The Warrior's Reward Read online

  What secrets did her husband hold? She shook away the thought. It would not pay to be distracted now. She made a quick, cold assessment of the man, ignoring the hot, wet lips now on her neck and the hard grasp on her bottom. She would likely have handprints by the end of this. That was if he let her live. Surely he didn’t expect to be able to get away with raping and killing Ieuan’s wife? The man had to be mad.

  Or he suspected Ieuan didn’t care enough about his wife for it to matter. After all, Ieuan had her riches and who would doubt his word if he told everyone they had consummated. He would be rid of her easily.

  Nay, surely he would not let it go unpunished. He might be gruff and aggravating but some small part of him was chivalrous... wasn’t he? Or had every moment before their betrothal truly been an act?

  Well, she could not sit and wait around for rescue. Apparently her husband cared not where she was and she certainly would not let Phylip have his way easily. He had no knife—or at least easy access to one. She thought it was tucked into his belt. That would give her a few moments. Also, although he was strong, his grip on her was fairly weak. He seemed too distracted by kissing her to notice. How odd, she thought dazedly, that a man with sin on his soul should want to indulge in something as tender as kissing.

  Rosamunde tilted her head to give him better access to her neck. The hands upon her rear loosened further and skimmed up her back. She was in his hold, but could she break free? She supposed the only thing to do now was to find out. Her heart thrashed in her chest and her breathing was laboured. Unexpectedly the cold calm had vanished, replaced with fear. But not cold, bone-drenching fear. This was hot, like fiery pokers prodding at her spine and the base of her skull. It flooded through her body and brought out pricks of sweat on her forehead.

  “I knew you’d submit,” he told her.

  Muscles tense, she skimmed her hands over his shoulders, much like she had once done with Ieuan. But everything about this man repulsed her, unlike Ieuan. Then she pushed hard and brought her knee up between his legs, screaming Ieuan’s name.

  Phylip groaned. He fell to the ground. She swivelled and shot into a run but another branch caught her skirts and she tumbled. Hard ground bit into her hands and when she kicked out, her foot connected with Phylip’s face. He was holding her skirts and she had not become snagged on some errant branch. He tried to drag her toward him so she kicked again. A spurt of blood rushed from his nose and he cursed loudly. Scrabbling her nails across the ground, she searched for purchase on something, anything. Not even a twisting vine could be found and all she succeeded in doing was filling her nails full of dirt and scraping her palms.

  Phylip hauled her back and she screamed again, her mouth filling with mud and leaves. He crawled on top of her, blood dripping from his nose onto her face. She closed her eyes, gritted her teeth. Weariness seeped into her bones. Her mind seemed to have shut down. Was this surrender? But, nay, she was not ready to give up yet, not while blood still ran through her veins and her heart beat. And it did. Frantically.

  Rosamunde pushed and squirmed. She bit and kicked. A crack across her cheek echoed in her ears but she felt no pain. And then there was nothing. Blissful nothing. She focused on the darkness behind her eyes. Perhaps she had been knocked senseless? But then hands were upon her, dragging her to her feet and she found herself quite aware that the touch was not Phylip’s.

  She peeled open her eyes and found herself staring into Ieuan’s startling blue eyes. She collapsed against him and wrapped her arms around his waist. Seemingly taken aback, he patted her awkwardly. She didn’t care if she seemed weak or if there was nothing comfortable about him. For the moment, his wide chest offered such comfort even with the bite of chainmail cold against her cheek.

  “What in hell fire is going on here?”

  “She was running away sir,” came Phylip’s response. “She must have struck her head or something. She was delirious. I tried to persuade her to come back but she would not obey.”

  “So you manhandled her?”

  “Aye, sir. I had no choice. ‘Tis too dangerous for her out there on her own. You would not punish me for looking after your interests, Ieuan, surely?”

  It took a moment for the exchange to sink past the pounding in her ears. Indignation rose and she shoved away from Ieuan to gape at the two men.

  “Nay! Nay, that was not it. He tried to...” She turned her gaze to Ieuan and prayed he believed her. Phylip’s plans to ravish her not far from his master seemed foolish and mad, but she suspected the man might well be strange in the head. “He tried to ravish me.” Chin lifted, she stared into his gaze. Oh pray believe me.

  “Is this true?”

  Phylip drew up this shoulders. “Of course not. Who would you believe? This whore or your loyal man?”

  Ieuan’s gaze narrowed. Darkness entered it and her breath caught. She had seen this look before. It was the one she had seen on the last day of the tournament. The one that had come across his face before he defeated Granville. She was mightily glad she wasn’t his foe.

  “That whore, is my lady wife, Phylip. You would do well to remember that.”

  The man bent slightly in deference. “Of course, sir. Of course.”

  Her husband glanced her over, no doubt seeing the dirt on her gown and the scratches and marks on her face. His jaw worked. She shot him another pleading look. He had to believe her, he just had to.

  Ieuan stepped forward. The gap between the two men vanished in that step and they were chest to chest. He drew out his sword and the scrape of steel on his scabbard made her wince. Then he grabbed the man by the chainmail hood around his neck.

  “Oh nay. Do not.” She stepped forward and paused when he held out a palm.

  “What else have you lied to me about, Phylip? Do you intend to turn traitor perhaps? Run to the English king and demand coin for your knowledge? You have betrayed me by touching what is mine and thus I think you are better off dead. That way I can be assured of your silence.”

  Each word held such menace, such threat, that it sent tremors through her in waves. She wasn’t sure she was prepared to see a man die in front of her.

  “I will stay silent to the grave,” Phylip said, meeting his gaze head on, “if you pay me well.”

  Ieuan laughed. “And this is the bargain you strike when facing the steel of my blade?”

  “You would not kill an old friend.”

  “Friend?” Ieuan spat on the ground beside him. “I have no friends. A man like me cannot afford such luxury as friendship.”

  Rosamunde wondered what he meant. A man like him? As far as she knew he was a knight with land. She had thought him wealthy for a while but he had taken her for her wealth so he must be only rich in land. What knowledge could Phylip have that made his silence so important?

  Phylip eyed the blade in her husband’s hand and jerked against the hold he had on his coif. “I will stay silent, I swear it,” he said quietly.

  She couldn’t see her husband’s gaze properly now but whatever Phylip must have seen in it had persuaded him to submit. Ieuan shook his head and the cold realisation she was going to see a man cut down sank into the pit of her stomach.

  “Ieuan,” she pleaded softly.

  He jerked his head in her direction. The dark shadowy haze to his eyes made the blood drain from her face. But she held her stance firm. She would not swoon. The darkness vanished, his scowl softened. There was a look of defeat to him. An odd notion, for she certainly had not defeated him and Phylip had surrendered.

  Ieuan drew out the man’s sword with his free hand and pushed him away with a bump to his chest. He came to her side, his blade held aloft and handed her Phylip’s. The metal was not as heavy as she had expected and easy to balance. She gripped it tightly.

  “Be gone,” Ieuan said, his voice as cold as winter snow. “I promise you, if you turn traitor I shall hunt you down and kill you. You can thank the lady for my mercy this day.”

  Phylip squared up to him briefly bef
ore his shoulders slumped. If she were him, she would scurry away now and never utter Ieuan’s name again, such was the menace behind his threat.

  “I shall be killed without my blade.”

  “Then ‘twill be no less than you deserve. Be gone before I change my mind.” He took an aggressive step forward, his sword raised, and Phylip jerked back, twisted and stumbled away.

  Rosamunde released a lengthy breath. When she glanced at Ieuan she found him watching her. She tugged at a length of hair and stroked it through two fingers over and over.

  “I th-thank you for believing me.”

  He blinked and one dark brow rose. “Why would I not? You have not the ability to lie, Rosamunde.”

  The way he said it sounded almost like an insult. Since when was honesty a terrible trait? Yet she felt the need to defend herself. She tugged on her hair and curled it around a finger. “How would you know?”

  “I can tell.” He pressed the gauntlet of his sword to his stomach. “Here, deep down. My instincts have always been my guide.”

  “Yet you have a man who tried to r-rape your wife in your midst.”

  He sheathed his sword and scuffed the back of his hand across his jaw. “Did you never hear of keeping your enemies close? Though I shall confess I did not expect such behaviour from him. Pray forgive my oversight.”

  “Why do you have enemies, Ieuan?”

  “Every man has enemies.” He offered a quick, dry smile. “And now I have wealth and a beautiful wife. I shall not gain friends through this marriage.” His gaze dropped to her fingers wrapped around her hair and then down her gown. “Hell’s teeth,” he muttered and stepped forward.

  She startled for a moment, not prepared for his sudden movement. Then he took her hands and spoke as though she were a horse ready to bolt. “You’re shaking. Forgive me, I meant not to frighten you.”

  Peering at her hands, she realised she was indeed shaking. In truth, she trembled from head to toe, the fine silk of her gown shivering like a leaf in the wind. A mud-smeared, torn leaf at that.

  “I am n-not frightened.” At least she did not think she was. Certainly not of Ieuan.

  Regardless, he drew her close and wrapped her in a warm embrace. She tilted her head to avoid the touch of hard chainmail—his surcoat did little to hide the unforgiving metal—but with her nose pressed into his bristled neck and those powerful arms encasing her, she felt far from uncomfortable. She could happily stay in his embrace for days on end.

  When the shivers that wracked her had subsided, he eased her away. “Come, we must journey on or we shall not make our next stop before nightfall.” Hands to her shoulders, he eyed her gravely. “You must forgive my lack of judgement with Phylip. I swore to your father I would protect you and protect you I will. ‘Twill not happen again.”

  Rosamunde imagined that exchange between the two men and perhaps understood better why her father had given her up to this man. Her other suitors had not been made for battle. While their wealth might have offered some protection, political intrigue was always a dangerous game and she doubted she could have counted on those men to protect her physically if needs be. Was that why she was given to the Welshman? To keep her far away from court and the battles of greedy men? She supposed it made more sense than any other reason she could come up with.

  When she recognised he was awaiting a response, she nodded slowly. His grip became more insistent.

  “I swear it, Rosamunde.”

  “Aye, Ieuan. ‘Tis well enough. I do not doubt it.”

  With that, he curled an arm about her shoulders and led her back to the carriage. Aye, there was no doubting this warrior would protect her and, while the fear in her body was slowly draining away, it was being replaced by the simmering tension again. It was the one that made her body cry out for his touch. The one that sent heat soaring through her and created an ache low in her belly. But he didn’t want her, she reminded herself. So that heat and ache would have to be forgotten. She blew out a breath. This marriage was going to be a trial indeed.

  Chapter Eleven

  “We shall be able to see the keep in just a moment.” Ieuan glanced at his wife. She had to be wearied but she didn’t show it. Her posture atop the horse was proud—her shoulders straight, chin lifted. He felt exhausted, however. Exhausted and frustrated. It had only been two nights since they had said their marriage vows, but his need to get her into bed and consummated made him feel as though he had been waiting ten summers for her.

  He drew in a breath of Welsh air and held it in his lungs, waiting for it to restore him. But, alas, it did not. Only lying with his wife would do that. And how was he meant to prove himself more than a Welsh barbarian if his blood was fired with need when the time came?

  Grip tight around his reins, he motioned for Huw to continue on. He hadn’t helped his situation but not knowing the true nature of Phylip either. Rosamunde said she was no longer scared, but he doubted that. He supposed at least the incident had made her a little more obedient. She had not gone far on her own since.

  However, he’d feel much better when he had her behind the stone walls of his castle. Crumbling as they were, they were protection enough. Then he would not have to worry for her and he could continue the task of rebuilding the war-ravaged keep.

  They came up around the mountain and a smile teased his face at the sight of his home. From here, it didn’t look crumbling or war-torn. Though set into the valley, the castle had been built on a knoll that meant it loomed across the land. The walls and the three-storey tower jutted out from the green lands, competing with the very mountains themselves. He might have little, but at least he had this.

  Journeying down the hill to the floor of the valley, Ieuan watched his wife for her reaction. Since travelling into the borderlands between England and Wales, she had fallen into quiet awe. It gratified him to see her wide eyes and parted lips. It also made him anxious to see such a look elsewhere—in his bed perhaps. But it satisfied him she found his home as pleasing as he did. For him, the craggy rocks with their rivers of water streaming between them and the bold green and orange mountains were like his lifeblood. He swore that if he was ever away from Wales for more than a month he would simply curl up and die.

  Unfortunately for Rosamunde, the dramatic landscape meant they seldom travelled anywhere by carriage. Much of the borderlands were wild and the roads simply didn’t allow passage with four heavy wheels. It meant days in the saddle for most journeys. And unfortunately for him, his wife would no doubt be exhausted and sore after a day’s ride.

  He put his gloved hand to the back of his neck and rolled his shoulders. The heavy weight of his hauberk seemed to increase with the thought of another night of frustration. He had survived worse, Ieuan reminded himself. Growing up during a rebellion had hardened him in many ways. Fear and death had become commonplace and he supposed he had become numb to it. Rosamunde, however, would not survive long in Wales if he wasn’t careful. Hunger and poverty scorched the lands. There were far worse men than Phylip in the wilds.

  Hand to the reins, he tightened his grip on the leather while they continued their slow pace, the keep growing ever taller. He had no doubt Phylip had intended to betray him to the King of England and inform him of his birth. Not that his father had ever been an important part of his life. He snorted to himself. The bastard son of a prince. There were likely many such as him across the world—cast aside as no more than an annoyance. Yet because of the importance of his father and his role in the rebellion, it seemed suddenly he was a person of great import.

  They didn’t pass through the village as they approached. It was hidden on the other side of the mound. For that he was grateful. The villagers would be pleased with his taking a wife and bringing in new wealth, but in spite of Rosamunde’s stiff posture, he wasn’t sure she could tolerate taking the time to greet the villeins. Everything about his wife shouted protect me. Against the coarse landscape of his country, she seemed other-wordly. Angelic perhaps. Flaxen hair, deli
cate features and bones. She had fought off Phylip somehow but he put that down to pure luck. The fact she hadn’t swooned still surprised him greatly.

  Now that they were close, the crumbled tops of the tower were evident. There was a hole in one corner of the building and on brighter days, you could see directly into the Great Hall. Unfortunately it had taken a hit from a trebuchet during the uprising. The interior hadn’t fared well either. He slid a glance toward his wife and saw the horror sweep over her expression. He couldn’t help but smirk. The Treasure of Tynewell had never known hardship. It was about time she learned of what it was like to be anything other than a pampered princess.

  He wouldn’t expect much of her. He had sworn to keep her safe and he would follow through on that oath. All he had to do was ensure his walls were strong enough to keep her locked behind. He skimmed his gaze over her again and sighed. And ensure she didn’t get herself into strife.

  Ieuan drew Melfed to a stop not far from the bottom of the knoll. Sharp rocks protruded from the natural bank, and the winding route up the side of it was easier on foot. Scores of old trees that were due for cutting down lined the path. He dismounted and released a satisfied breath. It didn’t matter that they’d been on Welsh soil all day—there was something elemental about being on the land of his ancestors—regardless of his illegitimate birth.

  He had not owned the castle for long but it had belonged to the Princes of Wales for hundreds of years. Only as the rebellion came to an end did his father give it to him. For a bastard child who had lived hand to mouth most of his life, it was quite the gift but he knew he hadn’t been given it out of love or generosity. His ownership meant it would not fall into the English king’s hands. Few knew of the truth behind his birth so there could be no reason to remove ownership from him.

  Hands to his hips, he drew in a breath and turned to his wife. He anticipated living out the rest of his days here—in peace, he hoped. Though what peace he would gain with Rosamunde at his side, he knew not. The woman seemed to attract trouble. Not that he blamed her for the incident with Phylip. He curled a fist. That had been entirely his fault.