Welshman's Bride

by Bancroft, Blair

  Dear God, I’d done it!

  Not quite, for the sun was now well up, midday fast approaching. My absence would have been discovered, my letters to Rhys and Matty. Pursuit was inevitable. I trotted out of the stableyard at a pace brisk enough to throw dust in the ostler’s face. If I knew Rhys, I needed to be over the River Dee as fast as possible.

  And what made me think he would not pursue me into England?

  What made me think he would pursue me at all? Perhaps it would be, Good riddance, English. And goodbye to the worst mistake I ever made. Or would Rhys simply offer a sigh of relief that I was gone, leaving all my dazzlingly generous dowry behind?

  Although the mountains were not as high now, the road to England was anything but straight and flat. It rose and plunged, snaked left then right and back again. Clumps of bushes became copses of close-set trees. As I entered a particularly dense woods, a shiver shook me. Perhaps due to leaving the sun behind? Or perhaps my inability to see if anyone followed me?

  A man, with his hat pulled low over his face, rode out from the shelter of the trees, startling me even before I saw the pistol in his hand. After all I’d been through, a highwayman? Despair swamped fear and anger as I realized that if the highwayman took my money, I could not buy a ticket on the stage . . . I could not reach home before I was found and dragged back to whatever fate awaited me at Glyn Eirian.

  Yet how was he to know I carried a pouch beneath my gown? I squared my shoulders and faced him with what I hoped appeared to be courage, though, truthfully, I was torn between fear and railing at Fate for putting this obstacle between me and freedom.

  “Remarkable,” said a mellifluous voice I recognized on the instant. “You led me a merry chase, Jocelyn. I did not realize you had it in you.”

  Trystan?

  I said the first thing that came into my head. “How did you find me?”

  “So simple,” he purred. “The others are still searching the house and grounds from top to bottom, but I, of course, knowing you had not been abducted by the villain, was free to speculate where you might have gone. And naturally, home was the obvious choice.”

  “But my letters . . .?”

  “In the fire, I fear. You see, the tweeny who lights your fire each morning is a particular friend of mine, and suspecting you might run, I made certain she came to me with any letters you might leave lying about.”

  Even as the enormity of Trystan’s villainy struck me, a frisson of relief swept through me, for his guilt meant that Rhys was innocent. Rhys would come for me. I only had to stall for time.

  A more fanciful notion I never head. Think of the size of Glyn Eirian. It could be hours before they give up searching the grounds and consider you might have run for home.

  What did a slim chance matter when it was all the hope I had?

  “Did you do it all?” I asked. “Surely you must have had help.”

  Trystan pushed his hat higher on his head, revealing his beautiful poet’s face, his customary dreamy expression now twisted into sly malice. “A bit,” he admitted. “I must say Liliwen showed me the way. I could see how pleased Gwendolyn was when Liliwen made your life difficult. And then when she and Eilys stranded you on the island—”

  “Eilys? That was Liliwen and Eilys?”

  “Of course. Eilys participated with right good will. Anything to ruin you in Rhys’s eyes.”

  “But surely they had nothing to do with Hugh’s death?” I prodded, attempting to satisfy my curiosity even as I played for time.

  Trystan heaved a sigh, his eyes sliding away to the distance, his lips thinned to a grim line. “That was quite a different matter,” he muttered. “I suppose in the back of my mind I knew that Gwendolyn would be glad to see him gone, but . . .

  “I was out walking,” he continued, his gaze still fixed on the past. “Finding my muse, if you will. At one point the Burnley lands join Glyn Eirian, and there I found him, sitting on a rock, evidently enjoying a crisp and colorful autumn view as much as I.” Trystan’s horse sidled, reflecting his rider’s sudden jerk on the reins. I dared not say a word for fear I would disturb the moment, so I waited, hoping for enlightenment.

  “He was so beautiful,” Trystan whispered. “The sun shining on his blond hair, his shoulders broad, his body lean . . .”

  Shock poured through me. “You . . .? He . . .?”

  “You have it, my dear. How very clever of you.”

  Trystan had attempted . . . I could not form the words. Trystan had approached Hugh, I amended. Hugh had resisted, and . . . Stupid of me, I suppose, but I had to ask. “Did you kill Eilys as well?”

  Slowly, Trystan turned his head, focusing on me instead of the past. “She was my friend,” he told me. “But never yours. She even helped me roll the boulders.”

  A wave of nausea swept over me. The reality of such hatred was far worse than anything I had imagined.

  “But she became fearful,” Trystan added. “She was with me when I discovered I’d shot your stupid cousin instead of you, and she finally realized I must have killed Dawnay as well. Would you believe she turned on me? She was going to tell Rhys everything. I had no choice but to rid myself of such a threat.”

  “But why did you want to kill me?” I asked in a whisper, hope of rescue rapidly fading. “I truly do not understand.”

  Trystan stroked his horse’s mane, perhaps having difficulty finding an answer. “At first, for Eilys’s sake,” he said. “Because she had been abandoned. And then because Gwendolyn wished you gone and Rhys had not the sense to realize he had betrayed his country when he married you. You are appallingly English, my girl. Anglo-Saxon to the core. And when you shamed Gwendolyn before us all, there could be no doubt. You had to go, and I saw only one way to do it.

  “And now,” he added, his lips curling in an evil smile, “I’ve allowed you to waste too much time, though I must say I have enjoyed revealing my role in your discomfort.”

  Discomfort? “Trystan, please,” I babbled, “you don’t really want to do something that will bring Rhys down on your head.”

  He raised the pistol, aiming it straight for my heart.

  And then he was slumping in the saddle, tumbling to the ground, the pistol firing harmlessly into the forest as it hit the road.

  I swayed, staring mindlessly at his crumpled body. The body with an arrow piercing his chest from front to back.

  A rumble like thunder enveloped me, but only when strong arms held me tight did my mind calm enough to make sense of it all. The rumble was the pounding hooves of Rhys and the guardsmen. The arms, my husband’s. The arrow . . .? I raised my face from Rhys’s shoulder in time to see Daffyd Llewellyn ride up, his longbow towering above his back. I had no doubt that was only because he had taken the time to unstring it and return it to its customary place. I owed him my life. About that I had no doubt.

  I straightened in the saddle, gulped a breath to steady my nerves, and faced my savior square on. “It was you, was it not?” A man of few words, Daffyd nodded, but his dark eyes met mine in a display of loyalty as firm as his loyalty to Rhys and Glyn Eirian. I managed a heart-felt “Thank you!” before the high emotions of the last few hours overwhelmed me, my hands flying up to cover my face while I sat in the saddle like some great lump, unworthy of my heritage.

  “Come,” Rhys said, speaking in a voice he might use to Carys as he plucked the reins from my unresisting fingers. “Let us go home.”

  And so we did, leaving Daffyd and his men to bring Trystan’s body back to Glyn Eirian.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Rhys’s first question came almost as soon as we were out of sight of the sad scene we left behind, his relief suddenly exploding into anger. “How could you leave without a word?” he roared. “Insanity, Jocelyn. Or a nasty turn of character I did not know you had.”

  “Oh no!” I protested. “I wrote letters to both you and Matty. But Trystan had such a way with him, don’t you know? He told me he suspected I might try to escape and charmed the twee
ny into keeping a lookout for any notes I might write, telling her to bring them to him straight-way. He tossed them into the fire.”

  “Ah.” Rhys slumped in the saddle. “My apologies, Jocelyn. I had no idea he could be so devious. Let alone dangerous.”

  We rode in silence to the village where I had acquired my horse. There, after making arrangements to keep the horse until the next day, we settled into a snug at the inn for some hot tea and cold meats, and the whole of Trystan’s confession poured from my lips.

  “Then Mother was not directly responsible?” Rhys asked when my narrative wound to a close.

  The only truthful answer I could give was, “I think not. Yes, her attitude encouraged Liliwen to mischief, and it’s possible Trystan’s twisted mind used it as justification for what he did. But did she plot my death?” I paused, once again questioning just how far Gwendolyn would go. “At one time I admit I thought so,” I continued, “but after hearing Trystan’s words, I think not.”

  At least I hoped not.

  Rhys added a good dollop of brandy to his tea and drank it straight down. “I believe it is time for Mother to live elsewhere, though losing Gruffydd will be a sore blow.”

  I huffed a breath. “Then it’s true?”

  Rhys offered me one of those grown-man-to-naive-girl smiles I hated so much. “For years now. I have always wondered if she actually thought it a secret.”

  So it was to be Sink or Swim for the both of us. The whole of Glyn Eirian—house, mines, foundry, and valley, on our shoulders. Or . . . had Rhys found me wanting? The coward who ran away and was therefore unfit?

  Pushing that problem aside, I focused on Gwendolyn instead. “Do you think,” I asked, the words forming in my mind the moment before I said them, “Gwendolyn and Gruffydd might wish to help with the Eisteddfod? I understand it has been struggling since its revival and needs all the help it can get.”

  Rhys issued what sounded perilously like a snort. “The English do everything they can to throw obstacles in the way. Even the Church finds it far too close to praising the old religion. I doubt anything can save it.”

  “If anyone can, it’s Gwendolyn,” I declared. “And . . . perhaps that’s the answer,” I mused. “The old religion. If we can add a bit of mystique, a dash of the ancient Druids perhaps . . .”

  “Druids!” Rhys mocked. “Come now, Jocelyn. Clearly the morning’s events have scrambled your wits.” And then he laughed. “You said, ‘we,’ he chortled. ‘If we can add a bit of mystique . . .’”

  And suddenly we were both laughing, and for the first time in weeks I allowed myself to picture a bright future. If, that is, I had finally grown up. If Rhys still loved me. Or at the least did not actually wish to reject the bride who had caused so much trouble.

  When we finally reached Glyn Eirian, I collapsed into Alice’s ministrations, waking only in time to dress for dinner. Although I was urged to stay in bed, there were people I needed to see, matters I needed to address. Such as make certain Matty was doing well—which, thank God, she was. Hug Lady Aurelia tight, and take Gwendolyn’s hands firmly in mine, though I admit my apology was silent. Too much had passed between us for us to be comfortable with each other.

  Yet when we sat down to dinner, after days—no, weeks—of strained conversation or near silence, it seemed as if we had been transplanted into the Tower of Babel. Everyone spoke at once, our voices running the gamut from sorrow to amazement to relief, with a bit of outright laughter thrown in for good measure. I welcomed the change, and hoped for many similar moments in the future.

  The buoyancy so apparent at the dinner table withered and died in the profound silence of the drawing room. No matter their villainy, Eilys and Trystan had been enormously talented, their loss, a loss for Wales. I suspected it might be well into the new year before we could even think about finding another harper and poet. Or, more likely, persons with entirely different skills.

  No one was surprised when I made an early night of it. As I passed Daffyd on my way out of the drawing room, I suddenly recalled the light shining in Matty’s eyes when she told me that ever since she had been allowed out of bed to sit up in a chair, Daffyd had been a frequent visitor. Guilt, she had thought at first, because she had been injured on his watch. But now . . . now she had begun to hope that in time his grief might heal. That he would see what had been waiting in an entirely different direction. Matty’s voice trailed into silence, her face flushing fiery red, before she admitted to indulging in daydreams featuring Glyn Eirian’s rugged captain of the guard. I had stared, quite slack-jawed at the mercurial quirks of love. But not surprisingly, as I trudged up the stairs, hope for the future once again tugged my narrowed lips into a smile. Daffyd and Matty. Gruffydd and Gwendolyn. Rhys and Jocelyn? Only time would tell.

  Although I was still worn to the bone, I sat up in bed, my knees pulled to my chin, and waited for Rhys. I hoped he needed me, hoped he wanted me to stay. But it was possible he felt I was not worth the trouble I had caused, that I must be banished along with Gwendolyn and Gruffydd. After all, there were enough women lusting after the position of chatelaine of Glyn Eirian to line the road all the way to Cardiff. I had not, however, seen any sign at dinner that Rhys had spoken to either his mother or his seneschal about exile from Glyn Eirian, so perhaps he had changed his mind, and only I was to go . . .

  My fears increased when he did not sit on the edge of the bed but pulled up a chair instead. Not good.

  “You have had a very long day,” Rhys said. “Are you certain you want to have this conversation now?”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “And what makes you think I want any conversation?” I asked with more than a little truculence.

  Amusement—miserable man!—amusement sprang to life in his eyes. “Perhaps because you’ve had so little sleep, yet here you are, sitting upright, arms crossed, clearly ready for an argument.”

  “Oh.” Hastily, I uncrossed my arms and clasped them on top of the coverlet.

  “I have spoken with Mother and Gruffydd.” Rhys made a face as he ran a hand through his dark wavy hair. “The hardest conversation of my life. Worse than informing Mama she was no longer chatelaine of Glyn Eirian.”

  I waited, terrified of what he might say next.

  “I think they were relieved, though it was plain to see leaving will be a considerable wrench. Nonetheless, they were pleased by the idea of giving their support to the Eisteddfod, making it a permanent event, possibly something that will eventually have meaning beyond the Welsh border.” Rhys hesitated, looking down, and I suspected the worst. To my astonishment, however, he lifted his head, looked me straight in the eye, and said, “Liliwen, with your permission, would like to stay.”

  What? I had torn apart the very fabric of life at Glyn Eirian. I well deserved being sent back to England in disgrace. Yet Rhys was asking my permission for Liliwen to remain in the home of her birth? “Liliwen wishes to stay?” I echoed, unable to gather the remotest resemblance to rational thought.

  “If you will allow it. Hopefully, Carys as well.” Rhys’s remarkable blue eyes begged me to be kind.

  “But of course Carys.” The words burbled out of their own accord, while my mind raced to adjust to the possibility of hope. Rhys still considered me chatelaine of Glyn Eirian? He truly expected me to stay?

  But did he wish me to stay? Or was he merely adjusting to circumstances? Even the ever-competent Rhys Maddox could not manage the whole on his own.

  “I thought—I mean . . .” I stumbled, tried again. “I have caused so much trouble . . .” Surely fleeing Glyn Eirian in the middle of the night toppled me off the pedestal of newfound maturity, disqualifying me from me from maintaining my place at his side.

  Rhys, shaking his head, had the oddest expression on his face, as if he could not believe I could be so dense. And then something soft and gentle—a look of love?—transformed his face into the man I had come to know before so much sorrow fell upon us. The man I longed to call husband for the rest of my day
s.

  His hand rose to caress my cheek. “My dear, foolish Jocelyn. Yes, I wish you could have trusted me, but it took a great deal of courage to do what you did. I even understand why you felt alone, and no one can deny you were right to fear for your life.”

  “Truly? You do not still think of me as a child?”

  Rhys groaned, but his eyes were laughing at my nonsense. “Foolish girl, I have loved you almost from the moment I first saw you from across a ballroom. In that instant I consigned both rich dowry and the copper mine to the devil, if only I might have that blonde beauty who sparkled brighter than the thousand candles lighting the room. And fortunately my impulse proved well worth the time it took to pry you away from all your admirers. You were everything I wanted in a woman, and I never doubted time and experience would smooth the proud beauty into the wife I longed to have.”

  At this caveat, my thrill at hearing Rhys say he loved me suffered a setback. I frowned.

  “Foolish girl,” he added hastily, “of course I cannot manage Glyn Eirian without you.”

  My frown grew into a scowl.

  “Jocelyn Maddox, you are the most stubborn, intransigent, incomprehensible woman of my acquaintance—”

  “And that is certainly vast.”

  “Jocelyn!”

  Silently, we glared at each other until the utter ridiculousness of it all brought a bubble of sanity to my thoughts. There was so much, so very much, I had never said. “I have to admit,” I began, so softly I was close to mumbling, “that it took me a while to appreciate you. I could recognize your worth. Not your money,” I quickly qualified, “but the worth of your character. But love? As I am certain you know, that was more elusive. I’m not sure when it happened. Perhaps as soon as I experienced your kindness to a girl who had never anticipated she would be homesick. But then came Glyn Eirian and Gwendolyn and all that happened after. One moment I loved you desperately, the next I was terrified. I burrowed into the shelter of your arms yet found myself appalled by my possible naivety. I am so sorry, so very sorry,” I cried. “I should have managed better, should have had more trust.”