Rexanne Becnel (12 page)

“Catherine asks only for woodruff. And Edeline—” He broke off, and for a moment Wynne actually thought he looked uncomfortable. But why?

“Edeline wants a decoction of rose hips. Plus linden flowers to keep her complexion clear; chamomile for a hair rinse; and belladonna to deepen her eyes.” He shrugged as if to say he had no idea what deepening the eyes meant, but Wynne knew. Almost any portion of that plant, properly prepared and taken in small drops, caused the center of the eyes to grow larger, giving a mysterious dark-eyed cast to an otherwise ordinary woman. But it was a dangerous remedy, even for medicinal purposes. Using it for cosmetic reasons was completely foolhardy.

“This Edeline, she is vain and frivolous, I take it.”

To her surprise her scornful words only increased his discomfort. But he quickly hid it behind his reply. “Her only failing is that she is very young. She will settle down once she is wed.”

But Wynne was in no mood to be charitable to anyone, least of all a vain and frivolous English girl who’d probably never suffered a moment’s want in her entire life. No, nor any heartbreak, pain, nor suffering either.

“Why, Sir Cleve,” she sneered. “You speak as if
you
are the one who must wed her but do fear to admit what a pitiful pairing you do make.”

She’d thought only to make a general attack on the horrible nature of all English people by her criticism of the absent Edeline. But the oddest sensation suddenly overwhelmed her. Not a vision precisely. Still she knew at once that he did plan to marry this silly English noblewoman.

Wynne should have rejoiced at her discovery and laughed out loud to know what a misery awaited him in England. But instead of mirth she felt only another spurt of unreasoning anger toward him.

“So I am right. Well, perhaps when I make up the belladonna for your Lady Edeline, I should also prepare something for you. Something that will fire your ardor a little higher. Or no, maybe what you need more is a good portion of thorn apple, so that you may attract some more congenial woman to your side.”

She tapped one finger against her chin and paused as if in consideration, not in the least dismayed by the warning look in his eyes. If anything, his growing temper urged her on. “You know, it could be only that your manners are so crude. I’ve noticed that myself. If your wooing were less rough and more persuasive instead …” She leaned back and gave him a disdainful glance. “Oh, well. I doubt even
I
can help you in your plight. Englishmen haven’t the vaguest notion of how to please a woman—”

“I pleased you.” He bit out the words, giving her an insultingly thorough once-over. “Very well, as I recall. And Wynne,
you
pleased me.”

“That’s not—I didn’t—you—” Wynne broke off her sputtering under his gloating stare. Though she knew her cheeks were stained with heated color, she shook her head in denial. “I loathed that kiss,” she swore, though she knew it was a complete lie. “No doubt your tepid bride will loathe them as well!”

They glared at each other from across a span of only inches, her eyes bright with anger and his darkening now to fury. He was taller, stronger, and clearly able to punish her for her hateful words, but at that moment fear was the last emotion she felt. She was filled instead with a strange exhilaration, as if she were girded for battle, ready to ride out and face her enemy, even though it might be a fight to the death. Blood surged in her veins; every muscle in her body tensed for the conflict.

When he jerked her to her feet therefore, pressing her fully against him and lowering his head to hers, she was completely unprepared for the response that ripped through her. Oh, this was indeed a battle, she dimly realized when his mouth caught hers. The struggle for dominance, lips against lips and tongue against tongue, was never so fiercely fought. His arms sought to still her; his violent kiss struggled to make her submit. But Wynne was a warrior, too, and as her mouth opened to the wondrous onslaught of his tongue, she thrust back, seeking to make
him
submit this time.

In this oldest of struggles they were the newest combatants. He found fresh territory, cupping her derriere and pressing his fingers, despite the bulk of her skirts, into the unchartered place between her thighs. She fought back by circling his neck with her hands, claiming his thick hair with her fingers, holding his head where she would have it, preventing him from ending the kiss.

They strained together, chest to breast, rigid loins to concave belly, until their need for breath broke them slightly apart.

“You are drug enough,” he muttered against her temple, seeking her ear with his lips even as he gasped for breath. “Do you know, my fiery little dragon, my thorny rosebud, just how you fire my blood? Do you know all the things I would like to do to you? With you?” He punctuated that with an almost painful tug on her earlobe with his teeth, then a slow, stirring kiss in the same place.

Wynne arched instinctively against him. It was as if every portion of her body were connected to and controlled by the touch of his mouth. No matter where he used it—upon her lips, her neck, her ear—she had no defense against it. Nor did she want one either. For that one perfect moment when he pressed her belly hard against the rigid arousal beneath his braies, she understood the thrill of battle that men spoke of. The blood lust they described with glowing eyes and raised voices. She wanted to wage this battle ceaselessly, to fight him in this sultry, drowning manner until they were both burned to cinders in the fire.

She turned her face toward his seeking lips, blindly groping for more as her hands tightened around his neck. But he pulled slightly away and held her, with one hand tangled in her hair, so that she was forced to stare deep into his eyes.

“Where can we go?” he murmured as his eyes roamed her flushed face. He bent forward to capture her lower lip very briefly, sucking on it but refusing to satisfy her with the deep kiss she wanted. “Where can we be alone to finish this—”

“Wynne!”

The sharp cry of an alarmed child sent Wynne and Cleve stumbling apart. For a moment she was too disoriented to respond. She only stared at the worried faces of Rhys and Madoc, looked back at Cleve, then turned once more to the confused twins.

“Rhys. Madoc. What … ah … that is, did you—did someone need me?”

Madoc continued to stare at her with mouth agape. But Rhys turned to scowl at Cleve. “What did you do to Wynne? If you hurt her, then … then I’ll hurt you back.” He started toward Cleve, followed after only an instant by his brother.

“No. No, Rhys. Wait, boys,” Wynne interjected. “It’s all right. He wasn’t … he wasn’t hurting me.”

They stopped, still confused by the situation, but obviously relieved that the man they’d grown to like had not betrayed them. Little did they know, Wynne thought as a wave of humiliation washed over her. Not only would this man willingly rip them from their home and family, but she—she who loved each of the children so desperately—was apparently ready to capitulate in his favor at the mere touch of him.

She took a shaky step back, pressing one hand to her throat and the other to her kiss-swollen lips. What had possessed her to behave so with him? And why, even now, did her very blood seem to run hotter and faster in her veins?

“Was that …” Madoc’s gaze turned curious. “Was that a wet kiss? You know, like Barris said?”

“Madoc!” Wynne risked a glance at Cleve only to see him beginning to grin at the boys.

“That was indeed a wet kiss, Madoc. But where have you two heard of wet kisses before?” Cleve asked.

Rhys answered. “Barris said that if Druce chased the—well—the English away, that maybe Wynne would give him a reward. You know, a big wet kiss—”

Wynne wanted nothing more than to creep into the thick grove of beechwood behind them and disappear. Why must her children choose now to practice their honesty? Why couldn’t they be as evasive with this man as they so often could be with her?

“Go on back to the manor,” she interrupted before they could say anything further. But Cleve was apparently enjoying himself too much to let them leave just yet.

“Wait, lads. Just tell me whether Wynne rewarded Druce as Barris had suggested.” He turned the full force of his grin upon her, watching her with a gloating expression and yet still somehow conveying the very disturbing impression that he could devour her with only his eyes.

“Well, of course not,” Madoc replied with the simple reasoning of a six-year-old. “He didn’t chase you away. You came here, so he can’t get his reward.”

“Is that why you got the reward from Wynne?” Rhys piped up. “ ’Cause Druce didn’t chase you away?”

Cleve chuckled softly. “It’s often difficult to say why a woman rewards a man with a kiss. Perhaps Wynne can explain it to you.”

The fulminating glare she sent him did not shame him in the least, and Wynne was hard put to suppress her frustration. But Rhys and Madoc were watching her, their innocent faces curious.

“I … I really think six is too young to be discussing such … such things,” she stammered. “Perhaps when you’re older.”

“But Wynne—”

“—we’re big boys now.”

Cleve moved over to the boys and stood behind them with a hand on each of their shoulders. “It’s always best to answer a child honestly,” he said, though his high-minded admonition was completely offset by the cheeky expression on his lean face.

“What would
you
know of raising children?” Wynne countered. “Have you any?”

“No. But I have not forgotten the lessons of my own youth. One way or another, a child can always deal with the truth. ’Tis lies that linger and continue to cause pain.”

There seemed at that moment to be a whole host of new emotions in the air between them. His gloating and amusement at her expense had fled, to be replaced by a dark and disturbing candor. Her frustration and anger at the awkward position he’d put her in—and the inappropriate feelings he’d roused in her—were overtaken by a reminder of the deeper conflict between them. Cleve wanted at least one of her children to know his father—no doubt that was the “truth” he spoke of. But she wanted what was truly best for all her children, and an English father could not possibly fall into that category. This was one case where the truth would only hurt a child. And she was determined that no one should hurt her children.

She drew herself up and gave him a chilling look. “Rhys, Madoc. ’Tis time we returned to the manor. We shall finish this discussion later,” she added, forestalling the protestations she sensed coming from them. Then, not giving them a chance to object, she grabbed each of them by the hand and. marched stiffly away.

“Wynne, what’s the matter with you?” Rhys complained once they were inside.

“Why are you mad—”

“—at us?”

A sudden wave of complete weariness settled over Wynne, and she stared down at the mutinous pair. “I’m not mad at either of you,” she answered. She leaned forward impulsively, hugging them both close. “I’m not mad at you. I love you both too much ever to be mad at you.”

Rhys pulled a little back so that he could look at her. “You were mad at us when we tried to swing on that vine,” he reminded her.

“Oh, that. That was different, sweetheart. I was afraid for you, so I reacted angrily. But it was only because I love you so much.”

Madoc’s face creased in confusion. “Are you mad at Cleve because you love him too?”

At that ridiculous statement Wynne’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “Love him! Love him? That’s … that’s too silly to imagine. Madoc, I didn’t mean to imply that I love everyone I act angry toward. You and the other children, well, I get worried for you, so sometimes I appear to be mad. But I always—always!—love you. Even when I punish you. But as for Cleve FitzWarin—”

She broke off, not sure how to explain her anger toward the Englishman without revealing too much of his purpose for being in Wales. “Cleve FitzWarin is from England, and England is an enemy to Wales. You know that already.”

When they both nodded, she felt marginally reassured.

At least she was on the right track. “It’s very difficult for me to trust any Englishman. Even though they act like our friends now, I worry that they might turn back into our enemies once more.”

There was a short silence as they digested that.

“Druce doesn’t act mad at them—”

“—at least not anymore.”

“Yes, but I’m sure Druce is still being very careful, just in case.”

“But … but why did you give Cleve the reward?”

“Yes, Wynne, why did you give him the wet kiss that Druce was supposed to get?”

That deflated her all over again. She reached for her amulet and began to rub it nervously. “It wasn’t a reward. And anyway, Druce didn’t want—”

“Is Druce gonna be mad ’cause you gave his reward to Cleve?” Madoc interrupted.

“No!” Wynne exclaimed. Then she bit her lower lip in indecision. “But I don’t want either of you telling him about it either.”

“But why?”

“Well, you see, Druce is very protective about some things, and he might get angry with the English.”

“But why?”

“Because … because he doesn’t want the English spending too much time in Wales.”

“But why?” the two dark-haired boys chorused.

“Because …” She heaved a sigh of futility. “Just because.” She crouched before the twins and tried her best to appear animated. “It can be our little secret. Our special secret. How about that?”

The boys shared a look. Then they nodded in unison. “Druce will never guess that Cleve got
his
reward.”

“We’ll never tell him.”

“You can’t tell
anyone
,” Wynne insisted. Though she wished more than anything that she could correct their childish impression that the kiss had been a reward, she knew it would be impossible. Once the twins had an idea in their heads, nothing could shake it loose. Swearing them to secrecy seemed her only hope. “You can’t tell anyone at all,” she repeated. “Promise?”

“We promise,” they replied.

She sighed again and stood up. “All right, then. Run along now. I think Druce is going to help you make bows and arrows. But remember your promise,” she called after them as they scrambled out the door.