A Warrior's Honor Page 20

  “Shut your mouth, Dylan!” Griffydd snapped. “She’s not dead, or he would not be wanting a priest.”

  “She wasn’t dead when I left to come here,” Bryce said. “I saw her in the window of the keep.” He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Baron, but if I am not back before sunset, he might kill her. We mustn’t waste any more time.” He regarded the baron steadily, and intently. “I give you my word, on my honor as a Norman and the son of the Earl of Westborough, that tonight I will get your daughter out of Annedd Bach, if you will allow me that privilege.”

  “If I do not go with you, what will you do?” the baron asked.

  “I would do my best to rescue her myself.”

  The baron nodded slowly. “Dylan, cut him free. We will do as yon say, Frechette. I put my daughter’s life in your hands, and by God, you had better not fail me, or you will rue it.”

  “My lord, if I fail, it will be because I am dead.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Rhiannon sat on the floor, staring at the closed door, her makeshift weapon clutched in her hand. Every moment, she expected to hear Cynvelin’s footsteps on the stairs.

  Every sound made her jump with fear, thinking it was Cynvelin at the door, despair beginning to take the place of hope.

  The afternoon had stretched in its interminable length ever since she had seen Bryce ride out the gate.

  Where he had gone and why, she didn’t know. Or when he would return. That he would, she did not doubt, at least not at first.

  What if he did not return? What if Cynvelin had given him his freedom, and the only alternative to accepting the offer had been death? It could be that he had ridden away to preserve his life.

  Bryce Frechette had forsaken his own family once; might he not abandon a woman who had no claim on him at all? There had been words of apology, a pledge of trust, a final wave—but what was that compared to a threat of death? Was there enough between them to warrant him risking his life for her?

  She hoped...but she didn’t know. She trusted, then that trust wavered like heat waves on a summer day.

  And always, always, increasing her anxiety was the anticipation of a terrible fate at Cynvelin’s hands.

  Finally, as the sun shone low in the sky, when she was tired, hungry and full of despair, there came the sound of a key in the lock.

  She got to her feet as quickly as she could, her body weak from lack of food and water. She used what little energy she had left to push upon the barricade with all her might.

  “It’s useless, Rhiannon,” Cynvelin said from the other side, his voice easily carrying through the door. “I will come in there and you, my poor dear, cannot stop me.”

  Tears started in her eyes and she gave a great, choking sob, because she knew he was right.

  At that same moment, he gave a mighty shove. The door opened and the furniture moved aside so that he could slide into the room.

  She hurried to the far wall, snatching up her weapon as she went. Once there, she turned, holding the stake behind her back, and faced him defiantly. “Get out!”

  “Ah, my darling!” Cynvelin cried as he straightened his slightly disheveled tunic, “I regret that I must refuse. I simply couldn’t stay away any longer. I trust your solitary time has been spent in serious and productive musings. I hope you have concluded that you could do far worse than be my wife.” He surveyed the tumbled-down barricade before he kicked the door shut with his foot. “There is quite a mess you’ve made.”

  He slowly advanced toward her. She lifted her hand, prepared to strike.

  He looked at the wooden weapon and chuckled. “What’s that? A toy?”

  She shook her head, her expression grimly determined. “I’ll use it if you come near me.”

  “Will you?” he asked calmly. He drew his sword and twisted his wrist so that the flat of the blade was parallel to the floor, the tip pointed at her. “I have a longer reach, my dear. I would put that down, if I were you, before you hurt yourself.”

  “No!”

  He came closer, his blade moving inexorably toward her face. She tried to duck and move away, but she had not the experience of fighting he had, and he moved quickly, halting her when she felt the tip of his sword pressed against her back. She slowly turned to face him.

  “Let go of your toy, Rhiannon,” he ordered, still with that same calm voice, “or I might have to hurt you, and I really do not want to have to do that.”

  She didn’t obey, even when he took a step closer and placed the end of his sword at her throat. “You are as foolhardy as your father, I fear.”

  He pushed the blade farther. She felt the stinging pain and the trickle of blood. “I said, let go of your toy!”

  He would kill her if she didn’t, so she finally submitted, the wooden weapon clattering onto the stone floor.

  “That’s better,” he said, kicking it across the room before sheathing his sword.

  Glaring at him, she put her hand to her neck to feel the warm trickle of blood.

  “And yesterday you ruined a number of perfectly good undergarments to make a rope. How many?” He smiled slowly, his eyes gleaming in the waning light that shone in through the window. “All you had, perhaps? Do you have a shift on now, beneath that gown?”

  Rhiannon pressed back against the wall and said nothing.

  Cynvelin sauntered toward her. “Ah, well, what is a shift, more or less?” He reached out and took hold of her chin, hurting her, as she tried to turn her face away. “What am I to do with you?” he mused.

  “You could let me go to my father,” she managed to answer.

  Cynvelin shook his head. “What, and take you away from Bryce Frechette? Oh, but he’s gone, isn’t he? He’s abandoned you to me, my dear. Rode off and left you.”

  “He’ll come back for me.”

  She saw the flash of surprise in his dark eyes. He let go of her chin, but his body continued to block her escape. “You sound very sure of that.”

  “I am,” she answered.

  He moved back, then leaned against the windowsill and watched her as a cat eyes a bird. “Even now, full of hate and looking daggers at me, you are still the most beautiful creature I have ever seen.”

  She said nothing, trying not to look at the door that was not locked, lest she draw his attention to it.

  “Intelligent, too,” he continued admiringly. “What a pair we will make. I knew that from the moment I saw you at Lord Melevoir’s.

  “And spirited. I must not be forgetting spirited.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “As for Bryce, I suppose it is a pity he must die. What has passed between the two of you, I wonder?” Hostility grew on his face. “More than I knew, obviously.”

  She thought of the one thing in Bryce’s favor that might give Cynvelin pause. “He’s Baron DeGuerre’s —”

  Cynvelin suddenly lunged for her, grabbing her hard by the shoulders. “I know who he is,” he snarled. “And I know how to make it seem as if he simply disappeared, like that shepherd and his family. Whatever else you think of me, Rhiannon, never imply that I am stupid.” His grip loosened, and he ran his hands down her arms. She trembled with fear and loathing but never took her scornful gaze from his face.

  “However, his disappearance may be delayed somewhat, since Frechette seems to have abandoned you and disobeyed me. I sent him for a priest to bless our union.”

  “A priest? Better he should hear your confession.”

  “For what? Wanting a wife and doing what I must to get her? Shall I confess that I have grown tired of waiting for my nuptial bliss? Surely he will understand that, for he is going to bless our marriage today.”

  “Today!” she gasped. “You gave my father your word! Does your word count for absolutely nothing, then?”

  “You must not believe that,” he said, lifting his hand, “or you would not dare to be so impertinent.”

  She waited for the blow, closing her eyes, but it didn’t come. Instead, she felt his breath on her cheek. “Bryce was supposed to
return with the priest to bless our union in the eyes of God.” He shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of casual resignation. “However, he has not, so we will have to be wed without it. And he has not returned before sunset, as he was supposed to, so I gather he has left you to the better man, Rhiannon. The man who deserves you. The man who wants you. The man who can use you.”

  She forced herself to stare into Cynvelin’s dark, evil eyes. “I will hate you till the day I die,” she vowed between clenched teeth.

  “Do you think I care?” he growled. Then, surprisingly, he stepped away, running a scornful gaze over her. “You should be grateful I would choose you to be my wife. Instead, you whine and beg to go home like a child, not a woman sought after.”

  “You don’t love me and you never will, any more than I could ever love you after what you have done,” Rhiannon answered. “You only want revenge against my father.”

  Cynvelin glared at her. “Love? What is that?” he declared disdainfully. “It is a myth. Or perhaps a story to amuse children. No one has ever loved me.”

  “Your mother—”

  “My mother held me in front of her as a shield,” he snarled, “so that I would take my father’s blows, not her. Love?” His heartless laugh filled the room. “If that is love, I do not want or need it.”

  He put his hands on his hips. “No one ever pitied or protected me, not even the supposed kind and generous Emryss DeLanyea. He always favored his sons above all others, and never took the trouble to see beyond a youth’s harmless delinquencies to what pain might lie beneath.

  “So I,” he continued, slapping his palm on his chest, “became strong alone. Now I want a wife to bear me sons, and I want to make Emryss DeLanyea pay for what he did to me. That means I marry you, Rhiannon, with benefit of clergy, or without.”

  Rhiannon desperately scanned the room, searching for her sharpened piece of wood.

  His voice grew cold again. “Selfishness is the way of the world, my dear, and you had better learn that.

  “Of course, it could be that your bastard father has taken Bryce. It could even be that your darling Bryce is dead. I can believe fiery-tempered Dylan would kill him on sight.”

  Cynvelin walked toward her, still between her and the door. His angry eyes glowed with hostility and savage lust.

  She could not see her weapon. All she would have would be her hands and fingernails if he attacked her.

  “Don’t. look so dismayed, my dear. You do not see my eyes filling with tears at the possibility of Bryce Frechette’s demise.”

  “You gave your word you would not hurt me!”

  “Alas, my dear,” Cynvelin said, “that was only if your father did not interfere. If he did, the bargain is broken.”

  “Bargain?” she cried incredulously. “What bargain? You kidnapped me! What say did anyone but you have in this?”

  Cynvelin halted a pace in front of her. “I wanted you to love me, Rhiannon, but if that is not to be, then I will make you suffer, as your father made me suffer.”

  “How did he make you suffer? He sent you away, that’s all. He told me what you were like when you were in his company. He did what he thought necessary.”

  Cynvelin’s nostrils flared. “So now I will do what I think necessary.”

  He grabbed her roughly. “You are a fool,” he said scornfully, “if you think anything I do to you will make up for the way the baron treated me, or is the sum of the punishment I intend to mete out to him.”

  She flinched as he caressed her cheek. Then his arms snaked around her body and his mouth came crushing down on hers. Desperately she struggled, trying frantically to get away from him and his moist, oppressive lips.

  His grip loosened for an instant and she thought she had her chance. She was wrong, for as she turned away, he grabbed the neck of her gown and pulled, tearing the fabric and exposing her bare back.

  “Let me go!” she cried, stumbling away from him, clutching at her torn garment as she tried to run to the door.

  His blow hit her hard across her shoulder and she fell to her knees. He came to stand over her, a triumphant smile on his face.

  She peered up at him through her disheveled hair. “Now you are like your father,” she said contemptuously.

  Surprised, Cynvelin stepped back. Then understanding came to his eyes, and he smiled with genuine, disturbing happiness. “Yes, I am.”

  She scrambled to her feet and attempted to get past him. With a roar like a wild animal, he pulled her down hard, then climbed on top of her so that she lay prone on the stone floor beneath him. She tried to twist away, but he was too heavy.

  “You are not getting away from me, Rhiannon,” he snarled. “I have been tolerant too long. If you do not want to look at me, then I will have you this way.”

  As he tugged her skirt upward, she screamed a name, a plea, a hope of deliverance.

  “Bryce!”

  While they waited for the guards to open the gate of Annedd Bach, Bryce glanced first at the setting sun, then at Urien Fitzroy, now attired in a priest’s robes with the hood pulled over his head.

  Bryce felt a moment’s doubt. As much as he was pleased to have such a notable warrior at his side, it might have been better to have asked one of the genuine priests of St. David to come with them. Fitzroy was mounted on one of the priests’ nags, but he sat on his horse like the experienced soldier he was. Madoc and the others might realize something was amiss.

  When the gates swung open enough to let them enter, Bryce felt a surge of relief, for one of the lesser men of Cynvelin’s guard stood inside. He gave Bryce a smirking smile and waved them in. Once past the gatehouse, Bryce and Fitzroy dismounted while the rest of the garrison entered.

  Bryce went to the soldier at the gate, Fitzroy silently following. “Is Cynvelin in the hall?”

  The fellow didn’t respond, because he was giving Fitzroy a very long and quizzical look.

  “Where is Lord Cynvelin?” Bryce demanded, drawing the man’s attention.

  The soldier shrugged.

  Suddenly he heard a woman scream his name.

  His gaze flashed to the keep from whence it came.

  The plan fled his mind.

  He forgot about Fitzroy. He forgot about the garrison and the baron’s men waiting in the woods outside Annedd Bach.

  All he thought about was Rhiannon as he drew the sword the baron had given him and ran toward the keep.

  Behind him, pandemonium erupted, but he scarcely heard the noise.

  He barged into the keep, took the stairs two at a time, and with his left hand pulled out the long dagger Fitzroy had provided. Once at the upper level, he kicked open the door of the bedchamber, shoving aside broken furniture and coming to a halt, staring in horror at the sight that met his eyes.

  Rhiannon lay on the floor, her legs splayed, with Cynvelin on top of her.

  She groaned and raised her tear-streaked, bruised face.

  Not dead. Thank God, not dead.

  Cynvelin scrambled to his feet, fumbling with the laces of his breeches, glancing at his sword belt lying on the floor close by.

  “Beast!” Bryce snarled. He wanted nothing more than to attack, yet he was aware that Cynvelin might strike at Rhiannon first like the coward he was.

  She reached out toward him beseechingly, her fingernails torn and bleeding from clawing at the floor, and she whispered his name.

  Like a blessing of forgiveness.

  Of love.

  Resolve whipped through him, galvanizing his mind and heart and body into one determined being who must and would save the woman he loved.

  Keeping his gaze on his abhorred enemy, his hot blood pounding in his veins, he took Rhiannon’s outstretched hand and helped her to her feet. With her other hand she held together what remained of her dress.

  “Go, my lady,” he implored as he pushed her behind him, “and leave this carrion to me.”

  Suddenly Cynvelin grabbed for his sword belt, pulling out his weapon and leaving the sheath
behind.

  “Go, my lady! Your father is outside the gates,” Bryce cried as his enemy began to sway, hunched in a protective stance, prepared to strike, watching them with a mocking smile.

  Rhiannon ran to the door, then turned on the threshold.

  “Too late again, Frechette,” Cynvelin chided. “Always too late.”

  “No,” he heard her whisper behind him. “Not too late to save my honor, and my life.”

  At her words, Bryce drew himself up and regarded his enemy with proud scorn. “She is coming with me, Cynvelin, but first I am going to kill you for what you have done, and what you tried to do,” he announced.

  He glanced back at Rhiannon for the briefest of moments. “Go, now, my lady. Your father is at the gates—or perhaps already inside, to judge by the noise below.”

  Rhiannon had been too concerned with what was happening before her eyes to hear much else, but yes, she could hear the sounds of battle. The knowledge that her father was below tempted Rhiannon to flee the keep, and yet she would not go, not without Bryce at her side.

  “That is why I went on your little errand,” Bryce said to Cynvelin, “with another purpose quite my own.”

  She had not been wrong to trust him! He had gone to fetch her father and returned to rescue her.

  “You’re lying,” Cynvelin declared. “He wouldn’t risk her safety by disobeying my orders.”

  Clutching her torn bodice, Rhiannon watched the two men as they circled each other warily in the dim light. A glance at the window confirmed that soon it would be too dark to see.

  “You think you can command a man like that?” Bryce retorted.

  “I shall have to send condolences to the Baron DeGuerre and his charming wife, your sister, after I kill you,” Cynvelin jeered.

  “Isn’t it a pity there will be no one who mourns your death,” Bryce retorted.

  Suddenly Cynvelin lunged. Rhiannon cried a warning even as Bryce twisted to avoid the blow. It was only a feint and Cynvelin kicked out, striking Bryce in the arm.