The Warrior's Reward Page 4

  “I can let it be known who you really are, Ieuan ab Owain Glyndŵr.”

  The utterance of his real name held threat. If it was known he was the son—albeit illegitimate son—of the leader of the Welsh rebellion, the man who had claimed to be the King of Wales, he’d be lucky to leave England with his head still on his shoulders.

  But still, he doubted Tynewell would risk it. He couldn’t let it be known he had made deals with the Welsh.

  “I will protect her as you have always done,” Ieuan promised.

  Aye, that much he could do. Keep her locked away, out of sight. He hardly had time to be pampering a delicate lady like Rosamunde anyway. He had enjoyed kissing her until he’d seen her fear. If she was frightened of a mere kiss, he’d have to keep her locked away for her own good.

  “I suppose that is all I can ask.”

  Ieuan suppressed a grin of triumph. “Then you agree to give her to me.”

  The earl let out a weary sigh and scrubbed a hand across his face. “Aye.”

  “We shall be married in two days and travel directly on to Wales. I’ll give you the morrow to have the marriage contract drawn up. This night, you shall announce our betrothal.”

  “This night?” the man spluttered.

  “Aye. This night. At the feast. In a short moment.”

  Ieuan refused to give Tynewell the opportunity to back out of their arrangement. The sooner it was announced Rosamunde de Lacy was his and he was out of enemy territory, the better.

  Chapter Five

  Ieuan followed her father in, moving with the same ease she had noticed before—as though he commanded the place. His size made it impossible not to watch him. He was a little taller than her father but those shoulders... Rosamunde clutched her goblet and took a sip. The tangy bite trailed down her throat and warmed her stomach but wouldn’t ease her nervousness.

  She had to speak with him, to let him know she enjoyed his kiss. More than enjoyed. Revelled in it, savoured it, dreamed of it. She had lain awake much of the night but when she had drifted off, Ieuan had dominated all of her dreams. All she longed for was another kiss. Just one more before she bid him farewell.

  But that would not happen if she didn’t even speak with him. She eyed his jewelled dagger, the one with which he had been serving her food, and fought the urge to run her fingers over the hilt and feel the lingering warmth. Before she could do anything foolish, he was by her side with a stealthiness akin to that of a beast on the hunt.

  Her father sat on her other side and tension radiated from both men. Had they exchanged words of some kind? What could her father possibly have to say to the Welsh knight that might make either of them angry? As far as she knew, they had never met before.

  Rosamunde glanced at her father’s tight jaw before swinging her gaze to Ieuan. His jaw was relaxed, his body seemingly languid, yet something simmered beneath his posture as though he were readying himself for battle.

  He must have spotted her furtitive glance as he turned a wide smile on her. The flash of teeth made his grin wicked and her skin tingled in response.

  “Forgive me, I have been neglecting you.” He speared a sliver of meat from the trencher they shared and offered it to her.

  Unable to keep her gaze from him, she took the offered piece. He watched her mouth closely. Instead of feeling ill-at-ease, his intense stare sent a swirl of pleasure through her, making her limbs warm—the effect stronger than even that of ale or wine. Was he remembering their kiss? Lord, she hoped so.

  Her father cleared his throat and she snapped her head forward. If he had even the faintest notion she had snuck out and kissed a man, she wouldn’t even be allowed to attend the next tournament. Her life would be even duller than it already was.

  He stood, making Rosamunde lift an eyebrow. All victory speeches had been said—though Ieuan had declined to say anything—and her father had spoken at the closing ceremony. He always stood by tradition. Always. What could he possibly have to say?

  Father cleared his throat again and the occupants of the room quieted to turn their attention to him. He lifted a goblet, encouraging everyone else to as well. A sense of foreboding washed over Rosamunde though she didn’t understand why. Her heart seemed to echo in her ears while she waited for whatever her father had to say.

  “I thank you all for joining me here on this joyous day,” he started. “I offer my congratulations to the winners for their displays of courage and boldness. And of course for such fine conduct. I challenge any man to show me a more civilized tournament.”

  He glanced at her and her heart stopped pounding in her ears as it felt like it plummeted to her toes. She knew her father, she knew that look. He was going to say something she wouldn’t like. Perhaps he was to cancel the tournaments. She prayed not.

  “This day is also joyous for another reason. I am honoured and pleased to announce the betrothal of my daughter, Rosamunde, to the reigning champion, Sir Ieuan ap Rhys.”

  Around her applause broke out. Shouts of “about time” and “a fine match” and other complimentary words echoed through the hall. All warmth drained away and if possible, it felt as though her heart had dropped from her toes. She tightened her grip on the goblet and swallowed heavily. Rosamunde peeked at Ieuan who showed no surprise at the announcement. Rosamunde found herself frozen.

  Then by some miracle, she forced a smile across her face, perfecting her ideal daughter façade. After all, it would not do to shatter people’s illusions of her. The beautiful, doting, chaste Rosamunde de Lacy—that was she. She dipped her head graciously as the feasters offered raised goblets in congratulations.

  “They shall marry in two days,” her father continued, “and I have no doubt this match shall prove fruitful and beneficial for all of us.”

  Beneficial? Beneficial for whom? she wanted to splutter. Why would her father betroth her to an unknown knight? Why would he turn away wealthy lords yet hand her over to a man neither of them knew? And why had he not asked her opinion?

  An ache gathered in her throat. Father sat again, his face rigid and she knew that expression too. It was one that brokered no argument.

  “Is this a jest?” she hissed nonetheless.

  “I would not jest about such a matter. I’m not known for my humour, Daughter.”

  “Why did you not ask me or... or at least warn me?” she whispered, her mouth still pulled into a faint smile.

  “There was little time,” he murmured. He turned and eyed her gravely with those crinkled eyes that she had always been so fond of. Until now. “I don’t give you up easily, my girl, let me assure you of that. If I thought he would not look after you well, I would have run him out of my castle rather than send you with him, but he is a fine warrior. He will protect you.”

  “Protection? I have protection. Why do I need it from him? I’m perfectly safe behind your castle walls, as you so oft remind me.”

  “Rosamunde, if there was any other way...”

  “What is your meaning?”

  “It matters not. The contract will be drawn up on the morrow and then you shall be wed the next day before you travel to your new home.”

  A raw ache gathered in her chest and made her eyes sting. She was to leave Tynewell, the only place she had ever known with no time to prepare. She was to be given to a man she didn’t know. She was to leave her father, who, for all of his faults, loved her dearly. And she loved him in return, which was why she could not fathom this decision. Many women were given to men they didn’t know but she never expected to be one of them. The love between her and her father made her believe it would be different for her—if he even ever accepted an offer for her hand.

  “Enough, Rosamunde. I will say no more. My decision is final.”

  Her chin wobbled and she drew in a deep breath before twisting to smile at Ieuan. There was bitterness behind her smile, and she hoped he saw it.

  “Did you always intend for this?”

  He nodded slowly. “Aye.”

  “So w
hen you...” She stopped herself. She couldn’t say kissed in front of her father. “When we spoke, you did not think it an idea to warn me of your intentions?”

  “My deal is with your father,” he said coolly, bringing his goblet up for a long drink.

  Releasing a depreciative laugh, she nodded. “Of course. My wishes mean naught.”

  “I have need of a wife and you have need of a husband, my lady. Would you rather be an old maid?”

  Shock boiled through her. Where was the chivalrous knight who said her name with such sensuality? The one who offered to fight for her honour? The one who sent excitement reeling through her? At the moment, all she felt was disgust. Disgust with these two men for planning her future without her, for giving her no time to prepare and for playing a game with her as though she were a pawn on a chess board. She had expected better of both of them.

  “I would rather be an old maid,” she said quietly but sharply, “than be married to you.”

  With that, she flung down her napkin and moved swiftly away from the table. In spite of the murmurs behind her and the sound of footsteps following, she walked blindly to the double doors at the entrance of the hall. A soldier opened a door for her and she shoved through, stumbling out into the mild night. She only paused briefly to draw in a breath, feeling the need to replace the stale, suffocating air of the hall.

  The creak of the door behind her spurred her into heading swiftly to the outer steps and her chamber. Whatever her father had to say to her, she didn’t wish to listen. Skirts in hand, she ascended the steps as quickly as she could in her flimsy indoor slippers.

  Out of breath and feeling hot and angry, she shoved open her chamber door and spun to slam it shut only to be confronted by a wide chest in a dark blue tunic. The golden embroidery of a shield she had never seen before this tournament filled her vision.

  Ieuan’s shield.

  Her betrothed’s shield.

  A hand came up to prevent her from slamming the heavy oak door in his face. She was no match for his strength so she placed her hands on her hips and glared at him. “Why do you follow me? Be gone. You should not be here.”

  “I’m your betrothed. I can do what I wish.”

  “We are not married yet. We should not be alone.”

  Those frustratingly sensuous lips quirked into a twisted grin. “That did not bother you yestereve.”

  “Well it bothers me now.”

  Ieuan inched forward until he had stepped over the threshold of her chamber. He shut the door slowly behind him. If she’d been quick, she might have slipped out, but where would she go? Back to the hall to suffer the congratulations of the noble folk? To the ramparts where he could follow her with ease? She was trapped, just as she had always been.

  They were cloaked in darkness. The fire in her chamber hadn’t been lit yet and only meagre light slipped through the two windows. Grey moonlight lit his expression though, revealing the angles of his face. The dips and furrows and his wide, strong jaw, took on a menacing appearance in such light. She gulped and backed toward her bed, curling a hand around the bedpost as if the carved wood could defend her against this man.

  Defend her? Defend her from what? She wasn’t sure but something akin to fear swirled in her gut. The man she had danced with last night—the man she had kissed—had vanished, leaving behind a cold, hard warrior who claimed her as his as easily as he might claim a drink at a feast.

  “What do you want with me?” she whispered when he moved closer still.

  He cocked his head to one side and studied her. What he saw, she knew not. Her own dark blue gown likely cloaked her in the darkness of the room. What a fool. She had asked Bella to find out what he was wearing to the feast and had wanted to match him. Now she saw how it must have appeared. She wanted to match her love, her soon-to-be husband. She snorted.

  “I amuse you?” he asked when there was only a pace between them.

  “Nay, I amuse myself with my foolishness. I cannot believe I thought you to be a kind and chivalrous man.”

  “Chivalry has no place in my life. When you accompany me to Wales, you shall see why. But I’m not a cruel man. I assure you, you shall be treated well. At least as well as I can manage. Wales is not like England and my castle is nothing like yours. I will not pander to you. But you need never fear me.”

  Rosamunde pondered his words. She wasn’t sure she feared him as such—not physically at least. Her father would never have given her to someone who would beat or mistreat her. But there were ways of mistreating a lady that did not take fists or whips. Expecting her to be a wife to a man she hardly knew in a strange land was mistreatment to her mind.

  “I don’t fear you,” she said, lifting her chin.

  “Yet your voice trembles.”

  Did it? Aye, she supposed it did. From anger perhaps. Or more likely because of his presence. In spite of everything, in spite of the hot anger still rushing through her, his proximity turned her legs to jelly and her voice seemed to follow suit.

  “’Tis cold.”

  He loomed over her, his full lips pulled into a firm line, his eyes dark and searching. Her breath caught in her throat, the air around her stifled. A hand came up to touch her cheek—a light touch at first, and then a long caressing one.

  “You lie.” Her eyes widened at this. “Your skin is warm and soft.”

  Opening her mouth to protest, she found her words cut off when he swooped down to kiss her. Her words were lost to his lips, then to his tongue as it slipped into her mouth. She longed to push him back but knew it would do no good. And then... and then she was kissing him back, even as her mind fought with her body. What was she doing? Why was she kissing him? But it was oh so good. So decadent. He was to be her husband, what was the harm?

  She tore her mouth from his. “Nay.” Angry, remember? Be angry. Do not give in easily to him. She wouldn’t. He might have claimed her from her father with ease but she would make him regret this decision.

  Her eyes had adjusted to the dark as she was aware of him curling a fist at his side. He remained within kissing distance. The tang of wine and a spicy sent wrapped about her and she still tasted him on her tongue.

  “Why do you even want me?” she asked in a desperate attempt to distract herself.

  “Why would I not want the Treasure of Tynewell?”

  She blinked at him for several moments. “Pardon?”

  An eyebrow rose and his lips curled upwards. “You mean you know not what people call you?”

  “You speak in riddles, sir.”

  “You are a treasure to them. Beauty, wealth, grace.” He paused and wrapped a large hand around the bedpost, just above hers. “Well, you appear graceful by any means. The kind of lady men wage wars over. That is you. The Treasure of Tynewell.”

  Rosamunde absorbed the words. A treasure? That was how people saw her? She should be flattered she supposed, yet it made her feel as though she might believe herself to be better than others when she knew full well that was not the case. No wonder she had received no other offers for her hand. Men likely thought they would never be granted it.

  She narrowed her gaze at him. “So you came here to hunt for treasure. Did it disappoint you, good sir, when you discovered ‘twas simply me?”

  “Nay, I was not disappointed. After all, your dowry would fill many coffers.”

  Drawing in a sharp breath, she resisted the desire to bring her palm across his face. Was he jesting? Nay, surely not. His eyes were as dark and as serious as ever.

  “So you want me for my wealth and naught more,” she said, half to herself. “Why the guise?”

  “Guise?”

  “You were quite the chivalrous knight.”

  “Perhaps I wished to see if you were suited to me.”

  “I think you care not whether I suited you. Any man can be persuaded to like a woman well enough if she is rich. I think you take pleasure in games.”

  He lifted a shoulder and shifted his hand down the bedpost a fraction so t
hat his fingers brushed hers. Rosamunde intended to pull her hand away but decided against it. These were her chambers, this was her bed. Then his hand shifted farther and wrapped around her fingers that now ached from gripping the wood so tightly. Shivers skated over her skin and bolstered the dull throb in her chest as it reminded her of when she had enjoyed that touch.

  “Rosamunde, whatever you believe of me, I wish not for you to be angered.” He squeezed his fingers around hers, but there was no comfort in the movement. It was one of possession. “Do not do anything rash.”

  “Rash? Like press my father into announcing a betrothal I had no knowledge of?”

  Ieuan’s teeth ground. She heard the awful grating noise.

  “You did press him, did you not? My father would never wish to surprise me like that.”

  “Perhaps I did. Mayhap I wished to claim my treasure as soon as I could. Regardless of the manner of our betrothal, you are mine now, Rosamunde, and I am telling you not to do anything foolish.”

  “The contract is not signed yet. Or is it? Did you sign it at the same time as you forced my father’s hand?”

  “’Tis not signed yet,” he said, dropping his hand from hers. “But ‘twill be, do not doubt that. Now I suggest you rest well this night, my lady. We have a busy day of preparations ahead.”

  Rosamunde longed to spit and rage further but what else could be said? The ink might as well be dry on their contract after her father’s announcement. This stranger now owned her. So instead, she turned away, refused to give him one more moment of her time. Arms folded, she waited until his footsteps moved away. A heavy sigh came from him before the door shut, as though he regretted their exchange, but what did he have to regret?

  Chapter Six

  “She’s gone.”

  The words didn’t surprise Ieuan. That she had slipped past Phylip, one of his men-at-arms, did however. Ieuan crossed his arms and eyed Lord Tynewell. The man’s face was the shade of a ripe berry and it deepened as Phylip made the announcement, as if to signify the level of his anger.