In a pale blue gown with long sleeves and a gold girdle hanging on her hips, she glowed under the morning sun. Her hair hung long and loose under a thin veil that was secured around her head with a circlet that matched her girdle. He’d never paid much attention to the frivolities of ladies, but he paid attention now. She was like an angel. Her slightly wavy hair streamed out behind her when the breeze caught it. He would be hard-pressed to recall the muddy, wet, snivelling woman he had held in his arms yesterday.
As she neared, he saw her smile waver. It was all for show, he realised. Her beaming smile, the radiant appearance. To appease her father or the crowd? He wasn’t sure. It wasn’t for him, that much was certain. She cared little for his opinion.
Ieuan attempted what he hoped was a warm smile. Whatever she thought of him, however he felt toward her, they were to spend the rest of their lives together and he hoped to make their days together as easy as possible. If anything, he couldn’t afford to be sparring with his wife every day. He had a castle to rebuild and a village to tend to.
He held out a hand to her as she came up the steps to join him at his side. The priest came into position in front of them and Rosamunde laid her hand over the top of his. Her soft palm over his battle-roughened knuckles sent a shiver through him. He glanced at their hands and recalled a similar sight the night of his victory. His gut clenched when his thoughts inevitably turned to the kiss—the kiss that had frightened her so.
If a mere kiss frightened her...
Ieuan drew in a breath and turned his attention to the priest. He only hoped he was making the right decision. She did not seem at all suited to life in Wales. How would she—this pampered, beautiful princess—cope with the rough living conditions?
Rosamunde kept her gaze on the priest, her expression steady. Gone was the emotional woman from yesterday or the fiery vixen who spat words at him the night before that. There wasn’t even a hint of the lady who had danced with him beside the bonfire. Cold dread sat in his stomach. He knew how to handle all of those women, but he wasn’t sure about this one.
She spoke her vows with utter calm too, whereas he had to clear his throat several times. By the time the priest had announced them as married, sweat trickled down the back of his neck. This woman was his, wealth and all. And now he would have to live with the consequences of his choice.
Shouts of ‘kiss her’ echoed about the graveyard and he drew back his shoulders. Ieuan ab Owain Glyndŵr never backed down from a challenge. He longed to erase the certainty from his wife’s expression and make her feel as on edge as he. Not to mention satisfy the crowd. He turned to face her, took in the sight of the long length of golden hair that made his fingers twitch with the need to see those locks spread across her bare skin.
Satisfying his need to touch her soft hair, he pressed his fingers into the strands and grasped them gently to tilt her back. This would be a kiss of possession. He would leave her with no doubt she belonged to him. There would be no more games, no more arguments, no escape attempts.
Her hazel eyes widened—the first real crack in her mask—and he heard a sharp intake of breath but couldn’t be sure if it was hers or his. Ieuan lowered his lips to hers, firm and determined. He didn’t bother to swipe his tongue across hers to urge it deeper or to coax her lips open. The kiss remained hard and forceful. Her fingers came up to curl around his arms and for the briefest moment he thought it was in protest but he realised she enjoyed his possession of her.
Hell fire, he wished his wife was at least a little predictable.
Releasing her hair, he drew back and their gazes clashed again. Desire stirred in her gaze—the same desire he’d seen when they had danced. In spite of it all, she wanted him. It should have pleased him but instead it left him with a deep agonising ache low in his body. She was an innocent in every sense of the word and likely had no idea what she did to him. They had a long journey ahead of them and he couldn’t very well take her in the woods or in a traveller’s inn. Their wedding night would have to wait until they arrived at his castle. And when she saw the state of it, he was fairly certain any desire on her part would be long gone.
Ieuan rubbed a hand across his rough jaw before offering Rosamunde his hand to escort her back along the church path and to a waiting carriage. They would return for a quick noon meal then start their journey. The earl’s household would be disappointed to miss out on the wedding night, but he cared not. He wanted out of here and home. He needed Welsh soil under his feet, longed to breathe fresh Welsh air.
The noon supper passed quickly enough. Rosamunde’s belongings had been packed the day prior and they began their journey by mid-afternoon. They would not get far but they would make it to a traveller’s inn he had stopped in on his way to Herefordshire. His wife remained stoic during the meal and suffered the congratulations and toasts with grace. The tension in her posture made Ieuan uneasy. He’d almost rather she spit her annoyance at him than remain this cold, stiff shadow of the woman he still hardly knew.
However, when she climbed into the carriage beside him, his two men-at-arms following on horseback and Bryn on the top with the driver, he saw the break in her composure and his heart stretched. Tears shimmered in her eyes and she sniffed quietly as she waved goodbye to her friends and her father. He had no idea what it was like to have such people around him. His father had wanted little to do with him until the deaths of all his other children, and his mother had died while he had been away training as a knight. Having been gone from her since he was seven, he hardly felt attached to the woman who had given him life.
He supposed he should at least be grateful to his father for ensuring he was fostered to become a knight and that he was granted lands, even if they were now in ruin. At least he had something. What did Rosamunde have now? Her dowry was his and she was leaving her family. She had him. That was it.
A great weight seemed to settle on his shoulders, greater even than the one before that had pushed him to seek out the lady to marry. He was not at all sure he could bear the burden of her unhappiness. Wasn’t sure he was even suited to being a husband. He had much to keep him busy and he certainly didn’t need a miserable wife who was clearly incapable of looking after herself.
Still, her little sniffles made his stomach twist and he had to do something. He would try conversation first. The carriage wheels creaked and they rocked back briefly before jerking forward and they were on their way, the jostling motion combining with the noise of the wheels on the rough ground and the steady beat of hooves. It all seemed intended to make their start as difficult as possible as he fought for some comforting words to say.
“We shall travel by carriage for as much of the journey as possible,” he said.
Another sniffle.
“I wish not for you to be uncomfortable.”
More sniffles, but quieter this time.
“My lands are not far from the border but ‘tis mountainous territory. We shall leave the carriage at an inn I know of in Shropshire. Your father’s people will return it while we continue on horseback.”
Rosamunde nodded slowly, her head still dipped. “I remember,” she said so quietly he had to strain to hear it.
One tear dripped onto her lap, darkening the pale green wool of her travelling gown. He fisted a hand at his side, then opened it to ease it over her lap and clasp her hand. She jerked her head up in surprise and those wet cheeks did something uncomfortable to his chest.
“Should you need anything on the journey, you must say. I will not scold you.”
She offered him a weak smile. “And if you did, would it matter? You are my husband now. You can do as you wish.”
He tensed his jaw. She really did see him as nothing more than a Welsh barbarian, did she not? “I told you I would never hurt you.”
“Yet you have dragged me away from my friends and family. Does that not hurt?”
“You know very well what I mean,” he said through clenched teeth. Hell fire, did she need to make him feel any
guiltier about this? “You shall like Wales.” He threw the words out as if they could somehow make up for the circumstances.
“I liked my home.”
“Yet you were willing to leave it rather than marry me?”
Colour filled her pale cheeks. He longed to dash his fingers over her soft skin. So innocent was she that it almost seemed if he touched her, he might absorb some of it. Then the blood of Englishmen would be washed away and any sins of his past, all the experiences that made him the man he was today might be cleansed from his mind. Then he too could revel in simple enjoyments as she had her entire life.
“I was not thinking with a clear head.”
“And what of your adventures? Sneaking out of the castle like a thief. Would you have done so had you been so content with your life?”
“I had never sneaked out before.”
“So you spent your entire life in your father’s castle?”
“Aye, with the exception of the tournaments.”
He almost groaned. What had he taken on? Innocent, naive, foolish... and far too beautiful for her own good. He would likely destroy her with his rough Welsh ways. His harsh lands would sap the life from her and frighten her to death. Still, he supposed if she was used to being behind castle walls, she might not complain when he kept her tucked away behind his own walls.
“What is...” Rosamunde drew in a breath. “What is your home like?”
He peered out of the window at the scenery. They were out in the open now, travelling through the valley that would take them closer to the border. What could he say? Cold, wet, crumbling. His home was not suited to any noblewoman, let alone one like Rosamunde. Instead he thought of the lush, steep hills and the great grey rocks that jutted out of the scenery as though carved by giants.
“’Tis beautiful. A different landscape to England, to be sure. ‘Tis more... rugged, I suppose. But when you reach the land of the Welsh, the air is different.” Her lips curved in amusement. “You will see what I mean when you get there. You English have not the same sense of heritage as we do. Celtic blood runs through our veins and binds us to our land.”
“And what will your people think of you having married an Englishwoman?”
“They shall think me wise for marrying you,” he said with a grin.
“Because I am rich?”
“Nay, because you are beautiful. Welshmen can never resist beauty. It has always been our downfall.”
“So Welshman are weak-natured, is that what you are saying?” She clasped her hands in her lap and turned her gaze fully on him. The tears were but a glimmer in her eyes now and Ieuan was tempted to congratulate himself on managing her mood.
He chuckled. “No more than any other man. Besides which, we are wise enough to acknowledge the power a woman holds.”
“’Tis easy for a man to speak of power,” she said with a sigh before turning back to the window and gazing out. “I have never had any.”
“All of Herefordshire spoke of your power over men.”
“Aye,” she said, bitterness tingeing her tone. “The Treasure.” A snort came from her before she tried to stop it and cut the noise short.
Ieuan failed to come up with a response to that. He should never have told her about that but he found it hard to believe she was in ignorance. His wife was as sheltered as they come and he would probably end up spending the rest of his marriage paying for her father’s treatment of her. He tried not to sigh. For the hundredth time that day, he wondered what he’d let himself in for.
Chapter Eight
A jolt stirred Rosamunde awake. She grimaced, feeling how tingly and achy her arm was as she tried to focus her gaze. Wood. A heavy velvet curtain. Several cushions.
Ieuan.
She bolted upright. Her cheek was hot from where it had been pressed against his side. His arm slipped from her shoulders. She had fallen asleep against him. She swiped her mouth. Oh sweet Mary, and she had fallen asleep with her mouth wide open by the looks of it. A fine treasure she was.
“We’re nearly there,” he told her softly.
Rosamunde scowled at his gentle tone. She’d been hoping to prove him wrong again yet only a few hours in a carriage and she had fallen asleep like a fragile female. She wasn’t used to travelling long distances though. The rock and sway of the vehicle must have made her tired and the day’s exertions were certainly enough to drain her. After all, it was not every day a lady married a knight she hardly knew.
She peered out of the window and saw it was dusk. Grey-blue light dappled the sky. Clouds dotted the horizon in a vast swathe of texture. The mountains around them were growing steeper and though she was likely only ten or twenty miles from home, the land felt so very foreign. The urge to bury back into Ieuan’s side struck.
But, nay, she would not give into that urge. She would show him—show all of them. She was not some treasure to be tucked away and pandered to. Nor was she nothing but a beautiful face. She wanted adventure and excitement and this was her chance. If she could gain nothing else out of this marriage, she would have her excitement.
The carriage rolled to a halt outside a large inn. The windows glowed against the dark backdrop of the mountains, lighting the whitewashed exterior. The sign showed the image of a king on it but she couldn’t tell which it was meant to be as the paint was flecked and weather worn.
“The King’s Crown,” Ieuan murmured and she threw a quizzical look his way. How did the man know what she was wondering?
One of the men-at-arms—Huw, she recalled—opened the carriage door and Ieuan stepped out, his dark cloak billowing around him. Wind buffeted the side of the carriage and when she poked her head out of the door, she saw the delicate clouds were giving way to dark, ominous ones. They looked to be in for a rainstorm.
Ieuan glanced in the same direction. “Let us pray it does not leave the roads impassable on the morrow.”
“Aye,” she agreed and stepped down. The inn was not particularly shabby but could not compare to those on her father’s land. Trepidation made her limbs feel shaky. She placed her foot on the dry mud and it struck her that this was the first time she had set foot on ground that did not belong to her father.
Mayhap Ieuan noticed, as rather than allowing her to place her hand over his, he grasped her fingers. His gloves were warm, the heat seeping through her own to reach her fingertips. Memories of rough calluses and heated touches seared her mind.
Rosamunde cast her gaze over the paint-flecked window panes and the faded wooden beams of the inn. Several men in brown woollen clothes, their faces dark with grime, were huddled by the side of the inn, just under the eaves. A tight band of tension wrapped around her chest but she drew up her chin. She was to prove herself, aye? Well then let her tolerate whatever faced her. She would show Ieuan—nay, the world—of what she was made.
“Have the horses seen to,” he said to Bryn as the lad clambered down from his spot atop the carriage. Then he motioned to Phylip, Huw and the other men. “Find yourself food and drink, we’ll not need you for the night. I shall see Lady Rosamunde to our rooms.”
“Aye, sir,” Phylip dipped his head and Huw followed suit. They headed to the rear of the tavern and she assumed that was where those who served stayed. Clearly they knew the inn which at least assured Rosamunde of its suitability. Ieuan would not take her somewhere dangerous... or would he?
After all, she hardly knew the man and he was Welsh. She knew little of Wales and he was the first Welshman she had ever met, but Father spoke of their fearsome fighting skills and she had heard tell of the rustic nature of life in Wales. Mayhap what she deemed dangerous, he would not.
“Come, let us go inside before the storm breaks.”
She nodded meekly, hating the way her nervousness had stolen her voice. Nevertheless, she allowed him to lead her to the wooden studded door. He pressed it open and the odour of stale beer and herbs washed over her. She managed not to wrinkle her nose and keep her expression taciturn.
But before
they stepped inside a voice reached her ears. She peeked to the side and saw the group of three men had moved closer. Ieuan tightened his grip on her hand and shifted her behind him so he could face the men.
“Fair maiden, ‘tis a cold eve,” one said, revealing a set of crooked yellow teeth. He didn’t seem perturbed by Ieuan’s stiff shoulders and the way his free hand lingered on the pommel of his sword. “Ye’ll need company this night.”
“She has company, now be gone with you,” Ieuan said with an authoritative air.
“There be three of us and only one of ye, good sir. Why do ye not relinquish the fine lady and ye be gone?”
Ieuan released her hand and urged her farther back. Her breath jammed in her throat. She had never seen him so menacing, not even when facing down his foe during the joust. Then he had been full of charm with an arrogant, confident air to him. Now anger seemed to simmer through his body. She gulped, understanding now she was seeing her real husband here and the knight at the joust had been a mere act.
“I will not warn you twice,” he said, his voice tight. “Be gone with you. Any insult to my lady wife will be considered an insult to me.”
Rosamunde drew in a sharp breath when the man pulled a knife from his belt. It was no match for Ieuan’s blade but there were three of them. She glanced around. Where were Phylip and Huw? They were likely already inside, enjoying an ale. Oh why did Ieuan have to be so foolish as to dismiss them before they were safely inside the inn?
“Ieuan,” she begged, hoping he would heed her and they would dash inside but he ignored her.
Instead he laughed. “You’ll not do much damage with that.”
“Is it such an insult for me to compliment yer fine lady?” The other men laughed.
Sweet Mary, only a day away from her home and already she was in trouble. She might have wanted excitement, but not this!
“Ieuan,” she hissed. “Come, let us leave these men to their business.”
“Aye, do as yer lady wife tells ye, before I stick ye,” the man sneered.
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