A Warrior's Honor Page 15

  A strange look crossed Cynvelin’s face. “What is rain to a Welshman?” he asked. He tossed his cloak onto the sleeping pallet. Bryce noted the disgruntled expression on the face of the man who slept there, but said nothing.

  “Of course, since you saw fit to send your interpreter away,” he continued, “and Lady Rhiannon is not here to help you, I perceive the difficulty in trying to get your men to do anything other than entertain themselves.”

  “A garrison requires a certain camaraderie to be effective, my lord,” Bryce replied.

  “So I have been told.”

  “With that in mind, I saw no harm in allowing them some diversions.”

  “And also with that in mind, don’t you think these men should be in the hall spending time with the men of my guard?”

  “Given the animosity between your guard and the garrison, I’ve ordered the garrison to keep to the barracks as much as possible.”

  “Animosity?” Cynvelin said, apparently surprised. “That seems a harsh term. I would call it a friendly rivalry.”

  Bryce thought friendly didn’t enter into it. “Whatever you wish to call it, my lord,” he said frankly, “such weather tends to make men short-tempered, and I thought it best to keep them apart.”

  “I see.” Cynvelin smiled. “There is another way to inspire that sense of unity you deem so important. I would set you and your men a task.”

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “I want you to take the best men of the garrison and ride out to the far border of the estate. I have heard reports of an outlaw camp there, and the sooner such a thing is eradicated, the better.”

  “In this weather, my lord, and so late in the day?”

  Cynvelin’s eyes narrowed and Bryce realized the man was angry. No doubt the weather and the delay in the journey to Caer Coch was making the Welshman short-tempered.

  No wonder Lady Rhiannon had not looked happy when he had last seen them together at the gate.

  A lover’s spat might explain a certain shortness of temper, too, and the lady’s apparent annoyance with the Welshman.

  “Are you questioning my orders, Frechette?” Cynvelin asked.

  Bryce wanted to, very much. Although sending out a small armed party on a foray was very different from a full guard escorting a lady, it was raining hard. The road would be slippery and he didn’t want to risk getting lost again. Most of all, he didn’t want to leave Lady Rhiannon, not even for a little while, not even if she belonged to another.

  “Well, Frechette, do you intend to obey me, or not?”

  Bryce knew he could hardly refuse Lord Cynvelin’s direct order unless he wanted to give up all hope of a knighthood from the Welshman, which, he reminded himself, was what he needed to keep foremost in his mind. All else was nothing more than a futile dream. “Yes, my lord. But what of guarding Annedd Bach? That is the job of the garrison, and there will not be enough men for the watches.”

  “My men will be here to protect Annedd Bach and take a turn on watch.”

  “Then we shall leave at once, my lord,” Bryce replied.

  Cynvelin eyed the men and gave a few brisk orders in their language. Bryce saw their surprise and displeasure, which matched his own, as well as their sullen expressions and disgruntled glances at Cynvelin ap Hywell.

  “If the hour is late, that is all the more reason to start at once,” Cynvelin observed, reaching for his cloak. “Madoc knows the way. He can show you, and he can interpret for you.”

  “If you are sure he understands me, my lord,” Bryce said, not quite keeping the sarcasm from his voice.

  Cynvelin grinned. “That is his little joke. I assure you, he will understand enough. I expect you will be gone all night, so take what provisions you need with you. I shall give your regrets to Lady Rhiannon when you are absent from the evening meal.”

  Bryce inclined his head in acquiescence as Lord Cynvelin turned on his heel and left the barracks.

  The moment he was gone, the men erupted in a jumble of what Bryce knew had to be curses and complaints, although they kept their voices low.

  He didn’t blame them. He didn’t want to do this any more than they did.

  It was not only the rain and the lateness of the hour. He didn’t like the thought of Lady Rhiannon alone with Lord Cynvelin, with only his guard nearby.

  He told himself to quit being a jealous fool and get about his business, no matter how unpleasant,

  Rhiannon rose when she heard a commotion in the courtyard. She hurried to the window and hiked herself up on the wide sill, looking out through the teeming rain.

  Men were gathered there with their horses, preparing to ride out. Perhaps Cynvelin had changed his mind and was willing to take her to her father now, despite the rain.

  Bryce Frechette strode out of the stables, leading his stallion. He must be part of her escort.

  She took a deep breath. Maybe Cynvelin would not come with them. Once she was gone from Annedd Bach, she would likely never see Bryce Frechette again. Maybe she would get a chance to say something—anything—to Bryce Frechette before they parted ways.

  She watched him mount his horse and realized that no one had come to fetch her. Then the portcullis began to open.

  These men were leaving without her. They were not her escort, but must be about some other business for Cynvelin.

  Disappointment washed over her. Where was Bryce going, and why? Would he return before she left here to go to her father?

  Would she get a chance to say goodbye?

  Then she told herself maybe it was better this way.

  She turned away from the window. And maybe it would not hurt so much if she didn’t see him go.

  “Oh, Rhiaaan-non!”

  Rhiannon nearly fell off the stool when she heard Cynvelin call. The hour was late; indeed, she had heard the men going to the barracks some time ago, and the only light illuminating her bedchamber was from the moon, which peeked out occasionally from behind the thick, scudding clouds.

  If she thought she would be able to sleep, she would have gone to bed long ago, too, instead of sitting by the table deluding herself that she should brush her hair again.

  Her grip on the brush tightened as she frowned at the door, wondering why Cynvelin would bother her. She had told Ula to convey her regrets that she would not join him in the hall, pleading a slight indisposition. Could her countryman not even appreciate that?

  “Oh, my lovely Rhiannon!” Cynvelin’s voice sang out again, and she speculated that perhaps he had imbibed too much wine.

  “Are you awake, my beautiful Rhiannon?” Cynvelin asked from the other side of the door. “Wake up, my dear one! Wake up. The man who adores you is here.”

  She scowled when she saw the latch move and realized he was opening the door. First he dared to intrude when she was not dressed; now he would accost her in the night? Quickly she shoved the chest against the door. She had no wish to talk to him anymore, and certainly not now.

  The door opened, then hit the chest with a thud. “What have you done, my beautiful bride?” His tone altered slightly. “Are you trying to keep me out?”

  “My lord, this is most improper!” she declared. “I have nothing to say to you at this time of night!”

  “Nothing to say, Rhiannon?” he remarked, more anger in his voice as he shoved at the door again. “You usually have so much to say. To me. To Frechette. To Ula. Even to Madoc.”

  The chest moved again and she realized he was pushing against the door. She was very glad she had not started to disrobe.

  “My lord!” she said irritably, “will you not go away? I do not want to see you now!”

  “Why should you be alone when I am nearby? You seemed to enjoy my company at Lord Melevoir’s, and here, too.”

  “It was not the middle of the night then!”

  “It is not the middle of the night now,” he replied. “It is only the beginning of the night. There are many hours of darkness yet that we could share.”

  He must h
ave given a strong shove, for suddenly the door opened, pushing the chest into the room.

  “My lord!” she cried, the words a shocked condemnation as he strolled into the room as if he had every right to be there.

  “My lord, leave me!” she ordered.

  “You are a DeLanyea to your very bones, aren’t you, my dear?” he speculated, none the whit disturbed by her tone, apparently. “So sure of yourself, so proud, so imperious.”

  “Cynvelin, this is most improper, as you well know.”

  He began to circle her slowly, and for the first time in his presence, she started to be afraid. “Please, my lord, go away.”

  “No.”

  “I thought you said you would take me to my father.”

  Smiling, he stopped in front of her and shook his head. “This time, I fear you misunderstood me, my lady. I said I would do what I must, and so I shall.”

  A shiver of dread ran down Rhiannon’s spine. What had happened to the pleading supplicant? “What... what do you mean, do what you must? You have to let me go.”

  “No, my dear. At Annedd Bach, I don’t have to do anything.”

  “If there is any honor in you,” she said, “why not let me go from here? I could never marry you.”

  “Never?” he asked, a chill in his voice that she had never heard before. “Why not?”

  She straightened her shoulders, willing herself not to be afraid. “Because I cannot marry a man I do not respect.”

  His expression grew more stern. “You do not respect me?” he asked, not loudly, but the way he spoke added to her dread.

  She had wanted him to understand that she could not marry him, but she had not expected this cold, heartless response. Nevertheless, she would not turn away from her course now. “I cannot respect a man who lies.”

  “Not even for love?”

  “I would say especially not then. A husband and wife should trust each other.”

  “You sound very sure and certain, my dear.”

  “I am,” she answered simply and honestly.

  He smiled and laughed softly, but it was a hollow, mirthless laugh. “I am not the only one who lies, my lady who claims she cares nothing for Frechette.”

  She flushed and said nothing, watching him warily, for this was a man she had never seen before. He continued to circle her, smiling his usual smile, and that was perhaps the most chilling thing of all. “It doesn’t matter what you think of him. He knows he dare not question my orders, not if he is to get the knighthood he so desperately craves.”

  She stood motionless as he walked around her. “Will you give him that, or is that another lie?” she asked.

  “What is it to you?”

  He halted behind her, leaning forward so that his hot breath was on her ear. “Shall I tell you how and why I learned to lie with such convincing skill, my virtuous lady?” he asked. He came around in front of her. “I learned it at my mother’s knee. It was the best way to avoid my father’s wrath, so that he would not beat me.”

  He seemed to expect an answer, so she said, “I am sorry to hear it.”

  Cynvelin’s smile widened, but it did not reach his eyes. Indeed, his eyes gleamed with something far different from happiness. “Is that a hint of pity on my lady’s face? Well, I do not need pity now. I discovered early what to say so that my father would not strike. My mother, unfortunately, did not lie as well as I, and so he hit her more.”

  He gave her another eerily unhappy smile. “But no matter. He is dead now, you see. Fell from the wall walk of Caer Coch, his body broken on the rocks below. All the bruises and broken bones repaid in one instant, as it were. A fitting way for a man like that to die, would you not agree?”

  That he was speaking the truth she did not doubt. Nor did she doubt that, for once, she was seeing beneath his shallow mask to a hint of something deeper.

  Something evil and rank and poisonous, a hatred that had warped him.

  Unlike Bryce, Cynvelin had no regrets. No remorse. No shame.

  He advanced upon her, gazing at her intently. “Your pity or your love,” he said, lifting her hand and brushing a kiss across her palm. “I will take either one, my lady.”

  “Cynvelin, please, don’t,” she whispered.

  “Don’t what?” he murmured, turning her hand over to press another unwelcome kiss upon the back of it. “Stop telling you how much I desire you? How I cannot sleep for thinking of you sharing my bed? How I will pleasure you?”

  “I am a noblewoman,” she blurted, her stomach churning with fear.

  He raised his eyes, a sly smile on his face. She could scarcely believe she had once thought him handsome, or honorable.

  “I know that, my lady.”

  “You should let me go to my father.”

  “Surely by now he has gone home to Craig Fawr.”

  “No!” she cried, pulling away from him, desperately hoping she was right. “He wouldn’t go anywhere while I am here.”

  “Surely there is no need for such theatrics, my dear.”

  “Theatrics? I am not playacting! I want to go to my father!”

  “You are never leaving me,” Cynvelin said coldly. “I will not permit it.”

  “You will not...? I am not asking you, my lord,” she said sternly, hugging herself tightly. “I am ordering you to take me to my father!”

  She watched in horror at the angry wrath that came to Cynvelin’s face as he looked at her and shook his head. “No. You are going to be my wife.”

  The cold deliberation of Cynvelin’s words added to Rhiannon’s growing fear.

  She took a step as if she would run, but just as suddenly, she knew she could not flee. She couldn’t outrun him, or his guards. She couldn’t get to a horse before he could stop her.

  Cynvelin knelt in front of her and took her hands in his, pressing them between his warm palms, once again the charming courtier. “Surely you do not think it will be a bad thing to be my wife, my lady.”

  She looked at him beseechingly. “Why...why do you want me?” she whispered, her throat dry.

  “You do not believe I love you?”

  She couldn’t answer.

  The pressure of his hands increased until he was hurting her. “You do not believe I love you?” he repeated, and again she saw hostility in his eyes.

  “I... I believe you,” she lied.

  Another smile twisted his handsome face. “You see how easy it is to learn to lie, my lovely bride?” He turned her palm upward and nuzzled it. “But I don’t care if you love me or not. I want you for my wife, and so it shall be.”

  “My father—”

  He abruptly let go of her hands and stood. “Still refusing all that I offer?” he challenged, glaring at her. “It doesn’t matter, Rhiannon. I want you and I have you. You will never leave me, and your father will suffer for the rest of his life knowing that you belong to me in the eyes of God and man. That I can take you when I will, and that the children of your body—his grandchildren—will also be mine.”

  Her eyes widened as the full horror of his words and demeanor struck her like a backhand blow. “You hate him that much? Why?”

  “He shamed me.”

  “All he did was send you from Craig Fawr!”

  “And you think people did not hear? That other nobles didn’t wonder why? Since the great baron of Craig Fawr didn’t want me, they assumed there must have been a good reason.” He cocked his head and gave her a sardonic smile. “You had heard of Frechette’s scandalous behavior. It’s a wonder you never heard the whispers about me.”

  She wondered at that, too, and then, because she knew her father, she straightened her shoulders and said, “I don’t think there were any whispers. You were treated as a welcome guest at Lord Melevoir’s. You were not shunned like Bryce Frechette.”

  Her voice grew stronger. “I know that without proof, my father would make no accusations. He would start no rumors. Indeed, I can believe he would put a stop to such talk if it ever reached his ears. If you think pe
ople are whispering about you behind your back, that is your own guilty conscience.”

  To her dismay, she realized Cynvelin was unmoved. “He wronged me, and I will have my revenge.”

  She clasped her hands together. “No matter what you think my father is guilty of, Cynvelin, I have done nothing.”

  Cynvelin grabbed her hands again, his grip so strong that tears stung her eyes. “Nothing except be the child of Emryss DeLanyea, as well as a beautiful, desirable woman. I could love you, Rhiannon.”

  He wrapped his arms around her and she felt as if she were entwined in a snake’s coils. “Let me love you,” he whispered, and she felt him kiss her neck.

  She thought there was only one kind of love Cynvelin was capable of, and she would rather die than experience it.

  He was stronger than she, but her father had taught her to defend herself. Motionless, she relaxed in his arms, waiting for the opportunity to lift her knee and kick.

  It didn’t come, because he moved away. “Very well, my dear. I am in no humor for battle, nor am I some kind of monstrous creature. I can be very kind when I am pleased.”

  He went toward the door, then paused on the threshold to look back at her, that horrible smile still on his face. “Of course, I can be very cruel when I am not. I shall let you muse upon that for a while, shall I? Otherwise, I might hurt you.

  “I think you need a little discipline, too, therefore I believe you should stay here alone, my dear, all alone, with no food and no water. After a day or two of that, we shall see if you find my company so unbearable.”

  He went out the door, banging it shut behind him.

  Rhiannon stared at the back of the door with eyes that had been opened.

  Cynvelin didn’t even care for her at all, except as a prize in his private battle. Her rank would not protect her. Her family would not help her.

  She had to get away. Now. At once.

  She ran to the door, to discover that it was locked.

  She tried the latch again and again, but there was no mistake. She was Cynvelin’s prisoner, as surely as if she were locked in the deepest cell of the most terrible dungeon.