Stuart, Elizabeth (55 page)

Elen
sank onto a stool, watching helplessly. "Is he... leaving Gwenlyn?"

Simon
shrugged. "I've no knowledge, Madame. He only bade me fetch his
things."

"Oh,
Simon... what am I to do?" she choked out.

He
whirled on her angrily. "It appears you've already done it! You've
betrayed him... shamed him before his men. And Holy God, I hate to think the
damage done if Edward hears of this before we get the bastard back!"

"I...
I didn't mean for it to be like this," she whispered, struggling for
control. "But a man's life was in the balance, Simon. A man very dear to
me."

His
lip curled contemptuously. "Yes. Dearer than Richard."

Simon
obviously thought the worst. She wondered if the rest of the men thought it as
well—if they believed Dylan her lover. She cursed herself for the thousandth
time for that foolish tale of Rhys. If only she could tell them it was Owain,
all for Owain.

She
shook her head vehemently. "No, he is not dearer than Richard. No one is
that, Simon. But the man you call the Fox has been a friend all my years. He's
protected and guarded me, risked his life for mine on countless occasions.
Would you have me turn my back on a friend like that, Simon? Will you try to
make me believe you could do so... or that Richard would?"

Simon
didn't speak, but his movements became slower, much less indignant. The idea of
loyalty he could understand, but it was Richard who owned his allegiance and
all of his boy's heart.

"Tell
me," she said softly. "How is he?"

For
several seconds Simon didn't speak, then he put down the tunic he held and
turned around. "Not good. He doesn't talk much... refuses to discuss you
at all." He stared at her accusingly. "You've hurt him, lady."

"I
know that, Simon. I would to heaven there was a way to lessen the damage. But
he won't see me. He won't even let me explain." She studied him hopefully.
"Would you ask him to come? Tell him I've asked for him?"

Simon
frowned. "No. He doesn't wish it."

Elen
clasped her fingers together desperately. How could she ever make Richard
understand if she couldn't even talk to him? "I've written a letter. A
letter explaining things as well as I could. Would you at least see that he
gets it."

Simon
thought for a moment and finally nodded.

She
rose from the stool, quickly fetching the sheets of parchment. She had agonized
for hours over the words, hoping to make Richard understand her actions without
endangering Owain. But her guards wouldn't even speak to her much less take the
letter.

She
watched as Simon slipped it into the stack of Richard's clothing. She felt
better now than she had in days. The boy was obviously still angry, but he
would see Richard got the letter. Richard would read it and understand. And
he'd forgive her. She wouldn't even think about what would happen if he didn't.

But
an hour later Simon was back. He held out the parchment, its heavy seal
unbroken.

Elen's
tenuous control snapped. She reached blindly for the unopened letter, tears
slipping unheeded down her face. She didn't care if Simon saw them. She didn't
care for anything now.

"I...
I'm sorry," Simon stammered. "He didn't wish to read it."

"Did
he send any message for me?"

"No.
No message."

***

"M'lord.
The Welshman is still waiting."

Richard
scowled at the wary servant. "I told you bid him wait!"

"I
did, m'lord. But that was midday and it's now past supper. I... I thought
mayhap ye'd forgotten."

Richard
rose and paced the floor. He didn't want to see Owain. He didn't want to see
any of these damned Welsh. They were totally mad, beyond redemption and utterly
incomprehensible. And he wished the whole lot of them to the devil, his wife
included. Especially his wife. "Tell him I've no time to—"

"You
had better take time."

Richard
glanced up in surprise. Owain stood just inside the doorway, his square,
soldier's face set in grim lines. Mad... they were totally mad. "You dare
enter here unbidden?" Richard bit out, his temper raw, easily fraying.

The
servingman wisely withdrew.

Owain
stepped away from the doorway, unmoved by Richard's ire. "Yes. My lady's
welfare is at stake."

"Your
lady is damned lucky to be alive!"

Owain
stared back at him, unblinking.

Richard
took a deep breath, struggling to restrain his anger, the anger that sprang
from a hurt still too fresh to probe. "Your lady is fine," he
remarked more calmly. "You know well enough I'd not hurt her."

"That's
not the talk in the village. Word is she's ill."

"Well,
she's not," Richard snapped. "She's kept in perfect luxury with
anything she desires."

"Have
you seen her?"

Richard
turned away. "No."

"Then
I'll see her myself. I'd not have her suffer for what she can't help."

Richard
swung back, his words deliberately insulting. "For being a treacherous,
lying jade? No, I don't suppose she can help that. She's Welsh!"

Owain
didn't rise to the bait, but his eyes flickered warningly. "For being a
woman loyal to those she loves."

To
those she loves...

The
words couldn't have been better calculated to wound. They cut through Richard
like a blade. That, of course, was the root of his problem. Elen didn't love
him, at least not as she did this Welshman named Dylan. And he had loved
her—blindly, foolishly, so much he'd never dreamed she would betray him even
with all the warnings he'd had, so much he could finally understand his
father's neglect. A man in love saw only what he wanted to see. "She's
fine," he repeated sourly. "Now be gone."

Owain
stood his ground. "The people of Ruthlin'll not stand for her abuse. I
tell you that in all honesty."

Richard's
voice sharpened. "Do you threaten me?"

"No.
I only tell you true."

"Christ's
blood!" Richard stalked to the door, shouting for the servants. In a
matter of moments, Elen's trembling maid stood before him. "How is your
lady?" he bit out.

"W-what
mean you, my lord?"

"How
is she? Does she sit? Does she walk? Does she eat?" he snapped
impatiently. "How does she fare?"

"S-she's
not well, I fear," the girl quavered. "She eats naught but a bit of
bread and cheese. And when I coaxed her to try more, s-she grew sorely
ill."

Richard's
green eyes narrowed. "A trick."

The
girl stared up at him, gathering her courage with difficulty. "I think
not, m'lord."

After
a few more questions, Richard sent the girl away. "Very well, I'll see
her," he remarked, the words hard-won. "I still think it a trick. God
knows she's got enough of them to—"

He
broke off. He would never forgive himself if Elen were ill, but he hadn't
planned to see her just yet—not until he'd hardened himself to send her away to
another of his manors. He couldn't afford a wife he couldn't trust, at least
not until he convinced himself she no longer ruled his heart. "I'll send
word how she fares," he said slowly. "If she's truly ill, I'll fetch
you."

Owain
nodded and turned toward the door. "That's all I ask."

Richard
gazed at him thoughtfully, struck by the Welshman's fierce loyalty to Elen. Few
of his own men were willing to face him in this mood, but Owain hadn't
hesitated. And in a race renowned for their many creative ways of skirting the
truth, the Welshman offered an unsparing honesty Richard had come to value. He
only wished his wife had the trait as well. "You dare much for her sake,
don't you, Owain?"

"I
do. She's my lady."

"And
she'd dare much for you?"

Owain
glanced back, his face unaccountably bleak. "Yes... to my sorrow."

Richard
frowned. He had half convinced himself this man was the Welsh Fox, at least
until that raid on Beaufort had taken place. Now he wasn't sure what he
believed. He gave a fleeting thought to simply asking Owain outright, but he
was afraid the Welshman might answer. And then he would have to act.

"I'll
catch him, you know," Richard muttered. "I'll catch the Fox."

Owain's
clear gray eyes met his unwaveringly. "I know that, my lord."

"Henry
heard the man's true name, and we know now what he looks like. This Dylan will
make another mistake, and I'll be waiting when he does."

"Dylan's
a fool," Owain said low. "He can't understand the fight is
over."

"And
do you? Do you believe it's over?"

A
long look passed between the men. "It was buried at Builth," Owain
replied heavily. "It's been over a long time now, my lord. A very long
time."

For
nearly an hour after Owain left, Richard remained in the room, steeling himself
for the painful effort of seeing his wife. Elen had tricked him, lied to him,
deceived him from the first moment they'd met. His foolishness over the girl no
doubt had him a laughingstock at Edward's court. Given her treachery, it should
be easy enough to cut her out of his life. He hated that in a woman... hated it
in anyone.

But
to Richard's dismay, instead of brooding on his wife's deceit, he found himself
remembering the way Elen's smile lit any room she entered, the way she reached
for him in the night and the sleepy, contented way she curled against him after
their lovemaking. She claimed she loved him, but it was a strange love that put
loyalty to another man ahead of loyalty to her husband.

How
much was a lie? he wondered darkly. How much of their marriage was nothing but
one of her clever acts?

He
put down his wine cup and rose resolutely to his feet. Better to get this over
with quickly and try to get some rest. His first hurried foray after the Fox
had been unsuccessful, and he had been forced to turn back for lack of
supplies. But he was taking his men out again at first light. This time they
were provisioned for a month. He planned to search every mountain, every
valley, every miserable hillside. He would take the bastard if he had to dig
him out of the earth!

Ignoring
the two stone-faced guards outside Elen's chamber, Richard swung open the door
and went in. He wouldn't give Elen the courtesy of a warning. He wouldn't give
her fertile mind time to dream up some new plot.

But
the sight that met Richard's eyes halted him on the threshold. Elen was gowned
in the scarlet bedrobe Eleanor had given her, a brush in one hand as she
stroked her unbound hair. He had watched her this way on so many nights, so
many times as a prelude to their lovemaking. A sharp pain twisted through him
and his body ached with the memories. Christ, how much of it was a lie?

Elen
glanced up. The brush fell to the floor with a clatter as her startled eyes met
his. He leaned against the door facing, his voice as cold as he could make it.
"I hear you are ill, Madame. You look perfectly well to me."

Elen
rose slowly to her feet. She had hoped and prayed for this moment, but now that
it was here, her mind swam in a dozen dizzying directions and she couldn't
begin to think what she wanted to say. "You heard wrong. I am well."

Richard's
gaze shifted over her. They both lied. Elen didn't look well, she didn't look
well at all. Her face was far paler than it was wont to be, her great blue eyes
heavily underscored by dark shadows of sleeplessness. They gazed back at him
now with a desperate hope that somehow angered him. Sweet Jesus, did she think
he had come crawling back so easily after what she'd done?

"We
ride at first light to take your friend Dylan. I thought you'd wish to
know."

Her
eyes still held his, searching for any sign of weakening. If she wondered how
he knew the man's name, she didn't give it away. "I expected it," she
said only.

He
glanced about the room. Her supper tray sat untouched on a chest. "You've
not eaten. Do you think to win sympathy by starving yourself?"

"I
eat enough. You've no need to concern yourself."

Damnation!
Why didn't she say or do something he could scorn? Why didn't she weep or rage
at him; he was prepared for that. But this cool self-possession took him by
surprise. She didn't appear contrite. She wore her treachery as she wore every
other emotion—with a fierce pride he knew he would never break, that he had
never really wanted to break. God in heaven, what they might have shared if
only she'd loved him enough!

He
swallowed hard and swung on his heel to leave. The warm, candlelit room sparked
too many painful memories. He was far too weak to be here, to have Elen sharing
his roof. If he gave in to her now, she might rule him completely. "Ready
yourself to leave Gwenlyn," he said coldly. "Giles will escort you to
my manor at Belleterre. You'll remain there until I decide what to do with
you."

His
words were like a blow. Richard was sending her away. There would be no chance
for a reconciliation, no chance to start anew. Not until this moment had she
truly realized the extent of what she might lose.