O
wain ap Madoc rode into the village like a marauder. Dogs tucked their tails and ran. Women snatched up their children and hid in their houses. The men, taken by surprise, raced for their weapons.
Had Owain meant them harm, Clyde realized, he could have slaughtered people at will and set the village aflame before a substantial opposition could have been raised.
Clyde clenched his fingers around the stout oak staff he carried and waited for Madoc’s rebellious son to approach him. The late dawn had brought with it a cold rain. It was that which had muffled the horses’ hooves of the dozen riders. Otherwise the watch would have sounded an earlier warning. Besides, Clyde reasoned, they had no cause to expect an attack from anyone. The English enemy held Josselyn precisely to prevent the advent of war. And the village had no reason to expect attack from fellow countrymen, not when they all faced a much greater enemy.
So why did his heart hammer as if battle were imminent?
Because Owain ap Madoc was unpredictable and cruel. The man seemed possessed of a need periodically to let blood. If he had no real enemies to fight, he was wont to fashion one from imagined slights and insults. Not for the first time Clyde wondered if marrying Josselyn to Owain would prove to be of any real use.
Dewey ran up, gasping for breath, his round face red from exertion. “He wants to attack. To retrieve Josselyn from the Englishman by force.”
Of course he did, Clyde thought. In a pitched battle Clyde could be easily killed; whether by an English weapon or Welsh one would not matter to Owain. A few other key losses and all of Carreg Du would then be vulnerable to Owain’s greed. It was not enough that he marry Josselyn and thereby make his claim. He needed to leave his mark on Clyde’s people, to make his imprint. To leave no one in any doubt about who was the most powerful lord in this northernmost part of Wales.
Clyde grimaced. He should never have convinced Josselyn to wed the brute!
“You have lost my bride!” Owain accused Clyde as he pulled his wild-eyed steed to a plunging halt just short of trampling Clyde. Clyde met Owain’s scowl with a scowl of his own.
“She is not lost but stolen, as I informed your father.”
Owain’s eyes flashed with dangerous fire. “And what plan do you make to get her back?”
Clyde met the younger man’s challenging stare. “I do not intend to attack the English camp until I am certain he will not make good on his threat to harm her.”
“In other words, you plan to do nothing but sit here and wring your hands. Like a woman,” he added with a sneer. Then he spat on the ground in front of Clyde’s feet.
Dewey’s hand flew to his sword grip, but Clyde stayed him with a quick hold of his wrist. He stared unflinchingly at Owain. “Finesse will carry us further than brute strength, for the English possess more brute strength than do we.”
“So you say. I’ll trust my own judgment—”
“On my lands you will trust my judgment!”
As if a signal had sounded, an ugly silence fell. The two men glared at one another, the one young and fiery, the other older, calmer, but equally adamant. As the silence stretched out, the men of Carreg Du gathered round their
leader, some mounted now, as were their tenuous allies.
There was no predicting Owain’s reaction, Clyde knew. But he would not allow the headstrong man to bully him, or to jeopardize Josselyn’s safety. On impulse Clyde stepped forward and caught Owain’s mount’s lead. “Dismount and take refreshment with us. I will relate my conversation with Randulf Fitz Hugh.”
“You would have us talk while that bastard ravishes my bride!”
“He is a man of his word, I think, and of some level of honor. Rape is not a part of his plan.” Clyde tightened his hold, keeping the horse’s head low. “Dismount, Owain. Share in our hospitality as we work to free my niece—and our lands—of this new oppression.”
After a long breathless silence, Owain relented. But even when he did as Clyde asked, even when he and his lieutenant, Glyn, entered Clyde’s home with a grudging show of civility, Clyde felt the weight of a dark despair. Was he to free Josselyn of one oppressor only to deliver her to another? “Where is your esteemed father?” he asked as he waited for Nessie to serve them her best wine.
Owain grunted. “He awaits my message. Should we require more men, he will come.”
They would require no further men, Clyde swore to himself. His judgment might have been lacking in the past. His caution might have been too great. But he was not so foolhardy as to welcome an even larger contingent of men under Owain’s control into his village.
He’d been a fool to think linking his family to Owain’s would ease tensions between them. If anything, it had emboldened the ruthless fellow. No, this matter of Josselyn’s freedom was up to him to negotiate. But how he would deal with two enemies vying for his niece was a matter with no easy answers. Perhaps, he feared, no answers at all.
After the long day of physical exertion, Rand should have slept like a dead man. Instead he tossed restlessly in his bed, unable, despite his profound weariness, to find any relief in sleep.
It was due to Josselyn, of course. Though she had kept as still as a frightened mouse, huddled down in her rug, Rand had been unable to ignore her presence. He’d lain there, half waking, half sleeping, remembering tales from his youth and confusing her with the women in them. Paris and Menelaus had fought battles over Helen of Troy. Would he be forced to battle for Josselyn of Wales? The ancient King Arthur had been devastated by a woman. Would he suffer the same fate?
Now, though dawn barely nicked the horizon, he threw back the plain wool blanket and rose from his torturous bed. “Up, woman.” He faced the huddled lump in the corner. “Your duties begin when I rise, and I am risen.”
“Ci ffiaidd.”
He heard the muttered invective and took a perverse pleasure at her obvious ill humor. If he had to suffer for her presence, then by damn, so must she suffer for his. “Up,” he repeated. “Fetch me water and help me with my morning ablutions.”
With another curse she shoved the rug down and glared bleary-eyed out into the dim room.
“Myfi casau ti.
That means I despise you,” she translated. Unfortunately, her voice, made husky by her slumber, imparted a different sort of message entirely. She was rosy from sleep. He could see that even in the shadowy light. Her hair was loose and tangled, and her clothing rumpled and askew. Altogether a delectable eyeful, were it not for the baleful expression on her face.
“I have needs of my own,” she muttered. “Needs I must attend before I can tend any of yours. In private,” she added when he did not immediately respond.
“Of course,” he answered when her words belatedly registered. He pointed in the direction of the chamber pot,
then turned for the door. “Be quick about it. There is water in the ewer.”
She did not thank him. He did not expect her to. His disappointment, however, was not for her lack of appreciation but rather that he wanted to hear her voice again, that low thrum of feminine warmth, that breathy, arousing murmur, even if it was only to curse him anew. Something in her voice aroused him and though he should not want her to exercise any more power over him than she already wielded, a part of him could not resist. He wanted her husky words breathed in his ear. He wanted her, warm and tousled from sleep, lying in his bed beside him. Wrapped in his arms.
The foolish desires of a lunatic, he told himself as he opened the door, stepped outside, and slammed it closed behind him. Then he breathed deep of the bracingly cold air and willed sanity back into his head. Letting a woman dominate his thoughts was a colossal mistake. Letting one who was his avowed enemy do so could be deadly.
Around him the camp stretched and yawned, slowly coming awake. The morning shift had already relieved the night guards and the castle workers were rising now to begin their labors. Nothing had changed, he reassured himself. And now, thanks to yesterday’s daring raid, nothing would. He’d purchased additional security when he’d captured Clyde’s niece. He’d secured time enough to finish the first tier of the wall. Though the Welsh were bound to bluster and threaten him, so long as he kept her safe, he was certain they would not attack the camp directly.
Then Rand spied Osborn headed his way, scowling, and his self-satisfaction began to wane.
“Who’s to cook?” Osborn demanded without preamble, before he’d even reached Rand’s side. “The women did not come and the fire in the kitchen is gone out.”
Like a disgruntled shadow, Sir Lovell trailed him, a worried expression on his face. “Gladys is not here. You don’t think anything unfortunate has befallen her?”
“She’s not comin’,” Osborn snapped at the other man. “They’re not any of them comin’ because that damnable Welshman won’t allow it.”
The frown on Sir Lovell’s face deepened. “How can you be certain?”
“I’m certain. Am I the only man here not besotted by one of these Welsh females?”
“They’re not coming as much by my order as Clyde’s,” Rand said. “I told him I would allow no one but Newlin in the camp while Josselyn is my hostage. We’ll have to cook for ourselves. We’ve done it before; we can do it again.”
Both men stared at him as if he’d just sentenced them to torture. “What of
her?”
Osborn asked, jerking his thumb toward Rand’s quarters. “Why can’t she cook for us?”
“I’ve given her other duties.”
At that Osborn smirked. “I don’t see why that should interfere with her cookin’ for us.”
Sir Lovell’s mouth turned down in concern. “What duties have you given her?”
“Nighttime duties,” Osborn answered before Rand could.
“I did not lay a hand on her,” Rand swore.
Though I wish I had.
“And you’d better not,” Sir Lovell stated with a boldness usually reserved only for matters related to construction. “She is being held hostage and is to be returned unharmed to her people. You said as much to her uncle.”
“And I meant it,” Rand bit out. He glared at the two men. When Osborn was hungry he was like a tenacious bear. He wanted a woman in the kitchen and Rand knew he would badger him until his stomach was filled and content. As for Sir Lovell, he had a moral streak that would not abide seeing a woman harmed in any way. Not that Rand meant to harm Josselyn. But he doubted the master builder would ever understand that.
Perhaps it was for the best, he told himself as he met
their expectant stares. If Josselyn was busy all day she would be less likely to try to escape.
But then he would not have her exclusively to himself.
He chewed on that undeniable fact a moment. Before he could respond to Osborn’s suggestion, however, the door shoved open and slammed into his back.
“Ow! Move, you big oaf!”
Josselyn emerged, her hair barely tamed, her face still damp with wash water. She was no longer rosy from sleep; her voice had lost its smoky timbre. But even pale, angry, and shrill, she brought every one of Rand’s senses alive.
“I refuse to be discussed as if I am not here,” she stated, planting a fist on each hip.
“Can you cook?” Osborn demanded to know.
“I have a moderate talent for cooking, more so than I have for washing and mending,” she added, shooting Rand a cool look.
“Then come along,” Osborn said, grabbing her by the wrist and starting for the kitchen.
“Hold on!” Rand caught her other hand and for a moment she was caught between them, like a tasty morsel claimed by two birds of prey. He didn’t want to share her, at least not just yet. Unfortunately, she knew it, if the glitter in her eyes was any indication. She might be his hostage but that would not prevent her from fomenting any trouble she could. And nothing affected the men under his command so universally as did the issue of food—more particularly, the desire for good food and great quantities of it.
Though he wanted to throttle her, he knew it would do no good. She meant to fight him, to thwart him, in any way she could. In her position he would no doubt do the same. But the mark of a good leader was not to overreact, to know when to retreat and when to advance. This was clearly a time to retreat.
“I give her leave to prepare the meals. But first she and I have a few issues to clarify between us.”
He released her wrist. At once she jerked her other arm
free of Osborn’s hold. She looked at Rand. “What issues? Do you need me to comb your hair for you?” she asked, stretching out the words in an overly innocent tone. Amusement glinted in her turbulent blue eyes—amusement at his expense. It was time to remind her who was in charge here.
He turned to his men. “She will be along directly. Osborn, inform your men that the morning meal has been delayed but it is coming. Sir Lovell, tell your workers the same.” When they didn’t move right away, his brow lowered. “Go!”
Josselyn tried to slip away with them, but his boot, planted squarely on the trailing edge of her cloak, halted her in her tracks. “Not you. Not yet.”