Heart's War (Heart and Soul) (6 page)

Brynmor inclined his head. “I am glad you understand my reservations.” He paused and Rose knew he
was choosing his words carefully. “Until we hear word from Longshanks, the Welsh nobility under my command will close their gates to you, Mortimer. I am sending writs out to them upon the morrow, but all I can do is order that they not move against you. Pass through peaceably, and things will stand, but burn holdings or fields, allow your men to pillage, and I will meet you on the field myself.”

Mortimer studied him a long moment. “
Understood and accepted,” he said and extended his hand.

Brynmor reached out and clasped his forearm. “Agreed.”

Rose breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps now they could actually enjoy dinner.

Brynmor turned back to her
, but his shoulders remained tense. Rose watched him; did he not believe Mortimer?

“Brynmor?” she whispered.

A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Forgive me, Rose,” he murmured, leaning toward her. “But you have no idea how difficult it is for me to allow an English army to pass unchallenged across my holdings.”

She couldn’t resist kissing his cheek, hoping it would be
seen as playful flirting. “You’ve made the right decision, Brynmor.”

“Have I, Rose?” he asked again
, pulling her hand to his lips.

“Aye,” she said firmly.

He sighed heavily and stared at the trencher, its food rapidly growing cold. Rose’s appetite faded. She found herself wishing she could somehow rid him of the great burden upon his shoulders.

“Brynmor, what can I do to help?”

He looked at her a moment, his eyes wide, then his shoulders relaxed. “You are helping, little one.”

Her teeth clenched at him calling her little again
, but the warmth in his voice was not to be denied, and she discovered herself grinning at him.

Brynmor’s steward burst through the door, interrupting the revelry. “My lord, wounded refugees approach
from Shropshire, Hawarden, and Oswestry. Because of Earl Mortimer’s troops amassing on our borders, your lords keep their gates barred and will not grant them haven.”

Brynmor shot to his feet. “Allow them entrance,
Petran,” he barked. “English or Welsh, no one shall be denied.”

Rose also stood, her gaze
falling on Gwen. “Mother—”

“I brought the medicant chests with me, Rose.”

Brynmor took a step but Rose refused to release his hand. Never had she seen such responsibility weigh so heavily on one man. He answered the call readily
, but she sensed the doubt plaguing him.

He paused, looking at her hand in confusion. She tugged him closer. “Long have you allied
with Montgomery, now it is time you learned what that really means.”

“Rose?”

“My father knows his power comes not from his station but from the people he protects. Now you shall know the strength of your people and those who ally with you, Brynmor.”

He hesitated then a slow smile grew on his face. Before she could move, he lowered his head and his lips touched hers in a
brief but intensely powerful kiss. Suddenly, he was gone, striding away from her. Rose felt the air vibrate around her as she struggled to gather herself. She blinked once, then twice, then shook herself and charged up the stairs to change.

So many people,
Rose thought wearily.
So much death and pain, all so unnecessary.
Exhausted, she shoved a lock of hair from her face and offered a cup to a wounded soldier who had managed to escape the fighting. Unfortunately, he would not escape with his life. He had received a terrible belly wound that was claiming him bit by bit. All Rose could do was give him medicants made with herbs that would ease his pain, and ease him into death.

The young man fought valiantly for his life.
In his fevered ramblings he called for his love, but he did not know if the woman still breathed. Rose tried to soothe him as he struggled, placing a cold cloth on his forehead. Frustration tore at her gut; all she could do was try to make him comfortable as she waited for the inevitable.

The man battled her, his arms flailing, his legs kicking.
Rose tried to hold him down before he caused himself even more pain or worse—the great hall was so crowded with wounded he might mistakenly strike a fellow refugee, causing even more damage.

“Please,” Rose cried, struggling to pin his arms.
“Please don’t fight me. I’m only trying to help you.”

But the man grew more desperate, his strength increasing with the amazing power of one who had nothing more to lose.
His eyes flew open and he stared at her, a snarl curling his lip. For a brief instant, Rose feared he saw not her but an enemy soldier looming over him. One of his arms escaped her grasp and seized the small knife she used to cut clothing and trim bandages.

Rose cried out in fear and shock as he swung at her.
She tried vainly to catch his arm but knew her strength could not match his. A black gauntlet-covered hand appeared before her eyes, grabbing the man’s wrist and stopping the knife a hairsbreadth in front of her face.

For an instant
, time froze as Rose stared at the shining blade. Her breath came in ragged gasps; her heart slammed brutally against her ribs. Her gaze traveled up the mail-covered arm, noting the size of the powerful muscles underneath the woven steel, up to a massive shoulder bearing a smoky-gray steel plate, and further, to a handsome face wearing a grim expression that appeared as if carved from stone.

Brynmor.

Long black hair tangled around his shoulders and tumbled down his back. The angular planes of his face seemed harsher, more pronounced. His mouth pressed into a fierce line. His blue-green eyes, hooded and partially hidden by thick black lashes, glared at her with a smoldering fury.

She blinked
and swallowed hard, then suddenly realized the emotion she saw in his eyes was not fury, but fear.

“Are ye all right, lass
?” his voice, lower and thicker than she had ever heard it before, rumbled deep in his chest. His gaze never left hers as he disarmed the man and placed the small dagger out of his reach.

The wounded man fell back into his fever dream, moaning in pain but no longer struggling.

“I’m . . . I’m fine,” she stammered, but perhaps that was a lie. She shook so hard she feared Brynmor could see her quaking. Rose had had patients grow unruly before, but never had they become so violent that she feared for her life.

“If ye must, bind his arms, lass,” Brynmor said, his voice still low and rough, his accent heavy.
He lowered the man’s arm but still kept his fingers firmly clamped on his wrist. “I’ll not have ye hurt,” he whispered.

Only then did Rose see the tremor pass through him.
She gazed at him in astonishment, for he was shaking as hard as she.

Impulsively, she reached up and touched his cheek, caressing his skin with her fingertips.
His jaw was rough and dark from a day’s growth of beard. She felt the muscle flex under her touch. His eyes ignited with a flame she could not define, but it sent a sharp tingle racing down her spine. She jerked her hand away.

Brynmor took a deep breath, his ribcage visibly expanding with the effort.
“’Tis a good thing I noticed your struggle and came to help. I did not think he had the strength to assault ye.” He drew another breath.

“If
—” her voice cracked and she tried again. “If I can get him to drink the rest of this medicant, he will not be a danger to anyone.”

Brynmor stared at the man’s wound then at the cup.
“Is that—”

Rose shook her head sharply, cutting him off.
“A belly wound such as this,” she whispered so softly Brynmor had to lean forward to hear her, “is a slow, agonizing death. He has suffered enough.” Sadness rose within her. Her throat tightened and her jaw suddenly ached as tears blurred her eyes. She was a healer, Gwen had taught her the finest skills, but she was not a miracle worker.

Brynmor seemed to understand, the tightness in his jaw
eased, and a surprisingly powerful compassion took its place. “’Tis a mercy, little one,” he said gently.

“I know,” she said, fighting down tears
, but her weariness made her battle difficult. “But I hate this.”

“Aye,” he said simply, powerfully.
He moved to the man’s head and knelt. Gripping the man’s arms, he gently lifted until he had the soldier braced against him, then Brynmor’s hands trapped his arms to his sides. “Give him the medicant, little one.”

Swallowing hard and summoning her courage, she held the cup to the man’s lips.
He drank it down. Brynmor eased him back then pulled a blanket to his chin, his actions surprisingly gentle.

“How long?” Brynmor asked.

“Perhaps an hour, perhaps less. He will sleep without pain before he slips away.”

Brynmor nodded, placing his hand on the man’s forehead.
“Rest well, brother,” he whispered. “May you find peace at last.” He stood and held out his hand to Rose.

She accepted it, her legs unsteady.

“I want ye to get some rest,” Brynmor said in a tone which was still soft but also brooked no argument.

“But
 . . .” she gazed around the hall, filled with wounded and dying. So many needed help and she and her mother were the only ones who could give it. Where was her mother, anyway? A frown blurred her brow.

“Your father already sent her above-stairs
; ye’ve both been working a full day and night,” Brynmor said, gazing at her intently. “If you wish, I can do as he did and toss you over my shoulder.”

Rose felt her lips tug upward.
Her mother would never willingly leave with wounded around. She would work until she dropped and her father would have indeed tossed her over his shoulder and hauled her upstairs like a sack of feed. She glanced at Brynmor. “That won’t be necessary.”

He actually had the gall to look disappointed.
Rose blinked at him as a ghost of a smile touched his lips, subtly easing the harsh lines etched in his face. “You can be surprisingly docile when I expect you to fight.”

“Of course, my lord, why should I do what you expect?”

A low chuckle rumbled through him. “I should have learned that eighteen years ago when you drugged me on the trail.”

She glared at him and jerked her hand from his, walking quickly toward the stairs.

Brynmor easily fell in step beside her.

“Why must you constantly remind me of that?”

“Because it pricks your ire so.”

“And you should know of pricking.”

Brynmor lifted his head sharply, his nostrils flaring.

Rose cursed her sharp tongue
; that insult was beneath her.

His
hand shackled her arm, his grip firm but not painful. He steered her into an alcove near the stairs, her back pressed against the cool stone wall. His eyes spat sparks at her. Rose stiffened, gazing up at him. He stepped forward, his massive frame crowding her so close she could feel his heat. He bent his head, gazing down at her, his lips hovering over hers. Rose’s pulse pounded wildly and the air fled her lungs. Her gaze focused on his lips and she could not tear her attention away.

He surprised her when his lips curved up in a hint of a smile. “I see I am not the only one to struggle with curbing my tongue.”
He moved even closer, his chest brushing against her breasts. Heat bloomed deep within her; her breasts were hard and aching. The scent of him beguiled and dizzied her. “You have always been a strong-minded woman, Rose. I find that trait . . . intriguing.” He traced a finger over a lock of hair that descended down her ear to her throat.

She battled to find her voice. “I thought you liked your women soft and willing.”

“Aye,” he murmured. “Ye have given me practical reasons for this marriage. But there is more. Are ye willing, Rose? Are ye willing for all this marriage entails?”

He lowered his head, his fingers moving away the hair at her throat.
Before she could draw a breath, his velvet lips touched her skin. He opened his mouth and his tongue traced a path of liquid fire. Her lids fluttered closed, her head falling back as if she had not the strength to hold it up. His tongue traveled over the frantically pulsing vein in her throat. He nipped her lightly with his teeth. It was as if a bolt of lightning shot through her body, striking deep within her and igniting a fire of the most primal fury. She heard herself making tiny mewling noises.

His hands gentled their grip, lightly stroking, his long fingers traveling up her arms to her shoulders
, where he slid them down, tracing the contour of her breasts. Her body quivered. The fabric of her dress was suddenly abrasive against her skin.

Brynmor panted, his warm breath heating her dampened skin,
but then abruptly, he hauled himself back. He spun on his heel and strode away, his boot heels slamming against the stone floor.

Rose blinked in shock, trying to pull her senses back together.
She swayed in the alcove, her heart pounding, unable to catch her breath. His voice whispered in her thoughts.

Are ye willing, Rose?

A blush burned on her cheeks as she realized she knew the answer to that question. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she hurried above-stairs to her room.

She passed an archer
loophole and looked across the bailey. Approaching the gates, a massive group of refugees carried litters and assisted their wounded. Every keep under Brynmor’s command had barred their gates against enemy troops, forcing the wounded to travel great distances to Powys. Brynmor was the only one who dared allow them entrance. “Oh, Blessed Mary,” she whispered. She gazed longingly at the door to her room and then looked back to the bailey. She drew a deep breath, summoning her courage, and descended the stairs.

****

Brynmor strode out of the door of the keep and staggered against the wall. He caught himself with his hand and struggled to drag a breath into his lungs. The taste of her still whispered across his lips, along with the feel of her soft skin. Her feminine scent combined with the sweetness of her namesake invited him to close his eyes and find peace and comfort in her arms. His fingers felt as if he still touched her, the soft sounds she had uttered only made him want to give her a reason to cry out his name in complete abandon.

A deep tremor passed through him and his p
ulse quickened. The power of his lust frightened him. She was a beautiful, noble-born lady someone to be protected and cherished. He didn't deserve to make her his wife.

A disturbance at the gates jerked
him out of his thoughts. More wounded streamed into the bailey.

“Damnation,” he murmured.

Brynmor stepped into the bailey. Where was Petran? He had just seen him a moment ago. After a few minutes of searching, Brynmor turned the corner and came to a halt when he spied his steward speaking to a refugee.

“My lord
steward,” the old woman said, her eyes wide and her face pale. “Please say it be not true.”

“What is that?”

The woman’s fingers tormented some prayer beads on a braided twine. “We are hearing rumors. Is it true? Our prince is to marry an English woman?”

“Now, now
,” Petran said reassuringly, “worry not over it.”

“It cannot be,” she whispered. “He would not sell us to the enemy.”

“Cease,” Petran said harshly, his humor fading. “Our prince, as always, acts with our best interests.”

“’Tis an ill omen.”

“’Tis to guarantee our future,” Petran snapped. “The lass has held a special place in his heart ever since he rescued her all those years ago.”

The woman ducked her head, appearing properly remorseful. “Aye,” she said softly. “
He is a good man. And she is at least rumored to be kind and caring.”

“She i
s.”

“Forgive me, I am old, I worry so about our young lord. I’ve heard others talk. They are angry and frustrated. They know we cannot
win a war with England but nor can we tolerate their insults. Unwanted curs get more respect from them. I fear the lady may become the focus of their loathing for the English.”

Petran hesitated only an instant, scowling. But he quickly recover
ed and shook his head. “Your concern is appreciated but unfounded. Go on now, worry not over this.”