The Warrior's Reward (18 page)

With his fingers, he pleasured her, stroking her until she gasped and trembled in his arms. He pushed two fingers deep inside her and felt the pulsing of her inner muscles. It only took a few rubs of his thumb on her nub for her to dig her nails into his thighs and come apart.

Ieuan savoured the hiss of breath and the tremble of her body. He vowed to remember these moments always. How odd it was he wanted to cherish such moments. He’d never expected to care so deeply for his wife. She had surprised him again and again and still she astounded him. This was so much more than desire.

But he could wait no longer. He had to be buried deep inside her. Coaxing her up, he nipped at her ear and whispered, “On your knees.”

She released a tiny sound of surprise but did so, presenting him with the finest view in all of England. He recalled how she had done this for him on their first night together and the utter agony it had caused him to reject her. But that night she had been trembling with fear. Now she trembled with yet more need.

She gripped the edge of the bath and water sloshed over her back. “I thought...”

He rubbed a hand up and down her back. “This position is no good for taking maidens,” he told her. “But for taking demanding, seductive wives, ‘tis very good indeed.”

Her little intake of breath simmered through the air, making him grin. He smoothed a hand over her rear and lined himself up with her cleft. Then he pressed, smoothly and quickly to the hilt. She whispered his name.

Ieuan rocked into her, feeling her enclose around him. Searing pleasure almost blinded him. So hot and tight. Each ripple of her body drew him closer, deeper until he was lost.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, even though she had said actions not words. He had to say it. “I couldn’t stand it...” In and out. He sucked in a sharp breath. “You’re mine, Rosamunde. I couldn’t stand to see you...” She bucked against him. “Always mine.”

He gave up then. The pleasure had grown too great. He mindlessly thrust into her, his hands to her hips, the water sloshing around them until he splintered and spilled into her. She convulsed around him and he saw her knuckles whiten as she gripped the edge of the tub.

Out of breath and spent, he leaned over her and pressed a kiss to her wet back. “Always mine,” he murmured against her skin.

Rosamunde awoke earlier than usual. She blinked away the grittiness in her eyes and gave a languid stretch. She likely had a wide smile too. Ieuan had upset her with his gruffness the previous night but she’d come to realise it wasn’t because of her. Owain hadn’t said anything directly but it was clear they didn’t get on and in some ways, she didn’t blame Ieuan. As charming as Owain was,
she
had been angry at him for putting Ieuan in danger. It was no wonder her husband had been angered by seeing him at their table.

And Ieuan had more than made up for it. His words, the way he touched her. If this wasn’t love, what was it?

She washed and dressed quietly, reluctant to wake the beautiful man from his slumber. She did, however, watch him for a few moments. They had gone to bed with damp hair and while hers would take an hour with a comb to detangle, his was beautifully wild and a lock hung across his face. His arms were sprawled and the sheet sat about his hips. Rosamunde watched the rise and fall of those muscles for a while before turning back to the dressing table and reaching for her comb.

Movement outside caught her eyes. She pressed her nose to the shutters and saw a man on horseback—a messenger by the looks of it. Her heart skipped in her chest. Could it be bad news? A warning mayhap? Throwing down her comb, she put on her slippers and eased out of the solar.

Downstairs, Owain and his men slept on. Snores rattled the rafters as they slept on their pallets and the day was too new for the servants to be up and about. The few who would be were down in the kitchen if the smell of baked bread was anything to go by.

Forgoing her cloak, Rosamunde hurried outside. Drizzling rain splattered her face and mud clung to her slippers. She held her skirts high enough to avoid the slippery ground and peered at the gatehouse. A few men were scattered across the curtain wall but none were by the gate to open the portcullis. She wasn’t sure who was in charge of the watch overnight but it wasn’t Rhys or Huw—the two men she knew were most loyal to Ieuan.

Well, she wouldn’t wait. If it was terrible news and they needed to flee, she’d rather know now. After all, she couldn’t stand by and let Ieuan be taken away by the king’s men. He’d be imprisoned and likely sentenced to death. The very thought made her stomach bunch.

She pressed open the small gate and slipped out of the curtain walls. The messenger had stopped some way up the hill and one of the Ieuan’s men was speaking with him. She scowled. Why had he not simply let him into the keep? She remembered the red-headed man to be Aron. She didn’t know him all that well as he took the night watch most nights.

Something didn’t seem right. A tingling sensation swept from her head to her toes and her insides coiled tighter than ever. Could Aron be the traitor? When he handed over a missive to the messenger, she knew her instincts to be true.

Rosamunde tucked herself behind a tree when Aron began to turn away after murmuring some more words to the man. Whatever was in the missive, she would wager it was meant for the king and was to do with Owain. She couldn’t let the messenger leave.

The side of the path sloped down and was covered with trees and roots. When she tried to work her way around the trees to get in front of the horse and avoid being spotted by Aron, loose earth skipped and tumbled down the hill. She swallowed and tightened her grip on the tree. She tried not to imagine her body tumbling the same way.

Steadily she worked her way around the trunks. Wood bit into her palms and the occasional sharp bite told her she’d have splinters in her hands by the end of this. But it mattered not. Through the dense leaves, she spotted the messenger turning his horse while Aron headed back to the keep. She picked up her pace until she was in front of the messenger. The slope of the path meant he hadn’t been able to move as quickly as she, for which she was grateful.

Rosamunde hadn’t given much thought as to how to stop the rouncey. But when she spied a large stick and saw the mount trotting closer, she knew she had little choice. The risk was she would be trampled or struck.

The risk was worth it.

She jumped into its path, brandishing the stick and screaming as loud as she could. The noise pierced the air and sent birds fluttering from the trees. She thought it likely even Ieuan would have woken from his slumber.

Hooves kicked, the horse whinnied. Metal horseshoes glinted in her vision and she waited for the inevitable impact. The ground rumbled beneath her when the horse landed, a mere pace away. Sure enough, the rider had been flung. She braved moving past the daunting creature and as the messenger pushed himself up from the ground, she swung the stick at his head. It made a sickening thud and the man collapsed into the mud.

She turned her attention back to the horse who hadn’t managed to bolt because his reins had tangled around a branch. Rosamunde snatched up the missive from the mud and fisted it. Here was proof of Aron’s treachery.

Before she darted back into the trees to make her way back to the keep, footsteps were upon her. Aron. He paused when he spotted the fallen man then he narrowed his gaze on her. She swung a glance around. Run down to the village? Try to push past him? He looked at the crumpled parchment in her hands and she saw his intention there. Snatch her or kill her mayhap, then take the message himself. With one swift rip, she tore the missive in two and flung it away. The wind carried the pieces away and down the hill. She grinned triumphantly at Aron.

“Your message of treachery will go nowhere now.”

He paced close as though approaching a horse that might startle at any moment. Would he harm her? The men must have heard her scream and would be upon them soon, surely? There was no tell-tale rumbling of the ground, however. No shouts or sound of impending rescue.

Aron drew his sword and looked over her with cold disregard. She made to bolt left and he blocked her path. She darted right but he was there again, the steady point of his sword preventing her escape. Rosamunde spun then. She would run to the village.

As she came upon the horse, who tugged upon the branch still, an arm latched around her waist and crushed the breath from her. Rosamunde fought her captor but her nails were useless against his leather gauntlets and the steely crush of his body.

“Now I shall have to take the message myself,” he hissed in her ear. A hand came to her throat and encircled it. Panic threatened to close her throat. “And I shall take you too. The truth shall spill from your lips after mere days in the tower, I’d wager.”

No screams escaped her, no words of protest. The press of his hand grew stronger and dark circles encroached on her vision. Her chest hurt with the need to draw breath while her eyes burned. Would she never see Ieuan again? Was she to die this day? Her frantic mind clawed for answers. Why strangle her if he needed her alive?

And then her mind drifted to thoughts of what her survival might mean. Torture, imprisonment... she’d never break though. She would never betray Ieuan.

Never.

Her body convulsed and the blackness became whole.

Ieuan didn’t need Huw telling him Rosamunde’s screams had been heard. The gut-clenching knowledge that she had been taken was no surprise. He’d known it as soon as he’d awoken—jolted from sleep by a sound his brain couldn’t comprehend. But the crawling itch making its way up his insides had told him it was to do with her.

As he snatched his sword from the armoury, Huw thrust his mantle at him. “Screams coming from the mound,” he said curtly. “We have men in pursuit. ‘Tis Lady Rosamunde.”

“Why was she out there?” he asked as he drew on the mantle, the fabric seeming to tangle itself around him. He cursed and pushed the wool out of the way so he could slide his sword into its hilt. He strode into the Great Hall, Huw on his heels.

“Aron was with her. He is missing too.”

“Hell fire and damn that man to hell.” There was his traitor. What other explanation was there? Rosamunde wouldn’t have been outside the castle gate unaccompanied, surely? He wasn’t even sure why she’d left his bed—not after last night.

“Have my horse saddled.”

“’Tis done.”

His father and his men were awake and armed. With men and servants scurrying back and forth, it was no wonder. Ieuan barely slowed his pace when his father came to his side. “’Tis Rosamunde, aye?”

“Aye. I suspect my man means to betray us. Why Rosamunde is involved, I know not, but I’ll not let the beast have her.”

“I shall come with you.”

He paused to eye his father. “There is no need. ‘Tis better that you go from here should I fail to catch up with them.”

“I have placed you both in danger. I brought this ill fate upon you. I’ll not have it said Owain Glyndŵr is a coward.”

His father was far from a coward, that they both knew. And none would blame him for going into hiding once more, but Ieuan appreciated his father’s support. Should they come up against the king’s men, he would need his blade.

He scowled. It was the first time he’d ever felt thankful for his father.

With their horses saddled, it wasn’t long before they were riding out through the village and onto the surrounding hills. Fresh hoof prints gave them indication of the direction Aron had taken. With his men in pursuit, it was hard to tell how many horses were following. He prayed it was enough. He prayed they were fast enough. Mostly he prayed to hold her once again. Rosamunde was an innocent in all of this—drawn in by the battles of men.

Yet she had shown great courage at every moment. Would she still have her head lifted high, her shoulders straight? Or would the thought of being branded a traitor have her crying and slumped over? The last image shattered through him as though he’d received a blade to the chest. Lord, how he prayed not.

“Be strong,
anwylyd
,” he murmured and hoped the wind would carry the words to her. If he concentrated, he was certain he felt her reaching out for him. Whatever had occurred between them recently, it seemed not even hills and miles of land could divide the connection.

He loved her with all his heart. Inexplicably, that woman had burrowed under its stony walls and laid siege to his emotions. Her fate was entwined with his forevermore. If she died, so too would he.

Therefore, he couldn’t allow it. He gripped the reins tighter and pushed the mount a fraction faster. He wanted his Rosamunde back.

Ieuan and his father rode hard. While sunlight glinted behind jade hills, sweat rose from their horses in clouds of steam. He hadn’t taken the time to put on chainmail or even a gambeson so his shirt clung to his skin. Swiping the dampness from his brow, he unfastened his mantle and tore it away, letting it float on the wind for a moment before it settled into the hoof-beaten mud. To his mind, even taking a moment to stow it away or drape it over his saddle was time wasted.

When the rumble of their own horses became accompanied by that of others, only mild relief washed over him when he realised it was his own men. Up on the rise of a hill, he spotted them. They must have spied him too as they came to a standstill. And it was clear they did not have Rosamunde. He and his father rode up the crest of the rocky hill to join them.

“What news?”

“We’ve yet to catch sight of them, sir,” one of the men said. “But they are headed for the border.”

He nodded. The horse tracks led down across the top of the hill—the speediest path to the border. “Let us continue.” He glanced around at the men here. “I am the fastest rider here. Should I come upon them, I will not wait.”

“You would do better to wait for another blade, Ieuan,” his father warned.

He shook his head. “My blade is enough. Should I catch up to her, I will not wait for her to slip away.”

His father nodded solemnly. “I understand.”

The fact was, should he find her, he couldn’t imagine delaying an attack in the hopes of support. He knew well enough, should he spot her, the desire to run Aron through, to have her safe in his arms, would drive him to attack, regardless of his situation. Whether that be wise or rational, he cared not.

True to his word, he rode ahead, not waiting for his men or even his father. By the time he came upon the ruined remains of Pen-Y-Mynydd Castle, he was alone and likely would remain so for a good while. But he cared little for his lonely state once he spied a lone rider navigating the bluffs toward the ragged stone remnants. He drew his horse to a halt and narrowed his gaze at the rider. Sure enough, he seemed to be holding something—or someone.

Ieuan pressed a hand to his chest when it grew tight. Rosamunde. It had to be. Urging his mount onwards, he began the treacherous journey up the side of the mountain. The castle sat on a natural cliff that led down to a shallow ravine. Wind beat at his face and hindered his progress but Aron moved slowly too.

Ieuan watched for jutting rocks lest his horse injure herself. His heart thrashed in his chest, urging him to push faster, harder, to take a chance, but as desperate as he was, he would not harm Melfed.

Soon Aron had found shelter behind the grey walls of the keep. An old tower remained, looking out over the borderlands. The roof had long crumbled as had the top floor by the looks of it. Surrounding the keep stood an old curtain wall. So many gaps and holes riddled the stone that it served as nothing more than a slight obstacle. And the main keep looked to have been scorched by fire once. Piles of crumbled stone spilled down the mountain, leaving a hole in the side. All around it, large boulders and old walls of outbuildings created a maze of paths.

Ieuan drew the horse to a stop and dismounted. It wouldn’t do to have her catch a hoof and injure herself on the uneven terrain. He tied her to an iron bolt that must have once held a door and gave her a pat. He glanced back to see his father approaching at the base of the hill and his men not far behind. He wouldn’t wait for them, however.

Sword drawn, he gripped the hilt and silently prayed for victory. He could have prayed for strength and courage but he needed neither. Courage played no part in battle for him. Killing to protect what was his came as second nature to him. As real as the Welsh blood running through his veins, his savage nature when it came to those he cared for would see him through anything.

It would see him through saving the woman he loved.

His hand flexed around his blade and his nostrils flared as he thought about her in the arms of a traitor. Aron would pay.

Stepping over the rubble of the outer wall, he used the jagged remains for cover. Likely Aron had spotted him on the open terrain and would be expecting him. So he darted between the walls in an attempt to keep the man on edge. He might be lying in wait but he wouldn’t give the traitor an easy chance at him.

Back to the wall of the main tower, Ieuan savoured the cold damp of the stone. Moss clung to the rocks and soaked through to his heated skin. He eyed his steady blade and took a few deep, calming breaths. Where desperation had once burned through his veins, cold certainty replaced it. The hammering of his heart no longer disturbed him but instead urged him forward to victory. Too much lay at stake for him to feel anything else.

Grip strong on his sword, he stepped into the tower. Gloom swallowed him. Drips of water echoed off the stone but no footsteps or scuffles could be heard. He swung his gaze from side to side and made out features of the castle. Crumbled walls, a set of stone steps leading upwards and there... the glint of steel. He peered past the shadows and lifted his sword in threat.

“I see you, Aron.”

On the second level, he spotted the shadowy outline of a man. Most of the upper floor had vanished long ago but a stone ledge allowed Aron to have the advantage of higher ground. The man stepped into a long stream of sunlight and Ieuan had to hold back a snarl.

“Ieuan!” Rosamunde cried.

“Fear not,” he told her, his gaze firm on Aron. The man had her tight against him, a hand around her throat and his sword in front of her. “Release her,” he demanded.

“I think not.”

Behind him, the light tap of cautious footsteps sounded. Either side of him, two men approached. It seemed Aron was not working alone, and he was now outnumbered. And Aron held the person he treasured most at the point of a blade. He knew what he must do.

He swung at the nearest man. The sudden movement caught him by surprise. He didn’t even raise his blade in defence. Steel sliced through flesh and the man crumpled. Rosamunde screamed.

Ieuan whirled to block a slice from the other man and the impact vibrated down his arm.

“Enough!” Aron shouted from above. “If you want her alive, cease.”

Ieuan drew back and lowered his weapon. The ragged-looking man in front of him kept his blade ready but made no more attempts to attack.

“I can kill him easily,” Ieuan warned. “You should know that well enough. Should you harm her, I shall kill you too.”

“I have no wish to see her dead. The king will see to that. But I will hurt her if I must.”

Ieuan eyed the man beside him. He’d already seen that the man’s reactions were slow and Ieuan was certainly stronger and more skilled than he. But if he cut him down, it would give Aron time to harm Rosamunde. It was a price he was unwilling to pay.

“I offer you a trade.”

Aron peered down at him. “A trade?”

“Aye, my life for hers.”

“You expect me to give up my leverage? You think I am but a fool?”

“Nay, not a fool. I was the fool for trusting you. But if you are indeed a wise man, you will know that my head will bring you more coin than hers. She is but a pawn and ‘tis likely the king shall care little for her.”

“Nay, Ieuan.” Rosamunde tried to shake her head against his hold. “You will die for sure. The king shall not kill an Englishwoman.”

Though Ieuan hoped she might be right, it was too great a risk. He was the prize here, not her and she should never have been involved. However, the tilt of her chin and the steadiness of her voice made his chest swell with pride. To think he had considered her too fragile to survive in his homeland.

“All shall be well,” he assured her. “Aron, what say you? A trade?”

The man considered this then nodded slowly. “Aye, a trade. Lay down your weapon and I shall release her.”

“Unharmed.”

“Aye, unharmed. You have my word as a Welshman.”

Ieuan couldn’t be sure the word of a traitorous Welshman was worth much, but he had little choice if he wanted Rosamunde away from that blade. Whatever happened, he had a much better chance of securing her freedom once she was out of Aron’s hold.

“Lay down your blade.” Aron motioned with his own sword.

Rosamunde fought against her captor’s hold. “Nay!”

He couldn’t help but smile at her determination. His sweet Rosamunde willing to lay down her life for his. If this was not love, what was it? He suspected he could almost go to the grave a happy man knowing that. Except he was not ready to give up on a life with her quite yet. If he saw an opportunity to get them both out alive, he would take it.

With deliberate caution, he lowered his blade to the ground and kicked it aside. It scraped across the stone floor into the shadows. The other man used his point as a deadly escort—the threat of steel piercing his back forcing him up the steps to stand in front of Aron.

“We should bind his hands,” his escort suggested.

Ieuan cared little what they did with him. While they had Rosamunde, he would do nothing. After that... he was not so sure. He would certainly welcome any opportunity to kill both men, particularly now he saw tears shimmering in her eyes and creating little trails on her mud-streaked cheeks. Tattered rags now counted for her clothes and bare toes peeked out from under the filthy hem of her gown. He ground his teeth together.

“Aye, bind his hands.”

Ieuan refused to offer his hands, forcing the other man to lay down his sword. They knew well he wouldn’t act with the threat of a blade across Rosamunde’s chest.

“Release her. I am unarmed.” 

His hands were tied together with a thin strip of leather. It wouldn’t take much to break free but it would certainly hinder him.

“I am a man of my word.” Aron removed the sword that prevented Rosamunde from escaping and pushed her forward. “Take her out of the keep and bind her hands to his horse. Send it in the direction of the village.” He grinned at Ieuan. “She’ll get there safe enough.”