The Beauty Bride (The Jewels of Kinfairlie) (29 page)

“Oh
no,” Madeline whispered.

“And
his wife wept, inconsolable at the loss of her son.” Rhys licked his lips, his
gaze upon his own hound, which stared at him adoringly. This tale seemed to
Madeline to be a terrible reason to give a hound such a name. She had no chance
to speak before Rhys continued, his words so melodic that the tale seemed to
cast a spell.

“But
there was a peasant in the bailey, a woman who had come to beg the knight’s
charity on the day that he was at hunt and who had chosen to await his return.
She had seen the snake slither from the window of the nursery, she had seen it
disappear into a hole in the wall of the cellar. She had witnessed the knight’s
return and the anguish that ensued. It was only when she heard the tale of what
had happened, that she wondered about the snake. She had her audience with the
knight, and instead of making her plea, she told him of what she had glimpsed.
He immediately sent men to seek out this uncommon snake.”

Madeline
shivered and it seemed that the night pressed closer. Rhys rose and put some
more wood on the fire. He squatted on the far side of the fire and stared into
the flames. The light danced through the linen of his chemise, painting his
chest with golden light, and she yearned to run her hands across his warm skin
once again.

Then
he spoke, even as he seemed fascinated by the fire. “They found the beast
sleeping in the cellar, where it had hidden for years between the cobbles and
the casks, and they were afraid of its unholy size even while it slumbered. But
the knight and his men attacked it all the same, and they cut off its head,
though it took three strokes from three different blades to break the snake’s
unholy armor. It was then, as the blood of the snake stained their boots, that
they heard a babe crying.”

“Oh!”
Madeline raised her clasped hands to her lips. Rhys cast her a smile and came
to sit beside her, capturing her clasped fingers within the heat of his own. He
rubbed her hands between his, kindling more than one kind of warmth within her.
She could smell his skin and she tingled at his proximity.

“When
the knight and his men looked within the corpse of the snake, they found the
knight’s infant son, bloodied and frightened but otherwise unharmed. So, the
truth of that day’s events was finally known.”

“But
the hound...” Madeline whispered.

Rhys
lifted a curl of her hair in his fingers, turning the tendril in the light of
the fire as if it was uncommonly fascinating. Madeline held her breath.

“Aye,
the hound was dead, and for no good reason. The knight despaired at what he had
done,” he said softly, “for he had killed his most loyal servant unjustly and
he knew the fullness of his sin.”

Madeline
held his hand tightly, even as this Gelert began to snore in contentment. The
hound had spread across the indentation on the cloak that Rhys had left, and
had done so with undisguised contentment.

“The
nursemaid, whose testimony had condemned the hound, left those lands forever
and was never seen again. The knight built a shrine to the memory of Gelert
with his own hands and spent his days in penance and mourning. His lands failed
beneath God’s disfavor, and his keep fell to ruins, save for the shrine which
was visited by one and all. Yet he did not complain, for he knew that this was
the reward for his haste and faithlessness. His lady returned to her family
with their son, abandoning him to his grief, but the knight served his penance
tirelessly.”

Rhys
sighed and entwined his fingers more tightly with those of Madeline. “And so it
is told that when the knight died and faced his judgment, it was his hound,
Gelert, loyal for all eternity, that he found at the very feet of God, begging
clemency for his beloved master.”

Madeline
wiped her tears with the hem of her kirtle, embarrassed to find her eyes wet
while Rhys’ were dry. “You have a power with a tale, husband.”

“I
am Welsh,” he said softly, humor touching his tone this time.

Madeline
offered him an unsteady smile. “Should I be surprised that it is a tale of
loyalty spurned?”

Rhys
shrugged and eyed the dog, seemingly startled by her observation. Madeline
reached up and touched his jaw. The stubble of his beard prickled her palm as
she cupped his face in her hand, and he turned with her urging to look down at
her. There were shadows lurking in his eyes, shadows she yearned to push aside.

“Who
betrayed you, Rhys?” she asked without ever intending to do so. She bit her lip
then, wishing she could call back the question that would only put the wall
between them once again.

Rhys
parted his lips, then closed them again. Madeline was certain he would deny her
an answer once more, but he met her gaze abruptly, solemnly.

“My
father,” he admitted, the confession hoarse.

“But
I thought you were his only son.”

“I
was.” Rhys bent his head and touched his lips to Madeline’s fingertips. The
firelight danced in the ebony curls of his hair and he spoke into her hand, his
gaze hidden from her. “But in the end, a bastard, even a bastard son who served
him well, could not suffice.”

Madeline
had a glimpse of the wound left by that betrayal, a fleeting sight of the hurt
that Rhys hid uncommonly well. She bent and kissed his hand, wondering whether
the salt upon his flesh was from his tears or her own. She eased closer to him
then and touched her lips to the corner of his mouth, feeling him shiver
beneath her caress.

How
could she expect Rhys to understand her notions of marriage, given his own history?
He had never witnessed a loving match, never been able to trust those upon whom
he should have been able to rely.

There
was but one solution: she would have to teach him to trust her. She would have
to teach her husband the merit of a loving, monogamous match.

Madeline
did not doubt that it could be done. Indeed, she sensed that Rhys longed to
trust her but that he dared not do so, out of fear that what he had endured
might repeat itself.

It
was fortunate that she was as persistent as the man believed.

She
slipped her fingers into his hair, keeping her face close to his own. She could
nigh hear his heart begin to pound. “I trust you will not make the same error
with this hound, after we conceive a son,” she whispered.

Rhys
smiled ruefully. “There are no snakes in Caerwyn.”

“And
there is not yet a babe in my belly.” She took his hands and brought them to
her waist. She saw the flash of Rhys’ dark eyes and knew that she wanted to be
with him this night beyond all else. She wanted his heat within her, she wanted
to be surrounded by his embrace. “We have sons to conceive, Rhys. This was our
wager, and I would see it kept.”

Madeline
had truly read her husband’s desire aright. No sooner had she uttered her
invitation than she found herself upon her back, Rhys’ heat above her, and his
kiss demanding her response.

She
knotted her fingers in his hair and drew him closer. She granted the response
he demanded of her, and she granted it most willingly indeed.

* * *

Madeline
found his secrets even when Rhys thought them well disguised. She seemed to be
able peer directly into his heart, to be capable of retrieving what he would
have kept from her at all costs.

And
worse, Rhys did not care.

Madeline
offered him honesty and loyalty that he knew he had done little to deserve. She
offered herself, her passion and her wit, and he would claim each gift with
gusto. He would give her sons, he would give her pleasure, he would give her a
home of which she could be proud. He would defend her against all threats, with
his sword and his life, if need be.

If
her heart was not to be his, what she offered him already would more than
suffice. It was more than any other soul had ever granted to Rhys FitzHenry and
he suspected that it was more than he deserved.

He
was a shameless cur, and this caress she granted him might as well have been
stolen from her. It was gained by deceit, and though he knew it, Rhys did not
confess the truth. He was a cur and a scoundrel - for truly, what manner of
knave would accept what the lady offered without telling her that her beloved
James still drew breath?

* * *

Then
Madeline kissed Rhys with vigor, driving all such concern from his thoughts.
She had learned quickly how pleasure abed was kindled. Her tongue dueled with
his own, her hands ran over him, as if she were impatient as he. He forced
himself to slow their lovemaking, to take the time to savor the taste of her.
He broke their kiss and traced a path to her ear with his lips, smiling against
the softness of her flesh when she whispered his name in complaint.

He
stretched out beside her, one hand running over the her curves lightly as he
kissed her ear. Madeline stirred restlessly, her hand landing upon the lace of
his chausses.

“Patience,”
Rhys counseled softly. “The reward is greater when it is approached slowly.”

In
response, she turned her head and sealed her lips to his again.

Rhys
claimed her busy hands and lifted them over her head, entangling his fingers
with her own. Madeline stretched, arching her back as he unlaced the sides of her
kirtle with his free hand. He slid his hand beneath the cloth and teased her
nipples to peaks. She writhed beside him, the scent of her fairly tormenting
him. He was not surprised to find the dampness gathering between her thighs,
nor that she parted her legs to his questing fingers.

Still
they kissed as if intent upon devouring each other, her hunger for his lips
growing with every passing moment. He took pride in how he coaxed her response,
took pleasure in watching her reach for her own.

There
were few gifts he could give her, but he could give her this one. A flush rose
over her cheeks, a trembling seized her body, and still he coaxed her onward.
And when she cried out, he swallowed the sound of her release with a
satisfaction of his own.

He
let her catch her breath for a moment, before his fingers moved against her
softness again. She gasped his name and he smiled, though he did not cease.

“Again?”
she whispered, even as her body responded.

“A
woman can seize pleasure repeatedly in one night, as we already know. Shall we
not discover how oft it can be done?”

Madeline’s
eyes sparkled and she nestled closer, her fingers falling upon the erection
which strained his chausses. “What of a man?”

“Aye,
that too can be done. All the same, we will pursue mine only once this night.”

Her
smile warmed his heart. “Because you yet fear to hurt me.” She pressed her lips
to the corner of his mouth, her caress fairly driving him mad. “I would not
have you displeased, Rhys.”

“There
is no cause to fear for that,” he grumbled, then moved his fingers against her
once again.

Her
second release came more quickly, though it was more vehement than the first.
Her eyes glittered and her face flushed crimson, yet barely had Madeline cried
out than she was pulling at his chemise.

“I
can wait no longer, Rhys,” she whispered, her urgency like music to his ears.
He shed his boots and chausses with haste, but halted her when she would have
cast aside her kirtle.

“You
will become cold,” he counseled, then slid beneath the hem. Their gazes locked
and held, her lips parted as he eased himself within her heat. He bent and
touched his brow to hers, willing himself to proceed slowly, even as his wife
began to move beneath him.

“You
are a bold wench,” he teased and she laughed.

She
locked her hands around his neck and regarded him with such delight that Rhys
had an idea.

“Hold
fast,” he counseled, then rolled quickly to his back. Madeline gasped, though
he remained buried within her, then she laughed again to find herself atop him.

She
braced her hands upon his shoulders and laughed down at him, her hair in
fetching disarray. “What do I do?”

“Whatsoever
you desire,” he said with a smile. “I am your captive.”

Her
smile turned wicked then and despite his advice, she cast off her kirtle and
chemise. The light of the flames caressed her curves lovingly, gilding her like
the treasure she was. Alexander had rightly called his sister a jewel, though
she was worth far far more than the price Rhys had paid. He was fascinated by
the sight of his wife, enthralled by the way she surveyed him, enchanted by the
glimmer of mischief in her gaze.

When
she began to move, he knew he would not last. He gripped her hips and watched
her, fighting his body’s desire for release. She took such pleasure in the torment
she granted to him that he wanted to endure it all the night long, though that
was not destined to be. With every stroke, he became more taut, he felt more
invincible, her web drew a little tighter around him.

Suddenly,
Madeline laid upon his chest and kissed him soundly. She trailed kisses to his
ear, as he had done to her, and he thought his heart would stop. Rhys caught
her close, loving the press of her breasts against him, the tangle of her hair
in his mouth. They moved together, in perfect concert, and he felt the deep
quiver awaken within her once more.