She could not believe her ears. “You dare to say such things to me when you have taken me against my will, gagged me, tied me like a sheep for the shearing! And now you would—”
“Now I would like to untie you,” he said, breaking into her tirade. “That is, assuming you will come close enough for me to do so.”
When she only stood there, staring suspiciously at him, he shrugged off his leather hauberk and untied the sheath that held his short sword. Then he pulled back the chair, flung himself in it, and signaled with his fingers for her to approach. “Come, Josselyn. If you would be freed from your bindings, you must find the courage to approach me.”
“’Tis not courage I lack. That I possess in abundance, as do all the people of
Cymru.
But I also possess an abundance of mistrust of you.”
He bent down and removed one boot, then the other. “Suit yourself,” he said when he once again sprawled back on the big, rug-draped chair. As she watched he untied the knife sheath on his thigh and set it on the table. Then he reached for an ornate ewer that stood on the table and poured himself a mug of ale. He drank a long time, then set down the mug, gave a great satisfied sigh, and studied her with a half-grin playing on his lips.
“Would you like ale? Or do you prefer wine?” The grin increased. “Or perhaps you are hungry. I know I am.”
Josselyn looked away. She didn’t want to see the expression in his eyes. She didn’t want to know what he was hungry for. Then her stomach gave an embarrassing rumble, and she knew it was pointless to defy him. She needed to have her arms freed, and he was the only one who could do it.
She gritted her teeth and glared at him. Then without speaking, she marched up to him, turned around, and waited.
It seemed to take forever, though it was only a few seconds. He caught her bound wrists and gave a quick unexpected tug so that she had to take an awkward step backward. Just one step, but it threw her off balance and too near him. Her equanimity—what little she had left—began to slip.
His fingers were warm and strong, but they fumbled over the linen, drawn now into a taut, stringy knot. “I’ll have to cut you free,” he said, leaning past her to reach his knife.
His knee brushed her leg. His hand rested on her waist, just above the curve of her hips. She held her breath. Then he caught the twisted linen with the well-honed tip of the blade and she was free.
But not entirely.
Before she could escape he caught her by one wrist. She spun away, but he was too fast and too strong. He tossed the dagger on the table and caught her other hand and forced her to stand before him. “Let me see your wrists, to see if you’re hurt,” he explained.
“I’m not hurt. Let me go.”
But he ignored her and drew her arms up so he could inspect them. “You’re chafed.”
“What do you expect?” she snapped.
He looked up at her, his face serious. “I don’t want to hurt you, Josselyn. But I can’t let you go. You need to understand that.”
She glared at him, mutinous and yet shaken too. He meant what he said and she should hate him. But he was massaging her sore wrists with the gentlest of touches.
She forced herself to sound stern. “And you need to understand that I cannot be your willing prisoner.”
“Then you will be my unwilling prisoner.” His thumbs moved soothingly over her reddened skin, reviving her, stimulating her. She stood there between his outstretched legs, looking down into his dark opaque eyes, which glinted the flickering firelight back at her. When he spoke again, the low timbre of his voice seemed to vibrate through her. “I wonder just how unwilling a prisoner you will finally prove to be.”
Their eyes held and some communication passed between them. Words were not a part of it, nor was understanding, for they did not speak and she surely did not understand this attraction between them. But a connection was forged every time they touched. Every time their eyes met.
Every time she was in his presence.
Her heart began to pound, like surf booming on the rocks, like thunder rattling the heavens. Her heart pounded, her body trembled, and she knew she was in grave danger of succumbing to this enemy she wanted to despise.
Slowly she drew her wrists out of his hold, and he let her. She backed away, bumped into the table, then sidled around it. Only when she was across the room was she able to drag her gaze away from his mesmerizing one.
“I’m hungry—for food,” she quickly added.
He stood and crossed to a cupboard, removing another mug as well as a loaf of bread wrapped in cloth and a small, wax-coated wheel of cheese. He set them on the table, then stuck his dagger into the cheese. “Eat your fill. Then you can sleep. There.” He pointed at a bed in a curtained alcove.
She chanced another glance at him. “And where will you sleep?”
His glance held her captive. “Are you willing to share?”
Unnerved, she shook her head and hugged her arms around herself. “No.”
“Then eat,” he said with a sweep of his hand. “Eat so that at least one of us will not go to bed starving this night.”
She reached for the knife and when her fingers wrapped around it she felt a secret surge of power. She held a weapon. He did not. But when she peered sidelong at him, she knew that was no advantage. Even had she wielded a sword, he would still have the advantage. For even had she the skill to overpower him, she was not certain she had the strength of will to plunge any length of hardened steel into his flesh. If he were threatening her life or the lives of others, she could. But he was offering her food, giving her his bed to sleep in. She should try to escape him, and eventually she would. But she could not do so by cutting him with his own knife.
Appalled at her own perversity—after all, he was her enemy—she sliced off a hunk of cheese, then a generous piece of bread. Giving him a deliberate, narrow-eyed look, she thrust the knife back into the cheese, then poured a mug of ale and retreated with her supper to the far side of the room.
She was famished and ate swiftly, but still it was the worst meal of her life. No, she realized after a moment. The meal with Owain at her side had been just as awful. Given the choice, however, she’d rather be in Randulf Fitz Hugh’s presence than Owain ap Madoc’s. It should be the other way around, but she could not lie—at least not to herself.
That did not mean she wanted to be in this predicament, however. Anything but. Still, given a choice, the English lord appeared more and more to be the lesser of two evils.
She quaffed the last of her ale. Rand did not speak while she ate, nor did he eat. Now, he refilled his goblet and
settled back in his chair, still observing her. It wore on her nerves until she couldn’t restrain herself.
“Well? Aren’t you going to explain why you have kidnapped me? Because if you’re not, I am much wearied by this day’s work and would prefer to sleep rather than suffer your unrelentingly rude stare.” She crossed her arms and glowered at him.
“Tell me why you hid your identity from me.”
“I hid nothing. My name is Josselyn ap Carreg Du.”
“You are Clyde’s niece. His only heir. You hid that.”
“I did not hide it. I simply chose not to reveal it, and with good reason. I feared this very thing happening, and clearly I was wise to do so. But not wise enough,” she added bitterly.
As if on cue a knock sounded at the door, drawing his attention. “We have a little business to attend to,” he said. At his call to enter, the door swung open, and Bower, still bound, advanced into the room, followed by the two Englishmen, Osborn and Alan. Josselyn crossed to her countryman at once. Alan would have blocked her path but for Rand. “Let her be.”
“
Are you all right?
” she whispered in Welsh.
“
Aye, lass. But what of you
?” Bower asked, examining her with anxious eyes.
“He hasn’t …
” He let the rest trail off, but Josselyn knew what he meant.
“
No, he has not,
” she muttered. But color rose hot in her face as she focused on untying his hands. When she could not she glanced at the dagger still standing in the wheel of cheese, then over at Rand. With a slow nod he answered her unspoken question.
In a moment she had Bower free. But when he would have grabbed for the dagger, she pulled it away. “’
Twill do no good,”
she said, sticking the dagger back into the table this time. “Now,” she continued in English, turning to face Rand. “Will you explain what you expect to gain from this mad scheme of yours?”
R
and watched the Welshman melt into the darkness. It was too late to undo what he’d set in motion. But that didn’t stop him from wondering if he’d made a colossal error in judgment. Would his daring move prevent the Welsh from attacking Rosecliffe? Or would it unify them further against him?
He scrubbed his hands across his face and tried to think rationally. Clyde ap Llewelyn would not risk Josselyn’s life. Rand was certain of that. But where was the man? Why was he or his messenger not already here, demanding in outraged tones the return of his niece? The village was not so far away. Why was he the one sending a message to the Welsh and not the other way around? Didn’t the man care about his niece’s well-being?
Perhaps she wasn’t his niece after all.
“Bloody hell,” he swore into the night sky. Could Josselyn be merely bait, not the real niece at all, but only a spy sent to dupe him?
But then, why would the Welsh do that?
“Damnation!” He was not a man used to self-doubt, and he didn’t like it. Unfortunately that accursed wench, curled now in his bed, was driving him mad.
He wanted her, even though he knew he ought to leave her untouched.
He was certain she was the right woman, yet she made him worry that she’d duped him once more.
He couldn’t make up his mind.
Stifling a frustrated groan, he frowned at the sturdy building where she waited. A guard stood at the door. Smoke wafted from the new chimney. A faint glow showed at the edges of the shuttered window. Inside it was warm.
She was warm.
With a curse he turned away and stared blindly down the long slope of the hill. He saw the white puffs of his own frozen breath. The moon cast just enough shadow that he could make out the dark outline of both the inner and outer walls that Sir Lovell had laid out. The inner wall progressed swiftly, but not swiftly enough. With this new tension between him and his neighbors, he would have to temporarily abandon the outer wall and concentrate all the workers on raising the inner wall to a level higher than a man’s head. Only then would he return Josselyn to her uncle.
And to Owain.
He scowled. God’s bones, but the thought of her in another man’s bed was maddening.
“A man’s will is a strange creature, sometimes even to himself.”
Rand’s hand flew to the hilt of his dagger. Then he recognized the lumpy shadow that emerged from the darkness. Damn that Newlin!
“Do you speak of yourself, or pass judgment on me?” Rand growled.
“’Tis not for me to pass judgment on anyone. God gives us a will to do with what we please. Whether it will please Him, however …” He trailed off with a one-shouldered shrug.
Rand was in no mood for evasive words. Not tonight. “Where is Clyde? If Josselyn is his niece, why is he not here, demanding her release?”
He thought the old bard would not reply. Then Newlin
chuckled. “She is his niece and he will be here soon enough. But consider: a woman with the power to start a war has also the power to forge peace. I would speak with her,” he added abruptly.
Without waiting for an answer, he started toward the guarded building and after a moment Rand followed, shaking his head. The woman had him doubting his own judgment. But his judgment had been sound and he vowed not to allow her to affect him like that again.
That decided, he assessed the situation. He trusted Newlin, but only up to a point. Josselyn he did not trust at all—except for her physical response to him. He trusted her passions. But the passions of the flesh were a new thing for her. Her passionate feelings for her people and lands had always been a part of her. He would put nothing past her when it came to her desire to escape and wed Owain.
“Newlin!” she gasped when the bard entered. She lay on Rand’s bed, but fully clothed. When she spied him behind the bard, her expression of relief changed to one of suspicion. She scrambled off the high bed. “Will you grant me no privacy at all? Can I not even converse with a friend?”
“Be glad I allow you to see him at all. You are my prisoner, not my guest.”
Her glare was lethal. Had she access to the dagger she’d used on the cheese, Rand was certain she would have lunged furiously at him. As it was, she skewered him with her eyes, making it more than clear that she’d like to tear him to shreds and spread his entrails across the tamped earth floor.
In return he gave her a bland smile, settled himself in his chair, and gestured with one hand. “Proceed with your visit—but in English only, else I shall be forced to ask Newlin to leave. Go ahead. Talk. The hour grows late and I am weary. It has been a long day,” he added, broadening his smile.
She turned away from him, but he saw anger in her stiff
posture and the rigid set of her jaw. When she spoke to Newlin, however, her voice was low and carefully modulated.
“Does my uncle know where I am?”
The bard had been shuffling slowly around the room, observing the newly built structure, running a hand over the rough stone surface, sniffing the wood of the door and window frame. “’Tis English oak. You brought it with you?” he asked Rand.
“If I must build here in this land of stone, I can at least bring the finest wood with me.”
“If you
must
build here?” Josselyn interjected. “Didn’t you
want
to build here? Isn’t that why you came here, to claim lands that are rightfully ours?”
He hadn’t meant to reveal his reluctance to come to Wales, but as he studied her he decided it did not matter if she knew the truth. Perhaps it was for the best. “Henry sent me. Once I secure these lands—build a castle and bring peace to my people and yours—I will return to London.”
“So you don’t intend to stay.”
“No.” But although Rand was certain of his answer, he was less certain how he felt about it. Josselyn ap Carreg Du undoubtedly was thrilled to know he would someday depart her lands. What she did not yet understand was that he might leave, but the English presence never would. Eventually he would send for his brother to take his place. Even Jasper would be able to keep the peace in these hills once the walls of Rosecliffe Castle were complete.
Then an unexpected thought occurred to him—a logical yet repugnant thought. What if he made Jasper marry Josselyn?
There was much to be said for such a match. It would aid him in achieving the peace he sought, and they would undoubtedly be attracted to one another. After all, Jasper was not particular when it came to women. In truth, the randy lad stuck his prick in anything that moved—no doubt
to compensate for the celibate years he’d spent preparing for a life in the Church. As for Josselyn, she was passionate enough to find contentment with Jasper. Women fawned over the half-grown pup as if he were a deity.
Yes, it would be a wise match and he should have thought of it sooner. But the very idea set Rand’s teeth on edge. He glared at Josselyn, angry at her, at Jasper, and even the king for putting him in so untenable a situation.
“Get on with your visit,” he ordered. “As you can see, she’s not been harmed, nor will she be, so long as she does as she is told.”
“As I am told? I wonder just what it is you will
tell
me to do,” she sneered right back at him. She turned, appealing to Newlin. “He has locked me in his private chamber. How safe can that be? My uncle will never stand for it,” she swore, aiming her venom once more at Rand.
“He has no choice,” Rand retorted. “Answer me, Newlin. Does Clyde miss his niece yet? Why has he not approached me—or are you sent here tonight as his messenger?”
“I cannot speak for him, for he has not yet returned to the village.”
“Not returned?” Josselyn swung back to face Rand. “What have you done to him?”
“Me? I’ve done nothing—”
“You’ve stolen me from the safety of my family and dispatched at least two of the guards in the process. Oh, Newlin.” She spun back to the bard and took his hands in hers. “Tell me he has not been harmed. That no one has been harmed!”
Newlin managed somehow to circle her smaller hands with his. “No
Cymry
have died this day.”
“Then where is he?”
Rand stood there, frowning. Then in a rush, understanding came. “He thinks Owain has stolen you! He’s gone to seek you at Afon Bryn.”
Josselyn opened her mouth as if to deny such a ridiculous
accusation, then immediately closed it. She stared balefully at Rand but he could see the truth dawn in her face.
Henry had advised him that the Welsh were a fractious lot, always at odds with one another. But he had not suspected the alliance between the Lloyds and the people of Carreg Du to be so tenuous that they would suspect one another before suspecting an enemy common to them both. He grinned at the irony of the situation.
“I’m right, aren’t I, Newlin? Aren’t I, Josselyn?” he added in a smug tone. Then he laughed, enjoying her stony silence. “I’ll leave the two of you now. Send whatever messages you wish, Josselyn. It will change naught. You are my hostage against any Welsh attacks on my men. I’ve already sent that message to Clyde, but you can confirm it to him, Newlin. So long as he does not harm my people, I will not harm his.”
The diminutive bard fastened his one good eye first on Josselyn, then on Rand. “When I speak with Clyde it will be of my own observations. He will ask me how his niece fares, and I will tell him. He will ask your true intentions.” The ageless fellow paused. “I will tell him that as well.”
Rand met the bard’s unblinking gaze. “And just what do you think my true intentions are?”
It was Josselyn who answered. “That you seek to rule us and force your vile English ways on us despite the fact that you hate our lands and can hardly wait to leave here.” She stood, eyes flashing in the candlelight, her hair wild about her shoulders, her fists planted belligerently on her hips.
She would never be content in London. That aberrant thought struck painfully in Rand’s consciousness. She was too wild, too passionate in her convictions. Too much a part of her beloved wildwood. She would make an apt wife for the Lord of Rosecliffe, but she would be like a tethered bird in the smelly sprawl of London. He’d captured her, but with a sinking feeling he knew he would never possess her nor have the true pleasure of her.
Swallowing an oath, he forced that last absurd thought away. The only pleasure he’d ever wanted of her was the use of her body, which possibility was not yet fully thwarted. Unless, of course, he did wed her to Jasper.
This time he cursed out loud. “Make it brief,” he snapped to Newlin. “’Tis late and I do not relish sleeping outside. I caution you, wench. Do not make me sorry I have offered you the comfort of my quarters.” Then angry at Josselyn, at Newlin, and especially at himself, he strode from the room and slammed the door with what he meant to be authority, but which he suspected sounded more like pique.
In the wake of his stormy departure, Josselyn wilted, like a sail bereft suddenly of the winds needed to power it forward. She slumped onto the bed and raised mournful eyes to the bard. “Oh, Newlin. What am I to do now?”
“I do not believe he means you any harm, child.”
“Just because he hasn’t shackled me to a wall or denied me food and water doesn’t mean he will not harm me,” she muttered.
Newlin smiled his sweet, one-sided smile. “He would cut off his own hand before allowing any harm to befall you.”
She grimaced. “You mistake him for a man of honor.”
“I see what I see.”
“You see more than the rest of us.” She crossed the room and knelt before him. “Tell me what to do, how to escape and best help our people.”
“If you escape there will be war. Does that help your people?”
“They are not just my people, they are your people too. And yes. To be free of English rule—is that so bad a thing?”
He was quiet a long, somber moment. Then he roused as if from a place only he could visit. “The stones do grow.”
“What?”
“Yonder. All around us.” He gestured wide with his shriveled arm.
“The walls he builds? Is that what you mean?” Josselyn asked with a sinking heart. “Is that what the prediction means?”
“‘When stones shall grow and trees shall no’.’”
Josselyn sprang to her feet, frightened now as she’d not been before. “Then we must tumble these walls of his before they can grow. I must escape, Newlin. I must! Will you help me?” she pleaded. “Will you?”
He patted her hand. That was the only reassurance he gave her. “Listen and learn, my child. I will speak with your uncle when he returns. We will see what we will see. Do not trouble yourself with matters you cannot control.”
“But what of those matters I can control, or at least influence for the better? ’Tis those matters I
must
trouble myself with.”
“Listen and learn,” he repeated. “And do not fret.”
Do not fret.
Josselyn sat on the floor after the old bard left. She wrapped her arms around her knees and heard the echo of Newlin’s last words. Do not fret. How could she possibly not fret?