Shuddering as a blanket of wind wrapped around his bare legs, he found his braies and chausses and pulled them on. He wouldn’t bother with the chainmail as he only intended to ride into the village and there would be little danger there. Though Wales was fraught with peril, his home was in a position that they would be able to see potential danger from miles off. Instead he slipped his tunic on over his shirt and tied up his boots. Meanwhile gentle feminine breaths told him his wife slept on.
His wife. In such a short time, he’d gained a wife and a castle. And now a goodly amount of wealth. Not bad for a bastard.
Hand to his hair, he shoved it from his face and finger-combed it. He would clean up at the well rather than disturb Rosamunde. The water would be like ice but that might be a good thing. At present a whole ocean full of ice water would not douse the memory of Rosamunde’s naked body or the way she wound herself around him at night. Mayhap he would send up a bath for her. That would keep her occupied for a while.
By the time he’d made his way down to the Great Hall, the morning meal was under way. His household was small—he needed few maids and servants—so they occupied the only table, leaving enough space for him and his wife. However, he’d need to commission new tables for guests. Feasting hardly seemed appropriate when his country was suffering so but he would be expected to entertain any visiting nobles. In truth, the idea turned his stomach. He would have to continue his pretence of being someone he was not. He only hoped the search for his father didn’t last a lifetime or else he’d be spending the rest of his life hiding behind another name.
Ieuan ate quickly, ignoring the coarse bread in favour of boiled beef. After draining some ale, he rose and made his way to the well outside. A few chickens pecked their way across the bailey and one gave a squawk as he nearly stepped on it. Ieuan cursed at the feathered annoyance and waved a greeting to the men at the gate. It had taken some getting used to—dealing with men of his own and servants and managing a castle. Some days, he’d rather he was just a lowly bastard child again, responsible for only himself. But for the most part, he relished being looked to and having the chance to better himself.
That was, as long as the king didn’t take the opportunity away from him. He’d likely be put to death alongside the prince’s legitimate children. He put a hand to his neck and imagined the burn of the rope with a shudder.
The morning sun streamed across the valley, turning the yellowed grass into burnt amber. He paused to view it over the grey stone walls. Whenever he doubted his ability to take on such responsibilities, he need only look at his great country and recall why it was so important. He could have a hand in their recovery. Ieuan didn’t have the same passion for independence his father had. He only saw the damage it wrought, but then many of his generation had fallen out of love with the idea. As long as the king left them in peace, Wales could continue on as they had always done.
In spite of the morning rays, the day hadn’t warmed. Which was a fine thing. He stopped by the edge of the well and gave the maids a smile as they drew up water.
“Pray send a bath up to Lady Rosamunde before she awakens,” he ordered. The three young girls smiled. They all looked alike in their wimples and plain brown gowns so Ieuan didn’t even attempt to greet them by name.
“Aye, sir,” they said in unison.
When he drew off his shirt to wash, he rolled his eyes and turned his back to them. He’d had his fair share of maids but he was certain he hadn’t bedded any of these. He’d hardly had the time since taking over the castle. That didn’t stop them giggling and pausing to watch him though.
He glanced at them over his shoulder as he drew up the bucket. “Be off with you,” he scolded lightly and they scurried away.
Ieuan scrubbed his torso vigorously with the icy water before dunking his head into the bucket and scraping his hands through his hair. When he raised his head, he found his wife, arms folded, glaring at him. He lifted a brow.
“Good morrow, my lady.”
“Whatever are you doing, Ieuan?”
“Having a wash.”
She huffed. “I can see that, but... out here,” she hissed, “for all to see? Is that necessary?”
He peered around at the men atop the walls and the farmers bringing up a pig to the kitchen. No one seemed to care that he was bathing by the well. It wasn’t unusual for him to do so when he didn’t have time for a bath, and all the other men bathed here. Then he noted the maids standing by the hall doorway, still watching him. He narrowed his gaze at them and they turned and fled.
Ieuan turned his attention back to his wife. Sure enough, two spots of colour were high on her cheeks. They were slightly puffed out as though she was holding back an indignant breath. Was she jealous? The thought made his lips twist. He’d dealt with jealous women before but never one like Rosamunde. What did she have to be jealous of? She was surely the most beautiful woman in England and now Wales.
He grinned to himself. He wouldn’t tell her that quite yet. He planned to enjoy her jealousy a little longer. “You were sleeping and I wished not to disturb you. I bathe here frequently.”
“The...” She unfolded her arms then crossed them again. “The women were watching you.”
He lifted a shoulder and turned back to the bucket. With a show of disinterest, he gave his torso another scrub. Call it revenge for the sleepless night but he couldn’t help but enjoy the way she huffed and tapped her foot on the dry ground. When he faced her again, her cheeks were so red, he feared she might burn up. Ieuan took pity on her and pulled on his shirt.
“Do you not mind that you are being watched?”
“Why should I? You were watching me, were you not? Should I send you away too?”
“Nay! But... but I am your wife.”
“You are indeed.” He took a swift step forward and hooked an arm around her waist. She gasped as he drew her close. “Good morrow, wife.” He pressed a firm kiss to her lips then drew back to view her astonished expression. Aye, he was meant to be proving himself better than this, but he couldn’t help it. The sleepless night and having her curled up against him all eve had addled his brain.
With her taste still burning on his lips and the touch of her soft samite gown against his palm, he took a moment to study her. The sun behind them shone through her fair hair, casting it into rivers of gold. He almost shook his head at himself. Hell’s teeth, he nearly sounded like a bard. And yet more thoughts of beauty and milky skin and rose-tinged cheeks invaded his mind.
He dropped his hand from her waist and stepped back before he did something foolish like spill those words from his mouth or take her then and there in the dirt. Disappointment shuttered her gaze but it was nothing like the heavy weight settling in his stomach. He’d have to take her tonight. It couldn’t be put off any longer. Somehow he’d have to show patience and not give in to the burning desire that flooded his body every time he was around her. Once that was over with, he could concentrate.
He hoped.
Ieuan coughed. “Did you rest well?”
“Well enough.”
“I’m to speak with the carpenter today about window frames. I’ll have to have the glass sent up from Caerdydd but you’ll not have to sleep in a cold room for much longer, I swear.”
“Are you going into the village?”
Rosamunde clasped her hands in front of her so that they vanished inside the long, pale blue sleeves. He eyed those sleeves with their gold trim and then the rest of her gown. The bodice was embroidered with the same gold pattern and a leather girdle hung about her hips. He’d seen women wear jewels and gold about their waist, and no doubt she owned many fine trinkets like that, but the leather girdle was well-tooled with intricate designs and likely cost more than many of the villeins’ entire fortunes. What would they think of his rich, exquisitely beautiful wife?
“Aye, I just need to fetch my blade from the armoury, then I’ll be riding into the village.”
“I should like to come with you.”
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“Nay.”
One thin brow rose up. “Nay?”
“You’ll be staying here.” Both brows shot up this time and he had the distinct feeling that look meant trouble. “Do not even think about sneaking out.”
“Sneaking out? Am I to be locked away? You plan to keep me within the walls of your freezing, crumbling castle? Should I not visit with the villeins who would be under my care should I need to stand in your stead?”
She had him there. He would need to acquaint her with the villagers eventually. And it was likely he would need to travel to commission the work he needed on the castle. The villagers were skilled in carpentry and metalwork, however he’d need to bring in stone, glass and fabric from the towns. The castle might run well enough without him but his household would naturally look to his lady wife. It was expected she take a role, after all.
“Very well.” He thrust a finger toward her. “But do not think you can behave as you did with your father. This is not Tynewell. These are dangerous lands and you’d make a fine prize. I have no wish to pay a ransom for you. Never go anywhere without me. Is that clear?”
Those eyebrows remained raised. If ever a man was going to be cowed by eyebrows, it would be hers. But, damnation, he was a warrior, a Welshman. No woman had ever cowed a Welshman.
“If I had realised I would be trapped in this castle for the rest of my life I might have made a better attempt at escaping this marriage.”
That hurt. A sharp jab struck his chest. The need to hurt her back forced the next words from him. “You would not have survived a day. Remember the state I found you in. Do not make the mistake of thinking you could survive any better here, Rosamunde. I expect you to obey me.”
She opened her mouth then clamped it shut again. Pain swam in those hazel eyes and he felt his insides shrivel up. Barbarian, beast, fiend. Anything but a gentleman, that was him. Who spoke to a lady that way, let alone his wife?
“Rosamunde—”
She held up a hand. “I am wearied suddenly. I shall join you on your next journey to the village. Good day to you, dear husband.”
With that, she snatched her skirts and turned, leaving him to watch the swish of samite as she made her way across the bailey. The hens avoided her, of course, and his men watched her with mild amusement and if he was not mistaken, a little desire in their eyes. They wouldn’t dare act upon it but no doubt they’d enjoy talk of how their master had made the fair lady angry. Hell, he was willing to wager none of them would anger her so. Even the coarsest of men had a sweeter tongue than he.
Ieuan scuffed the back of his hand across his chin. It seemed he was destined to forever paint himself as quite the beast around his wife and this was the sort of trouble he didn’t need. He had too much to focus on as it was, let alone an angry wife after only four days of marriage. He lifted his gaze to the heavens. “God give me strength.”
With a wife like Rosamunde, he would need it.
Chapter Thirteen
With no chairs to sit on in the hall, Rosamunde had found herself sitting on a fur by the fire. She could have occupied one of the benches but the day had turned cold as the sun had dropped and she didn’t relish the idea of being by the hole in the wall. She shuddered and drew her cloak around her.
The fire cast great shadows about the room. Were she on her own she would be quite terrified. The ominous black creatures danced upon the wall, turning the few stone carvings into ugly beasts. Several large candles were impaled on spikes about the hall but to her that simply added to the sinister effect. Her heart ached for her comfortable home with its elegant candelabras and bright tapestries.
She glanced at the woman beside her, Gwen, who had taken on the role of her lady-in-waiting. The dark-haired woman was sweet and gentle but Rosamunde missed her friends. Huffing a breath, she offered the woman a smile. They were about the same age. Was she not meant to be proving to herself—and everyone else—she was stronger than she appeared? Why could she not make friends with the woman and create a new, comfortable life for herself? Mayhap the castle simply needed a woman’s touch.
And a new wall. And new windows. And...
Well, she would do what she could at least.
“Have you lived here long, Gwen?”
“Nay, my lady. Just since Sir Ieuan took the castle over. Before that it was empty. I used to live in the village with my papa.”
“You worked for him?”
“Aye, on the farm.” Gwen offered a smile and gave a sideways glance. “I prefer working here.”
Jealousy stabbed her insides until she realised where Gwen’s gaze was directed. One of the men standing by the table drinking had also been glancing their way all evening. He was handsome with fair hair and a neat beard. At least one woman did not seem to find her husband attractive. To watch the maids fawning over Ieuan was almost more than she could bear. Why it turned her into a seething, jealous wretch, she knew not, but the thought that mayhap he had bedded these women when he refused to touch her made her skin hot and her pulse pound. And not in the pleasant way his touch did.
“Who is that?” Rosamunde asked when Gwen glanced over at the men once more.
“Who, my lady?”
Even in the firelight, she saw the blush on Gwen’s cheeks. “The man you keep looking at.”
“Rhys. He is one of Sir Ieuan’s most trusted men. He runs the keep when the master is not here. At least, he did before...”
“Before I arrived.”
“Aye, you shall be taking on all those duties, will you not?”
“I suppose so. If Ieuan allows it.”
“He is a proud man but a good master.”
Rosamunde traced the floral pattern on the edge of her sleeve with a finger. “He is...” She sighed. “In truth, I know not what he is. I hardly know him.”
“Many a woman has done worse for herself.” Gwen laid a hand on her arm.
Stiffening, Rosamunde patted the stop of her hand. She could not discuss her husband with Gwen. She hardly knew how she felt about him and she certainly didn’t wish to reveal he hadn’t bedded her yet. Offering up a quick grin, she leaned into the woman. “And what of you? Shall you take a husband soon? Rhys, mayhap.”
“He does not look at me.”
“You are fair and kind. He should.”
“Aye, but men are fools, my lady. I have learned that much. They are stubborn and unable to see what is in front of them. He is more interested in Sorcha.”
She followed Gwen’s narrowed gaze and understood Rhys’s distraction. The young serving girl was curvaceous and eye-catching. Rosamunde recalled she was one of the women who had been looking at Ieuan as though she wished to jump on him then and there that morning.
“Give him time. If he is worthy of you, he shall see past her looks.”
“’Tis well enough for you, my lady. You are a fine beauty.”
“Much good it has done me. I have been treated differently my entire life and I knew not why until recently. Mayhap I should be more like Sorcha.”
“Nay, pray do not be.” Gwen giggled. “The woman has not the ability to laugh at anything and is not at all bright.”
Rosamunde giggled too but the sound was lost when the door swung open. Her heart thrummed in her chest as Ieuan stepped in and slammed the door shut behind him. He drew off his cloak and handed his sword to one of the men who carried it off to the armoury. Then his gaze settled on her. A great ache became trapped in her chest. With the exception of Gwen, she knew no one and, in spite of herself, she had missed him.
Before she could stop her, Gwen excused herself, darting an impish look between her and Ieuan. Clearly she thought they needed time alone. But what would she say to him when they had parted so angrily? She turned her gaze to the fire and tried to become lost in the licking, tumbling flames, but the sound of boots upon floorboards sent a shiver up her spine.
Then there was a creak, a rustle and he was beside her. She peeked sideways at him and had to fight to catch her breat
h. His hair was mussed, his clothes crumpled. He had slung an arm lazily across one knee, the other leg tucked beneath it. And he eyed her from beneath his brow with great intensity.
“I... I feared you would not come back.”
“Why would I not come back to my own castle?”
She turned her attention back to the edge of her sleeve, plucking at the embroidery. “You were angry with me.”
Ieuan chuckled and drew her hand into his, preventing her from touching the gold stitching any longer and forcing her attention on him. “You were angry with me, I believe. Besides which, you cannot force a Welshman from his home. He always returns, regardless of what troubles he faces.”
Rosamunde found herself smiling in spite of everything. There was some hint of that man she had met during the tournament, the one who had kissed and charmed her, and here he was charming her again. If only she understood him better, then she might know how to react to him and his ever-changing mood.
“Always? Even when his wife is angry with him?”
“Always. Especially when his wife is angry with him. A man knows never to leave an angry wife for long.”
“Are all Welshman that wise?”
“Most of us are, aye.” He twisted his fingers between hers and stared at their joined hands while she did the same. “Do you know the tale of Owain?”
She blinked at him for several moments but was loath to say anything to banish this playful side of him so she simply shook her head.
“Owain was a knight of The Round Table and an explorer. He met his love when he slaughtered her husband out of revenge.”
“That does not sound a good way to meet your love.”
“Hush, will you listen to my tale or not?”
She fell quiet, aware of the teasing tone behind his words.
“Laudine was the Lady of the Fountain. She commanded a castle and lands and the waters of the fountain held supernatural powers. Owain fell instantly in love with her and she agreed to marry him for protection. But, alas, adventure drew him away. Laudine did not wish him to go but she offered him a ring that protected true lovers from bodily harm. However, he had to return within a set number of days.”
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