The Original de Wolfe Pack Complete Set: Including Sons of de Wolfe

by Kathryn Le Veque

  He looked at her, a faint smile on his lips. “It would be quite scandalous, the two of us traveling together and not married,” he said. “I wish I had time to seek your father’s permission to marry you, but I am afraid I do not. As much as I want to marry you, I feel as if this is more pressing. I hope you understand.”

  She nodded before he even finished speaking. “I do understand,” she insisted. “I would want to know about my past, too. But you do not need my father’s permission. You have mine, and that is all that matters in the end. My father will permit me to marry whoever I choose, and I choose you.”

  His smile grew. “Do you suppose he will see it that way?”

  She waved him off. “My father will simply be glad that I am marrying,” she said. “It does not matter to whom, so long as I marry and give him grandsons.”

  Blayth chuckled. “Then I suppose we could find a church and ask them to marry us,” he said. “It would not be a grand wedding and a great feast that you deserve.”

  She grinned, embarrassed. “I hate parties and grand feasts. I do not need any of those things.” Then, she sobered. “Will you take me with you, then?”

  It was probably against his better judgement to do so, but he couldn’t deny her. He wanted her with him and he certainly couldn’t leave her here. After a moment, he relented.

  “Aye,” he said. “Go and gather your things. But what about your horse? Is he well enough to travel with that hoof?”

  She stood up, quickly. “It was healed this morning,” she said. “I simply soaked it again just to ensure that it was completely healed. It was not that bad to begin with.”

  “Then he will travel well?”

  “He will be fine.”

  Reaching up a big hand, he swatted her gently on the bottom with a trencher-sized hand. “Then gather your things,” he said. “Go and prepare your horse and I will meet you in the stable in a little while. I must speak to Morys now.”

  Asmara understood, feeling somewhat special and flattered with his love tap to her arse. Had any other man done that to her, she would have flattened him. But coming from Blayth, she didn’t mind it one bit. From one warrior to another, she understood an affectionate touch when she felt it.

  She was eager to go with him, to help him follow the trail that would lead him to the answers he sought. It was a frightening thing that he was doing, but a brave one, and she admired him greatly for it. It didn’t matter to her one bit that the man was English; to her, he was simply Blayth, the man was cared deeply for. Perhaps she had even fallen in love with him, just a bit.

  More than just a bit.

  She knew she loved him.

  Quickly, she fled his chamber, heading to the bower she had been using since her arrival to Gwendraith to collect her possessions. Her mind was on the journey ahead, a journey of a lifetime, and something she had never imagined she would ever do. She was leaving her family, and the rebellion, to chase dreams with the man she was to marry.

  And the Dragon Princess couldn’t have been happier about it.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Morys’ plan had spectacularly backfired.

  He realized that as he sat and listened to Blayth tell him of his future plans. Whatever he’d hoped telling the man the truth would accomplish, those hopes were dashed.

  He’d hoped that by telling Blayth of his past, and of his true identity, that it would scare Blayth into staying the course and continuing to be a beacon of hope for the Welsh. Morys had made it clear that the English had abandoned him at Llandeilo and, therefore, didn’t want him. And he’d emphasized that Blayth only had value as a Welsh legend. He thought he’d made an excellent argument for everything, and he was certain that when the conversation was over, that Blayth understood his place in the world regardless of his true background.

  But that hadn’t been the case.

  Now, Blayth wanted to find out the truth behind his past. It had taken him a day to figure that out, to decide that none of Morys’ arguments meant anything to him. Blayth had pulled him out of the hall and into a small, dark chamber off the hall the smelled as if the dogs had been using it as their privy. What Blayth had to say couldn’t wait, so half-drunk, Morys stood in stunned silence as Blayth explained his desire to go to Lioncross Abbey Castle to seek out Corbett Payton-Forrester, who had called him James down in the dank recesses of the vault. He was convinced that Payton-Forrester would know more about who he had once been, and Blayth expressed a very strong desire to discover what the man knew.

  That hadn’t been the outcome Morys had expected.

  At first, he’d been calm about it. He’d explained, yet again, how Blayth had been abandoned. A loved and wanted man would not have been abandoned on the field of battle, he said. He’d tried to convince Blayth that seeking more information from Payton-Forrester would be foolish; it might even be deadly. Clearly, the English hadn’t wanted him so why show them that the man they’d tried to discard was still alive?

  But the argument hadn’t worked with Blayth.

  He was determined to go.

  Slipping…

  Morys could see the rebellion slipping away. The myth he’d built, the larger-than-life story of Blayth the Strong, son of Llywelyn the Last, was slipping away and the more he tried to grasp at it, the more it slipped between his fingers. The harder he pulled, the more Blayth pushed. Soon enough, Morys could see that there was no reasoning with the man. His mind was set.

  Morys was losing the battle.

  That was when the situation grew desperate.

  Morys had considered before what he needed to do if Blayth decided to veer from the course – heroes made the best martyrs, he reminded himself, but if Blayth was going to depart this night and head into England to seek his truth, then there was no knowing when he would return, if ever. Blayth swore he only wanted to find out the truth of his past and of his true identity, but Morys couldn’t be sure that the man wouldn’t return to who he was before. Blayth hadn’t made that very clear.

  If he did, there would be no chance for a hero’s death in battle.

  Morys was a man who, if nothing else, had always been adaptable. He’d manipulated Blayth, lied to him, coerced him, and anything else he had to do in order to control the man. Blayth the Strong was more than a fictitious character – he had become a legend that the hope for Welsh freedom had been built upon. Now, that legend was leaving Gwendraith. The rebels were due to return to Carmarthen Castle in several days to plan the next phase in their uprising, and Blayth couldn’t confirm that he would be present at that gathering. He could be in England, still chasing after his lost past, because it seemed as if now that was the most important thing to him.

  No more rebellion, no more legacy.

  As far as Morys was concerned, he’d badly errored when he told Blayth the truth about his past, and now he had to remedy the situation and try to salvage what he could.

  It was time to do something drastic.

  Therefore, he let Blayth leave and go about gathering his things for his journey, whilst Morys went to plan for what needed to happen. Blayth would never realize what was happening until it was too late.

  Dealings were about to get dirty.

  “The moon is so bright that it is almost like the sun,” Asmara observed as she stood at the mouth of the stables, gazing up into the crisp night sky. “How far do you think we can travel tonight?”

  Blayth was finishing securing his crossbow to his saddle. “To Llandovery, at least,” he said. “We shall find a place to sleep outside of the town and then continue on in the morning.”

  She turned to look at him. “We could wait until dawn and leave,” she pointed out. “We could make at least thirty-five miles in the daylight.”

  He pulled his horse over to where she was standing. “And we will,” he said. “But we are going to do several miles tonight also. Unless you are too weak and feeble to do it.”

  She scowled at him although, this time, she knew the insult wasn’t malicious. I
nsults were becoming terms of endearment these days, and she knew he was jesting with her.

  “I can outride you any day,” she said. “I will still be riding when you are on the ground, writhing in pain because your little onion sacks are beaten to death from the strain of travel.”

  He started to laugh, knowing exactly what she meant. “Onion sacks?” he repeated. “You mean my ballocks?”

  She turned her nose up at him. “I do not use such language.”

  He laughed out loud. “God’s Bones, woman, you just referred to them by calling them onion sacks,” he said. “Whatever you call them, they are all the same – a man’s balls.”

  Asmara couldn’t stop the giggling. “Do you truly say such things in the presence of a lady?”

  He eyed her. “Since when do you call yourself a lady?” he asked, watching her whirl to him in outrage. He held up a finger. “You are a woman, and a beautiful one, but you are also a warrior. I have never known the term lady and warrior to be interchangeable.”

  He had a point. Asmara simply shrugged and moved to mount her steed. “You have called me demoiselle since we have known one another,” she said as she heaved herself up into the saddle. “Does that not mean lady?”

  He mounted his horse also. “It does,” he said. “It means a young, unmarried lady.”

  Asmara gathered her reins, pausing to look at him as he gathered his. “That is something else that told me you were not who Morys said you were,” she said, watching him look at her questioningly. “You called me demoiselle.”

  He smiled at her under the moonlight. “What would you have me call you?”

  She shrugged coyly and looked away. “That is not what I mean,” she said. “I meant that no one but the English or the French do that. That told me that you were not Welsh-born or, at the very least, you did not grow up in Wales.”

  Blayth reined his horse over to her. “I will ask you again,” he said softly. “What would you have me call you?”

  That low, slow voice was purring at her and Asmara could feel her cheeks flame; she was grossly unused to the flirtatious games played by men and women.

  “Whatever you wish,” she said. “My name is Asmara.”

  “And it is a beautiful name,” he said. “But I think I should like to call you something else.”

  “What?”

  “Cariad.”

  It meant sweetheart in Welsh, and Asmara’s red cheeks grew redder. She’d never in her life been called anything other than her name, not even by her father, although her mother had often called her and Fairynne pet names. Gwirion, mostly, which meant “silly”. But that was different, from a mother to a daughter. But this… this was from a man who was to be her husband.

  She’d never felt so giddy in her entire life.

  “If that is what you would like to call me, I will not contest,” she said.

  He laughed low in his throat, seeing even in the moonlight how embarrassed she was. Clucking softly to his horse, the animal began to move forward, followed by Asmara and her excitable young stallion.

  “I have never called a woman cariad,” he said. “You will be my first.”

  “As you will be mine.”

  It was a sweet sentiment between two people who were unused to such things. In warm silence, the pair headed out of the stable yard and into the outer bailey, which was mostly devoid of men at this hour. Pinpricks of light emitted from the keep, from several of the outbuildings, and from the gatehouse as men settled in for the night. With the moon bathing the land in a silver glow, Asmara and Blayth headed for the two-storied gatehouse.

  There were men upon it, men with torches, and as they drew closer to the gate, Blayth called up to the men who were manning it.

  “Open the gates,” he boomed.

  It was usual for there to be a delay of several seconds before the gates started moving. But in this case, the seconds turned into a minute and more. Blayth called to the gate guards again, thinking they might not have heard him, but then he saw Aeddan and Pryce heading towards him from the small guard room built into the gatehouse.

  Curious, he moved his horse towards them to ask what the issue was, but that was when he saw Morys emerging from the gatehouse guard room as well. He wasn’t a welcome sight.

  Something told Blayth that the situation was about to turn.

  “What is amiss that you will not open the gates?” he asked Aeddan as the man drew near.

  Aeddan didn’t look pleased. There were other men around, Welsh warriors, but he kept his voice down because he didn’t want them to hear.

  “Morys wishes to speak with you,” he said as he reached Blayth. “He told us to hold the gates when you came. Blayth… he is armed.”

  Blayth’s eyebrows lifted. “Armed? Why?”

  Aeddan simply shook his head; either he didn’t know, or he didn’t want to say. In any case, Blayth didn’t push him. Something was amiss, and Aeddan was letting Blayth know that he had to expect anything.

  With Morys, that was usually the case.

  Blayth kept his cool on the surface but, on the inside, his concern was mounting. He thought he’d said everything to Morys that needed to be said and couldn’t imagine why the man was here… unless the words they’d spoken between them weren’t final in Morys’ opinion. And now the man was armed to stop him?

  In truth, Blayth wasn’t surprised. He wasn’t surprised that Morys wasn’t willing to let him go so easily, perhaps to try one more time to convince him that it would not be in his best interest to dredge up his past. But Blayth was resolute that he needed to try.

  Nothing Morys could say would change that.

  “Morys?” Blayth said, calling to the man with veiled impatience. “What did you wish to speak of?”

  Morys came forward, out of the darkness of the gatehouse, making his way towards Blayth. It was then that Blayth saw the crossbow in Morys’ hand; he wasn’t pointing it at anyone, but merely aiming it at the ground. But he was carrying a weapon, as Aeddan had said he was, and the concern Blayth felt blossomed into full-blown apprehension. It wasn’t for him so much as it was for Asmara; if Morys tried something, he didn’t want her caught in the crossfire.

  But seeing Morys with the weapon, now Blayth was coming to understand what this was all about. Morys wasn’t here to talk him out of anything. Somehow, someway, Morys was going to force him into remaining because, Blayth knew, this went again Morys’ plans. This wasn’t want Morys wanted, so he was going to resort to intimidation.

  Blayth braced himself.

  But what he didn’t know was that several feet behind him, Asmara was also reaching for her crossbow, tied off on her saddle. She, too, was watching Morys come forth with a weapon in his hand and she knew he had it for a reason. It wasn’t simply to hint at threats and intimidation. Morys was aggressive, bold, and reckless, and if he felt he was being wronged, he would more than likely lash out at whoever he felt was wronging him. In this case, it was Blayth, leaving on his own quest and evidently not placing the greater priority on the rebellion and Morys’ wants.

  Much like Blayth, none of this surprised her. And she wanted to be ready.

  “Get off your horse, Blayth,” Morys said calmly. “You are not leaving. We have more important issues to deal with.”

  Blayth remained calm. “I will not disagree that the issues are important,” he said evenly. “But I have explained that this is something I must do, Morys. It does not diminish my gratitude in what you have done for me, but surely you understand my need to know the truth.”

  Morys was clearly impatient. “The truth you seek will be there in a year from now or five years from now,” he said. “The past cannot be changed. It will still be there in time but, for now, I need you here. You have an important destiny to fulfill at present.”

  Blayth eyed the man. Unless they wanted the secret of Blayth’s true identity and background revealed, there wasn’t more either of them could say. Blayth had said everything he’d wanted to say earlier, so Mor
ys’ attempt to force him into remaining was not sitting well with him. He honestly couldn’t believe the man was threatening him, out here for all to hear where their secret could easily be revealed.

  But maybe that was Morys’ plan.

  As Blayth contemplated how to handle Morys, Asmara didn’t have quite so much patience. As she saw it, Morys was, yet again, trying to control Blayth and as the man’s betrothed, she wasn’t going to stand for it. She’d never liked her uncle. In fact, she’d hated him for how he’d always treated her father, and she wasn’t going to let the man push Blayth, or her, around any longer.

  It was time to take a stand.

  The crossbow in her hand lifted.

  “Get out of the way,” she told her uncle as she urged her excitable horse forward. “You know why he has to leave, so get out of the way.”

  Morys looked up to see Asmara pointed a crossbow right at him. He wasn’t all that astonished that she had asserted herself, but it did infuriate him.

  “This is not your affair,” he said. “Put that weapon down before you hurt someone.”

  It was the wrong thing to say to her. “I am going to hurt you if you do not get out of his way,” she growled. “You have spent your entire life belittling people and ordering them around, my father included, but you are not going to do it now. You are a bitter excuse for a man, an inglorious fool who is trying to make himself feel important by pushing Blayth to do things you cannot do yourself. You are riding on his glory but, this time, he is going to choose his own path. Standing in front of these gates is only going to see you injured, or worse. I will not let you do it.”

  He shook his head at her as if disgusted. “Shut your ridiculous mouth, girl,” he said. “My brother did not take a firm hand to you when you were younger, so you do not know your place. He let you do whatever you pleased and now you are a grotesque shadow of a female, neither a lady nor a man, but something in between. I can only imagine how you seduced Blayth because, certainly, there is nothing about you that is seductive or soft, and now you try to push yourself into business where you do not belong. Someone should have shut you up years ago.”