The Warrior's Reward (9 page)

Arms folded, lips pursed, Rosamunde quietly seethed as Ieuan settled in the carriage next to her. Did he not want her? She really was nothing more than a large sum of coin to him, was she not? Shame warmed her cheeks. If only she could forget how vulnerable and foolish she had felt when he had turned her away. She had all but offered up herself, knowing he would wish to make their marriage official and he had denied her.

Perhaps she was not so beautiful, after all. Was there something wrong with her body? She’d always been told she had a fine figure yet none of the men who had said as much had seen her naked. There had to be something wrong with her.

The carriage set off with a jolt and she curled her hand around the edge of the window, ignoring her instinct to grab Ieuan instead. What made it worse was that every brush of his arm sent awareness through her. She hardly knew what to do with the sensations he created, the great ache that seemed to centre through her body and down between her legs, but she knew well enough she was still attracted to him. How humiliating.

“A day’s journey and then we shall switch to horses in the morning. The land around the keep will not allow a carriage to pass,” he told her.

She nodded, lips still clamped together.

“If we are to spend all day in this carriage together, you will have to speak to me.”

“I do not see why I should have a need to,” she replied archly, aggravated by the amusement in his voice. Good Lord, she amused him! Her naked body and her vulnerability amused him. What sort of a man was she married to?

“You will need to, Rosamunde,” he told her in a voice that held a slightly smug tone.

She narrowed her gaze at him, slipping it sideways to view the confident posture of her husband. He thought he had a full understanding of her, did he not? He thought her incapable of functioning without the aid of a man. Well, she would prove him wrong.

Pointedly thrusting up her chin, she folded her arms and focused on the heavy fabric lining the bench opposite.

By the time she had counted every tassel on the bench and eyed every polished piece of wood and traced every swirling carving, they were only about an hour into their journey and she had need of a break—most terribly. She squirmed, she shifted her legs, she tried to breathe deeply but it was no good.

“When will we be stopping next?” she asked, the words spilling out.

“Not for another hour at least.”

Rosamunde didn’t look at him. She couldn’t bear to see his smug smile again. Releasing a long breath, she mustered up as much dignity as she could manage and kept her expression placid. “I need to stop.”

“In an hour.”

“I need to stop now.” She winced as she heard her petulant tone. Lord, she would never prove herself better than her reputation like this. But she was beginning to become incredibly uncomfortable.

Ieuan ground his teeth. The noise reverberated through the carriage and down to her very toes. Then he expelled a long breath before leaning out of the carriage window and calling for them to stop. The vehicle came to a slow halt and rocked back and forth on its wheels.

He rose first, opening the door and stepping out before offering a hand. She hesitated for a moment before rising. For some reason, having to move past him to exit sent a very real thrum of apprehension through her. He didn’t scare her, of course not. Why should she be scared of her husband? It was just that... well, whenever she was close to him, her stomach did strange things like tie itself in knots. Sitting next to him had been hard enough but at least he hadn’t touched her.

“Well?” he prompted, his eyebrows dipping in a way that told her he was feeling very impatient and annoyed with her.

Why should he be annoyed with her? She hadn’t done anything wrong. She had thought she was doing everything right but it seemed that was not true. Apparently offering herself to him on their wedding night was wrong indeed. He must really dislike her.

Rosamunde slipped her hand into his. There was nothing chivalric about the way he clasped her fingers. It was possessive and impatient. It surprised her he did not yank her forward and have her spill from the carriage in a pile of silk. She stepped out cautiously and blinked in the daylight. The interior of the carriage had not been all that dark but she felt a little like a prisoner having been released after years of captivity.

Which she supposed she was. After what had happened to her mother, her father had kept her locked away. Now it seemed her husband was loath to let her leave even the carriage. She blinked up at the daylight that dappled in through the leafy canopy. Leaves rustled, making her heart stop and start in quick succession. Fingers of apprehension tripped down her spine.

Ieuan kept her hand held tight and she went to tug her fingers away but he held firm.

“I need to...” She gestured to the trees lining the dirt road. Warmth rushed into her cheeks. She supposed nothing could be more humiliating than the previous night but discussing her personal matters with Ieuan was not the best moment of her life.

“’Tis dangerous in the woods.”

“Do you intend to watch over me whilst I relieve myself?” she hissed the last part, aware of his men having dismounted around them. They all stood with tense awareness, their backs straight, their hands upon the hilts of their swords.

A hiss of air escaped her husband and he released her hand. “Do not go far and return as soon as possible.”

She didn’t try to respond. If she waited much longer, she feared she might explode. Scurrying away, branches snapped underfoot and she heard him issue orders to remove the horses’ harnesses to feed and water them.

Her husband.

“My husband.” She tried the words aloud. How odd they were? She had never thought it would happen. Her father appeared keen to keep her by his side forever. Yet something had to have occurred between these two men to persuade her father to give her up so easily.

Of course for a few moments—perhaps even a night, she had entertained thoughts of what it might be like to be married to the chivalrous Welshman. Rosamunde huffed and hitched up her skirt as she stepped over a large root that crawled across the forest floor. Nothing like this, to be certain. She had imagined more flowery words and tender touches. Apparently he couldn’t even bring himself to touch her now.

“Vile. Wretched. Dishonourable. Man,” she muttered to herself with each footstep.

Pausing to peer over her shoulder, she deemed that she was far enough into the forest to offer enough protection from curious gazes. With great difficulty, she hitched up her skirts and relieved herself. When she had finished readjusting her heavy skirts, a crack of a branch made her stiffen. She rotated slowly and blew out a slow breath.

“Oh thank the Lord, ‘tis you.”

Phylip released a slow smile. “I came to check on you.”

She found herself smiling back even though there was a faintly sinister cast to his expression. The smile looked like that of what she imagined a wolf’s face would look like before he went in for the kill. Icy trickles of fear shimmered through her.

“Well, shall we return?” Rosamunde’s sugary tone did nothing to break the sensation that something was about to happen. Something horrible and untoward.

He made his move. He stepped forward with one swift movement. The wolf pounced on his prey. Her instincts had been right and she’d been prepared for him. She ducked under his arm and fell into a run. Whatever the man had planned for her, she knew full well he intended to do her harm.

Something caught her skirts and she nearly tumbled forward. With a curse, she yanked on the fabric but it was too late. His boots made light work of the uneven terrain and he looped an arm about her waist, tearing her gown from the snarling branch. Rosamunde filled her lungs, prepared to scream but a hand clamped across her mouth before she had a chance to unleash it.

“Shh.”

You fool
, she tried to say against the hand.
My husband will be along at any moment.
Surely he would wonder what had happened to her?

“Ieuan is preoccupied with one of the horses. I made sure of that,” he told her, his breath hissing like a snake in her ear.

She shuddered. It was foolish perhaps to worry for a horse, given her circumstances, but she hoped he had not harmed it.

The hand upon her waist slid upwards in deliberate movements. She jerked forward but the hand around her mouth held fast, pinning her to him. Aware of the strong body behind her and the warmth radiating off him, she had no doubt what he wanted. Tears bit at her eyes. Only two days away from her father’s castle and it looked as though she might fall foul to the same fate as her poor mother.

When his hand cupped her breast through her gown, she shuddered and renewed her struggles. Nay. Nay, nay, nay. This would not happen. She wanted to prove herself and so she would. Regardless of what he did to her, she wouldn’t submit readily.

“I’m going to release your mouth,” he told her. “Do not scream or I’ll cut you.”

Rosamunde saw no knife but knew he’d be carrying one. However, both his hands were occupied with her. Would he be able to draw it out in time to harm her should she scream? She took the moment before he removed his sweaty palm from her mouth to assess how far from the roadside they were and realised it would be a grave risk indeed. Should she scream for help, it was unlikely Ieuan would reach her in time.

The fingers came away from her mouth, one by one. She drew in a gulp of fresh air and allowed him to turn her. Phylip must have been relying on fear to hold her captive now as his hands began to rove up and down her body until they settled on her rear, cupping her and drawing her close. She tilted her head away as he tried to kiss her.

“Ieuan will kill you for this.”

A smirk appeared on the fair-haired man’s face. “He will not. I know too many of his secrets.”

What secrets did her husband hold? She shook away the thought. It would not pay to be distracted now. She made a quick, cold assessment of the man, ignoring the hot, wet lips now on her neck and the hard grasp on her bottom. She would likely have handprints by the end of this. That was if he let her live. Surely he didn’t expect to be able to get away with raping and killing Ieuan’s wife? The man had to be mad.

Or he suspected Ieuan didn’t care enough about his wife for it to matter. After all, Ieuan had her riches and who would doubt his word if he told everyone they had consummated. He would be rid of her easily.

Nay, surely he would not let it go unpunished. He might be gruff and aggravating but some small part of him was chivalrous... wasn’t he? Or had every moment before their betrothal truly been an act?

Well, she could not sit and wait around for rescue. Apparently her husband cared not where she was and she certainly would not let Phylip have his way easily. He had no knife—or at least easy access to one. She thought it was tucked into his belt. That would give her a few moments. Also, although he was strong, his grip on her was fairly weak. He seemed too distracted by kissing her to notice. How odd, she thought dazedly, that a man with sin on his soul should want to indulge in something as tender as kissing.

Rosamunde tilted her head to give him better access to her neck. The hands upon her rear loosened further and skimmed up her back. She was in his hold, but could she break free? She supposed the only thing to do now was to find out. Her heart thrashed in her chest and her breathing was laboured. Unexpectedly the cold calm had vanished, replaced with fear. But not cold, bone-drenching fear. This was hot, like fiery pokers prodding at her spine and the base of her skull. It flooded through her body and brought out pricks of sweat on her forehead.

“I knew you’d submit,” he told her.

Muscles tense, she skimmed her hands over his shoulders, much like she had once done with Ieuan. But everything about this man repulsed her, unlike Ieuan. Then she pushed hard and brought her knee up between his legs, screaming Ieuan’s name.

Phylip groaned. He fell to the ground. She swivelled and shot into a run but another branch caught her skirts and she tumbled. Hard ground bit into her hands and when she kicked out, her foot connected with Phylip’s face. He was holding her skirts and she had not become snagged on some errant branch. He tried to drag her toward him so she kicked again. A spurt of blood rushed from his nose and he cursed loudly. Scrabbling her nails across the ground, she searched for purchase on something, anything. Not even a twisting vine could be found and all she succeeded in doing was filling her nails full of dirt and scraping her palms.

Phylip hauled her back and she screamed again, her mouth filling with mud and leaves. He crawled on top of her, blood dripping from his nose onto her face. She closed her eyes, gritted her teeth. Weariness seeped into her bones. Her mind seemed to have shut down. Was this surrender? But, nay, she was not ready to give up yet, not while blood still ran through her veins and her heart beat. And it did. Frantically.

Rosamunde pushed and squirmed. She bit and kicked. A crack across her cheek echoed in her ears but she felt no pain. And then there was nothing. Blissful nothing. She focused on the darkness behind her eyes. Perhaps she had been knocked senseless? But then hands were upon her, dragging her to her feet and she found herself quite aware that the touch was not Phylip’s.