“There is no cause to fear for that,” he grumbled, then moved his fingers against her once again.
Her second release came more quickly, though it was more vehement than the first. Her eyes glittered and her face flushed crimson, yet barely had Madeline cried out than she was pulling at his chemise.
“I can wait no longer, Rhys,” she whispered, her urgency like music to his ears. He shed his boots and chausses with haste, but halted her when she would have cast aside her kirtle.
“You will become cold,” he counseled, then slid beneath the hem. Their gazes locked and held, her lips parted as he eased himself within her heat. He bent and touched his brow to hers, willing himself to proceed slowly, even as his wife began to move beneath him.
“You are a bold wench,” he teased and she laughed.
She locked her hands around his neck and regarded him with such delight that Rhys had an idea.
“Hold fast,” he counseled, then rolled quickly to his back. Madeline gasped, though he remained buried within her, then she laughed again to find herself atop him.
She braced her hands upon his shoulders and laughed down at him, her hair in fetching disarray. “What do I do?”
“Whatsoever you desire,” he said with a smile. “I am your captive.”
Her smile turned wicked then and despite his advice, she cast off her kirtle and chemise. The light of the flames caressed her curves lovingly, gilding her like the treasure she was. Alexander had rightly called his sister a jewel, though she was worth far far more than the price Rhys had paid. He was fascinated by the sight of his wife, enthralled by the way she surveyed him, enchanted by the glimmer of mischief in her gaze.
When she began to move, he knew he would not last. He gripped her hips and watched her, fighting his body’s desire for release. She took such pleasure in the torment she granted to him that he wanted to endure it all the night long, though that was not destined to be. With every stroke, he became more taut, he felt more invincible, her web drew a little tighter around him.
Suddenly, Madeline laid upon his chest and kissed him soundly. She trailed kisses to his ear, as he had done to her, and he thought his heart would stop. Rhys caught her close, loving the press of her breasts against him, the tangle of her hair in his mouth. They moved together, in perfect concert, and he felt the deep quiver awaken within her once more.
“Rhys!” she gasped as the tumult claimed her. At the sight of her pleasure, he could restrain himself no longer. His triumphant shout echoed through the forest and Rhys did not care who heard him.
It took him long to even his breathing, even longer to calm the erratic pace of his heart. His wife’s eyes closed almost immediately, her dark lashes making crescents against her fair skin. He kissed her temple, affection swelling his heart to bursting.
“Quite definitely a son,” Madeline whispered sleepily against his throat and Rhys smiled. He wrapped her protectively in her cloak, then rose to kick out the flames. He dressed while he watched her in the ember’s glow, then rejoined her in their makeshift bed. He evicted the hound, then pulled his own cloak over himself and Madeline, cradling her against his chest for the night.
Only then did he sleep, the warmth of his wife curled against him, and truly, he was content.
Chapter Twelve
Madeline awakened to find Rhys’ gloved finger against her lips and his lips against her ear. Her eyes flew open and she realized that he had braced his weight upon his elbows over her, shielding her from some threat. He was dressed and wide awake, his watchful gaze flitting across the camp. Gelert was alert, as well, and a faint growl escaped the hound’s chest.
Rhys whispered a single command which must have been in Welsh and the dog fell silent. The hair still stood on the back of the hound’s neck, though, and the creature was nigh as watchful as Rhys.
It was only then that Madeline heard the sound of hoof beats echoing through the forest. They were distant but drawing closer, the pace of the horses indicating that they trod the path she and Rhys had followed the day before.
“Destriers,” she murmured, knowing the sound of heavy warhorses.
Rhys nodded. “Three.”
Madeline listened carefully and realized that the steeds came from the direction of Moffat. It must be their pursuers!
But if so, they had split forces, for there had been six destriers the day before. Madeline bit her lip, not wanting to consider what would happen to Rhys if they were captured. She struggled to recall what she knew of the road to Glasgow ahead, for her father and uncle had spoken often of such matters.
It proved to be convenient to have a family so engaged in trade. There were times when Tynan delivered relics for Rosamunde—though under protest—and other times when Michael dispatched trained falcons from Inverfyre. All of the men discussed routes when the family met and Madeline was glad she had listened even as much as she had.
The hoof beats grew in volume, coming dangerously close. Rhys lowered himself further and Madeline buried her face in his shoulder. The horses passed without halting, then faded in the distance of the direction they meant to go this day.
Rhys waited long moments before he finally rose. As soon as he did, Madeline leapt to her feet and dressed with haste, knowing full well what had to be done. She relieved herself and washed with uncommon speed, then returned to find the horses saddled.
She opened one saddlebag and granted Rhys a piece of bread, another chunk of cheese and an apple. He hesitated, eying the low angle of the sun, clearly estimating how far they could ride this day.
“We must eat,” she counseled sternly. “And it will serve little to be fast upon their heels.”
“I would seek a fork in the road.” Rhys accepted the food and counsel with impatience, but at least he ceded to her. “There must be another route, one that they will not anticipate.”
“I believe the road does fork, perhaps at Abington.” Madeline tried to recall the precise location as Rhys watched her with interest. “The east road goes to Edinburgh, the west to Glasgow.”
“And there must be links between them, shortcuts for those traveling in the opposite direction.” Rhys bent and seized a handful of ashes from the dead fire, then began to rub them over his destrier’s hide. Arian quickly took on a darker hue.
“Once one has consorted with horse thieves, their cunning is not readily forgotten,” Madeline said, then took a handful of ash to the horse’s other side.
Rhys’ grin flashed unexpectedly. “The strategy works so long as there is no rain. Will you pray for that, my lady?”
“If my husband makes the matter worth my while,” she teased, liking the way his eyes gleamed. The bite of the wind was suddenly less, the threat offered by the king’s men more remote. She smiled at her husband, a tingle dancing over her very flesh.
Rhys started at some noise in the distance and his merry mood was dispatched. Madeline shivered, reminded of the sun ducking suddenly behind a cloud, leaving a chill where its heat had been.
“They might believe you intent upon begging clemency at the court of the King of Scotland,” she suggested.
“And so we could feign that we made a course to Edinburgh,” Rhys mused, then regarded her steadily. He began to smile. “You guessed all along that we fled the king’s men.”
Madeline sniffed. “I would wager that you do not know a single soul in Glasgow.”
Rhys shook his head. “And I would wager that you will not agree to patiently wait hidden here while I check the road.”
Madeline met his bemused gaze. “For better or for worse, husband, we ride together.”
Rhys nodded, apparently not displeased. “Aye and for better or for worse, anwylaf, we come to understand each other.” He offered his hand. “Into the saddle, my lady. It will be a long day.”
And so it was.
For three days and nights, they gave a merry chase to the party on the black destriers. They hid in barns and lurked in forests; they raced down roads making all the noi
se they could muster, then crept back along shallow creeks. Rhys dodged and feinted with such abandon that Madeline was oft unsure whether they made any progress toward Glasgow at all.
They heard the great horses, of course. Madeline caught only the barest glimpse of the beasts’ dark rumps, for Rhys always hid her fully from the sight of them. Their hoof beats thundered past hiding places, the sound of their passing making Madeline’s heart thump in fear.
On the first day, they came close enough to Glasgow to enter a warren of entangled roads around its perimeter, which pleased her spouse mightily. Rhys seemingly made a random choice at every crossroads, darting this way and that across the countryside. The hoof beats were fast behind them the first day, through she heard them less frequently with every passing day.
It was only on the third day that Madeline realized they had steadily eased to the northwest, circumnavigating Glasgow on the north side. On that day, too, she heard the party pursuing them less and less frequently. Perhaps their pursuers truly had believed that they had made for Edinburgh. There was no hint of them when she awakened on the fourth morning to the patter of rain.
All was grey around her, many of the trees just beginning to come into leaf. The sky was an endless spread of pewter-hued clouds and the rain already began to make mud of the road. Rhys huddled in his cloak, watchful and silent as he had been for days.
“There will be a new moon this night,” he said gruffly, as if such news was of great import.
“And what of it?”
“It is time we made haste.” He stood then and shook the rain out of his cloak, saddling the horses with quick purpose.
Madeline knew she should be coming accustomed to her husband’s manner, but such enigmatic statements still had the power to annoy her. Yet she knew that if she asked him for an explanation, he would not grant her one.
“How old are you, Rhys?” she asked while assembling the last of their fare. Three apples were the sum of it. She hoped his scheme to make haste included a good meal later this day.
“I have seen thirty summers. Why do you ask?”
“And do you oft consort with women?”
“I have, on occasion.” He regarded her with suspicion. “Why?”
“But never for more than a night or two, I would wager.”
Rhys nodded, but said no more.
“That answers my question, then.”
“What question?”
“How so vexing a man could survive so long, of course. Had you been wed before, you would have been found dead in your own bed years ago! There is not a woman alive who can endure such a meager measure of information as you will surrender.” Madeline bit into her apple. “And even that must be coaxed from your lips morsel by morsel.”
“Yet every time I have very nearly been found dead in my bed, as you say, it has been because I confessed too much to some soul I should not have trusted.” He tightened the harness around the palfrey’s belly, unrepentant. “I think you have the wrong end of the tale, my lady.”
Madeline stopped eating to regard him in astonishment. “Do you mean that you tell me so little because you still do not trust me? What cause have you to distrust me?”
“What cause have I to trust you?” he answered and held her gaze unswervingly.
“But we meet abed each night in pleasure!”
“That and trust are two different matters.”
“I should be insulted.”
“You are too clever not to see that I speak the truth. Come, my lady, time it is to ride.”
Madeline let him aid her to mount, uncertain what to do about his skepticism. What she could do to encourage his trust? Madeline could imagine no worse fate than spending her life beside a man who did not—or would not—trust her.
She had aided his flight. She had shared what she knew of the countryside. She had wed him, she had bedded him, she had agreed to his demand for sons, she had tried to make their marriage meet her expectations. What else could she do?
Or had she only to continue on her present course to slowly win him to her side? Was Rhys so terse because he softened toward her, and he feared the import of that?
Madeline had plenty of time to consider the puzzle, for Rhys was disinclined to talk on this day. Each time she tried to speak, he raised an imperious finger, silencing her as he listened intently for any hint of pursuit.
And the weather was not an aid to conversation. Within moments of their riding out of their camp, the gentle patter ended and it began to rain as if the deluge had come again. The rain fell in sheets, it fell relentlessly, steadily, endlessly. They were sodden to their very bones within moments, and the soot was washed away quickly from Arian’s hide.
Fortunately, there did not seem to be anyone interested in identifying the horse or two riders fool enough to be out in such weather. The road was so quiet that Rhys began to ride openly, his pace relentless.
Rhys took a course due west, without explanation, and Madeline watched the plumes of smoke that must be rising from Glasgow slide past them to the south. It was clear he did not make for Glasgow at all. She wondered at his destination, for only the highlands and islands lay ahead of them.
And the sea, of course. She smell its salt in the wind and taste it in the rain. She strained her ears and thought she could discern its rhythm on a close shore. That was welcome, at least, for she had missed the sound and sight of the ocean.
She might not know where she was going, or what her husband desired of her beyond those sons, but she would take the lesson from his tales. She would savor whatever small gifts came to her. She would look forward to seeing the sea in all its silver majesty again.
And that, for the moment, would have to suffice.
In contrast, far to the south at Caerwyn keep, the sun shone merrily. The sea glistened beyond the high white walls for which the keep was named, the pennants snapped in the wind from the sea, birds cried overhead and the widow of Henry ap Dafydd was annoyed beyond belief.
Nelwyna supposed that she should have become accustomed to matters not proceeding in her favor, for she had faced obstacle after obstacle since arriving as a new bride at this holding. Nonetheless, each new challenge seemed an insult, an abnegation of all she had suffered and endured in the hope of ultimately achieving her ambition. Thus, each cursed time that something went awry, she was infuriated.
All she had ever desired, all she had ever deserved, was to be the lady of a fief. She did not even care which one, and even Caerwyn, at this point, would suffice. Nelwyna had wed Henry ap Dafydd, believing that she would be his lady upon her marriage, but she had been deceived. Henry had held title to nothing. All the family wealth had passed to his elder brother, Dafydd ap Dafydd. Even when Dafydd had captured Caerwyn, she had hoped he might grant it to Henry, but Dafydd had kept all.
Even now, with Dafydd and Henry both dead, and Dafydd’s wife and children also gone, Nelwyna was merely regent, in her step-son’s stead. Nelwyna chafed with the awareness that her authority could be (and would be) removed with but a moment’s notice.
It was unfair!
On this day, to be sure, her mood was already sour, but morning had brought many vexations to test an old woman’s humor. Nelwyna had awakened with aches in her joints and her years heavy upon her shoulders. She was painfully aware that she had not much time left to gain her objective.
She made her painful way to the hall, anticipating a good meal to break her fast, at least. Sadly, she would not eat alone this day. The pretty face of her husband’s cursed courtesan, and the sparkle of that woman’s laughter, did little to brighten the morn.
Indeed, the sight of Adele was enough to make Nelwyna’s blood boil. Nelwyna had never become accustomed to the Welsh, with their disregard for the sanctity of marital vows, with their lack of concern with legitimacy. When Henry had returned from a journey with Adele fairly in his lap, almost forty summers before, the entire household had been shocked that Nelwyna was not immediately pleased.
A man
needed a son, they told her.
A man must do what must be done.
She should be glad, they told her, that the burden of responsibility had been removed from her, that there would be no shame attached to her name.
Nelwyna, surrounded by mad people, her own womb seemingly intent on producing solely daughters, had feigned acceptance. She had pretended that their scheme made great sense, she had hidden her resentment, she had welcomed the whore to her home with a false smile.
But Nelwyna had never accepted Adele’s presence. She had prayed for the whore to die in labor, with no result. She had schemed to ensure the whore had a fateful accident, but the woman had the luck of the angels.
Worse, Adele never seemed to age, a fact that Nelwyna despised when she felt her every year so keenly. Adele’s face was nigh as smooth as the day she had arrived here. She was calm and serene and so sweet of nature that she fairly made Nelwyna’s teeth ache.
It was uncommonly cruel that Adele had been the one to bear Henry the son he so desired.
“Look, Nelwyna!” Adele cried as the older woman had made her way to the board. “A missive from my sister, Miriam.”
That Adele was happier than usual this day was as salt in the wound.
“How delightful. How fortunate you are to have kin who remember you.” Nelwyna settled herself at the board and took the largest piece of honeycomb without remorse. It was her right to eat first, at least, and she never refrained from taking the best that was offered. “How wise it was for Miriam to take the veil and retire from secular life, once her husband had died.”
It was the broadest hint imaginable, but Adele only smiled. “I had long thought you might so retire. Henry, after all, has been gone these ten years and you have no surviving children to make demands upon you.”
The reminder that Adele’s child lived, despite Nelwyna’s efforts, made the older woman grind her teeth. Nelwyna vowed then to have vengeance upon the courtesan. How vulgar and selfish Adele was! And Nelwyna was the only one who could see it!
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