Border Bride

by Hale Deborah

  “Did I ask for your apology?” Enid lofted an encouraging glance at him as she rubbed the pad of her thumb over the base of Con’s. “Did I demand your assurance it wouldn’t be repeated?”

  Her questions appeared to unbalance him as her abrupt stop had failed to do.

  “Well now, I don’t know that you did in so many words. But surely…with Lord Macsen coming, and the two of you…”

  Enid lowered her voice. “He hasn’t arrived yet. Nothing’s been settled.”

  Before Con could summon an answer, she tugged him on down the hill to where three of the light, bowl-like boats rested upside down on the shore. They had frames of ash wood over which reeds had been woven, then made waterproof with a coating of linen soaked in pitch. An admirable little craft, a coracle could navigate the shallowest water, then be hoisted over onto a boatman’s shoulder for an easy walk between streams.

  There was only one fly in the ointment. Coracles demanded a good deal of skill from whoever wielded the paddle. A novice boatman could easily find himself whirling round and round, carried off on a wild ride by the current.

  Just as her old passion for Con might do to her if she wasn’t careful, Enid realized with a spasm of alarm. Ah, but she had a good sturdy paddle to help her retain control. One end was the desperate necessity to keep Con away from her son, the other was the painful recollection of what her girlish fancy for him had cost her. The skill to ply that paddle came from the hard-won understanding of how wrong they were for one another in so many ways.

  Letting go of Con’s hand, she turned over the smallest of the three coracles and shifted it to the water’s edge.

  “Pass me a paddle, will you?” She took her place on the low-slung seat. “Then stand ready to dive in and rescue me if I tip over.”

  “You’ll manage fine.” Con winked. “Don’t fret so much. Just be easy and enjoy the adventure.”

  “Fine for you to sa-aaay.” Enid squealed when he gave her coracle a gentle nudge into the stream.

  For a moment she felt as though she had three left hands all fumbling the paddle. The boat began a dizzy spin. Then Enid stopped thinking so hard about what she must do. Instead she let her hands move as they wished. One end of her paddle dipped into the water, caught, and stopped the coracle turning.

  By the time Con was ready to cast off from shore, she had begun to feel the almost-forgotten rhythm drumming in her sinews once again—a quick responsive dance, with the river as her powerful partner.

  She was able to spare just enough of her attention to call out, “Mind you bring the net, Con, or we won’t be taking many fish this afternoon.”

  He bowed with an exaggerated flourish, “As you command, Lady of Glyneira. I am your humble servant.”

  Enid used her paddle like a huge spoon, to fling a splash of water his way. “Don’t be mocking me, Conwy ap Ifan. You haven’t a humble bone in your whole body and you never did!”

  During that instant she let her attention wander, the coracle got away from her again, twirling her downstream before she managed to bring it back under control. All the while Con stood on the bank laughing at her awkward efforts to handle the fractious little craft.

  It was Enid’s turn to laugh when he pushed off into the water and promptly began to spin in circles. Muttering a stream of curses in some outlandish tongue, Con fought with the coracle until he nearly tipped himself into the water.

  “A fine way to take your ease, this,” Enid called to him, her voice laced with genial mockery.

  “Get away with you!” As the current drove Con’s boat close to hers, he grabbed at the edge and pushed it into another spin. “This was Idwal’s idea, not mine, I’ll thank you to remember.”

  Enid squealed with mirth as she battled to remaster her dancing coracle. Con laughed, too, though whether at her or himself, she wasn’t sure.

  His laughter sounded so good in her ears, perhaps it didn’t matter what had prompted it.

  Out on the river that sun-dappled spring afternoon, the years Con had been apart from Enid drifted off downstream one by one. With each jest, each volley of laughter, and each meeting of their eyes, a powerful current of remembrance carried them closer to the old days when they’d been inseparable companions.

  “We can’t frolic about here until sunset and come home with an empty net,” Enid protested when they’d finally regained some of their old knack for managing the coracles.

  “Why not?” Con asked. “I say it’ll be time well spent supposing we don’t so much as see a fish.”

  “You would.” Enid pulled a wry face, soon tempered by a fond smile. “One of us must be practical though.”

  “You would,” Con countered with a grin of pure devilment.

  That sparked a gleeful battle to see who could soak the other worst, accompanied by shrieks, whoops, and fits of laughter that left them limp and gasping for breath. By the time they noticed their surroundings again, they had floated some distance downstream.

  Canopied by wide-reaching branches of tall trees on both banks, the stream broadened and deepened along this stretch of water, slowing the current. Gazing around him with newly appreciative eyes, Con admired the rich, varied pattern of greens.

  “In all my travels, I’ve never seen a spot more lovely than this.” He hadn’t meant to give voice to the thought.

  As long as he could remember, Con had cherished the notion that distant places must be better than his humble home. Without a doubt, he’d seen many marvels in his travels. But their exotic beauty had not touched his heart as did this lush expanse of border wood. Nor had any bejewelled Byzantine courtesan stirred him as did this diminutive Welsh widow in her coarse-woven work gown.

  Now Enid gazed around her, too. “I take it for granted most of the time. Or think it’s only because this is home that I find it so wondrous. Thank you for making me look at it with fresh eyes, Con.” A shiver went through her slender frame.

  A gentle breeze raised Con’s skin in gooseflesh, too. “Damn me for a fool, drenching you like that! We’d better dry ourselves off before we try catching any fish or all we’re likely to catch is a bad chill.”

  For a moment Enid looked as though she meant to argue the point. Instead she replied, “It mightn’t be much use trying to cast our net just now, anyway. After our carrying on, the poor fish have probably all swam off to Hereford, frightened for their lives.”

  As she paddled toward a grassy outcropping of riverbank, she called to Con over her shoulder, “You needn’t bear all the blame for getting our clothes damp. I was every bit as quick to splash as you, and a better aim. I expect you’re twice as wet as I am.”

  How could he resist such a challenge?

  “Never!” He struck the water with his paddle, sending one last great spray raining down on Enid.

  “Bounder!” She scrambled ashore, her movements nimble as a girl’s, hauling her coracle up onto the bank. When his craft came within reach, she grasped the lip and toppled it, sending Con flailing into the water.

  He came up sputtering, “I’ll make you sorry for that.”

  After heaving his coracle onto the bank and retrieving his paddle before it floated away to England, Con wallowed ashore and raced off chasing Enid, who already had a good lead on him.

  She’d kilted up her skirts so as not to trip herself, perhaps not realizing that the provocative glimpse of her bare legs spurred Con to run faster in pursuit.

  His nostrils flared wide, drawing in air to feed the fire inside him. His pulse pounded a swift beat in his ears. It outstripped even the muted thud of his fleet footfall on the soft earth carpeted with last year’s leaves and new growth of ferns and moss. His body roused with the wild instinct of a stag scenting a doe.

  Leaping over a fallen tree trunk, Enid spared a quick glance behind to find Con gaining on her. Dusky eyes flashed mock terror and genuine mischief.

  As she crossed a sun-drenched patch of thick moss, Con tackled her from behind. His diving grab brought them both down onto t
he springy turf in a reckless tangle of limbs, panting with laughter…and perhaps something more?

  With each deep draft of air Con gulped, the capricious odor of spring assailed him—sweet new growth rising from the pungent decay of the old. He caught the scent of a woman, too. Wet wool, wet hair, the subtle musk of sweat…and desire?

  Beneath the coarse fabric of Enid’s kirtle, the soft flesh of her breasts heaved against Con’s chest. Her bare leg slipped between his. Her thigh rubbed against the lap of his breeches, sending a surge of pure animal lust coursing through him.

  He groped for her leg, shoving her gown higher as his lips sought hers. The way his body throbbed to lose himself in her, it felt as though he’d spent the past thirteen years in a cloister rather than well and frequently bedded by a succession of eager women.

  Or perhaps those years and those women were nothing more than the dreams of an ambitious youth. Perhaps he was still only a boy of seventeen, green as spring grass and aching fit to burst for the ripening maiden who tantalized his every thought. Cariad Enid Du. Dear dark Enid.

  His mouth closed over hers—demanding, yet pleading, too, in its way. Her kiss put him in mind of hard cider. Half tart, half sweet, wholly intoxicating. As her arms encircled his neck and her fingers plowed passionate furrows through his unruly hair, Con had reason to be glad of his sodden clothes.

  At least they might prevent his fevered flesh from bursting into flame.

  If she let Con keep on like this, the heat of her body was apt to make her clothes dry from the inside out! Enid wriggled beneath him, wishing Con had been this eager on the night they’d begotten their son, rather than ale-addled and content to let her have her way with him.

  Their son! Enid’s tardy self-control caught up with her at last. Her aim had been to lure Con into a verbal commitment, not a physical one. She didn’t dare let him sow another babe in her belly, ruining her hopes for wedding Macsen ap Gryffith.

  Fighting her lips free of his, she fought her own desire at least as much as his.

  “Do you always work this fast to satisfy yourself when you come to a new place, Con ap Ifan?” Frustration sharpened Enid’s voice as she pushed her skirts down to cover her bare thighs. “How quickly you forgot your vow not to kiss me again.”

  Con jerked back from her, his face betraying more surprise and dismay than when she’d upset his coracle into the stream. “You…you said you’d never demanded that promise.”

  “Nor did I, but you gave it all the same.” The puzzled, hurt look in his eyes reproached Enid almost as much as her own conscience. By nature she preferred fair and open dealing, not this sticky tangle of lies and schemes.

  “It’s well enough for you to stroll into Glyneira from who-knows-where, lift my skirt as the fancy takes you, then wander off again. I have my future to think of, and my children’s.” At least that much was true.

  Con peeled himself off of her. Putting a little distance between them, he crouched at the edge of the moss bed, leaning against a stout tree stump. “You know I didn’t mean it like that, Enid.”

  His features bore a truculent look she remembered from their younger years, when he’d been scolded or punished unjustly. How often had she taken sole blame for one of their misadventures to keep Con from getting that look?

  “How am I supposed to know?” She pressed her attack, despising herself for it, though she knew it must be done for her children’s sake. “After you boasted of all your conquests? How am I different from any of them?”

  “I didn’t love them!” The words burst out of Con with such force, Enid sensed he would’ve tried to contain them if he could have.

  For an instant she hesitated. Reason prompted her to press the attack and send Con ap Ifan packing. His reckless admission had caught her unwary. She’d expected this campaign of hers to take longer. Perhaps she had better not spring the trap prematurely.

  “And you fancy you love me?” Retching up a bitter chuckle, she shook her head in disbelief. Once upon a time she might have swooned to hear Con come close to declaring such feelings. Thirteen years in purgatory had taught her to distrust the dubious promise of heaven while fearing the certain threat of hell.

  A sheepish crimson tinted the bronzed flesh over Con’s high, jutting cheekbones. He dodged the searching gaze she shot him, perhaps afraid of what his unguarded eyes might reveal.

  “You and I, we had something special between us, once,” he said. “We didn’t dare act on it then. You know all the reasons as well as I do.”

  At least I had the courage to try! Enid clamped her lips together between her teeth to check the accusation she dared not voice. Suddenly she was grateful Con refused to look her in the eye. Otherwise he might have marked the foolish, futile tear she could not quell.

  A tense, troubled silence stretched between them until Con shattered it. “Just because we couldn’t own to the feeling between us, doesn’t mean it wasn’t there. Doesn’t mean it went away.”

  With that he commenced to spin his web of words and reason around her. Did he truly mean what he said about the old bond between them, or was he just using it as bait to bed her? And if he had cared for her in the way he claimed, why had the reckless warrior gone tamely on his way while she, the cautious one, had risked all for him?

  Little do you guess the trap I’ve laid for you, Con ap Ifan, Enid thought. With every word, you blunder deeper and deeper into it. Once you get the bait well between your teeth, I’ll spring it and make you run.

  She stroked her hand over the velvety moss, hoping she’d get at least one more chance to run her fingers through his hair before she had to bid him farewell forever.

  “We were so young back then.” Enid tucked up her knees and hugged her arms around them. “Neither of us knew anything of the world, or of other lads and lasses our age.”

  She’d met plenty of men in the meantime, most far better suited to her than this charming, restless vagabond. Why had none of them caught and held her heart the way he had?

  A smile took her lips by surprise. “For a little while, just now, I wondered if the Fair Folk had played a trick on me by stealing the years away. I felt like a young girl again, with no responsibilities…no worries. Just the water, the sun, the trees and a handsome boy chasing after me. It was a rare gift and I thank you for it.”

  Con bobbed his head in a vigorous nod. “That’s how it felt for me, too.” Innocent mischief twinkled in his eyes. “Why can’t we just go on that way—pretend we’re sixteen and seventeen again, off on a day’s larking?”

  If only he knew how he tempted her…

  “There’s been a lot of water flow over the falls since those days, Con. Perhaps you can’t understand since you answer to no one, with none to depend on you. I can’t afford to think only of myself.”

  Was she warning him, or reminding herself? “My children and all the Glyneira folk need me.”

  Con shuddered—perhaps from the chill of his damp garments or possibly from the horror of being shackled by that kind of responsibility. “Then I suppose we ought to go see if there are any brave fish still lurking in the river after all our commotion.”

  “Not until we get you dried off.” Enid stretched out her hand. “Give over that tunic and I’ll hang it on a branch in the sun.”

  As Con shrugged out of the garment, she added, “Breeches, too, while you’re about it.”

  “They’ll dry on me well enough.” He tossed the tunic to her.

  “Please yourself.” Resisting the impulse to gloat over Con’s sudden attack of modesty, she stretched his over-garment across the splayed branches of a fallen sapling in a patch of sunlight. “I’m not sixteen anymore. I know what a man looks like with his clothes off. Come to think of it, I did then, too, since you and I swam like fish whenever we stole the chance.”

  She heard a rustle of underbrush behind her, but still let out a squeak of surprise when she felt Con’s fingers tugging at the laces of her kirtle, and heard his voice so close to her ear.
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  “Have a jest at my expense, will you, cariad?” He pulled loose the ties that secured the back of her gown. “For all you weren’t dumped into the water, your clothes are every bit as wet as mine. With all those folks relying on you, I’d hate to be the cause of you taking a chill.”

  Words of protest stuck in Enid’s suddenly parched throat. With the protective cover of her woolen kirtle removed, she’d only have her thin, damp linen smock between her body and Con’s impudent gaze. And if the tips of her breasts puckered, pushing brazenly out against the threadbare cloth, would Con blame it on a chill or would he guess the true reason?

  That in spite of everything she still wanted him?

  Heaven save him, he yearned for Enid worse now than he had when he was seventeen, with the first fire of manhood searing his young loins!

  Con rolled over on the straw-strewn floor of Glyneira’s hall and pulled his brychan around him in a futile quest to get some sleep. The harder he tried, the more it eluded him—rather like a certain bewitching woman of his acquaintance.

  For a wonder, he and Enid had managed to bring home a good catch once they got around to casting their net between the two coracles. Perhaps their earlier antics on the river had drawn the curious fish to see what all the fuss was about.

  Hard as he’d striven to keep his mind on the task, the vision of Enid’s lithesome profile showing through her flimsy smock had hovered on the edge of his thoughts, ready to bedevil him. And how could he forget the touch of her soft thigh beneath his fingers, the movement of her body under his, the scent of her desire, or the flavor of her lips?

  During the past thirteen years, he had seldom been obliged to suffer this nagging ache in his flesh. He’d forgotten how much he hated it.

  Only a few weeks away from Gwynedd and anxious to staunch his homesickness for Enid, he’d let himself be seduced by a Saxon woman. She’d been buxom, fair and many years his senior, with nothing to remind him of his delicate raven-haired cariad. Since that first partner, there’d been a long succession of others. All more than willing, all relished at the time, all left well-satisfied with the exchange. None lasting, by mutual choice.