The Beauty Bride (The Jewels of Kinfairlie) (34 page)

The
night sky is as unnatural as the fog. It is a wondrous indigo, a dark blue that
looks darker because of the swirling silver fog, now only as deep as Rhys’
knees. The midnight sky silhouettes her husband’s figure, hundreds of stars
twinkling in its darkness. They seem to dance around Rhys, as if the very
heavens mean to draw her gaze to this man alone.

She
might have married worse, to be sure.

Rhys
is dressed as he had been that first night at Ravensmuir. Madeline sees the red
dragon of Wales upon his tabard. Its eyes gleam at her, it glows upon his dark
tabard, as if wrought of flame not the thread of a clever woman’s needle.

Rhys
smiles the little smile that heats Madeline’s blood and she is reassured that
he is not changed after all. When he smiles at her, when he caresses her, when
he regards her with wonder, Madeline has no doubts of the merit of their match.

She
frowns that his cloak is tossed over his shoulders. Was it so before? She
cannot recall.

“Sleep
with me,” she says, the words thick and unfamiliar on her tongue.

“I
have been abed,” he says gently.

She
remembers then, she remembers Rhys’ hand upon her breast. She tingles in recollection
of the slow caress of his thumb across her nipple. She pats the pallet in
invitation.

He
shakes his head. “You have slept the night and all the day.”

What
whimsy! “I never sleep that long,” she says, surprised to hear her words
slurring together.

“You
must have been tired.” Rhys bends to retrieve her stockings, then offers them
to her. “Come and dress.”

Madeline
glances at the night sky and cannot stifle her yawn. “Sleep,” she manages to
say, then nestles back into the bed again. She sighs and pulls up a coverlet
wrought of fog, its softness claiming her with lethargy.

“We
will not sleep here this night.” Rhys sits on the edge of the pallet and tries
to push one stocking over her foot. He is awkward with the task, but Madeline
is disinclined to aid him. The man wants sons - why does he not come to her
bed? “Come, my lady. Aid me in this task.”

“Sleep.”

“Dress
yourself, my lady.” Rhys works the other stocking over her calf. They are both
twisted, but Madeline does not care. Rhys is cursedly insistent when he shakes
her garb before her. “Rise! Don your kirtle, Madeline.”

“Sleep.”
Even murmuring the word gives her pleasure.

“We
will sleep at our destination. That will be soon enough.”

She
opens one eye with heroic effort. “Where?”

“You
will see when we arrive.” He pulls her kirtle over her head and lifts her to a
sitting posture. Much as she wants to please him, Madeline’s own fingers will
not follow her bidding. She cannot fasten her belt around her waist, nor can
she don her boots. Rhys is uncommonly persistent, but clearly determined that
they will leave.

Madeline
shoves a hand through her disheveled braid, too tired to even be annoyed with
his characteristic evasiveness. Let him keep his answers. She yawns again,
feeling that her jaw will crack with the effort and not caring if it does.

She
wants only to sleep.

Rhys
pulls her to her feet and wraps his arm around her waist to steady her. His
lips are drawn to a thin line, and she touches his mouth with her fingertip,
marveling.

“Vexed,”
she pronounces, feeling very sage.

He
shakes his head.

“Indeed!”
she says, thinking he argues the truth of it.

“Vexed
indeed, but not with you.” Rhys draws Madeline’s hood over her hair with a
tenderness uncommon to him. He tucks her hand into his elbow as they leave the
chamber. Madeline is not surprised to find the fog directly outside the portal.
Surely Rhys banished it from their chamber? Surely Rhys means to save her from
its potent spell?

The
fog swirls up the stairs, as if it will clutch her very ankles and Madeline
recoils. This is no small foe. Surely Rhys can see the peril before them?

“Not
there,” she says, but Rhys only looks into her eyes. She touches the furrow in
his brow.

“We
go to your mother’s abode, remember?” He speaks to her as if she is a mere child.
“You wish to bear our babe there.”

But
he was the one uttering childlike statements. Indeed, the man speaks nonsense!
Madeline does not carry a child, either in her womb or in her arms. She regards
him with confusion, then looks down and sees the lump on her belly. She touches
it and remembers her pledge to Rhys.

She
bears his son, in truth!

She
looks at him with joy and is confused by his answering frown. The fog drifts
around their legs, its chill making gooseflesh rise on her shins. There is fog
at the periphery of her vision, fog swirling around her ankles, fog hiding the
faces of the men gathered in the tavern’s common room.

“Off
then, are you?” the keeper demands, his voice so bright and cheerful that
Madeline winces.

“Indeed
we are,” Rhys says. His manner is terse, more terse than usual.

“A
bit late in the day to depart, but I suppose the lady slept well.” The
innkeeper seems to find his comment most amusing, though Madeline does not
understand the jest. He nudges Rhys, taking no notice of her. “My wife makes a
fine concoction, that you cannot deny.”

“Fine
is one word for it,” Rhys says tightly. “I think it most treacherous to offer
such a posset to a woman with child, no less to expect to be paid for it.”

“Well,
then!” The innkeeper appears to be affronted, but Rhys’ tone was harsh. “Value
is what we grant here, sir. No cheating on the measure in this inn. I wager
that we will see you, on your return journey.”

“I
wager you will not,” Rhys says. “Mind your wife keeps her posset to herself, or
I shall send the bailiff after her. Both witchery and wickedness are against
the law of king and church, as any good man knows.”

The
innkeeper’s eyes widens, but Rhys hurries Madeline into the courtyard. Solely
his silver destrier waits there, though Madeline peers into the shadows for the
palfrey. Maybe the horse has become a shadow. Certainly, Arian could be wrought
of fog.

Maybe
this is what happens to whatsoever the fog claims. Gelert comes to them, half
swallowed by the fog himself. Can Rhys not see the danger here?

Madeline
opens her mouth to warn him but cannot make a sound. Her tongue is thick and
seems unfamiliar, she cannot fashion the words she would have fall from her
lips.

Rhys
lifts Madeline, quite improbably, into Arian’s saddle. She looks about herself,
her eyes widening at the distance to the ground, and grips the pommel as hard
as she can. Rhys takes the reins and leads the horse from the inn’s courtyard.
“I sold the palfrey this morning, while you slept.”

Madeline
struggles to make sense of her sudden urge to cry. Has she not lost another
horse since meeting Rhys? Will she never be able to have a steed of her own
again? She cannot remember and that plagues her.

“The
price was too high for taking two steeds. And we do not have need of them both
on this journey.”

Madeline
cannot argue with reasoning she cannot follow. At least the cold fog is
withdrawing, or Rhys is leading her away from its clutch. She twists in the
saddle and looks back at the faint glow of fog in the inn’s courtyard. To her
relief, it does not appear to be following them.

She
should have guessed as much. She can trust Rhys to take her away from
wickedness.

A
wind caresses her face, a wind that smells of salt. Has Rhys returned her to
Kinfairlie? Madeline’s heart leaps at the prospect.

But
this sea is unfamiliar. It glitters darkly ahead of them, and a dark promontory
of stone rises high on their right. A castle perches on the summit of the great
rock, but Rhys leads the horse to the wharves that stretch from the village.
They lay like dark still fingers upon the shining water. Ships bob at anchor,
lanterns swinging from the rigging of one of them, their masts creaking as the
wind rises.

“We
sail on this night’s tide,” Rhys says. “That is why you have no need of a horse
for the moment. I could see no sense in paying the passage of a second horse
when there are so many at Caerwyn. Had it been Tarascon, there would have been
no choice, of course.”

But
Madeline does not heed his reassurance. He means to take her on a ship! She
watches their progress with horror, her lips working soundlessly, as he leads
the horse closer and closer to the ships. The vessels dance so innocently on
the waves, like a child’s toys, but Madeline knows their dark truth.

Ships
like these stole her parents. Ships like these bring death. Nausea rises within
her. Her parents are lost beneath the waves, stolen from life and entombed in
darkness, because they boarded a ship.

And
now Rhys takes her upon one of these treacherous vessels.

How
can he wish for her to die?

Madeline’s
stomach churns with sudden violence. She has time only to lean over the side of
the destrier before she vomits. Indeed, the purge is so violent that she looks
to see if she has truly poured her innards onto the cobbles.

Rhys
is immediately at her side, holding her hand, ensuring that she does not fall
from the saddle. “It is probably better to be rid of it,” he says
enigmatically. “I should have thought of that sooner.”

Madeline
belches like a peasant, then pushes at Rhys’ shoulder. He step aside just in
time as she vomits once again. She spits, hating the foul taste in her mouth,
and feels a cold trickle of sweat on her back. She thinks of her parents and
begins to cry, as if they had been lost to her just this moment. Though she
yearns to see them again, she does not wish to die herself. Madeline trembles
so hard that her teeth chatter, and weeps, her tears dissolving the last
vestige of the fog.

Rhys
swears, then pulls her from the saddle into his arms. He holds her fast against
his chest and Madeline nestles closer, grateful for his heat. He is a comfort,
this unlikely spouse, for all his gruff manner and ferocious guardianship of
his secrets.

“We
must reach the ship before the tide goes out,” he says to her, murmuring
against her temple.

“No
ship,” Madeline whispers, clutching at his tabard.

“They
are fast behind us,” he says with resolve, and does not slow his pace. The
horse and the hound follow. “We must leave this night. The sooner we depart,
the sooner we will be home at Caerwyn.”

“Home.”
There is a word that Madeline can savor upon her tongue, even if she knows not
where it is.

Home
is with Rhys, of course. The realization eases her fear slightly.

“Home,”
Rhys echoes, sounding as if he smiles a little. “There are two skilled healers there
who will ensure this malady is defeated. And the gates can be barred against
those who pursue us.”

“No
ship,” Madeline urges again. She wants to explain her fear to him, but words
abandon her as bile fills her throat yet again.

“We
must take the ship.”

“
Maman
,” she whispers, and loses the battle again
against her tears.

Rhys
kisses her temple with such tenderness that her tears fall with greater
frequency. “I will be with you,
anwylaf
,
not your mother. Fret not, for there is nothing to fear.”

He
puts Madeline on her feet and coaxes her to the gangplank then. The rocking
makes Madeline clamp a hand over her mouth. She closes her eyes tightly,
willing the contents of her belly to remain where they were.

Rhys
grips her hand and stares deeply into her eyes. “Trust me,” he says.

And
she does.

Madeline
nods. She lets Rhys lead her wheresoever he will. The deck of the ship is only
slightly more reassuring than the gangplank. She clutches the rail when he
returns for Arian, who looks as delighted as she at their next means of
conveyance. Gelert leans against her leg, giving consolation with his heat and
weight.

She
retches over the rail, uncommonly glad to find Rhys’ arm around her waist when
she straightens once more. He is warm and solid, reliable.

She
could indeed have wed worse.

The
sailors shout to each other and cast off the ropes, using long poles to push
the ship from the wharf. The sails unfurl, snapping in the wind as if anxious
to be gone, then billow large as if they mean to swallow the very stars.

Madeline
watches the abyss between herself and the shore broaden. She clutches Rhys when
six destriers as black as ravens gallop down the wharf the ship has just
abandoned.