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She drew herself up. “Do you refer to Owain, or to Jasper?”
He hesitated only a moment. “Owain.”
“What of your brother?” she persisted.
He expelled a slow breath. “I will not force you to marry him.”
She considered that. “You would support my wish to select my own husband?”
“I cannot allow you to wed anyone who will join your family in opposing me. Surely you can understand that.”
“So I would remain unwed, for you will deny me any man of Wales, and I will not marry any of your Englishmen.”
That suited him perfectly. But there was still the matter of Jasper. “What else did Newlin tell you?”
“You avoid my question.”
“Tell me first of my brother.”
Her eyes flickered away from his, then back. “Newlin fears for Jasper’s safety in Owain’s care.”
Rand forced himself not to react, at least not outwardly. But inside he howled with rage. Impotent rage. “Is Owain so careless of the hostage I hold? Does he not consider that I will behave in a like manner?” He advanced on her, his arms rigid at his side. His fists were clenched so hard they shook. “Does he truly believe that because you are a woman I will take the torture of my brother without reacting?”
He stopped but inches from her. She was small and slender before him, no match for his angry strength, defenseless against any punishment he chose to mete out.
And he did want to punish her. He wanted to punish her for making him behave like a fool. She’d deceived him about her identity, then entranced him with her innocent passion. He’d been so overcome with desire for her that he’d revealed information she should never have been privy to, information which could cost any number of lives.
And first among those was his brother’s.
Still, she’d done no more than any loyal soldier would do. She’d ascertained her enemy’s most vulnerable spot, then attacked him there. And he had let her. His brains had been in his braies—a condition he’d oft accused Jasper of.
He glared down at her, hating her for the way she’d played him for a fool. Even now, with his younger brother’s life hanging in the balance, he was making stupid promises to her. By God, he ought to shackle her to the vilest man he could find!
Josselyn saw the fury Rand struggled to rein in.
See how it feels to worry for your kin? My aunt and uncle have felt that same fear for me, and all on account of you.
But though she knew she should enjoy his frustration and his fear for his brother, she simply could not.
“I am hopeful my uncle will prevent Owain from harming him.”
He gave her a contemptuous look. “We speak of a man
who makes you shudder. I saw you,” he added before she could deny it. “Tell me the truth, Josselyn. Will he kill Jasper?”
“I … I don’t think so,” she stammered. Then honesty compelled her to add, “But only because he would be blamed for any resultant punishment that might befall me.”
A muscle ticked in Rand’s jaw. “Will he torture him?”
Another shudder ripped through her. “I believe he might.”
In the silence that followed, her feelings of dread increased tenfold. For a look came over his face. A light glittered from deep in his eyes. Gone was the seductive captor, the charming captor. Even the frustrating captor she’d raged against. In his place appeared an iron-willed lord, an English knight with vengeance on his mind and murder in his heart. She’d never seen him in battle, but she knew he must be formidable. The English king would not otherwise have sent him here.
Once more she rued the day she’d so foolishly thought to spy in his camp, to cook and clean and teach him Welsh and thereby come to know her enemy better. She knew him too well now, far better than she’d ever intended. Well enough to empathize with his pain. Well enough to desire him above all men.
But any connection they might have had, no matter how unwise, had been severed this day. Owain had captured Jasper and she’d helped him. Now Rand would want his revenge.
As she watched he turned and began to gather specific items. A short leather hauberk. His heavy riding gloves. His sword.
At the door he paused and she thought he would speak to her. But his stare was so hard, so cold and assessing, that she was glad he did not. The door closed with a dull thud. The bar fell into place and he was gone.
Owain held Jasper. Rand held her. In the hours to come Josselyn feared there would be hell to pay.
 
 
“A finger will suffice.”
There was no mistaking the man’s meaning. Jasper lay on his side where he’d been dropped. How long had he been insensible? His head throbbed like Scottish war drums. His shoulders were wrenched back to an unnatural degree, and his hands were numb from the tight cords that bound them. He didn’t know where he was or who held him, but from what he could make out of the difficult Welsh tongue, it seemed they meant to cut off one of his fingers.
He didn’t know whether to be grateful or curse the day he’d decided to learn Welsh. He’d done it to impress Rand. His older brother thought him a failure in everything and he’d wanted to show him he was wrong. But instead he lay in a muddy corner of some mean hovel, using his newfound skill to translate his own fate.
“A hand will prove we should not be taken lightly!” said another.
A hand! One of
his
hands?
Sweat popped out on his head and, without being aware he did so, he began to twist his hands back and forth. A sharp poke in the ribs drew a grunt from him and a child’s voice announced, “He’s awake. The Englishman is awake.”
“Get that girl out of here,” ordered the man who wanted Jasper’s hand cut off.
“Begone from here, Rhonwen. Dewey. Take her home.” That was the man who’d opted for the finger only.
“What if you need a translator?” the man addressed as Dewey asked.
“’Tis Randulf Fitz Hugh we’ll be communicating with, not his brother.”
Jasper had known this concerned Rand, but how? What intrigue had his older brother gotten him involved in? There was a commotion at the door then the child cried out, “If you hurt his brother, then he’ll hurt Josselyn!”
Jasper winced at the pain her shrill voice started up in his head. Who in the name of hell was Josselyn?
Outside, with the door slammed rudely in her face, Rhonwen could not hold back her tears. She’d been so frightened. Ever since Josselyn had been taken hostage by that wretched Englishman, she’d lived in utter terror of losing her. Then today they’d dragged the Englishman’s brother into Carreg Du, and she’d been so relieved, for they had the means to make a trade for Josselyn. But now, instead of saving her, they argued about which portion of the man’s body to cut off and send as proof of their threat. Were they so stupid that they could not see what would happen to Josselyn if they hurt this man too badly?
“Rhonwen, child. Where have you been?”
Rhonwen whirled at the sound of her mother’s voice. Though her mother had not been drunk in weeks, Rhonwen still did not trust her. With Josselyn gone, Gladys might still slip back into her old, careless habits.
Rhonwen scowled and shifted aside when her mother reached out to her. “I wish Papa was here. He’d know how to help Josselyn.”
As always, the reference to Tomas stopped Gladys in her tracks. She swallowed hard and twisted her apron in her hands. “Perhaps he could. But he’s not here and you’re just a little girl, too young to interfere with such goings-on.”
“But Josselyn told me that we must be the smart ones. Women may not be as big or strong as men, but we have our own strength and cunning—”
“Dear, she did not mean in matters of this sort.”
“You’re just afraid! And you’re just as stupid as they are!” Then throwing the vilest curse she could think of at her mother, she barged past her and ran full tilt toward the wildwood and its blessed solitude, where she could cry and rage, then cry again for the woman she’d come to love better than anyone.
But even the dense forest offered her no peace, for someone
already lurked there, perched in the ancient yew she claimed for her own. She sensed his presence before she spied him, but when she squinted up through the tangled branches, he did not try to hide himself.
How dare he be here!
“Get out of my tree!” she demanded, focusing all her impotent rage on the dirty-faced child. “Get out and take your puny self away from here.”
He stared down at her, not in the least intimidated. “And who’s to make me?”
That cheeky response pushed Rhonwen past all endurance. With a cry of utter fury, she scrambled up the tree. She would push him down from his perch. She would toss him out of her tree and chase him away and he would never dare invade her territory again!
But he proved to be just as tenacious as she, and just as quick. From branch to branch they maneuvered, she in pursuit, he always managing to evade her. He was smaller than her, and younger, but he was not afraid.
“What’s a’matter? Too slow to catch me?”
“Who’d want to catch a thing that smells so bad as you?” she sneered. “I just want to kick you down from my tree before I faint from the stench.”
She pulled herself onto a higher branch. He retreated to the other side of the main trunk.
“’Tis you who stinks,” he taunted.
She pinched her nose. “You reek, boy. Haven’t you ever heard of washin’ yourself now and again? What kind of mother lets her child go about so shabby?”
“Me ma is dead, so just you shut your trap!”
“Well, my pa is dead. What of it? You still smell worse than a pigsty.”
They glared at one another, both breathless from their exertions. “What are you doing here anyway?” Rhonwen asked. “You’re not from Carreg Du.”
“I’m Rhys ap Owain. I’m with the soldiers of Afon Bryn. Who are you?”
Rhonwen stared at him, answering, “Ap Owain?
He’s
your pa? That man that’s going to get Josselyn hurt?”
The boy spat at the ground, then wiped his mouth with his grimy sleeve. “I hope she dies.”
Rhonwen gasped in horror. How dare he speak such atrocities?
With a cry of rage she leapt at him. Her hand caught his leg but not enough to unbalance him. He started to laugh at her, but when she grabbed onto his branch, pulling it down with her weight, she caught him unprepared.
For one precarious moment he teetered, grabbing wildly for another branch. But that branch was rotten and snapped beneath his hands. While Rhonwen watched, swaying madly from the tree limb that had held him, the boy crashed down through the branches. He hit the ground hard, then lay still.
Rhonwen stared down at him, terrified. She’d achieved exactly what she’d wanted, except that she hadn’t meant to kill him.
Was he dead?
Somehow, despite her violent trembling, she managed to shimmy down. But she hesitated approaching him. Death was contagious. Like deadly fevers, bad luck leapt from one body to the next. The fact that she was the one who’d killed him only made it worse.
But what if he wasn’t dead?
She blinked back frightened tears and saw the shallow rise and fall of his chest. He was alive!
As quickly as that her guilt fled. He was alive but his father was going to be the cause of Josselyn’s death—or at least great harm. Maybe if she took this boy hostage, his father would have to listen to her.
The boy coughed then groaned, and she made up her mind. She must be daring; she must be brave. She could not let Owain cut off that man’s hand, no matter how much she hated the English. That was not the best way to save
Josselyn. So she would use the boy to bargain with the father.
But first she would have to tie up the boy.
She bent over him and began to remove the dirty cord knotted around his grimy oversized tunic. Her nose wrinkled. He smelled even worse up close.
“You’re my prisoner,” she told him when he groaned again, then blinked and looked up at her, still dazed. She knotted the cord around his ankles, then removed her own girdle to bind his hands. “You’re my prisoner and the first thing I’m going to do is give you a bath.”
I
t was very late before the Welsh contacted Rand. Three men came up the hill from the darkened valley carrying torches. They stopped at the
domen
and waited for Rand to approach.
Dusk had settled over the land hours ago. The north wind blew in erratic gusts, and a storm threatened. The English encampment was usually asleep by this time. But Rand had been gripped by an unholy rage all day and his black mood had infected the rest of his followers. Every soldier was primed for battle. Every weapon was honed to its sharpest edge. No one knew what had caused these sudden preparations, but no one had the nerve to question Rand about it, save Osborn.
It was indicative of how far Osborn had come that he did not doubt the bard’s message to Josselyn regarding Jasper. But they could do nothing until they were contacted by Madoc—or Owain.
Now, as Rand and two of his men strode down the hill, the wind at their backs, he hoped for the best, but feared the worst.
He recognized Clyde and his translator, but it was the other man who accompanied them that drew his attention. The man was young and fit, of moderate height and burly build. But he had a cruel twist to his mouth and an arrogant
glint in his eyes. Owain ap Madoc. He could be no other.
“We would offer you a trade.” Clyde spoke first through his translator, Dewey.
“How do I know you actually hold my brother?” Rand demanded to know.
Clyde’s brows lifted in surprise. Owain’s lowered in anger. “How have you heard of this?”
“Suffice it to say I have. But what assurance do I have that this is not an elaborate bluff?”
Without warning, Owain tossed a small bundle at him. Rand caught it with one hand. “He is your height, but slighter,” Dewey translated Owain’s words. “His hair is not so dark as yours. Open the sack,” he added, while Owain grinned.
Rand held the cloth bundle at arm’s length. An unreasoning fear gripped him and he fought the urge to throw the bundle down, anything to avoid looking inside it.
But it was not Owain he feared. If anything, he relished meeting the man in combat. The day would come when they would battle to the finish. He would have to kill Owain; there was no other way. Now as they glared at one another they formed a silent pact of death.
But he still must open the cloth bundle.
His hands were steady. His face betrayed no emotion. But the sight that met his eyes brought bile rising in his throat.
It was only a finger. It could have belonged to anyone. But it wore a ring he recognized. One that bore the Aslin family crest. It was his younger brother’s finger and it had been hacked off because Rand had miscalculated. He’d underestimated his enemy, and not merely Owain.
He raised an impassive face to Owain. “You will pay for this with your life.”
The other man laughed. Then his expression turned ugly. “If you have soiled my bride, I will hack you apart, piece by piece. Fingers. Hands. Feet. I’ll keep you alive as I tear you apart.”
“Atal!”
Clyde cried. He stepped between the two younger men. “Stop this. My niece is what I want. Returned safely to me.”
“Not until I see Jasper.”
“Agreed.”
“Where is he?”
“In a safe place. We can return here with him soon enough.”
“Bring him here at dawn.”
“Why wait so long?” Dewey translated Owain’s question.
“I want to see him approach from afar, on foot. When he walks up the hill, I will send Josselyn down. God help you both if he is unable to manage without assistance.”
“He will manage it,” Clyde said, forestalling Owain with a sharp gesture. “At dawn.”
 
Josselyn sat before the hearth. Her arms wrapped around her bent legs, her forehead nestled on her knees. She was fully dressed.
The night was not so cold. The fire glowed and the fireplace radiated heat. But still she shivered.
She hadn’t seen Rand since his silent departure. He’d barred the door and shuttered the window, and shortly afterward, a guard she did not know had been posted. She questioned the man twice, but with no response at all. So she’d resigned herself to wait, and all the time she worried.
She did not worry, however, whether the swap of hostages would occur. Rand would not risk his brother’s life by refusing to release her. Though it must gall him to negotiate with the same people he’d come here to rule, he would have to do so. Jasper’s life would otherwise be forfeit.
What Josselyn worried about was her own murky future. If Owain had been the one to capture Jasper, he was sure to take credit for her release. He would be hailed a hero and he would undoubtedly expect their marriage to take
place at once. She shuddered even to imagine herself wed to him.
But what if she revealed her intimacy with Rand? Would Owain still wish to marry her if he knew she’d lain with another?
She was not sure.
Her people were less obsessed with the purity of brides than the English and French were said to be. But Owain was not like other Welsh men. He was cruel and selfish, and she knew instinctively that he would punish her for her loss of innocence—especially to an Englishman. He would punish her and continue to punish her all the days of her life.
She fought back a wave of panic. She could not marry Owain. She would have to face his rage and perhaps her uncle’s. But she would never consent to become Owain’s bride.
She considered the few options left her, and once again her thoughts turned to Madoc ap Lloyd. Owain’s father was the only man who could hold Owain in check and also guarantee aid to her uncle.
She paused. Aid to her uncle. Aid to beat back the English. Aid to maintain Welsh freedom from English rule. Once the battle with the English was won, however, the Welsh families would no doubt return to their old habits of fighting among themselves.
Oh, but it was all so hopeless. Was there no way to an enduring peace in her troubled land?
Josselyn lifted her head and stared blankly at the fire, and for the first time allowed herself to consider another scenario. What if the English stayed? What if Rand built his castle and ruled these lands? He’d vowed to protect one and all from oppression, to build a walled town where English and Welsh could live side by side, secure that he would keep the peace. Did he mean it? Could he ensure it?
Would that offer a better life for all who resided in the valley drained by the River Gyffin?
She was prevented from pursuing that disturbing line of thought when, with a crash, the bar was thrown down, the door flung open, and Rand burst in. He was breathing hard. Fury emanated from him in waves.
He closed the door with a chilling thud, then held up a bundle of rags. “I have met the man who claims you.”
“Owain?” She stood up warily. “Has he brought your brother with him?”
“No.”
There was something ominous in that solitary word. Something dangerous. Yet that danger was less frightening than not knowing what was going on. “Doesn’t Owain have Jasper?”
He tossed the cloth bundle to her and she caught it. When he only stared at her, his expression bitter, his eyes cold, Josselyn’s heart turned leaden. Was there something within this small package that answered her question?
Suddenly she knew. She raised stricken eyes to his and thrust the rags back at him. His expression turned even more forbidding. “Open it.”
She shook her head. Some portion of his brother rested in the cloth she held. Some proof that Owain held him. Jasper had been a stranger to her before this, an anonymous Englishman whom she hated without even knowing. Now he was one of Owain’s victims and her heart ached for him. Then guilt rushed over her and she bowed her head. If not for her …
Her trembling fingers fumbled with the cloth. There was blood, and she gagged to know she’d caused this pain. Was it his ear? His nose?
She remembered her brief fantasy about removing certain men’s private parts and thereby sapping them of their masculine strength. Please God, not that!
She gasped when she saw the finger. Relieved. Horrified. The fingernail had turned blue. The flesh was unnaturally pale. A ring still circled it, and she could not look away. Just hours ago blood had pumped through that finger. It
had been warm; it had moved. It had gripped a knife, touched a woman, scratched an itch. But not anymore.
Consumed with remorse, she dragged her eyes up to Rand. “I’m sorry—”
“Shut up!”
Josselyn flinched but did not back away when he snatched the finger in its nest of dirty cloth and placed it on the table. When he turned back to her, however, she shivered with fear.
“I have you until dawn,” he said. “And I intend to make you pay for the pain you have caused him.”
He did not even bother to undress. His dagger lay at his side; he left it on. He did not care about her clothes either, for with a deft move, he caught her by the arms, shoved her backward onto the bed, and jerked her skirt up to her waist.
Josselyn was too stunned to react, too numb to struggle. If he were anyone else she would have fought back. She would have kicked and clawed and screamed her hatred at him. But she did not hate him.
He hated her though. That was plain as he forced her legs apart with his knees, then fumbled with the closure of his braies. He hated her and he meant to rape her, to destroy whatever rare scraps of good there might have existed in the tortured relationship they’d forged.
She did not have the will to stop him.
But neither could she watch. She turned her face to the side and struggled to breathe—and struggled not to cry.
She was destined to fail. For when he pushed her skirt higher, baring her legs and hips and belly to his furious gaze, she began to tremble. And when his hands, hard and unfeeling, gripped her waist and dragged her closer to him, the first tear leaked out.
She heard his harsh breathing. His wool-clad legs abraded the inside of her widespread thighs.
He has been here before,
she told herself.
This is no more than what I’ve done willingly with him.
But that logic failed her. This was nothing like the time before. She was not willing and he did this now in anger, not desire. He wanted to punish her and she understood that. But still she could not bear it.
Another tear leaked out, hot and telling, then another and another until she could not make them stop. She wept silently as he positioned her for his unfeeling possession. She could not believe he would do this to her. Didn’t he know how she felt about him? Didn’t he know how easily she could have loved him?
Her weeping turned to sobs, hard choking sobs that she’d not wanted him to hear.
But Rand heard them, and though he fought to blot them out, he could not. She was sobbing. This woman who’d been brave and loyal to her people was finally broken. And he’d been the one to do it.
He should have gloated. He should have taken her then, proven to her who the victor was in this struggle between them. But he couldn’t. The very idea sickened him. Even if he had wanted to finish what he’d so crudely begun, his body would not cooperate. There was no pleasure in possessing her this way. No joy. Only disgust that he had come so near to doing it.
He drew back, appalled at his behavior, then turned away. God in heaven, when had he become so depraved?
He stumbled toward the door. He had to get out of this room, out of her presence. But at the door he stopped, unable to leave. She wept still. When he peered warily at her he saw she’d curled onto her side. Her legs were still bare, her derriere also. She was pale and vulnerable and heartbroken, and all on account of him.
But what of Jasper? his angry side reminded him. What of his brother tortured by the man she was to wed? Did Jasper count for nothing? Was his finger of no value?
Then why not sever one of her fingers? Why try to rape her? He knew that torturing her as Jasper had been tortured would do no good. So why had he thought raping her
would? Thank God he’d come to his senses.
But he could not leave her like this.
He turned to face her again, as unsure as a chastised child, as terrified as an untried warrior. He took a step nearer her then stopped. “You needn’t fear me,” he muttered gruffly. “I will not harm you.”
Instead of easing her tears, however, his words seemed perversely to increase them. She curled up tighter, covering her head, as her entire body shook with the violence of her weeping.
“Josselyn. Don’t—” He broke off. He didn’t know what to say to her, how to make her stop. That he wanted to comfort her made him angry. She was his enemy and he should not care how miserable she felt. But he did care and he didn’t know what to do about it.
With a muttered curse directed at his own perverse nature, he crossed to the bed, flung her skirt down to cover her legs, then backed away. But still he could not leave.
BOOK: Rexanne Becnel
13.38Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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