She had straightened and stood now as haughty as anyone could while tied to a bedpost. Her hair fell to her waist, hiding her partially exposed breast. She had lost one of her shoes in her struggles with his men. But for all that, she looked like a queen. No wonder Owain wanted her.
But he would not get her—
Rand stopped in the act of laying aside his sword. Owain wanted her back and no doubt he would try again to free her. Only this time Rand would set a trap and take the Welsh rebel captive. Once Owain was locked in a dungeon—or else sent back to London for Henry’s justice—the Welsh rebellion would falter.
Then he would have to decide what to do with Josselyn.
But he need not make that decision tonight.
He put his sword down. “The labors I have given you are not so hard. Especially those you performed in here. In fact, they have every potential to be rather enjoyable. I thought we agreed on that earlier.”
“We agreed on nothing!” But the hot color that stained her cheeks made her words a lie.
He advanced on her. “Perhaps ’tis only that you need another demonstration to remind you.”
“I don’t. Stay away from me you … you coward.”
He stood before her, close enough to touch any portion of her soft, strong body. But he didn’t. She smelled of smoke and fear. And of sex. He sat on the bed and she twisted as best she could to face him. It brought her jutting breasts nearer to his face, and he felt the rise of desire.
“Did you burn this bed as a symbolic gesture? Or mayhap it was a tribute? We had built a considerable fire of another sort in it before I was so abruptly called away.”
Her chin trembled. Or did he imagine it? It was clear, however, that she did not want to be reminded of the passion that had ignited them both in this bed. He vowed not to let her forget.
“Strange, isn’t it, that water—a bath—was what led to our own fiery union.” He reached a hand up and, though she flinched away, he rubbed his knuckle across her sooty cheek. “You bathed me very well, Josselyn. Truth be told, I cannot recall a more memorable bath. Now ’tis my turn to do as much for you.”
Josselyn watched Rand with increasing alarm. What was he up to? She’d had too much time to rage and worry in the long hour since she’d failed in her bid to escape. The two English thugs who’d barred her way, then doused the fire before it could fairly catch, had been crude and threatening when they’d tied her to Rand’s bed. The shorter one had become hard at the sight of her struggling against the leather bindings. He would have raped her, she was certain, had not the other man warned him away. Fear of Rand’s reaction had been the only threat that had kept the man’s erection in his braies.
Now, however, Rand was here, with no one to prevent him doing what he would with her. And though she feared what he might do, she feared just as much her own response to the man.
When he wet a cloth from the chilly bathwater and rubbed soap into a thin lather, her fear trebled. But she would rather die than reveal that to him, so she bit the
inside of her lower lip and glared her hatred at him. Though she knew it was hopeless she twisted her face away when he tried to wash the soot from her cheek.
“Don’t touch me.”
“’Tis only a bath, Josselyn. You will sleep better when you are clean.”
“I’ll sleep better when I am free from the likes of you!”
He caught her chin and forced her to face him. “That may be a very long time.”
“And then again, it may come much sooner than you think.”
He wiped her cheek, gently. Firmly. His hand was warm, the cloth was cold. She shivered in dismay.
“Owain will try again, no doubt.”
So it was Owain who’d fired the boats. She’d wondered.
“But he will not succeed,” Rand continued. “He must want you very badly. I wonder, though, if he will want you as much when he learns we have lain together.”
She could not turn away from him, but she did avert her eyes. Otherwise he would have seen the truth: that she would never lie with Owain as she’d lain with him. She knew now that such a thing would be impossible.
She forced her words, however, to mislead him. “Owain will not care. Once he and my uncle drive you English from our shores, he will rejoice in the greater victory and not care about the small losses along the way.”
He moved the cloth to her lips. “English mothers wash their children’s mouth with soap when they catch them in a lie.” But it was not the cloth that smoothed over her lower lip. It was his thumb, and her eyes jerked up to his.
He was so near, his chest but inches away, his feet arrayed on either side of her own. He surrounded her. He overwhelmed her. In an instant he had pushed her hair behind her shoulders, then wrapped one hand in her tresses and gripped the post behind her head, so that she could not turn her face away from him.
Did he mean to take her here, up against the bedpost,
like some prize of war? She’d heard the men’s tales of battle. She knew what happened to any woman captured by an enemy army. In truth, all men were the same. English ones. Welsh ones. And yet she’d somehow imagined this man different.
Past the lump that formed in her throat, she forced herself to speak. “If you mean to rape me, have done with it now.”
“I don’t mean to rape you.”
She felt his breath against her cheek. She saw the lantern light reflect in his eyes, gold glimmering up from those midnight-dark depths. Despite his words, his intent was clear.
“It
will
be rape,” she said, though the husky tremble in her voice belied the words.
“No.”
He was close enough to kiss her, but he didn’t. Thank God, she told herself. Thank God. For if he kissed her he would feel how she strained toward him. He would feel the traitorous arch of her body, the betraying desire on her lips.
Instead of kissing her, he moved the cloth down her neck and, with a perverse thoroughness, began to bathe her skin. The hollow of her throat. The line of her shoulder. The swell of her breasts. The bathwater had long ago cooled and her skin prickled with the cold. But inside she burned.
Would he remove her gown? Surely not.
“Don’t,” she warned breathlessly.
He raised his head and met her tortured gaze. “I won’t. Not until you ask me to.”
“I’ll never ask that.”
His answer was a smile of such blinding male beauty, of such wicked worldliness, that Josselyn felt faint. He meant to seduce her and he probably could.
“This … this is not fair. At the least release my bindings.”
“I will. Eventually.” He knelt then and began to bathe her feet, her ankles, then slowly moved up her legs. Relentlessly he moved the soapy cloth upward, bunching her
skirt ever higher, revealing the flesh he bathed.
By the time he reached her inner thighs she was trembling so violently that were it not for the leather cords, she would have collapsed. His head was bent to his task and she was desperate for him to go on, to touch her there, where she ached for him. But he looked up instead, his eyes burning with the force of his own desire.
“Shall I continue?” he asked, hoarse and low. His left palm slowly slid up and down her thigh, the thumb so near the apex of her thighs, yet never quite making it there. “Tell me, Josselyn. Tell me what you want.”
The breath caught in her throat. He knew her answer, for every part of her proclaimed it: trembling legs, flushed skin, fevered eyes. But he wanted the words.
It was the only thing she still possessed that she could withhold from him.
“I want you, Josselyn. I want to taste every sweet morsel of you, beginning here.” He pressed a kiss against her belly, against the rumpled wool that yet covered her there. “You liked it before when I did that to you. You’ll like it even more this time. I promise.”
She bit her lip, anything to deny him the admission he sought. But a whimper slipped past, a sound of helpless assent, and with a groan of his own, he buried his face against her.
“Damn you!” he swore, digging his hands into her derriere and pressing her into him. “Damn you!”
He stood abruptly, unfastening his braies with one hand while he pulled her gown up to her waist. Then he pressed fully against her, letting her feel the full strength of his warrior’s body, the full desire of his male arousal. And even as he loosened the leather thongs that held her in place, he lifted one of her legs and entered her.
“Rand,” she gasped, but he swallowed her words, her very breath, with a fierce kiss. The last of her good reason was abandoned. The last remnant of logic burned to cinders in their fiery embrace. She circled his neck with one arm
and rose into the kiss, and reveled in his possession of her. Her other hand remained behind the post, held there by Rand’s fierce grip as he finished what they’d begun hours earlier. He pushed past all her defenses, taking her hard against the unyielding bed frame.
But it was not rape. He had been right in that and Josselyn rejoiced for it. They came together willingly, violently. Inevitably.
And when he drove her past her ability to bear any more, when she erupted around him and dissolved into him, she felt his answering culmination. She felt the hot burst of his strength into her.
Only then did he release her hand. Only then did she slump into him, holding on to his shoulders so that she did not melt quietly away into the floor.
He held on to the post, keeping them upright a little longer. She felt the unyielding oak behind her and suspected she would be bruised. But as her senses returned and she felt his hard body up against hers and realized her one leg curved still around his hips, she knew that the bruises to her body were of no moment. What would happen next, she did not know. But the bruises he could inflict on her heart would stay with her far longer than any bruises of the flesh.
They might very well kill her.
H
e did not allow her to speak, but put out all the lamps and took her to his bed. Despite her exhaustion, Josselyn did not believe she could possibly sleep beside him. But she did—until he awakened her and they made love again. When she tried to protest, he silenced her in ways she’d never imagined, with kisses and touches in places she’d never known could be so erotic. He was bold and voracious and she was too consumed by the fire he built in her to object.
Somewhere along the way they abandoned their clothes, just as she’d abandoned her modesty and her virginity. But she couldn’t think about that now, not when he had tucked her against his chest and curved his magnificent body around hers, as if he meant to protect her even as he slept.
To protect her—or to prevent her from escaping him? Some remnant of suspicion rose to make her wonder. Josselyn tried to reason out which, for she knew it was an important distinction. But her exhaustion was too great and her body too replete. Reason had been numbed by sexual satiation. Her last clear thought before she succumbed once more to sleep was to wonder if her reason would ever fully return.
A hard fist on the door dragged her back to awareness. Hadn’t she been awakened thus before?
But that knock had been urgent. This one was less so. And it had been dark, not the hard light of morning. She burrowed into the bed, hiding her face against a warm chest—
A warm chest! She leapt back as if scalded.
“Good morning.” Rand’s head rested on the same pillow she’d just abandoned.
She backed off the bed then, realizing she was naked, tried to pull the sheet over her. But Rand caught her wrist and with one easy tug brought her sprawling across him. “You don’t have to leave,” he said, positioning her, despite her struggles, over him. She felt the morning heat of his masculine body and felt the hard arousal of him too.
The fist pounded the door once more. “God’s bones, Rand. Can’t you come up for air long enough to hear that we’ve company?”
Rand’s playfulness disappeared. “Company? Who is it, man? More of the Welsh?”
“It appears to be Simon Lamonthe,” Osborn answered. “If the pennant they fly tells the truth of it.”
More Englishmen. That chased away the last cobwebs of Josselyn’s interrupted slumber. Her body ached from Rand’s invasion of it. His repeated invasion of it, she recalled with hot shame. But she had no time for remorse. More Englishmen. Had he sent for them? Did he plan to retaliate against Owain?
Did he plan to attack Carreg Du?
She tried to push off him but he held her with hands of steel. “Is he here yet?”
“Almost.”
“Send for wine and whatever Odo can muster in the kitchen. I’ll greet them here.”
After a moment Osborn cleared his throat. “What of your … hostage?”
“Send for two guards—not the two who guarded her yesterday.” Rand’s eyes bored into Josselyn’s though he
spoke to his captain. “She’ll be ready to accompany them in a few minutes.”
The captain of the guards grunted but he did depart. That left Josselyn lying naked over her enemy-her enemy who had become her lover. A sheet separated them, but it was a useless barrier. She felt every muscle, every bone, every hollow of his well-honed body, as he now knew the contours and textures of her own. But she knew nothing of his thoughts, and his carefully shuttered gaze ensured she would not.
“You will go with the guards and stay strictly out of Lamonthe’s view.”
“Why must he not see me?” she responded, her voice tart. Her emotions were too overwrought for her to be logical. “Welshwomen have always been the spoils of war for you English.”
A muscle jumped in his jaw and his eyes narrowed at her sarcastic tone. “Put whatever name you will on this night, Josselyn. But it will remain a night of pleasure in my memory—and yours, if you are honest. As for Lamonthe, he will see you and he will want you. He is one who
does
see Welshwomen as spoils for the taking.” He paused, his gaze as hard as his words. “Do you want him to take you?”
What she wanted was the privacy of a good cry. How could he act so unaffected by what had occurred between them? “Would you let him?”
Inside dust motes floated in the single beam of sunlight streaming through the crack in the shuttered window. From outside the muted sounds of a camp coming awake drifted in to them. But where they were and why they were in this terrible situation did not matter. Would he give her to another English lord if the man demanded it? After what had happened between them …
“I’ve told you before. The women of Wales are safe under my rule. I do not condone rape.”
She pulled away, not fully satisfied by his words, and
this time he let her go. She turned away, searching frantically for her cast-off clothing. Smock, kirtle. She found only one stocking. Then covering her terrible dishevelment with her voluminous cloak, she shoved her bare feet into her shoes and crossed the room. He blocked her way with a hand splayed flat on the door.
“Wait for the guards to come. They’ll protect you.”
“I don’t need protecting. I need my freedom.” She faced the door, acutely conscious of him just behind her. Was he dressed? Sweet Mother, but she hoped so, for if she turned they would be face-to-face, mere inches apart.
If
she turned. She did not dare do so.
His voice was a low rumble. “I cannot set you free. Not yet.”
“Why not?” What answer did she want from him—that he couldn’t bear to be without her? How pitiful a creature she’d become after only one night with him. She needed him to need her. Only he didn’t. Not in the way that was most important.
“Never mind,” she said, before he could respond. “I know when. Once the walls are higher than a man’s head you will release me. How long will that take?” she added, unable to hide the bitterness in her voice.
“A few months. Before winter arrives.”
“And am I to warm your bed during that time?” An awful thought occurred to her and she swallowed hard. “Or do you plot still to wed me to your brother when he arrives?”
His hand on the door before her curled into a fist. So he didn’t like her to remind him of his brother and his threat to wed her to him. That knowledge goaded her recklessly on. “Does your brother arrive with this Lamonthe? Shall I meet this paragon fellow today, perhaps? Or tonight?”
He jerked her around so fast she nearly fell. He shoved her back against the door, pinning her there with his hands. He was dressed, she noticed. And he was furious.
“Beware that sharp tongue of yours does not bring you to grief, Josselyn. ’Tis enough for you to know that I will
make that decision. You are better served by keeping me content rather than riling my temper.”
She left it at that. His anger boded well for her—she hoped. He did not want to share her, not with this new English lord, nor with his brother. But what he did want of her, beyond the immediate, she could not fathom. She tried to content herself that he had her closely guarded for the rest of the morning in the kitchen.
She washed her limbs and her bruised body as well as she could. Then as boredom overtook her, she decided to help with baking the bread. But she refused to dwell on what had happened between her and Rand last night—or on what might occur during the coming one. She must learn instead why this new group of Englishmen had arrived and what repercussions would follow last night’s raid by her countrymen. She must remember that she was Welsh and that Rand was English. She must remember that they were enemies and very likely would be forever.
“How many extra loaves are required for the visitors?” she asked as she divided a batch of dough and began to knead. Slap the dough down, push and fold, push and fold, then slap it down again.
Odo did not look up from his tasks. His good humor was lacking in this, the second day of his elevation to cook. He much preferred helping Gladys to managing on his own.
“Ten men, five loaves,” he grunted. “And nearly as many gallons of ale, I’d warrant.”
Josselyn divided the dough into three loaves, shaped them up, and crisscrossed their tops with the edge of a spoon. Odo had been ordered to keep her well away from any knives. “You’d think this Simon Lamonthe would wait until accommodations were better before he came calling,” she remarked, hoping to draw some information from Odo regarding the visitors.
“’Tis just as well. They’re less likely to linger.” Then he shot her a sharp look. “’Course, if you Welsh are plannin’
to burn us out, I ought not to complain about ten stout Englishmen come to our aid.”
Josselyn glared at him and dropped the second batch of dough onto the floury table. “These are Welsh lands, not English.”
“King Henry says Wales is a part o’ Britain. Always has been. We’re one bloomin’ island, or hadn’t you heard?”
“If my reasoning was as faulty as yours, I’d say that gives Wales the right to claim English lands as our own. After all, we’re one bloomin’ island,” she sarcastically echoed him.
He scowled then pointed at the unfinished loaves before her. “Finish your work. If you don’t work, you don’t eat.”
“I don’t have to do this.” She met his angry look with a superior smile, and folded her arms across her chest.
“If you want to eat, you do.”
“No. I don’t.”
He looked so exasperated that for a moment Josselyn felt sorry for him. He was hot and tired and sorely overworked. But she was not the cause of his situation, she reminded herself. Rand was. And though Odo wanted to vent his ill humor upon her, she refused to let him do so. She sat herself down on a three-legged stool and began to remove the fragments of dough that clung to her fingers, watching all the while as Odo’s frustration grew.
“Have it your way, then,” he sneered. “Do nothing. But I’ll wager you’re not so surly when Lord Randulf makes you earn your keep on your back.”
He ducked when she threw an empty crock at him, then circled the table when she snatched up the wooden pele and came after him. “Guard. Guard!” he cried, warding off her swings with the long bakery tool.
Josselyn spun around when the door burst open. “Stay away from me, you vile pig! Stay back or I’ll burst your crown wide open.”
“Here, missy. Don’t be startin’ any more trouble,” the
grizzle-faced guard warned. “I don’t want to draw my sword ’gainst a woman.”
What she thought she might accomplish with the wooden bread paddle against a seasoned warrior, Josselyn could not say. But emotions had taken over where good reason ought to reign, and she was not about to back down.
“Remove yourself from that doorway, and you’ll have no reason to draw your weapon.”
“Now, miss. You know I canna do that. Himself would have me head.”
“She’s gone full crazy,” Odo swore, sidling up to the soldier. “First she won’t cook. Then she threatens me.”
“Keep a decent tongue in your head and I’d have no reason to threaten you.”
The guard glanced at Odo. “I hope you haven’t done nothin’ foolish, lad. She’s Lord Randulf’s woman, or ain’t you heard?”
“Oh!” It was simply too much. Did the whole world know what had happened last night? Had Rand regaled all his men with the details of his conquest, like the details of a battle, told and retold and embellished each time?
With a swing borne of utter frustration, Josselyn struck out at Odo. He barely escaped a whizzing slice at his head. But in the process of avoiding the pele, he lurched into the guard and they toppled in a tangle of arms and legs and flailing sword.
Josselyn saw her chance and took it. Out the door and across the yard she sprinted—and directly into the path of trouble. For three mud-splattered soldiers approached the kitchen, and before she could veer out of their path, one of them caught her by the arm and spun her into the grasp of another of his comrades.
“Here, an’ wot’s this?”
“Looks like a bedwarmer to me,” the third man said. “D’ye think Fitz Hugh welcomes all his visitors with one of these?”
“A Welsh bedwarmer, from the looks of ’er,” the first
man said, grabbing the paddle from her before she could make use of it against any of them. “Here, I’ve a treat for you, sweetheart. How’d you like a taste of good English meat?”
Josselyn was too angry to be afraid, too frustrated that they’d stymied her escape to be cautious. “If it’s meat you want, the kitchen is there.” She indicated the building with a jerk of her head. “Now, release me. Ere you anger Lord Fitz Hugh,” she added by way of threat. Unfortunately, her dubious threat was lost in their great guffaws of laughter.
“Meat from the kitchen!”
“Mutton or beef?”
They laughed and leered, yet Josselyn could make no sense of it. Were they all mad? She saw no humor in her words.
Then one of them grabbed his crotch and suddenly she understood. Her disgust was instantaneous and overwhelming. So was her retaliation. While they roared with laughter, the one who held her let his grip loosen a little. In a moment she snatched his dagger from the sheath he wore at his hip. She sliced through his sword belt with a swift downward movement, then pointed the blade up between his legs, holding it steady against his thigh. “Would you like to see a Welshwoman carve good English meat?” she asked in a deadly quiet tone.