The Beauty Bride (The Jewels of Kinfairlie) (39 page)

“Your
father!” Madeline breathed, her grip tight on his hand.

Rhys
nodded. “We were snared when we gathered on the wharf. Thomas and I escaped in
the darkness, though the others named us and a price was put upon our heads.
The three leaders were executed, and their blood is upon my hands. Thomas took
his monastic vows and was forgiven.” Rhys inhaled deeply. “I had no intent to
become a monk.”

“But
you were never caught?”

“In
Wales, I am safe enough.”

“You
have been nearly captured in England,” she guessed. “Why did you risk the
journey to Northumberland?”

He
might have imagined the lady to be concerned for his fate, but Rhys knew that
he saw only what he desired to see. Madeline had great compassion for all, he
knew this well. Rhys looked away from her concern and spoke gruffly. “I had to
be certain of my cousin’s fate.”

“You
had to secure Caerwyn, at any cost. Oh, you are a fool to risk your hide for a
title!”

Rhys
kept his gaze averted, not wanting to know for certain whether she was scornful
of his ambition or concerned for his life. “Henry pardoned the others, a few
years past, and I had hoped that my name would be cleared. Perhaps that day yet
will come. Perhaps the king has forgotten me.”

Madeline
snorted. “No English king forgets any man who raises a blade against him. Do
you truly believe that Henry will grant you suzerainty of Caerwyn?”

Rhys
met her gaze, letting her see the steel of his determination. “It is not my
intent to grant him a choice. I trust you have the wits, even if you are my
cousin’s daughter, not to challenge my suzerainty either.”

Their
gazes held, a shimmer of will in the air between them, and Madeline
straightened beneath his gaze. “You have never been granted your desire, Rhys,
but I can change this detail. I cede all claim to Caerwyn, and I will sign a
deed to that effect. I know that Caerwyn is the sole dream you hold within your
heart. You have treated me kindly. This will be your compense.”

She
told no lie, Rhys knew it well, yet his triumph was as dust in his hands. He
felt no need to shout in victory, he felt no satisfaction that he had achieved
his goal.

Instead,
he watched Madeline turn her back upon him and felt that, yet again, he had
erred.

“I
will sit vigil while you sleep,” he said, knowing there was little else he
could offer her.

“I
will not sleep in this place,” she argued, though her exhaustion was clear.

“You
have need of sleep, my lady, to heal from that potion. I will remain with you,
and remain awake. I pledge to you that I will ensure your safety if ill fortune
befalls the ship.”

“Why?”

“Because,
for this moment at least, you are my wife.”

“And
thus, your duty?”

“And
thus, my concern,” he corrected with some annoyance. “I do not wish you ill,
Madeline. Can I not grant you some courtesy without suspicion?”

The
anger melted out of Madeline’s shoulders as she regarded him. “Of course you
can.” An unexpected smile lifted the corner of her lips. “I thank you, Rhys.”

Though
it was a pale shadow of the dazzling smile she could offer, still it rendered
Rhys mute. He silently offered his cloak to her and Madeline wrapped herself in
its generous fullness, even as she yawned. She tried to make herself
comfortable opposite him on the chamber’s floor, and he watched her for a
moment, before lifting her into his arms. He braced his back in the corner,
setting a finger against her lips when she might have protested.

“I
would have you be warm,” he said and wrapped his arms around her. She sighed in
capitulation and laid her cheek against his chest, her one hand furled like a
new leaf within his own. In but a trio of heartbeats, her breathing had slowed
and the lady slept.

Rhys
was content, smelling her sweet scent and the lingering perfume of apples, Gelert
nestled against his leg and Madeline curled in his lap. He was so content that
he wished they would never arrive at their destination.

He
recalled the moral of his own tale, and he savored the gifts granted to him,
knowing all too well that Madeline might soon be gone.

* * *

Chapter Sixteen

They
sailed southward for four days and nights. Rhys assured Madeline that the sea
was particularly calm, though she started at every ripple on its surface. She
preferred to be on the deck, and mercifully, their journey was blessed with
such good weather that she could remain outside.

Madeline
stood at the rail by the hour, the sun warming her hair and Rhys bracing his
hands on either side of her. His voice was always in her ear, his tales and his
songs enchanting her utterly. Every rock seemed to remind him of a song; every
bay, every cliff, every tower prompted him to tell her a story.

There
was an urgency about Rhys, though Madeline believed it was because he drew near
to his home. It was proximity to Caerwyn that brought a tremor to his voice, it
was love of this land that brightened his eye. It was the prospect of seeing
Caerwyn that made him shout on the fifth morning as they rounded a point.

They
disembarked, Madeline finding herself infected with Rhys’ anticipation. Arian
was clearly pleased to have hooves on solid ground again. Gelert shook as Rhys
bade the captain farewell and the men shook hands. Madeline found herself
anxious to hasten onward but for a different reason than Rhys, for surely
Rosamunde and James had reached Caerwyn by this time.

She
made no protest when Rhys lifted her into the saddle, then swung up behind her.
He clamped a hand around her waist and touched Arian’s sides with his spurs.
They galloped, all intent upon making haste to Caerwyn.

They
reached the summit of the point of land that jutted into the sea, and the
glittering bay spread before them made Madeline catch her breath. The water was
a deep blue hue, the sunlight making it look to be cast with thousands of gems.
The cliffs around it rose steeply from its surface, the hills behind were
verdant. Far above them all loomed Eryri, its flanks the hue of slate, a crest
of snow still on its highest peak.

Directly
opposite them, a fortress with four square towers seemed to rise from the very
sea, its towers apparently hewn from the stone cliffs. Pennants snapped in the
wind above those towers.

“Harlech,”
Rhys murmured, following her gaze. He pointed to another fortress, so much
further down the coast that it was barely visible. “Aberystwyth.” It all seemed
so familiar to Madeline, for she remembered Rhys’ tales, and she half expected
to see the old rebel Owain step out of the gorse to greet them.

Rhys’
indicated a keep below them and to the left. It was more humble than the
others, a fortress that could be overlooked by a hasty gaze. A high square wall
encircled a single tower. The gates were open, and a small village clustered
outside the fortress walls. Madeline could see the harbor and faintly hear the
bell of the chapel ringing.

“Caerwyn,”
she guessed.

“Caerwyn,”
Rhys agreed. He shouted and spurred the horse. Gelert barked, Arian surged down
the hill, hooves thundering. Madeline laughed, savoring how delighted they all
were to be home. She twisted to see Rhys, for she loved to see his smile.

“Home,”
he said, an odd sadness in his eyes, then he kissed her so soundly that
Madeline understood she would never taste him again.

She
would leave him at Caerwyn and he knew it. Madeline knew she should have
rejected his salute, but she could not turn away. She could not resist Rhys’
kiss, could not imagine being without it, for he awakened a yearning within her
that she feared no other man could sate. Madeline turned so that she could wind
her arms around his neck, she pressed herself closer to him and made this last
kiss one she would never forget.

Later
Madeline would realize that that kiss had betrayed them. Later she would
realize how unlike Rhys it was to ride unprepared, his helm in his saddlebag
and his sword sheathed. Indeed, he could not draw his sword, much less swing
it, with her seated before him and his arms wrapped so tightly around her.

Later,
she would see how fully they had erred.

* * *

They
were within the village before Rhys spied the trap.

His
head spinning from Madeline’s sweet kiss, he had wondered where the villagers
were as they had drawn near to Caerwyn. He had puzzled over the relative
silence of the surrounding hills. There should have been shepherds tending
their flocks, there should have been fishermen mending their nets, there should
have been women emptying slops and trading gossip.

But
there was not a soul abroad.

Arian
galloped into the village with such fury that none could have missed their
arrival. Rhys heard a whistle, feared deception, then mercenaries erupted from
all sides.

They
were surrounded in no time at all.

Gelert
barked furiously. Arian reared and whinnied. Madeline screamed. The destrier
was useless in such close quarters, for it could not be turned. The sole
advantage Rhys saw was that his attackers were not mounted.

He
knew what - or who - they wanted.

Rhys
leapt from the saddle in a smooth leap and only stumbled slightly. He
unsheathed his blade before he found his footing fully, swung and killed a
mercenary.

“Rhys!”
Madeline screamed.

“To
the hills!” Rhys shouted the command to Arian in Welsh. The destrier’s pace
faltered and it hesitated to obey. Rhys had never dispatched it without him
before, and Madeline was pulling the reins, trying to turn the horse back. Its
nostrils flared at the chaos surrounding it, and Rhys thought it could probably
smell the blood.

He
dispatched another pair of mercenaries to meet their Maker, and glanced back to
find Madeline trying to urge the reluctant steed toward him. She kicked a
mercenary in the face who tried to grasp her, and spat at another.

Doubtless
his intrepid wife would try to save him, given the chance! Rhys ground his
teeth and struck another telling blow. There was sweat on his brow already, and
the mercenaries were yet spilling out of houses and the fortress gates. He
could not hold them back for long, but he would not grant them the chance to
despoil Madeline.

Rhys
shouted his command again, swinging his blade with gusto against his
assailants. Gelert understood Rhys’ command and snapped at the horse’s legs.
Arian shied, uncertain who to obey, fought the bit and kicked a mercenary fool
enough to try to grab the reins. The dog snarled and leapt, Madeline granted a
wound to an attacker with her small eating knife.

To
Rhys’ relief, the destrier suddenly decided that the dog was the most insistent
threat, and that the best plan was to evade Gelert’s teeth. Arian turned tail
and galloped into the hills beyond the village, Gelert snapping at its heels.
To Rhys’ relief, no one else pursued the steed. He heard Madeline shout in
frustration, but knew she would not be heeded.

He
roared to draw every eye to himself and fought with new vigor. The mercenaries
fell upon him, his shoulder was cut and his thigh was nicked. Rhys fought until
he could no longer hear hoof beats, until he knew for certain that his Madeline
had escaped Caerwyn.

Then
Rhys cast away his blade and held up his hands, letting himself be captured.
They could do whatsoever they desired with him now. He knew Madeline had been
saved.

* * *

The
destrier was a crazed beast.

Arian
galloped as if the hounds of Hell were behind it, although only Gelert was in
pursuit. Madeline pulled the reins, she stood in the stirrups, she shouted and
begged, but the horse did not heed her any better than it had previously. It
ran up the path to the mountain, away from Rhys and Caerwyn, and over the crest
of the first hill without slowing its pace.

A
stranger urged his smaller horse off the road ahead, out of the path of the
racing steed. The man seemed surprised and Madeline thought he had never seen a
steed like this warhorse of Rhys’. She waved madly at him, hoping he might have
some scheme to halt the horse.

The
man whistled and the horse halted so abruptly that Madeline was almost cast
over its head. She fell back into the saddle with a resounding thump. Arian
stood, ears twitching and sides heaving, then nickered at the other man.

“You
vexing beast!” Madeline cried and the stranger laughed. He was a dark-haired
man, tall and slender, though he carried himself with some authority.

Madeline
knew, though, that he must be Rhys’ friend. Only Thomas, in her experience, had
been able to command Rhys’ steed. Gelert trotted to the man’s side, tail
wagging, the dog’s response also calming Madeline’s fears.

This
man looked to be slightly older than she, and the gaze he cast over her was
appraising. “And how did an English maiden come to ride the horse of Rhys
FitzHenry?”