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When Owain entered the room, however, he sought out Josselyn. “Come and sit with me, and eat,” he said, catching her by the arm.
His touch was gentle, his smile sincere. Even his words sounded more a request than an order. Though she did not desire his company, Josselyn deemed it best to comply. Under the watchful eye of everyone in the smoky room, he escorted her to the head table and signaled for food and drink.
Josselyn sat on the bench and he sat beside her. A full plate and full mug were immediately set before her. Then he offered her his knife and she knew she must take it. “Thank you,” she murmured.
“When we wed, all that is mine will be yours. From this knife to this hall,” he said, gesturing with one hand while he drank with another.
You are not the leader of this family yet
, Josselyn thought, echoing the words his father had spoken but minutes ago. Owain was nothing if not ambitious and cocksure. And yet that should not be a criticism, for wasn’t the English lord even more steeped in those masculine traits? Those traits had not repulsed Josselyn then, why did they repulse her now? It must be something else about Owain.
Perhaps it was only the threat of forced marriage, she reasoned, willing herself to eat. Perhaps if she did not feel trapped into this marriage, she could find something in Owain to admire. She put down the knife with a clatter. She owed it to both of them to try and find it.
“Might we walk apart from here? I would speak to you privately,” she said, peering cautiously at him.
A smug grin curved his lips. “As you wish.” He rose and took her arm.
“I want
only
to talk,” she stated, needing to make herself very clear. “I want to ease the tension between us. Nothing more.”
He considered her a long moment. When they stood a silence had fallen, and now everyone stared at them. “Very well,” he agreed. “We will walk and talk. That is all. For now.”
Outside the air was sharp and cold. He led her down a rutted path, away from the smoky hall and crowded village. When they reached a stand of beechwood, she halted. He turned to face her and reached for her hand, but she shied away. A flash of irritation showed in his eyes, but he swiftly banished it. He gave her a bland smile. “What did you wish to speak of?”
Josselyn cleared her throat. This was so awkward. “We are being thrust at one another. Do you feel the pressure to wed with me?”
He shrugged. “I am in need of a wife.”
“And one woman will do as well as another?”
He must have heard the edge in her voice for he grinned. “A wife is not just any woman. She must be comely and
soft, an enticement to keep me night after night in her bed.”
“I see.” Her face grew crimson at his frank words. “Do you imply you will seek other beds if she does not entice you sufficiently?”
“You needn’t fear, fair Josselyn. You entice me very well. Shall I show you just how well?” he added, stroking beneath the front of his tunic.
Josselyn’s nostrils flared in distaste. She started to turn away, but he grabbed her by the arm, laughing. “Your squeamishness befits the virgin you are said to be. Never fear, Josselyn. I shall ease you into the ways of marriage. Before long you will be more than content to be my wife.”
So Meriel had said, and yet Josselyn could not believe it. She needed to speak to someone else, a married woman like Nesta or Gladys. “Perhaps you are right in this,” she muttered, wanting only to escape his loathsome presence.
But Owain was not ready to release her. He forced her to face him. “’Tis only right that we share a kiss to seal our betrothal.”
“I have not yet agreed—”
“But you will. You have no choice. Otherwise the English will take over your lands.”
“So I am constantly reminded. But your own father believes all the Welsh families will have to join together to fight the English. Whether we wed or not, your family will eventually come to our aid.”
“Eventually, perhaps. By that time, however, there will be nothing left of Carreg Du. Its men will be dead, its women raped, and its children starving. And all on account of a virgin’s squeamishness.”
The picture he painted was terrifyingly real. And yet it did not have to be so. “You could agree to help us now, before it comes to that.”
“To what end? It would gain me nothing to risk my life for Carreg Du. But if I knew you awaited me in my bed … If I knew you would bear me strong sons to unite our
families and end the animosity between our people … Then I would have a reason to fight.”
He pulled her closer. She could feel the heat of his body, it was that near to hers. But despite his heat, she’d never felt so cold.
Then his head bent closer to hers. “Kiss me, Josselyn. Abandon the little girl you have been and become a woman in my arms. Just one kiss,” he urged her. “That’s all I want for now.”
If it were only him trapping her there, she would have turned away. She could have called out for help and fought him with all her might. But it was more than his greater strength that held her frozen before him. It was her responsibility to her people, the men, women, and children who would suffer under British rule. So she stilled in his arms, and when he smiled the smile of a triumphant predator, she closed her eyes.
There was a pause, long and fearful, and finally she opened her eyes. Only then did he move. He drew her hard against him and thrust his hips against hers. She felt his arousal, stiff and repugnant against her belly, and panic rose like a bilious wave in her. Only when that panic showed in her eyes did he at last lower his head. Only when she trembled with unreasoning fear did he take her mouth in a grotesque parody of a kiss.
Rand had kissed her, and though it had frightened her, it had melted something inside of her too. What Owain did was turn her rigid with fear, and cold with outrage. Sick with dread.
He was not brutal, but that was the only thing she could say to his credit. He did not physically hurt her. But he was greedy and relentless, and when he forced his tongue into her mouth, he ground his loins crudely against her once more.
She struck out at his head, and she heard his grunt of surprise. “At least you have spirit,” he said when he let her go. “At least I will know you are alive in my bed.”
Josselyn glared at him as she wiped her mouth on her sleeve. She didn’t want his taste in her mouth, but feared she would never be rid of it.
“You are a pig,” she swore. “I may be a virgin, but what you know of pleasing a woman is dwarfed by the seed of a mustard!”
His smug grin disappeared. “In time you will come to crave my touch.”
From somewhere the children’s rhyme came to her.
When stones shall grow and trees shall no’ …
She stepped backward, keeping wary eyes on him. “You are a pig,” she repeated. Then she turned and ran—not for the safety of the village, for it was Owain’s village, but for the safety of her uncle’s presence. She could not go through with this abhorrent marriage. She could not do it!
 
In the end, she had no choice. Clyde and Madoc had already agreed on the marriage between their people, and the particulars of the marriage contract. Unless Josselyn wished to stand up and refuse Owain, and thereby subject her people to even more animosity from the Lloyds, she must marry Owain.
But not now. Not yet.
“Then when?” Owain glowered at Clyde, challenging the man with his eyes. “I need a wife now.”
“Saint George’s day will give Josselyn and her aunt time to prepare,” Clyde retorted, not flinching away from the younger man’s threatening manner.
“’Tis a reasonable request, little more than a fortnight,” Madoc said.
“You will come to Carreg Du for the ceremony—and live there at least until fall.”
“That I will not do!” Owain snarled.
“If there is to be peace between us, you will do this,” Clyde stated in a steady voice.
“We are agreed on that as well,” Madoc stated. “Besides,
’twill be a better base for our attack on the English,” he reminded his angry son.
Owain stared at Clyde a long, hard while. Josselyn watched the war of emotions play across his face, the struggle for control in his pale eyes. Then he smiled, a terrible, placid sort of smile, and she shivered with fear. “Very well,” he agreed. “We will make our home at Carreg Du—until the English are routed. But after that neither of you will interfere in my marriage again.”
They departed with that ominous threat echoing in Josselyn’s head. Once wed to him she would be at his mercy. Once she became his wife, his word became her law.
There were some safeguards, of course. He could not beat her, nor abandon his responsibilities to her. But he could make her life miserable. There were ways, she feared, that he could make it unbearable.
The sky hung gray and somber above them as they set out from the Lloyd stronghold. They rode silently, in single file, with Josselyn in the middle. A grim departure from a grim place—with a grim future awaiting her. She shivered beneath her heavy cloak, but her chill came from within. The cloak did not exist that could warm the bitter cold that had seized her heart.
Her uncle must have sensed her mood, for once they entered the enclosing forest, he dropped back to ride beside her. “Is aught troubling you?” he asked in a gruff voice.
She shook her head. “I am all right,” she lied.
I will never be all right again. How can you think I will?
“I
will
be fine.”
The sounds of the wildwood filled the silence between them. The birds and squirrels had begun the spring routine, the seasonal work of building and breeding. Josselyn looked up into the trees, the alder that were bare of anything but swelling buds, and the oaks that retained a small portion of their leaves through even the bitterest of winters. A lone squirrel chattered down at the passing line of horses. A chough preened itself then flitted higher and then away.
In a low fork of a hazel tree something moved and Josselyn stared. A polecat? Not in a tree. A bear cub? Not this early in the year.
Then it peeped down at them and she smiled to herself. A child, a little boy with a dirty face and ragged sleeves. And a swollen, discolored eye. She reined in, drawing her uncle’s attention.
“Is aught amiss?” he asked.
“Look at that child. There, in that tree.” She pointed. “He is hurt. Something has struck him in the face.”
Behind her Bower drew up. “That’s Owain’s whelp. Rhys, his name is. I saw ’im in the yard near to the kitchens yesterday. His father cuffed him one. I dunno why. But he wasn’t hurt bad. Little as he is, he didn’t even let out a whimper.”
The boy scowled at their discussion of him and climbed higher. Josselyn gasped when he slipped and nearly fell. Once he safely straddled a sturdy branch, however, he turned his dirty face back toward them.
“Get away from here, you thievin’ asses!” he cried. He dug in his ragtag cloak, then flung a rock at them. “Get away, you bloodless bitch!”
“Hey, there!” Bower yelled up at him, shaking his fist. “Watch your tongue else I’ll rip it out of your head, you nasty little beggar!”
“Just try it and my father will slice your balls off. And I’ll eat ’em for my supper!”
“The bloody hell you will!” Bower started to dismount, but Clyde stayed him with a gesture.
“Leave him be. We’ve a long journey yet ahead of us.”
“The cheeky brat deserves a sound thrashing for his disrespect. Especially toward the woman who’s to take over the motherin’ of him.”
“What d’ye expect of the son of Owain ap Madoc?” one of the other men muttered.
What indeed? Josselyn wondered.
They started forward again. The child threw his remaining
stones, but they fell harmlessly short of the riders. Josselyn turned to get one last glimpse of him, a last look at the child she would soon have the care of. As if he sensed her thoughts he heaved one final stone at her. Though it did not reach its mark, his words did.
“I hate you!” he screamed down at her in his high-pitched childish voice. “I hate you. You’ll never be my mother!”
R
and watched and he waited. His network of men relayed the word: Josselyn traveled with the rest of the party back to Carreg Du. It appeared she had not been wed to Owain ap Madoc. At least not yet.
Nor would she ever be, Rand vowed.
His hands tightened on the reins and his heavy mount tossed its head in anticipation. What would he have done if she had already been wed to the man, sealing a union of Welsh forces against him?
He would have increased the guard around his encampment, and exhorted his workers to labor even more swiftly than they now did. He’d already bribed them with a series of rewards. If the first level of the castle wall was erected by winter, he promised them two years of no taxes and only half the annual days required laboring in his behalf. Already he saw the results of his generous offer. The men worked long and hard with no bickering and one common goal: to raise the entire inner wall to a height of eight feet before winter’s onset.
He needed that wall to keep the Welsh at bay, but if Josselyn had wed Owain, he would not have had it, not by several long months of labor. But Josselyn hadn’t wed Owain yet, and as a result he had a chance to hold the
Welsh at bay while he rushed to raise the walls of his castle. Henry’s castle.
Rand watched from his sheltered position on a thickly grown hillside above the narrow track. She rode fourth from the back, and he approved. That was the safest place for a woman in a line of six men. But as they neared their homelands, the Welsh relaxed their guard. Rand watched one of the rear guards pass Josselyn on a wider part of the track and make his way up toward the front of the line. At the same time, the last man in the line reined his horse in and dismounted—probably to relieve himself.
Again Rand’s fist tightened on the reins. With a nod to one of his men, he gave the signal to take the straggler. In a moment only one solitary rider would stand between him and Josselyn, and once he had her, there could be no union of Welsh against him. Once she was his hostage, her uncle would not dare attack the English stronghold, either with or without aid from others.
Once she was his captive, Rand would have the deceitful wench in his power and he would find out just how honest her attraction to him was.
He heard the cry of a bird—his man’s signal for success. Below him the careless Welshman’s mount disappeared into the forest. Josselyn and the last rider were beyond his view now, but he and Osborn knew what they each must do. Ahead of them the path turned once, then again. It was there they would strike. Osborn would disarm the Welsh soldier; Rand would capture Josselyn ap Carreg Du.
He urged his able steed over the low hill, through the thick growth that was not so much a forest as dense scrubland. He dismounted and crept forward. With a single look he and Osborn coordinated their attack. Then she was below him, slender and straight in her green cloak, a warm sight on a cold afternoon. In a moment she would be his. The thought sent blood rushing to his loins.
That was
not
why he wanted her, he sternly reprimanded himself. This was politics, nothing more. A way to safeguard
his workers against any threat of Welsh interference.
But that fact didn’t change anything. He wanted her, and short of forcing her, he meant to have the unruly wench in his bed. First, however, he had to capture her.
To his right he saw Osborn tense. The time was now!
Silent as a cat and just as confident, Rand sprang from his hiding place. Over her horse’s haunches he vaulted and landed behind her. With one hand he snatched the reins. With the other he muffled her cry. Then he dug his heels into the startled mare’s sides and forced her into the shielding forest.
Josselyn screamed, then choked on it. A hard, callused hand trapped the very breath in her throat. A hard, intent body wrapped itself around hers. Her horse half reared and nearly toppled over when the man’s full weight landed. But it was as if the man would not allow the animal to fall. With a swift twist of the reins he launched the horse into the woods, plunging down a sharp incline, then around a boulder before beginning to climb again. And all the time his hand stayed, a vise across her mouth and cheeks.
She fought him. Though petrified with fear, she fought him, clawing at his hand on the rein, struggling desperately to escape his brutal grip. Her heart raced with terror, but still she bared her teeth and tried to bite him.
His reaction was to pull her harder against him. “Don’t attempt it, Josselyn. For I vow, you will regret it.”
Randulf Fitz Hugh! Josselyn’s first reaction was relief.
Her second was acute shame. She had thought him Owain, come to claim her now for his wife. She would not put such a vile deed past him. That it was Rand meant she was safe from Owain a while longer.
Except that she was not safe at all, and she was a fool to think she was. A perverse fool!
In silence he guided the horse deeper into the low-hanging forest. She felt the tensing of his muscular thighs against hers and knew the horse felt it too. Like the well-behaved mount she was, the mare settled down and picked
her way surefootedly through the heavy undergrowth, taking Josselyn farther and farther from safety, and deeper into the lair of this newest predator of the wildwood.
Only when she was exhausted and unable to fight him any longer did his rigid hold on her ease. Only when they were met by another man leading a powerful horse—
his
horse—did the English lord loosen his grip on her mouth. Even then, however, he did not entirely release her.
“Call out and my man will slit your countryman’s throat.” He twisted her head to the side so she could see his Captain Osborn leading Bower on his horse. Bower’s mouth had been covered with a length of cloth and his hands knotted behind his back. His eyes showed his fury, but also his fear.
Would he truly slit a helpless man’s throat? Josselyn was afraid to find out. As if he read her thoughts Rand whispered roughly in her ear. “So we are agreed?”
Reluctantly Josselyn nodded. What other choice was left to her?
“Good.” He took his hand away and she sucked in great gasps of air.
“What do you think to accomplish—” A strip of bunched linen cut off her words. When she tried to snatch the gag away, he caught her hands and, with a practiced move, bound them behind her with more of the linen. Then he dismounted, hauled her kicking and wriggling from the mare, and as if her rage and struggles were of no consequence at all, mounted his own horse with her slung under his arm and planted her firmly in front of him.
“Enough of this!” he growled in her ear. “It avails you nothing to fight me. You cannot win.”
The gall of the man! Though her scream was contained by the bindings across her mouth, her rage was not. Determined to wreak some damage on him, she kicked backward, at first wildly, then deliberately. When her leather-shod heel caught him just below the knee, it jarred her enough to hurt. But it hurt him more.
“Damnation, wench! Be still or I’ll sling you over my lap like a sack of flour.”
She kicked again, but he evaded her foot, then trapped it between his leg and the horse’s side. “You cannot win,” he repeated, only this time he wrapped both his hands around her and pressed her flat against him. One of his hands splayed wide across her stomach, and she felt the hard palm and long fingers as distinct entities, as distinct threats. She was so vulnerable with her hands bound behind her and her legs wide, straddling his mighty horse. She was at his complete mercy.
His other hand curved around her neck. His fingers threaded through her tangled hair and his thumb caressed the hollow of her throat. She swallowed and knew he felt her fear. She knew also that he felt her awareness of him.
By the Blessed Virgin! She was not supposed to react this way to him.
“That’s better,” he murmured when she stilled. He paused as if he meant to speak again. She felt his hand move on her stomach, just a tiny shift, but it sent quivers racing through her that he surely must feel. For a long suspended moment neither of them moved. Then with a muffled oath, he picked up the reins, kicked his horse, and it surged forward with his men and the trussed-up Bower just behind them.
The ride took nearly an hour, an hour that tested the big horse sorely. But the animal was game and its pace did not falter under its double load.
Rand did not speak to her once during the ride, which suited Josselyn very well. She was angry and frightened and sore confused. Until she had her emotions under better control, she did not want to engage in any discourse with him.
The early dusk crept over them but he pressed on. Beneath her the horse labored. Rand curved around her—his legs around her legs, his arms around her shoulders and sides—and she was excruciatingly aware of his warrior’s
body. Even worse, her bound hands were trapped between her back and his stomach. His lower stomach.
On a level stretch of ground, as the horses cantered a steady pace toward the English encampment, she twisted her wrists back and forth and tried to stretch her cramped fingers. She froze when her fingertips brushed something hard and growing.
Knotting her fists, she groaned and leaned forward. He was aroused! Worse, the fact that she could arouse him started the strangest reaction in her.
“Unfortunate situation, isn’t it?” he murmured, breaking his silence at last. She felt him fumble with the cloth over her mouth and in a moment she was free to speak once more.
“Unfortunate indeed,” she snapped, working her stiff jaw back and forth. “Unfortunate that you have just brought down the wrath of Wales upon your head and that of your workers.”
“I see you are not well versed in the art of warfare. Consider. So long as I hold such a valuable captive as you, there will be no outright attacks on me or my people. But that’s not what I was speaking of.” He leaned into her back and once more her hands felt the rigid power of his maleness. With every stride of his powerful steed, it was thrust against her tensely knotted fingers. “It’s unfortunate that we are enemies, for we would make very good lovers. Mayhap we still will.”
“Never!” she swore. “I’d choose death before agreeing to that!”
“I doubt it will come to so difficult a decision as that, Josselyn.” His tone was smug, so much so that had her hands been free she would have slapped him. As it was, she had to swallow her fury and try to change the subject.
“How long do you plan to keep us captive?”
She felt his chuckle, his chest moving against her back. With a gesture of his head he indicated Bower. “He will go back tonight, with a message for your uncle—and for
your betrothed. You … You I will keep for a while.”
Josselyn prayed he could not feel the wild thumping of her heart, or the uncontrolled shiver of awareness that streaked once more up her back. Her skin lifted in prickles all over her body. He meant to keep her. But for how long, and to what end?
They arrived at the English encampment on Rosecliffe after dark, coming in up the narrow coast path. Josselyn was exhausted. The journey to Afon Bryn and her dread of a union with Owain had been taxing enough. But this capture by Rand Fitz Hugh attacked her on another level entirely. She could not be rigid in his grasp forever. She could not deny her attraction to him, at least to herself, nor her relief to be saved from Owain’s vile clutches.
But this was all temporary. It had to be, for he was her enemy and she was committed to banishing him from Welsh lands. From her lands.
Still, when they wended their way into the well-guarded campsite, when he slid over his horse’s rump then caught her around the waist, lifted her safely to the ground, and led her toward the sturdy structure that served as both the main hall and his personal quarters, she knew one thing clearly. He would not hurt her, at least not in the same way Owain might. He might prevent her from leaving his camp. He might fight her family to the death—his or theirs or both. However, he would not deliberately hurt her.
But he might seduce her.
She swallowed hard at the thought. He might not force her because he might not have to. He could very well decide to seduce her—and succeed. Somehow she knew that giving in to him willingly could, in its own way, hurt her far more than being forced.
“You’ll stay here.” He swung the roughly planed door back on its leather hinges and gestured for her to enter.
She halted just outside the door and peered into the room, lit by a small fire burning in the hearth and a brace of candles mounted on the wall. It appeared cozy and warm,
far too appealing when she was so cold and tired. “I’m to go in there with you? The two of us alone?”
He gave her a slow smile. With one hand at the small of her back he propelled her inside. Before the door thumped closed she had scurried to the far side of the open space. It was a useless effort, she knew, as was her determination to keep the massive table and ornately carved chair between him and her. She had no real defense against him save her own wits. Unfortunately, he possessed the singular ability to scramble them at will, especially when he grinned at her as he was doing now.
“Be at ease, Josselyn. You have nothing to fear from me.”
BOOK: Rexanne Becnel
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