Passion in the Blood (12 page)

***

The first person Baudoin sought out was Carys and he shared his good news with her. “Carys, you know how much I’ve wanted you. Sometimes it takes all my control not to rip the clothes off your body and make love to you. But I’ve held back, fearing we could never be together. I didn’t want to have you as my mistress. My parents have at long last given us their blessing. Will you come now to my chamber?”

Carys gasped. “I’ve longed to make you mine, Baudoin. I’ve dreamt of it often and the intensity of my dreams has been—”

Baudoin understood Carys’s deep Celtic belief in the power of her dreams. He kissed her, elated at how aroused she’d become. She parted her lips for him readily and he savoured the warmth of her mouth. She tasted of peppermint. They broke apart and walked arm in arm to his chamber. He unwound the wimple from her hair and inhaled deeply as he ran his fingers through it. “What is the scent in your hair?”

She smiled. “It’s elder flowers, and burdock root.”

He nuzzled her nape. “Soft,” he murmured. He put his hands on her hips and lifted off the tabard she wore when she worked.

“Take off your dress, Carys. I want to see you.”

She stooped to lift the hem of her dress and raised her arms to lift the garment over her head. His mouth went dry as the fabric whispered against her skin. Though her chemise was ample, he could see the outline of her breasts. The hard pebbles of her nipples were clearly discernible. He’d fondled them many times and pressed his lips to them, but he’d never seen her completely naked. He was afraid if he spoke now, his voice would fail him.

Without him asking, never taking her eyes from his, and without shame or shyness, she quickly removed the chemise and stood proudly before him. He swallowed hard. “You are magnificent, Carys. So natural and so free. Will you undress me now?”

She smiled and flared her nostrils. His heart was thudding in his ears. He’d removed his doublet and now wore only his shirt, leggings and braies. She tugged the linen shirt over his head, and ran her delicate hands over the muscles of his chest. When she glanced up at him, he sensed she was hesitant to remove the rest of his clothing. He took her hands in his and placed them on his waist, helping her pull the leggings down over his arousal. She blushed. He stepped out of his leggings and placed her hands on his belly.

He put his hands on her hips. “Untie my braies, Carys—please,” he coaxed, looking into her eyes.

She peeled the linen braies from his body. Her breath caught when his shaft sprang free of the confines of the fabric, fully erect. For a moment she looked afraid. He embraced her, pulling their bodies together, his hard male length pressed against her belly. The warmth of her skin penetrated to his core. “Don’t worry, my love. It will be all right. I want to worship you with my body. I’ve burned for you.”

His words seemed to have a hypnotic effect on her and she swayed against him. He leaned away from her, took hold of his shaft and slid it between her legs. His Celtic beauty was warm and wet for him, and it was all he could do not to thrust into her. He was breathing too fast, his heart racing. She moaned when he rolled her nipple between his thumb and finger.

“Hush, Carys,” he said, brushing his lips over hers. He wanted this woman more than he’d ever wanted anything, but he didn’t want to shame her. He wanted her to bear his children, but he wanted them to be his rightful heirs, not his bastards.

He took her hand. “Carys, I’m going to make you mine, only mine. But I don’t intend to plant my seed within you yet. I’ll only do that when we’re married.”

He wasn’t sure she understood what he meant, what such an action would cost him. He picked her up and laid her on his bed where she stretched innocently, her eyes bright, like a cat begging to be stroked and petted. He lay down beside her and suckled, letting his fingers roam softly over her stomach, down her thighs, around her navel, up her neck, down her spine. He suckled harder and harder as his need grew, his teeth grazing the rock-hard nipple. She growled, raking her fingers along his scalp. When he stroked her intimate place it was but seconds before her body arched and she convulsed with the strength of her release.

He held her tightly until her breathing slowed, his head on her breast.

“I’ve ached for you to touch me there,” she whispered.

He looked up at her. Her passion-glazed eyes held only trust and desire. She nodded and opened her legs wider. He dipped his fingers carefully in her hot wetness. He raised his body over her and slowly entered, pushing past the barrier. She cried out and her eyes filled with tears. She bit her lip. He stopped, and waited. He couldn’t wait long.

“Tell me when I can move again. I need to move,” he rasped.

“You can move, my love,” she whispered.

He began slowly, but as he felt the heat build inside her tight passage, he thrust harder and harder, deeper and deeper. She matched his rhythm. Her muscles clenched on him when her second release overwhelmed her. Her guttural cries made his heart soar. She revelled in his possession of her. Her eyes held a look of triumph.

He wanted to stay inside this woman, to possess her completely, but he couldn’t. He wrenched from her and spilled on her belly, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He buried his head in the pillow not wanting her to see him grit his teeth in frustration. His body had found release, but his heart was unsatisfied.

As if she sensed his unease, she drew his head to rest again on her breasts, stroking his hair, making soothing sounds, holding him close. She crooned a Welsh lullaby. He’d died and gone to heaven. He touched the sheen on her belly. She put her hand on his and lazily traced her finger through the glistening wetness.

“Sticky,” she murmured.

He felt renewed interest in his groin.

“I’m yours now, Baudoin,” she whispered.

“You’ve always been mine, Carys. When we’re married, I’ll pump my seed as far inside you as I can, not spill on your belly.”

He kissed her on the forehead, rose from the bed and went to get water and a linen cloth, returning to cleanse her.

“I want to send a message to your father,” he said as he wiped her thighs and belly, then cleansed the blood from his shaft. “It’s time.”

She rose up on her knees and clung to him. “Oh God,” she cried. “What if he doesn’t agree?”

He held her tightly, inhaling the clean scent of her hair, stroking her back. There were difficulties ahead, but they had to be faced. Carys would never marry him if her father objected. “On the morrow, I’ll write a letter to him, requesting a meeting. We’ll find a messenger who can take it to him. Do you know where he is?”

“Yes, he’s in the border village of Rhydycroesau,” she replied.

He laughed. “That’s auspicious. It’s the last place I saw him, after we were ransomed.”

***

As Baudoin held her, Carys felt his heart beating. She wanted to believe they would marry, but had she been so caught up in her deep need to mate with him that she’d allowed him to take her maidenhead prematurely? Her heart’s reasoning had obscured the truth of the matter. Rhodri ap Owain would probably rather die than see his daughter wed to a Norman. He’d spent his life fighting them.

Her heart had also reasoned that because Baudoin’s parents had given their blessing—something she’d never believed would happen—then perhaps her parents too would agree. She was the daughter of a Welsh prince. While in the Norman world she might be a lowly healer, in her world she was a princess.

She believed Baudoin was her destiny. Her dreams had led her to this, and she knew her father trusted in the power of dreams. He too believed in destiny. He’d often described to his children his dream vision of the goddess Arianrhod that had convinced him Rhonwen would be his wife, despite the difficulties they faced. Her father was a warrior, her mother a healer, a woman of peace. Royal blood flowed through Rhodri’s veins. Rhonwen was the illegitimate daughter of a Welsh healer and a Saxon nobleman. Yet their passion and love for each other had overruled.

What would her brothers say? Rhys, the diplomat, would see the benefit of such a marriage in political terms. Twins Rhun and Rhydderch would be furious. Her elder sister, Myfanwy Mabelle, the prioress—Carys didn’t know her well enough to predict what her opinion would be.

She had no guilt feelings. She’d wanted to possess Baudoin, but she worried what he’d do if Rhodri refused permission. It would break her heart, but what would it do to the normally gentle Baudoin?

When Rhodri received Baudoin’s letter he knew exactly what was afoot. Rhonwen had been dropping hints and had finally told him of Carys’s confession of her love for Baudoin.

It rankled that his daughter would want to wed a Norman, and he hoped she hadn’t already been shamed. However, he was a believer in the power of destiny, and if this was Carys’s destiny, he couldn’t stand in its way. He was reading the letter over when his eldest son entered the room.

“What’s that you’re reading intently?” Rhys asked.

Rhodri showed the letter to his son. “Baudoin wants to wed Carys.”

Rhys thought for a while before he spoke. “We already have fairly good relations with the Earl of Ellesmere because of you and Mother—well, because of Mother anyway. An alliance can’t hurt us. But it will mean she’ll have to remain in England, and the political situation between Normandie and England is unstable at best. The Anglo-Normans try to serve two masters. Some day they’ll need to choose between the King of the English and the Duke of the Normans. We may be putting her into the lion’s den.”

Rhun and Rhydderch had entered the room. Both men tensed as they listened to Rhys, but it was Rhun who spoke first. “Aren’t we gathered here to plan strategy for the next round of raids into England, and against footholds the Normans have gained in Wales? Why are we discussing Carys?”

“What are we talking about?” Rhydderch asked. “Putting Carys in what lion’s den?”

These red headed twins were volatile and Rhodri anticipated a strong reaction. He explained the situation to them, seeing their tempers rising.

“You must be mad to consider this Father. A Norman,” Rhydderch spat.

Rhodri held up his hand in what he hoped was a calming gesture. “What if she loves him, my boys, what then? If your mother hadn’t followed her destiny, her love for me, none of you would be here today. And I know Baudoin. He was my pupil!”

Rhun shook his head vehemently. “I can’t condone it, Father.”

“It’s not your decision, Rhun,” his father reminded him. “It’s mine.”

The redheads glowered at him, their tattooed arms folded in defiance across their chests. But they recognized his word as law. He would decide Carys’s fate. They might not like his decision, but they wouldn’t challenge it.

***

There was no mist as Rhodri and his three sons watched Baudoin and Carys ride across the uneven cobblestones of the bridge. Baudoin reined his horse to a halt and called to his former captor. “I haven’t crossed this particular bridge into Wales since the kidnapping. What is it now, twenty-five years ago?”

He smiled across at Carys, mounted on her mare beside him and dismounted. “I remember waving goodbye to your father. I was clutching the wooden shield he’d given me in one hand and holding Giselle’s hand with the other.”

Rhodri dismounted. “Five and twenty? Give or take,” he agreed.

Baudoin helped Carys down from her mare. The others remained on their horses. Carys walked to her father and embraced him. “Thank you for coming, Father,” she said in Welsh.

He kissed her forehead. He was proud of his beautiful daughter. She looked well, if nervous. He didn’t offer his hand to Baudoin, but asked in Welsh, “Baudoin, how is my little Norman warrior?”

“I’m hale, my teacher,” the Norman responded in Welsh. “I’ve come to ask for Carys’s hand in marriage.”

Rhodri shifted his stance—straight to business then. He remained silent for several minutes, staring at Baudoin. When he spoke there was no teasing in his expression. “If you harm my daughter, Norman, I will kill you. I’ll hunt you to the ends of the earth and I’ll kill you slowly and painfully.”

Baudoin looked directly at him. “I love her. I won’t harm her.”

Rhodri shook his head and insisted. “There’ll be others where you take her who may wish to harm her.”

Still Baudoin didn’t look away, his eyes locked on Rhodri’s. “On my honour, I’ll protect her with my life.”

There was a time when the word of honour of a Norman would have meant nothing to Rhodri, but Baudoin was the son of an honourable man, whose life he’d spared many years ago. Baudoin’s sister, Rhoni, had been born in his own fortress of Cadair Berwyn and named for his wife, Rhonwen. It wasn’t long ago he and his men had saved Baudoin’s half-brother from drowning in the River Dee. No, he was not a man to stand in the way of destiny. He turned to his daughter, looked into her eyes and said, “Carys, you’re aware I don’t want you to go with this man. But as you know, I’m a great believer in the power of love.” He winked.

He could tell from his daughter’s expression she found his words amusing when she looked at her fierce father with his wild black hair, his braids, his tattoos, his intimidating body, his dagger tucked at his waist. She tried hard to control a grin. But she knew he did believe in the power of love. He’d wooed a shy healer to share his difficult life. “I’ve never loved you more than I do at this moment,” she rasped. “Father, you know he’s my destiny.”