Rexanne Becnel (9 page)

Authors: The Knight of Rosecliffe

BOOK: Rexanne Becnel

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Rhonwen had never before been inside a castle, and as they crossed the bailey, she stared wide-eyed about her. The two-story great hall. The stone stables and barracks. The kitchen. She remembered the kitchen, for it had been constructed even before the walls.

Behind them someone called to the guard who’d accompanied them and he trotted off in another direction. Then as they went up the four broad steps to the main hall, she spied a page grooming a muscular horse and she nearly tripped. Jasper’s horse, the one she’d tried to steal.

Without thinking she made a swift sign of the cross.
Please don’t let him discover me here
, she prayed. Please let Josselyn be right when she said Jasper was too sick to be about this day. For she did not know what she would do if she were confronted by Jasper FitzHugh.

Six

The tapping came from inside his own head, hesitant at first, then more insistent. Jasper groaned and pressed his palms against his skull. If it didn’t stop, his head would surely split in half.

But it didn’t stop. He grimaced and only then realized the painful sound came from the door. Some fiend was pounding it down—

“Uncle Jasper? Uncle Jasper, Mother says you may not sleep the day away. We have a visitor. Uncle Jasper!”

“Enough, Gavin! God’s bones,” he added, groaning again. He rolled over and cautiously opened his eyes. How much had he drunk last night, that he was still so miserable at—what—midafternoon? If Rand should hear of this …

That was a dire enough happenstance to push him up from the bed.

“Uncle Jasper?” Gavin’s voice came again, but meekly.

“I’m up. I’m up. And I’ll be downstairs … eventually.” Jasper sat on the edge of his bed, his elbows propped on his knees and his head resting in his hands. Then Gavin’s original words finally registered and he looked up at the door. “A visitor? Who is it has come to call at Rosecliffe? Not a message from Rand already?”

“Nay. ’Tis only some woman. A friend of Mother’s.”

Jasper straightened up. “A woman? Who is she?” His pulse began to rouse from its sluggish pace. “What is her name?”

“She’s someone Mother knew from before, I think. Her name is Rhonwen.”

It was amazing how swiftly his body shed the rigors of his excesses. Jasper surged to his feet, his aching head clear and his roiling stomach forgotten. Rhonwen was here, at Rosecliffe. Rhonwen of the deadly bow and shapely body. Rhonwen, who despised him and yet had kissed him like a courtesan.

Rhonwen, who had consumed his thoughts last night and thereby ruined his rendezvous with another, more willing woman.

He shuddered at the shame of it.

It made no sense for Rhonwen to be here now, for she’d avoided Josselyn and Rosecliffe Castle for years. But she was here, and to his mind it could mean but one thing: She’d come to seek him out.

Masculine pride pushed back the memory of last night’s humiliation. Instead he focused on a new truth: It had been but three days since their meeting, and she could not bear to stay away from him a moment longer.

Grinning smugly at himself in the polished steel mirror, he cleaned his mouth and bathed as swiftly as he could, washing the sleep from his eyes. He donned a fresh chainse and a studded leather tunic, and smoothed his unruly hair. Then, willing himself not to reveal his eagerness, he buckled on his best girdle, adjusted his dagger sheath, pulled on his boots, and hurried across the yard.

Gavin had not lied. Not that Jasper thought he had. Still, he could hardly credit his great good fortune. Rhonwen come to Rosecliffe Castle, sitting with Josselyn in the great hall. When he entered the spacious hall, lit by high windows on the east and south, the two women sat in a beam of sunlight. Josselyn looked up and smiled, and when she did, Rhonwen turned to see who’d entered.

Her shocked expression was clear, even from across the wide chamber, and it killed Jasper’s hasty assumption that
she’d come to see him. Her cheeks colored, her gaze swung accusingly to Josselyn, and she clenched the arms of her chair until her knuckles turned white. But she did not flee.

He took what satisfaction he could from the unpleasant fact that at least she did not flee.

He advanced into the room, not so confident as before, and well aware that Josselyn’s machinations were somehow involved. Indeed, Josselyn’s satisfied smile when she rose confirmed his suspicions.

“Ah, you are here, Jasper. I am so pleased, for I am anxious to acquaint you with a friend I have long hoped to entertain at Rosecliffe.” She turned to Rhonwen, who now stood as well. “This is Rhonwen,” she said, although she knew very well Jasper had already met her. For some reason she was pretending she did not know—probably for Rhonwen’s sake. But Jasper was willing to play along with her farce. For now.

“You will remember,” Josselyn continued, “that Rhonwen was my friend before I wed with Rand. Rhonwen, this is Jasper FitzHugh, whom you too will remember from that unpleasant incident with Owain.”

Through the introductions Jasper and Rhonwen stared at one another. She was even more beguiling than he remembered, at once wild and earthy and delicate. Her hair was so black, and though her eyes were nearly as dark, they were also warm with amber lights in their depths.

No wonder the woman last night had paled next to her. Desire struck him now with renewed intensity, but her expression remained determinedly blank. Apparently she preferred to pretend they’d not met so recently. He decided to humor her.

“Welcome to Rosecliffe Castle.” When she did not extend her hand, he reached for it, bowed, and kissed her bare fingers.

Rhonwen did not know how to react. From the moment he appeared, she’d frozen in shock. He was too tall and vital and unforgivably handsome. If he’d been attractive while wet and furious, he was ten times so now, with his fine clothing and his hair combed in place.

When he bowed over her hand she felt like an awkward
child, devoid of any manners. When he kissed her hand, she went from frozen to scorched.

She wanted to snatch her hand back, but he held it firmly in his larger, stronger hand. Then he kissed each knuckle, one at a time, and fire shot up her arm. With a little gasp she did snatch it free.

With just that faint touch of his mouth her entire body burned with awareness! Was she perverse? She needed to get away, and yet like a hunted hare, she knew her safety lay in stillness. She must not run. She must not react. Most of all, she must collect her wits, else he would surely devour her. As it was, his hungry stare already seemed to consume her.

She tucked her burning hand inside the folds of her skirt. “My visit was … um … not planned.” She stifled a groan at so inept a response. Not only was she dressed like a drudge, but she also sounded as stupid as one. “I … um … met Josselyn in the market. In the village. She … she invited me here.”

“I had to plead and cajole before she would agree,” Josselyn added, smiling benignly at them both. “She only agreed because Rand was gone away, and also, I think, because I reassured her that you were taken sick.”

Again Rhonwen could have groaned.

“You look much better,” Josselyn blithely continued. “Was it the tonic Isolde made for you?”

“No doubt it was,” Jasper answered. But there was something in their exchange that prickled the skin at the back of Rhonwen’s neck, something in the look they shared. When it hit her, she was appalled at her own stupidity. Josselyn was playing matchmaker. And the match she hoped to make was between Jasper and Rhonwen!

Panicked, she hugged her arms over her chest and blurted out the first thing that came into her mind. “I must go.”

“No, no. I forbid it,” Josselyn cried. “You haven’t met the girls yet.”

“I’ll do that another time.” Rhonwen edged toward the door.

“But what of Nesta? She expects you to await her here.”

“I’ll find her at the market.”

But it was too late for Rhonwen to flee. With a triumphant grin Josselyn said, “Ah, here are the girls now. Isolde, my eldest, and Gwendolyn, my youngest.”

The two little girls skipped into the room and stopped beside their uncle. The elder had fair hair, though with gray eyes like her father, and was as pretty as a picture in her pale blue kirtle. The younger was plump and rosy, with dark curls framing her sweet little face.

Jasper squatted down beside them. “This is Rhonwen ap Tomas,” he told his two nieces. “She’s a friend of your mother’s—and a friend of mine. Go ahead and greet her.”

They made their curtsies to Rhonwen, two perfect little girls who clearly adored their uncle, and Rhonwen could hardly ignore them. Josselyn beamed her approval and when they were finished Jasper hoisted Gwendolyn onto his shoulders while Isolde hung onto his arm.

Rhonwen remembered Isolde as a baby. She was not much younger than Rhonwen’s brother Davit. Though she was not eager to have children herself, seeing Jasper, a powerful man of war, handling the children so gently roused unexpected feelings in her chest. Her father had been that gentle. She’d forgotten that, but she remembered it now. But he had died so long ago. Only now did Rhonwen have a hint of what she might have missed.

She turned away, for it was all too much. Unsettled emotions careened through her—desire, sorrow, and a perverse sort of jealousy. But Josselyn was watching her and it was all Rhonwen could do to mask her feelings behind a false smile.

“Your children are a handsome lot, and well mannered,” she said. “You must be very proud.”

“I am. And happy too. Marriage and motherhood agree with me very well,” Josselyn answered. “I hope someday you too will find that sort of happiness.”

“I hope so,” Rhonwen murmured. She cast about for some way to excuse herself, but before she could, the boy, Gavin, dashed breathlessly into the hall.

“Aunt Ness is here!”

At once the littlest girl scrambled down from Jasper and toddled off in her brother’s wake. The older, Isolde, leaned against her uncle and took his hand. Jasper tugged on one of her long shining curls. “Go along now, Isolde.”

“But I hoped we could play a game of chess. You said we might.”

“And we will. But not this very moment.” He chucked her under the chin, gave Rhonwen a deliberate look, then turned when Nesta came into the room, a child on each side.

Rhonwen saw Isolde’s eyes gaze up at her uncle, then slide back to fasten upon Rhonwen. At once the child’s mouth turned down and her young gaze hardened with dislike. But why? Rhonwen wondered.

When Isolde smiled back up at Jasper, the answer became obvious. The girl was possessive of her uncle’s attentions. She clearly had a childish infatuation for him and viewed Rhonwen as a competitor for his affections.

How ridiculous, and what a disaster, Rhonwen thought. But there was no longer any hope of a quick escape. In the ensuing minutes Nesta settled into a chair near the hearth, a maid brought hot mulled wine and ginger biscuits, and Josselyn forced Rhonwen to sit beside her again. Little Gwen climbed up into Nesta’s lap, Gavin played with a small ball and a half-grown pup, while Isolde settled herself next to Jasper.

The conversation, at least, was harmless. Josselyn asked Nesta about several of the villagers, of Dewey’s rheumatism and Baran’s gout. They discussed the day’s market and the warming weather. But they did not speak of Rand’s journey to meet with the other English lords, nor of anything at all to do with politics.

Rhonwen wondered if that was due to her presence in the hall. If Nesta had come alone, would they be freer with their subjects? She supposed she would never know.

And all the time that talk circulated, she was acutely conscious of Jasper’s presence. Her skin tingled. Her entire being was aware of him, as if he projected some aura that only she sensed. It was madness, and yet she could not make it cease. Had the bard Newlin given him some love potion that made
him attract her so? Or had he, perchance, cast a spell upon her?

She’d never heard of Newlin dabbling in such matters. Yet what else was she to think when her English enemy drew her and her Welsh compatriot did not?

Blessedly, the thought of Rhys dragged her back to her purpose at the English stronghold. She’d come here at Rhys’s behest, on a mission of his devising. She needed to focus on that to the exclusion of everything else. She still had not overcome her distaste for taking one of the children captive, but as she observed them, she began to see a way to safeguard them.

She would not let Rhys take Gavin. As the only son, he might be treated too harshly. The temptation to be rid of him would be too high. Nor could she allow Isolde to be captured. She was too pretty a child, and too near the budding of womanhood. While she trusted Rhys not to harm her, there were others in his band who were less trustworthy. And even Rhys could be pushed to the breaking point.

That left Gwendolyn, and Rhonwen’s gaze shifted to her. The youngest child, Gwendolyn was a sweet-faced cherub. No one, English or Welsh, could possible harm a baby like that. Besides, she would be the least likely to try to escape, and therefore would be guarded in a less oppressive manner.

Yes, Rhonwen decided. If she must help Rhys to take a hostage from among these children, it would be the youngest girl—and she herself would see to Gwen’s well-being.

Bolstered by her decision, she moved to sit beside Nesta and smiled at the now-drowsy child. “How old are you?” she asked.

The girl held up three widespread fingers.

“And have you any of your teeth loose yet?”

Gwen straightened up. “I don’t know. Do I?” With one chubby finger she waggled one of her lower teeth.

“I can yank one out for you,” Gavin called from his spot on the floor. “With only a bit of string—”

“No!” Gwen clapped her hands over her mouth.