Rexanne Becnel (11 page)

It was not that she wished to help him. Far from it. But he clearly thought she was a charlatan, that her claims for powers beyond her herbal remedies were false. Though logically it did not matter what he thought, some irrational and emotional part of her wanted to prove him wrong. She wanted to shock him with the strength of her gift and then rub his face in it.

She glared at his red, chapped hands, willing them to heal as she continued to drizzle the moth herb and rose-water wash over them. He would see. She could ease pain just as well as she could cause it. Better in fact.

With a determined expression on her face, she glanced up—but only briefly. She must avoid meeting his eyes and touching him. “Now let your hands dry in the air. Don’t touch anything.”

“That’s it?” he exclaimed in disbelief. “They burn worse now than they did before.”

“When your skin is completely dry, I’ll apply this ointment,” she snapped, shooting him an angry glare.

But that proved to be a mistake, for once their eyes met, she seemed unable to look away. Though her eyes reflected her icy rage, he seemed easily to absorb that emotion in the fathomless depths of his velvet-brown stare. Anger, fear, loathing—all those emotions of hers he accepted and swallowed up in his steady gaze until she had nothing left to throw at him. She blinked, conscious that he was looking deeper, all the way inside her, it seemed. Muttering an imprecation, she jerked her eyes away.

He laughed. “
Cnaf.
That means ‘knave,’ does it not?”

Wynne bristled at the amusement evident in his words. He would not bait her again. She worked in silence, giving the thick yellow ointment another stir, then placing it on the ground between them.

He mocked her, did he? Well, she would just see about that. She pressed her fingertips briefly to her eyes, then let her hands circle three times above the small pottery dish. “Come into me, O Mother of us all. Come into me and through me. Work your healing powers on this man who seeks your aid.” Then she leaned forward, placing her hands palm down on the mossy ground on either side of the bowl, and let her unbound hair fall forward, forming a curtain as her amethyst amulet swayed in a slow circle above the bowl.

How long should she hold the pose? she wondered. If he were a superstitious old woman seeking a poultice for her aches, or a nervous young man desiring a love potion to captivate the girl he longed after, she would remain thus until their nervousness was palpable. But he was a cynical Englishman. Best not to overdo it. She would have further opportunities to drive home her point.

When she raised her head, she was careful to maintain a serene expression, completely devoid of any emotions. Nor did she meet his gaze, though she was acutely conscious of his eyes searching her face.

“Rub a light coating of this into your skin. Once now, and again before you retire for the night. Your hands should be recovered by morning.” She pushed the ointment nearer to him and began to gather her other things to leave. But then, as if some devil goaded her, she added, “You should have no difficulty handling your horse when you and your men leave here tomorrow.”

She saw his reddened hand reach for the bowl, but he did not speak. After several silent moments she realized that her breathing had ceased as she awaited his response. She forced herself to exhale, then slowly drew a breath. What was keeping him? she wanted to shout. Why didn’t he tell her one way or the other whether he was giving up on this ridiculous plot of his?

She was close to exploding when he abruptly reached out and grasped her wrist. With only one sharp tug he had her off balance. Her free hand braced frantically against his thigh so that she wouldn’t fall onto him, and her face ended up but inches from his.

“We have unfinished business, Wynne. I’ll not leave until it is settled.” He paused as their gazes clashed, but he didn’t loosen his hold. “And it’s more than the children now. It’s you and me.”

“ ’Tis you who have started this war, not I,” she hissed. “But if you imagine that I shall back down, then you’re even more addle-brained than I had supposed.”

He laughed at that, and she felt the warmth of his breath on her cheek. “What a fierce little warrior you are,
cariad.
But it is not war I want to make with you. ’Tis love. Hot, hard, sweaty love.” His voice dropped to a low, husky whisper as he leaned even closer. “Just you and me. And perhaps some special potion you can prepare to prolong the pleasure of it.” Then he took her earlobe lightly between his teeth and gave it the most erotic tug.

When he pulled back from her, Wynne was too unnerved to do more than gape stupidly at him. As if her body were no longer hers to control, she knelt there gasping for breath, conscious only that her heart was thundering, her mouth had gone dry, and somewhere, deep down inside, an inferno was just beginning to burn. She was completely undone by his intimate threat, shaking with feelings she didn’t understand and bewildered by what was happening to her.

Only when his smile broadened and he leaned toward her as if to take another nibble, did she come out of her stupor.

“No!” she cried, jerking away. But his grip on her wrist held. Beneath her other hand she suddenly became aware of his thigh, so hard and firm beneath the thin layer of his fine woolen braies. So warm and unfamiliar.

“Let go of me,” she muttered, refusing to meet his eyes.

His hand shifted slightly upon her skin, but did not loosen. “Only after you complete your ministrations,” he answered, amusement clear in his tone.

She resisted the urge to glare at him, for in her present unsettled state, she feared the devastating impact of his eyes. “Let me go now!”

“Only after you put the salve on my hands,” he replied with maddening persistence. “You deliberately sent me to that bed of noxious weeds. Now you shall see me healed.”

In the end Wynne deemed it prudent to comply. Though she was infuriated by his bullying tactics and dismayed by his bold overtures, she could think of nothing else to do. If she went along with him, he would let go of her wrist. If she just slapped the potion onto his hands, she could escape his overpowering presence.

And at the moment escape was the most important thing. She
had
to get away from him.

Yet even submitting to his demand did little for her peace of mind. As she scooted back from him, glancing swiftly—almost desperately—around for any sort of help, he chuckled.

“ ’Tis only you and I, my fair Welsh witch. No one else is near, so do not try to delay. Apply your wondrous ointment with its mystical healing powers. Heal me where I burn.”

She scowled at him. “I despise you,” she hissed as she snatched up the small pottery bowl. She scooped out a glob of the yellow goo and practically flung it onto his hand.

“Careful. My skin is
very
tender. And be sure you work it between my fingers. Here also, in the creases of my palms.” In anger she grabbed his outstretched hand, hoping she hurt him with her rough handling. But when his hand curled around hers, his fingers twining with her own, she knew she suffered far more discomfort than he, for her entire being seemed to jump with awareness of him.

“This spot in the very center of my palm is especially sensitive,” he murmured, holding her eyes captive with his. “Rub it in very gently.”

Wynne hardly remembered applying the salve. She had never worked so quickly—nor fumbled so badly. Once the task was done, however, she jumped up and backed away.

“I despise you,” she vowed once more, though that vehement statement was sorely weakened by the shaky quality of her voice.

His mocking eyes raked over her. “I desire you,” he replied. “Very much.”

Wynne did not stay to hear any more. He was the most horrible man she’d ever had the misfortune to run across, she swore as she fled to the manor house. A godless heathen. A heartless bastard. A man who would steal babies and seduce women—

Cleve’s thoughts followed a similar path to Wynne’s as he watched her flee. She was truly a witch, worshiping ancient gods not known to the one true faith. But she was heartbreakingly beautiful. Though he’d come here to procure Sir William’s child from her, at the moment all he could think of was how much he wanted to touch her. How badly he needed her in his bed.

She was as exquisite as any rose, though she bristled now with thorns. But if he could just get near enough and get past those sharp edges of hers, he knew his reward would be sweet indeed.

B
EYOND THE OPEN DOOR
of the stone kitchen building, Cook bustled back and forth, busier than was normal with her tasks. The manor household numbered only six adults and five children, so the seven English visitors had a profound impact on her work, Wynne realized. Added to that, Druce—loyal friend that he was—had come up from Radnor Village with his brother and two others. Although Wynne was pleased by his show of support in the face of the English threat, it did, however, complicate things for her.

She clutched the small pouch in her fist as she peered into the kitchen. How was she going to manage it? She dared not involve Cook or her helper in this plot. Gwynedd would be furious enough, and Wynne did not wish for her aunt’s anger to fall on anyone else. She herself would shoulder the blame—the credit, she amended bitterly. But how she would manage to sicken only the Englishmen was proving a most difficult problem.

She ruled out the gravy for the venison. Everyone would partake freely of it, and besides, if one of the men proved to be a glutton, he could easily take too much. She glanced down anxiously at the ground root of yew in the pouch. She didn’t want to do any permanent harm to the Englishmen. She just wanted to frighten them away.

Maybe in the wine. If she slipped it into one of the ewers and then was careful to fill the Englishmen’s goblets from only that particular ewer …

She knew she couldn’t put it in the pears or the soft cheese. The children too often sneaked a taste before the meal or begged Cook for an extra serving afterward. No, it had to be the wine. None of the children would be tasting the wine.

She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. This was the only way, she reassured herself. She had to rid them of their enemy, no matter how Gwynedd might react.

She still could not understand her aunt’s easy acceptance of the loss of one of the children. Though Gwynedd had never married or had children, the old woman had raised the orphaned Wynne as her own. Would Gwynedd have given her niece up to the first Englishman who’d come along, claiming her as his own? Wynne knew she would not. And Wynne was just as unlikely to give up one of
her
charges. Why couldn’t Gwynedd understand that?

She saw Druce across the yard—speaking to that despicable Cleve FitzWarin. Shoving the pouch into the working purse that hung from her girdle, she strode toward them, the hem of her bliaut flaring. She was determined that the Englishman not try to smooth-talk Druce as he’d obviously done with Gwynedd. To a poor Welsh lad like Druce, the Englishman’s offer to make one of the children so wealthy might sound awfully enticing. Castles. Vast demesnes. She could not take the chance that FitzWarin might try to sway her one ally away from her.

“—tin mines. But that’s farther south,” Druce was saying in a guarded tone as Wynne drew near.

“I’ve also orders for potions and special herbs,” Cleve said.

Druce looked up at Wynne’s approach. “You should speak to Wynne about that. She’s the one who knows the herbs. She gathers them and prepares them to suit her customers. She’s received orders from as far away as Anglesey—”

“Could you seek out the boys?” she interrupted Druce. “If you’ll recall, you promised to help them make bows and a target.”

Druce gave her a steady look. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather I stay with you?” He gestured with his head toward Cleve as though the man were not there.

Wynne shrugged, emulating Druce’s nonchalance. “I’ve no intention of lingering to speak with him.”

“Actually I want to speak to you about purchasing some specific herbal remedies,” Cleve stated, ignoring her words completely.

“I’m not selling anything to you.
Anything
,” she repeated dismissingly.

“I’ve come with coins to pay,” he insisted. His lean face showed the faintest hint of a grin, trebling her irritation. He hefted the purse hanging beneath his tunic.

At the clinking sound elicited, Druce’s brows arched in interest. “You know, Wynne, you do have a need of coin. Remember? You were saying just last week—”

“I’ll thank you to let me decide what I do and do not need.” She made an exasperated face at him.

Druce sighed and gave a frustrated shake of his head. He glanced from her to Cleve. “Talk or don’t talk. You’re both on your own.” Then, avoiding meeting her furious glare, he ambled away.

Wynne would have left as well, for in spite of her irritation toward Druce, at least she’d succeeded in separating him from the Englishman. Druce was her only ally. She didn’t want the Englishman to win him over with his glib promises. But as she turned on her heel, she was halted by FitzWarin’s hand on her arm.

“You’re always fleeing me, Wynne,” he said, drawing out her name in a manner that was far too familiar. “We’ve business together.”

“I’ll not do business with you,” she vowed, shrugging out of his grasp. “Not this pretense of purchasing herbs, nor the true purpose of your presence here. I’ve nothing whatsoever to sell to you!”

“By damn, but you are a fiery little dragon, aren’t you? But for once you’ll hear me out. Now, the women of Kirkston Castle had me commit their orders to memory.” He dragged her over to a wooden garden bench and pushed her down upon it. “Don’t interrupt my litany, or I’ll be forced to begin again.”

Though she glared at him, not attempting in the least to disguise her outrage to be manhandled thus, he released her and straightened up with a half smile. “Lady Anne wished shepherd’s-heart and thousand-leaf. The Lady Bertilde desires althea root and lad’s love for her babe, and something for her husband’s ailment: ground thistle, sea parsley, and Juno’s tears.”

Wynne snorted contemptuously at that. Lady Bertilde’s husband obviously needed to improve his performance in the marriage bed if his wife sought Juno’s tears. But Cleve’s quick scowl warned her to silence before she could speak.