She pressed the heels of her hands against her temples and tried to think. While the urge to contradict him at every turn was enormous, perhaps it was not the wisest choice. He thrived on conflict. He enjoyed bending her to his will. Only by meekly acquiescing to his demands could she rob him of that pleasure.
But there were some things she would not agree to, some things she would never agree to do again.
She turned and began to climb the stairs. She retrieved her box of charcoal from her bedchamber, then climbed further, up to the third level where she’d spent the last night lying half-naked in his arms. She trembled as she entered the room and saw the rumpled bed linens.
“Oh, God,” she moaned, as erotic memories washed over her. She’d been falling in love with Reevius, both her mind and her body. But although she now knew he was not the man she’d thought, her body seemed unable to understand. Some wicked part of her trembled with remembered passion every time she thought of last night.
She clenched the ashwood box against her chest and stared wildly around the room. She could not do this. She could not paint the images he wanted on the walls of this room.
Flinging down the box, she shoved the door open and fled the chamber with its oppressive atmosphere of lust and sin. She needed to confess what she’d done, she realized. She needed desperately to confer with Father Clemson. But she could not risk running into Rhys again.
With no other choices left to her, she trudged up the last narrow run of stairs to the tower room. The fur pelt she’d dragged up just yesterday still lay as she’d arranged it. The pillows were there, and the two candles, though they’d burned down to nubs.
What a fool she’d been. What a reckless child. She’d played at love and seduction without the least inkling of the serious ramifications that must follow. How much wiser she’d become in less than one arc of the sun across the heavens. How much older she felt.
Miserable and angry, she pushed open the one door in the little room and burst out into the fresh air, then slammed the door closed. If only she could bar it against everyone. She took a deep breath, then closed her eyes. If only she could go back to yesterday.
But she couldn’t. A gull cried and wheeled across the sky, and she opened her eyes. She could only go forward and make the best of her future. She knew that in her mind; now she must accept it in her heart. So she knelt and bent her head in
prayer and vowed to be brave during the ordeal to come, to be stronger than her adversary.
Strong enough to endure whatever he did to her.
Strong enough to resist him.
RHYS DRUMMED HIS FINGERS ON THE TABLE. HE DID NOT like what he saw. The books the steward showed him were clear and up-to-date, carefully inscribed with a neat hand. Rosecliffe Castle appeared to be well run, providing adequate foodstuffs for both castle and village folk. The workers were paid every quarter day, the same rate for Welsh and English alike, and comparable to wages paid in England. It seemed also that the labor days FitzHugh required of his vassals were fewer than what was the norm in other places Rhys had traveled.
Annoyed, Rhys flipped the painstakingly lettered page back to stare at the figures for the previous year. The steward, Odo, shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.
Rhys stabbed his finger at an odd symbol in the ledger. “What are these expenses?”
“New hives for the bees. Ten of them.”
Rhys scowled as his eyes skimmed down the page. “And another ten here? Is this not a steep price to pay for beehives?”
“They’re special hives. Lord Rand pays some of the old men of Carreg Du to make them—” He broke off at Rhys’s sharp look.
“Old men?”
“Yes.” Odo cleared his throat. “The ones too old to work in the fields or do heavy labor. They make hives and twist rope. Sometimes they repair leather harness. It’s a way for them to make a living, you see, despite their infirmities.”
Rhys frowned, understanding now about Glyn’s caution
that the elders at Carreg Du were not likely to support insurrection against Rosecliffe. Rhys had laughed it off to cowardice and had not worried. Old men would be little help in a battle anyway. In truth, they would be a hindrance.
That had not changed; except he saw now that it was not cowardice holding them back. It was complacency.
Did they truly think that he, a Welsh loyalist, would not take better note of their needs than did an Englishman? Gaining possession of Rosecliffe Castle was not just an act of personal vengeance. He did this for his Welsh countrymen. His people.
His fingers drummed in agitation. Once he purged the place of Englishmen, everything would be better than it was now. Even the old men of Carreg Du would eventually see the improvements. Then they would celebrate the return of Welsh rule—and the return of Rhys ap Owain—to the lands of northern Wales.
He focused back on the ledger. “What is this?” He jabbed at a series of listings.
“That?” Odo bent forward and squinted to see. “Oh, that is the new births.”
“He charges a tax on new births?”
“This is an expenditures column, my lord, not collections,” Odo explained. “He makes a christening gift for each babe born at Rosecliffe or Carreg Du.”
Rhys snorted. “I’ve never heard of such a. thing.”
“’Twas milady Josselyn’s idea—”
Rhys cut him off with an impatient gesture. “What is this?”
And so it went. Good management, fair treatment, and a tidy profit that went to improving both the castle and village. Rhys had not wanted FitzHugh to be a good lord to his people, but the facts were clear, both in the ledgers as well as everywhere Rhys looked.
Still, that excused nothing.
He slammed the book closed and Odo jumped. “Bring the strongbox,” he ordered.
“’Tis …’Tis there.” The man pointed to a squat cupboard.
“Open it.”
“I … I cannot.”
“You cannot?” Rhys lowered his brow in a menacing manner.
“It requires two keys!” the fearful steward yelped.
“Then get them.”
“I have only the one.”
Rhys was beginning to tire of this. “Then get the second one. Who has it?”
The man swallowed hard. “Lady Isolde.”
Rhys found her on the topmost floor of the keep, but only after rampaging through her chambers, her parents’ chamber—now his—and then the rest of the hall. She was on her knees when he stormed through the tower room and yanked open the door. On her knees, but not praying. She did not so much as flinch when he burst out onto the para-petted overlook.
He exploded with anger. “Your orders were to paint a dragon, not to daydream!” He knew there was no need for such venom in his tone, but an unreasoning panic had taken hold of him when he had not immediately found her. So he shouted at her and felt the quick return of his sanity. “It might have been your way to waste time when you were mistress of this castle,” he went on more coolly. “But you are no better than any household drudge now, merely a commoner. A wench like any other, and subject to the orders of your liege lord.” He stifled the urge to add, “Look at me!”
Slowly she turned her head. Her eyes were an icy gray, her expression filled with contempt. “I am considering how best to carry out your orders,
my lord
. It takes time to create a design. Thinking time. Unless, of course, you do not care how your dragon looks.”
He chose not to reply to that and instead extended his hand. “Give me the key to the strongbox.”
“Ah. The strongbox.” She rose to her feet. “I should have known you would eventually come round to that.” She lifted the circle of keys that dangled from the end of her girdle. “Here. Take them all. That way you need not confine yourself only to gold, but can also plunder the rest of Rosecliffe’s stores.”
He took the keys she thrust at him and tied them to his own girdle. “You misunderstand my purpose,” he answered,
raking her slender form with his eyes. “Plunder has never been my aim. The people of these hills are my people. I would never do them harm. I have taken charge of Rosecliffe as my home. I plan to make it a Welsh stronghold and to hold it for Wales.”
She made a rude noise. “To hold it for yourself, more like.”
“No more so than did your father.”
She shook her head. “You have no inkling of what life at Rosecliffe is like. You hate my family and so you justify ruining everyone’s lives. But it is a misguided revenge you seek. You cloak it as justice for your Welsh countrymen, but it is not they who are filled with hate for us, only you. ’Tis not justice you seek here, but revenge.”
Rhys withstood her contemptuous words stoically. She had no weapons but sharp words and they were harmless enough. But something in him wanted her to take them back.
“Time will prove you wrong, Isolde. Soon enough you will see the truth.”
She turned away from him and stared back out at the horizon. Only then did he notice what she had been watching. The ship drew inexorably closer. Soon it would set anchor and take on its human cargo. She was afraid, he realized, afraid for those who must leave, and afraid also of being left behind. For him, however, the departure of the English could not come soon enough.
He strolled the perimeter of the tower, circling the small tower room that stood in the center of the overlook. The crennels were not as high and deep here, for this was more an observation post than the position for men at war. The walls fell away, straight down to the bailey fifty feet below. She would find no escape here.
His eyes swept the horizon, noting the mountains to the west, and the open sea north and east. Yes, the tower room was well suited to her. Close to him. Private. That privacy was why she’d prepared a place for them here last night. He’d little noticed that nest when he’d stormed through searching for her. Now, though, despite her disdain for him, the very thought of her making such preparations heated his blood.
He made the full circuit of the overlook and found her as she had been before, staring out at the ship. The wind blew
in from the sea, cold erratic gusts. Winter would soon grip the land, making it harder still for FitzHugh to mount any sort of attack.
But the threat of the FitzHughs faded in Rhys’s mind as he studied his enemy’s daughter. Her hair streamed behind her, a rich, windblown tangle, as she faced down the wind. Her blue gown and soft gray mantle molded against her, revealing her feminine curves. She was like a beautiful wild bird that might at any moment spring out and fly away from him. He shuddered and something in his gut tightened.
He wanted her.
He wanted her, and he would have her. What worse blow to Randulf FitzHugh than that? What better reward for himself?
He caught the flailing end of one of her waist-length locks and rubbed the silky strand between his finger and thumb. She stiffened and quickly swept her hand across the back of her neck when she sensed his touch, gathering her loose hair in her fist. Then she took one step to the side, away from him.
He followed. A part of him knew he should not torment her so. He was not a man roused by an unwilling woman. He’d never needed to be. But something about this particular woman drove him in directions he’d never before gone.
“You will be confined to the tower room,” he said.
Look at me
.
Her jaw jutted forward but she did not turn toward him. “Better here than other places,” she retorted. “If my people are to be sent away, I’d rather bear my imprisonment in solitude.”
“These upper floors will be forbidden to all but you and me,” he continued.
That drew her gaze from the ever-approaching ship. She whipped her head around and glared at him, furious and yet also afraid. “I will fight you at every turn,” she vowed.
He smiled at that. “My life has been but a series of battles, Isolde. First I fought merely to survive; later to prosper. Now I fight to dominate my enemies. So fight me, sweetling. Use your feminine wiles, all the weapons a woman employs.” He
cupped her face with one hand. “Mayhap you will kill me with pleasure, mine and your own.”
She jerked away, but he saw her eyes darken and he went on. “Yes. Your pleasure, Isolde. You found it last night in my arms. Why do you pretend now to be repulsed?”
“’Tis no pretense,” she snapped. “I
am
repulsed.”
“No,” he countered. “You are not. You believe you should be, but given the opportunity, you could easily quiver beneath my hand again. Shall I show you?”
Isolde let out a squeak—it could only be described as thus—and scuttled back from her hated captor. Why was he doing this? Was his victory not already assured? He’d deceived her—ruined her—and stolen her family home. What more did he want?
And how could she prevent him taking it?
She crossed her arms over her chest and tried to calm her racing pulse. “You have already shown me more than I wish to know of my frailties. That I have committed a grievous sin with you is something I acknowledge. That I took …” She faltered. “That I took pleasure from it is a … a shame I will carry forever.”
“Ah, yes. The shame of it.” He grinned, a confident grin, wholly masculine and perversely attractive, and the quiver he’d spoken of sprang to life inside her. He went on. “’Tis a hard thing to desire most what you know you should despise. Isn’t it, Isolde?”
She swallowed the lump of guilt in her throat. “Is that how you feel?” she flung back at him. “You want what you know you should hate?”
“Yes.”
The power of that simple response made her gasp. He held her gaze captive. and in his eyes she saw the truth in his words. He wanted her, even though he despised her. He desired her body even as he hated the blood that ran in her veins. The English blood.
“How can you?” she whispered, hardly aware she’d said the words. “How?”
To her surprise, the taunting expression fled his face. When he spoke his voice was bitter. “When I hunger, I eat. As do you. And if I am starving, I will eat whatever I must in order
to survive. You have never been hungry, so you have yet to learn that lesson. A man’s need to find physical release with a woman is no different from his need for food. He will take what he can get.” He laughed, a cold, mirthless sound. “I suspect women are much the same. You sated my appetite last night, Isolde. Very well. But I will be hungry again, and so will you. So I will keep you close, here in this tower room. You will sleep above me; I will lie below you, just a few steps away.”
Horrified by his crude assessment of what they’d done, Isolde backed away until she came up against the stone wall of the tower room. “If any wench will sate your vulgar appetites, then you’d best find yourself another. For I will never come down those stairs to you. Never!”
“You know your task,” he said, ignoring her impassioned words. “Paint the dragon with the wolf prostrate beneath it. You will have the freedom of the tower room and my chamber. Do not try to descend further, for a guard will be posted on the stair.”
She wanted to fly at him and hurt him, to claw his face and inflict upon him the same sort of pain he was inflicting upon her. But he would welcome just such an attack, she feared. He would easily overpower her and she could not allow that to happen. So she threw at him the only weapon she had, bitter words and her utter disdain.
“You send away everyone I hold dear. What reason have I to seek the company of the hall? I would rather my own lonely company to that of you and your ilk. I will stay in my tower prison and paint your puny dragon, and I will wait for my father’s return. Then we will see who will dominate, dragon or wolf. Then we will see!”