The seed of the one man in the world she despised.
Rhys exploded in Isolde with a release that was both physical and emotional. He plunged in and out, never slowing, though he was drained, though his muscles trembled with exhaustion. But he could not stop. It felt too good to stop.
Beneath him she tried to fight her own passion, for she knew him now. She knew it was Rhys ap Owain who’d brought her to such shattering pleasure. She knew it was her enemy who’d taken her innocence. But she still could not silence her desires and so he pressed on, determined to bring her to fulfillment. He’d done so as the minstrel he pretended to be. He would do so now as the Welsh rebel he truly was.
He moved within her in long, slow strokes. Deep, persistent strokes. He caught her hands that tried to push him away, holding her knotted fists within his own. When she turned her face aside and squeezed her eyes shut, he kissed her ear.
“Give yourself up to me, Isolde. Feel how good it is between us,” he urged in a hoarse whisper. “Feel how good it is and how good it can continue to be.”
She shook her head no, but he saw the flush of rising passion on her chest and throat and cheeks.
“You were meant for this,” he continued, feeling the return of his own passion. “To receive pleasure from me. To give it back.”
Her breath came in quick, shallow pants, a sound that unaccountably affected all his senses. Damn, but she was pushing him again to completion! He buried his face in the thick silk of her hair, fighting to maintain some level of equilibrium. He had not meant to want her so fiercely. She was the last woman he should want in this way. But he did want her and everything was fast spiraling out of his control.
Then she began to meet his thrusts, raising her hips and granting him an even deeper entrance than before. Her body was slender and shapely, soft and strong, and she was making the most erotic sounds. Sighs and whimpers. Groans.
It was too much for him to take. With a groan of his own, he began the mad rush to completion, to hers as well as his. And when she cried out, then tensed and arched up beneath him, he let loose a cry of his own. “
Fi Duw!
”
He felt the spasms that shook her, and in turn, they wrenched something powerful from him. He plunged in, giving her everything he had, then collapsed over her, well and truly spent.
If he wondered at the enormous satisfaction he felt at that moment, at the stupendous sense of well-being, he rationalized
that it was simply the incredible feeling of victory. As at the tournaments or on the field of battle, he’d proven himself once more the victor over his English enemies.
But the woman beneath him was like no enemy he’d ever faced before.
He rolled to one side, careful not to hurt her. Then he wrapped her in his arms, holding her close, savoring his triumph as he contemplated his next move in the deadly game he’d just put into play.
ISOLDE COULD NOT LOOK AT HIM. SHE COULD NOT LOOK AT the man who held her in his arms upon her parents’ bed.
What had she done?
She squeezed her eyes tight and tried to blot out the impossible reality of it. But she could not. His heart beat fiercely in her ear. His chest rose and fell in the same cadence as her own. And they were locked together in a lovers’ embrace, damp and sticky with sweat—and more. He was her enemy, yet she’d given him her virginity! Worse, she had liked it.
She had reveled in it!
“Dear God,” she whispered in abject despair. “Dear God.”
The muscles of his arms tensed and he took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. “’Tis too late for prayers, Isolde.”
With a cry of anguish she shoved away from him. To her surprise he did not grab at her but let her go, and she scrambled backward. Her legs were bare and weak, and when she slid down from the bed, they nearly gave way. Her kirtle was in complete disarray. The neck was loose and caught over one shoulder. The skirt twisted and tangled with that of her chemise.
She tugged and yanked, trying to right it, then caught sight of the damp spot on her bodice where he’d caressed her breast with his mouth.
“Oh, sweet Mary!” she cried out, backing toward the door.
In the bed he rolled to one side and propped his head up on his hand. “Are you going out among your people in such a state as that?” he asked. “With your hair loose and flowing about your shoulders and your clothing all awry, anyone you come upon will know precisely what it is you’ve been up to. Your lips are still red from kissing me, Isolde. Your face is
flushed. And you carry about you the unmistakable scent of passion. Lust,” he added with a mocking grin lifting one side of his face.
One of her hands went to her tangled hair, the other to her swollen lips. It was true. And between her legs she was warm and wet.
“Oh, sweet Mary,” she groaned again, unable to think of anything else to say. What was she to do? What?
Then thankfully—miraculously—her common sense took hold. This man was her enemy—her family’s enemy. And he was inside Rosecliffe Castle. No matter the cost to her reputation or her pride, she must alert the guards.
She whirled and darted for the door. But though she was closer, he got there first. “Oh, no you don’t,” he muttered, catching her around the waist and swinging her off her feet.
“No—”
His hand cut off her scream before she could form it. Though she kicked and fought and flailed wildly at him, he was unrelenting. He threw her back onto the bed, holding her down with his greater weight, in a hideous parody of what they’d just done in this very spot
“You will not sound the alarm against me,” he taunted as he ripped a strip from the hem of her kirtle then gagged her with it. “You will not thwart me no matter how hard you try,” he continued, flipping her onto her stomach. He caught her wrists behind her back and bound them together, then did the same to her ankles. She bucked and fought against him, but it was all for naught, for he just sat back on his heels and waited until exhaustion brought her to the point of collapse. Only when she lay gasping for breath, her every limb shaking with rage, did he speak.
“I am not averse to killing Englishmen.”
Fear cast its chill over her rage. He meant to kill her people! Terrified, Isolde sought to control her breathing, to hear the entirety of his softly spoken threat.
“I am not averse to killing Englishmen. However, I prefer to avoid bloodshed when I can.”
She twisted her head to see him, but could not. Then he caught her shoulder and rolled her onto her back, and she wished she did not have to see his deceitful, hateful face.
While she watched in terror, he unwound a thin chain from within his boot, then fastened one end around her waist and the other to one of the bedposts. In the guttering candlelight he looked more a demon than a man—the devil taken the form of a man. And she’d taken him for her lover!
Was she cursed? Had God abandoned her entirely?
He stood beside the bed, examining his handiwork. His black eyes ran slowly over her, and she shivered as if he touched her. But those eyes revealed nothing, neither desire nor disgust, neither passion nor hatred. Isolde feared, however, that her own eyes were not as shuttered, and so she closed them and looked away.
“You will remain here,” he said into the awful darkness. “It is pointless to seek escape, though no doubt you will try. But it will do you no good. When next I return to this chamber, Rosecliffe Castle will be mine, claimed for Wales, as is only right.”
When she looked back at him, her eyes wide with fear, he added, “I will decide then what to do with you, Isolde, and with the rest of your people.” Then he was gone.
Isolde lay alone in her parents’ bed, helpless and terrified by everything that had happened. What of Osborne and the others who would fight for Rosecliffe? Would Rhys kill them all?
She fought the bindings at her wrists, twisting and pulling until her skin was raw and painful. Then the candle guttered out and she was cast into total darkness. Only then did the first tear leak from her eyes. Only then, as the utter futility of her situation struck home, did fear overwhelm her. She strained to hear what was happening elsewhere in the castle, but her own harsh breathing and occasional choked sobs were all that broke the utter stillness.
Rhys ap Owain had returned to exact his revenge and only God knew how it would end.
As he crossed the darkened great hall, Rhys was both exhausted and exhilarated, and he trembled with anticipation. He’d not meant for matters to come to a head tonight. He’d been a lunatic to allow his physical desire for his enemy’s daughter to alter his carefully worked-out plan. But she’d been
so willing, and his desire had been so great. He straightened the collar of his tunic. What was done was done. With a little luck there would be no serious repercussions, for his old friends Glyn and Dafydd and the others they’d gathered camped now in the forest beyond Carreg Du, awaiting his signal.
In short order he found Gandy and Linus asleep in the stables in an empty stall. One shake and a nod, and Gandy understood. He melted into the darkness, heading for the postern gate and then for the hidden woodland encampment where the other rebels waited. Linus followed Rhys, and together they crept up to the wall walk.
The first guard fell with one blow. The second and third, as well. Rhys tied them up; Linus carried them down to the postern gate and left them outside. Then they headed back to the stables. One by one, the stable master and the several lads in his care were dragged from their pallets, gagged, bound, and locked inside the laundry shed. Next, the cook and Odo.
Odo put up a greater struggle than the others, but he quieted when Rhys held a dagger against his throat. “If you wish to keep your mistress safe, you will cooperate.”
By the time the moon crossed the night sky and dipped near to the horizon, Rhys and Linus had overpowered all but the several knights and men-at-arms who still slept in the barracks. The armorer lived in the village, as did most of the masons and carpenters, so they were not an immediate concern.
“Where is Gandy with Glyn and the others?” Rhys muttered as he locked the storeroom behind Odo.
“Perhaps he lost his way in the woods,” Linus suggested.
“Perhaps he had a change of heart,” said Tillo.
Rhys whirled to find the stooped old man standing in the open doorway of the stables. His eyes narrowed. “It sounds as if perhaps you’re the one with the change of heart.”
The old minstrel shook his head. “It matters nothing to me who rules within this careful pile of stones.”
Rhys clenched his jaw. There was something odd in Tillo’s manner tonight. “You knew what I was after when you came here. All of you did. Gandy will not betray me,” he stated with confidence. “But tell me, old man. You spoke a long
while with Newlin. What did he have to say?”
Tillo lowered himself slowly onto an overturned bucket. “He is tired.”
“And so he removes himself from these matters?”
“He trusts you to do no harm.”
Rhys did not respond to that, save with a snort of disbelief. So Newlin had finally accepted the inevitable. Or more like, he’d decided to cast his lot with the victor. That’s what he’d done twenty years ago when the FitzHughs had first arrived. He’d given no aid to his Welsh people but instead had befriended the stronger English force. He was doing it again now, not actually giving aid to Rhys, but not opposing him, either.
A surge of elation chased the weariness from Rhys’s body. He would be victorious this night. He’d been sure of it, but Newlin’s defection confirmed it.
He grinned into the darkness where Tillo sat. “Take heart, old friend. After this night you will never have to traipse the highways again. No tournaments, no performances. You will have a home here, Tillo. To live out your life in comfort.”
Tillo lifted his head. “I thank you for that, lad. But I begin to wonder whether I am suited to such places as this.”
A movement in the bailey caught Rhys’s eye and he tensed. But it was Gandy, skipping across the open yard with a column of well-armed Welshmen trailing warily behind him. Rhys strode out to meet them.
“What happened?” Glyn whispered. “Did someone find you out and force your hand?”
“Aye,” Rhys answered, but he was not of a mind to elaborate. “We’ve taken nine men prisoners. There are eleven more, all fighting men, all still abed in the barracks. Once we capture them, the castle is ours.”
He divided the Welshmen into three groups. Dafydd’s group took charge of the gatehouse and wall walks. Another group held the bailey against any escape from the barracks. Meanwhile Rhys and Linus made for the main door of the barracks, while Glyn and his men took the back entrance. Three minutes to take their positions. Then with an earsplitting whistle he signaled attack and burst into the barracks.
In the dark it sounded as if hell had erupted through the
floorboards. Welsh battle screams; crashing furniture; the deadly ring of steel striking steel.
The Englishmen sprang up, alarmed, confused, and fumbling for their weapons. But the Welsh were ready. They’d been ready a very long time. They swarmed the English warriors from both ends of the low-ceilinged barracks, forcing them to the middle, striking them down and taking prisoners as they went.
Rhys had given orders: kill no one save in the protection of your own life. His reason for that was twofold. He wanted to prove to the Welsh citizenry that he was not the pitiless monster his reputation made of him. He wanted also to take Rosecliffe in a bloodless revolt and thereby embarrass the FitzHughs with his prowess—and their ineptness.
But he heard the grunts and cries of pain, and he knew that in a war nothing could be predicted. And this was a war.
He shoved one Englishman down, and with the hilt of his sword, smashed another over the head. “Bring the torches!” he yelled, and in a moment harsh light flooded the room.
It was a shambles. Five Englishmen lay in a heap. Six others huddled back to back, facing the Welshmen who surrounded them. They held swords and daggers, but they were no match for the invaders and they knew it. Rhys spied Osborn among them, his gray hair disheveled, his legs bare beneath the loose shirt he slept in.
He addressed the captain of Rosecliffe’s guards. “Surrender, Osborn de la Vere. Surrender your men and this castle to Rhys ap Owain. Surrender or die.”
The man’s eyes whipped around to Rhys when he spoke. Now they narrowed in disbelief. “Rhys ap Owain? You come to us as the minstrel Reevius—” Then he broke off. “Where is Isolde?” He pointed his weapon at Rhys and in his face his worry outshone rage. “What have you done with her?”
Rhys grinned. “You can ask her that yourself, if you lay down your weapon.”
Osborn glared at him. “Is she harmed? If you have harmed her in any way—”
“You will what? Have no fear, old man. I have not harmed the wench—not that you could prevent me doing so,” Rhys taunted. Then his expression grew fierce. “Lay aside your
sword. Surrender to me. Only then will I allow you to see her.”
The old knight glanced swiftly around. There was no escape, and no hope for defeating the men who had surprised them. After a long, tense moment, Osborn lowered his sword. Behind him his men slowly followed suit.
Rhys jerked his head and Linus lumbered up to collect the weapons. “Put them in the donjon,” he instructed Glyn. “Linus will show you where it is.”
“What of Isolde?” Osborn demanded as one of the Welshmen shoved him along with the others.
“I will bring her to you,” Rhys said. “Once the castle is secured and I have had my first meal as lord of Rosecliffe, I will bring her to you.”
“You bastard!” Osborn lunged at him, but three men held him back. “You lying whelp! Rand should have hung you ten years ago when he had the chance!”
Rhys gave him a dark, satisfied grin. “That he should have. But that was his mistake and now he will pay dearly for it. Take him away,” he ordered, sheathing his sword with a show of disdain.