She whirled and yanked the door open. But he slammed it shut, tearing it from her hand so fast her palm stung. Then he jerked her around and thrust her ruthlessly against the rough door.
“We will see, Isolde.
You
will see.”
“I hate you !”
“But is that all you feel for me?” He leaned nearer. Already her heart thundered, but panic added now to its plight. His face lowered to hers, but she twisted her face away to avoid
it. Then his hard thighs bumped hers; his hips pressed against her hips, and his chest brushed her breasts. “Tell me true, Isolde.” His voice was a hot, hoarse murmur in her ear. “What do you feel now?”
“I hate you,” she insisted, but breathlessly. “You are as awful and black-hearted as you have always been.”
“But I am wiser than I was all those years ago.” He paused a long moment before adding, “And you are no longer a child.”
Then his weight came fully against her and his lips moved in her hair, and Isolde knew she was in fearful circumstances, indeed. For it was not repulsion she felt when his strong male body molded against hers. Something in her—some base part of her that she utterly despised—responded as if he were still Reevius. Her body recalled the pleasures a young and earnest musician had taught her, and blotted out her mind’s protestations that he was an impostor, that he was, in truth, her most hated enemy. He’d left some mark on her last night, and now she was vulnerable and weak.
Oh, so weak!
She tried to avoid his mouth but she could not. He kissed her neck, nuzzled her ear, and when she bowed her head against his chest in defeat, he kissed the crown of her head.
“Mayhap I will keep you here forever,” he murmured. “Away from the light. Away from the company of others. If I bring you your every need, food, water, your comforts—your only company, your only pleasure—will you confess then to the passions you feel for me? Tell me, Isolde. Will you admit it then?”
A sob caught in Isolde’s throat. It would take far less than that to make her admit it, she feared. She was very near to confessing it now.
“No!” She thrust him away, and with a muffled curse he let her go. She rushed to the parapet and gripped it, leaning out as far as she could, anything to put some distance between them. “Go away,” she sobbed. “Go away!”
“Isolde—”
“Go!” She was nearly hysterical.
He let loose a foul curse. But after a long moment the door creaked open. Then it closed with a dull thud and he was gone.
Only then did Isolde’s hysteria burst forth. Unable to restrain her tears, she slumped against the parapet, then slid down against it and succumbed to her rampaging emotions. How could she have responded to him that way? How could she!
In the courtyard below, standing near the laundry fire, Tillo stared up at the tower overlook. He saw Isolde’s bowed head and sensed the heartache she suffered. It had ever been thus for women, the old minstrel bemoaned. Men took what they wanted while women adjusted their disrupted lives accordingly. But Tillo had thought Rhys a better man than that. Until now.
By nightfall the ship had struck anchor. By dawn the exodus had begun. The narrow beach below the castle bustled with activity. Two boats ferried passengers and supplies back and forth to the ship anchored in the little bay.
Isolde could not see everything that occurred. But she saw the parade of men who made their way to the postern gate. She saw their weeping wives and anxious children following behind, along with their bundles of belongings and kegs of supplies. Then they all disappeared down the steep cliff path.
She saw them again once the boats struck out from the beach. She watched until they reached the ship and boarded, and were lost completely from view. Then she watched the boats return for the next load. How many were leaving? She was afraid to know.
At least they were allowed to carry their possessions with them, she consoled herself. They had their lives and their families and their goods. She supposed he could have killed the men. There was at least that to be thankful for.
But he sent so many away. Odo went, along with all the knights and men-at-arms, including Osborn. She bit her lip to stifle her tears when her father’s closest friend looked up, searching for her. He raised a hand in a farewell salute when he spied her peering down from the overlook, and she raised her hand in return. Then he was gone.
All of the Englishwomen left, and a few Welsh ones who’d married Englishmen. Magda was among them, and that depressed Isolde further. Magda would follow her sweetheart and
marry him. They would build a life together, whether in Wales or England would not matter to them, so long as they had one another.
But what sort of life was
she
now to have?
Father Clemson was the last to go, stomping angrily across the yard. “Say a prayer for me,” she whispered to his black-robed figure in the boat as minutes later it bobbed across the dark, choppy sea. She watched the last boat unload, then return for shore as the ship pulled anchor and its sails unfurled. Then it began its slow crawl across the horizon, heading west, and she watched until it was gone.
Only then did she turn away and contemplate the terrible fate she’d been given. Imprisoned in her own home with no allies left to turn to. She was completely surrounded by enemies and subject to the whim of the devil himself.
She swallowed hard to think of Rhys. Their confrontation yesterday had been bitter, indeed, a bitter realization of how weak-willed and perverse she truly was. Thank God he’d not come back last night, for she was not certain what she might have done. Instead he’d left her alone to worry and fret and toss restlessly the whole night long. Food had been left with a knock at her door. There was no lock to prevent her leaving and no guard visible. But the threat of confronting Rhys had kept her hiding in the tower room like the pitiful creature she was.
She could not stay here forever, though, if only because she would go mad. Her art supplies were in her bedchamber. She had neither pen nor parchment, nor books nor lute to entertain herself. It was but mid-afternoon of the second day of Rhys’s takeover and she’d had nothing to do but rage and weep and plot one revenge after another. But she could accomplish nothing from her tower prison.
Perhaps it was time for her to test the limitations of her prison and see just what liberties he meant to grant her.
The stairwell was empty. Likewise, no one occupied her parents’ chamber, though she saw every evidence that he had made it his own. A maroon tunic hung from a wall hook. A soiled chainse had been flung over a stool..A half-filled ewer of water and soiled toweling indicated that he’d bathed himself. The rumpled bed showed where he’d slept.
And where they’d lain together
A fit of trembling seized her, and she nearly fled. But that would gain her naught. So she retrieved her charcoal and brushes and paints from her own chamber and stowed them on the stairs. Then she took a deep breath, smoothed her rumpled skirts, and began her descent to the hall. She spied a guard on the steps just below the second level. He slouched against the wall and she guessed he was asleep. Carefully she stepped past him. On impulse she prodded his knee with her foot. He jerked awake, but she leaped out of his reach.
“Hey!” he cried. “Come back here.”
But Isolde flew down the last stretch of stairs triumphant, with him in belated pursuit. And when she entered the hall, she kept going.
Three maidservants labored there, all Welsh women from the village, and familiar to her. Two men she did not know lounged at a table, and a boy played with a dog. No, it was the dwarf, Gandy, with his little spotted dog. The tiny fellow jumped up, smiling when he spied her. But she gave him a haughty glare. Deceitful wretch!
“Good day, Lady Isolde.” He made his grand, trademark bow.
“Here, you!” the guard said at the same time. He grabbed her arm. “You’re to stay abovestairs.”
“Remove your hands from me at once!” she cried, trying to jerk free of his hold.
“Best that you do not touch her again,” the dwarf warned. “She belongs to Rhys and everyone knows he’s possessive of her. Can’t abide another man laying a hand upon her.”
“But I have me orders—”
“I don’t need your interference,” Isolde told the tiny minstrel.
Gandy spread his arms. “I’m only trying to help both of you.”
Ignoring him and the now hesitant guard, Isolde poured herself a cup of ale and tore a piece of bread from a trencher not used during the midday meal. She’d not been hungry and had disdained the food sent up to her. Now, though, she was ravenous—and angry. This was her home and she would not
relinquish it without a fight, no matter how great the odds against her.
She looked around. The people in the hall were all watching her. Soon enough Rhys would be summoned. Until then, however, she must make the most of this opportunity.
“Who is managing the kitchens?” she demanded to know.
One of the maidservants, Bettina, stepped forward. “Gerta, Miss.”
“And who has charge of the keys to the spice room, the wine stores, and the stillroom?”
“That would be me,” Gandy answered.
“You?” She stared down her nose at the odd little fellow and bit off another piece of bread. “What know you of wines and spices and medicines?”
“I worked in the kitchens at Barnard Castle for many a year.”
Barnard Castle. Isolde’s eyes narrowed. Barnard Castle was where her father had sent Rhys to foster all those years ago. It was all beginning to make sense. “You’ve known him a long time, then.”
He smiled. “Long enough to know that he is a man of his word. He’ll have his head—” he indicated the guard—“should you escape.”
“Escape? I hardly call this escape.”
“C’mon, miss. You must go back,” the guard implored, flapping his hands encouragingly, but careful not to touch her.
“No.” She quaffed her ale then bent nearer the fire. “You’re nearly out of wood, Bettina. Send a boy to fetch more.”
“Yes, miss.”
“And the rushes need replenishing.” She eyed the dog, Cidu, as he scratched his head. “Be sure to sprinkle the crushed leaves of black alder among them to discourage vermin.”
“How kind you are to see to our comfort,” Gandy remarked.
Isolde made a rude sound. “Your comfort means nothing to me. Less than nothing. I seek only to maintain Rosecliffe as it is always maintained, so that when my father drives all of you out, our lives will not have been excessively disrupted.”
“What a good daughter you are.”
Isolde whirled around at that deep, sardonic remark. “Yes, I am,” she said, as confidently as she could manage in the face of Rhys’s sudden, overwhelming presence.
“Then you will understand my actions here, for I behave only as any good son would do.”
As if from an unspoken command, the several onlookers melted away, leaving Isolde alone with him. It was precisely what she should have expected of them, but still a quiver of fearfulness marked its way down her spine.
“You are not yet granted the freedom of the hall,” he stated.
“Why?”
“’Tis a privilege you must earn.”
She crossed her arms. “Earn how?”
He gave her a considering look. “Any number of ways.”
That drew a hot response from her. “If you think—”
“Have you begun the dragon mural on the wall in my chamber?” He cut her off. “I did not see any evidence you had started sketching on the wall last night.”
She did not answer but stared at him with scathing eyes.
“I see.” Without warning he wrapped his hand around one of her arms and started for the stairs, dragging her along. “When that task is done to my satisfaction,” he bit out, “then I will consider letting you leave the tower. Until then you are forbidden to descend below my chamber. Do you understand me, Isolde?” he finished with a little shake. Then he released her with a shove up the stairs.
“What do you think to gain from this!” she shouted as he spun on his heel to depart.
He paused and faced her once more and she was suddenly struck by the fact that he was dressed in much finer garb than she had previously seen him wear. A closely woven kersey tunic of Welsh green, trimmed with braid around the neckline and sleeves, and amber-colored braies of a fine, soft wool. His boots were tall, the leather burnished with oil, and he wore no weapon save a short dagger at his hip. Were it not for the fierce light in his eyes, no one would take him for other than a prosperous gentleman, a noble English lord at ease in his own abode.
But the light in his dark eyes was fierce, and it revealed his true nature. “What do I think to gain? Complete victory,” he stated, speaking in his native Welsh now. “Complete domination. And in your case, complete submission.”
ISOLDE WORKED WITH A SPEED AND INTENSITY FUELED BY all-consuming rage. He expected complete victory? She would show him. He thought he could dominate the FitzHughs? He was a fool!
He meant to make her submit?
Her hand trembled and the charcoal veered wrong on the rough plaster wall. “By the saints!” she muttered, then was appalled at how easily the curse slipped from her tongue. It was all his fault!
A soapy cloth corrected the charcoal error and she quickly completed the dragon’s arched tail with its march of jagged scales. But her anger did not abate. He thought she would submit, and it might appear to some that she was doing so. But she had her reasons for painting the mural he demanded. The ultimate defeat of her enemy, she reminded herself, far outweighed any urge she felt to defy him at every turn. She must force herself to make her decisions based on logic, and not be sucked into an emotional reaction to him.
She had reasoned out that it would take at least a week for her father to hear the dire news of Rosecliffe’s fall, and another for him to return home. That meant she had at least a fortnight to suffer like this. It also meant she had a fortnight to learn Rhys’s plans and to determine his weaknesses. A fortnight, less two days.
Surely she could bear to demean herself for such a short period of time.
So she drew the dragon with its fierce claws and vicious
fangs. And she sketched the wolf, prostrate beneath it, though not yet defeated. Soon enough the tables would turn, she reassured herself as she worked. Soon enough. Then she would wash down the thin water-based pigments she meant to use on this temporary mural. She would paint a new image over it using more binding paints, and in that scene the dragon would succumb to the wolf. The dragon’s blood would drench the lower portion of the painting with bold streaks of red, she decided. Its foul spirit would drift across the top of the scene in a faint haze of blood-gray smoke.
She stepped back from the wall, viewing this hated sketch, but in her mind’s eye seeing the final version. It would be her best piece yet.
Her mother would not like it, though.
Isolde frowned. Her Welsh mother would never countenance such an insult to her homeland. How often had the Lady Josselyn preached that the strengths of both Wales and England came together in her children? She believed the union of the two cultures would build an even better tradition, banishing Welsh divisiveness and English aggression, and creating a strong, contented people—and thereby a strong, contented land.
Unfortunately her mother had not counted on Rhys ap Owain’s return or on his deviousness. Or his cruelty.
Isolde continued at her unhappy labors until she heard footsteps on the stair. At once she rushed from the chamber, leaving the charcoal and rags strewn about the place. She had no intention of becoming trapped in that chamber should her hated captor decide to press the issue of her submission to him.
But it was only Gandy she found in the antechamber, and she pressed a hand to the pulse racing in her chest.
“What do you want?” she snapped.
He spread his arms wide in an innocent gesture. “Ah, kind mistress, I am in need of your assistance. That woman in the kitchen is sorely testing my patience with her endless tears. I thought you might be inclined to come and calm her.”
Isolde eye him warily. “Gerta is a hard worker and exceedingly competent. But she is a timid soul. No doubt she is terrified by the horrid goings-on of the past two days.”
He made a face. “She burned the bread and salted the fish stew twice.”
“Oh, dear,” Isolde replied, pressing her palms to her cheek in mock horror. Then with a sniff she brushed past him and returned to her mural.
“You gloat,” Gandy said, following her. “But ’tis your meal she ruins as well as his.”
“I don’t care.”
“But you said you meant to maintain Rosecliffe as it always was. Please, Lady Isolde. Just a short visit to reassure poor Gerta. You owe your people that much.”
“I am forbidden to leave the upper floors of the keep.”
“Linus and I will accompany you. It will be all right.”
“What of your master? What of Rhys?”
He, smiled and gave her a sly look. “He has ridden down to the village. And besides, in Wales no man is master of another. I am not bound to him save by my own choice.”
Though she did not believe anything the little man said, in the end, the chance to go against Rhys’s orders was simply too hard to resist. When they arrived in the kitchens, everything was in complete disarray and the sudden appearance of the giant and the dwarf sent another wave of panic through the overheated chamber. Gerta flung her apron over her head and huddled in a corner, her face hidden. Only when Isolde spoke did the woman peep up through her fingers.
“Do not worry,” Isolde reassured her. “Come, Gerta, there is no reason to fear.”
“Oh, miss, you are safe!” the older woman cried, enveloping Isolde in a fierce hug.
“I am safe and so are you. Come now, let us put this kitchen to rights.”
She spied Gandy grinning at the success of his plan, and Linus grinning simply because he was happy. None of this seemed quite real, and yet Isolde knew it was. Though it galled her to fall in with their plans, if she were to find any order in the world, it seemed she would have to create it herself.
She surveyed the kitchen, her fists planted on her hips. “Linus. Fill the wood bin with enough fuel for tonight and tomorrow. Gandy, round up at least three lads to fetch and serve the meal. And do not balk at my orders,” she said, anticipating
the dwarf’s opposition. “This was your idea, so you will now do as I say.”
When Rhys rode into the bailey just before sundown, he was met with a strange sort of calm. The gatehouse was guarded by his men. In the yard a few chickens scratched. Three half-grown pups romped, and outside the stable two lads groomed a horse.
He dismounted and tossed the reins of his destrier to one of the boys, and though there was a wariness in the lad’s eyes, he was quick to do his duty.
All in all, the peaceful sort of homecoming any lord might expect at the end of a long day in the saddle. Then he sniffed. Apples. Stewed or baked or whatever, they smelled wonderful. He sniffed again and his mouth watered. “Smells like a good supper for us tonight,” he said, grinning at the two boys.
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes, milord.”
They bobbed their heads respectfully, but one of them smiled slightly, and Rhys felt a wave of relief as he crossed to the hall. There was no visible sign of the recent turmoil. The evening fell soft and lavender over the mighty stone walls. The night cry of a hunting falcon echoed over the castle as easily as it might over forest and fields. He’d taken Rosecliffe Castle, he exulted as he pushed open the door and entered the hall. He’d taken the English stronghold and driven his enemies out, just as he’d always planned.
But his satisfaction dimmed as he progressed into the hall. Something was not right.
His gaze swept the hall, scrutinizing it, searching for the problem. But he found none. A hearty fire blazed in the wide hearth. The torchères attached to the walls at regular intervals cast a warm golden light throughout. Four maids shuttled groaning platters of foul and fish and steamed vegetables from the kitchen into the hall, while a trio of lads labored under the new butler’s tutelage, filling ewers with rich brown ale and clear red wine. Gandy sat on a little carved stool, plucking on a lute, while two Welsh soldiers rolled dice in the corner as they awaited the meal. A peaceful scene.
Too peaceful.
When he’d left this morning, the household had been chaotic. The servants had been jumpy and frightened, and no one had known who to answer to or what to do. How had everything changed in just a matter of a few hours?
He gritted his teeth. The answer was obvious. This was Isolde’s handiwork. Isolde, with the assistance—or at least the compliance—of those he’d left in charge. He speared Gandy with a sharp eye, but the little man smiled with feigned innocence.
“Welcome home, my liege. Your people await your return. We are all hungry,” he added with a smirk. “And you are late.”
“Where is she?” Rhys growled. “And spare me your performance. I see what is going on.”
The dwarf’s expression did not alter one whit. “She is abovestairs, I am certain. Was that not your wish?”
Rhys did not respond. Though he’d vowed several times during the long afternoon not to allow her to influence his actions, the urge to see her now was overwhelming. He glared at Gandy. “Once I make my ablutions the meal may begin.”
He did not see the clever little man’s knowing look follow him across the hall. Nor did he see the grin that passed between Gandy and Linus as he took the steps two at a time. Near the second-floor landing, however, he did spy Tillo sitting on the stairs. The old minstrel’s lined face turned down in a scowl when Rhys approached.
Tillo rose to his feet. “You play with fire, Rhys. You do not see the drastic changes you have put into play.”
“What cause have you to complain? You knew my intentions when we set out from Gilling: to take Rosecliffe Castle. Have I not stayed true to my word? Can you recall another coup so bloodless as this one? Even a melee, a mere game of war, involves more loss of blood than did my takeover here.”
But Tillo appeared unmoved. “You sent the other English away. Why did you keep her?”
“Why should you care?” Rhys countered, growing impatient now. He stared past Tillo up the stairs toward his third-floor chamber where Isolde might yet linger at her work.”
“You play with fire, Rhys. But you may find that you are the one who will be most burned.”
Rhys cut the air with one hand. “Enough of this. My plan
remains as it has always been: to take possession of Rosecliffe, then to engage the FitzHughs in battle.”
But Tillo stood his ground. “You said nothing of battling against women.”
Rhys could not believe this. “’Tis not my intention to battle with her.” Then his voice turned silky, and smug. “Seduction is far easier, and far more satisfying.”
He did not wait for a response after that, but sidestepped his old friend and continued up the stairs, to the chamber he’d claimed for his own. Dismissing Tillo’s accusations, he jerked the door open. A quick glance told him Isolde was not there. But she had been, for a charcoal sketch of a giant dragon and an oversized wolf dominated one entire wall. Mollified by her cooperation, he tossed his leather gloves onto the bed and pulled off his hauberk. Then he returned to the stairs, heading up the final flight to the tower room.
Tillo’s words briefly echoed in his head. But playing with fire was not something to avoid, not when it was the fire of passion he toyed with. The carnal burn of lust.
And burn he did. By the time he reached the tower room he was already aroused, and he had to pause outside the door to compose himself. He straightened his girdle and brushed the hair from his brow. This inappropriate desire he felt for her gave her too much power over him. He could not let her see how intensely he wanted her in his bed again.
He found her outside on the overlook, staring out at the sea. Her head was bare, her hair coiled neatly and held in place beneath a silver caul. She was dressed simply, in a green wool kirtle that looked soft as down. Across her shoulders she had wrapped a shawl, for it was bitterly cold and damp from the winds that ripped unimpeded across the northern sea.
She glanced sidelong at him when he appeared, then away, never meeting his gaze.
“You have my thanks, Isolde,” he began.
She stiffened and he saw her blink. But she kept her eyes trained steadily on the cold winter seas. “I take it my sketch meets with your approval?”
“It exceeds my expectations. I did not realize the depths of your talent.”
She blinked again, and her hands tightened on the rough
stones of the ramparts. He saw her knuckles whiten and he suppressed a chuckle. She was vain about her art. How it must gall her to receive praise from her enemy—and for a work she must despise. He folded his arms and leaned his back against the parapet.
“I’ve traveled the length and breadth of the British Isles,” he said. “And I’ve been in many a grand hall, ornamented with frescoes and carvings and handsome tapestries. But it is clear that you have the skills to make Rosecliffe outshine them all.”
This time she swallowed and compressed her lips in a line. “’Tis but one wretched dragon and only a sketch.”
“Precisely. That you can convey such strength and emotion in only a sketch requires a rare talent. I am eager to view the completed work. ’Tis sure to be a masterpiece.”
He stared at her profile, at the straight, slender nose and full, curving lips. He wanted her to look at him. He wanted to stare into her eyes and know all her thoughts. But her lashes swept down over those eyes, long and lush, and she turned away.
“I know nothing of what you may have seen in other places. All I know is my own work. That sketch I did today was created under duress. In my mind it possesses neither strength nor emotion—save, perhaps, hatred,” she sarcastically added.