And his wife wept, inconsolable at the loss of her son.” Rhys licked his lips, his gaze upon his own hound, which stared at him adoringly. This tale seemed to Madeline to be a terrible reason to give a hound such a name. She had no chance to speak before Rhys continued, his words so melodic that the tale seemed t
o cast a spell.
“But there was a peasant in the bailey, a woman who had come to beg the knight’s charity on the day that he was at hunt and who had chosen to await his return. She had seen the snake slither from the window of the nursery, she had seen it disappear into a hole in the wall of the cellar. She had witnessed the knight’s return and the anguish that ensued. It was only when she heard the tale of what had happened, that she wondered about the snake. She had her audience with the knight, and instead of making her plea, she told him of what she had glimpsed. He immediately sent men to seek out this uncommon snake.”
Madeline shivered and it seemed that the night pressed closer. Rhys rose and put some more wood on the fire. He squatted on the far side of the fire and stared into the flames. The light danced through the linen of his chemise, painting his chest with golden light, and she yearned to run her hands across his warm skin once again.
Then he spoke, even as he seemed fascinated by the fire. “They found the beast sleeping in the cellar, where it had hidden for years between the cobbles and the casks, and they were afraid of its unholy size even while it slumbered. But the knight and his men attacked it all the same, and they cut off its head, though it took three strokes from three different blades to break the snake’s unholy armor. It was then, as the blood of the snake stained their boots, that they heard a babe crying.”
“Oh!” Madeline raised her clasped hands to her lips. Rhys cast her a smile and came to sit beside her, capturing her clasped fingers within the heat of his own. He rubbed her hands between his, kindling more than one kind of warmth within her. She could smell his skin and she tingled at his proximity.
“When the knight and his men looked within the corpse of the snake, they found the knight’s infant son, bloodied and frightened but otherwise unharmed. So, the truth of that day’s events was finally known.”
“But the hound...” Madeline whispered.
Rhys lifted a curl of her hair in his fingers, turning the tendril in the light of the fire as if it was uncommonly fascinating. Madeline held her breath.
“Aye, the hound was dead, and for no good reason. The knight despaired at what he had done,” he said softly, “for he had killed his most loyal servant unjustly and he knew the fullness of his sin.”
Madeline held his hand tightly, even as this Gelert began to snore in contentment. The hound had spread across the indentation on the cloak that Rhys had left, and had done so with undisguised contentment.
“The nursemaid, whose testimony had condemned the hound, left those lands forever and was never seen again. The knight built a shrine to the memory of Gelert with his own hands and spent his days in penance and mourning. His lands failed beneath God’s disfavor, and his keep fell to ruins, save for the shrine which was visited by one and all. Yet he did not complain, for he knew that this was the reward for his haste and faithlessness. His lady returned to her family with their son, abandoning him to his grief, but the knight served his penance tirelessly.”
Rhys sighed and entwined his fingers more tightly with those of Madeline. “And so it is told that when the knight died and faced his judgment, it was his hound, Gelert, loyal for all eternity, that he found at the very feet of God, begging clemency for his beloved master.”
Madeline wiped her tears with the hem of her kirtle, embarrassed to find her eyes wet while Rhys’ were dry. “You have a power with a tale, husband.”
“I am Welsh,” he said softly, humor touching his tone this time.
Madeline offered him an unsteady smile. “Should I be surprised that it is a tale of loyalty spurned?”
Rhys shrugged and eyed the dog, seemingly startled by her observation. Madeline reached up and touched his jaw. The stubble of his beard prickled her palm as she cupped his face in her hand, and he turned with her urging to look down at her. There were shadows lurking in his eyes, shadows she yearned to push aside.
“Who betrayed you, Rhys?” she asked without ever intending to do so. She bit her lip then, wishing she could call back the question that would only put the wall between them once again.
Rhys parted his lips, then closed them again. Madeline was certain he would deny her an answer once more, but he met her gaze abruptly, solemnly.
“My father,” he admitted, the confession hoarse.
“But I thought you were his only son.”
“I was.” Rhys bent his head and touched his lips to Madeline’s fingertips. The firelight danced in the ebony curls of his hair and he spoke into her hand, his gaze hidden from her. “But in the end, a bastard, even a bastard son who served him well, could not suffice.”
Madeline had a glimpse of the wound left by that betrayal, a fleeting sight of the hurt that Rhys hid uncommonly well. She bent and kissed his hand, wondering whether the salt upon his flesh was from his tears or her own. She eased closer to him then and touched her lips to the corner of his mouth, feeling him shiver beneath her caress.
How could she expect Rhys to understand her notions of marriage, given his own history? He had never witnessed a loving match, never been able to trust those upon whom he should have been able to rely.
There was but one solution: she would have to teach him to trust her. She would have to teach her husband the merit of a loving, monogamous match.
Madeline did not doubt that it could be done. Indeed, she sensed that Rhys longed to trust her but that he dared not do so, out of fear that what he had endured might repeat itself.
It was fortunate that she was as persistent as the man believed.
She slipped her fingers into his hair, keeping her face close to his own. She could nigh hear his heart begin to pound. “I trust you will not make the same error with this hound, after we conceive a son,” she whispered.
Rhys smiled ruefully. “There are no snakes in Caerwyn.”
“And there is not yet a babe in my belly.” She took his hands and brought them to her waist. She saw the flash of Rhys’ dark eyes and knew that she wanted to be with him this night beyond all else. She wanted his heat within her, she wanted to be surrounded by his embrace. “We have sons to conceive, Rhys. This was our wager, and I would see it kept.”
Madeline had truly read her husband’s desire aright. No sooner had she uttered her invitation than she found herself upon her back, Rhys’ heat above her, and his kiss demanding her response.
She knotted her fingers in his hair and drew him closer. She granted the response he demanded of her, and she granted it most willingly indeed.
Madeline found his secrets even when Rhys thought them well disguised. She seemed to be able peer directly into his heart, to be capable of retrieving what he would have kept from her at all costs.
And worse, Rhys did not care.
Madeline offered him honesty and loyalty that he knew he had done little to deserve. She offered herself, her passion and her wit, and he would claim each gift with gusto. He would give her sons, he would give her pleasure, he would give her a home of which she could be proud. He would defend her against all threats, with his sword and his life, if need be.
If her heart was not to be his, what she offered him already would more than suffice. It was more than any other soul had ever granted to Rhys FitzHenry and he suspected that it was more than he deserved.
He was a shameless cur, and this caress she granted him might as well have been stolen from her. It was gained by deceit, and though he knew it, Rhys did not confess the truth. He was a cur and a scoundrel—for truly, what manner of knave would accept what the lady offered without telling her that her beloved James still drew breath?
Then Madeline kissed Rhys with vigor, driving all such concern from his thoughts. She had learned quickly how pleasure abed was kindled. Her tongue dueled with his own, her hands ran over him, as if she were impatient as he. He forced himself to slow their lovemaking, to take the time to savor the taste of her. He broke their kiss and traced a path to her ear with his lips, smiling against the softness of her flesh when she whispered his name in comp
laint.
He stretched out beside her, one hand running over the her curves lightly as he kissed her ear. Madeline stirred restlessly, her hand landing upon the lace of his chausses.
“Patience,” Rhys counseled softly. “The reward is greater when it is approached slowly.”
In response, she turned her head and sealed her lips to his again.
Rhys claimed her busy hands and lifted them over her head, entangling his fingers with her own. Madeline stretched, arching her back as he unlaced the sides of her kirtle with his free hand. He slid his hand beneath the cloth and teased her nipples to peaks. She writhed beside him, the scent of her fairly tormenting him. He was not surprised to find the dampness gathering between her thighs, nor that she parted her legs to his questing fingers.
Still they kissed as if intent upon devouring each other, her hunger for his lips growing with every passing moment. He took pride in how he coaxed her response, took pleasure in watching her reach for her own.
There were few gifts he could give her, but he could give her this one. A flush rose over her cheeks, a trembling seized her body, and still he coaxed her onward. And when she cried out, he swallowed the sound of her release with a satisfaction of his own.
He let her catch her breath for a moment, before his fingers moved against her softness again. She gasped his name and he smiled, though he did not cease.
“Again?” she whispered, even as her body responded.
“A woman can seize pleasure repeatedly in one night, as we already know. Shall we not discover how oft it can be done?”
Madeline’s eyes sparkled and she nestled closer, her fingers falling upon the erection which strained his chausses. “What of a man?”
“Aye, that too can be done. All the same, we will pursue mine only once this night.”
Her smile warmed his heart. “Because you yet fear to hurt me.” She pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth, her caress fairly driving him mad. “I would not have you displeased, Rhys.”
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