Chapter One

Note: The book contains several names and words in Welsh. A short pronunciation guide is provided in the Author’s Note at the end.

Chapter One

Chester, England 1205

The wedding party arrived. Isabelle recognized immediately the tall form of Llewelyn, Prince of North Wales, and his new bride Joan, the illegitimate daughter of England’s King John. Isabelle was thrilled to be at the wedding, excited to be at the party. It had taken weeks to convince her father that at fifteen she was grown-up enough to attend such a celebration, but convince him she had, and as a result she’d spent the entire morning giddy with delight.

With the bride and groom were the Welshmen who accompanied Llewelyn, men who were both fascinating and frightening to Isabelle. She did not understand why the King would allow his daughter to marry a man from Wales. Even when her father explained to her that John had arranged this marriage in an attempt to bring the rebellious Prince to heel, she still found it puzzling.

She knew her own father would never let her marry a Welshman. There were plenty of Marcher lords for her to wed, when the time came. Still she watched the Welshman like they were exotic, dangerous animals, their strange language filling her ears, their hearty laughter making her blush.

There were other sights to please her, too, more things to divert her attention and make her feel like the luckiest girl in England. The dancing, the jongleurs and entertainment, the roasted swans and pheasants with their feathers restored and carefully arranged so they appeared ready to move on their own, it all gave her such joy, her cheeks began to ache from smiling.

She knew she should not be gaping so obviously at everyone she saw, but she could not help it. Her father was deep in conversation with the Earl of Bradford, so he did not notice her frankly staring at the diners around her. It was so pleasant to be in the middle of a sea of smiling faces.

Then she noticed the man seated across the hall from her.

His hair was black and his eyes glittered like jet, even at a distance. They moved restlessly around the room, as hers did, but there was nothing of awe or pleasure on his strong face.

Instead, he looked cautious, watchful. She had the unpleasant feeling that he was distrustful of the revelers. He did not seem to be enjoying himself, only picking at the food placed before him, and while she watched he ignored several attempts to engage him in conversation.

The mustache covering his upper lip was shiny and black, full beneath a straight, fine nose. His bare jaw and chin told her he must be a Welshman, for beards were not the fashion in Wales. That would explain the tawny color of his skin, as well. He looked like he was carved out of stone, so regular were his features and so still was his expression. Handsome, she thought.

Handsome but cold. He seemed to be waiting for a fight to break out, and his gaze was kept either watching everyone in the room or on his trencher.

She tried to forget him when the meal ended, as her father helped her rise from the table. It was time for the dancing to start, and she looked forward to it eagerly. This was the best part of any celebration, and she would not waste her time wondering about a man she would never see again.

*****

But she watched him anyway.

After the tables were taken away, he moved to a small bench against the wall, and there he stayed, barely moving, his arms folded on his chest. Once or twice she fancied she felt his eyes lingering on her, but she could not think why that would be. She knew she was not as beautiful as some of the women in the room this night, and more importantly, he did not seem remotely interested in anyone in particular. He scanned the room with his eyes constantly, like a falcon searching for prey.

Finally, she gathered enough courage to ask her father about him. They were seated on a bench out of the way of the dancers, having a drink and resting Isabelle’s tired feet. She had found no shortage of agreeable dance partners and groups, and was beginning to tire.

“That is Gruffydd ap Hywel,” said her father.

“But who is he?” she asked. “Why is he here, and why does he look as if he hates everyone in the room?”

Her father smiled at her. “I am sure he does not hate everyone here,” he said. “He is a friend of Llewelyn’s, and I assume is here at his urging. I do not know much about him, for he rarely leaves Wales and has little dealings with any of us here on the Marches. He was made lord of the Welsh cantref of Taran a few years ago, after Llewelyn captured it. They say he is quite wealthy, and very brave, but I have never spoken with him, although I would like to. Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering,” Isabelle said, a little distantly. Her eyes wandered over to the man again, but he had not moved. He looked young to be so powerful. Too young to be so solemn.

Isabelle knew she was not as solemn as she should be. Her father often lamented her high spirits and sense of humor, but he said such things in jest. He was proud of her, and she knew without it being mentioned that she was his favorite of his three daughters.

Was that not why she was still unmarried? She had already passed the age at which most girls found themselves wed. Indeed, the King’s daughter Joan, whose wedding this was, was a year younger than Isabelle. But Isabelle knew that while her marriage would of necessity have elements of convenience or state, her father also wanted her to marry someone she could grow to love, just as he had grown to love her mother.

So she was content to wait until she found a man who could be her equal both in wealth and temperament. She sighed and shifted slightly on the hard wooden bench. A fun man, smart and lively, who liked to dance and play. Who did not want to fight in battles or gain the King’s favor, but a man who simply wanted to get as much excitement out of life as possible. A man who would make her laugh.

Such a man would not be easy to find. But she was willing to wait.

The pain in her feet was just beginning to ease when she was asked again to dance, and she readily accepted. She was determined to enjoy herself as much as possible before this night ended.

Her new partner was a stranger to her, a squire in the service of the Earl of Dencester. She smiled at him as they danced, liking the way his blond hair curled over his brow. He was an excellent dancer, and his blue eyes were lively. He was just the type of man she had hoped to meet this night, and she wondered idly who his father was. Perhaps his family lived close…

Edward, his name was. Such a good name, for such an exciting and humorous man. Her eyes wandered again to Gruffydd ap Hywel, who looked as if he never smiled or had a pleasant thought, much less a gentle one.

Her own thoughts were interrupted when the music stopped and Edward led her carefully through the crowd to one of the empty benches. “Are you warm, my lady?”

She smiled at the concern in his eyes. “Aye, very.”

“The gardens here are beautiful. Would you like to join me in a walk through them? ‘Tis cooler outside.”

She smiled and nodded again, her heart skipping a beat. A walk alone in the gardens! She wondered if she should tell her father, but decided against it. He might forbid her to go, and Isabelle could not allow that.

She told herself it was only her interest in plants that made her so determined, but she knew it was not so. She would have accompanied Edward to look at a wasteland if he asked her, and the knowledge made her blush slightly.

The air was only a little cooler outside than in, but the breeze felt good, soothing her fevered skin. The garden was pretty in the moonlight, and the mingled scents of mint, thyme, and sweet basil always lifted her spirits. It was a perfect night.

Edward was pointing out things to her as they walked. She did her best to look amazed and interested, hiding her smile when he misidentified some of the plants. Isabelle had helped her mother in the gardens since she was a babe, and after her mother’s death she worked there alone. She recognized the plants that grew in the earth as she would recognize members of her own family.

This was indeed a beautiful garden. Ahead of them, dimly outlined against the starry sky, were the leaf-covered treetops of the orchard. Edward took her hand and they walked together over the little wooden bridge across the moat that separated the flower garden from the herb garden. Isabelle was nearly breathless, but whether it was from the beauty of the flowers or the warmth of Edward’s hand she knew not.

They walked to the looking mound in the center of the flower garden. From there, had it been daytime, Isabelle knew the whole vista of the gardens would be spread out before her. At night, there were only shadows and outlines, the bright colors of the flowers made pale by the light of the moon.

There was a small gloriette atop the looking mound, and Edward gave her hand a squeeze, sending butterflies into her stomach, and led her in.

It was much darker there, for the roof shut out most of the light, leaving only a few rays coming through the latticework walls. Isabelle paused, uncertain where to step, but Edward’s hand drew her in.

“Sit down,” he said quietly. “Here, next to me.”

She allowed herself to be pulled closer to him, her heart thumping nervously. Mayhap this was not such a good idea after all. A walk in the gardens was one thing, but to be alone here in this tiny structure, where they could not easily be seen…she pushed the thought from her mind. Edward was sweet, and his face was thoughtful and kind. What could possibly happen to her while she was with him?

Besides, the feel of his thigh against hers was so pleasant.

She had never been this close to a man before, at least a man who was not family. It was exciting to be alone with Edward.

“Did you enjoy the wedding?” she asked. It was not much of a comment, but at least it was something to talk about.

He shrugged. “What was there to enjoy?”

Isabelle did not understand what he meant. “I am for certes enjoying the celebration.”

Her eyes were adjusting to the darkness. She saw him look at her and smile. “I did not enjoy it until I met you.”

She looked down, knowing he could not see her blush but wanting to hide it anyway. She hoped he would make another such comment, but he did not. Instead he said, “I suppose no better match could be made for the King's bastard daughter than one of those becursed Welshman. But still I like it not. I would not have come this eve had not my lord made me.” He squeezed her hand again, more firmly this time. “I feel I should thank him now.”

Isabelle did not like this comment, but she was not sure why. Edward had only said what so many other people were saying about this marriage. It just seemed somehow less than gallant to state such an opinion to her, here in the darkness, even tempered with another compliment.

She felt something brush against her leg and jumped, but it was only Edward’s hand. Should his hand be on her leg? He withdrew it, though, and she relaxed. ‘Twas an accident, surely.

“Tell me about yourself, Edward,” she said. “How long have you been in the Earl’s service?”

“Ah, but you do not want to know such things,” he said softly. She noticed with some trepidation that his face was getting closer to her own. “They are not important, are they?”

“But they are,” she said quickly. “I should like to know more about you.”

“I can show you all you need to know, my sweet,” he whispered, and then to Isabelle’s shock he kissed her.

She had never been kissed before, so she had no way of knowing if this was the way it was supposed to be, but she knew immediately that she liked it not. It was wet, and sloppy, and she felt the uncomfortable sensation of his teeth pressing against her lips. His tongue poked at her mouth.

She pulled her face back from his. “I do believe it is time for us to rejoin the party,” she said shakily, moving to stand up.

“Oh, I think not,” Edward said. He grabbed her arm and pulled her closer to him, his free hand moving to her neck. “I think there is more for us to know about each other.”

Isabelle froze in shock as he kissed her again. This time, her mouth was slightly open and he seemed to take that as a welcome, for she felt his tongue invade her mouth. She tried to jump back but he was too strong, and when his hand slid across her breast she gasped.

“Aye,” he whispered. “Let us become very acquainted.” His hand moved from her breast down her side, over her hip to begin lifting the pale fabric of her skirt. Isabelle tried again to twist away from him, but he held her in such a position that she succeeded only in lying down. Tears started at the corners of her eyes as his hand touched the bare skin of her knee above her hose.

“Nay, nay,” she managed to gasp. “Leave me be.”

“Come now,” he said. His smile in the dim light was not pleasant. “Why would you agree to come out here with me, if this was not what you wanted? I’m not going to steal your virtue, I just want to touch you.”

“I do not,” she said. She was truly scared now, and tried again to push him away, her hands futile against his chest. “I did not want this, I do not want this.”

But Edward only mashed his face against hers again, so hard that she could taste blood as her own teeth cut the fragile skin of her lower lip.

“I believe the lady asked you to let her go.”

Isabelle heard the voice as if she was underwater, fuzzy and unclear. Edward paused in his assault of her and turned his head towards the speaker. “You can have your turn when I am finished, not before,” he snarled.

He had not even finished the sentence when Isabelle saw the shining blade held at his throat. How had it appeared so quickly, and silently? She had not even heard it being drawn, and it seemed Edward had not either, for his eyes widened.

“Get off her. Slowly.”

Edward began to comply, and Isabelle turned her head towards the doorway of the gloriette. She saw the shadowy figure of a man there. His head blotted out the moon, so his features were hidden, and he was massive. She did not believe she had ever seen a man so large. The arched doorway seemed to barely contain him.

He was motionless save for his arm. His blade stayed firmly pressed against Edward’s throat as Edward moved back to a sitting position.

“Are you all right, my lady?” the man in the doorway’s voice was deep and musical, and his accent told her he must be Welsh. “Are you unhurt?”

“I am fine,” she replied, with as much dignity as she could muster. Now that she was safe from Edward’s assault, the terror of what had almost happened to her began to set in. She tried to stop the tears from falling down her cheeks, but she could not.

“I suggest you—” The sword moved quickly from Edward’s neck to bang him on the head with the flat of the blade, then back down to his throat before Edward could react— “get back inside, and now.”

“Not without the lady,” Edward said. “I do not know you, and she came out here with me. I need to be certain she gets back inside safely.”

The man in the doorway made a sound almost like a laugh. “Because you were so concerned with her well-being a moment ago, as you assaulted her,” he said. “Do not pretend to me. Think you I will give you another chance to harm the lady?”

Edward seemed to be ready to say something more, but the sword rapped him on the head again. “Move, or I shall take your ear as tribute for your crime.”

Edward cast one last glance at Isabelle and began to stand up, moving slowly. Isabelle was fascinated by how the sword at his throat never faltered, never moved from its spot at Edward’s throat, nor did it cut him. The man holding it had considerable strength.

Edward began stepping slowly towards the dark figure in the doorway. Isabelle saw a blur of movement, and the sword was gone, replaced with a hand. The dark man held Edward by the throat and stepped backwards, pulling Edward out of the gloriette. She heard a thud and a cry, and the dark figure appeared again in the doorway. He was alone.

“’Tis not safe to leave a gathering with a stranger,” he said. “Were you never taught, or are you just a fool?”

Isabelle had been ready to fling herself in gratitude at the man despite her fear, but at his words fear left her, replaced by anger. Who was this man, to speak to her so?

“I am not a fool, sir!” she said indignantly.

“Aye? Then perhaps it is I who is the fool, for where I come from, ladies do not wander about at night with men they have just met…for certes not if they intend to keep their virtue.”

“And where I am from men do not insult ladies by speaking so harshly,” Isabelle said. She was horrified to realize she was ready to cry again. Why was he being so cruel?

“I see. It is custom in England, then, to insult ladies by attempting to force oneself on them in gardens, but to comment on it is considered rude? Forgive me, my lady. I knew not of this particular tradition. Perhaps I should not have interfered. I can call him back, if you prefer.”

“Nay!” Isabelle was on her feet. The dark man sounded as if he meant it, and she did not want to chance that he would carry through on his horrid threat. “I-I am sorry. I thank you for your assistance.”

“If you knew who you were out here with, you would thank me for more than that,” the man said quietly, but he turned away before she could ask him what he meant. “Come, Lady Isabelle, let us get you back inside.”

She stepped hesitantly toward him.

“How did you know my name?”

“’Tis my business to know things.”

“Your business?”

“Aye, my business,” he replied.

“But what does that mean?”

He sighed and, taking her arm firmly, began leading her back towards the building. She jumped as he did so. His fingers were surprisingly warm, his grip strong and sure. “It means, Lady Inquisitive, that I will not answer your questions.”

Isabelle fumed as he led her back over the little bridge. For a stranger to see her in the gloriette with Edward was humiliating enough, but to be rescued by this strange, rude man was worse. Why could not someone kind come to help her, rather than—

Gruffydd ap Hywel.

She gasped as they drew near enough the lights from the open doorway to see his features. This was the man who had come to her rescue? This vaguely frightening man who had done naught all night but scowl and stare, had helped her?

How had he known to come and find her, she wondered, and why had he bothered?

She did not realize she said this aloud until he stopped walking, still gripping her arm. She had the odd sensation that the warmth from his hand was spreading throughout her entire body, and it was oddly pleasant.

“I have heard tales of the lord Edward,” he said, “and none of them good. When I saw him taking you outside I followed.”

“You were watching?”

“Would you rather I had not?” His face was inscrutable in the flickering light. He was so tall that Isabelle, the tallest of her sisters and almost as tall as her brother, had to look up at him. That, too, was oddly pleasant. His face seemed so close to hers…

She did not realize she was frankly staring at him until she heard his breath catch under her scrutiny, and felt her own heartbeat quicken.

“Nay,” she said, looking away, breaking the spell.

He looked toward the open doorway. “Go back inside now, little Lady Isabelle,” he said softly. “Your father will be missing you.”

He let go of her then. Her arm felt cold without the pressure of his hand, and she shivered as she stepped towards the doorway and suddenly thought of her father. Would Gruffydd ap Hywel tell her father what she’d done?

“I would ask you—” she began, turning around. But her sentence died in the breeze, for Gruffydd ap Hywel was no longer there.

Chapter 2

Six Years Later

It was the King’s will.

Isabelle knew this, for her father told her over and over again. Naught could be done, naught could be changed. It was the King’s will.

But she still could not dry her tears as she watched the lone figure ride through the gates and into the bailey.

The memory of their last meeting still made her cringe with embarrassment, and the knowledge that on the morrow they would be wed turned the humiliation to fear as she contemplated spending the rest of her life with Gruffydd ap Hywel.

“Do not cry, Isabelle,” said her sister Matilda. “It cannot be so bad as you fear.”

“But it can,” Isabelle replied. “It can, and it is.” She stood up and turned to face her younger sister. “Do you not understand I have to leave here, leave home and go to Wales? With a stranger, a man I don’t know, a man none of us know anything about?” She felt the tears sliding down her cheeks and fought to keep her voice under control. “It is that bad, Matilda. It is a nightmare. I may never see you all again.”

Her control left her and she sank back to the bench by the window, trying to press away the ache in her head with the palms of her hands. For the first time in several years she faced a situation she could not change or dictate, and it was terrifying.

Matilda’s hands rested on her legs as her sister knelt before her on the rush-strewn floor. “Nay,” Matilda whispered fiercely, “that is not so! You will see us, and often, for if your lord husband will not allow you to visit, we will come to you.”

Isabelle pulled her hands from her face and looked at her. Sweet Matilda. How could she be only three years younger than Isabelle, but so naïve?

For it was not so easy to visit. The roads in Wales could be dangerous for Norman travelers, especially with the political climate what it was.

Isabelle did not know all the details, and she did not expect to. All she knew was that in the years since she’d met Gruffydd at the wedding which was supposed to bring an enduring peace between England’s King and Wales’ powerful Prince, the fighting seemed hardly to have stopped. ‘Twas but a few months ago that all-out war was waged, and the King’s army had made its way deep into Wales, destroying the Prince’s principal residence and bringing him to his knees.

Llewelyn surrendered, finally, and was brought firmly under John’s thumb.

And now Isabelle was to pay the price with her own body, for in the aftermath of that terrible war, the King, deciding that one high-ranking alliance between England’s women and Wales’ men was not enough, had ordered her father to wed her to one of Llewelyn’s men. He had agreed to let Llewelyn choose which one, so long as the man in question held a high enough rank to be a match for her.

Llewelyn chose Gruffydd ap Hywel.

The knowledge that many women were in her position did not comfort Isabelle. What did it matter? She would still be alone.

Alone with her husband, a man who had not even bothered to attend their betrothal, forcing Isabelle to state her intention to wed to a proxy.

Isabelle had spent much of her time over the last weeks recalling the wedding of Joan and Llewelyn, and her short conversation with the man she was now to wed. She remembered with horror her own petulance and immaturity, and his impatience. She remembered a deep, musical voice that said, “Go back inside now, little Lady Isabelle.”

She remembered the heat of his hand on her arm.

But she said none of this to Matilda, fearing she would get one of Matilda’s deeply religious speeches in response. Matilda’s faith was so strong, and Isabelle did not want to be impatient with her this day. Gently, she reached out and brushed a strand of Matilda’s golden hair—so different from Isabelle’s reddish curls—away from her sister’s small, pale face.

“You are right, my sweet sister. I am being overly dramatic, perhaps.”

Matilda smiled. “Then you are back to your own self again.”

Isabelle stuck her tongue out in reply and stood back up. A glance out of the window showed her future husband had entered the keep, and would likely be in the great hall with her father. Soon it would be time to dine…time to meet him again.

She began sponging her eyes with cold water from the basin near her bed. ‘Twas bad enough she had to marry him. She refused to let him see she had been crying over him, too.

*****

Gruffydd’s body ached from tiredness as he tried to converse with his betrothed wife’s father. Just being in England made him uneasy. He saw ghosts everywhere, horrible shades of memories that followed him as soon as he set foot within the border.

“My lady wife loved blue,” the earl said, looking around the room. “She replaced those tapestries just before she died.” He turned back to Gruffydd. “Your own mother died when you were young?”

Gruffydd nodded. His right hand sought out the scar on his left palm and rubbed it. “My mother and father,” he said. “Lord Stephen, I hear you enjoy travel. Have you been to Rome?”

The earl smiled. “Indeed I have,” he said, accepting the change of subject with nary a frown. “I do enjoy travel, very much. One day I hope to do more of it. Now that my Isabelle is leaving…” He sighed.

“Perhaps she will be able to accompany you one day,” Gruffydd suggested.

“Oh, no,” Lord Stephen said. “Surely she will be needed at your home?”

“I am certain we can find a way.” This was not exactly how he’d planned to suggest that Isabelle would be better off coming back here after their marriage, but it was not a bad start. If all went the way he hoped, she would eventually leave him and return here, so why not let the earl get used to the thought from the start?

If he could not prevent this marriage through arguing with Llewelyn, he could at least make certain it was not successful, and neither he nor Lady Isabelle was inconvenienced by it.

No woman deserved to be married to a man whose soul was not his own. A man whose blood oath bound him to solitude much more strongly than any vows spoken in church could bind him to another person.

Gruffydd could not be a husband. The idea was laughable.

Dinner was called, and the earl indicated a seat for Gruffydd next to a young woman whose hands were twisting nervously as she stood beside the table. Gruffydd bowed and started to pass her, then stopped short.

This was his betrothed?

He’d hardly recognized her, and no wonder. She had gained some height since he’d seen her last, but that was not what made the difference. Nay, the young girl he remembered was now a woman, a beautiful one.

The emerald green gown and sleeves she wore set off the creamy paleness of her skin, the faint blush in her cheeks. Her eyelashes were long enough to cast shadows on her cheeks and hide the color of the eyes that darted nervously to his before looking down, away from him. He had the urge, unwelcome and immediate, to step closer to her and gaze into them, to discern both their hue and the thoughts they hid.

But it was her lips, pink and inviting, that caught his attention most. They were fuller than current fashion preferred, and slightly wider, putting her face just outside the bounds of conventional beauty even as they drew Gruffydd’s immediate interest. They were lips made for kissing, the effect spoiled only by the tight curve of a reluctant smile. He felt a twinge at her obvious fear, which disappeared, replaced by a different sensation, when her small white teeth caught her full lower lip. The gesture was girlish, but not enough to make it anything but incredibly arousing.

He swallowed, hard. She was glorious.

“My lady, ‘tis a pleasure to see you,” he said, as formally as he could.

“My lord.” She dropped a perfunctory curtsy and turned away.

He took his place next to her at the table, pleased a trencher had been laid for him so he did not have to share with her. After they were wed on the morrow they would share both trencher and goblet, but this day at least he would be spared having to sit so close to her.

Although he wondered how far away he would have to be ere he could not smell the faint fragrance that clung to her.

This was going to be more difficult than he’d thought.

*****

Isabelle was no more comfortable than her betrothed, and no less surprised at his appearance. She had not thought it possible for a man to be larger and more menacing than she remembered, but somehow he had bested himself in both areas. He commanded attention, and she tried not to give it to him as the servants brought out the trays.

His black hair was longer, and fell in waves to his shoulders. He still wore that shiny black mustache she recalled but she could not say if his lips had seemed so lush and full on their last meeting. She twisted her hands together both from nervousness and an effort not to reach out and touch his lower lip, feel the smooth skin of his chin under her fingertips.

But she would not, nor would she think of him as anything but a burden to her.

Just because she was forced to be his wife did not mean she had to like it. She did not like it any more than she liked him.

She was determined not to allow him to see what his presence did to her. She watched him out of the corner of her eye as he sat at her side, his large hands clasped loosely in his lap. They showed none of the nervousness she knew her own hands betrayed, and she waited until he had served himself before she reached out to get her own food, not wanting to risk their fingers touching in the bowl.

To comfort herself, she sought out William in the dim light, and smiled at him.

William. His fair hair shone as he bent his head to tune his lute. The tip of his tongue protruded from his lips in concentration as he made sure the instrument was perfectly ready to aid him in creating the music they both loved. His hands, fine and graceful, moved easily over the strings. How she loved his hands. How she loved him, and the comfort and warmth she found in his arms on those few occasions when they managed to steal a moment together. His kisses were sweet and gentle. Not like that brute Edward who had so frightened her all those years ago. Certainly nothing like her betrothed, who threatened with his very proximity.

“What think you, Isabelle?”

She jumped. Her face grew hot as she imagined everyone knew she was watching William when she should have been paying attention.

Her father did not seem to realize this, though. He was smiling at her, his eyes fond but sad. “Will you be ready to leave day after tomorrow? It seems your betrothed is eager to return to his home.”

Isabelle gasped. Two days! It did not seem possible. “If that is what my lord wills,” she said quietly, looking down to avoid displaying her violent dislike and anger.

“I cannot be too long from my home,” Gruffydd said. She waited for him to apologize, to acknowledge in some way the distress he must know he was causing her, but he did not.

“Of course,” said her father. Traitor! Isabelle heard a small sound across the table from her and looked up to see Matilda fighting tears. Suddenly the roast meat she enjoyed a moment ago was like mud in her mouth, and she pushed herself away from the table.

“I beg you all excuse me,” she said, trying to keep her voice controlled, ignoring her father’s gasp of shock at her unforgivable rudeness. All that mattered at this moment was to flee. “I am not hungry. I’m afraid I feel unwell.”

Neither of the men spoke, and Isabelle dared not look at them, especially at her betrothed, as she fled the room. Let him think what he may. She would not spend another minute here this night with the man who could not wait to take her away from her home.

*****

The knock on her door came as she was packing what few of her belongings would fit into a satchel. Her maid Berengaria wanted to aid her, but Isabelle was determined to take this task as her own. She still did not understand why she could bring only a few items. Likely it was simple meanness on the part of her future husband, and she cursed him under her breath as she opened the heavy door.

She’d expected her father come to chastise her, but it was not he. It was William.

He swept into the chamber before she could even gasp his name and closed the door quickly behind him. “Isabelle,” he said, his voice low. “You are to leave me so soon?”

The fissure in her heart widened as she nodded. She could not look at him.

His hands were warm on her shoulders as he embraced her. “My sweet.”

She looked up at him, into his dear face, his sweet blue eyes as innocent as a baby’s, and the tears came.

“How will I ever survive it? How will I live so far away from my family, from you, and not die from the loneliness?”

His eyes widened. “Isabelle, you must not say such things, you must not even think them! ‘Tis inviting the devil, to contemplate your own death.”

Isabelle sighed. “If the devil would save me from making this marriage I would gladly invite him.”

William drew away from her in shock. “Nay! You must recant that, and quickly, lest you be heard.”

“William, ‘tis only a figure of speech. You know that.”

But his stubborn frown showed her dramatic speech had indeed disturbed him, and she sighed again. “I recant. I have no wish for the devil to knock on my door, and would deny him entry if he did so.”

William’s expression eased. For all the admirable and keen qualities her love possessed, his superstition drove her to distraction.

Isabelle knew better. God did not watch out for her, for He did not exist. If there was no God watching there was no devil, and she was thus safe to say whatever she pleased.

Of course, she did not repeat such blasphemous thoughts to anyone.

William stroked her cheek. “My own sweet,” he whispered.

Isabelle closed her eyes as his lips brushed hers. William was so tender, and being held by someone so gentle never failed to improve her mood. She allowed the kiss to become deeper, more searching. William was always so sweet to kiss, so undemanding. So unlike…

Gruffydd. Her future husband. She tried not to think of him, his glossy mustache, the fullness of his lips. What would they feel like on hers?

She pushed William away.

“I am sorry,” he said. Their kisses had never been so passionate, and she could see his fear that he’d overstepped himself.

“Nay,” she said impatiently, waving her hand. “’Tis not you, William. ‘Tis me. My mind is elsewhere.”

William took her hand in his. “I understand,” he said, and Isabelle fought a flash of irritation at his grave expression. Why did he always insist he understood her feelings?

She shook her head. This marriage was upsetting her more than she’d realized, for her to think such things about her own sweet William. She smiled down at their clasped hands. William would never hurt her or confuse her. He followed her lead in all things. Why else would she love him so?

“Isabelle, I have been thinking. >From that awful day four months ago when I first overheard your father discussing plans to wed you to a Welshman I have been thinking.” His hand tightened on hers. “I think we should run away together,” he said. “I think you should marry me.”

Isabelle sat down on the edge of her bed, trying to catch her breath. “Marry you?”

“Aye.” William knelt on the floor at her feet, squeezing her hand. “My darling, you know how I feel about you. You cannot possibly marry that—that brute. The way he looked at you! I felt ready to leap over the table and attack him, right there and then.”

“You would not win,” she replied absently, then immediately regretted it as his pale skin went pink. “Oh, my darling,” she said, hoping to undo the damage. “I mean only that he is a barbarian, a savage. Not like you.” She reached out and caressed his hair.

“All the more reason why you should come away with me,” William said. “We can make it to London in only a few days’ time, if we move quickly. There we can be wed, and find a home, where no one knows us. Please, Isabelle, we can be so happy…”

“Oh, William.” His words should have pleased her. His plan should have pleased her. For some reason they did not, instead filling her with fear which she attributed to a dread of the terrible consequences of such an action. “You know I cannot. You know we cannot. What of my family? What of my—” she struggled a bit over the word— “betrothed?”

“I do not care,” he said, reaching for her again and pulling her up from the bed. She gasped; his arms around her were so tight it was difficult to draw breath. “What does it matter, when we love each other so?” His face was inches from hers, his blue eyes intense. “Come with me, my sweet. Come to London and marry me, and we can be together always. Your betrothed can marry Matilda, or the King will find another for him—”

“Matilda!” Isabelle pulled herself away from him. “Do you actually suggest that I force my own sweet sister to wed that brute, and leave her home without even having the comfort of visits from her sister? Think you that I could so easily abandon my family and duty, that I could leave my father alone to face the King‘s wrath? What you suggest is impossible, William.”

William’s face fell. The eager light in his eyes faded, leaving him standing, looking slightly foolish, at the foot of her bed. Isabelle’s heart crumbled. Her own love, looking so forlorn, and it was her fault.

How could she have been so cold? William was not a strong man, and she knew it. That was why he needed her, to shelter him from the harsh world.

“William,” she said. He turned his face up to look at her, and she turned away from his pleading expression. “You know this cannot be. You know I must do what my father and the King require of me.”

He did not reply for a long time. Then he spoke, unshed tears glistening in his eyes. “I will always love you, my darling,” he said. “I will wait for you, and when that beast you are about to marry throws you out, I will still be here.”

Isabelle’s anger rose at his last words, but she did not bother to mention it. There was little point. William would not understand why what he said hurt her, and she did not want to hurt him further.

They were both already hurting enough, were they not?

Chapter 3

Morning came far too quickly, and before she knew it Isabelle was dressed in her best blue and yellow gown, climbing onto her horse for the ride to the village church with her father.

She’d slept well and awakened determined to be strong, but tears threatened when she saw her father’s face.

She’d always thought he was a handsome man. He had not run to heaviness as he grew older, nor had his face turned florid and red. His features had softened with time, and his hair had turned from dark brown to silver, but those were the only indications of his age to be found on him.

But not today. Her proud, strong, good-humored father looked like an old man as he prepared to give away his favorite daughter to a stranger from a strange land. She reached out and squeezed his hand as they rode through the cool April morning air, the mist obscuring what might be Isabelle’s last view of the town that had been her home all her life.

She closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on the feel of her father’s warm, smooth hand in hers, and on the uneven gait of the horse as it made its way down the dirt road. Her heart was beating so loudly she was afraid her father would hear it, and when he said her name she jumped.

“Yes, Papa?”

“Promise me,” he said. “Promise me you will not leave him, unless he asks you to. Promise you will try to make this work.”

The earl’s shoulders began to shake gently, and Isabelle realized her father was crying. Tears came to her own eyes as she reached for him and pulled him into an embrace. She had only seen her father cry once in her life, when her mother had died ten years past. It was horrible to see it now, and they held each other for a long moment.

“I promise,” she said, although the words made her stomach twist. “I will make you proud, Papa. I will do my duty. I will write to you, and perhaps…perhaps my husband will be kind and allow me to visit.”

Her father cleared his throat and pulled away from her, looking her in the eyes. He tried to smile. “You make me proud every day, my dear,” he said, wiping a tear from her cheek with his thumb. “And I know you will continue to do so.” He kissed her on the forehead then settled back into his seat, urging the horse forward.

“I do think your husband is kind,” he continued as they rode, and Isabelle tried to accustom herself to hearing the word “husband” applied to the huge stranger she was about to wed. “I have spoken with him, and he seems a smart man, and sensible. Not talkative, or particularly warm, but I do not think he will harm you.” He sighed. “If only he was not a Welshman.”

Aye, if only he was anyone else, thought Isabelle, but she did not speak again as they rounded the bend in the road and stopped.

There he was. Standing at the steps of the church, the weak sunlight making his dark hair glow like a raven‘s wing. His face was solemn and unreadable, unsmiling even when she dismounted and the gathered villagers began to cheer and make slightly ribald comments about her beauty.

Isabelle knew she did look lovely this day, despite the sorrow in her heart. Her hair hung loose over her shoulders, signaling to all present that she came to her marriage a virgin. The curls shone with reddish highlights like sparks of fire in the sun. The blue of her gown set off the deep blue of her eyes, and the terror that gripped her made her fashionably pale and delicate. All this she knew from a look in the polished silver mirror before she left her chamber. What she did not know was if her husband would be pleased.

Or if she cared.

She barely heard Gruffydd’s voice over the roaring in her ears as he spoke the words that made her his wife, and her own voice seemed to echo strangely in her head as she spoke her vows. His hand on hers was warm and rough, and he slid the wide gold band over her fingers in turn before settling it onto her third finger with a gentleness that surprised her.

It was over seemingly before it had begun, and panic shot through her as the priest pronounced them man and wife. He was going to kiss her now, and she did not know if she was excited or scared. She did not want to kiss him. She did not want to be his wife.

But something warm and vital in the touch of his hands seemed to have transferred itself to her belly, and she could not seem to catch her breath as he leaned in and touched his lips to hers.

It was so fast she would not have known it happened if it were not for the jolt of fire that ran through her body. Up close, he smelled good, like earth and smoke, just as he had the night before. His mustache brushed softly against her upper lip, his chin felt smooth as it lightly touched hers. Her eyes were closed, but she thought she heard him inhale sharply as he pulled away from her, making her wonder if he felt that same shock.

They avoided each other’s eyes as they made their way back to the waiting carriage after the nuptial mass, the cheers of the crowd sounding distant to Isabelle, as if she were dreaming. She knew she was not, but had a moment of sharp, painful desire that it were so, that she would wake up in her bed and none of this would be happening. She wished desperately that she had not just married this fearsome stranger who sat at her side as the carriage took them back to the castle.

*****

The rest of the day passed by in a blur of faces, voices and wine. Isabelle grew dizzy from it by sunset, but her husband hardly seemed to drink at all. It was she who kept calling for their shared goblet to be refilled, and if Gruffydd noticed that she turned the cup carefully before drinking to avoid placing her lips where his had been, he did not indicate it.

He ate sparingly of the meal, declining to even try the enormous subtleties in fanciful shapes that drew applause from the guests.

Nor did he dance with her, except for once immediately after the second meal was over, when he moved her smoothly but impersonally across the floor.

“I did not know you were such a pleasant partner,” she said, trying desperately to start a conversation, to feel some warmth or connection from the man she would spend the night with.

And every night thereafter.

“Am I?” he asked, but he was looking around the room, not at her. He did not seem to want an answer, so she did not give him one. They walked slowly around the floor together like strangers. Which, she supposed, was only right.

Strangers. That’s all they were to each other.

*****

In truth, Gruffydd was not sure what he wanted. His wife was lovely and kind, the sort of girl he’d imagined taking as wife back in the days when he was young and foolish enough to think having a wife was possible for him.

Now that he knew it was not, now that he had chosen the path of his life, the path that allowed no room for such things…

Why did her slim figure feel so good at his side? And why had the touch of her lips set such a fire in his loins?

As soon as the music stopped, he stepped away from her and bowed. “I am thirsty, my lady,” he said. “And I am certain that there are many here who wish to dance with you.”

Hurt flashed quickly across her face before she forced herself to smile. “I must not disappoint them, then,” she said quietly, and brushed past him, leaving only a faint trace of her sweet flowery scent to admonish him for his rudeness.

Gruffydd should have allowed his seneschal, Rhys, to come with him. He’d not wanted anyone to witness his wedding, least of all the bedding-down ceremonies yet to come. But now, standing alone in a room full of hated English, he thought it would be a relief to have just one person who spoke his language.

So he could not understand his displeasure when he learned someone did.

He remembered the musician from the night before. Remembered, too, the way the man had slipped away after Isabelle had made her exit. Little escaped Gruffydd’s notice, and the troubadour’s clumsy attempts at stealth had certainly not done so.

But while his efforts at furtive movement were poor, his mastery of the Welsh tongue was not, though he spoke the dialect of the South instead of the North.

“You speak my language well,” Gruffydd remarked, after William finished greeting him.

“I spent time in Wales in my youth,” William replied. “You are familiar with Gwenwynwyn?”

Gwenwynwyn was chief rival of Gruffydd’s friend and liege lord Prince Llewelyn for land and rule in Wales. Any friend to Gwenwynwyn was an enemy of Llewelyn’s, and hence an enemy of Gruffydd’s as well.

“I am familiar with him, yes,” said Gruffydd shortly.

“I spent several years abiding with him and his people,” William went on, smiling. “A most enjoyable experience.”

Gruffydd examined him with new interest. Was William truly foolish enough to think that claiming friendship with Gwenwynwyn was the way to ingratiate himself with Llewelyn’s sworn man?

Indeed, he did not. Gruffydd looked William in the eyes and saw that the troubadour knew exactly what he was saying.

“In truth, I still count those of his court as my friends,” William went on. “They write to me that his fortunes are much improved since your friend Llewelyn failed so pitiably to defeat the King last summer, and the King extended his hand in friendship to Gwenwynwyn.”

Gruffydd took a shot back. “Aye, but it seems John still hopes for the friendship of my Prince as well, else he would not have married one of England’s finest flowers to me.”

The troubadour’s face turned red. Gruffydd had hit his mark. He bowed deeply. “It has been a pleasure and an honor to converse with you,” he said. “Now I fear it grows late, and I must collect my lady wife.”

He moved through the shadows outside the glow of the rushlights until he was but a few measures away from Isabelle. She was conversing with an older lady he did not know, and for a moment Gruffydd allowed himself to watch her as she listened intently to the lady’s words. Her hair was still hanging freely down her back, the reddish highlights catching the fire, making her pale skin glow and her eyes sparkle.

She was smiling, and the sight of that smile made something deep inside Gruffydd pull tighter. He did not know what it was, or why, but it took him only a second to shut the feeling down. He would not, could not, allow himself to feel anything more than polite indifference to the woman he’d just married.

It was simply not possible.

He watched for a few more minutes, though, until he noticed Isabelle’s smile was fading and her expression growing troubled. Taking a step forward, he managed to hear the woman’s words.

“Of course, they’re not like us. Oh, my poor girl, if only your mother was here! I know she’d not have allowed such a thing.”

“But my lady, ‘twas on the King’s orders that I wed this day. You know my father had no choice.”

The old lady’s eyes narrowed as she stared at Isabelle. “There is always a choice, my dear. If you were my daughter I would have shipped you away to France ere I let you become the wife of one of those accursed Welsh, and let the King find another fatted calf.” She waved a hand airily. “Your father is simply too weak, child.”

Gruffydd felt his chest tighten in anger. Who did this woman think she was, speaking to his wife thus?

The woman sighed and went on, as if she had not just insulted Isabelle and her father both. “I wish there was more advice I could give you about this night, but I am afraid I know not what perversions a Welshman might like to perform. Would that John had managed to kill the whole lot of them, instead of striking a deal for the sake of his baseborn daughter and inflicting innocent Norman women with such punishment!”

At this slur to his nation and his Princess, of whom Gruffydd was actually fond, he began to step forward again, but was stopped by the anger in his wife’s voice.

“My lady de Bouchet, I can assure you I do not see my marriage as a punishment, nor can I manage to find fault in a father’s making peace for the sake of a beloved daughter, no matter what the circumstances of her birth. I know my father would do the same for me, which is why he agreed to such a beneficial match for myself and for England. I am pleased the King and Lord Gruffydd have honored me so, and have seen nothing in my lord husband that would lead me to believe him anything but a kind and wise man who will make me a good husband. Surely,” she smiled a thin smile at the dumbstruck woman, “it is encouraging that he did show up at the church this morning, and did not humiliate me by forsaking our betrothal and running away.”

Gruffydd smothered a gasp of laughter. So that was Lady Ethelwise de Bouchet! Gruffydd, through his spies in England, had heard the story of her daughter’s humiliation at being abandoned at the altar on her wedding morn, and the subsequent wedding of the intended groom to a pregnant servant. He looked admiringly at his bride. Not many women would show such loyalty, and not many women would be so bold as to insult a high-ranking guest in defense of her father…and her husband.

Why had Isabelle defended him? He knew she could not want this marriage, yet here she was, defiantly telling Lady de Bouchet that she was thrilled and confident that she’d made a good match.

She could not mean it. Could she?

He left the shadows of the corner. Whether she meant it or not, he owed her something for her loyalty.

He stepped between the two women just as Lady de Bouchet opened her mouth to speak again, her face red with anger.

“My lady wife,” he said, forcing a warm smile to his face as he took Isabelle’s hand and raised it to his lips. “I have been looking for you.”

Her eyes, wide with surprise, caught his, and he glanced warningly at Lady de Bouchet, letting Isabelle know he had overheard. Her pretty face flushed pink, but she returned his smile with one of her own. “You have found me,” she said lightly, pleasing Gruffydd with her quickness of mind. Would this woman ever stop surprising him?

“Aye, I have,” he said, moving closer to her until he could smell her hair, “and I intend to keep you by my side this time.” Still smiling, but a little more coldly, he turned to the stunned old woman standing opposite. “You will excuse us, my lady,” he said, bowing low. “I have need of my wife.”

Lady de Bouchet managed a weak smile at him, but her eyes still burned with rage as he turned away from her. He held Isabelle’s arm loosely as he pulled her away from the woman and back into the dark corner.

“I did not need your help!” Isabelle whispered, glancing about her.

“You were doing well,” Gruffydd replied. “But you did need my help. Lady de Bouchet is a viper, and unafraid of making a scene. Is that what you would like your guests to remember from your wedding party?”

Isabelle pulled her arm from his grasp. “I would be pleased if my guests had no wedding party to remember,” she snapped.

Gruffydd was surprised that her words hurt him. So her defense of him was indeed false, made only to wound de Bouchet and not to truly express any pleasure at being his bride. Just as he’d thought.

“As would I, my lady,” he replied, “but I fear the deed is done, and the memories are being made. So I ask you again, would you like to return to the lady so she can further insult you and your family? I can easily lead you back to her and tell her that I was mistaken in thinking we had anything to say to each other.”

*****

Isabelle stared into his dark eyes as they turned cold. She had to admit she was pleased he’d come so quickly to her side, and grateful. It was the unwanted rush of warmth toward him that made her turn on him so harshly, and she regretted it as she cast her own eyes downward.

“Nay,” she said quietly. “I do not wish to return to the lady and her insults.”

“At least we agree on something,” he said. “Now, shall we—”

But whatever he was about to say was cut off by the sudden shouts from the guests. Isabelle heard Gruffydd mutter something under his breath as they both realized they had been spotted. Their guests were eager to see them bedded down for the night, and being caught together like this was just what some needed to begin crying out for the fun to start.

Isabelle fought to keep her nervousness from turning into panic. She was about to be stripped naked and forced into bed with this man, to the applause of a group of strangers, and fear sliced her heart like a cold blade. She turned to run, but Gruffydd’s hand grasped her arm. “You will only make it worse for both of us if you try to escape,” he muttered, and Isabelle could see the truth in his words as the crowd began to close in on them.

*****

She shivered, but whether it was from the chill in the air or the terror in her heart Isabelle knew not. She knew only that she was naked under her thin shift, and alone in her bedchamber with a man she did not know who was also naked under his tunic. She knew he was, for she had seen his bare chest when he got out of bed to put on his shirt after the guests left.

The room was fragrant with candles, their warm, friendly glow only serving to make her lonelier. Trays with wine and wafers were placed invitingly around the room. The priest had been in to bless the bed, and now Isabelle was alone and afraid with her new husband.

But he did not seem embarrassed as she was, nor did he seem to be particularly curious or interested in her. Lady de Bouchet’s words came back to her before she could stop them, and she tried to remember what a nasty scold the lady was and not her dire warnings of perversions.

She stood in the middle of the room, having copied his actions by dressing herself again when he did. Gruffydd had not commented on this. He barely seemed to notice as he went to stoke the fire.

Finally he spoke, his back still to her. “You should get back in bed. ‘Tis cold.”

But Isabelle found she could not move. Was he truly concerned about her, or was he merely trying to find a way to lure her back into bed so he could claim his rights as a husband? The thought made something inside her feel warm even as fear still held her in its grip.

*****

Gruffydd managed to coax the flames higher, savagely poking at the logs with the iron poker, knowing as he did so what a poor substitute this was for the fire he would like to be starting with his wife. The fire he would have set with her if not for the cursed marriage vows that made her more than a woman to take an evening’s pleasure with. He set the poker down, then stood and turned to her.

The flickering light from the fire played across her features, making her luminous in her thin shift. He could make out the pleasing curves and narrows of her shape underneath it, could see the way her nipples poked proudly at the cloth in the cold air. He struggled with the lump that rose to his throat, and said as calmly as he could, “My lady, I can assure you, you are perfectly safe from me.”

Her eyes widened in surprise, and relief spread quickly across her face. She tried to hide it, but it was there.

“My lord,” she said slowly, looking down at her feet, “it is not my intention to…to deny you your rights as my husband.”

Even in the dim light her blush was visible. Gruffydd tried to keep himself calm as her words brought unbidden the image of her sprawled on the bed beneath him.

He could not have her, he reminded himself, before he responded to her words, tempering his voice with kindness.

“You hold yourself too cheaply, my lady.”

Her eyes raised to his. “I do not understand.”

“Nay, I can see you do not.”

“My lord, you cannot expect me to play your game without knowing the rules,” she said. He liked the way her eyes flashed as she spoke. “Will you explain to me what you mean?”

“I mean only that you should not be so willing to give yourself away, just because they expect it of you.” He took a step towards her, half expecting her to pull back, but when she did not he took another step. He was right in front of her now, close enough to see the shadows her long eyelashes made on her pale cheeks.

“I know that I am your husband.” How strange that word felt in his mouth! “But we do not know each other, and I am sure ‘twill be a long time ere we do. Perhaps we may never grow to like each other enough to share a bond so strong as the one of which we now speak.” That was good, he thought. It set the cornerstone for his ultimate dismissal of her. Would that he could just leave this place without her.

But he knew that was not possible. He could not humiliate her in such a fashion. Even had he been inclined to do so before, her conversation earlier with Lady de Bouchet made it unthinkable.

Then she turned her eyes up to him, and he saw how the light caught them and made them shine like sapphires. His knees went weak. If only she were not his wife…

*****

“I see,” Isabelle said, as calmly as she could. She hoped fervently that he could not see how upset she was, how much it hurt that this man she’d been forced to marry had so little desire for her he would not even make her his true wife.

Not that she desired him so much, she thought. Aye, there was a certain power and grace in his movements that would make any woman’s head turn. Aye, there was something in his dark eyes that made her body warm. And aye, he was handsome, and quick-witted. Even worse, the nearness of him had made her pulse quicken disconcertingly.

But he was not the type of man she liked. Not the type of man she wanted. It simply would have made her feel better to be the one holding the power in this room.

Somehow he had taken it already, and she never thought that would happen.

Suddenly she was very tired. The day was all jumbled in her head, the drinks she’d had at the feast adding to the unreality and making her feel as if she could sleep for a week. On the morrow she would leave her home, her possessions, and her family and go to a strange country to live with a man who obviously saw her as an irritant.

“I shall go to sleep now,” she said, trying to put some strength into her voice. She wanted to ask if he intended to sleep in the bed with her, but dared not. “I thank you for your truthfulness.”

“I strive to be truthful, my lady,” he replied.

She looked at him carefully, wondering if he was teasing her, but here was nothing in his face or demeanor that indicated he was. She nodded.

“I am pleased to hear it,” she said. “Good night.”

Not waiting for his echoing response, she turned away from him and crawled alone into her marriage bed, hoping the pounding of her heart would slow enough for her to sleep.

*****

A puppy whimpered. It must be hungry, the poor thing. Why was it not downstairs with the other dogs? How had it made its way up the stairs alone? It sounded so young, so sad…if she could just get out of bed and open the chamber door…if she could just get up.

Isabelle was trying so hard to get out of bed that she was awake and sitting up before it dawned on her that she was dreaming. There was no puppy. Instead there was only darkness, and the heavy sound of Gruffydd’s breathing.

It sounded too heavy and fast for sleep, and her mind barely finished the thought when she realized someone was crying out in the room. That heartbreaking sound she’d heard was not a puppy at all, but it was real.

And it was coming from her husband.

For a moment, she was too shocked at the sight of him actually in the bed with her to react. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light from the fire’s last embers, she saw his handsome face contorted with pain. His tawny skin, now bare, glowed with sweat as he clutched the bedcovers closer.

He was speaking between moans. Isabelle assumed it was his native tongue, for she could not understand any of it, but the sound was horrible, fear and misery transforming his voice from the deep, self-assured sound she was growing accustomed to into something almost like a child’s.

She looked around the room for a moment, hoping that someone else had heard him and would enter to render aid. But there was no one, and it dawned on her that she was Gruffydd’s wife. ‘Twas her job to soothe his brow and chase away whatever demon was assaulting his sleep.

“My lord,” she said softly, hoping her voice would wake him. It did not. He was still sleeping, and to her shock she saw a tear escape from his tightly shut eye as he continued to moan. It sounded as if he was begging someone for something, his voice so plaintive and sad a tear sprang to her own eye in sympathy.

“Lord Gruffydd.” This time she reached out to touch him tentatively on his broad, bare chest. His skin felt hot and smooth, but Isabelle had barely enough time to register it before a hand closed painfully around her wrist, and an arm like steel clutched her waist and yanked her across the prostrate body of her husband. She gasped in terror and was about to scream when she felt the touch of cold metal at her throat.

Her husband’s face loomed above her, his ragged breath hot on her neck. It was his hand holding the blade to her throat, his body which had grasped and pinned her underneath him, and his eyes that were quickly losing the dazed look of fury and coming back to seeing the waking world.

Isabelle started to speak, but could not get the words out before Gruffydd threw the dagger aside and leaped away from her in one swift, smooth movement. He was still gasping, but even as she watched he regained control of himself.

He was naked, at least from the waist up, so Isabelle assumed the rest of him was as well. It surprised her. She had not been comfortable enough to sleep naked with him, though she normally wore nothing to bed. The reddish glow of the dying embers in the fireplace illuminated his gleaming chest, emphasizing the contours and planes of muscles and sinew. He looked like a demon himself as he ran a hand through his dark hair and turned away from her.

She expected him to speak, to ask if she was unharmed, but he did not. Isabelle found herself once again in the uncomfortable position of wanting to ask him a question but feeling that her words would be unwelcome, or at least an embarrassment to her.

So she did not make a sound either, only watched as Gruffydd slid out of the bed and closed the curtains behind him. Through the madness of thoughts that swirled in her mind, Isabelle heard rustlings and quiet clickings, then the slight creak of the door as it opened and closed.

She was alone again. Alone and scared, wondering who this stranger she had married truly was.

Chapter 4

But the day that followed provided no answers to Isabelle’s questions. They left Harvington Castle at dawn, and Isabelle spent most of the long and scary ride to Gruffydd’s home alternately swallowing her anger and fighting back tears.

Matilda’s sweet, sad smile…William’s unshed tears as he turned his face away from her in the hall…her father.

Isabelle always imagined leaving her father after her wedding would be bittersweet. She never knew it would be the most difficult thing she’d ever done. Even as she thought of her father’s face the tears threatened again, and she blinked them away lest someone notice.

Not that her husband would. Gruffydd had barely spoken to her the entire journey, other than an occasional query about her well-being. She assured him curtly on each occasion that she was fine, preferring to keep her fear and misery to herself.

But still she wondered. What on earth had he been dreaming about? What could this enormous, and enormously strong, man dream that would terrify him so?

And was it safe to share a bed with him again?

The crescent moon hung low in the sky, barely visible through the trees as they climbed higher and higher. Isabelle understood now why her husband had bade her bring only a few items, as there was no room for a wagon on the narrow path which wound through the forest. The night around them was still and silent, and Isabelle was quite scared when at last Gruffydd turned to her.

“There it is,” he said, and Isabelle followed the path indicated by his pointing finger to a vague outline in the gloomy light.

The only thing she had a clear impression of was the outer wall, for the rushlights placed along its perimeter gave it definition and were illumination enough for her to see the figures of men standing at intervals along it. Behind those, she could make out the looming outline of the keep and one lit window.

She tried to smile, and turned to him to say how welcoming it looked, but he was already urging his horse faster as he headed for the gates.

Isabelle fought back a wave of loneliness as she watched Gruffydd move further from her, but refused to give in to her emotions. Instead, she spurred her own horse on and caught up with him as he was greeting the guards at the gate.

Did the man never genuinely smile? His servants did, as Isabelle saw when they finally entered the keep. All of them, from the guards to the housemaids, seemed pleased to see him, and Isabelle was surprised to see that a few of the maids seemed particularly eager to greet him. Even more surprising was the quick anger the expressions on their pretty little faces caused to rise in her chest. Who were these women, flirting with their eyes right in front of their new mistress?

Not that she cared, of course.

“Rhys,” Gruffydd said. He was addressing an older man with a kind face and cheerful smile. Rhys spoke to Gruffydd in Welsh as he bowed, then turned and bowed to Isabelle as well.

“This is Isabelle, my lady wife,” Gruffydd said, and Rhys’s smile grew larger as he welcomed Isabelle in halting French.

“It is a great pleasure to meet you, my lady. I hope that you will find things to your liking, and that you will notify me or one of the maids if there is anything you desire.”

“I thank you,” Isabelle replied, smiling also, both in pleasure and relief. Finding another who spoke her language was a boon she‘d not expected.

Rhys continued, “I shall call your new maid from her chamber to assist you, if you like.”

Isabelle was startled for a moment. Would her maid not sleep with her? Then she remembered that she was a wife and would likely be sharing a room with her husband, and her maid would sleep elsewhere for privacy’s sake.

Not that it was necessary. After Gruffydd’s little speech the night before, Isabelle was fairly certain that privacy was one thing—among several things—she and her husband would not be sharing.

Ever.

She sighed and, at his invitation, followed Rhys through the great hall and up a stone staircase set into the wall. The wooden door at the top was open, showing her a great chamber with a roaring fire in the large fireplace at one end. The solar, the chamber she would share with her husband.

It was for certes clean enough; it had the air of an abandoned place, impersonal and cold, despite the welcoming heat from the fire. The rushes and herbs strewn on the floor smelled fresh and pleasant, the blue and black tapestries on the wall and the blue bed curtains looked freshly washed and were in excellent repair.

But there was nothing about the room that indicated a person actually lived there. No slightly open cupboard door with a sleeve trailing carelessly from it, no shoes out of place where one might trip over them, no hairbrush or other grooming implements lay on the stone-topped dressing stand beside the jug of water and basin. Even the wardrobe, created by a short wall jutting out from the outer wall, was relentlessly neat. When she inspected it further, she found all the clothing in it was in subdued shades of brown, green or cream, placed together according to color.

There was a plain wooden screen in the corner by the fireplace, which she assumed hid a tub, and another wooden door on the opposite side that likely opened to a privy hall.

Isabelle stopped by the bed and looked out the window, holding the curtain aside. She could dimly make out shapes in the darkness below, but nothing to give her a true idea of what her new home looked like.

Her new home. It did not feel real.

“I can order a bath for you if you wish, my lady,” said Rhys. Isabelle dropped the curtain, startled. She had forgotten he was in the room with her.

“Or perhaps you would like something to eat,” he continued. “My lord Gruffydd usually dines when he returns from a journey, so there is food prepared.”

Isabelle was not hungry. She’d barely taken any food all day, but her heart felt too sore to allow her to dine in comfort.

“I think a bath would be lovely,” she said.

Rhys’s smile grew broader. “I shall have it prepared for you immediately,” he said. “Would you like your maid?”

“Nay,” Isabelle replied. “I shall be fine alone.”

“As you wish.”

Whatever faults Trwch Maenol may have had, indifferent servants were not one of them. Isabelle was amazed at the speed with which the tub was brought out from its place behind the screen and filled with steaming water and delicately scented herbs. No bath had ever looked more inviting, and Isabelle gladly accepted the help of one of the maids to loosen her gown before sending the girl from the room and sinking with a delighted sigh into the tub.

*****

Gruffydd and Rhys sat together while Gruffydd ate. He wanted to hear all that had happened during his three day absence, and Rhys, truly a loyal friend and servant, filled him in on every detail.

“Tell me about the wedding, my lord,” he asked now, and Gruffydd sighed.

“There is naught to tell,” he said. “If Llewelyn wants me wed, then wed I shall be, though I confess I do not understand why.” He lifted his goblet to his mouth and drank, then smiled in pleasure. “The wine the English drink is sour and spicy, enough to make a man‘s head ache. ’Tis truly a delight to return home, Rhys.”

Rhys was not smiling back. Instead, he was studying Gruffydd with a look of concern.

“Perhaps Llewelyn desires your happiness, my lord,” he said quietly, his gray eyes never leaving Gruffydd’s face.

Gruffydd shifted in his seat. “I am perfectly happy.”

“Aye?”

Gruffydd sighed. “Are we to keep having this same conversation? I know what your views on this subject are, and you know mine. I am not interested in having a wife, much less an English one. You of all people—” he glanced quickly around to make sure none were within earshot “—know what my reasons are.”

Rhys’s face was implacable. “Lady Isabelle is beautiful, and she seems kind. I cannot agree with your plans regarding her, Gruffydd. I think you should give her a chance. Give this marriage a chance. ‘Tis your duty. If the marriage is not a good one, at least you will know you tried.”

Gruffydd shook his head. “You know well what my duties are, and I cannot believe you would ask me to give up all we have worked for, all that I consider important. No matter how kind and attractive the lady is.”

“That is not fair. “

Gruffydd stared at him for a long moment before standing up.

“I know that, Rhys. Nothing in this life is fair. “

He headed for the staircase, already regretting the harshness of his words. Rhys may have some foolishly romantic ideas in his head, but Gruffydd knew the old man cared for him and wanted him to be happy. ‘Twas not Rhys’s fault that this was not possible.

He climbed the stairs slowly, thinking of how best to explain himself to Rhys on the morrow and hoping Isabelle would be asleep when he arrived in the chamber they would now share.

She was not sleeping. Instead, she was just standing to get out of the tub when he rounded the corner of the stairs and looked into the room.

His mouth went dry. For a moment, it seemed as if everything stopped, the silence in his head broken only by the rapid pounding of his heart as he gazed at the naked form of his wife.

She did not see him as she stood, water running in rivulets down the slope of her rounded breasts, pouring from her pert nipples and down her stomach to the thatch of damp reddish hair between her perfect thighs. She raised her arms to squeeze water from the long hair that hung down her back, her eyes closed.

The movement made her breasts rise and fall. He could not look away.

She turned to get a towel from the trestle table set up behind her, offering him an agonizingly clear view of a bottom as sweetly rounded as a cherry.

He almost groaned. Sweat began to form on his forehead as he tried to force himself to stop watching. This was not right, for him to look upon her so, for all she belonged to him in the eyes of the law.

It was not right, and it was not fair.

He wanted her. His manhood felt like iron in his braes and only his well-cultivated control kept him from tearing the towel from her hands and carrying her to bed…licking the water off her pale slim body and driving himself deep into her…

But he could not. Not for the ridiculous reason he’d given her the night before. He did like this woman, this spirited and intelligent woman he’d wed. His reaction now to her nakedness left him weak, and proved to him how strongly he desired her physically, not that he‘d doubted it before. Even without the very real possibility of her becoming pregnant, he simply could not be a husband to her, and if he was not going to be a mate he would for certes not be a lover. ’Twould not be fair. To either of them.

He swallowed and finally tore his eyes from the vision in front of him, then crept slowly back to the bottom of the stairs. He waited a few minutes, willing the tingling in his body to cease, willing the rigidity of his manhood to subside, before he started back up them. This time, he forced himself to step heavily.

She was dressed now, but the thin fabric of her chemise was clinging to her damp body as she rubbed her hair dry with the towel. Gruffydd clenched his fist for distraction and looked away.

“My lady wife,” he said, bowing. “I hope you like my home.”

*****

Isabelle noticed he did not call it “our home” or “your new home”, and frowned. She reached quickly for her dressing robe and pulled it around her, uncomfortably aware of just how close he’d come to catching her in the bath.

“’Tis fine,” she relied shortly.

“Is there a problem?”

Isabelle peered at him. There was nothing on his face to suggest he was not truly concerned for her opinion, yet she felt certain he cared not. “As I said, my lord, ’tis fine.”

“Did you enjoy your bath?”

Isabelle sighed and tightened the robe around her. “My lord, is this necessary?”

“I do not understand.”

“You pretend to have a care for my thoughts and feelings, but it is perfectly clear to me your interest is but politeness. You told me you strive for truthfulness. Why do we not agree, then, not to lie about this? I do not want to be here any more than you want me to be here, and ’tis foolish of us to behave otherwise.”

Gruffydd opened his mouth to speak, but her raised hand stopped him.

“Nay. There is no point in you trying to assure me that such is not the case. You have made it obvious that you have not the slightest interest in me, and so I feel it is safe for me to tell you I have no interest in you either, save, perhaps, as a guide while I try to adjust to this life which has been forced on me.”

Even as she spoke the words, Isabelle knew this was not entirely true. There was some part of her that was fascinated by this handsome, silent man who was her husband, and was stubbornly rising to the challenge of finding out what lay behind those dark, inscrutable eyes. Even this brave little speech was in part an attempt to wring a reaction from him.

In part. The rest of her meant it, and her voice shook with anger as she finished speaking.

Her husband merely stared at her for a long moment, long enough to make Isabelle fidgety. She looked away and crossed her arms in front of her, conscious that in doing so she had lost a tiny battle.

Gruffydd had not moved. “I see,” he said slowly. “I do think I can agree to drop the pretense, as you called it. But I have one question for my lady, if you would.”

She glanced back at him and nodded curtly.

“I do wonder why you do not go back to England? I would be happy to arrange safe passage for you as soon as possible, and I am certain your lord father would be most pleased at your return.”

Isabelle could not answer this. She was too busy cursing everyone she could think of, including the King, for putting her in this situation.

Gruffydd was offering her exactly what she wanted. The chance to return home, still a wife but without the burden of a husband. She would not have to fear another marriage and would not have to put up with a man.

She could devote herself to her sister, her father, and William, and Gruffydd ap Hywel could devote himself to whatever or whomever he desired.

If she had not promised her father just the day before that she would stay.

“Are you telling me to leave here?” She tried to keep the hope from her voice.

“Of course not,” was the reply. “You are my wife, and I will not send you away simply because we are indifferent to each other. I can say with confidence that there are many married couples who live so. The choice to leave must be yours, and yours alone.”

“You will not throw me out?”

“Nay. If you leave, it will be because you desire to leave. I simply will not stand in your way. I can see you do not want to be here, and I—” he bowed— “I am, as you said, indifferent to you. For certes I am not the a man who will make a lady a decent husband, nor a child a decent father. I confess I have little interest in doing so.”

Isabelle bit her lip. So there it was. They both wanted her to leave, but he would not force her to and she had promised not to unless he forced her.

“I shall think on it,” she said. “Now if you will excuse me, I wish to go to sleep.”

“By all means,” he replied, gesturing towards the bed. “Do not let me stop you.”

Isabelle glared at him. “I assure you, I will not.” She started to brush past him, and then stopped, anger at his rejection and the situation she was in welling up in her. “I hope I can sleep uninterrupted this night,” she said. “Perhaps my lord can try not to wake me with another bad dream.”

Quick as a flash his hand was around her arm, gripping her wrist. She cried out and tried to move away, but she could not. His grip was too strong. With his free hand he grabbed her chin, twisting her face so her eyes met his. Any traces of humor were gone from his face as his black eyes burned into hers.

“You would do well to keep your mouth shut about things you do not understand, my lady wife.” He spoke quietly, but Isabelle could not suppress a shiver at the menace in his voice. “My dreams are my concern.”

Her gaze faltered. She was flooded with shame. Whatever this man had or had not done, he had not been so discourteous to her as she had just been, and she regretted her rudeness even as she wondered why the mere mention of the previous night had aroused such a fury in him. She nodded slightly, and he released her. Her skin stung where he’d touched her.

“Go to bed,” he said, and turned and left the room.

*****

The sun was streaming through the window when she finally opened her eyes, and she was amazed to realize it was late morning. She must have been more tired than she thought.

She sat up and yawned, stretching her arms out to her sides, and glanced over to see Gruffydd sleeping peacefully beside her, the shuttered expression she was so used to seeing on his face gone.

Curious, she leaned a little closer. It was the first chance she’d had to really study him in the daylight, and she found that she was all too pleased by what she saw.

The covers were pushed down to his waist. Isabelle had seen men’s bare chests before, but most men were not built like her husband.

The heavy muscles and golden skin were crisscrossed by scars, some small and pale, others that made her wince just to imagine how painful the wounds that caused them must have been. One, particularly large and jagged, ran from under his left arm all the way down to his right hip. It looked like he had been torn open, and Isabelle could not imagine how he could have received such a wound and survived. There was a fresh cut on his left arm, just above the elbow, and she wondered vaguely when it had occurred.

Another scar was on his stomach, beginning at his bellybutton and running down. Isabelle thought with a flash of horror that perhaps this explained her husband’s reluctance to bed her. Perhaps it was not merely a distaste for marriage, or a desire for some kind of friendship ere the marriage was consummated, as he had claimed. Perhaps he was disfigured.

Nay. That was not possible. Their marriage would never have been arranged if Gruffydd could not be expected to produce heirs. But still…

Moving as stealthily as she could, hoping not to wake him, Isabelle reached for the thick fur cover. She knew she must be blushing as she glanced up at him, making sure he still slept before she grasped the fur in her hand and began to lift it.

Gruffydd’s breathing did not change, but she caught only a glimpse of dark hair before his hand clasped her wrist and pulled it forward, making her drop the fur in surprise.

“What are you doing?”

Her humiliation was complete. She felt her face burning as she tried to think of a good reply.

“I asked what you were doing,” he said. His tone was mild but tinged with anger, and she glanced up to see him frowning at her.

“I—I was…I thought…” She looked up at him again, her mind blank.

“Do not try to sneak around me, Isabelle. It will not work,” he said. He turned and started to get out of bed, then stopped and looked back at her. “Excuse me.”

She turned away as he climbed out of the bed, closing the curtains behind him and leaving her alone with her embarrassment. How could she have done such a thing? And to be caught! It was not to be borne, especially after the previous night‘s shame. She wished fervently that there was a God and He would strike her dead at that moment.

Instead she heard distant voices growing louder and the echoes of someone running up the stairs to their chamber.

She peered through the bed curtains as a young man burst into the room, pale and out of breath. He bowed quickly to Gruffydd, speaking in rapid Welsh.

Something awful must have happened, for the young man looked close to tears. Gruffydd said something Isabelle assumed was a curse and pulled his tunic over his head. She had not expected to feel sorrow at the disappearance of that magnificent chest, but she did.

The two men left the room, and after a moment Isabelle heard more raised voices in the great hall below, her husband’s rising above them. She got out of bed and quickly washed her face and cleaned her teeth in the basin. She wanted to find out what was happening. Had another war broken out?

Cold fear swept through her. Oh, please, no! Not war, not when she was stuck here in this hostile place, so far from her family.

Rhys said the night before that she would have a maid. Where was she?

Isabelle waited a few minutes, hoping the maid would arrive, but finally stamped her foot in impatience and began dressing herself. ’Twas not easy, but Isabelle had done it before. She was trying to reach around her back for the laces when she heard footsteps again on the stairs.

“There you are,” she said with relief, turning towards the doorway.

But it was not a maid—at least, not like any lady’s maid Isabelle had ever had before. Instead, it was a slim young Welshwoman with curling dark hair and a friendly face.

Isabelle frowned. The girl looked eager to help, but she was too young and not properly dressed to be Isabelle’s maid. What if she was some kind of spy? Perhaps this was one of those girls she’d seen the night before, flirting with her husband, coming now to do her harm?

“I am the daughter of Rhys,” the girl said, bowing. Her French was just as good as if not better than her father’s, and Isabelle breathed a sigh of relief, both at the prospect of speaking to someone and that the someone was not likely to be planning her death. “My name is Gwledyr.” She smiled in understanding at Isabelle and said more slowly, “Goo-led-ear. I have come to help you dress. My lord Gruffydd thought mayhap you would like to see the grounds today, and he asked me to accompany you.”

“Why does he not accompany me himself?” Isabelle asked, before she remembered her behavior last night and this morning. Of course he would not want to accompany her anywhere, save perhaps back to England, she thought. Good. Mayhap he would come to his senses and send her away.

But Gwledyr did not seem surprised that Isabelle would expect her husband to spend the day with her. “Have you not heard, my lady?” she asked, her eyes widening. When Isabelle looked at her questioningly, she continued. “There was another attack last night!”

“Attack?” Isabelle’s heart sank a little further. What on earth was she doing here? Another attack? What type of place was this?

“Aye, on the road.” Gwledyr took Isabelle’s disobedient laces from her. “We are not too far from the Marches here, my lady,” she said, pulling the laces with an expert hand. “Hostility breaks out at times. Also, since we are positioned close to the border of Gwenwynwyn’s territory, his people try to attack as well.”

“Gwenwynwyn?” The name rang a distant bell in Isabelle‘s mind, but she could not place it. She sat obligingly at Gwledyr’s gentle push as the girl began brushing her hair.

“Aye. He calls himself Prince of Wales, my lady, but he is not. He rules the south, and he often tries to stage sneak attacks on our lands.”

Isabelle was trying very hard to follow this, but Gwledyr’s enthusiastic brushing was making her head sore. “I do not understand,” she said, as the brushing ceased and Gwledyr began plaiting her hair. “You say he tries to stage these sneak attacks?”

“Aye. He tries.” Gwledyr stepped in front of Isabelle to glance her up and down with a practiced eye, then nodded in satisfaction. “I believe that has done it. You look wonderful, my lady.”

“Is there no wimple and veil?” Isabelle had not seen any of the Welshwomen wearing them, but assumed it was because they were servants.

Gwledyr smiled and shook her head. “We do not wear them here, my lady. But if you would feel more comfortable…”

“Nay, ‘tis foolish to bother, if it will only make me look more foreign.” In truth, Isabelle was pleased, for the straps that held the veil in place always made her itch.

“You do look beautiful, even without it,” Gwledyr said.

Isabelle smiled her thank you, but was not really concerned about her appearance. It made no difference to her husband, and she wanted to hear more about what kind of danger she was in. “Why does he not succeed in his attacks?”

Gwledyr smiled and took a step back. “The dragon protects us, my lady,” she said. “We do not fear, for we know we are safe.”

Isabelle opened her mouth to ask about this—surely the poor girl was not right in the head, if she truly believed that there was a dragon patrolling at night to protect her—when Gwledyr bowed to her again. “Shall we go down, my lady?”

Isabelle nodded, not sure if Gruffydd wanted her to come down or not, but unwilling to risk his wrath if he did by not going. Her head was swimming. Nighttime attacks and menacing husbands with bad dreams and reflexes like a snake’s…this was for certes not what she had ever expected her life to be like.

Gruffydd did not notice when she entered the room, although most of the men did. Isabelle smiled and returned their bows, pleased that she had not been shunned.

Gruffydd was across the great hall from her, his arm around a young man with unruly reddish hair. Isabelle was astonished to see the youth crying while her husband comforted him. She stopped in her tracks and watched.

‘Twas only three days now that she’d known Gruffydd, but she would have felt confident wagering he was not a man whose breast contained anything of comfort or kind understanding. And yet there he was, holding a sobbing boy, his voice low as he spoke. Even as she watched, the boy turned his face and buried it briefly in Gruffydd’s chest while her husband clutched him tighter, still speaking quietly.

Gruffydd glanced up and met Isabelle’s gaze. His face was impassive, but Isabelle thought she saw sadness and anger in his eyes, just for a fleeting moment before it disappeared.

“That is Culhwch ab Ithel,” Gwledyr whispered. “’Twas his home that was burned last night, his father that was killed.”

Isabelle gasped. “Someone died?”

“Aye. We are lucky the dragon arrived before any more were lost.”

Isabelle tried not to focus on the image that this statement made in her mind, of a dragon flying through the trees, breathing fire on the attackers. “How did the dragon not kill everyone, destroy everything?”

Gwledyr looked surprised, then amused. “My lady Isabelle, you understand that we do not speak of an actual dragon, do you not? We have been blessed with a warrior whom we call the Black Dragon, for he is the fiercest and best fighter any have ever seen.”

Isabelle breathed a sigh of relief. At least Gwledyr was not insane. “Who is this Dragon, then?”

“Oh, we do not know! None have seen his face, and he has never come forward to claim his title. Lord Gruffydd has spoken to Prince Llewelyn, and together they have offered lands to this man, but he has never come forward.”

“Perhaps it is more than one man,” Isabelle said. “Perhaps it is a group of men taking it in turn.”

“Oh, nay, it cannot be,” Gwledyr said. “Our men are the finest warriors in the world, but none of them can fight like the Dragon. Why, only a few days ago, one of the village women was beset by thieves as she traveled from here to visit relatives in Meirionydd. That is close by, my lady,” she added, seeing Isabelle’s confusion. “She does not know how the Dragon heard her screams, but he did. She said he fought off five men before finally escorting her safely to her destination. She said he was not even injured.”

“They were likely drunk,” Isabelle said, but regretted it when Gwledyr looked hurt.

“That may have been so in that case, Lady Isabelle, but I can assure you it is not so all the time. Our own men have seen the Dragon take on many foes, soldiers of Gwenwynwyn’s, mercenaries, and he has never failed to defeat them.”

“Did the village woman ask him who he was?”

“Oh, nay, she could not! He did not even speak to her, she said, save a whisper to know her destination.”

Isabelle tore her gaze away from her husband and looked at the girl. Gwledyr’s wide, friendly face was solemn. “The Dragon is a gift we have been given, my lady,” she said. “We count ourselves far too lucky to question it.”

*****

Isabelle could not stop those words from echoing in her mind the rest of the day, as she and Gwledyr made their way around the grounds.

The keep itself was beautiful, well-kept and clean, and the lands around it made Isabelle gasp in pleasure when they first walked the path on top of the wide curtain wall. There were trees and hills as far as the eye could see, dotted here and there with a pasture in which grazing sheep and the occasional small house were visible. A faint mist seemed to hang over it all, lending an air of unreality to the scene. Isabelle stopped and frankly stared, her misery forgotten as she stared at the peace and beauty spread before her.

“You see now why your lord husband loves it so,” Gwledyr said softly beside her. Isabelle glanced at her, but the girl’s eyes were on the view before them.

“Aye,” Isabelle replied. “’Tis lovely. I confess to being surprised, though. I had not imagined Lord Gruffydd as a man who cares much for such things.”

“Lord Gruffydd, not care? My lady, I fear you do not know him well yet, for he cares about all things. He comes here every night to watch the sun go down, and usually greets it again the following morn. I have never known a man so appreciative of the world’s beauty as he.”

Isabelle forced herself not to snort in disbelief. Gwledyr could think what she wanted to, but naught would convince Isabelle her husband was a man who would take pleasure in a view-or in anything not related to violence.

‘Twould be a long and lonely spring, she thought, and then something else occurred to her that brought a spark of hope to her breast. “Gwledyr,” she said, still stumbling over the unfamiliar syllables of the girl’s name, “where are the gardens?”

*****

Gruffydd sat alone by the fire for a long time after the boy Culhwch left the hall. He had a home and family to return to, and Gruffydd had sent him there, ordering the boy to keep him well updated on their progress and to inform him immediately if there was anything they required.

But it was not enough. Damn it, it was not enough!

Ithel was dead, and Gruffydd could not keep the man’s face out of his mind, joining the other faces that swam tauntingly in his memory. The people he had failed. The people he had lost. And now Culhwch would turn fourteen and become a man next summer without his father’s guidance.

Gruffydd rubbed the scar on his palm with his thumb and then took another drink from his goblet. This was no good. He was not doing himself any favors by sitting here thinking. He needed action, and his quintain and training room awaited him. With any luck, he would be able to work himself senseless and perhaps take a nap before the evening meal.

He strode out of the hall and into the bailey, wondering vaguely where Isabelle was. He’d asked Gwledyr to show her around the place, trusting the girl to keep her safe. He had an idea that Isabelle might not always be as careful as she should.

He had expected them to return to the hall by now, though. He was proud of his home, but had to admit that even a thorough tour would not take more than half an hour or so. Isabelle and Gwledyr had been gone for almost three, and he hoped Gwledyr had not violated his orders and taken Isabelle to the village.

He was heading for his training room, the large outbuilding he’d installed at the edge of the bailey and outfitted with equipment he’d brought back from his travels or designed himself, when he heard a voice raised in anger.

“A pox on you! Curse you and all those you know!”

Gruffydd stopped in his tracks, suppressing a groan. That was Isabelle’s voice. Had he been wrong in his estimation that perhaps Gwledyr and his wife might find some companionship between them?

“You are naught but dirt under my feet! I loathe you!”

Alarmed, Gruffydd quickly traced the voice to the other side of the wall. Not waiting to walk to the gate, he vaulted himself quickly over the top, landing in the garden.

“What goes on here?” he demanded, and then stopped short. Isabelle was alone, a serene smile on her face and dirt on her hands as she knelt before a strip of bare earth. Her hair hung loosely over her shoulders and her shoes lay discarded on the ground next to her.

“Oh, greetings, my lord,” she said calmly as she picked something up from the basket next to her. “I hope you are well.”

“What are you doing?”

But she did not reply. Instead, she placed the tiny seed she’d taken from the basket into the ground and began covering it with dirt. “You beastly, horrible thing! May you never have a day’s peace!”

Gruffydd did not know if he should laugh or have his wife sent to bed for a rest. He’d never seen anyone cursing at seeds before.

“I asked you what you are doing,” he said, feeling slightly foolish.

She smiled at him. Gruffydd almost gasped; he had not seen her smile so before. Her face lit up, making her so lovely in the sunlight that it caught at his heart.

“I am planting basil,” she said. “I do apologize if I disturbed you, but your gardens are truly neglected. I thought mayhap I could work on them.”

“Why do you shout so?”

“Because it is necessary,” she replied. “My mother taught me. You must curse basil when you plant it or it will never grow properly, she said. She loved to work in the gardens.”

“Your mother?” Another shadow flitted across Gruffydd’s mind. His mother had also loved to work in the garden.

“Aye.” Isabelle looked down for a moment. “She taught me so much ere she died.”

“When was that?” Gruffydd could not believe he was asking such a question. He did not want to know about this woman, and he for certes did not want to speak of such personal matters with her. Why, then, could he not stop himself?

But she did not seem to mind. “Ten years past,” she said. “A fever took her.” She looked up at him, her smile now sad. “It seems at times I shall never be able to get over the pain of losing her, or the anger I felt when she died.”

Gruffydd almost lost his control in that moment. He had never heard anyone speak of loss in that way, mirroring his own feelings. It would have been so easy to kneel next to her on the ground and tell her he knew what she meant, that his mother’s death continued to haunt him, that he also felt it was a loss he would never stop feeling. To unburden himself.

But he could not. His feelings were his own concern, and he did not want to let this lovely woman into his heart as well as his home.

Not to mention her cruel comment to him the night before. Why arm her further?

He was aware that she was watching him, and quickly focused his gaze back on her. “So basil must be cursed to grow properly,” he said. “Know you where you mother learned of this?”

“Nay,” she said. Her face changed slightly, and Gruffydd knew that his failure to respond had disappointed her.

“She said only that she learned of it in her youth, and that I must take care to remember it. Some things cannot flourish without pain at the start, she said.”

“She sounds wise,” Gruffydd said, before he could stop himself.

“She was.”

They stayed in awkward silence for another moment. Gruffydd’s heart was pounding. He wanted to get away. He needed to get away.

He could feel her eyes on him, as if she was waiting again for him to speak.

“I have business to attend to,” he said. But he did not leave.

“I have more seeds to sow,” she replied. But she did not move.

Gruffydd forced himself to turn away and take a step towards the gate, then stopped.

“I shall tell Rhys to provide you with whatever you need for your garden,” he said, then left the enclosure as fast as he could.

Chapter 5

“What have you done?”

Isabelle licked her lips. “I have made a few changes, my lord. To make the room more comfortable.”

“Comfortable?” She almost laughed at the expression on his face as he picked up the edge of the red silk bed curtain she’d hung to replace his blue one.

Gone was the austere blue and black that had dominated the room, the severity and coldness. Isabelle had spent the entire morning turning the solar into a room she herself could barely tolerate.

She could not imagine how it must bother her tidy husband to look at the bright brass mirrors, the flowers, the ribbons she’d tied in bows on every available post and table leg.

Her husband, who if the previous state of the room was any indication, would have frowned to see a razor with a carved handle because it was too embellished for his taste.

“Aye, my lord,” she said, keeping her eyes wide and innocent. “’Tis much more welcoming now, is it not?”

He gazed around the room in disbelief as he walked through it, stopping to examine her embellishments more closely. His flail hung mounted on the wall, with ribbons hanging from the handle and chain. She bit her lips again at the sheer puzzlement that crossed his face before his expression cleared.

“It is,” he said. “Why, my lady, it seems you have discovered just what this room has needed for years. Why do you not make me some embroidery, and we can hang that up as well? A lady so skilled at decorating must surely be equally skilled with the needle.”

Isabelle frowned. She hated embroidering, and in truth she hated this room as well. The colors were nicer, and it was for certes more cheerful, but…

It made her feel itchy and closed in. She had been convinced he would loathe it.

“Oh, nay,” she said, casting her eyes modestly downward. “I fear I have no skill for embroidery, and I fear also that my lord is merely being kind. Mayhap I should take some of the ornaments down.” She had even hung ribbons from the ceiling rafters.

His eyes glittered at her, and she realized with some embarrassment that he knew exactly what she was trying to do. “Do not be modest. I insist, Lady Isabelle. Please, why do you not make me some embroidery? I shall send a maid up with everything you need. It would please me greatly to have something created by your own sweet hands. Just as this room pleases me.”

“Nay, truly—”

“Nonsense. And since you display a talent for such things, mayhap you would like to redecorate the entire keep?”

Isabelle’s heart sank. She had no talent for decoration, and no desire to attempt such a thing. In truth, she found the great hall to be a welcoming place and had no thoughts of changing it.

But she could not admit that to her smirking husband.

“It will be a pleasure,” she said weakly, turning her face away from his triumphant expression.

“Excellent. I shall have some materials brought up to you immediately.”

He turned and left, the swagger in his step telling Isabelle clearly that she had lost this time, and that he knew it.

*****

Her fingers ached from struggling with needle and thread as she sat down to dinner that night, refusing to look at Gruffydd as he sat beside her.

“How goes your project, my lady?” he asked, and she quickly made her hands into fists so he would not see her damaged fingertips.

“Wonderfully,” she said. “I have decided to make a portrait of you, my lord.”

“Aye?”

“Aye. As I said, my skills are not as advanced as they might be, but a snake is an easy object to render.”

He laughed. She had never seen him truly smile, never heard him laugh before this moment. It changed his face completely. What had been closed and forbidding was now open and welcoming, and he looked more handsome than she had thought it possible for any man to look. He had a crooked tooth in the front, only slightly crooked but it made his smile unique. It took her breath away.

“By all means, take the easy way out,” he replied. “’Tis a pity you do not do so in all things.”

“I could say the same to you, my lord.”

“Aye, but that would take all the fun out of it for me.”

“And you are having fun now?”

“Indeed I am. Why would I not be? Watching you come up with ways to torment me is more fun than I have had in some time.”

“I am so pleased to be a source of amusement.”

“Then I look forward to more. Tell me,” he said, leaning in closer to her. “What do you have planned next? I would be happy to assist you.”

“I shall burn all of your belongings to make room for more ribbons,” she snapped. The heat rushing to her face at the nearness of him infuriated her. Why did he always smell so good?

He chuckled.

“Just let me know when. I have a few items I should like to keep safe.”

“That does defeat the purpose.”

“Your purpose, not mine.”

“So I am here only for your amusement?”

He looked puzzled. “You are here because we have been forced to marry. ‘Tis not a situation that gives either of us pleasure, but as long as it is so I may as well find some amusement. Is there another reason?”

“Nay.” She gave him as dirty a look as she could. “I suppose there is not.”

She was beaten. He would not send her away, and trying to torment him had only given her more tasks to perform that she did not like. She would have to find some way to adjust.

Isabelle abandoned her cursed embroidery for a few hours the following morning and returned to the garden, where several servants waited for instructions. This confused her even as it pleased her. Why would Gruffydd do this for her, when he wanted her to leave so badly?

But then, given her failure to irritate him and the amusement he had taken in her attempts, did he truly want her to leave? Did he see her as a puppy, someone placed in his home to laugh at?

She wished she had the opportunity—and the courage—to ask him, but she did not.

He did not even sleep with her, it seemed. He was not in bed when she climbed in at the end of the day, and he was not in it when she awakened, although most days she would go down the stairs and meet him coming up them, looking tired and disheveled. He would greet her politely, then stay in their chambers until noontime.

She assumed he slept then, although she was not sure.

The gardens at her home in England were so well run and organized that there was little need for the kind of work she was doing now. She’d missed it, and as she watched the first shoots poke through the earth and transplanted delicate herbs and flowers, she was happier than she’d been since her father had informed her of her upcoming marriage.

Sometimes as she worked she saw Gruffydd training with his men in the bailey. He awed her with his skill at the quintain and with his sword, and she found herself watching him more and more as the days passed. The fierce concentration on his face fascinated her, as did the way he refused to stop until long after the other men were exhausted. Then he would stay on his own, the setting sun glimmering off his body, made shiny by exertion. She was awed by the play of muscles under his skin, by the smooth, powerful way that he moved.

Once or twice he caught her eye and nodded before she looked away, embarrassed to have been caught spying.

She also had the distinct pleasure of receiving letters from both her father and her sister Matilda, and the less pleasurable experience of receiving a letter from William. Her heart still froze when she thought of what might have happened had Gruffydd seen that particular missive, for it was full of declarations of love and wild vows to come and claim her back from “that barbarian” who was her husband. Strange how the yearnings she’d once felt for the troubadour seemed to have faded away in the few weeks she’d been gone from him. The passionate words that would once have made her turn pink with pleasure now made her uncomfortable, and she was not sure why this was.

Was he not her true love? Her sweet, kind William, so sensitive and caring? Who needed her so badly?

She had thought he was. But the cruel words towards her husband had driven her to a fury she did not understand, and she’d burned it immediately in the fireplace, taking care it was reduced fully to ash.

Her joy in hearing news from her father and sister was undimmed by William’s missive, though, and she wrote them back the same day, carefully avoiding her father’s hints about grandchildren.

And she worked with her needle.

“Ouch!” She poked herself again, and placed her finger in her mouth hoping to ease the pain.

“You did not lie,” said her husband behind her.

Isabelle jumped. She had not heard him enter the room.

“Lie?”

“Aye.” He picked up the cloth from her lap and examined it. “You truly do have no talent for this.”

She snatched it back from him, eyeing his bare chest. He must have come from the bailey. “Methinks I do a better job than whomever sewed up my lord’s wounds.”

He glanced down, his face coloring slightly. “I did not realize I was so terrible to look upon,” he said.

“Nay, my lord, I did not mean it that way,” she said quickly. “You are not…terrible to look on. I only wonder why there was not someone to aid you with more skill.”

She set the embroidery down and stood up, turning to face him. Up close, she could see the dark shadow of stubble on his chin and smell the overwhelmingly pleasant scent of his exertion.

“Rhys was there,” he said. “From my sixteenth year.”

“Was he there for this one?”

Without meaning to, she reached her hand up to the large, jagged scar across his chest.

*****

Gruffydd managed to keep the gasp from escaping his lips as her fingertips traced the rough skin of his old wound, burning across his breast like four tiny flames.

But he could not help the way his body tensed, the way his flesh erupted in goose bumps, or the way his nipples hardened at her touch.

“Aye,” he said, hoping she had not noticed his reaction.

Her fingers were now exploring further down, running to the end of the scar where it reached his hipbone. “What happened?”

He swallowed. “I…I was attacked.”

Her fingers left him abruptly. “By whom?”

He clenched his fists to keep from grabbing her hand and placing it back on his chest, lowering it to his belly…and further down still. He felt branded where she’d touched him, as if she’d left a glowing imprint across his body. “Thieves.”

She raised her eyes to him, a faint smile on her face. “Thieves? I thought it was likely monks.”

He returned the smile warily, his pulse still racing. Simply being this close to her made his head swim. “Nay, ’twas thieves,” he replied, keeping his voice light.

She sighed. “And that is all you will tell me, I suppose?”

“I am sorry, my lady, there is not much to tell.” Her eyebrows raised, and he nodded slightly. “I was in France, running an errand for Llewelyn, which,” he said, crossing his arms, “I will not tell you about. Suffice it to say that at the time I was attacked I had a large amount of gold in my pouch, enough to buy a large amount of drink, which was enough to delay me in unsheathing my sword just long enough for one of them to get me with a chunk of broken crockery.”

“And Rhys was there? How old were you?”

“Ten and seven,” he replied. “That very day.”

She reached out again. He tensed in preparation for the heat of her skin on his, but she dropped her hand again ere she touched him. A pang of disappointment ran through him.

“What a way to celebrate,” she murmured. “’Tis lucky you did not die.”

“I almost did,” he said.

She looked up at him, the expression on her face unreadable. For a long moment she did not speak, then she backed away. The moment, whatever it had been, was over.

“I do wish embroidery came as easily to me as battle seems to come to you,” she said, picking up the cloth she‘d been toiling over.

“I am certain you can improve,” he said. “You will have to practice more, if you will be creating new hangings for the hall.”

“My lord, I have been thinking of that. I do feel the hall is fine as it is, and do not wish to alter it.”

“Or you do not wish to be stuck inside altering it.”

“Aye, that as well.”

His face stayed solemn, but he did not keep the twinkle from his eye as he said, “And you will take down all these frills you put up to irritate me?” He nodded at the ribbons.

She nodded. “I confess I find them awful as well,” she said.

“I know.”

“Do any of your actions not involve torturing me?”

Only the ones that involve torturing myself by being close to you. “Many of them, but these are the most fun.”

She rolled her eyes. “There it is again. I am so pleased to amuse you.”

“Would you rather anger me?”

“May I aim for somewhere in the middle?”

He bowed. “You may aim for whatever you wish, my lady wife. I will let you know when you get close.”

She already was. Far too close for comfort.

*****

The gown was red, a bright, expensive red, with white embroidery along the deep neckline and the ends of the trailing sleeves. There was more embroidery at the hem, in a bright green pattern of vines and leaves that caught the firelight as Isabelle smoothed the skirt.

She hated to admit it, but she was nervous. This was her first visit to Trwch, the principal village of her husband’s lands, and May Eve was an important night.

She glanced at Gruffydd now, hoping for some reassurance from him, but he was not looking at her. He was looking out over the people gathered in the square, and his face was both proud and cautious as his gaze swept the small crowd again and again.

The light from the bonfire caressed his face, casting a glow over it, and Isabelle’s breath caught as she realized how truly handsome he was. There was something almost unreal about him, as if he had been sculpted rather than born.

He glanced over at her. “Ready?”

She was not, but she nodded anyway, not wanting him to see her fear.

The villagers crowded over to them, shouting in Welsh. They were smiling, but there was an intensity to the crowd that frightened Isabelle, and she found herself reluctant to dismount. May Eve at Harvington was not like this.

The woman were all dressed in red, and the men in green, and the young girls in white with red and green cords worn as belts and tied around arms and heads. Behind them, the bonfire was larger and brighter than any Isabelle had ever seen, and the lowing of the cows and frenzied bleating of the sheep gathered round added to the general din, making Isabelle feel that something not quite civilized was taking place.

She turned to look for Gruffydd when she was on the ground, but could not see him. Warm hands were pulling her closer to the fire and strange voices were speaking to her, but she could not understand them.

She was terrified, her neck craning to catch a glimpse of her husband, or at least Rhys or Gwledyr. Any face that was familiar and spoke her language might help ease her nervousness.

She was on the verge of tears when Gruffydd finally appeared at her side, a crown of hawthorn branches around his head. “Smile,” he said quietly. “You look like you are about to faint.”

“I think I am,” she replied, trying to keep the panic from her voice. “I cannot understand what they say, and—”

“What they are saying,” he interrupted, “is that they are crowning you Queen of the May, as they have already crowned me King.”

“But I am not from—”

“You are their lady,” he said. “And we are just married.”

She nodded, the fear in her breast easing slightly at his presence and the soothing calm of his voice, and the villagers placed a crown on her own head much like his.

They were led still closer to the fire, where two large wooden thrones sat, painted with flowers. Gruffydd nodded to indicate which one was hers, and she acknowledged his help with a quick smile before settling in it.

“What am I to do?”

He looked surprised. “Do you not celebrate the May in Harvington?”

“Aye, we do, but…not like this.”

He shrugged. “There will be a performance soon of a legend in Welsh history. Then dancing, then the livestock will be driven through the smoke to purify them for the coming year, then the Maypole and more dancing and food. How is that different from what you are used to?”

“’Tis not so different, but…” Isabelle could not explain to him the difference. That in England she had been able to understand what was said, that the villagers were not dressed in such bold colors and the fire was not so bright. She could not tell him how the flames threw ominous shadows on the few buildings in the square and made the tall, mostly leafless trees all around them look like pale, gnarled hands stretching into the dark sky.

Gruffydd pressed a goblet into her hand. “They are starting,” he said.

She took a long drink as the villagers began clapping and cheering. Two men strode into the circle they made and bowed, as another man began speaking. Gruffydd leaned over.

“You should enjoy this,” he said. “Tonight’s tale will be that of Gwyther and Gwyn. They do battle every May Eve, for the hand of Creuddylad the maid.”

She started to ask him to explain, but her voice was drowned out by the cheering as Gwledyr stepped into the circle. Isabelle assumed her friend would play the lady whose hand was being fought for, and she was correct.

She was starting to enjoy herself. She watched the play with interest, and the mead she was given was delicious.

But her pleasure died when she glanced over at Gruffydd to speak.

He did not seem to take any amusement from the celebrations going on around him, nor did he notice her by his side. It made her angry. She was his wife, she was Queen of the May, and he could not even be bothered to speak to her. He was not even translating for her. She had to get the words being spoken from Rhys on her right.

Nay, Gruffydd was so selfish, so uninterested in her, that he sat like a toad on a log speaking to no one, his eyes scanning the crowd and the village in that restless way she had noticed before. The firelight played across his face as he did so, making him look savage now, as if at any moment he would throw off the veneer of civilization along with his clothing and disappear into the forest like a wild creature.

She shook her head at such fanciful thoughts. No doubt he did not even want to be here, at the first event she attended in the village as its lady. She was surprised he’d even bothered to bring her along.

He could fall into the bonfire. She cared not. The dancing was about to start, and she had never been Queen before, and she was going to enjoy herself.

*****

Gruffydd tried to keep his eyes from straying to his wife, but it was no use. She was breathtaking in the firelight, her smile broad and genuine as she danced with the villagers around the tall greased Maypole. Soon it would be time for the livestock, then the village men would in turn take their chance to climb the pole and claim the prize of a pig for the fastest to reach the top.

He should be watching the forest. What better night for a raid could there be than this, when all the buildings were empty and all of the villagers gathered, most of them without weapons?

But he could not help himself. He watched her lithe figure, glorious in the expensive red gown, as she turned and twisted and spun, laughing breathlessly, and felt the desire he had been trying so hard to fight rise again in his loins.

What would it be like to hold that body in his arms, to feel it pressed against him? Would her lips be as soft as he remembered from their brief wedding kiss, the kiss that had set such a fire in his soul?

“My lord, you must call for the animals.”

Rhys’s voice shook Gruffydd from his reverie.

“As May King, ‘tis your duty.” He glanced over at the dancers. “Unless you would like to watch some more.”

Gruffydd frowned. “Nay,” he replied. “Let us get this night over with.”

He stood and shouted that the purification should begin, and sat back down as two long rows of wood were lit from the bonfire, forming a wide lane through which to drive the livestock.

The cheers of his people grew louder, mixing with the frightened bellowing of the beasts as they ran down the fiery corridor. Gruffydd found the sounds and activity exhilarating. There was a hint of danger in the air, a hint of something not exactly human, not really civilized. A thrill ran through his veins as he watched, and he had the urge to leave his makeshift throne and join the crowd, soaking in the ferocious energy. Mayhap he could stand close to Isabelle…

Isabelle. He could no longer see her. He cursed under his breath and left the wooden dais, heading back up the hill to afford him a better view.

Still he did not see her, and his fear grew. Where she could have gone he knew not, nor why she would deliberately distance herself from the celebration.

Uttering a terse word to Rhys, he began moving through the crowd, scanning the sea of heads for his wife’s reddish hair and crown of hawthorn, but was forced after a few minutes to admit she was not there.

His heart pounding, he left the throng of villagers and drew his sword. He would look for her in the few buildings along the dirt road, and hope she was unharmed. May Eve was known not only for the fires that burned in the village center, but for the fires that were often ignited in the villagers themselves. If someone had decided to sample the pleasures promised by her slim, lively figure and sparkling eyes…the thought sent a murderous rage through his body.

He left the noise of the celebration behind him as he strode past the smithy, its furnace extinguished for the night, awaiting May’s new flame. Still he saw no sign of her, but as he passed it he thought he heard a faint rattle, almost inaudible above the dull roar of the people behind him.

His hair stood on end as he ran in the direction of the sound, praying he would not be too late. Never before had Trwch, the village where he had spent the last ten years of his life, seemed so sinister, as he made his way past the darkened, empty buildings.

Then he heard a yelp, a cry that sounded like pain.

There was only one more place to search, and Gruffydd’s hand tightened on the hilt of his blade as he rounded the corner of the church.

Isabelle sat on the ground behind the building, her right hand held clasped in her left. She screamed, a short, half-smothered sound in the night as he came near her, his sword at the ready.

“Where are they?” he demanded.

“What? Who?” She struggled to stand, her features indistinct in the dim light as she glanced wildly around her. He was instantly suspicious. Just what exactly had happened here?

He reached for her hand, to pull her behind him, then drew away quickly as he felt the sticky wet of blood on his skin.

“Cnychu uffern, my lady, who did this to you?” His vision went hazy as he imagined what could have happened to her had he not arrived when he did, if she had not been able to cry out and scare them off. His blood ran cold.

“I do not understand,” she said. “Did what to—”

He grabbed her again, harder this time, trying to control the shaking that started to spread through his body. “Who did this to you? Were you attacked? Why do you bleed?”

She pulled her hand back. “’Tis naught. ‘Tis but a scratch.”

He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself ere he started cursing at her again. “How did you get injured, and who injured you?” he said deliberately. “’Tis not a difficult question, and I demand you answer it now.”

She looked away. “I thought I saw a cat.”

This was not the answer Gruffydd had expected, and he felt some of his anger deflate at the sheer nonsense of it.

“You thought you saw a cat?”

She shifted her feet defensively. “Aye. ‘Twas just a little thing, and it ran back here. I reached for it, but I slipped and cut myself.” She pointed at the iron bars of the fence around the church. “There.”

Relief flooded through him. She had not been attacked. She had not been harmed by his people or anyone else’s.

She was just chasing a cat.

And then he exploded.

“Damn it, Lady Isabelle, what is wrong with you? You wandered away from a crowd of people, where you were safe, to chase a cat? Have you no sense of danger at all? I was not surprised you would do such a thing six springs ago, but I thought by now you were a woman of sense.”

He reached for her elbow, taking care not to touch her bloodied wrist again, and began pulling her back towards the town center, still speaking. “I would expect such behavior from a child, my lady, a child who has learned nothing of the world. You of all people know how dangerous it is to go off on your own. Did you learn nothing from our first meeting?”

She yanked her arm backwards. It did not break his grip, but caused him to stop and turn around. Here in the lane the light from the bonfire was brighter, making plain the anger on her face.

Illuminating the jagged cut on the outside of her wrist. It made him dizzy.

“How dare you,” she hissed. “You have been just waiting for the chance to bring up my mistake when first we met, have you not? Just waiting for the chance to show me how ridiculous you find me. But this was not like that. I did not wander off to look for a cat, like a child chasing a runaway toy. I thought I saw the cat after I had already—”

She stopped, her mouth snapping shut. Gruffydd took a step closer, the pounding rage that had fled his body thundering back.

“After you had already left the gathering?” His voice was icy, and Isabelle shivered as she nodded. She was going to have to tell him why she left, and the worst part about that was he was right.

*****

He was right to berate her for leaving. It was a foolish, foolish thing to do, and her face grew hot as she realized she was going to have to admit that to him.

But she did not have to look at him as she did so. She kept her eyes firmly focused on the fire behind him.

“And how, my lady,” he said, clearly impatient, “is wandering off alone from this gathering less foolish than wandering off from a wedding party with a sexually criminal squire?”

“I was frightened,” she said finally, glancing up at him. “I was afraid of the fires.”

His expression did not change, but some of the tension in his body seemed to ease as he replied, “Frightened?”

“Aye. I have never liked bonfires, and when they lit the lanes for the purification…the noise and the people, it was simply too much, and I was scared.” She bit her lip. She was not explaining this well.

But how could she explain it? How was it possible to explain to this man, this dark stranger, that the sounds of the animals mixed with the shouting of the people, the fire throwing dancing patterns of heat and light across the scene, had terrified her? How could she tell him the energy she felt coming from the cheering crowd had been too much for her to handle, had made her want to run off to somewhere safe? Somewhere where she would not have to feel that great, pounding vitality coursing through her veins, making her body warm, making her feel so blindingly, terrifyingly alive?

She had spent years surrounding herself with soft music and gentle poetry—and gentle men—to keep that feeling at bay.

With those things to keep her safe, to keep her insulated, she could ignore the darker yearnings of her soul and focus on being the woman her mother and father wanted her to be. She could pretend that the urges of the flesh she sometimes felt did not exist, that the rushing of the blood in her veins did not sometimes make her want to dance in the moonlight like a wild thing.

But when she had felt that vitality all around her, felt the burning need to join in the revelry…all of her careful protections were pulled from her, and she had run.

“I am sorry,” she said. “You are right. It was a foolish thing to do, and I was thoughtless.”

“Lady Isabelle,” he said. “You needed only tell me your fears. I would have escorted you home.” His hand on her arm loosened slightly, but he did not remove it, and she was glad. She felt it was anchoring her to the earth.

“I did feel embarrassed by my fears, my lord,” she said. “Only a child would be frightened by something so…unthreatening.”

“Only a child would sneak away without telling anyone,” he replied. “Because only a child would be ashamed to admit their fears.”

“Aye? And what are yours, then?” She snapped.

“We are not discussing me.”

“But you said only a child would be afraid to admit—”

He cut her off. “I know what I said.”

“Then why do you not tell me?”

He sighed. “Right now I fear we need to rinse that cut with mead, which will be painful, though mayhap the pain will teach you a lesson. Right now I also fear I have married a woman who will cause me to chase her around at every gathering because she cannot stay where she should and will not tell me when she wishes to go.”

Isabelle felt hot anger building in her body. “I see,” she said. “So why do you not send me away then, where my foolishness will disturb you no longer? ‘Twould be far easier than ‘chasing me around’, and I daresay we will both be the happier for it.”

“No one forces you to stay here.”

“No one forces you to keep me here.”

“Be that as it may,” he said, “the fact is, you are here, and while you are here I expect you to keep me informed of your whereabouts. I am your husband. Your safety is my responsibility.”

“Is that what I am to you? Merely a responsibility, like a servant or an animal?” She could have bit her tongue off. What had made her say such a thing?

“’Tis not what I meant, and you know it.”

“I do not. I am hardly treated differently from the falcons. You stand here and say I should have told you my fears, that you would have escorted me home. How was I to know that? Especially when you could not even be bothered to stay at my side, to dance with me, or speak to me, or even behave as if you knew me.”

“I see,” he replied. His face was completely in shadow to her, the bonfire creating a halo of flame around his head. “I suppose I have given you little indication that I would take such a thing seriously.”

“True.” Was this his way of apologizing? It was more than she had expected from him.

He shrugged. Not an apology, then. “I can only say again that I take all of my responsibilities seriously, and I thought you knew that. You should have told me. You should not have scared me—”

She raised her eyebrows as he cut himself off, her pulse quickening. She’d scared him?

“I thought something had happened to you,” he said finally. “I would hate to explain to your lord father and brother how I allowed harm to come to you.” He ran his hand through his hair. “In the future you will not be unescorted. Ever. Is that clear?”

Isabelle fought the pang of disappointment that ran through her at his words. Of course he was scared. What would his Prince have said if he’d allowed his wife—nay, his responsibility—to be injured? It was not her he cared about at all.

And as for her never being unescorted, and the sheer irresponsibility of her behavior this night, there was little she could say. He was right, but she hated to admit it to him, especially as he had not even tried to comfort her.

William would have, she thought. William would have held her and talked to her and made much of her. He would have told her all of his fears and thoughts, until she was growing bored enough that whatever fear she’d had was forgotten.

But here was Gruffydd, offering her no sympathy and making her determined to prove to him that she was not a foolish child.

What kind of way was that, to treat a lady?

She squared her shoulders and looked him in the eye. “I will, my lord,” she said. “And right now I intend my whereabouts to be back at the gathering. I am, after all, Queen of the May.”

Chapter 6

Gwledyr told her more raids were taking place, and that was likely what kept Gruffydd so busy. Many nights he was not even at table for dinner, and Isabelle became more and more grateful as the time passed for the seneschal’s daughter.

Gwledyr was always pleasant company, and as Isabelle grew resigned to her future as the virgin wife of an absent man Gwledyr’s presence became more and more important.

She had not seen Gruffydd at all for several days when she was awakened late one night. Something was happening downstairs; there were raised voices and running footsteps.

She jumped out of the bed, wide awake. Had something happened to Gruffydd? Not sure if this would be good news or bad, she dressed herself as fast as she could and tied her hair loosely back on her way down the stairs.

At first she could not see what was happening. The great hall seemed filled with men, all speaking loudly and excitedly in Welsh, milling around in a haze of energy. She saw Rhys and Gwledyr, their faces pale in the candlelight, heading for the center of the room where it looked like every trestle table in the hall had been set up and pushed together.

And on the table were men. As she edged closer, she saw at least five men, their faces contorted with pain. There was blood on the floor rushes, and Isabelle felt fear strike her. Had Gruffydd been injured? Was he dead?

A closer glance told her that he was not there. Instead were three men whom she knew—they were men Gruffydd trained with, soldiers of the keep. The others were vaguely familiar, but she could not place a name on them.

She moved to where Gwledyr stood, ready to ask her friend what had happened, but Gwledyr spoke first.

“Another raid,” she said. “These men were sent by Lord Gruffydd to keep an eye on the Cadno path, in the woods. They were ambushed. My father feels certain it was some of Gwenwynwyn’s men, along with one of the English marcher lords.”

“Will they live?” Isabelle whispered.

Gwledyr looked at her. “We cannot be sure about Ada,” she said, “for he has taken an arrow to his stomach. The others, aye, we think they will live.”

Isabelle looked around. It did not seem possible this was happening, that a few measures away from her was a man who might not survive the day. “How did they manage to escape?”

“The Dragon arrived just in time,” Gwledyr said, a hint of pride in her voice. “He saved them, led their attackers away and gave them time to return here.”

“They saw him?” Isabelle asked. She tried to keep the skepticism from her voice.

Apparently she succeeded, for Gwledyr did not comment. “Aye, they saw him. Said he was like a shadow in the night and carried a black sword, and he took down two of their attackers with one blow.”

One of the men on the table cried out, and Isabelle saw Rhys shouting orders, making ready to pull an arrow from the man’s leg. Another servant held a pitcher in front of the wounded man’s mouth, giving him great gulps of whatever it contained, which Isabelle felt fairly certain was something stronger than the weak table mead she’d been growing accustomed to.

How amazing it was, to see the men like this. Usually she paid them little heed, as they went about their business and she hers. Now, she felt small and out of place as she watched them move so capably, so knowledgeably, from one wound to another.

Capable…

She turned back to Gwledyr, stunned both at the feeling of panic that rose again in her breast and at the fact that she‘d not asked the question until now. “Gwledyr, where is my lord husband? Where is Gruffydd?”

Gwledyr paled. She tried to smile, but Isabelle saw the fear in her eyes. “We know not, my lady,” she admitted. “The men said he was patrolling nearby…but they have not seen him since just after they set out.”

“He was nearby?” Isabelle asked. “He was near the fighting?”

“Aye, my lady.”

“But they did not see him after the fighting started?”

“Nay.”

Isabelle could not understand why she was so scared. She hardly knew the man, after all, and if he were to—well, to die—she would be free to return to her family. It would be just as she’d hoped it would be.

So why then did her blood run cold at the thought that Gruffydd could even now be dying in the chill night air?

“We must go find him,” she said.

Gwledyr looked at her as if she’d sprouted another head. “My lady, you cannot mean—”

“I do,” said Isabelle. “We cannot leave him alone out there. Tell your father to get whatever men can still ride or walk and make them ready.”

Isabelle was not thinking of the husband who ignored her. She was thinking of the man who’d saved her from assault in a garden years ago. She was thinking of the man who’d placed his gardens and servants at her disposal, who’d comforted a weeping boy…the man who’d been so terrified in his sleep that he’d sounded like a lost child.

She was thinking of the warmth of his body, the roughness of the scar she’d touched, the way he’d come for her on May Eve, sword at the ready to defend her.

This was the man she could not let die, alone in the cold. This was the man who deserved her allegiance and aid.

Rhys stood in front of her. “My lady,” he said gently, “I can assure you, Lord Gruffydd is perfectly capable of finding his way home. You need not worry. He is amazingly strong, and I do not fear for him.”

“I care not,” Isabelle replied. “You will get ready as many men as can ride and we will go find him.”

“But, Lady Isabelle—”

Isabelle cut him off with a look. “As you owe allegiance to my husband, so you do to me,” she said. “Make them ready.”

Rhys looked at her for a long moment. Was there admiration in his eyes? Isabelle could not be sure, but neither did she particularly care. He would do as she bid, and they both knew it.

It did not take long to assemble the men in the bailey. Isabelle ran upstairs and put on a more suitable gown for riding while she waited, then went down to join them, her hair neatly braided by a nervous Gwledyr.

Rhys met her at the door. “My lady, surely you do not mean to come with us?”

“I do.”

“I beg you, do not. It is no place for a woman at night.”

“But I wish to—”

“Lady Isabelle,” he said. “We will find him. This I vow to you.” He knelt before her and took her hand. “As I serve your lord husband, so I serve you. I will not return until he is found.”

Isabelle became aware of the eyes of the assembled men watching them. This was a test, a test of her faith and trust in them, and she realized if she insisted on accompanying them she would fail.

So she nodded. “I thank you, Rhys. We will have food and drink ready when you return.”

He squeezed her hand gently and released it, then stood back up and bowed. “We will return.”

Then he mounted his horse and shouted to the men, and Isabelle watched as they rode through the gates and into the night.

*****

It was sunrise when the men finally returned. The wounded men had been moved from the great hall to quarters elsewhere on the grounds, the tables cleaned and set with fresh linen in preparation for the men’s return.

Isabelle sat with Gwledyr and a few of the other women waiting, and when they heard the voices they rose as one and went to the doorway. Isabelle’s eyes strained against the rising sun to make out faces in the crowd. Where was he?

The men were moving slowly. Too slowly, she thought, and before she had a chance to contemplate what this meant Rhys rode out of the crowd and up to where she stood. “He will be fine, Lady Isabelle,” he said gently. “Do not fear.”

But Isabelle could not hear him. The pounding of her heart drowned out any sound as she saw the body of her husband, slumped in the saddle.

For one dizzy, uncomprehending moment she thought he must be very tired to be slumped over the saddle like that. Then she noticed the blood dripping from his boot to the dusty ground and the arrows that protruded from his thigh, arm, and shoulder.

She took a step towards him, feeling the blood drain from her face, but was held back by Rhys’s hand on her arm. “Do not, my lady,” he said quietly. “He will not want you to see him in need of aid to dismount.”

She looked at Rhys, ready to protest, but the look on the older man’s face made the words fade. Instead, she just nodded. “Will you—will you bring him to the solar?” she asked. Her lips were so dry.

Rhys nodded. “I will bring him up shortly,” he said. “Now I beg you, go inside and wait.”

Isabelle moved as if in a dream back to the carefully laid table. At least it would benefit the other men, she thought absently. She was sure they would be hungry.

Gwledyr reached for her hand, but Isabelle barely noticed. The sight of her husband prostrate on his horse had shaken her. More than that, it had made her wonder why it shook her so.

Rhys had said he would live.

Why was his health such a concern to her? If the situation were reversed, would he be so fearful for her, so unhappy at the thought of her in pain?

But even as she thought it, she remembered his reaction to her on May Eve, and knew that he would. He may not be attentive, he may wish her to go away and leave him alone, but he did not wish her harm. She was his responsibility.

And that made him her responsibility, as well.

She turned and gasped as she saw her husband walk into the room.

He moved slowly, his face a mask of pain and concentration, but he shook off the careful hands helping him climb the staircase into the hall and straightened his back. She saw his fists clenched at his sides, saw the sweat running down his cheeks, and knew that he was using every last bit of strength he possessed.

He slowly walked to stand in front of her and managed a strained smile. “My lady wife,” he said, his teeth clenched as he made a short bow.

Isabelle, stunned, made a curtsy. “I am glad to see you return, my lord husband,” she said, and knew from the glint in his eye that she had done the correct thing.

“We must get you upstairs, my lord,” Rhys murmured, and Gruffydd turned his head slowly.

“Aye,” he said, eyeing the arrow in his shoulder. “I‘d rather not carry Gwenwynwyn‘s remembrances any longer.”

At this the tension in the room broke, and the men began speaking again as the servants started to bring out the food and drink Isabelle had ordered be kept ready.

All around her people were laughing and talking in relieved and happy tones, but Isabelle felt as if she was underwater. She began to follow her husband up the stairs, but Rhys turned and shook his head. “I will send for you, my lady,” he said. “When my lord is ready.”

Isabelle nodded and twisted her hands together. Biting her lip, she turned and walked back to the crowds of people around the tables. It was her duty to make them welcome, and she would not fail.

Time dragged as she waited, watching as the food on the tables disappeared and the jugs emptied, making polite goodbyes to those who went back to their own homes, until finally she was alone with the servants. She knew they were curious about her. If anyone knew how empty her marriage was, it was the servants who observed it, but none of them seemed to think oddly of her concern. It was comforting to be treated with such deference.

Isabelle was tired. Her muscles ached with unreleased tension and her brain was fuzzy with lack of sleep. A few times she felt her head begin to droop, and looked around quickly to make sure none had seen it.

What was happening up in the solar, that she could not see? It was her bedchamber, after all, just as much as it was his, and as mistress of this place she had every right to enter it. Finally she set her hand on the table hard and stood up.

“I shall retire now,” she announced to no one in particular, but several of the housemaids began speaking at once. Isabelle could not understand them, nor did she care to. Their message was clear enough in the nervous glances they shot towards the stairs. They wanted her to wait until she was summoned. Gwledyr began speaking as well.

“My lady, ‘tis best if you—”

She glared at them and went anyway. Gruffydd could shut his mind to her if he liked, but she would not allow him to shut her out of her own bedchamber.

She could hear the men talking in low tones as she reached the top of the stairs. The shutters had been closed tight against the sun and the room was cool and dim. She took a few steps forward and gasped.

Gruffydd was lying on the bed, his eyes clenched tight as Rhys, using a sharp needle and black thread, sewed up a gaping wound on his shoulder. It was a strange sight, but her curiosity about it faded when she got a good look at her husband’s body. She had never seen a man so battered. His chest was a mass of bruises and discoloration, and there were more stitches on his side and arm. Gronw, one of Gruffydd’s guards, was mixing herbs into a poultice and dressing the stitched wounds with it, while another guard held a pitcher.

Her husband was cursing. Isabelle could not understand his words, but the look on his face left her in no doubt of it, a certainty that was confirmed when Rhys turned suddenly and blushed when he saw her.

“Lady Isabelle,” he said, “I have not called—”

“I know you have not,” she replied. “But this is my bedchamber, and I do have every right to be here. I am tired and wish to see my lord husband.”

But even as she spoke, Gruffydd’s face went ashen and relaxed. Rhys looked at her apologetically. “He has not been able to stay awake for long, my lady,” he said. “He did not manage to make it up the stairs ere he fell. His wounds are quite painful, and I am sure you will understand when I tell you that Gronw has been forcing him to drink more than he normally does. He truly is not in any condition to greet you.”

“I care not,” said Isabelle. She was annoyed to hear her voice shake. “I will help you.”

“We are almost done,” Rhys said, gesturing towards the trestle table by the bed. Isabelle grimaced; it was piled with bloody cloths and pieces of metal and thread. The arrows lay on the floor, snapped in two to make it easier and less painful to pull them from her husband’s body.

She looked back at Rhys. He was watching her closely, and when she raised her eyes, he nodded. “We did get everything, I believe,” he said. “If you would like, you may sit next to him. He may be pleased to see you when he awakens.”

This Isabelle doubted, but she sat anyway, pushing away her self-consciousness at sitting on her bed in front of a group of men. Up close, Gruffydd looked even worse. There was not a single spot of skin that was not discolored by bruises, and there were more scrapes and cuts than she’d seen from across the room. Blood oozed slowly from one of them, a long shallow cut that ran from just below his neck to below his breast.

Rhys picked up a wet cloth and began to swab at it, his eyes solemn. “He was badly wounded.”

Isabelle did not respond. She could not take in the extent of her husband’s injuries. How had he managed to survive an attack such as this? She studied his sleeping face, looking for an answer, but did not find one.

His eyes opened and his body jerked. For a moment he looked wildly around the room, while Rhys spoke soothingly to him.

Then he saw her. “Isabelle.”

Isabelle tried to hide her panic with a smile. Now that he was safely returned, she did not know what to say to him, much less how to respond to his calling her by her first name only. He had never before done so. Should she take his hand? Or wipe his brow?

Before she could do any of these things, he spoke again. “Not necessary,” he muttered. “Could have made it home…myself. Left the keep unguarded.”

She felt blood run to her face and was aware the men were watching her. How was she to respond to that? She felt foolish, was certain that she looked foolish.

She looked questioningly at Rhys, who shook his head. The gesture made Isabelle feel a little better, but not much. “I am sorry, my lord,” she said. “I only wished to help.”

Gruffydd ignored her reply and turned back to Gronw. “Drink.”

Isabelle watched in silence as the pitcher was brought to her husband’s mouth again, and again over the next few minutes while Rhys finished cleaning the wound and began stitching it.

Finally they were finished. Rhys pulled the covers up to Gruffydd’s neck, blessedly hiding the wreckage of his chest from view, and looked at Isabelle. “He will sleep,” he said quietly. She glanced down at Gruffydd, whose eyes were barely open. “I hope for a while. You should get some rest, too, my lady.”

Isabelle nodded. “Rhys…may I ask a question?”

Rhys smiled. “My lord has the heart and strength of a lion, my lady, but I am confident we did the right thing in searching for him. I have not seen him so wounded in years.”

Isabelle returned the smile shakily. “Thank you, Rhys.”

The older man bowed and left the room, leaving Isabelle alone with her sleeping husband.

*****

Isabelle did not sleep well, being ever alert to any signs that he was waking. She heard an occasional moan when he tried to shift, and once his breath caught, making her sit up quickly to see that he was not choking.

So she heard immediately when his nightmare began again.

The quality of his breathing changed first, quickening as he turned his head to the side. Isabelle thought at first it was just a reaction to the pain of his wounds or a hazy dream-memory of how he got them, but when she heard him speaking again in that terrified, innocent voice she knew what it was.

Afraid that he would hurt himself by waking suddenly prepared to fight, as he had been the last time, she carefully stroked his face, after a quick glance to make certain there were no weapons handy.

But his eyes did not open. As she watched, his breathing slowed again. She allowed her own breath to come more naturally. Perhaps he would simply sleep.

But to her surprise, his arm rose in the shuttered gloom of the air to her shoulder, and he brought her down on the bed next to him and kissed her.

For a second she considered pushing him away, but the touch of his lips drove those thoughts from her mind as she surrendered to their lazy exploration of her own.

Warmth spread through her body, as if she had just stepped into a hot bath after a cold day’s ride. He made a soft sound in his throat as his hand slid up to the back of her head, pressing her gently closer to him, his tongue opening her mouth and lightly caressing hers. Isabelle had never felt anything so exhilarating. A soft sigh escaped her lips.

And then it was over. His hand loosened its grip and ran down her arm, landing across his stomach.

“Isabelle,” he murmured, his eyes opening for a second before falling shut again, a sleepy smile on his face. His breathing deepened as he turned away, leaving only the tingling of Isabelle’s lips and body to tell her she had not imagined the whole thing.

*****

Gruffydd awoke to the fuzzy gray light that made it impossible to tell if it was dusk or dawn. >From the warmth of the room, he guessed it was dusk and cursed silently. A whole day wasted. A whole day when he could have been trying to find a way to end these raids.

He glanced to his side and saw Isabelle. She had pushed the covers off in her sleep, and her small pale face was peaceful. Her hair tumbled loosely around her shoulders.

Isabelle. She had ordered his guards to come and find him. How much did she know about the attack the night before? He remembered his words to her that morn and regretted them.

It was just such a surprise, to open his eyes and find her there, the worry plain on her lovely face. Her presence and her concern had thrown him, and he’d said the first thing that came to his mind, not wanting her to see how glad he was that she was there.

He had given up trying not to be proud of her. It was impossible. Rhys had told him the whole story, including how Isabelle had been ready to saddle up herself and join the search party, and Gruffydd could no longer fight his admiration.

She slept so soundly. Gruffydd marveled at it. Sleep had never been his friend, at least not since he was a child. He could not recall the last time he’d even slept this long, but the pain and fuzziness in his head reminded him that it was not sleep so much as stupor.

His body was a mass of aches and pains. Gruffydd hated to drink to excess, hated to not have full control of his faculties, but knew that he would likely spend much of the next week drunk. Usually he liked the pain. It made his thoughts crystallize and his reactions quicker, but it had been a long time since he had been injured this badly.

For a moment he let his mind wander back to the night before. His men under attack…leaping in, trying to lead the enemy away…the arrows…the swords…

There were so many of them, and he had been, as always, alone. It was luck, and luck only, that had led him to that cliff. Luck that he had remembered the cave there and had managed to run to it without being seen.

Luck that his wife had sent a party to find him, and that Rhys had obeyed despite his promises to Gruffydd to never do such a thing.

What was it about this woman that inspired such loyalty? It was not simply her beauty, though Gruffydd did find her beautiful. Nor was it her intelligence or spirit, for Gruffydd had known women both intelligent and spirited in the past and had not felt this fondness for them. English she may be, but Isabelle was special.

Ignoring the protests of his aching body, Gruffydd allowed himself to do something he had promised himself he would not. He reached out his hand and stroked her hair. Just with the lightest touch at first, then bolder when she did not awaken.

It was so soft, softer than he had thought possible. For a moment a memory stirred in the back of his mind, but it was too incoherent for him to grasp, so he concentrated again on the silky texture of the hair that ran through his fingers. He watched as if in a dream as the dark strands hid his own flesh from view, as if the fragrant softness was swallowing his hand, enveloping it in dark fire. His nerves carried the sensation of her silken tresses throughout his entire body, making it tingle and harden with desire.

For the briefest moment he allowed himself to imagine what the rest of her would feel like. Just for a moment, and then he would not think of it again, but for that time she was his. Truly his, not just in name, and all his responsibilities, all of his duties and vows did not exist.

He was just a man, and she was his wife, and this bed was not a cold and silent place but a sanctuary of light and joy.

But the vision grew dark when he imagined what kind of world they would have to live in for such a life to be possible, and when he remembered what happened to beloved wives…what it felt like to lose a loved one.

He could not allow Isabelle to feel that pain. He could not allow himself to be so vulnerable. He was no longer a child, and that dream was impossible.

He took his hand from her head and absently rubbed the scar on his palm, wincing as he did so. Isabelle stirred in her sleep and opened her eyes.

“My lord,” she said, sitting up. “You are awake.”

“Aye,” he said.

“Do you need anything? Want you a drink? I can go down and get—”

“Wait,” he interrupted. “I will want a drink, and soon, but first I must say something to you.”

She waited, her blue eyes anxious. Gruffydd wished she would not look at him so. It made him feel worse than he already did.

“I said something earlier that I should not have said.” He spoke slowly, wishing he were the kind of man who could make graceful apologies with ease. But he was not, so he continued as best he could. “’Twas wrong of me to berate you for sending the men to find me. I do appreciate it, and it was not your fault that Rhys left the keep unguarded. I was in a lot of pain, and…knew not what I was saying.”

This was a lie. He’d known exactly what he was saying, but he was not about to admit to Isabelle that he had been angry at himself for being pleased to see her and so lashed out at her in retribution.

“How was it not my fault that the keep was unguarded? I ordered every uninjured man sent to search for you.”

She was frowning.

“Aye,” he said, trying to keep his voice light. “But Rhys should have known better than to send every man.”

“So you think he should have ignored my order?”

He almost reached a hand to her, then thought better of it. He’d angered her, though he did not understand how. “I do not think he should have ignored you, only that he should have advised you on the foolishness—”

He winced. Damn. He had for certes not meant to use that word.

“Foolishness? May I remind you, my lord, that were it not for my ‘foolishness’ you would likely be dead?”

“Nay. I need no reminding. I meant only that Rhys should have advised you better.”

“I am perfectly capable of running this place in your absence. I controlled a much larger keep than this for ten years and never once was my judgment criticized,” she said tartly.

“But Harvington is hardly a place like Trwch. You were unaware of the danger, and Rhys was not. I mean only to say he should have refused to send every man and explained—”

But she cut him off again. “So you believe my orders should not be obeyed, that Rhys‘s authority should exceed my own.”

“Nay, that is not what I think.”

“But that is what you are saying. I remind you again, my lord, I am lady of this place and have the right to expect my commands to be followed.”

Gruffydd was growing irritated. His entire body was screaming in pain, and Isabelle’s anger was not helping his head or his disposition. He’d meant to apologize, not to start another fight.

Why was she being so obstinate?

“Lady Isabelle,” he said, “It is clear to me that you are a lady of great skills, though needlework and decoration may not be included in them.” He raised his eyebrows, hoping she would smile at his small joke, but she did not. “But you have not lived long in Wales, and an Englishwoman cannot be expected to know how important it is to have guards posted every minute of the day.”

“I am not English,” she said, bristling. “I am Norman.”

“It makes no difference,” he said.

“It does. You compare me to a commoner, and I am the daughter of an earl and the wife of a lord, rude and ungrateful though he is.”

Gruffydd suddenly felt like laughing. However uncomfortable life with Isabelle may be, it was for certes never dull.

“My lady,” he said. “I apologize if my words offend you. We do not generally make the distinction between Norman and English here, and it is one that I fear will escape most people you will meet. I am not criticizing your judgment nor do I deny you should be obeyed. I mean only that in this circumstance better counsel should have been given you.”

She looked slightly mollified, though her eyes were still flashing. Gruffydd’s throat was dry.

“Can we not agree that all rulers, even your King, are given counsel to aid them?”

“Aye,” she said begrudgingly.

“And so we can agree that Rhys should have spoken, instead of following your orders immediately? I am certain that had you known of the possible danger we faced with no defenders you would never have sent every able-bodied man away to search. You are far too intelligent to do such a thing.”

He held his breath for a moment, waiting for another outburst, but she only nodded. “You are right. I should have thought of the safety of all in the keep, and should have been warned of the possible danger.”

“So, then, we can agree that ‘twas not your fault, and you can accept my apology for speaking harshly to you this morn?”

Isabelle looked down. “You need not apologize, my lord,” she said. Was there something of relief in her voice? “I think we have both of us said things in the past that we regret.”

Gruffydd knew she was speaking of her comment to him their first night at the castle. “Shall we agree to forget such remarks, and move on?”

She smiled. “Aye, I would like that.”

Gruffydd could not bring himself to smile back, though he wanted to. They sat in silence for another minute, until finally Isabelle spoke again.

“Shall I get you a drink now?”

Gruffydd nodded, grateful for an excuse to send her away. “You should eat as well, Lady Isabelle. Send a servant with the mead.”

His wife nodded and stood up from the bed. He watched through half-closed eyes as she pulled a gown from the wardrobe and slipped it over her head, then twisted her hair into a lumpy braid. “Can I get you anything else, my lord? Mayhap you would like me to read to you later.”

“I did not know you enjoy reading.”

She blushed. “My father insisted all of his children be taught. I do enjoy it, but I have only one book of poetry. ‘Tis more fun to read aloud, though, and I would be pleased to do so if you desire it.”

“Mayhap later,” he said. It had not even occurred to him to provide her with books, as he only had a few and those were in Welsh. What else had he ignored about her? It was plain she would not leave, and so making her time here unpleasant was simply cruelty now, instead of a necessity to get her to go home.

“My lord husband? Did you want aught else?”

She looked so lovely that it hurt. Gruffydd shook his head, not trusting himself to speak, and watched as she moved to the doorway and down the stairs.

Chapter 7

“Please, my lord, it is too soon.”

“It has been six days, Rhys. I cannot stay in bed a minute longer.”

“But your wounds have not healed. You could injure yourself again.”

Gruffydd snorted. “You behave as though that would stop me.”

Isabelle spoke. “Please, my lord, I must agree with Rhys. He is only concerned about you.”

“Aye?” Her husband raised an eyebrow. “I do not recall asking him to be concerned, nor did I ask you for your opinion.”

Isabelle fought the ridiculous urge to stick her tongue out at him. For the first three days he had stayed in bed, he was almost incoherently drunk from waking to sleep, and she had to confess it was the most pleasant she had ever seen him. He had not snapped at her or taunted her once, and while the kiss he’d given her still stuck in her mind like a burr it was clear that he had no memory of it.

She did not know if she was relieved or upset about this. The memory of his lips on hers made her body tingle when she allowed herself to think on it, which she did more often than she would have liked. Had he kissed her because he was drunk, and knew not what he was doing?

Or was it because he wanted to? She knew that men often behaved in a more honest fashion when intoxicated. Had he wanted to kiss her before?

She was not sure which option she preferred. She knew only that she could not look at him the same way as she had, for when she saw him now she remembered the feeling of his soft lips on hers and his fingers entwined in her hair. It had been especially easy to recall the sensations when his tipsy smile welcomed her when she entered the room, and when he spoke to her with excessive drunken gallantry. He was—almost—charming.

But after his drinking slowed, he became intolerable. She had never in her life seen a man who was more difficult to deal with when bedridden. He did not speak unless it was to criticize, and his criticism was harsh.

Finally she had told him to go to the devil, and he laughed.

“I do not believe in the devil,” he said, “and it’s my wager that you do not either.”

Isabelle was dumbfounded. She had never told anyone that after her mother’s death she had stopped believing in God.

When her mother was ill, Isabelle had gone to the chapel on the grounds and begged God to spare her life. She’d promised to devote her life to good works, to enter a convent, if her mother only survived.

But she had not. She died, and Isabelle’s faith had died with her.

“How—how did you know?”

“Lady Isabelle, how long have you been here now?”

Mystified, she answered. “I do believe it has been just over a month, my lord.”

“And in that time, you have never once inquired where or when you can attend services. You have never looked in the chapel in the bailey, dilapidated and empty though it is. You are for certes not a woman who keeps her mouth shut when she wants something, so I assumed your feelings were the same as my own.”

Isabelle swallowed. As much as she did not want to admit it, it felt good to know that someone else knew her secret, but did not think ill of her for it. Someone just accepted her thoughts as her own, and did not ask or expect that she put up a pretense.

Even if that someone was Gruffydd.

She watched him now, pulling himself painfully up to a stand. She could see the muscles in his arms trembling with the effort.

“Can I help you?”

“Nay,” he snapped. “I do not need help.”

She glanced over at Rhys, who gave her a sympathetic smile. She had come to know the older man better over the last few days, and to like him very much.

Why he stayed here with a man as unappreciative as Gruffydd ap Hywel, she knew not. But she was pleased that he did.

Slowly, torturously, Gruffydd managed to stand and take a few steps away from the bed before he stopped, his breath coming in gasps.

Isabelle made a move towards him, but Rhys caught her eye and shook his head slightly. She subsided. Clearly, her help was not welcome.

*****

Not only did he get up from the bed, but she was shocked to find him the next day in the bailey trying to lift his sword against one of the guards. She was too far away to make a protest, and was secretly pleased when he managed to fight for only a few minutes before giving up.

He did not, however, stay out of their bed at night, and Isabelle found it harder every day to adjust to sharing a bed without touching. She had always imagined that sleeping next to someone would be the best part of marriage and was disappointed that her husband ignored her completely. She often found it difficult to sleep, so aware was she of the warmth of his body next to hers. When she did sleep, she woke up hot and sweaty, unable to recall exactly what she had been dreaming but aware that her body was throbbing in a disconcerting manner.

Gruffydd seemed to have none of the same troubles. He barely grunted when she bade him good night, and was invariably gone when she arose in the morn. A suspicion began to enter her mind, a suspicion that surprised her with how hurtful it was. It amazed her that she had not thought of it ere this, and she could not help but wonder if it was the memory of his kiss that made her so angry when she realized he must have a mistress. That was why he was so distant, why he still had not claimed his rights as her husband.

“What do you do, when none are yet awake?” she asked him one evening, bursting into the solar where Gruffydd had just finished bathing and dressing. He looked at her warily.

“What do you mean?”

“What do you do? Everyone is asleep when you get up. There is no one to keep you company.”

“I keep my own company,” he said, and turned away from her.

“Are you certain?” She hated the note of jealousy that crept into her voice, and knew he heard it from the curious look he gave her.

“And why are you asking?”

“Just answer me.” She crossed her arms over her chest as she met his eyes, determined not to look away this time.

“Answer you as to what?”

“As to what you do at night. As to where you go.” She took a step towards him, her eyes narrowed and her mouth tight. “As to whom you are with.”

“I am not with anyone.”

“Again I ask you. Are you certain?”

He sighed. “Lady Isabelle, what is your point?”

“You are deliberately misunderstanding me. I am your wife, and as such I think I have a right to know who you are with at night, when—” she took a deep breath— “when you are not with me.”

“So you do not believe me when I say I am alone.”

“Nay, I do not. My lord, I…” She wanted to tell him that it was lonely and hurtful to have him absent so much. That it made her feel like a leper. But how could she say that?

She could not. Instead, she said something much more embarrassing.

“You have a woman, do you not? In the village. And that is where you go at night. To be with her.”

Her face was aflame by the time she finished. Why had she said that? He was going to laugh at her now. He was going to laugh at her, and she would never forgive him.

But he did not laugh, although the corners of his mouth twitched dangerously. “So you are not asking me where I spend my nights, but if I have a mistress.”

“Aye.” She had never been so embarrassed, not even the first night of their marriage when she had offered herself to him and he refused. Her embarrassment made her angry, and she snapped, “And I want the truth!”

“I will give you the truth. I have no mistress, nor,” he said, holding his hand up before she could speak again, “do I have many women that I visit in turn. What I do at night is my own private business, but I will allow you to delve into it enough to assure you that I am not unfaithful to you.”

Silently, she searched his face, looking for some sign that he was lying, but she did not see any deception.

“Aye?”

He nodded, his face solemn. “Aye. I swear it.”

She nodded herself, and looked down, hoping he did not see from her face how relieved his words made her. Why it made her so, she was not sure, but it did. Her heart felt much lighter, and she brushed away her embarrassment by telling herself that it was indeed her right to know.

She looked up at him again. “Thank you,” she said.

He nodded. Then, to her surprise, he picked up her hand and kissed it. The brush of his mustache against her knuckles made her shiver.

“You are welcome,” he said, glancing up at her. Their eyes met. Neither of them moved.

*****

As May turned into June, Isabelle found herself at a loose end. There was little work to be done now in the gardens save weeding and watering, and she had to admit she was willing to let the servants handle those matters while she stayed indoors out of the sun. She was bored, and as Gruffydd’s strength returned, she had not even the comfort of his indifferent company to occupy her. Gwledyr had been away visiting family in the mountains of Eryri, and Isabelle missed her. She occupied much of her time writing letters to her family, and reading their letters, but it grew tiresome.

One morning she awoke full of determination. She was going riding, and her husband was going with her. She rose and dressed in barely suppressed excitement. If staying here was her lot, she was going to at least try to enjoy it a little.

She found him in the great hall, having a drink and chatting with one of the maids. Ignoring the pang of jealousy that arose in her chest, she crossed to him and put her hand on his arm.

“My lord husband,” she said. “I wish you to take me riding today.”

He blinked. It was probably the strongest reaction Isabelle had ever gotten from him that did not involve anger or laughter, and it heartened her. “I have a busy day planned, my lady,” he replied. “I cannot ride today.”

“You can and you will,” she said. “I wish to go, and I wish my lord husband to accompany me. Whatever you have planned can wait. I wish to go today.”

He stared at her. His gaze always made her fidgety, but she was determined not to give in. She refused to look away, and finally he nodded.

“I can give you the morning,” he said. “No more.”

She smiled and bowed. “I shall be waiting at the stables.”

She practically skipped out the door and across the bailey. Until she’d had the idea for a ride, it had not occurred to her how much she wanted to get out of the Maenol, and until he’d agreed to go, it had not occurred to her how badly she wanted his company.

But there was no time to contemplate why this was so, for soon he was striding towards her, the confidence of his gait only slightly lessened by the pain she knew he still felt from his wounds. For a moment she wondered if she should not give up the idea, but then she realized that if he did not ride with her he would likely be exercising on the quintain or doing whatever it was he did in the large outbuilding anyway.

The groomsman led their horses out and assisted Isabelle into the saddle. She smiled at Gruffydd once she was seated.

“Where shall we go?”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “I assumed you had a destination in mind, my lady. “’Twas you who were so eager to ride.”

She frowned. “You know I am unfamiliar with this area. I would not have requested your company were that not so.”

This was not true, but she did not think he needed to know it.

“Methinks you should lead me somewhere pleasant,” she continued. “Show me a beautiful view, or an interesting forest.”

He sighed. “As you wish. Follow me, then.”

They left the bailey and made a right turn, following the wall around until they were almost behind the keep. Isabelle glanced back at it. She never would have thought that in just over a month it would seem more comforting and homely than scary to her. The pale walls that rose from the emerald green grass were graceful and strong, protective and attractive.

Just like its master, she thought, and then blushed at her own foolishness.

They turned left and rode in silence through the trees for a time. Isabelle felt she should be uncomfortable, but she was not. Instead, the silence seemed companionable, and she smiled again, joy welling up in her body. It felt so good to be outside, to be on a horse, to be riding in the warm spring air.

Before she realized she was doing it, she began to sing. “She waited, and waited, and waited some more…for her love to return from his travels…and when he returned, he gave her a kiss…”

“And followed her ever after.”

At first Isabelle thought someone must have followed them. Then she realized it was Gruffydd singing with her. His voice was pleasant, a rich baritone that mingled perfectly with her own. She smiled at him as they continued.

“They lived and they loved, for the rest of their lives…until she was taken away…and he never was known to speak another word…until he gladly joined her.”

Isabelle could not hide her surprise. “You have a lovely singing voice, my lord.”

“As do you, my lady.”

“I did not know you enjoyed music.”

“I enjoy many things.”

“But chiefly war, methinks.”

He frowned. “I do not enjoy war. I only think it is sometimes necessary.”

“But why? Why must any war be fought? Is not life the most important thing, the most precious thing?”

“Life is worthless, my lady. My life is worth only what benefit the loss of it might do my people.”

“You cannot believe that.”

“I can assure you, I do.” He looked at her carefully. “What good is life when there is no safety or freedom, Lady Isabelle? Would you prefer to live a life where there are no choices to be made but the ones made for you, where your every move is subject to the will of another?”

“I do live like that,” she said quietly. “I am a woman, my lord, and as such I am expected to subjugate my will to another’s from birth until death.”

He stopped his horse. “As I serve my liege lord,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “I do believe ‘tis not the same thing as the loss of freedom I speak of. You do have choices.”

“I do not. Had I a choice I would for certes not—” she stopped suddenly, aware of what she was about to say.

“You would not have married me, and you would not be here,” he finished for her.

She nodded. “I am sorry.”

“But this is what I mean, my dear wife. You say if you had a choice you would not be here. Do not forget that marrying you was not my decision, either, but that of my Prince. I gave you a choice on your first night here, when I told you I would not stand in your way if you desired to leave me. You did not.”

“Only because I promised my father,” she said, then grimaced. She never meant to tell him that.

He sighed. “So that is why you remain?”

She nodded and bit her lip. Her head was swimming. Half of her wished he would send her away, now that he knew her predicament. The other half wished just as strongly he would not.

But he said nothing for a long time, and when he spoke his voice was sad. “So you are still here because of a promise you made to your father that you would not leave, and because of a promise I made to my Prince that I would not send you away.”

She looked up at him, but he was not looking at her. He was looking away over the hills below.

“What are we to do now?”

He shrugged. “I suppose we live with honor and know that we have not broken our promises.”

“That does not sound like a happy life.”

“Anyone who expects happiness from life is a fool,” he said shortly.

“I cannot agree. I am certain there are lots of people who lead perfectly happy lives.”

“Name one,” he said.

Isabelle looked dumbly at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. After a moment, he laughed too, a sound that made Isabelle’s own laughter fade.

His laugh was as deep and rich as his singing voice, and she felt that she could happily listen to it all day.

Promise or no promise.

“So you see, my lady,” he said, after he had stopped laughing, “Happiness is not something we can expect from life, nor can we be upset when we do not get it. The world does not work that way. But freedom…the freedom from harm and robbery of our belongings and spirits…that is a cause worth fighting for, and it is one that I willingly give my life for.”

Isabelle felt she was beginning to understand him a little more. “So although we are in this marriage that we do not want, we still have freedom because we are locked into it by honor and not force?”

“Exactly,” he said. He was still smiling. As Isabelle watched him she was uncomfortably aware that for the first time since their marriage, he knew why she did not leave, and for the first time, she did not want to go.

“Do you not think, though, that there is another way to gain such freedom than by killing?”

He turned his face to her, all traces of humor now gone. “I do wish that it were so, my lady,” he said.

They did not speak again for several minutes as they rode. Isabelle was awed by the scenery, but more amazed still at the transformation of Gruffydd. She had never expected him to discuss his feelings and thoughts with her, to open himself to her even this much. That he was doing so now made her more dangerously aware of how attractive he was, and she blushed faintly.

He stopped at the edge of a cliff and dismounted, wincing as he did so, then walked stiffly to her and helped her down as well. His touch was strong and sure, and Isabelle was slightly dizzy when he set her down. Was it her imagination, or did he hold her for a little longer than he needed to once she was safely on the ground?

“I am hungry,” she said nervously. “I wish I’d thought to bring some food.”

“I did,” he said.

“You did?”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “You are lucky to have me, are you not?”

Was he flirting with her? Isabelle could not tell, so she took a chance. “I thank my lucky stars every day,” she said, and was rewarded with another laugh from him.

*****

Gruffydd was flirting with her, despite his efforts to stop himself. Something of the restlessness she experienced that morning must have gone to his head as well, for he felt reckless somehow, a feeling he had not allowed himself since childhood.

A small, stubborn voice in the back of his head was screaming at him that he should not even have come with her this day. This was just the thing he knew he should avoid if he did not want to find himself even more attracted to her than he already was.

And he did not. He knew he did not.

But he still could not stop himself from watching her out of the corner of his eye as she sat down next to him and began to eat, her obvious enjoyment of the food making something deep inside him feel weak. He tried to tell himself it was the drink he’d brought with him, but he knew that was a lie.

He raised the wineskin to his mouth and drank just as Isabelle spoke again.

“Cnychu uthell, this is good,” she said. Gruffydd choked, the mead he’d just taken spraying out of his mouth as her words registered.

“What?” He was barely able to speak, shock and laughter making his throat tight. “What did you just say?”

She looked confused. “Is it not—I mean, I thought it was to express—”

He could not keep himself from laughing, long and hard. He surrendered to it, falling back onto the grass, convulsing with glee.

“What?” Through the tears in his eyes, he saw her face turning red, her expression growing suspicious. “What does it mean? Is it not like saying, ‘my goodness’?”

That set him off laughing again. It was several minutes before he was able to sit up.

“You said it,” she said accusingly, as his breath came back.

“Aye, I did,” he replied, wiping his eyes. “But I would not have if I had not been—well, I should not have spoken so in front of you. But I am pleased you’re trying to learn my language,” he finished. For some reason this struck him as hilarious, and it was several minutes ere he regained control.

“Tell me what it means,” she insisted, her hand on his arm.

Gasping, he leaned over and whispered it in her ear, his laughter dying for an instant as he breathed in the fragrance that surrounded her and felt the heat of her skin so close to his lips.

Her face went bright red. “I cannot believe you spoke so in front of me!”

He bit the inside of his cheek. “I do apologize, my lady,” he said. “Tell me…have you said this to anyone else?”

“Only Gwledyr,” she said, frowning. “I wondered why she looked at me so strangely.”

This time he could not stop himself from laughing again. “I imagine she did.”

She bit her lip, turning his thoughts instantly away from the humor of the moment back to the succulence of her mouth. “I do feel foolish.”

“Nay,” he said. “’Tis I who should be ashamed. I should have known you would pick up my words. I was wrong to speak so in your hearing.”

And he was ashamed, for all the humor he found in the situation. He made a mental note not to curse so carelessly in front of her. “I am sorry.”

She shook her head. “’Tis not important.”

He choked back another laugh at the worried frown on her face. “And what was Gwledyr’s response?”

“She looked surprised, but did not comment. I did find it curious.”

“I can imagine,” he said, smiling. “I will explain it to her. We cannot have her thinking that her lady is so foul-mouthed, can we?”

“’Tis your fault if she does,” Isabelle replied darkly, but he could see from the sidelong smile she gave him that she was not really angry, and he smiled back.

They were silent for a while, watching the clouds go by and enjoying the breeze, when Isabelle said, “How long have you lived alone?”

“Since I was fourteen.”

“So young.”

“Not really,” he said. “In Wales a boy reaches manhood and his majority at fourteen. On that day I left my uncle’s and returned here to claim my inheritance.”

“Your uncle?”

He paused. “I lived with him from my seventh year.”

“And the rest of your family?”

Gruffydd cleared his throat. He did not want to answer this question, but could not think of a way out of it that would not be rude. “They died.”

“All of them?”

“All of them,” he said. “I was seven, and I went to England to live with my uncle. I stayed with him until I was of age, as I said.”

“I am sorry.”

Gruffydd looked away. “Aye, well.” He took another drink. “It was a long time ago.”

“Not so long that it can be forgotten,” she said, and he knew she was thinking of her own mother.

“Long enough,” he replied. “Have you thought of asking your own family to come and visit?”

Her eyes widened as she looked at him. “May I?” she asked, and Gruffydd was so relieved that he had managed to divert her attention from him that he nodded. He had not actually thought of having her family to visit. In truth, he did not really want them to visit. But he would do anything right now to take her mind away from the subject of his family, and if it made her smile at him like that so much the better.

“My lord, I thank you! I shall write as soon as we return home. Oh, to see my father again, and Matilda…‘tis like a dream come true. Thank you.” She leaned towards him, and for one wild and dizzy moment Gruffydd thought she was going to kiss him. The thought set his heart pounding, and he jerked back from her just in case.

He regretted it instantly when he saw her register his movement. “Isabelle…” he said, as she turned away from him, her smile faded.

But she would not allow him to speak. Instead she said in a bright, false voice, “It will be such a pleasure to see them again. How soon may I ask them to come?”

Gruffydd cursed silently. Why was he, who prided himself on being always prepared and in control, so thrown by this woman?

“Whenever you like,” he said. “I will inform Rhys as soon as you hear a reply.”

“My lord…” she said. He tensed himself in preparation. She was going to ask if she could return home with her family, and he knew he must agree but found that he did not want to. Stop it, he thought. You have your duties. You made a vow, a vow far more binding than the one you made to her.

But she did not ask. Instead she said, “There is something else I need to thank you for.”

“I can think of nothing.”

“But there is. You placed servants at my disposal for the garden.”

“’Tis in my interest that the garden is well tended.”

“Aye, but I must thank you for it. And I must thank you for the kindness that all here have shown me. Sometimes I do feel quite out of place, and it…it has helped me greatly to be greeted with smiles and not scorn from those I come in contact with. They have all been most helpful to me.”

He swallowed. Of course they had all been smiling and helpful. He did not tolerate rudeness and cruelty in his household, particularly not towards his wife.

No matter that she was only his wife by vow and not action.

He remembered well what it was like to be forced to live in a place unfamiliar and strange, with none to help or understand. He remembered the taunts of the village boys in England at his Welsh accent and clothing.

Remembered the rocks thrown at him. Remembered the beatings he’d taken before he finally learned to fight back, the hours spent working to turn himself into a better fighter before the day when he sent them sprawling.

Aye, he knew well what it was to feel like an outsider.

“I am glad to hear it,” he said, keeping his voice even. “If there is anything I can do to make your time here more pleasant, please do inform me.”

“Thank you.”

They sat in silence again, but this was not comfortable as the last had been. Gruffydd made ready to stand, gritting his teeth against the pain. “It grows late, my lady,” he said. “I do have things to do this day.”

She nodded. “Do you need assistance?”

“Nay.” He pulled himself up slowly to stand in front of her. “’Tis not so bad as it looked.”

She reached out and took his hand. “It looked painful. Does it hurt?”

He knew she was asking about his wounds, but could not help feeling there was something deeper behind the question. Her hand was small and delicate in his, her skin soft, as he looked her in the eyes.

“Aye.”

His face grew warm. He felt stripped of all defenses, stripped of the careful distance he put between himself and his wife.

And she knew it. He saw the recognition in her eyes, felt her grip on his fingers tighten. He did not mean to, but he tightened his own grasp in response, feeling strangely as if something was passing between them through their eyes and the touch of their skin. It made his entire body tingle, and he took a step towards her before he stopped himself and dropped her hand, looking away from her, deliberately breaking the connection.

“Let me help you mount,” he said, his blush deepening as he realized the innuendo of his words. She made him feel so awkward, like a youth with his first crush.

He avoided her gaze as he helped her back on her horse, then mounted his own, taking another drink when he was safely seated.

“I thank you,” she said as they headed back. “I…enjoyed myself.”

He nodded. “We will come back again, if you like,” he said. “’Tis glorious in the autumn as well.”

“I would like that.”

They did not speak again as they made their way back to the bailey, and she dismounted and went inside so quickly that Gruffydd did not have a chance to bid her good day.

*****

Rhys was waiting for him when he walked into his training building.

“I expected you would return here,” he said disapprovingly. “My lord, it is too soon. Your injuries have not healed nearly enough to allow you to exercise so strenuously.”

“My injuries are my concern, Rhys,” Gruffydd replied. “Think you that our enemies will wait until I am healed to attack us again?”

Rhys was stubborn. “You were almost killed.”

“Almost, but not quite. I am still alive, and since I am I shall make my own decisions.”

“Like deciding to take the Lady Isabelle for a ride this morn?”

Gruffydd glared at his seneschal. “Have you a problem with that?”

“Nay, my lord. I only wondered how exactly that fits in with your plan to rid yourself of her.”

“I thought you did not agree with my plan.”

“And I do not. That is not my point. My point is, perhaps since you made a decision this morning to contradict your own scheme, you will agree with me that it is possible you are not yet ready to make decisions about your training schedule.”

Gruffydd rolled his eyes. “They are two very different matters, Rhys, and well you know it.”

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

“What?”

“Did you enjoy yourself. With your lady wife. Such an agreeable lady she is.”

“She is.”

“So you did enjoy yourself.”

“What are all these questions for?” Gruffydd said, irritated. “You urge me to spend time with her, then accost me when I do. Make up your mind.”

“I was only asking, my lord,” Rhys said.

“Well, stop. When I train and when I see my wife is my concern.”

He crossed the room to the straw mats that lay on the floor and began to take off his tunic. Gruffydd had spent over a year in the Holy Land, studying Saracen fighting methods and learning how they trained. Then he returned home and built this room. It was one of the things he was most proud of, and none were permitted entry but Rhys and himself.

“Strange, my lord. I have never heard you refer to Lady Isabelle as your wife before.”

“Aye you have. Stop trying to distract me and let me get on with my work, if you please. Even as we waste time here Gwenwynwyn and his merry English could be planning another raid into our lands, to kill our people and destroy our property. Is that not more important than your thoughts on my damned marriage?”

Rhys lowered his eyes. “Of course, my lord. Allow me to help you.”

“Good,” said Gruffydd. He was uncomfortable with this whole conversation, and eager to vent his frustrations on the straw fighting dummy in the corner.

*****

He emerged several hours later, in terrible pain but triumphant, and took a bath. If he hurried he could make it to the curtain wall in time to watch the sunset before he left the keep for the night. Rhys had urged him to stay at home, but he could not. He had already spent almost a fortnight resting, and he was not a man accustomed to being still.

He made it just as the sky was turning from pink to gold, and smiled. Good. It was a ritual for him, watching the sun leave the sky. The night belonged to him, and he liked greeting it, and bidding the day goodbye.

Especially this day. It had not been what he’d planned, the outing with his wife, and he was pleased that he’d managed to work away the tensions it had caused.

At least, until he saw her climbing the stairs behind him, and his back stiffened again, his defenses rising.

“My lord husband,” she said, bowing. “I did want to thank you again for today, and for your kind invitation to my family. I have already written to them, and hope to have a response within a sennight. My father wrote to me before that my lord brother is in London, and I hope that he will be able to arrange their safe conduct quickly.”

Gruffydd smiled weakly. The fading sun made her hair shine with copper fire and her creamy skin glow. She made his breath come faster.

“I am pleased to hear it,” he said. “I shall eagerly await their reply. Now, if you will excuse me—”

“Do you not watch the sunset?” She looked confused. “Gwledyr told me you did. I thought mayhap I could watch it with you and keep you company.” She held up a full wineskin. “I brought this.”

Gruffydd eyed her for a moment. Had Rhys put her up to this? Damn the man! Why could he not stop meddling?

But Isabelle looked so hopeful that he could not refuse her without hurting her, especially after his unfortunate reaction to her this afternoon. So he nodded, and she handed him the skin. He took a deep drink and offered it back to her, but she smiled and shook her head.

They leaned on the stone wall for a time, watching the sun sink slowly behind the trees. Gruffydd waited for the peace the sight usually gave him, but it did not come. Instead his thoughts were concentrated on the woman who stood beside him, her gaze intently focused on the last rays of light, her face serene.

Perhaps she would go back to her family, Gruffydd thought. Perhaps once her father saw how unhappy she was here, what an unsuitable husband he was, he would release her from her promise and allow her to leave this place.

He shifted restlessly on his feet as his thoughts continued. If she was leaving, she was no threat to him or his life, and there was no reason why he should not…

He took another drink. There was every reason.

Isabelle sighed and shifted her feet, her movement bringing her a little closer to him. He was acutely aware of the distance between their bodies, of the heat of hers. The breeze stirred tendrils of hair around her face. She looked glorious. His chest was tight.

“It is so beautiful,” she murmured.

“Aye,” he said. But he was not looking at the dying sun. He was looking at her face, and trying with all his might to keep from touching her. If only she would go away…if only she had not come in the first place…

It was no use. Isabelle turned and smiled at him, and it was his undoing. Without thought, without awareness, he dropped the wineskin and stepped closer to her.

Her breath caught; he heard it, just as he saw the fluttering of her pulse in the tender hollow at the base of her lovely neck. He raised his hands to her face and cupped it gently, inhaling the flowery scent of her hair as his thumbs caressed her cheeks. He was dizzy. He was drowning, and before he could stop himself he was kissing his wife.

The first touch of her soft lips sent a jolt of energy and heat through him like he had never felt before. It coursed through his body, setting his blood to boiling and making him harden instantly. He pressed closer to her and heard her sigh as he gently opened her mouth further and explored it with his tongue. After a moment, hers brushed tentatively against his, making him groan with pleasure as his hand slid from her face to her tightly bound hair and down to the back of her neck.

He pulled her in deeper, his mouth growing more insistent as the flames in his body threatened to engulf him. He could not get enough. Her kiss was too sweet, and when he moved his mouth from hers to kiss the slender column of her neck her skin tasted like nectar.

More. More. He slid his hand down her back, pulling her tighter still, pressing her against his throbbing shaft, feeling the softness of her breasts crush against him. He tugged at the fabric of her gown, wanting more than anything to tear it from her, to feel her bare skin beneath his palms. He kissed her again, as if satisfying the urge to touch her lips with his would help him forget his other, baser urges, but it did not work. There was no way to forget when she was this close to him, when her body was so willing and his fairly screamed its demands. He thought he might explode, burst through his clothing. He wanted to take her, to lift her up and press her against the low wall of the ramparts, to feel her legs wrapped around him. Her body was made for him, he knew it as he held her, so lithe and alive in his arms…

It was no good fighting. He gave himself over to sensation, and crushed her gown more tightly in his fists.

*****

Isabelle could not believe what was happening. For so long she had been convinced she did not want this, did not want him, until the passing days had made her realize that was not true even as she gave up hope.

Now his mouth was hot and sweet on hers and she was transported away, away from this building, away from the earth itself, to a place where nothing mattered but the man whose rough hands clutched at her dress and caressed her body through the fabric.

She had never felt this way before. William’s kisses, pleasant as they had been, had not had anything near the power to thrill her like this, to make her yearn, to make her body feel as if it would burst into flames at his slightest touch. William had never taken possession of her body the way Gruffydd was doing, and she gloried in it as his hands moved further down to cup her bottom, pressing her tightly to him, letting her feel his hardness through their clothing. An answering heat gathered between her legs as the secret heart of her body wept for attention as it never had before.

She ran her hands across the breadth of his shoulders, marveling at the feel of them, so solid and strong under her questioning hands. His skin was hot even through his tunic, and when she slid her hands under the open neckline and down his back he groaned. His skin was so soft, so much softer than she had imagined it could be. Scars marked that softness under her palms, and heavy muscle moved under the scars. She longed to tear the shirt from his body and see them.

“Gruffydd,” she murmured against his lips. He growled in response, and backed her up against the wall, his breathing labored as he devoured her mouth. Strong hands lifted her thighs, encouraging her to wrap them around his narrow waist. She floated in the air, only his hands and the crenellated stone behind her keeping her upright, as the ridge of his erection pressed between her legs. Every part of her body tingled. This was heaven. He was possessing her, controlling her, and she did not care. For the first time in her life she was not afraid of the wildness in her soul, the racing of her heart. She only prayed that he would not stop.

And then, abruptly, he did stop. He yanked himself away from her so fast that she almost fell, but he did not help her. Instead he stood, his breath coming in gasps, staring at her as if he had never seen her before.

Through the dream-haze of desire, she watched him pick up the wineskin from where he had dropped it and bring it to his lips, taking great gulps until it was empty. He threw it back down. His eyes were like burning coals, wild and unfocused.

“Gruffydd?” she asked, feeling awkward.

“Go.”

She stood still. Had she heard him right? He couldn’t be telling her to leave, not after what had just happened. Her skin was cold without the heat of his touch.

“Go!” He took another step away from her, almost stumbling. “Leave me, Isabelle. Please. Please go.”

Tears stung her eyes. He turned away from her.

“Please go,” he said miserably.

She looked at his broad, strong back for a long moment, then ran back into the keep, leaving him alone on the wall as the darkness fell around him.

Chapter 8

He did not come to their bed that night and Isabelle slept little. Her thoughts were too jumbled to allow her rest, and try as she might she could not soothe her body into calmness.

What had happened? Why had he pushed her away so harshly, so abruptly? What evil could she possibly have committed?

Isabelle’s experience was limited, but she was not a complete innocent. She knew what she’d felt, and she knew he felt it too. There was no mistaking the fever of his body, the possession in his mouth and hands as he kissed her.

So why, then, had he shoved her away and behaved as if he hated her?

Did he hate her?

Her mind was still racing as she got out of bed and dressed, planning to spend the day in the garden working off some of her frustration on the weeds. The impending visit of her father combined with last night’s fiasco on the roof made her nervous and unsettled, and she longed for physical activity to help her calm down. The gardens were the one thing at Trwch Maenol about which her feelings were completely uncomplicated.

She could not even begin to attempt to sort her feelings about its master.

She started down the stairs and stopped as she saw him coming up them. He looked even more tired than usual, and she worried that perhaps his healing wounds were paining him severely again.

“My lady wife,” he said, and bowed. “I do hope you slept well.”

“Well enough,” she replied. “Have you slept? I do not think you came to bed.”

“Mayhap that is because I did not.”

She looked at his face, hoping for some clue as to his thinking, but was disappointed. It was just as impassive as it had been all the days before.

“My lord, I—”

“Isabelle.” He cut her off, and when she looked back at him she saw that his eyes were averted. “I owe you an apology.”

“Nay, I do not see why.”

“You know very well why.” He waved his hand in the air, a gesture of dismissal. “Mayhap I had a little too much to drink. It matters not. I behaved unforgivably.”

Isabelle looked up sharply at this, but his gaze was still cast away from her.

“I am sorry. It will not happen again.”

His face was hard. Isabelle could see he meant it, and was determined not to show him how much that hurt.

Biting her lip in disappointment, she bowed quickly to him and walked out of the keep into the garden, where Gwledyr was waiting for her, a broad smile on her face.

“Do come look at the savory, my lady, how large it has grown,” she said. “It seems that I have been away forever. You truly do have a way with plants.”

Isabelle smiled her thanks for the courtesy and followed Gwledyr along the rows, pleased to see her but irritated that her planned morning of garden violence looked impossible now.

“My lady, did you hear? The Dragon rode again last night!”

Gwledyr’s excitement was so plain on her face that Isabelle did not have the heart to tell her that she cared little for this mysterious Dragon character, if he truly did exist. Instead she just made a polite noise of interest while she tried to calculate how many days it would yet be before she needed to stake the beans.

“Aye. They say in the village that he was busy, too. First, he caught a thief trying to break into the smith’s. They found the man this morn, chained by the foot and wrist to a tree nearby. My friend told me the man was so terrified that he begged them to take him to the Prince to be placed in prison, for he did not ever want to be outside alone again, day or night.”

This caught Isabelle’s interest slightly. What could have frightened a man so he would beg to be imprisoned? She remembered Gruffydd’s words of the day before about the importance of freedom and wondered if her husband would ever allow fear to drive him into captivity.

Nay. She knew instantly he would rather die, and wondered again why he was so willing to give up his life.

“And did they take him to prison?”

“Oh, aye my lady. Madog the smith was mightily pleased about it, too. He said he has been robbed twice in the last year, and that he would gladly give the Dragon free shoes for his horse for the rest of his life in reward.”

Isabelle looked up from the bean plant she’d been examining. “Think you that this Dragon will claim it?”

Gwledyr laughed. “I do not, my lady. He has never claimed any other reward offered him, so why would he try to claim that one?”

Isabelle shrugged. “Just curious.”

“But I have not told you yet of his bravest deed. My lord Gruffydd has in his possession now papers, delivered by the Dragon in the middle of the night, detailing a plan by our enemies to convene nearby. They intend to scout paths by which to invade Trwch along with villages in the Meirionydd, which as my lady knows is but a few leagues from here.”

Gwledyr’s eyebrows drew together. “’Tis just what we would expect from Gwenwynwyn, even after he agreed to join forces with our Prince only a short while ago.”

Isabelle, who did not know that, tried her best to look awed by this information, but could not help showing her ignorance of politics by asking, “But if this Gwenwynwyn has entered an alliance with Prince Llewelyn, why do we not simply tell the Prince what he plans, and let him take care of the matter?”

Gwledyr looked incredulous, then smiled. “Would that it were so simple. Of course the Prince has been informed, but he thinks it best to try to glean what information we can from the meeting, rather than try to stop it. It seems the Dragon wrote a message of his own, that he will watch the meeting and report back all he learns.”

“Is that not dangerous?”

“The Dragon does not worry about such things. He is far too brave.” She looked down sheepishly. “I am sorry, you must think me dull.”

Isabelle thought Gwledyr was putting a little too much faith in a character she had never seen or met, but she did not speak. For all she knew Gwledyr was right, and the Dragon may be another Merlin. So instead of mentioning it she contented herself with replying, “Oh but I do find it of interest, I assure you. When was this meeting to be?”

“In twelve days, lady. It will for certes be a boon to have such insight into our enemy‘s plans. We will be able to defeat him easily, when the time is right.”

Isabelle wondered again just what it was about life the Welsh found so distasteful. Sometimes it seemed to her the entire place was full of people ready to throw themselves off cliffs if they thought it might harm someone they liked not.

But it was not for her to judge, she decided, and resumed her gardening while Gwledyr chattered on. It was clear this Dragon was very important to the girl and those in the area, and Isabelle wondered idly who he might be. Likely some young man with no responsibility and a large head, she decided.

The ladies passed the afternoon pleasantly enough, and when they finally decided to quit for the day they had managed to weed and trim most of the garden. Cooking smells were beginning to drift across the bailey, and Isabelle was surprised to realize how hungry she was. She had adjusted easily to the Welsh custom of dining only in the evening, but on days such as this she did wish she had thought to ask for something from the kitchens to eat earlier.

She entered the cool dim interior of the keep with a slight spring in her step, pleased by the work she had done and even more pleased that she had managed to tire herself out. She imagined she would sleep well this night.

*****

“A letter has arrived, my lady! A letter from your lord father!”

Isabelle raised her head from her pillow and looked up sleepily as Gwledyr sailed into the room, holding aloft a piece of folded parchment with a black wax seal. Isabelle could not suppress a smile as she sat up. She was even more excited about seeing her father and sister than she had imagined she would be.

Gwledyr held the letter out and Isabelle broke the seal eagerly, her eyes quickly scanning the first sentences. “He writes that he leaves Friday morn,” she said.

“That is today!”

Isabelle smiled. “Aye. He says he will stay a sennight, too.”

As she said the words, a shadow crossed her face. Her hopes that she might find a chance to talk seriously to her husband had gone unfulfilled. She had spoken to him, and he had been cordial, even friendly, but these past days had left her with no further idea of where she stood with him, or what his feelings towards her were.

And even less idea of how she felt about him. One minute deep excitement churned in the pit of her belly at the thought of him, the next she was convinced she was being foolish and that her relationship with him would never move beyond the odd stage at which it now stood, where they were not friends but not enemies either. Then she would decide she did not care either way, and then she would see him and it would start over again. Now her father would be here and Isabelle had no idea what sort of home he would be visiting.

Tearing her thoughts away from her erstwhile husband, she returned her attention to her father’s letter, the smile on her face fading as she got further down the page. Her heart stopped.

“Dearest daughter, it is with great pleasure that I inform you of another member of our little traveling party. I am certain that you remember William, the musician who has entertained our family for some time. Upon learning of our plans, he explained to me that having spent several years in Wales himself, he was most eager to return to that country and see it once again.

“Please do not concern yourself with special arrangements for us, as I can assure you that both myself and your dear sister will be comfortable in the hall, and William, I am confident, will find such company among those of your lord husband’s servants as are there that he will be kept perfectly amused, and will likely devote his time to them.”

Isabelle groaned. William was coming here? It was impossible. Why would he—

But she knew. After he had not received a reply to his first letter to her, he had written again, still more fervently, and she had burned that missive as well without replying.

Now he was coming, and she could only imagine what complications his arrival would create in the already tenuous balance of her life.

She was not able to spend much time that day worrying about it, though. She was far too busy supervising the maids as they scrubbed the walls of the great hall and placed fresh rushes over the wooden floor, and discussing the evening’s menu with the cook. She would have as many of her father’s favorite dishes as she could manage. She was determined that he see her as having adjusted well to her new life.

Whether or not she would let on to him that she was not happy was another thought altogether, and she changed her mind about the subject at least a dozen times throughout the day.

At last the work was done, and as Isabelle climbed the stairs to bathe and dress she was surprised to see Gruffydd standing in their solar, tying his leather belt around his waist.

“Lord Gruffydd,” she said formally, bowing to him as she crossed the room to the wardrobe.

“Lady Isabelle,” he replied. Isabelle stopped. His tone had not been one of mere greeting. He did sound as if he wished to speak to her, and she turned back to him.

“Aye?”

He turned away from her, to the bed, and when he turned back there was something in his hand.

He held it out to her. “Here.”

Her breath caught as she reached out and hesitantly took the book he offered.

It was small, and not very thick, bound in leather-covered wood with a diamond pattern stamped into it. When she opened it, she saw the thick parchment pages were covered with writing in a neat, small hand with none of the elaborate curlicues or embellishments that most books had in abundance.

It was poetry. On the left side was the poem in French, and opposite that was what Isabelle realized after a confused moment must be the Welsh translation.

It was the most thoughtful gift she’d ever been given.

“My lord,” she whispered. “Where did this come from?”

He cleared his throat. “You said you had no books save one.”

“Aye,” she said, wondering why he would not look at her. “So you ordered it made? Whomever made it, you must let me know so I can tell them what a beautiful job they did.”

“I made it.”

She gasped and looked at the book again, running her fingers over the pages as she imagined the hours he must have spent working.

“’Tis Welsh poetry,” he said. “I thought you might enjoy it.”

“I am certain I will,” she said. How could she thank him for this?

Not with a kiss. Not unless she wanted to have him leap away from her again.

So instead she simply reached out and took his hand, bracing herself for his flinch. The touch of his skin on hers made her body grow warm, and when she looked up into his eyes she saw the heat reflected there.

“I thank you,” she said. “’Tis most thoughtful.”

“You are welcome,” he replied. Releasing her hand, he cleared his throat and looked away. “Mayhap you will learn some better Welsh words to use.”

She smiled then, allowing him to lighten the mood. “I suppose there are few worse ones.”

“Very few.”

He turned away and headed towards the door, then stopped.

“I have made plans to take your father hawking on the morrow. I trust that will be acceptable?”

Isabelle nodded, amazed at the consideration Gruffydd was showing her. “I think he will enjoy that.”

“Good.”

They stood and looked at each other for a minute or so. Isabelle’s heart sank. He had nothing more to say to her. She had been his wife for just over two months, and they were still strangers, despite the brief moments of intimacy they had shared, despite the gift she still held in her hand.

“Gruffydd…”

He looked at her questioningly. Was it her imagination, or was the something else in his eyes, something that looked as sad and lonely as she felt at this moment?

But it disappeared when she did not speak, leaving her feeling slightly foolish. She shook her head. “Never mind.”

They stood there again, and then he sighed and rubbed his left palm with his right thumb, a habit of his she’d noticed before. “I shall see you at dinner, then,” he said, and she nodded, watching him walk down the stairs, his usual lazy stride a little stiff.

*****

If she was surprised he had made plans for her father’s entertainment, she was frankly shocked at his attitude when the party arrived. Gone was the cold and forbidding man she had grown so used to seeing, and in his place was a kind and attentive host, interested in the welfare and well-being of his guests. He greeted her father warmly and bent with gallant words to kiss Matilda’s hand, making the girl blush pink and gaze up at him admiringly. Isabelle would have laughed, if it had not been such a painful reminder of the few times that she herself had seen the man behind the mask of indifference her husband normally wore.

The only time his friendly demeanor cracked was when he saw William making his way up the stairs to the doorway. He turned to Isabelle, anger and disbelief plainly etched on his face. Isabelle did not stop to wonder why this was. She turned away quickly before he could read the fear she knew must be in her eyes.

But he did not say anything to her, only welcomed William to his home and called over a maid to show William where he would stay. What he said to the girl Isabelle knew not, but William’s pale face turned pink when Gruffydd spoke, and Isabelle thought of William’s years in Wales and wondered if her husband realized that William spoke Welsh.

Gruffydd, of course, knew William would understand him, and was deliberately insulting when he told Iwerydd the maid that William was a poor wandering musician whom Lord de Harvington had found begging on the roadside and brought along, hoping that a charitable welcome and hot meal could be provided at Trwch Maenol. He took grim pleasure from the angry look on William’s pasty face.

He knew why the musician was here. Isabelle’s father told him William expressed an interest in seeing Wales again, since he had so loved the country when he lived there, but Gruffydd was not fooled.

William was here to claim Gruffydd’s wife, and though Gruffydd fought daily with himself over what he intended to do with her, he’d be damned if he would let that simpleton have her.

Gruffydd looked over at her now, her face radiant as she took her father’s arm and led him to the table. He had never seen his wife so happy, a thought that made him unaccountably sad. He’d told her people who expected happiness from life were fools. Why, then, did he feel that perhaps she deserved happiness, that perhaps he should set her free to find it?

But not with William. He would die first. William would never be able to make Isabelle happy.

Once again, he found himself drawn into conversation with the old earl, whose approving looks around the hall made Gruffydd smile faintly.

“I am most impressed with your hall, my lord,” said Lord Stephen. “Most impressed indeed. You will forgive a doting father for having doubts that any home would be good enough for his child, I hope.”

“’Tis down to your child that the place impresses you,” Gruffydd replied. He caught Isabelle’s look of amazement out of the corner of his eye but ignored it. “She is largely responsible for what you see. I am most grateful for her discerning eye.”

The earl smiled fondly at his daughter. “I always knew she would be magnificent when it came to running her own household. She ran our own so well for years, after…well, after her dear mother died.”

“I am certain that she did,” Gruffydd replied. “Isabelle did tell me that your lady wife was a gardener of some skill. She has transformed my own gardens.”

“My lord, you give me too much credit,” Isabelle interrupted, blushing. Gruffydd saw the incredulity on her face, though she hid it well. She looked at him strangely, but he only lifted a brow at her. Whether this show was for the Earl’s benefit or for that simpering troubadour a few seats down he was unsure, but he was enjoying it immensely.

“Do not be so modest, my dear,” he said. “Your hard work and skill is commendable. I am certain your lord father is pleased to hear how well you have adjusted to your new home, and how productively you have spent your time.”

Lord Stephen nodded. “I am indeed,” he said, smiling. “You must show me the garden on the morrow, dear Isabelle. I should like very much to see it.”

“’Tis only a garden,” Isabelle replied.

“But it is not, my dear wife,” Gruffydd said cheerfully. For a moment he wondered if he might not be playing his role a little too broadly, but decided he cared not. The copious amount of mead he had consumed earlier might be contributing to his mood as well, for he’d torn open one of his healing wounds earlier in the day and had managed to drink several jugs down before Rhys had cleaned and restitched it. “To you it may be but a garden. To me and the rest of our household it is so much more.”

He caught Isabelle’s eye. She was shifting uncomfortably in her seat but met his gaze. “And what is that, my lord?”

Gruffydd smiled. “’Tis a thing of beauty,” he said. He realized as he said it that he was not only speaking of the garden, but of the lady who’d made it, and quickly turned his gaze from her before she could see it in his eyes.

The earl laughed. “Ah, my dear Isabelle is a thing of beauty all on her own,” he said, echoing Gruffydd’s own thoughts.

Gruffydd nodded vigorously.

“You must think yourself extremely fortunate to have her,” William interjected. Gruffydd glanced at the man, whose face was growing redder by the minute.

“I thank my lucky stars every day,” he said cheerfully. Beside him Isabelle began to cough, and Gruffydd took delight in patting her firmly on the back until she regained control of her breathing.

“I am sorry,” she said, shooting him a dirty look.

Gruffydd felt his good spirits sink a little. He had gone too far, copying her line from the day they went riding. He meant it as a joke between them, but when he remembered what happened later that day he realized how it must have sounded to her.

Had he truly hurt her that badly?

He had not imagined it possible that she would want him or care for him, even after the way she had melted so willingly into his arms. It had gone farther than he had intended it to go, but she seemed perfectly happy to resume their usual formality afterwards. Now he wondered if he had misread her somehow, and if it mattered.

“My lord,” Matilda began. Gruffydd shifted his attention from his thoughts to his wife’s younger sister, who sat next to him on his left. Her pale skin blushed prettily as she spoke, and Gruffydd knew she was a complete innocent. His heart went out to her. “Do you have a Prime service in your chapel?”

Gruffydd glanced quickly at his wife. She had not mentioned to him that her sister was so devout, and from the look on her face he could see that she had completely forgotten.

“I am afraid my chaplain is away visiting family,” he lied smoothly, catching Isabelle’s slight nod as he did so. “There are services nearby, however, and I would be happy to have my seneschal and his daughter accompany you whenever you desire, Lady Matilda.”

The girl smiled. Gruffydd had never seen two sisters look so alike and yet so different as Isabelle and Matilda. One colored like a flame, with fire in her soul, the other pale and still as morning, with only gentleness beneath.

Both lovely, but he knew which he preferred.

“That would be very fine,” said the Earl. “Will you be coming also, my lord? I know Isabelle often finds herself too busy to attend.”

“In truth, my lord, I have other plans for the morrow,” Gruffydd replied. “I had hoped that you would be willing to accompany me, as I have trained a new falcon and thought mayhap you would assist me in seeing how well I have done.”

Lord Stephen smiled broadly. “I think I would like nothing better,” he said. Then, with a glance at Isabelle, “Saving of course, time with my dear child.”

Isabelle smiled back at him. “I shall be here when you return, father,” she said.

“And what of you, young William?” The earl turned his attention to the troubadour, who sat with his stony gaze fixed on his trencher. “What plans do you have?”

“Ah, fear not, my lord,” Gruffydd said smoothly. “There is much here to keep our friend entertained.” Turning to William, he said in Welsh, “You are a musician, are you not? I am confident there is some work you can turn your hand to. Perhaps you would like to help the ladies’ maids with their embroidery.”

William blushed even redder and gave Gruffydd a look of pure hate. “Or I could keep your lady wife company,” he shot back in the same language.

“Go near my wife and I will see you dead,” Gruffydd replied, his voice calm as he kept his face fixed in a smile.

He saw Isabelle’s head jerk up and knew she was wondering what he was saying. He turned to her and smiled. “Our friend William here has just agreed to compose a new piece for our dinner on the morrow,” he announced, allowing himself an evil smile at William’s gaping look. “It is a treat I personally cannot wait for.”

He knew from the glance Isabelle gave him she was not entirely convinced, and knew also that every servant at the table knew exactly what was truly said, but he cared not. His servants were loyal to him. They would not speak.

He had not enjoyed himself so much in a long time, and the conversation continued for a while. But a glance across the table showed him that the lady Matilda was fast growing tired, and he decided it was time to call a halt to the evening.

“I find myself sleepy as well,” said the earl, yawning as if to prove his point, when Gruffydd announced it was time to retire. “An excellent meal, my lord Gruffydd,” he added.

Gruffydd watched as Isabelle kissed her father and sister good night. He walked to her side and bowed low, taking the opportunity to kiss Matilda’s hand once again, and was rewarded by another blush.

Then he took Isabelle by the arm and led her up to the solar.

“What was that?” she whispered furiously, as soon as they were out of earshot.

“I know not what you mean,” he said, dropping her arm and taking a step back.

“You know very well what I mean,” she replied. “What was that little act you put on? You behave as though we—”

She stopped abruptly and blushed. Gruffydd found himself, for the first time that evening, at a loss for words.

“Lady Isabelle,” he said. “I did not mean to do anything but make your lord father and lady sister happy, and perhaps amuse you as well. I apologize if I upset you.”

She turned away from him. “’Tis unimportant.”

“Nay…do not say that.”

She spun back around. “Do not say what? Do not say that my feelings are unimportant? You have never once considered them, my lord, so forgive me if I have a hard time believing that you suddenly care.”

Gruffydd’s good cheer faded. Why was he doomed to never have a single moment’s peace with this woman? She drove him to distraction, with her little moods and tempers, with her curling hair and blue eyes and delicate scent…

He shook his head, trying to clear his mind, suddenly angry. “Forgive me for trying to make your family welcome, my lady,” he said, allowing sarcasm to creep into his voice. “I shall not do it again.”

“That is not what I meant, and well you know it,” she snapped.

“Why do you not just say what you mean, then, and let us dispense with the games.”

She stared at him for a minute. Gruffydd held his breath, hoping she would tell him her feelings, hoping she would tell him if she found herself as confused as he was.

“I mean only that I am not good at keeping up pretense,” she said finally, disappointing him.

Gruffydd fought the urge to grab her and pull her into his arms. She looked so lovely with her eyes flashing that he could no longer comfortably stand there. He made a show of yawning. “I am sorry, Lady Isabelle,” he said, “but I do find myself tired. Can we continue this delightful conversation on the morrow?”

“Fine,” she said, and walked past him into the wardrobe.

Gruffydd used the opportunity to remove his own clothing and slide beneath the covers of the bed. His head was spinning slightly, and the pain in his chest had faded. He heard Isabelle returning from the wardrobe, and felt her climb into bed next to him, but kept his eyes shut and feigned sleep. It was some time before her breathing became regular, and even longer before he himself was able to drift away into dreams that, for once, were not so unpleasant.

Chapter 9

William’s face was flushed. Isabelle had never seen him so excited, not even on the night before her marriage, and it made her nervous.

She was walking from the gardens back to the keep when he grabbed her and pulled her into a corner of the bailey. She had started to cry out, but when she saw who held her the sound died in her throat.

She knew this was coming.

From the moment he arrived at the Maenol the night before, she had expected it. She had seen the looks he exchanged with her husband, heard the edge in their voices when they spoke, but had dared not mention it to Gruffydd. It hurt to admit she was still afraid of him, but she was. Any man who carried with him the rage and despair that she had only recently recognized in his eyes was not a man to be crossed, and she hoped poor William understood that.

She steeled herself against him as he pulled her aside and held her much closer than was comfortable. His breath was hot on her ear as he spoke to her.

“Isabelle…I have waited so long to see you again. Why did you not answer my letters?”

She pulled herself away from him slightly, so she could look him in the face. Had she really once thought she loved him? All she felt now was a detached fondness, as if he were a distant cousin.

“I am sorry,” she said, rather more stiffly than she’d intended. “I have not had the time or privacy required to compose a note such as the one I needed to send to you.”

She saw both the fear and hope in his eyes and hated herself for not caring. “My darling,” he said. “You fear to write to me of your true feelings. I understand. Fear no more, for I am even now making plans that will rid you of that beast, of that foul man who calls himself your husband.”

Isabelle stepped back from him a little more. “William,” she said, as gently as she could. “You do not understand.”

“Understand?” he asked, and she winced as his voice squeaked on the word. “What is there to understand? You were forced into a marriage you did not want, and if I am not mistaken, my sweet, you still do not want it. He is not right for you. He can never love you as I do. He is not a gentle man,” he said, and the seriousness of his tone made Isabelle bite her lip to keep from laughing.

She tried to be as kind as possible. “He is not so bad as you think,” she said, and William snorted in indignation.

“Know you what he said to me last night?” She shook her head and he continued, “He told me that since I am a musician, perhaps I would also enjoy doing embroidery with the maids!”

At this Isabelle truly could not keep herself from laughing, but she managed to turn it quickly into a cough before he noticed.

He continued. “He thinks I am weak simply because I devote myself to the beauty and truth in life rather than to mindless killing. All I seek is happiness, the happiness which is possible for every one of us, the happiness which we all can expect from life if we look hard enough.”

As he spoke the words, Isabelle heard Gruffydd’s voice, deep and pleasant in her head. “Only a fool expects to find happiness in life.” Was William a fool? Or was he right, and her husband wrong?

But William was still speaking. “To make such a comment, as if the fact that I am a musician means I am less of a man.”

Again, Isabelle found her mind wandering. In her mind, she saw her husband’s chest, hard and heavy with muscles and crisscrossed with scars that told of battle and sacrifice, of a life spent in the pursuit of justice and freedom.

Were they so different, the man she used to think she loved and the man she had married?

Both of them sought life on their own terms, but Gruffydd chose to fight, to meet danger head-on and defeat it, while it seemed to her now that William had chosen somehow to hide what he saw, to cover what he did not like or approve of with pretty words and phrases.

As she had once done, she realized now with a shock.

William thought life was about happiness…Gruffydd thought it was about sacrifice and loyalty, about truth and honor.

He had never dishonored her. Even when he left her on the wall that night, he had not left her. Instead he had begged her to leave him.

Why had he begged?

William seemed to sense that her attention was fading from his words, for he gathered her close again. She gasped in surprise.

“Come away with me, Isabelle my sweet,” he whispered. “I asked you once before, but you felt honor-bound to refuse. Now I am sure you see the error of that decision. Please, come with me. I do not care that he has married you. I do not even care that he has…defiled you.”

Isabelle’s eyebrows drew together in a frown. “What mean you, defiled me?”

William turned slightly pink. “Come now, my love…you are married now. Surely you do know what I mean. He took your maidenhead. We all saw the proof, and I must tell you how it broke my heart, but still I care not. I love you, and I want you to run away with me.”

But Isabelle could not get past her confusion. “The proof?”

William’s hand brushed her cheek. “Ah, I am sorry, darling. I did not mean to embarrass you. I understand how difficult it must be for you to put up with his crude attentions.”

His words sent a searing memory flooding through her body. Crude attentions? Nay…not crude. For certes not crude.

“William,” she said. She did not want to hurt him. She was still fond of him, though the realization that in truth she found him irritating had hit her like a blow to the head. “I cannot. You know my reasons. I am bound to stay, and stay I must. I made a promise—”

“You made a promise to a man who lies!” William’s fingers tightened on her arms. “Isabelle, listen to me.” His pale blue eyes, so different from the dark mirrors of Gruffydd’s, bore into her. “You husband has lied to you. You do not know who he is. I found it.”

“Found it?” He had her attention now.

He nodded eagerly. “Your husband has an outbuilding that none are permitted to enter. I sneaked inside it today, while it was unguarded.”

Her eyes widened. Despite herself, she was terribly curious about what that building contained. More curious even than about what William meant by “proof.”

“Tell me about the room,” she said eagerly, but he shook his head.

“The room is unimportant, Isabelle, can you not see? I am trying to tell you what I found there.”

“But that is what I am asking.”

“Nay, that is not what I mean! Isabelle, your husband is more reckless, more dangerous than you can imagine, and he has put your life in danger as well. Do you not know who he is?”

“I know who I am,” drawled a voice behind her, and Isabelle jumped away from William’s hold as she recognized it, fear turning her body cold.

Gruffydd.

*****

He leaned against the wall that surrounded the gardens, his hand placed loosely on the hilt of his sword as he spoke. Isabelle dared not look him in the eye. His tone was leisurely, but the edge in his voice told her he was barely containing his fury at finding his wife held so closely in the arms of another man.

“Take your hands off my wife,” he commanded, and Isabelle spoke as William snatched his hands away from her as if from a fire.

“My lord, it is not—”

He silenced her with a look. She had never before felt terror such this. Even the first night at the Maenol, when she was so rude, he’d not looked at her this way.

There was murder in his eyes.

He took a step forward and drew his sword halfway from its sheath. “I did warn you,” he said softly, his gaze not leaving William’s ashen face.

“My lord,” William babbled, dropping to his knees. “Please. I meant no harm to you. Lady Isabelle and I are friends. We have been friends. Tell him, my lady,” he said, glancing anxiously up at Isabelle, who stood rooted to the spot. “Tell him it is only friendship between us!”

But Isabelle could not speak. She was too busy watching Gruffydd as he walked forward and took her arm.

It hurt. He held her so tightly she would not be surprised if he broke her bones. She refused to show him this weakness, though, instead standing and meeting his gaze with all the innocence and dignity she could muster. “William only desired to speak to me, my lord husband,” she said.

Gruffydd glanced from her face to William’s and back again. “Aye?” He asked. “Well, my dear wife, I wish to speak to you now. As soon as I’ve kept my word to William.” His free hand swung backwards, catching William across the face and knocking him over.

Isabelle stifled a cry as Gruffydd yanked her arm hard. She stumbled as he strode away, pulling her with him to the entrance of the keep. She managed to catch up as they walked through the hall, his grip on her never faltering or losing its strength as they went up the stairs to the solar, where he released her, sending her reeling towards the thick stone wall. He kicked the heavy wooden door shut behind him savagely and took a step towards her.

She braced herself against the wall with her hands and looked up at him. His face was a mask of fury. Was there pain and betrayal in his eyes?

“Explain yourself,” he ordered, his voice clipped.

“My lord—”

“Cnychu uthell, woman. I have just discovered you preparing to cuckold me. The least you can do is drop the false respect and address me by name.”

She swallowed and tried again. “Gruffydd…I had no intention of—of making you a cuckold. I do admit that William and I had a friendship, once, before you and I were wed…”

He sighed impatiently. “Think you I did not already know that?”

She gaped at him. “You knew?”

“I am not a fool, Isabelle.”

She nodded her acquiescence. “I had not intended to speak privately with him.” She felt tears start in her eyes, and angrily blinked them back. She would admit her part in what he’d just seen, but she was not about to act guiltier than she actually was, or expose her own weakness. “He grabbed me and pulled me aside. I tried to tell him ‘twas no use, but he did insist. Gruffydd, I swear to you…”

“Do you love him?” The question was studiously casual.

Isabelle was so startled by it that she could not think of an answer.

“I asked you a question.” He took a step closer to her, and Isabelle saw how tightly he held his mouth, the tension in his body. How important was this question to him, she wondered, before she answered him truthfully.

“Nay. I do not. I told him so.”

“Do you…want him?”

She swallowed. “Nay. I do not.”

She expected him to stop, but he did not. He took another step towards her; he was close enough now for her to smell the earth-and-smoke scent of his skin.

“I do not expect to see you with him again,” he said softly, stepping closer still.

Isabelle’s heart began to pound. His face was only a hand’s width away from hers, so close that his black eyes were all she could see. She felt as if she could fall into them.

“You are my wife,” he muttered. “Not his. Not anyone else’s. Mine. Do you understand?”

She was too breathless to speak. The heat seemed to be coming off him in waves. Her skin burned with it. She felt her nipples harden in response, and knew she was not the only one who felt the tension between them.

*****

Gruffydd tried to stop himself from moving closer to her, but he could not. Seeing her in the embrace of another man had jolted him to his very soul, made his blood run cold with fury and hot with desire. He could no longer deny the cravings of his body and mind.

He wanted her. He intended to have her. He was going to have her.

Damn the consequences. Damn his promises and his responsibilities. He did not care. Not now.

Isabelle cowered back against the wall, fearful of the anger etched on her husband’s face. It was not until he was closer to her that she saw the fury fade, replaced by something else. He was not going to hit her.

He wanted her, and she saw it in his eyes and knew she could no longer deny that she wanted him too.

He grabbed her hands in his own and brought them up over her head, pinning her wrists to the wall. He was so close to her that his lips brushed against hers as he spoke. “Answer me, Isabelle. Do you understand me?”

Her body shivered as she breathed, “Aye.”

He moved his face to the side so his lips hovered just next to her ear. “You belong to me.”

“Aye.”

He let his teeth scrape gently along her earlobe, hearing her gasp. “You say you do not want him. Do you want me?”

His hands slid down her arms, caressing them, then down to her waist. His blood thundered so loudly in his ears he barely heard her whispered assent.

Slowly he felt his way back up her body, barely touching her. He could not breathe as his palm slid over her breast and the proud peak of her nipple rose to greet his touch.

She gasped. Her lips sought his, but he pulled away, delighting in teasing her, in teasing himself, as he caressed her collarbone and the delicate white flesh of her throat. He felt the plait of her hair and reached to the end, removing the leather thong that bound it, unraveling her hair and letting it slide through his fingers. It was even softer than he remembered, a shining smooth river flowing over his skin. Freeing it also released the soft soapy fragrance that clung to it. He could not keep himself from inhaling deeply, breathing her into his body and letting her fill him up.

Her eyes were closed, her lips parted as she panted her desire into the still light of dusk. He watched her breasts heave and heard himself groan.

He moved his hands back to her hips, squeezing them, pulling her sharply forward to press against him, allowing himself the exquisite torture of feeling her thighs against his, feeling the softness of her belly against the throbbing length of his shaft. Her breath was hot on his chest as she made a small sound in her throat, a tiny moan.

His mouth dipped to her neck, exulting in her sighs of pleasure as he nibbled the base of her throat. “Mine,” he whispered. “I want you, Isabelle.”

In response her hand reached up, her fingers entwining in his hair. She pulled gently; Gruffydd knew what she wanted and could wait no longer.

Her lips were sustenance for his soul, and he feasted like the starving man he was. Deeper and deeper he kissed her, his mouth plundering hers, until he was breathless and shaking with feverish need. He’d not been able to resist her on the rooftop, but managed to stop before he’d gone too far, lost too much. Now he crushed his objections beneath the heel of his boot, and gave Isabelle everything he had.

She was so slim and alive in his arms, matching his passion kiss for kiss. She arched her back, crushing her breasts into his chest, slipping her hands into the neckline of his tunic to stroke his bare skin. He shuddered. He wanted her fingers on him, on his back, on his chest, wanted to grab her hands and slide them down his body so she could feel his desperation. He was so swollen and rigid he thought he might explode from it.

Isabelle was shaking, too, shivering in his arms, against his body. She cried out as his hand once again found her breast, as he pulled away the fabric that covered it and caressed her soft skin with his hard, rough palm.

His thumb ran over the taut peak. A breathless moan escaped her, then a louder cry as his lips left hers and fastened on her pert, aching nipple. He sucked greedily, teasing her with his tongue, making her gasp his name and arch against him. He made a sound deep in his throat and transferred his attentions to the other breast, giving it just as much care. The pebbled skin was slightly rough under his tongue and tasted of honey and rich, ripe fruit. He kissed and licked the undersides of her breasts, cupping their gentle weight in his hands, scraping his teeth lightly across the pale delicate flesh until she clutched at his hair and cried out.

He slipped his hands down, lifting her luscious thighs to wrap around him and carrying her to the bed. Never before had it seemed such a long distance to walk, and when he finally sank her back onto the soft bedcovers she sighed. The sight of her long hair streaming over his bed, the knowledge that he would soon have what he’d wanted for so long, made his heart beat so fast in his chest he thought it might explode. He leaned over her for one more long, lingering kiss, his hips nestled between her legs.

He grabbed her hand and pulled her back up until she sat before him on the edge of the bed. Her beautiful face twisted in confusion, until his hands slid up her legs, bringing her skirts with them, lifting her slightly off the bed as he pulled them to her waist.

“Raise your arms,” he gasped.

She did as she was bade and he slipped her dress up over her head, shift and all, exposing her to the warm air and his blazing eyes.

Dimly he remembered seeing her once before, the first night she spent here. He thought she was glorious then. Now he only thought she was the most perfect woman he had ever seen.

He reached out for her and ran his hands down her body, starting at her neck, down across the tips of her firm breasts and across her smooth, slightly rounded belly. The curls of her maiden’s hair taunted him. He placed his hands on the tops of her thighs and spread them slowly, sending a shiver through her body that was echoed by his own.

“I want to see you,” she whispered, delighting him with her boldness. He obliged her immediately, pulling his tunic off and dropping it, leaning his head back in pleasure as her hands explored the hard planes of his chest.

“Does it hurt?” she asked. Her fingers ran delicately over the barely healed wounds and slid down to his waist, making his muscles tighten instinctively.

“Not at the moment,” he replied. He felt naught but the warmth of her skin on his own and the pulsating desire that threatened to overwhelm him.

Before she could reply, he fisted his hand in the back of her hair and pulled her to him, kissing her again. The tips of her exposed breasts rubbed against his chest, two tiny pinpoints of heat. His skin rippled beneath them. He wrapped his left arm around her waist, crushing her to him. She gasped. He loosened his hold, but did not let go, leaning over her so her head fell back over his arm. She was completely in his power, completely his, and something primitive in his soul cried out in triumph.

He couldn’t feel enough of her body at once with one hand, so he allowed her to brace herself against the bed with her arms and pulled away from her enough to grant his hands easy access to all that pliant, luxurious flesh. Her stomach was smooth and warm, her hipbones curving softly into her pelvis. She gasped into his mouth when he ran one finger along the inside of her thigh, tickling gently, brushing his knuckle against her curls. She grabbed his face in both of her hands, her fingers slender and light at his temples, holding on to him as he finally allowed himself to reach for the spot he knew she would enjoy the most.

He groaned when his fingers reached it. Her slick heat felt better than he’d imagined in his most uninhibited dreams, and the way she cried out and moved her hips when he began to toy lightly with her nearly took his sanity from him. The soft musky fragrance of her desire assaulted his nostrils and made his mouth water. He removed his hand and pressed the ridge of his erection against her, feeling her blazing heat through the fabric, digging his fingers into the rounded flesh of her bottom. His head spun. He knew if he wasn’t careful this would end, end now, without his having reached the final satisfaction of seeing her pleasure. He wanted to see it, needed to see it. He needed to feel her inner walls pulse around his throbbing length, needed to coat himself in her wetness. Most of all he needed her, simply to have her, to be close to her in a way he’d only ever been close to another human being a few times in his life. Just for one night, he needed to be saved.

Without taking his mouth from hers, he reached down and removed his boots, then began fumbling with the tapes that held his chausses up, untying them swiftly and letting them fall. The garters of her hose were next, and as he bent to remove them, he lowered his head to her breast and took it into his mouth.

*****

Isabelle cried out. She could not help it. Her body was awash in sensation and she felt herself being carried away by it, as if his hot mouth on her was the only thing that kept her anchored into the world. Her hands clutched at his thick hair as she pulled him tighter to her.

With a sound like a growl he picked her up again. Holding her to him with his left arm, he used his right to push the bedcovers out of the way. “I want you,” he whispered again in her ear, and there was something both intensely manly and slightly plaintive in his voice that drove Isabelle’s excitement even higher.

She nodded, not trusting her own voice, and slid back until her head was on the pillows. His mouth found hers immediately, and he removed his hose and braes and climbed up onto the bed.

His tongue caressed her nipple again, the pleasure so intense it was almost like pain, then his mouth was hot on the underside of her breasts, his teeth scraping gently over her ribs, his hands sliding up and down her thighs.

He kissed and nibbled her belly, his tongue leaving a trail of heat down to her most secret place, and she gasped and tried to wriggle away from him.

“Gruffydd,” she gasped, “Kiss me.”

“I intend to,” he growled. “Be still.”

His tongue touched her lightly, and her entire body stiffened. She did not know if this feeling was the right one to have, if he wanted her blood to run hot and cold and her muscles to shake they way they were. Never before had she felt anything like what he did to her. The heat of his breath and tongue on the most sensitive part of her body was delicious, incredible.

At first he only toyed with her, running the smooth, wet tip of his tongue through the slick folds of skin, until her head was tossing from side to side on the bed and her body burned with need. She wanted to grab his head, to thrust his face into her, and while the urge should have shocked her she could not think hard enough to feel ashamed. Her hips started moving of their own accord, begging him without words to touch her harder, faster. Her body asked, and he responded, focusing his attentions right where she needed them to be.

She quivered and shook beneath him, unable to be still, unable to control the sensations flooding through her body. Her muscles tightened. Burning heat pooled between her legs, the shining tip of the flame focused right on the spot where his tongue carried on its steady rhythm. She hovered on the precipice of something so big she had no hope of understanding it, and fear made her draw back. She started to pull away from him, but his hands gripped her hips, forcing her to stay, to face the unknown with him.

Then there was no more fear, no more uncertainty. Her body exploded with pleasure, her back arching off the bed. Only his hands, strong and sure, kept her anchored on earth as she cried out.

Isabelle had stopped shaking when he drew himself up to press the full length of his body to hers. The feel of his skin against every inch of hers was incredibly thrilling, and Isabelle wanted more. He was so warm, his skin such a tantalizing combination of smooth skin and rough scars, his muscles solid under her hands, his chest almost hairless.

She ran her hands down his sides to his hips. The weight and searing heat of his hardness pressed against her thigh like a brand.

He leaned back from her and she moaned and reached for him, deprived of his warmth. She glanced down and saw for the first time the naked body of her husband. It made her gasp.

She had seen his massive chest before, the flatness of his stomach and the way the lines and muscles of his body flowed so smoothly into each other. He was so beautiful, every scar a decoration, every small delineation of muscle and every bit of skin working together to create a perfect man, the man who was her husband, whose bed she shared. The small scar that had so piqued her interest when she first arrived at the Maenol curved down, away from the proud jut of his manhood. He was enormous, and fear prickled the back of her neck as she wondered if he would tear her in two.

He followed her glance then looked up, into her eyes. “I will make it as easy as I can for you, sweeting,” he said hoarsely, bringing his mouth back to hers. “But I fear I cannot stop. I want you too badly to stop.” The desperation in his voice made her dizzy. “Please—please do not make me stop.”

As he spoke his hand came to rest on the gentle mound that covered her center, and his thumb touched her most delicate place, sending her mind reeling away from her fear, back to the place where only sensation mattered. “Do not stop,” she whispered. Her voice seemed to come from so far away.

He did not cease his caresses when he placed the tip of his shaft against her entrance, and with one firm stroke, he broke her barrier and slid inside her.

Isabelle heard his groan of satisfaction, but had to bite back a cry herself as tears sprang to her eyes. It was too painful. For one dizzy, shocking moment she was yanked from the place of pleasure and back into the world. Her legs jerked as she tried to pull away.

Then his hand caught her shoulder and he brought his face down to hers again, his eyes dark and opaque.

“Relax,” he whispered. “Trust me.”

He had never asked such a thing of her before, and when Isabelle tried, she found the pain was lessening as he slid himself gently back, then forwards again. His mouth caught her cry of surprise, as if tasting her pleasure, before he pulled away again. His handsome face loomed over her, his eyes black and heavy-lidded, his lower lip looking bruised. Isabelle reached out her hand to stroke it, allowing herself to touch the luxuriant brush of his mustache as she wondered if her own lips had the same appearance.

He moved his head slightly to the side and captured her finger in his mouth. Isabelle’s eyes widened as he sucked it gently, caressing it with his tongue, nibbling it with his teeth, sending sparks shooting through her body. Her insides turned to liquid. She was melting, and he was making her melt, and she prayed it would not stop. The sensation of his body inside hers, forcing her to accommodate his width, made her shiver. Every time he pulled out she felt the loss. Every time he drove back in she was full again, content. He shifted his hips, driving into her from an angle, making slow circles. The tip of his erection delved and prodded, dancing inside her, evoking feelings she’d never had before, never dreamed of. He filled her up, and the pleasure of that poured through her being, so she danced with him, safe in his arms while she kept him safe in her body.

She had never seen him look so unguarded as he sighed, the gentle pace of his thrusts quickening slightly as he threw his head back, exposing the muscled column of his neck to her. She raised her fingers and stroked it, touching the lobes of his ears and running her hands down over his chest again and again. He felt so good. The manly scent of him filled her head, his breath coming in gasps as he kept his movements agonizingly slow. His arms were tense as they rested on either side of her head.

“Melys,” he moaned in Welsh. “Sweet. Oh, Isabelle…” She could not quite follow his words; they spilled from him, surrounding her with the lovely sound of his voice, cool and smooth, the soft syllables of his pleasure the only sound in the room aside from her own breath. His movements sped up, growing looser but still gentle, not overpowering or frightening her.

He forced himself under control as he felt the tension beginning to build again in her body and used every bit of skill and power he owned to coax her to release. Her body was agonizingly hot around his, caressing him, torturing him with pleasure. His head swam with it. He was blinded by it.

Her hips began to move with his, following his strokes, her hands clutching at his hair as he placed one hand on her hip, driving himself deeper and deeper into her, his body aflame as she arched her back, her breasts pressing against his chest. “Let go, Isabelle,” he murmured into the soft skin of her throat. “Do not be afraid. Let go.”

He felt the exact moment when her pleasure peaked and she began to throb around him. Her voice raised in a cry that shook him to his soul, and he finally allowed himself the release that his body had been begging him for, all thoughts wiped from his mind as his voice joined hers and his climax thundered through his body.

*****

Gruffydd lay awake for what felt like hours. Beside him, Isabelle slept soundly, almost invisible in the dark room.

He could not believe what he had done. He’d sworn not to consummate their marriage, had tried so hard to keep her at arm’s length, and now…

Gruffydd had not known fear since his youth. He expected every day to be his last, and he welcomed the specter of death as most men would greet a close friend. His life had ceased to mean anything to him years ago, and that was the way he preferred it.

But he was afraid now, as he lay beside his sleeping wife and heard the soft, even rhythm of her breathing. He could not stop remembering how she felt beneath him, how sweet her kisses were.

How her body felt clamped around his. How desperately he wanted more.

He was not a stranger to the pleasures of the flesh. He had never been one to overindulge, preferring to save his energies for the field, but there were some nights when the pain became too much for even him to handle and he turned to a woman to bring him a few moments of blessed oblivion.

This was different. Isabelle was different. At some point he had stopped merely satisfying his body’s urge, stopped claiming her as his possession, and started making love to his wife.

And Gruffydd’s fear turned into panic as he began to realize just how much he craved her, how deeply he was beginning to care for her, and what that could mean.

He’d made a vow, so many years ago. He’d sworn on his life, on his soul, that he would have nothing but the fight. Nothing would matter to him but the protection of his people and his property.

And that had been enough. It had not been a happy life, but as he’d told Isabelle, only a fool expected happiness. He was not a fool. He expected pain, and struggle, and endless nights of blood and torment.

And that was what he’d received, until the day that he married this beautiful stranger and felt his resolve weakening with each passing day.

Silently, he slipped out from under the covers and pulled on his clothes. The keep was dark and still as he crept down the stairs and crossed the bailey to his exercise room.

There was more than one way to drive his thoughts into oblivion, and Gruffydd was a master at it. He wanted so desperately to keep Isabelle out of his heart, but as his fists slammed into the straw dummy again and again he was terrified that it was too late.

Chapter 10

“I am so very proud of you, my dear.”

Isabelle smiled and looked down to avoid her father’s fond gaze. They spent the morning in the garden, where her father exclaimed over all Isabelle had accomplished, before retiring into the great hall for something to eat. Isabelle tried to concentrate on her father’s words, but found it almost impossible. Her thoughts could not stay away from Gruffydd and what they had shared the night before.

He was asleep in the solar now. She had awakened to find him gone, and had not seen him until he bowed to her on his way from his outbuilding to the keep as she stood with her father in the garden.

“You do compliment me too much, father,” she said. This did not feel right. Should not something be different between her husband and herself?

“Nonsense,” replied the Earl. “I must confess, my dear, I had my doubts about this marriage. I half expected to get a letter from you begging to come home.”

Isabelle stared at him. “But Father…you did make me promise not to come home.”

“I did not.”

“You did,” she said, wondering why she was feeling so panicky. “The morning we left. You made me promise you I would not leave my husband, that I would not leave Wales.”

Her father was looking at her strangely. “I asked you to promise you would make an effort, aye…but I do not remember being so adamant. I would have been happy to have you come home, my sweet child, if your marriage had not worked out so well.”

Isabelle barely heard him over the roaring in her ears. He would have been happy to take her back home? He did not even remember the promise he had forced her to make, and now he was telling her that she could have come home at any time.

He was pleased that her marriage had worked out so well.

Isabelle loved her father dearly, but she had never in her life felt so strongly the urge to hit someone.

“Well?” she managed to ask. Her voice sounded strangled and hoarse to her own ears, but her father did not seem to notice.

He smiled and patted her on the knee. “Do not be so modest, my dear. I knew well that your husband may be gruff but that no man could resist your kind heart and good spirit.”

Isabelle made a sound in her throat. It felt like a growl to her, but her father seemed to think it was a modest protest, and so he continued.

“We all could see as soon as we arrived how deeply he cares for you. Why, he cannot keep his eyes from following you everywhere you go!” He chuckled, pleased that his daughter had managed so smoothly to enrapture her husband. “I wondered if I would be bringing you home on our return journey, my sweet, but it seems there is no reason.”

“He cannot keep his eyes from me?” Isabelle asked faintly.

“He speaks only of you,” her father said. “While we hunted he asked many questions about you. Said that you were reticent about yourself. In truth, Isabelle, you should try to be more open with him.”

At this Isabelle almost choked. Gruffydd said that she was reticent? This from a man who barely spoke. Ever.

“Father, what would you like to do this day?” She tried to change the subject, certain that if she did not she would lose her temper and first her father and then her husband would feel the sharp edge of her tongue.

She did not truly blame her father. He was an old man, and old men tended to forget things. Perhaps she had misunderstood his words the day she left. She was certainly emotional enough to do so.

It did not change the fact that here he was offering her freedom the morning after she had given herself to her husband, and the irony was not lost on her.

“Your lord husband’s seneschal, Rhys, has agreed to show your sister and me the nearby village,” her father said. “Matilda, of course, has visited for church services but feels she would like to explore, and you know that I have always enjoyed seeing new places.”

Isabelle forced a smile to her face. Aye, she well remembered her father’s taste for exploration. The days they spent riding from one village to another, her mother laughing at his “wanderlust,” as she called it…

She heard footsteps on the stairs and turned her head. Gruffydd was descending. She noticed that he was moving a little more carefully than normal, and wondered what he’d been doing during the night when he was gone from their bed. Had he spent the whole night training?

He smiled and bowed to them all as a group. Isabelle’s heart sank when he made no effort to single her out or approach her.

Her father explained the day’s plans to Gruffydd, who nodded approvingly. “I am certain you will enjoy the ride,” he said. “Especially on a day as nice as this one. Where is the lady Matilda?”

“She has been walking with Gwledyr,” said Isabelle. She did not look at him as she spoke.

“I do hope she returns shortly,” said her father. “I am most anxious to be on our way.”

“Here I am, Father.”

Matilda entered with Gwledyr, Rhys bringing up the rear, and Isabelle had to fight to keep from sighing with relief. She wanted to be alone to think.

She wanted to speak to Gruffydd.

She was not given the chance. He came outside with them all and joined her in bidding good-bye to the travelers, but when they left the gates and she turned he was gone. Fine. It would give her time to think before she spoke, something which had never been her greatest skill.

As she walked back into the keep and toward the stairs, she thought she saw William’s pale head disappear into the privy hall. That was also fine. She had little desire to see him again.

It was not until she entered the solar that she recalled what he said to her about her wedding night. Something about “proof.” She had wanted to ask him more but he’d changed the subject too fast, and after that…she blushed. Questioning her husband had not been a priority for her later.

But now William’s words came back to her, and suspicion clouded her mind. She strode to the bed and flung back the covers.

It was there. The small bloodstain that proved she had been a virgin.

How had she forgotten? She’d known the wedding guests would expect to see proof.

And proof they had apparently been shown.

How could he do something like that without consulting her, without telling her? How could he keep that from her all this time, when he’d promised to be truthful with her?

What else was he keeping from her?

The knowledge that her anger stemmed from her confusion over Gruffydd’s behavior in the morn, and not over a small deception months before, did not quell the fury. Her blood boiled as she raced down the stairs and out of the hall into the bailey. Gruffydd was not in sight. She began searching, checking the garden enclosure and stables. She even peeked into the storerooms and kitchens before she realized where he was.

He was in his outbuilding, the one forbidden to all but Gruffydd and Rhys. For a moment she hesitated, but only a moment. She was going to speak to him whether it pleased him or not.

She heard one of the groomsmen shouting at her as she grabbed the handle of the heavy wooden door, but she ignored him. She wrenched the door open and stepped inside.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light, and she could still not see well when she heard Gruffydd’s voice.

“Isabelle? What are you doing in here?”

She looked around but could not see him. Then she heard a sound above her. She looked up and gasped.

Her husband was suspended upside down from the ceiling. There was a heavy wooden beam that ran across the roof. From that hung an iron bar, and from that hung her husband. It looked as though he was somehow caught on it by his knees, and for an insane moment Isabelle thought that perhaps someone had overpowered him and done this as a trick. Her mind flew to the tales Gwledyr had told her of the Black Dragon and she opened her mouth to scream for help when Gruffydd bent his torso upwards, grabbed the wooden beam, and somehow managed to drop neatly to the ground in front of her.

Her mouth opened in amazement. The ceiling was at least two times over his height.

It was surely the strangest place she’d ever seen. On the ground across from the door lay a thin mattress made of uncovered straw. Next to that was something that looked almost like a scarecrow, suspended from another beam in the ceiling by chains. The back wall was dominated by some kind of contraption made of bars and iron disks, and the wall nearest her had more bars of varying lengths mounted on it, some of which stretched out to the floor, others simply hanging on the wall.

He looked at her, his face cross and glistening with sweat. “I asked what you were doing in here. Did I not tell you never to enter this place?”

His words dragged her thoughts back from the strange sights. “I would speak with you, now.”

He ran the back of his hand across his brow. “I do not have time to speak to you now.”

“I care not. I have a question for you and you will give me the answer.”

He sighed and turned away from her. “Not now.”

“Do not dare turn your back on me!” Her voice echoed in her ears.

He stopped and wheeled around. “You disobey my strict order and then tell me not to turn my back to you?”

“I do not take orders from you.”

“Nay, it seems you do not. I suppose that would be too much to expect, since I have only ever given you one.”

“Do not speak to me of expectations,” she snapped. “I expected that you would tell me the truth, but it seems you have not.”

For a moment his face paled before he regained his control. “What do you mean?”

“You had a cut on your arm,” she said.

He looked puzzled. Was that relief she saw on his face as well? “Isabelle, I received many wounds that night. I am wounded often. What is your point?”

She shook her head. “Nay. Not then. My first night here. I saw it. You had a cut on your left arm. I would know how you were cut.”

Slowly his expression changed. Isabelle knew him well enough now to recognize the careful mask that he placed over his features when it suited him. “I do not recall.”

“Do not lie!” Isabelle was furious, although she could not be certain why. All she knew was the sight of him, standing before her so coolly, enraged her.

“Why are you asking me? ‘Tis obvious you already know the answer.”

“I want to hear you say it. I want to hear you admit what you did.”

“I did nothing but protect—”

“Protect me?” She laughed, a short sharp bark that had no humor in it. “What were you protecting me from, Gruffydd? Was there some noble sacrifice involved in the shedding of your blood to simulate my own?”

His face was darkening. “I would stop speaking now, were I you.”

“Was this another chance for you to martyr yourself for the good of others? Seems a shame you have not yet managed to get yourself killed, as all you seem to want from life is the ending of it.”

“You know nothing of my desires,” he said, his voice low and quiet with rage. “And you know nothing of my life.”

“Aye, you are right there. You for certes have not been eager to share. Methinks that would interfere with the fun of torturing yourself and flirting with suicide.”

“And what of you?” he snapped. “Talking about truths and lies when you are all the while receiving love letters from that whoreson musician behind my back. Acting as if your promises to your father mean something. I would no more trust your word than I would trust the King of England, and as for your little observations of my character I would say this. Do not ever speak to me of a courtship with death, for if I play the martyr then you for certes do.”

She was breathless with shock. “Me? I do no such—”

“Oh, you do, and do not pretend otherwise. You let poor little William think you love him and then play the innocent when he tries to take you up on it. You lie to your father and sister and tell them you are happy so you can pretend there is no one to understand your pain. And now you have the nerve to be angry with me for my little deception intended to keep your virtuous reputation intact. I should not have bothered. You likely would have enjoyed being shamed by suspicions of your virtue, for that would have given you another chance to feel wronged by the world.”

“I hate you,” she said, tears in her eyes at both the cruelty and truth of his words. “I wish we had never met, I wish we had never married, I wish I had never come here.”

“Aye? Then that makes two of us, my lady, for I do not like you much either.”

“You do not like anyone, including yourself,” she snapped. “Tell me, Gruffydd, what happened to you in life that made you so eager to grow up to be a complete bastard? You are certainly ready enough to examine my flaws. How about yours? How about the way you refuse to show any vulnerability, as if you can be more than human simply by willing it so? The way you will not allow anything to be important to you?”

“Stop it,” he said. His fists clenched at his sides.

“I will not. How about the way you hate having people help you in any way? How about the secrets you keep? Finding out what you want for dinner is a trial, much less anything about you or your life. You say I like to hide behind a façade and then tell myself nobody understands me. I am not surprised you see this, my lord, for I have never in my life met someone who hides as much as you do!”

“Stop it!” he yelled.

“Oh, are you angry? Are you actually showing some feeling? Forgive me, you have never done so before and I fear I am not seeing correctly.”

“Stop it, Isabelle, or I swear I will—”

“You’ll what? Hit me? I would not be surprised if you did. I have been expecting it since the day we met.”

He took a step towards her. “Cnychu uthell, Isabelle. I am not a little boy like your William, who you can order around with impunity. I am a man. Do not tempt me.”

He grabbed her shoulders, his gaze burning into hers, rooting her to where she now stood. Livid at both him and the fire started in her belly by his mere touch, she twisted her body sideways, struggling to pull free from the feelings in her heart and body.

But he pulled her closer, making escape from the heat of his skin and the strength of his hands impossible. She gasped. For a moment they stared at each other, their faces furious, chests heaving in unison, before his mouth fell on hers, devouring her lips as his grip threatened to squeeze the life from her body.

Instantly she was alight with desire, her breath coming in gasps as she clutched him.

“Damn you,” he groaned into her mouth. “Why can you not have mercy on me?”

Isabelle did not know what he meant and did not care. His body was hot and damp with sweat, and it felt better than anything she had ever experienced as she ran her hands feverishly across the hard muscles of his back.

With a growl he swung her around and together they tumbled onto the thin straw mat. His hands ran up her legs, pushing the fabric of her dress up to her waist, caressing her thighs and delving into the most secret parts of her body.

“You torture me,” he whispered. “I cannot…cannot stop it.”

She writhed against his questing fingers, already feeling the buildup of that wonderful pressure. She was faint; the air seemed to have left her lungs as she yanked at the cords that held up his clothing. He swatted her clumsy fingers out of the way and undid them himself, his lips hot and demanding on hers as he freed his turgid shaft and drove it into her, his hands gripping her hips as if his life depended on keeping her steady for him. Again and again he pounded into her, while his fingers dug into her skin and her legs wrapped around his waist and squeezed. Their eyes locked, held, the anger on their faces turning into feverish need without losing intensity. Again they kissed, their mouths wrestling for dominance. He bit her throat, her shoulders, holding her steady while she bucked and moaned beneath him. He punished her with his body and she retaliated with hers, and he had no idea which of them would win or if there was even victory to be had as they battled with each other, locked together in terrible pleasure on the mat.

He felt her start to lose control, but did not let up his feverish pace. His ears were filled with the roaring of his blood. Dimly he heard her screaming his name, felt the exquisite pain of her fingernails slicing into his back as she arched herself almost off the mat, her body throbbing around his.

And then he exploded, his body shaking with madness and ecstasy, and he threw his head back and howled his pain and pleasure into the air, knowing that he was lost.

*****

They lay gasping on the floor. Gruffydd felt his consciousness returning and rolled away from her, suddenly ashamed.

He could no longer deny his feelings for her, even knowing the impossibility of a future for them. He wanted to say something to her but could not think of anything to say.

And there was no time, for he heard voices raised outside. He stood and pulled his clothing back into place. “I shall return,” he said, tying his belt around his waist.

The bright sunlight hurt his eyes and he squinted, shielding them with his hand. A rider was entering the bailey. As Gruffydd stepped closer, he heard the man explaining that he had an urgent message for the earl, and had been instructed to deliver it as soon as possible.

“The earl is my father-in-law,” Gruffydd said, walking closer. He held out his hand. “You may leave it with me.”

“I was instructed to give it to none but the earl himself,” the rider said, clearly eager to be gone but also aware of his duty.

“He will receive it,” said Gruffydd. “I am Gruffydd ap Hywel, and I am lord of this place. You can be certain my lord the earl will get the letter.”

The rider looked at him for a moment, then placed the letter in Gruffydd’s outstretched hand. “Thank you, my lord,” he said respectfully, and Gruffydd nodded.

“Give the man a coin,” he instructed the guard, and strode away.

There was nothing on the outside of the letter to indicate who it was from, and Gruffydd was not particularly curious. Normally he instructed that all correspondence be brought to him for examination, but he would not do so to Isabelle’s father. The man was wise in matters of politics but innocent of the kind of ambition that led to scheming.

He returned to the building and found Isabelle standing in the center of the room, looking around with blatant curiosity.

“I suppose it is an odd place, to those who are unaware of its uses,” he said, and she turned to him, a nervous smile on her face.

“Aye. Where did all of this come from?”

“Most of it I designed,” he replied. “Some of it is based on things I learned in the Holy Land.”

She looked slightly confused. “You went on a pilgrimage? But you do not believe—”

“In God? Nay, I do not. I did not go to Jerusalem for that. I went to learn.”

“But what could be learned there?”

He smiled. “Isabelle, the Saracens may be an odd people, but there is almost nothing about combat they do not know. I asked them to teach me.”

“You spoke with them?”

“I did more than that. I lived and trained with them for over a twelvemonth.”

“You lived with barbarians, and yet you hate the English.”

“My mother was English,” he said quietly. “I lived in England for seven years as well. The Saracens had knowledge I wanted, and was willing to pay handsomely for. I do not hate them, nor did I hate my mother. And even if I did, some things are more important than my feelings.”

And as the words left his lips, he knew that this was exactly the problem he faced. Were his vows and responsibilities more important than the feelings he was discovering for his wife?

He did not know anymore.

She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “I think that nothing can be more important than feelings.”

“Aye? I will remember that next time you make a promise to your father.”

He regretted the words instantly as she took a step away from him. “Isabelle, I meant only that I am not the only one who takes my promises seriously.”

But she did not look at him. Instead she said softly, “My father does not remember asking me to make that promise.”

“I do not understand.”

“He told me earlier in the hall. He does not remember it. He said it was never his intention to make me stay here against my wishes, that I could have come home at any time. He said he half expected me to return to England with him when he leaves.”

Gruffydd could not speak. He did not know if she was telling him that this was her plan or asking him if he wanted her to stay, and was not sure what his answer would be to either. He wanted her to stay.

But that did not mean he could ask her to.

He looked down at the mat on the floor, where only minutes before he had known the sweetness of her body.

“I see,” was all he could think of.

He heard her sigh. Obviously this was not the response she had expected, and she began to walk past him to leave.

He reached out and took her arm. “Isabelle…”

But she pulled away. “I am going to start getting my things ready. My father leaves in five days. I suppose we both have a decision to make.”

Gruffydd watched her go, slamming the door behind her.

*****

They had just sat down to eat that night when her father pulled a folded parchment from his belt. He smiled as he held it up.

“I have here a letter from an acquaintance,” he said. “Hugh Desmond, a man I have corresponded with in the past. He shares my interests in travel and astronomy. Remember him, Isabelle?”

Isabelle smiled and nodded. She did have a vague memory of the man in question. He had visited briefly once, but she had not seen much of him. He and her father had spent most of their time riding, and what Isabelle thought of as wandering around after dark but her father would probably say was studying the night sky.

“Lord Gruffydd, you will likely enjoy his company. He has traveled extensively and lived quite an interesting life, which he speaks about most delightfully.”

Gruffydd smiled politely. “I am certain I would enjoy conversing with any friend of yours, my lord,” he said.

“I hope you mean that. I surely do. Hugh writes me that he is not far from here visiting another friend. It seems he stopped by Harvington and learned of my whereabouts. Since he will be so close, he wonders if it would be permissible for him to visit, and spend the day and perhaps the night here. I, of course, do not want to reply until I know that is acceptable.”

Isabelle glanced at Gruffydd, who caught her eye and nodded slightly. She smiled. “Your friend is welcome here, Father,” she said. “Tell me, when would he arrive?”

“I shall write him a reply this eve and it can go out on the morrow. He said his messenger would return for it,” he said. “So I would imagine we can expect to see him Thursday.”

“How did you meet him?” Gruffydd asked, and though his voice was casual Isabelle knew that he never asked questions without reason.

“In truth, I have not known him very long. I met him at a goldsmith’s.” The earl smiled. “’Twas not long before your wedding, and I was dropping off one of Isabelle’s circlets for repair.” He smiled fondly at his daughter. “She had bent it somehow.” He leaned across the table and whispered, “She was climbing a tree in the garden and fell on her head.”

Gruffydd chuckled. “That does not surprise me.”

Isabelle smiled gracefully as the laughter quieted.

“She always was such a delight to have near. But I forget to whom I am speaking! You of course know that already.”

Gruffydd nodded again, but Isabelle noticed he did not speak.

Her father did not and continued. “The goldsmith shared my interests as well, and while we were discussing some of the more interesting problems with travel to Constantinople Hugh entered the place. He joined in our discussion and soon became a correspondent of mine. He still travels.”

Isabelle rolled her eyes. Her father had never been to Constantinople in his life, but had discussed the possibility for as long as she can remember.

“I am sure we will enjoy meeting him,” Gruffydd said, and the conversation moved on to Matilda’s impressions of the village and Wales in general. Isabelle tried to follow the talk but found she could not. She was too nervous. Why had she given Gruffydd the option of asking her to remain with him? Why had she not simply announced her intention to leave and done so immediately, escaping all the confusion? It would have been far more pleasant than putting herself through this torture.

Torture. She almost laughed. Perhaps she and her husband were not so different after all.

Chapter 11

The roses needed trimming, so Isabelle headed into the garden early in the morning to begin. She planned to cut a few blossoms to start drying for her father and Matilda to take home with them.

Or for herself to take when she left.

As always when she worked, she was soon lost in it. The basket at her feet was half-full when she paused for a moment to look in satisfaction at the neatly trimmed bushes in front of her. Only one left, and then she would go inside to quench her thirst.

“Lady Isabelle.”

She glanced around, unsure if she had actually heard a voice whisper her name or not. Seeing no one, she shrugged and turned back to her work.

“Lady Isabelle.”

This time there was no mistaking it, and she peered more carefully in the direction from which it seemed to be coming. There appeared to be someone hiding behind the vine trellis.

She took a step forward, and frowned. It was William, the sun shining on his head as he beckoned to her.

Irritated, she walked over to him, glancing around as she did so.

“William, you should not be here. You recall what happened last time, do you not?”

His pale eyes were sympathetic. “Did he beat you?”

She stiffened. “He did not.” She was not about to tell him what Gruffydd had done. “But it matters not. You asked me to run away with you, and I have given you my reply. Twice now I have refused you. I am sorry, William, but I do not love you as I thought I did.”

“I must confess, Isabelle, you are not the woman I thought you were.”

“In what way?” she asked, offended.

“Oh, I mean no offense. It is only—only that the woman I thought you were would never even deign to speak to a ruffian such as your husband. I did think you were more delicate and sensitive than to find anything in that violent and rude man to favor.”

His words made her unexpectedly defensive. “You should not insult my husband so.”

William looked nervous and tried to reach for her hand. She pulled it out of his grasp. “I have told you we have naught to say to each other, William. Now if you would please leave me.”

“And I will, my lady, but please, there is something I must say to you.”

“If it involves your feelings or the disappointment I have caused you, I am afraid I cannot listen.”

“But it does not. Isabelle, I may not feel love for you and you may not feel it for me, but I do truly care for you and that is why I feel I must warn you.”

“Warn me?”

“Aye. Isabelle, you are in danger. I must beg you, for your own safety, to leave this place as quickly as possible. Come back to England with your family and myself. I tell you truthfully, you do not want to stay here.”

Isabelle began to feel rather foolish, standing in the garden talking to a vine. Especially a vine that spoke so dramatically of an unnamed danger.

“William, are you going to tell me what this danger is, or not?”

“I cannot. I am sworn not to, and should not even be speaking to you of this. But please, do trust me!”

Isabelle shook her head. “I am sorry, William, but if you cannot give me details I must doubt your sincerity.”

“Nay!” He took a step out of the trellis and nearly fell when he realized he was exposing himself to the eyes of anyone who cared to look into the garden enclosure. He quickly slid back behind the vines. “I cannot say, I should not even be saying this much. ‘Tis only the friendship I feel for you and my loyalty to your father that bids me break my vow and warn you. But I cannot tell you what I know.”

“Then I must take leave of you now, and rejoin my family inside,” she said. “Take care that you are not seen when you leave your hiding place, please.”

She met Gruffydd walking back into the keep and prayed that William would heed her advice. The last thing she needed was for Gruffydd to see him leaving the garden, especially when she had a basket of freshly cut flowers on her arm.

Gruffydd bowed to her. “My lady wife.”

She returned the bow and the greeting, wondering if his formality meant anything and hating herself for wondering.

*****

Gruffydd was not sure what it meant. Never having loved and been loved before, he found he was not sure how to move from the distance that had characterized their earlier relationship and into something warmer.

Nor was he entirely certain he wanted to. If his life had not been happy, it had at least been familiar, and the thought of the upheaval allowing Isabelle to fully enter his heart would bring to his life was not a comfortable one.

And it was not only himself he thought of. It was Isabelle. How could he ask her to stay, knowing he could never entirely change what he was? That he could never fully devote himself to her as a husband should?

And how could she possibly want to stay knowing that?

He had but four days now to make up his mind, to take the chance or to turn her away and go back to life the way he lived it.

‘Twas not fear of pain or loneliness that made him long for her to stay. He could deal with both things, just as he had done for his entire life.

Nay, ‘twas pure selfishness.

The thought of having her warm body next to him when he went to sleep and when he awoke. Of having her eyes look up at him adoringly, of hearing her laugh at the dinner table, telling her his thoughts and hearing hers.

The dream of being the kind of man who deserved her.

Rhys was waiting for him when he entered the training building.

“My lord, I must speak with you before you begin,” he said.

Gruffydd waited, but Rhys did not continue. “Go on, then,” he said impatiently.

“Gwledyr tells me that the Lady Isabelle is considering returning to England with her family.”

Gruffydd tried to look nonchalant. “Aye. She did tell me that her father made the offer.”

“And you would let her go?”

“I do not see that the choice is mine, Rhys.”

Rhys ignored the edge in his master’s voice. “I do not believe that.”

Gruffydd removed his tunic and ran his fingers through his hair. “It matters not what you believe. You have known Lady Isabelle long enough to see that she is a woman who makes her own decisions.”

“I do not think she wants to go. I think you could stop her, if you tried.”

“If I wanted to.”

“But you do want to, my lord. I only wonder why you cannot admit it.”

“Rhys, do you not recall that Gwenwynwyn is planning to invade us in less than a fortnight? Do you expect that I can prepare myself by standing here talking to you of love?”

“So you do love her.”

“I did not say that.”

“But I did not mention love. You said love.”

Gruffydd turned away and started walking over to the bars mounted on the wall. “Stop trying to read meanings into my words, Rhys.”

“I am sorry,” Rhys said with feigned innocence. “I thought words were supposed to mean things.”

Gruffydd climbed the bars on the wall and began walking on a crossbar that stretched out to the center of the room. “My marriage is not your concern, as I do believe I have told you before.”

“My lord, stop being a fool! Think you that I will step back and allow you to send away a woman like Lady Isabelle simply because you are afraid?”

Gruffydd glared at him. “I fear nothing.”

“You do.”

“You are correct, in truth. I fear that if you do not change the subject I will have to find myself a new seneschal.”

“And I shall go gladly, my lord, for I am tired of watching you deny yourself and your wife the joy that I am certain you could share.”

The two men glared at each other for a moment, both of them knowing they made empty threats.

“I have duties, Rhys. You of all people know of them, know what my life is about. Do you ask me to forget them?”

“You forgot something, it seems, for all know that you are no longer indifferent to her.”

Gruffydd’s heart stopped. “What mean you?”

“I think you know what I mean.”

“That is not your concern.”

“You are my concern, my lord, as you know. And since it seems you were unable to keep your distance as you‘d planned,” Rhys stammered, blushing, “it seems only fair that you not send your lady wife away now. ‘Twould be cruel.”

“Do you know what you ask of me?” Gruffydd’s voice was low with misery.

“I ask only that you allow yourself to live life, not to hide behind what you think your life should be.”

“I do live.”

“You do not. You merely exist, and there is a difference. Seize this chance, my lord! I have never before known you to give up on anything. Do not give up on your chance for love, I beg you. Do not give up on your chance to live a real life.”

“This is real life, Rhys. It is as real as I can make it, and you cannot expect me to make such a change without thought.”

“Promise me you will think on it, then. Just think.”

“I promise,” Gruffydd said.

Rhys looked away. Both men were silent, and then finally Rhys spoke.

“Your form is slightly off. You need to use your legs more and your arms less to balance.”

Gruffydd turned his attention back to his work. He had won…for now.

*****

Isabelle had almost all of her things packed away when her father’s friend arrived on Thursday.

Gruffydd accompanied her to the hall to greet him, his arm warm and solid under her hand. If he had thought about her, he had given no indication. He still behaved in a most confusing fashion towards her, one minute cold and unresponsive, the next smiling and engaging.

It was enough to make her insane, and she likely would have gone insane with uncertainty had it not been for her father and sister. The knowledge that she would soon see them leave brought tears to her eyes when she allowed herself to think on it.

Hugh Desmond was smiling and taking her father’s hand when Isabelle and Gruffydd arrived at the entrance to the hall, and Isabelle’s heart broke a little more at the happiness on her dear father’s face.

Hugh greeted Matilda, and then turned to Isabelle. He was not an overly tall man, about her father’s height, with dark hair that was going gray and eyes that were a curious light shade of brown, almost golden. His clothes were very fine, though worn from traveling, and Isabelle noticed the expensive-looking gold filigree brooch he wore hooked casually to his tunic. He seized her hand and kissed it, and she smiled at him.

“Lady Isabelle, my warmest good wishes on your marriage. I am sorry I was not able to attend the festivities,” he said with a smile, and Isabelle noted the hoarseness of his voice.

“I fear I am still recovering from an illness of the throat,” he said, with a smile that indicated he had been asked about this several times recently, “and my voice is not yet what it was. I hope that it will return shortly, for it is a bit painful to talk.”

“You should not stress yourself,” Isabelle replied, and he smiled and bowed again.

“I could not resist a chance to speak with your father,” he said. “It has been too long. A clever man, your father. I am privileged to know him.”

He then turned to Gruffydd and shook his hand. “A hearty congratulations,” he said. “Your wife is exceedingly lovely, and intelligent as well. You are a lucky man.”

Gruffydd smiled back politely. Whether it was his effusive compliments to Isabelle, or something else, he knew immediately that he did not like this man. There was something about him, something familiar, that he could not place no matter how hard he tried.

“Indeed I am,” he replied. “My lord earl tells us you have been traveling. I hope it has not been too far a journey.”

“Not at all,” Hugh said. “I have many friends nearby. ’Twas not a taxing journey at all.”

What friends nearby? Gruffydd was fairly certain he had never heard of this man before, which meant that he could not possibly have been in Trwch or any of the nearby villages.

At least, none of the nearby villages that Llewelyn controlled.

He tried to set aside his suspicions as the day wore on. Hugh seemed perfectly pleasant and friendly, and Gruffydd would have enjoyed his company if it were not for the small voice in the back of his mind that told him something was not right.

The man was an excellent chess player. He showed an interest in Isabelle’s garden that did not please Gruffydd, but he knew that was his own unreasonable jealousy and naught else. Hugh seemed to know almost as much about the plants as she did, and Gruffydd heard him give her several suggestions she received with enthusiasm.

He also asked politely about Gruffydd’s falcons and training methods, and was complimentary about both the mews and the birds themselves.

But when he asked to see Gruffydd’s training room, Gruffydd’s suspicion peaked again.

“’Tis but a storeroom,” he said, waving his arm casually at it.

“Is that where you keep your weapons? We have not yet seen them.”

Gruffydd did not like that question. He saw Isabelle glance nervously at him and knew she also found it impertinent.

“I have few weapons,” he said, keeping a guileless smile on his face. “In truth, I find I have little use for them.”

“But you are so close to the border here. Surely there are raids on your lands.”

“We are fortunate enough to be well protected by our location and our Prince,” Gruffydd replied.

“So what items are stored in there? I hope my lord will forgive my questions. It has been long since I was able to visit a keep as fine as this one, and am curious about how it differs from a Norman keep.”

“We store some straw in there,” Isabelle said. Gruffydd looked at her in surprise. Isabelle lying?

Then he thought of the straw mat on the floor. She was not lying, exactly. They did store straw in there. He willed himself not to smirk.

“Is it bound or loose?” Hugh responded.

“Bound,” Gruffydd said smoothly, before Isabelle could speak. “I do feel ’tis cleaner and easier to handle.”

“I should like to see how you store it.”

“I am afraid that is not possible,” Gruffydd said. “I do believe it is nigh on time for supper, and we must return inside. Perhaps another time.”

Hugh smiled and nodded as he turned to go inside, but Gruffydd saw the man glance back at the building and he walked away.

“So where do these friends of yours live?” Gruffydd asked as they dined, hoping that enough time had passed that his question would not seem rude. Normally he would not have cared, but Hugh Desmond was a guest of the earl’s, and Gruffydd did not want his father-in-law to think he was mistrustful of his friend.

Even though he was.

“Oh, not far,” Hugh replied, his carefully calm expression increasing Gruffydd’s suspicion still more.

There was a moment of silence around the table.

“Ah, to travel,” sighed the earl. “I would love to see more of Wales. ‘Tis a lovely place, Lord Gruffydd. I can see why the Welsh are so fond of it.”

“God’s country,” proclaimed Hugh, waving his arms expansively. “I have always loved visiting.”

“Where do you make your home? I do not remember,” Isabelle said, and Gruffydd felt a rush of gratitude to his wife for asking the question so he did not have to.

“’Tis near the Wye River,” said Hugh vaguely, and the suspicion in Gruffydd’s mind bloomed. The Wye ran through south Powys.

Gwenwynwyn’s territory.

This man is a guest in your home. The reminder did not help. He’d taken a violent dislike to Hugh Desmond, and could only hope that the man would not stay longer than the day and night he’d promised.

When conversation turned to Hugh’s travels, Gruffydd let his mind wander. He was not interested in this man’s tales of adventure. He wanted him to leave.

Isabelle leaned close to him. “What is wrong?” she whispered.

Gruffydd was surprised she had noticed, although, he reflected, he should not have been. It seemed she did not miss much.

“I am fine,” he whispered back, glancing around.

“I do not believe you. Is it our guest‘s unreasonable insistence on seeing your—building?”

He lifted their shared goblet to his lips, using it to shield his mouth as he breathed, “I assure you, I have no problems. And I thank you for your assistance.”

She gave him a look that clearly said the conversation was not over, but spoke no further.

“Lord Gruffydd, how far is the journey from here to the Meirionydd?”

Gruffydd looked up to see Hugh waiting for a response.

“’Tis just over an hour’s ride,” he said cautiously.

“I hear ‘tis a pleasant journey, but a dangerous one.”

“I have heard of no danger, sir.”

“A story reached an acquaintance of mine about a mercenary called the Black Dragon, who lies in wait on the roads to bother travelers,” Hugh replied.

Gruffydd’s smile did not reach his eyes. “I also have heard tales of a Dragon,” he said. “But it seems we hear of two different men, for the Dragon I know of protects both the roads and the people of Wales.”

“It does indeed seem that way, my lord. Perhaps there are two different legends.” Hugh’s tone made it clear he did not believe it in the least.

Gruffydd’s chest tightened. “Perhaps it depends on the location of the friend who told you the tale.”

“I have friends all over.”

“And yet you cannot name them.”

Isabelle breathed his name in warning. She was right. He should stop this now. This man was a friend of the earl’s and as such should be above suspicion.

But he could not help but notice the look of surprise on the earl’s face, and recalled him telling them that he had not known Hugh Desmond for long.

“Hugh, you wrote me from Paris recently,” the earl said. “Is it as beautiful a city as they say?”

Gruffydd admired his father-in-law’s skillful change in conversation even as he was frustrated by it. The earl knew something was not right as well.

If only Gruffydd could decide what it was. Was it the man’s nosiness, or his vagueness?

Or was it simply that he did not like the way Hugh Desmond looked at his wife, and was allowing that to cloud his judgment?

Damn! This was exactly why Gruffydd could not open his heart to the woman. He could not allow his emotions to rule his mind. What good would he be if he spent his life in suspicion of every man who noticed Isabelle’s beauty?

He would be so busy interrogating innocent men he would never have time to find the ones who were truly bad.

Although he was convinced he was not wrong about Hugh Desmond. The man was up to no good, and Gruffydd just wanted him gone from this place as soon as possible.

The conversation turned to the churches in Paris, led by Matilda’s eager questioning, and soon the meal was over.

Hugh stood up. “I regret that I must take my leave of you,” he said. “It is still early enough that I may reach my next destination, and I do not want to intrude on your hospitality any longer.”

Isabelle protested. “It is no intrusion to keep a friend of my lord father’s for the night.”

Hugh nodded. “I do appreciate the kind offer, my lady, but I regret to say I have business in the morning that does not permit my tarrying here, no matter how much I wish to.”

Gruffydd signaled for a maid to begin collecting the used trenchers for donation to the poor and took another drink. He stood up and held out his hand.

“It was indeed a pleasure to meet a friend of my lord the earl,” he said, knowing the smile on his face was as false as a whore’s declaration of love, and not caring.

Hugh’s smile was equally insincere. “And it was a pleasure to meet you as well,” he said.

They made their way out into the bailey and stood awkwardly for a moment, waiting for Hugh’s horse to be saddled.

“’Tis always a joy to see a fellow traveler,” the earl said, smiling.

“I hope we will see each other again soon,” Hugh replied. He bent over Matilda’s hand. “I wish you luck,” he said. Matilda smiled.

Then Hugh turned to Isabelle. Gruffydd’s chest tightened as Hugh held out a small leather pouch. “A token of my good wishes for your marital joy,” he murmured, and bent over Isabelle’s hand as well. Gruffydd noticed that while Hugh’s lips had not touched Matilda’s hand, they lingered for a moment too long on his wife’s. He did not like that.

But it seemed that Isabelle did not particularly like it either, for he saw the slight tightening of her lovely mouth that told him she was not pleased with something. She had aided him in his lie earlier. Had she also felt the same dislike which infected him so strongly?

He did not have time to ask. They returned to the keep, where Gruffydd found himself drawn into a game of chess with the earl while Isabelle and Matilda talked quietly. He glanced over at them occasionally, wondering what they discussed. Was Isabelle even now telling her sister of her plans to return to England with her?

They would leave in one more day’s time.

So busy was Gruffydd in thinking about his wife and the mysterious Hugh he did not notice the notched candles burning away the hours. Nor did he pay enough attention to the chessboard to beat the earl.

Finally, Isabelle yawned and stood up. “I am truly sleepy,” she announced. “I fear I must to bed now.”

She was nervous and on edge. Something had been bothering her husband ever since the morning. She would have suspected that it was related to their marriage had he not been so openly hostile to her father’s guest.

Although in truth she could not blame him. Something about the man had bothered her as well, and she wanted to discuss the matter with Gruffydd. Whatever his other faults may be, he had the type of suspicious mind that often led to excellent judgment, and she was relieved when he followed her up the stairs to the solar.

She wanted to ask him if he would be sleeping this night but did not. Instead she tossed the little leather pouch Hugh had given her onto the stone-topped table and headed for the wardrobe to change.

“My father’s interests lead him to many different friendships,” she said, by way of introducing the subject.

“Aye,” Gruffydd said. “I do wonder how different this one was.”

She almost sighed with relief, pleased to have her own doubts confirmed.

“He was an odd sort, was he not?” She pulled off her gown in the privacy of the wardrobe. She knew it was a bit foolish to be shy in front of her husband after what had happened between them, but she could not help it.

“Aye,” came the reply. “I also did find him so.”

She waited for him to continue but he did not, so she left the wardrobe clad only in her chemise and faced him. “I did not trust him,” she said stoutly.

He smiled, a quick flash across his face that made her heart ache. “Nor did I,” he said. “I confess I found him exceedingly suspicious, and am pleased that he is gone from here.”

Isabelle smiled. He agreed with her. So why did she feel her heart was about to break?

She stood there for a moment, feeling foolish, when she remembered she had not yet opened the present Hugh had given her. Most likely it was a useless trinket, she thought, considering that the man had no title or lands to speak of, but she thought she should open it. If only to give her something to do.

So she was unprepared for what she saw when she spilled the contents of the pouch onto the tabletop.

She gasped as she picked up the brooch. It was a large ruby set in heavy gold, and it was truly lovely. Perhaps she had underestimated Hugh’s wealth if not his trustworthiness, she thought, and turned to show it to Gruffydd.

“Look at what he gave me,” she said. “I fear it is far too fine a gift for the daughter of a casual friend.”

She held the brooch out to him in the palm of her hand, half hoping he would show some jealousy or at least laugh with her over the extravagance of the gift.

She moved her palm slightly, letting the ruby that nestled there catch the flickering candlelight, waiting for Gruffydd to speak.

But he did not speak, and when she looked up at him, he was staring at the gem in her hand, his eyes wide and his face white as a sheet.

“Gruffydd? What is wrong?”

But he did not answer her. He took a step back. His voice was hoarse as he muttered, “Nay.”

Isabelle was confused. “I know ‘tis a very costly gift from a man I do not know well…”

“It cannot be.”

She was beginning to get scared. “Gruffydd, please tell me what is wrong!”

She had never seen him like this, excepting those nights when he woke her with his nightmares. This was as if he was having the nightmare while awake. Sweat appeared on his brow and he stared at the brooch in her hand like he’d seen a ghost.

She took a step towards him, only to have him step back and nearly fall onto the bed. He still did not speak.

She had done something wrong. She did not know how, but she had. Was he so angry with her that he could not even look at her?

His eyes had not left her outstretched hand, and as she watched, he reached towards it, then pulled back as if from a flame.

“He gave this to you,” he said. “He had this in his possession. He gave it to you. He gave it to my wife.”

Isabelle closed her hand over the ruby brooch. “Gruffydd, please tell me what is wrong,” she begged.

Her husband’s eyes did not meet hers as he whispered, “That is my mother’s brooch.”

Chapter 12

“I do not understand,” she said.

“My mother’s. It was hers.”

She offered it to him. “You should have it, then. Not I.”

But he did not touch it. “He took it from her.”

“Who took it from her? Gruffydd, I do not understand!”

He ran his hand through his hair. “When he killed my mother. He took it.”

She let her hand drop to her side. “Killed?” Her head swam.

Gruffydd sank to the floor. The movement broke her heart. Her husband was on his knees. What had happened, to do this to him?

“Aye,” he whispered. “Killed. Murdered.”

Isabelle gasped and stared at him. Why had he not told her? After all she had said about her own mother’s death, why had he not trusted her with this?

“Gruffydd…oh Gruffydd…”

But he did not seem to hear her. “My mother,” he said, swallowing. “My sister. They killed them. He killed them.”

Isabelle could hardly speak. She felt her blood run cold. “Your sister?”

“Generis,” he said, and his voice was so full of pain that tears sprang to her eyes. “Generis. She was five. She was only five.”

She gasped. How could someone murder a five-year-old girl? And why?

She stepped towards him, close enough to almost touch him. His breath was coming so hard and fast she was afraid he would have a fit.

“We were traveling. My father was away. On Crusade. Mama did not want him to go, did not want him to leave her alone. He said it was his duty as a Christian.”

To Isabelle’s horror, tears began to run down her husband’s cheeks. He did not seem to notice as he continued, his voice suddenly harder. “His duty as a Christian. To put the wishes of someone else above the safety of his family. To not be there for us when we needed him. We would not have left Wales if he had not gone away.

“My mother wanted to stay, but it was not safe. War…I remember hearing news of battles, my mother telling the men that when my father returned he could lead them to victory. She was so confident he would return. She smiled when she spoke of it. Her nervousness went away when she spoke of it.”

Isabelle found herself kneeling on the floor beside her husband without quite realizing how it had happened. All she knew was that he was telling her something so important she could not miss a word. She had a feeling he had never told it before.

“And then what happened?” she asked gently, longing to take his dark head into her lap, longing to ease his pain.

He looked up at her, but it seemed to her he did not see her there at all. He reached for the jug of mead on the trestle table nearby and took a swig from it.

“My uncle came. He said it was not safe with my father gone. He said we would be safe with him.”

“In England?”

He nodded. “In England. Isabelle…”

She reached for him and he fell into her arms. He was shaking, and she held him as tightly as she could, trying to ease the tremors in his body, to ease the pain in his heart with her embrace.

But he stood back up and began pacing. Isabelle moved to the bed and sat, perched on the edge, tears running freely down her cheeks as she listened to her husband.

“We left. No escort. My uncle said he would have an escort meet us at the border between England and Wales. We could make our own way there. My father’s name…we were safe in Wales, at least for a while.

“I did not want to leave.” He looked up at her. “I wanted to stay. My mother knew how I felt, she said she felt the same but she thought she had no choice.”

“How old were you?”

“Seven. I was seven.

“It was my fault. I was nervous, and I was trying to delay us. I hoped she would change her mind, you see. I hoped she would turn the wagon around if I dawdled enough.”

“Did she?”

“Nay…” his voice trailed off. He was now standing at the short wall that separated the wardrobe from the rest of the solar, his hands gripping the stones as he pressed his head against it.

“The escort was not there when we reached the border. My uncle said he would send it, but it was not there. There were woods. Uncle Guy lived in Shrewsbury. He was chief bailiff. My mother thought we were safe. I thought we were safe. I thought I could protect them. I swore to my father I would protect them.”

Isabelle jumped as he punched the stone wall, hard. She cringed, thinking of the damage he must be doing to his hand, but he did not seem to notice. He took a deep breath.

“I asked to stop. I wanted to go in the woods, but I wanted to delay us. Isabelle, I asked to stop!” The anguish in his voice was heartbreaking. He drove his fist into the wall again.

“I asked to stop,” he repeated, his voice slightly more controlled. “We stopped. I walked into the woods. Mama and Generis…they were on the other side of the path.

“I was playing. It was fun in the woods. I forgot about them for a minute. I forgot they were even there.” His voice was a hoarse whisper of pain. “I heard voices. I was hiding. I hid in the trees. I saw it.”

She held her breath. She thought she knew what was coming, and was not sure she could bear it. To think of her husband as a little boy, seeing what she was sure he was about to describe, tore at her heart. She wanted to go to him, to clutch him to her breast, but she was not sure how he would react. She had never seen him out of control like this before. Not like this.

“The robbers. The man with the voice. He scared me, and I hid. They stole things. Our furs. Our coins.” He gasped. “Mama held Generis so tight…

“He wanted her brooch. That brooch. My father gave it to her. It was hers. She wore it always. She used to touch it, twist it when she was nervous. Her hands were so small.” He glanced at her again. “Her hands were always cool. I remember. They were always cool.”

Isabelle looked down at the ruby she clutched in her hand and pictured it in other hands, cool hands that soothed the brow of the little boy who became the man in front of her, his soul tormented by memories.

“He heard Generis speak and asked if we were Welsh. He was English. Mama told him where we were going. She told him we were going to Shrewsbury, to stay with Uncle Guy. The man wanted her brooch.” Gruffydd swayed on his feet and Isabelle stood, trying to move closer to him in case he fell.

“She started to unfasten it…I was watching…he cut her throat…” His voice cracked and turned into something like a howl of anguish.

The sound made the hairs on the back of Isabelle’s neck stand up. She had never in her life heard a sound like that, not even in her occasional nightmares, and this was real.

Nightmares. Was this what he dreamed about?

But he had not stopped talking. “They slit her throat. I saw it. They slit her throat like they were slaughtering a lamb for dinner, and my sister screamed, and they killed her too.”

He turned to her, and Isabelle felt he was seeing her for the first time since he’d seen the brooch in her hand. “They killed her, Isabelle. She was five, and they killed her, and she was my beautiful sister.” His knees buckled, and Isabelle rushed to his side. Together they sank to the floor, their arms tight around each other. “She was five,” he whispered. “She was so beautiful, so innocent. They left her on the path. They left them both on the path. On the ground. Like dogs. Like sacks of waste. My mother. My sister.”

He was gasping for air. Isabelle was cold, colder than she had ever been in her life. No wonder her husband was so distant and unemotional. No wonder he was so mistrustful.

Suddenly he reeled away from her. She stood up, but before she was on her feet he had grabbed a chamber pot from under the bed and was violently ill. She stroked his hair, her heart aching.

He was sick until she was certain he could not be sick anymore, and then he stayed there clutching the pot, his chest heaving. His hands were bloody from punching the wall, his knuckles scraped and torn.

Suddenly he looked at her. His eyes were blazing with pain and fury. “It was my fault,” he rasped. “I wanted to stop. I made them stop. I killed them.” Isabelle watched him in horror as he began to sob. “I killed them, Isabelle. It was my fault. I swore I would protect them and I killed them.”

“Nay,” she said softly, moving closer to him. She sat on the floor, her back against the wall, and pulled his head into her lap.

“You were only a boy, Gruffydd,” she said softly. “You could not possibly have protected them from men like the ones you describe. They would have overpowered you. They would have overpowered a man twice your age then. You were only a boy.”

His voice was muffled. “I did not even leave the trees. I hid. I hid while they died.”

Her hand ran through his hair over and over as he lay shaking in her lap. “You could have done nothing else.”

“I could have found something to use as a weapon. I could mayhap have sneaked out and taken Generis from them. I could have saved her.”

“I do not agree.”

He pulled away from her and sat back up. His eyes were burning hollows against his skin. “We will never know, will we?” he said bitterly. “We will never know if I could have saved them because I did not try. I hid there like a scared little maid and watched them die. I still see it.”

“In your dreams?” she asked him gently, and he nodded.

“I do not sleep well unless I am exhausted. Too worn out to dream. Otherwise…I see it again. Every night. I see their faces. I see them lying in the road.”

He reached for her hand, in which the ruby brooch was still tightly clenched. Isabelle glanced down. She had forgotten she held it. She opened her hand, and he took it from her, hardly breathing.

For a moment his eyes were wide and innocent as a child’s as he held the brooch, turning it to the flickering light of the candle by the bed, running his finger lightly over the surface.

Then his expression hardened. As she watched he changed from the terrified, grieved son of a murdered woman to the man she had met so long ago. Gone from his eyes were any emotions save rage, and he set the brooch on the table with a thud.

He stood and rinsed his mouth with mead, spitting vehemently into the chamber pot, and then taking another gulp to drink. He began to put his boots back on, jerking them up his legs, snatching his tunic from the bed and throwing it on.

“Gruffydd?”

He ignored her and crossed to the wardrobe, returning a second later with his chausses and padded leather hauberk.

She stood up herself and took a step towards him, her arm held out as if to touch him, to stop him. The suspicion of what he was about to do grew stronger and she felt fear’s cold hands grab at her heart.

“Gruffydd? Why are you dressing?”

Still he did not speak. He finished tying on his chausses, their heavy silver links catching the firelight as he moved.

“Gruffydd? Please speak to me!”

She grabbed his arm as he started to put on his hauberk, and cried out as he turned on her with a growl, shoving her rudely aside so that she fell back onto the bed.

“Do not try to stop me,” he said.

“But Gruffydd, you do not know where he is gone! You do not even know for sure that it was him! Mayhap he simply found the brooch, or bought it from a goldsmith…”

He shook his head, his smile terrible in the firelight. “I know it was. I saw him, remember?”

“But you did not recognize him when first he arrived.”

“His voice was different. He is older. I for certes did not expect to see my mother’s killer here in my own home, a guest of my father-in-law’s. Of your father’s, Isabelle! Your father is friends with this man.”

Isabelle felt her breath catch. Hugh was indeed a friend of her father’s. What did that mean for the earl?

What did that mean for her.

She had learned much of the forgiving side of Gruffydd’s nature. But how could he ever forgive her father, how could he ever forgive her, for bringing this man into his home?

“I knew I did not like him,” Gruffydd said. “I knew the minute I met him that he was not trustworthy, that something was wrong. But I let it go, Isabelle. I did not act on my suspicions. And do you know why?”

“Because of my father,” she whispered. “Because of me.” She could not look at him.

“Aye. Because I trusted your father’s judgment. Because I trusted you, my wife.” He leaned back heavily against the still-closed door, his right thumb rubbing his left palm in a gesture that was now familiar to Isabelle. “I let him go because I trusted you. I let him get away because I trusted your family.” To Isabelle’s shock, he began to laugh mirthlessly and sat down on the floor.

“Gruffydd?”

“I knew this would happen. I knew allowing you into my—knew it would not work. I knew I could not keep my promises both to my Prince and my mother.” His laughter stopped and he sighed, a rough, ragged sound that made Isabelle wince. “I failed. I made a promise and I failed, and I am as worthless a man now as I was all those years ago…because I trusted in the judgment of others. I let my desires get in the way. I forgot who I am.”

“I do not understand,” she said. “How are you other than who you are?”

“I made a promise, Isabelle. I swore by the souls of my mother and Generis, I swore with my own blood that I would not let it happen again. That I would do whatever lay in my power to keep others from being slaughtered for a piece of jewelry or the whim of a madman.”

“And what have I to do with this?”

He shrugged. He would not look at her. It made Isabelle uneasy.

“Naught, anymore. I was foolish to think otherwise. This is a sign to me, a sign to tell me that I cannot forget. I am bound to my duty, Isabelle, bound by far more than what binds we two together. I would say I am sorry, but I cannot. ’Tis for the best.”

“What is for the best?” The cold fear spread from her heart to the rest of her body, making her feel frozen and brittle.

His eyebrows raised. He looked as though he could not be bothered to make the effort to do anything more. “’Tis for the best this has happened,” he said. “Now I know I must ask you to leave. You cannot stay here, Isabelle. Even if I still wished you to, which I do not.”

“Still wished me to?”

“To stay with me. You cannot. Surely you knew I wanted you to, before.”

Isabelle shook her head mutely. She had not had any idea whether or not he wanted her to stay, but she had never imagined that if he told her to leave he would do it like this. He was so cold and distant, as if she was not even a person at all, much less his wife.

How could this be the same man who made love to her so gently, so passionately, here in this very room? The same man who had both fought with her and taken her so explosively in the training room that her body had quivered for an entire afternoon? Even minutes ago he had lain in her arms and cried.

And now he was like some cool remote stranger, as if none of that had happened, as if they had never shared more than a polite greeting.

This was not the man she had come to know, the solemn man with the twinkle of humor under the forbidding exterior, the man who cared about people’s feelings even as he pretended he did not. This was not her clever, quick-minded husband. This was another man in his body, a man who saw nothing but his own need for revenge and did not care what damage he caused to get it.

“I did not know,” she said.

“’Tis unimportant now. You cannot stay here. I cannot have you around.” His mouth twisted downwards at the corners. “Who knows what sort of man your father’s next visitor may be?”

“My father is a good man,” she gasped. Did Gruffydd actually think that her father had known about Hugh’s past when he invited him?

“Aye, but you would say that, would you not? Isabelle, for all you know your father has dealings with every murderer, thief, and cutthroat in England.”

“He does not!” It was one thing for him to insult her so with his indifference, but now he cast aspersions on her father, who could not possibly have known what kind of man his acquaintance was. “My father does not consort with people like that.”

His voice was deadly cold as he replied, “But as we have seen, he does.”

“That is an accident, I am certain of it.”

“Your certainty is of great comfort to me. But I must insist, again, that you leave as soon as possible. I cannot feel safe while you and your father are here. I cannot trust either of you, and I can no longer neglect my duties.”

“Please, Gruffydd, if you would just listen to me. I know my father would not deliberately harm you, or anyone else.” Now that she had been told to leave, Isabelle was beginning to realize how much she wanted to stay. Not just because it would humiliate her to be sent home like a child’s unwanted toy, but because she wanted to be with Gruffydd.

“I myself thought the same thing, Isabelle. I never suspected that your father would befriend such a person. But he did. Who knows what other enemies of mine and my country’s that your father may want to bring along next? Perhaps he can introduce me to the pirate who killed my father, and let me play host to that man as well.” His lack of reason, his sarcasm and cruelty, terrified her. For Gruffydd, who never spoke without thinking and never thought what was not rational, to be able to say such things told her what she had feared most, even without realizing it, was happening. The rage ruled him, with no judgment to temper it. The lion had been set loose in the keep.

“Do not say that! My father is no danger to you.”

He looked up at her. “He will not be when he leaves.”

“Will you speak to him?”

“Aye. Were he not your father, he would even now be at the end of my sword as I questioned him. And I will question him, you can be assured of that.”

“Do not kill him!”

He gave her a disdainful look. “I do not kill innocents, Isabelle, and I will not hurt your father unless I find that he is guilty. But neither can I allow him to leave here without finding out the truth from him. I have a duty that I must fulfill, and I will never again let emotions get in the way of that duty.”

“Gruffydd…” she stepped towards him, her eyes staring into his, pleading him to see her, to let her help him. He did not move as she drew in closer and reached out to touch his shoulder.

His face did not change, but she saw something flicker in the depths of his eyes. “Please…” she whispered. She did not care if he still made her leave him, did not care what happened to her. All she knew was that she wanted to feel his lips on hers one more time, to carry the memory home with her.

Her eyes closed as she raised her mouth to his. For a second he did not respond, and she felt a pang of disappointment run through her, quickly replaced with joy as his mouth on hers suddenly came alive and his arms closed around her.

She did not know how long they stood that way, their mouths each devouring the other’s, their breath coming in panting gasps. His hands pulled at the fabric of the back of her gown as he held her tighter, his large body hot against hers.

For one dizzy moment she thought she had won, thought he would take her to bed and forget about making her leave him. But then he broke the kiss, his arms still tight around her.

“What would you have me do, Isabelle?” he said brokenly into her neck.

“Let me stay,” she whispered. “Let me help you. Let me be your wife.”

“I cannot!” He wrenched himself away from her. “Why do you not see, Isabelle? If I stay with you—if you stay here—I am putting them in jeopardy. All of them. If I do not protect them…if they are left alone…I cannot do it if I have to worry about you!”

And as they stared at each other, Isabelle finally understood. Her eyes widened as she wondered why she had not known it before, how she had managed to be so blind when the answer was staring her in the face.

“You are the Dragon,” she said.

*****

Gruffydd could not speak. He had known she would figure out his identity, especially after he entered his exercise room a few days before and suspected someone had been poking around inside. He knew it when she asked him what he did at night and was barely able to hide his relief at her suspicions that a woman dragged him away from her bed. He had known it from the moment she entered his home, the moment she had entered his life, and he did not know if he should be angry or relieved he did not need to keep it from her any longer.

Not that it mattered. He told her to go, and he meant it. Hugh’s appearance and the truth Gruffydd had finally learned were signs. Signs that he could not give up his vows, could not escape his life.

Finally he nodded wearily.

“This is why you do not sleep at night,” she said. He heard the tremor in her voice and wondered vaguely why he could not care. “This is where you go. This is why your men did not know where you were that night you were so badly injured, ‘tis why you were so badly injured. You took on an entire raiding party by yourself to allow your men to bring their wounded back here.”

He nodded again. “They needed aid,” he said. “And I could not allow Gwenwynwyn’s men into my territory. Something had to be done. I had to do it.”

He glanced up at her and saw that she was crying. She saw him looking and turned away.

“This is what you mean about only death making your life valuable,” she whispered. “Oh, Gruffydd. I am so sorry.”

“I do not understand.”

“The pain…How lonely you have been. I cannot even think of it.”

As she said the words he felt it again, that longing, that need for her that was so unlike anything he had ever experienced. His whole life had been loneliness since the day his mother and sister were killed. He had grown so accustomed to it from childhood he did not notice it any more.

But when Isabelle looked at him with such love and sadness in her eyes it washed over him, great choking waves of emptiness that threatened to steal his soul from his body and leave him as an empty shell. He longed to take her in his arms, to let her take all the fear and pain and loneliness away.

He longed to let her love him.

But then, an empty shell was exactly what he was, what he had been, for so long. He steeled himself against the aching desire for her love. As he had told her in the training building, some things were more important than his feelings.

He could not look at her as he spoke. “I am sorry, Isabelle,” he said. “I cannot escape my destiny.”

He turned and opened the door, shutting it behind him on her sobs as he went downstairs and woke up Rhys.

His seneschal’s sleepy eyes widened as Gruffydd quickly told him the tale. Rhys already knew the story of his mother’s death, a more edited version than the one Gruffydd had given Isabelle, but he knew the basic details.

Gruffydd had never in his life told the full story to anyone, until this night.

Rhys was also the only other person who knew how Gruffydd spent his nights, and though he did not necessarily approve, he had agreed to help Gruffydd train and to keep his counsel.

Now Gruffydd saw the conflicting thoughts and emotions in the older man’s eyes as he listened to his master tell him that he planned to kill another man. If not this night, then as soon as possible. Not in battle, and not in defense of another, but cold-blooded murder for revenge.

He did not care what Rhys thought. His hands had never before itched so badly to have another man’s neck between them, to hold the sword that drove cleanly through another man’s body.

All he could see was blood, and the smell of it filled his nostrils as he thought of finally laying Generis and his mother’s spirits to rest.

“I want men sent out in every direction,” he said. “Tell them to knock on every door between here and England if they have to. I want this man found, and I want him found as soon as possible. We have already wasted enough time.

“Wake up de Harvington and have him brought to me. I will be in the garden. I do not wish us to be heard.”

Rhys nodded and got up from his pallet as Gruffydd walked quietly out of the hall.

The garden was quiet and fragrant, the heavy blossoms waving in the slight breeze as the moonlight shone gently on them. He looked around. Isabelle had truly changed it, made it from a small, plain kitchen garden into a most pleasant and welcoming place. He thought of the gloriette he’d been planning to have built as a surprise for her and frowned.

There was no point in thinking of it now. He must put her from his mind.

He heard footsteps approaching and turned. Rhys and the earl were entering the enclosure, the earl’s face confused. Gruffydd allowed himself a brief moment of regret at the loss of a man he’d grown to like and stepped forward.

“My lord,” said his father-in-law, bowing. “Is something wrong? Why are we out here?”

Gruffydd did not bow back. “Tell me everything you know of your friend Hugh Desmond,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

De Harvington seemed to realize there was a problem. “I do not understand…”

“’Tis easy enough to understand, I think,” Gruffydd replied. “The man is a friend of yours, is he not?”

The earl nodded uncertainly.

“So tell me what you know of him. You have already told us how you made his acquaintance, now why do you not fill me in on some more details. Where he lives might be a good start, or perhaps what friends he is visiting nearby.” He took a step closer to his father-in-law, his expression hard. “Or you can tell me if you have always known he was a murderer but did not care.”

He knew the instant he said it that he earl had no idea what he was talking about, and breathed a sigh of relief. It changed nothing, but at least Lord Stephen had not deliberately brought a murderer into his home.

“My lord,” stammered the earl, “I know naught of what you speak. What has happened? Is—” his gulp was audible “—is my daughter safe?”

“Your daughter is perfectly safe,” Gruffydd replied smoothly. “And she will be returning back to England with you when you leave.”

A look of delight, visible even in the moonlight, crossed the earl’s face, but disappeared quickly, replaced by a frown. “But I do not understand,” he said. “Why?”

“We have decided it is not safe here for her, and she is unhappy without her family.”

Even as he said it, he hated himself for lying.

“But I am certain she would be more unhappy without you, my lord.”

Gruffydd fought to ignore this. He shook his head and spoke. “My lord, if you do not mind I would prefer to stick to the topic at hand, which is your friend Hugh. I would know everything you have learned about him. Do you have knowledge of his destination this night?”

But Isabelle’s father only shook his head. “I am sorry, I do not. I know only what he told us earlier, that he has friends nearby that he wants to visit. I do not know if these friends are even in Gwynedd.”

“He did mention the Meirionydd earlier.”

“Aye. He did. But I do not feel that was his destination this night. My lord,” the earl said slowly. “Perhaps I overstep my boundaries, but given your revelation to me about Hugh’s character I feel safe in doing so. I have not in truth spent much time with the man, but I have to say something about him has made me uneasy this day. I felt he asked too many questions.”

“I agree,” Gruffydd said. “I also do not think he was headed for the Meirionydd, and I do feel there was something suspicious about his visit. Can you recall anything he has said about his home or friends?”

“I cannot,” was the sad reply. “I confess we did not normally discuss such things, only our mutual interests. I know nothing of him or his past. You say he killed someone?”

“My mother,” Gruffydd said shortly, ignoring the fresh pain that just saying the words brought to his chest.

The earl’s head reeled backwards, as if he’d been hit in the face. “Christ Jesus,” he said. “Oh my lord, I am so sorry.”

Gruffydd nodded his acknowledgment of the earl’s sympathy. “You can see why ’tis so important now, that I know everything about this man.”

“You will kill him.” It was not a question.

“I will,” Gruffydd replied, and the earl nodded.

“As you should,” he said, and his voice was so vehement that Gruffydd had to wonder if he had misjudged his father-in-law entirely. “My Lord Gruffydd, are you certain?”

“I am.”

There was a silence, then the earl spoke again. “I will not ask how you came to know this. If you are certain, that is enough for me, and I swear I will do all that I can to assist you.”

“I thank you, but the only assistance I require is to know what thoughts you may have on this man’s whereabouts, anything you can recall about his habits, and the knowledge that you will take Isabelle home where she is safe.”

The earl’s eyes filled with tears. “You truly do love her, do you not? I was not certain…but now I see. You love her as I do.”

Gruffydd could not look at his wife’s father as he spoke.

“Aye,” he said. “I do.”

Chapter 13

Gruffydd stood on the curtain wall walkway, waiting for the sun to rise. He had been there all night, ever since sending Stephen de Harvington back to sleep and a group of his men out to find Hugh Desmond.

The morning breeze blew his hair back from his face as he looked out over the lands that were his. He tried to find some peace in the sight but could not.

His men would return, having found Hugh or not, and his father-in-law had agreed to send Gruffydd every letter he had ever received from the man as soon as he arrived home.

As soon as Isabelle arrived home.

He took a deep breath and tried again to push away the image of her face that appeared in his mind. In a short while he would bid her farewell. For good.

She would not return to Wales, or to him. She would live the rest of her life in England, his estranged wife, and he would stay here.

It was what he had wanted. It was what he had planned from the day Llewelyn had asked him to marry the girl.

But it was not what he wanted now, and he could not deny that to himself any more than he could admit it to her.

He heard a sound and looked over to its source. It was Isabelle.

“My lord,” she said quietly. “I have come to watch the sunrise with you.”

She did not meet his eyes. Gruffydd found himself nodding at her.

“Come, then,” he said.

She walked to his side, not touching him, and leaned against the wall.

For a long time neither of them spoke. Gruffydd shifted his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot, his thumb rubbing his palm. Why had she come here? What purpose was she hoping to serve?

Finally he cleared his throat.

“You are packed?”

She nodded. “Aye.”

“It does look a good day for travel.”

“It does.”

The sun began to rise now, turning the pale gray sky pink and gold, burning a hole in the horizon.

She sighed. “’Tis such an awesome sight. It does make me feel very small, and unimportant.”

He glanced at her, wondering why she was telling him this. But she was not looking at him as she continued, “I do not think the sunrise in England is such a spectacle as this.”

“I am sure it is. You only have to know how to look.”

“I suppose a lot of things are like that,” she said, her voice almost inaudible. “I suppose it is always a matter of knowing how to look at something…or someone.”

His heart began to pound. He wanted her to go away, before his control left him and he clutched her to him and begged her not to leave. Could she not see that he was doing this for her, as much as for himself?

He wanted her to leave because she made him vulnerable. He had already let his guard down because of her and let a murderer enter his home. What would enter next, what would he miss seeing because he was so busy thinking of his wife that he forgot to think of his people and their safety?

Who would his marriage next put in danger if he did not stop it now? And how long would it be until it was his wife herself in danger?

And what of her feelings? She may think now that she wanted to stay, but he knew that sooner or later she would not be able to live with him anymore. Sooner or later, she would grow tired of the uncertainty, of never knowing if tonight was the night he would not return home. He did not have time to be a proper husband, to be the man she needed and deserved.

He could not force her to take his burden as her own.

He could never let the Dragon rest. It was too important, kept his people safe and gave them hope. Was that not worth more than his desires?

He knew it was, but could not keep the pain from flooding his chest as he stood next to his wife and watched the sun rise into the sky.

*****

Isabelle blinked back tears as she watched her husband and father shake hands and bow. “I will send you the correspondence we spoke of immediately on my return, my lord,” said her father.

“Davydd can bring it back when he returns,” Gruffydd said. Isabelle turned to see one of her husband’s men saddling up a horse. She had not realized Gruffydd would be sending an escort with them, since both her father and William were able-bodied men. Even, she thought, trying to keep from smirking, even if William would be inclined to bore an attacker to death rather than use a sword.

She watched Gruffydd bend to kiss Matilda’s hand once more. “I do wish you joy in your new life,” he said to her, and Isabelle saw her sister’s smile light up her face.

“I am certain I will have it, my lord,” she said. “I wish the same to you, and I do thank you for allowing my sister to come visit with me ere I leave for the convent. It does mean so much to me.”

Isabelle held her breath, wondering if Gruffydd would correct her sister’s innocent assumption that this would be only a visit, but he did not. “I am pleased to be the cause of your happiness,” he said, and helped the girl to mount.

Then he turned to Isabelle. She was frozen, her feet rooted to the ground as he approached.

She searched his face, trying to see any hint of feeling in his eyes, trying to memorize his features. The nearness of him made her weak; she could smell the warm-earth scent of him, could see his pulse beating faintly at his throat.

“I bid you farewell, Isabelle,” he said, his voice even. “I do hope your journey is a pleasant one.”

She felt the tears spring to her eyes. Was he not even going to apologize for sending her away? Had he nothing more to say to her?

Nay, it seemed he did not. Suddenly furious, she whispered, “Any journey would be pleasant that takes me away from you!”

“Then it seems my hopes are well founded,” he said smoothly, but some emotion flickered in his eyes as he spoke. She turned from him and mounted quickly, angry at how warm and good his hands felt on her hips as he helped her.

This could not be real. Here she was, atop her horse, her satchel packed on the saddle, and she was leaving Trwch Maenol for good. Leaving her husband, leaving Rhys and Gwledyr who stood smiling sadly and waving at her as she clasped the reins and spurred her horse forward.

Do not look back, she thought, do not look back.

But she could not resist one last glance as they began to make their way down the path to the main road.

Gruffydd was standing right where she had left him, his face shadowed, and as the gate closed she saw that his fists were clenched at his sides.

*****

It was strange to be home. It did not feel like home any more.

Isabelle thought she would sleep like a baby in her old bed, but she did not. The regular night time sounds of Harvington Castle, once so familiar, were now disconcerting, and she was awakened several times in the night by noises that would have been like a lullaby to her three months ago.

Her rooms seemed small, after the large solar at Trwch Maenol, and overly fussy with its embroidered tapestries and gold mirrors.

It did not even smell right.

Her dreams were disjointed images of little boys crying in the road, of her husband’s agonized face, of William’s proposal to her. At one point her own mother showed up but did not speak, only handed her a sprig of basil and walked away.

She woke up as the sky was beginning to lighten and knew she would sleep no more. Tired as she was, she could not stay in bed any longer.

She leaned on the window ledge and watched the sunrise. Perhaps Gruffydd was watching as well, she thought, then cursed herself for her silliness. What had he said, that she could see it just as well in England as Wales? He was right. Damn him and his wise little remarks, she was going to enjoy seeing the sun come up and that was that, and she would not bother with thoughts of Gruffydd at all.

She did not love him. She could not. She had wanted to stay with him, aye. But only because she found him interesting. Only because she did not want her marriage to fail, did not want to be discarded.

He was not a sweet man. He could be selfish and rude. He was not sensitive to her feelings and he bossed her about and insisted everything be done the way he wanted it.

So why then…

The knock at her door startled her, and she jumped away from the ledge. “Aye? Oh, Matilda. Good morn.”

“Good morn, sister. I hope I do not disturb you? I did hear some sounds and thought perhaps you were up.”

“I am, thank you.”

“I brought something to break your fast.”

Isabelle looked down at the tray her sister held. Bread, butter, cold meats, a flagon of wine, eggs. Had she really ever eaten so much in the morning? It made her slightly queasy to see all that food. She’d grown used to not eating until dinner, save for perhaps a small snack, and it felt like she was being lazy to eat just after arising.

But she bade Matilda sit, and began to nibble at the food. “It is good,” she murmured, through a mouthful of bread. “I had almost forgotten.”

Matilda smiled. “I almost forgot you have been away so long. It seems so right to find you here. Methinks Father will be very sad when we are both gone.”

“Aye…” Isabelle felt uncomfortable. She was not certain where her sister had got this blithe assumption that Isabelle would be returning to Wales, and she did not know when the best time would be to tell her the truth.

“But while you are still here, there is much we need to do,” Matilda continued. “Would you like to go to town today? Or we could have a picnic. I know you would like to have a good look at the garden as well.”

“Aye,” Isabelle said again, feeling rather foolish. She poured some wine from the flagon into a cup and took a drink, then sputtered.

“God’s blood,” she choked, when she finally was able to speak, “What is that wine?”

Matilda gave her an admonishing look for her language and took a sip herself. “’Tis fine, sister,” she said. “’Tis the same wine we always have.”

“’Tis awfully spicy,” Isabelle said.

Matilda smiled. “Nay, mead is rather bland. But I suspect you have become accustomed to it now.”

Isabelle blushed. Her sister was right. There was a lot she was going to need to get used to again…and a lot she was going to need to forget.

*****

Isabelle smiled at him. They were on the hillside where they had ridden that fateful day, and her hair was loose about her shoulders she stretched her hand out to him.

“Come, my husband,” she said, and her voice was like a softly playing lute in the breeze. “Take my hand and come with me.”

Gruffydd smiled and stepped towards her. “I want nothing else.”

But just as their fingers were about to touch, she was suddenly further away from him.

“Do keep up!” she said, laughing.

Gruffydd frowned and stepped towards her again, but she moved away. “You know why you cannot catch me, do you not?”

“Nay.” His voice seemed to echo oddly in his ears.

“Because I’ve left you,” she replied, laughing. “We all leave you, do we not?”

He blinked. Isabelle was not alone anymore. His mother and Generis stood beside her, each holding one of her hands.

“We do not wish to stay,” Isabelle continued. Was it his imagination, or was her voice beginning to change, to grow huskier and deeper?

“Aye, who would want to stay with you?” Generis sneered.

Gruffydd shook his head, terrified. “Nay…I cannot believe it…”

“Despite all your efforts,” his mother said now, “We are not dead.”

“But I saw it.”

“Aye, you watched and did nothing,” Generis said.

“I could not…”

“You could have come with us,” Generis replied. “You could be with us now.”

“You should have come with us,” his mother said.

“You should have gone with them,” said a familiar voice.

Gruffydd’s eyes widened in terror. “Nay…”

Hugh Desmond’s face leered at him. “I would have sent you along with them. You should have come out. I could have had fun with you, little boy.”

Gruffydd looked down. Why was he so small? Then he realized. He was seven again. He was back in the forest. His wife had disappeared. “Isabelle?”

“She cannot save you,” Hugh said. His mother and sister nodded wisely.

Hugh pulled out his dagger. “Will you watch me, boy?”

His mother smiled as Hugh grabbed her hair and lowered the blade to her throat. “Watch,” she said.

“Mother!”

He sat up, panting, his body bathed in sweat. All was silent and dim, the shutters and bed curtains keeping the sun out of the room.

Unthinkingly, he reached next to him for Isabelle, wanting her reassuring warmth to soothe him, wanting to see her smile and make him feel real again. But she was gone.

Gone forever.

He knew she was back at Harvington castle by now. The journey barely lasted dawn to dusk, less if the horse was fast, but he assumed they would not make haste. It mattered not. She was home now, far away from him, and that was the way he wanted it.

Was it not?

He slid from the bed, determined to stop this weakness, and dressed quickly. He needed to speak to Rhys, to find out if any other riders had come in whilst he slept.

Four of them had returned thus far, each with the same depressing lack of news. Wherever Hugh Desmond had gone, he was not proving easy to find.

Gruffydd’s gut told him the man had not gone to visit a friend, but had in fact returned to his home. But ‘near the river Wye’ was not an easy direction to follow, particularly if Hugh lived in that part of the Wye which ran through South Powys.

Quickly he dressed and headed down to the great hall, where Rhys sat alone at the table.

“Any news?”

Rhys shook his head. “Two riders have returned from the Marches with no information. Hugh Desmond has not been seen.”

Gruffydd sat down and signaled to one of the maids to bring him his goblet. “Rhys, I do fear this man Desmond is a spy.”

“A spy?”

“Aye. Sent here to try to find information on me…to report to Gwenwynwyn.” He knew it sounded foolish, but the more he thought about it the more likely it seemed.

“My lord, have you been sleeping well? You do not look—”

“When do I ever sleep well, Rhys?” Gruffydd tried to smile.

“You slept well enough when the Lady Isabelle was here.”

Gruffydd frowned. “I did not, and well you know it. And we are not discussing my marriage, but a matter of utmost importance to our lives and security. So I tell you again,” he nodded at the maid who brought his cup and took a sip, “I think Hugh Desmond is a spy.”

“Go on.”

Gruffydd leaned forward. “Lord Stephen told me that he met this man about three months prior to my marriage. Is it not an odd coincidence, that he appeared shortly after the wedding arrangements had been settled and announced?”

Rhys was not looking at Gruffydd skeptically anymore. “Go on,” he said again, leaning forward himself. Gruffydd smiled into the tired gray eyes of his seneschal.

“My thinking is this. Lord de Harvington settles the marriage contract, and word of the betrothal spreads. Gwenwynwyn hears of it—as he would, being such a close ally of King John.” Gruffydd made a face. “He likely finds out a bit about de Harvington, again from his good friends at John’s court, or from other Marcher lords who are allied with him in his effort to crush Llewelyn. Who knows where he would have got the information, and ‘tis not important.

“He discovers what Lord Stephen’s interests are and finds himself a spy who shares them, or at least is knowledgeable enough to pretend he does. Then he waits. Is it not strange that Lord Stephen had not received a visit from this man in months, yet as soon as the earl is here in my home, suddenly Hugh is eager to see him? And makes a trip out of his way to visit him here?”

Gruffydd shook his head. “If only I had not been so blinded…”

“What, my lord? I did not hear you.”

“I said naught,” Gruffydd replied. “I cannot see this as a coincidence, Rhys. That he is the murderer of my family, aye, that is a coincidence, and one that as much as it pains me I am grateful for. But to suddenly befriend the earl, to suddenly visit him here? That is a large meal to swallow, my friend.”

“He did try his best to get information about you whilst here,” Rhys said slowly.

“Aye, he did.” Gruffydd was almost certain he was right about this. “Information about my armory.”

The two men looked at each other, both thinking the same thing.

“It is not possible for him to know,” Rhys said. “He did not enter the building where you keep your training equipment and armor.”

“He did not, but I suspect someone did,” Gruffydd said slowly. “I did find some things slightly moved in my trunk.”

“But that was before he arrived,” Rhys reminded him.

Gruffydd felt that there was an important piece of information he was missing, a piece he could find if he only had another moment to think, but he was interrupted by the arrival of another one of his men.

“Naught, my lord,” he said sadly as he bowed before Gruffydd. “I did go north into the Perfeddwlad, stopping in every village along the way, but none I questioned had any knowledge of the man.”

Gruffydd nodded. “’Tis as I suspected, Madog,” he said. “Get some rest now.”

Madog nodded and bowed again before leaving the hall.

Gruffydd frowned. “I know there is something I am missing.” He shook his head. “How fare plans for tomorrow night?”

The parchment that Gruffydd stole from Gwenwynwyn’s men detailed plans for their meeting in the next town. Gruffydd knew if he could attack them then, he would virtually destroy Gwenwynwyn’s hopes to invade North Powys…for a while, at least.

“They fare well,” Rhys said. “The archer’s platforms in the trees are in fine repair, and work on the tunnels and caves is progressing better than we’d hoped.”

“I shall need only one.”

“You still plan to hide until you are assured all is safe?”

“Of course. You know as well as I do that I cannot risk being seen until I am certain ‘tis not a trap.”

“And if it is?”

“I shall stay and see if I can overhear, but will return home after they leave.” Gruffydd sighed. “I wish I could stop feeling that something is not right, Rhys.”

“Mayhap you would feel better had you not sent your lady wife away.”

Gruffydd frowned. “I though we agreed not to speak of it.”

“You agreed. I did not.”

“You know my feelings on this.”

“Aye, my lord, but do you?”

Gruffydd stood up. “This conversation is over, Rhys.”

“’Tis good to escape from subjects that frighten us, is it not?”

“I am not frightened!” Gruffydd’s voice shook. “And I am not escaping from anything. My lady wife was a threat to our security that I could no longer allow.”

“She was a threat to your security, not ours.”

Gruffydd glared at his seneschal. “I repeat myself. This conversation is over.”

“And what happens to her, now that our security is assured? What does she do with her life?”

“She will be happier at her home.”

“You are correct there. But has it not occurred to you that this is her home?”

“England is her home.”

“And how do you think she will react, back at her home, if she learns that you are dead, killed in an attempt to invade Gwenwynwyn’s territory and capture Hugh Desmond?”

“You know what I must do.”

Rhys’s usually calm voice grew louder. “I do not argue, Gruffydd, I merely ask you what you expect her to do if you are killed, knowing that she was not here, that you died not caring what happened to her?”

Gruffydd looked down. “I do not think she will care so much,” he mumbled. “She will marry again.”

When Rhys did not speak, Gruffydd looked up, expecting to see anger on his seneschal’s face.

Instead, he saw only pity.

*****

Isabelle made her way out to the stables, intending to ride to the village, or perhaps just on one of the many paths that crisscrossed the lands around Harvington Castle. She could use some time on her own, away from the constant embraces of her sister and loving optimism of her father.

She ordered a groomsman to saddle her horse and mounted, pleased at the prospect of being on her own for a while. She could not remember a time when her family’s attention was irritating, but she feared it was becoming so now.

Leaving the bailey through the heavy stone portcullis, she turned right and took the road back towards the farming lands. She would ride a path first, then head into town if she still desired to.

The morning sun felt good on her veiled head, though the straps she had grown accustomed to leaving off felt itchy under her chin after she had been riding barely half an hour. The tall grass and hay swayed gently in the breeze. It was truly a perfect day for a ride.

So why did she find herself so uneasy?

At first she thought perhaps it was memories of the ride she’d taken with Gruffydd that bothered her. That day, after all, had been just as perfect as this one. Even more so, for it had not been so warm.

But as she rode she began to think it was something else. As if she was not paying attention to something, or had forgotten…

A rabbit jumped out of the bushes to cross the road, startling her. Then she laughed. She was indeed being foolish, riding these familiar paths and thinking dark dangers lurked by their sides.

She turned the horse around and retraced her steps, bypassing the Castle and heading into town. A few months ago she had ridden this road and wondered if she might ever see it again. Was it not lucky that she had been able to return?

The village had not changed, either. Isabelle had already visited here with her sister, so did not have the duty of greeting everyone. She thought mayhap she would ride down the street and get a small loaf of bread, then sit and eat it under the huge oak tree at the end of the road.

She was enjoying herself immensely in the shade of the tree, her mouth full of good fresh bread, when she glanced to her side and saw William walking towards her. Her heart sank.

“Should you not be back at the castle?” she asked him.

“I need to see the tailor for a new tunic.”

“Ah.” Isabelle was not interested in William’s tunics. For a moment she stared at him, wondering what she had ever seen in him, in his vapid speech and overdeveloped sense of importance.

“My I sit down, my lady?”

Isabelle fidgeted. “In truth, William, I am just making ready to return to the castle.”

“Ah! I shall accompany you home, then. I do wish to speak with you.”

“Do you not need to see the tailor?”

“I have just come from there.”

Isabelle shrugged. She did not particularly want William’s company, but if he wanted to speak with her she would allow it. It was almost noon, and she had been about to go back.

He helped her mount and took the reins, walking beside her. The shadows were shortening across the road, and Isabelle grew irritated again that William was here. If he was not forcing her to keep such a slow pace, she could have been back at the castle in half the time.

“You wanted to speak to me, William?” She did not bother to hide the impatience in her voice.

“Aye, my lady. I merely wanted to let you know how pleased I am that you did heed my warning and return home with us.”

For a moment Isabelle could not think of what he was saying. Warning? What warning? Then she remembered, and the worrying feeling that had plagued her all morn roared into life. That was what she’d forgotten. Why would William warn her? How would he know?

“I assure you, William, it had naught to do with anything you said.” She tried to keep her tone indifferent, not wanting him to see how much his words frightened her. “I merely wanted to spend some time with my lady sister before she takes the veil, and this seemed an opportune time for it.”

“Ah, Isabelle.” She glanced sharply at him, and he hastily said, “I do mean, Lady Isabelle. You may say that all you like, but we both know you are too wise not to take me seriously. I do feel I have saved your life,” he added, preening himself.

“William, if you ever desire me to speak of this to you again, you must explain to me your meaning. Your cryptic warning made no difference to my thoughts. Indeed, I had forgotten all about it when I made the decision to return here for a visit.”

Why was she having such a difficult time calling Harvington “home”?

“My warning was as clear as I could make it at the time, and I am hurt that you trusted me not.”

“Why do you not make it clearer now, then? Tell me why you warned me and mayhap I will believe you.” Isabelle gripped the saddle so tightly her fingers ached. Why did he need to play these clever little games, instead of just speaking his mind? Always he had done so, as if his words were so important one must be properly prepared for them. She wanted to slap him.

“I merely wanted you safely back home before the meeting.”

“Meeting?”

“Aye. Before the attack. I feel safe now mentioning it because—”

“What meeting? What attack?” William heard the change in her voice and looked up at her. Her face felt cold. She could only imagine how she must look, for when William had mentioned the meeting Isabelle had suddenly recalled the plans that Gwledyr had told her about.

The plans that her husband, as the Black Dragon, had stolen.

Why would William be informed about Gwenwynwyn’s plans?

Then she remembered William had lived for a time in Wales. That was why Gwenwynwyn’s name had sounded vaguely familiar to her. William had lived in south Powys. William was a friend of her husband’s enemy.

“What do you know of an attack?” She felt ready to leap from her horse and strangle him.

“I know that a certain foolish mercenary has received false information,” William said. “That is why I needed to get you away from there, do you not see? Isabelle—do you know who your husband is?”

This was what he had been trying to tell her that day, that first day he’d spoken to her at Trwch Maenol. Uncertain how to respond, she tried to force the glowing fury from her eyes and look bored.

“Of course I know who he is,” she said. “He is Gruffydd ap Hywel.”

“He is the Black Dragon, and he will not live out the week.”

Chapter 14

Isabelle was glad she’d gripped the saddle so tightly. Had she not, she would have toppled from her horse as the world began to go black around her.

“What do you mean?” she whispered, trying to focus on him.

“I mean he is the Dragon you have heard so much of. Your husband. I found the proof, in that strange building he allows none to enter. I have never seen a room such as that, I do say. Such a strange place, with all manner of odd things and bars hanging from the roof—”

“William.” Her voice was steady, but she felt like screaming. “Are you telling me that you went through my husband‘s private things?” She knew he had been in the room, but had not realized he had looked around so thoroughly.

“I had to! I had to be certain. To protect you.”

“Protect me from what?”

“From certain death, my lady,” William replied, but something in the way his eyes shifted sideways made Isabelle suspect that this was not the entire tale. “Gwenwynwyn set a trap to snare the Dragon. He sent a messenger with a false letter, detailing plans for a meeting to take place at a certain date between his war heads.

“But there is no meeting, not the one the plans detailed. Instead Gwenwynwyn‘s armies will be placed to catch the Dragon when he appears.”

There was a roaring in her ears. “I do not understand,” she said slowly. “A trap was set?”

“Aye.”

“And you were part of this?”

William ducked his head. “Not entirely.”

Isabelle reached her hand out and grabbed him by the arm, squeezing as tightly as she could. “You come with me now, William,” she said. “We shall discuss this with my father.”

They went back to the castle in silence. Isabelle took grim satisfaction in forcing William to almost run. She herself felt ready to fly, if she could.

“Father! Father!” Still gripping William, she ran into the great hall.

“He is not here, my lady.” Guy, the castellan, bowed as he spoke. “He has gone to visit my Lord of Smithspool, and will be gone until past supper.”

“Damn!” Isabelle cried, ignoring the shocked expressions on the faces of those nearby. She pulled William through the hall and out the back to the gardens.

“Finish,” she ordered. “How were you involved in this treacherous plan?”

“My lady, I did what I thought you wanted,” he said miserably. “You did not want to marry him, I thought you would be pleased to see yourself free.”

“Whatever my feelings about my husband, you do know my feelings on disloyalty,” she snapped. “Now tell me what you’ve done.”

William sighed. “When first I overheard your father discussing plans for your marriage, I wrote to Gwenwynwyn‘s piper, as I do regularly, and told him of my unhappiness. He replied immediately, amazed. It seemed my friend was discussing your marriage with another musician, and Gwenwynwyn himself had overheard. He ordered my friend to write back to me immediately, and get all the information I could give about your wedding, and…about you, my lady.”

“And you gave it to him?” Isabelle was incredulous.

“I did not see what harm it could do.”

“Then you truly are a simpleton,” she snapped, and Williams face reddened.

“Aye then. I did suspect some plot brewing, directed at your husband, but I cared not. Do you blame me so much, when you were heartbroken at the prospect of marrying?”

Isabelle felt sick. William spoke the truth. She had been heartbroken, she had given William every indication that she would welcome a return to England…to his arms.

‘Twas just as Gruffydd had said. She had not seen William’s desperation because she had not thought her actions could have consequences. The realization cut through her like a sword.

“I received another letter, before your father’s safe-conduct to visit you arrived, asking me to go to Wales with him as a favor to Gwenwynwyn. The letter asked me to find whatever information I could on your husband, and to pass it on to a representative of Gwenwynwyn’s who would arrive shortly. So I did. I found his black sword and helm, in the room. I saw his strange equipment and heard tales of his amazing strength from the servants, and I realized who he was. I knew about the Dragon from my musician friends at Gwenwynwyn’s court.”

“And what were you promised in return, William?”

“What?”

“What did he promise you? Gold? Jewels? What prize seemed to you to be enough to steal a man’s life for?”

William turned away from her, and realization hit her.

“Did he promise you me, William? Did he tell you that once my husband was out of the way, you could have me?”

“And what if he did?” William snapped. “I thought we were in love. It seemed to me the best possible outcome. We would have lived safely at Gwenwynwyn’s court, with enough money to live well. Once the Dragon is gone, Gwenwynwyn will be able to invade and take that part of Gwynedd and he will be even more powerful.”

“And this was the plan you spoke of to remove me from my husband’s home.”

“Of course it was. It was a very good plan.”

“So you would willingly see innocent people die, just so you could get what you want.”

“None would have had to die,” William said, and she saw with amazement that he truly believed this. “Gwenwynwyn said that without their Dragon to lead and protect them, the heart would have gone out of the people and they would have given up easily.”

“For someone who spent so much time in Wales,” Isabelle said through clenched teeth, “You for certes did not get to know the Welsh at all. But continue. I want the rest of this tale.”

“I knew Gwenwynwyn’s spy right away. ’Twas that man Hugh, the friend of your lord father’s. He pulled me aside and bade me tell him all I knew, and I did. Then I told him to let Gwenwynwyn know I would take gold instead of—instead of the other reward we had discussed. He seemed pleased by that. Then he left. He said I’d done a good job.”

“And when is this attack?” Isabelle’s chest felt tight.

“I believe they plan it for this night,” William said, looking down. “So you see why I was so eager to have you leave, so you would be safe. Once the Dragon is dead they will attack his home, burn it to the—”

But Isabelle was already gone.

*****

Gruffydd shifted position on the narrow wooden platform. It was almost midnight, and so far he had seen no sign of anyone. He was high in a tree, about fifty measures from the clearing where the meeting was designated to take place.

The more he thought on it, the more convinced he was that he was correct in his suspicions of Hugh Desmond. Davydd had returned from escorting Isabelle and her family home and brought Hugh’s letters to Lord Stephen. One look at them had shown Gruffydd that Hugh did indeed live in south Powys, not far from one of Gwenwynwyn’s castles.

He would be most pleased if Hugh turned out to be one of the men assembling here this night.

And if he was not, or if Gruffydd‘s suspicions proved true and an army was brought here instead…then Gruffydd would begin planning his capture on the morrow.

He tensed as he heard a noise.

Four men rode into the clearing together. They looked cautiously around them as they dismounted, then huddled together in the moonlight.

Several minutes passed as they spoke to each other in low tones. If Gruffydd was going to hear what they said, he would need to leave his perch.

But he would wait until he was certain there were no soldiers waiting in the forest.

More men arrived, each glancing uneasily into the trees, each huddling in the center of the clearing. Gruffydd strained his ears to hear any sounds that might alert him to the presence of others.

Then he heard it. Just one distant clink, but it confirmed all his suspicions. He was far enough away and high enough up that he did not fear discovery, but he knew now he would not be able to move closer. An army hid in the forest.

Silently he cursed. There was a good chance the men below were only discussing whether the Dragon would show up, but it was also possible they had more serious matters to discuss.

It made him ache to know how close he was to hearing them, but it was no use. He could not risk his safety by moving. He could only hope that mayhap they would raise their voices.

How long he stayed there, he knew not. His muscles began to stiffen and he longed to change position, but he’d heard more distant sounds that told him not only was an army in the trees, but it was a formidable one.

He smiled to himself. Gwenwynwyn must want his death badly, to send so many men. His enemy’s fear pleased him.

Gruffydd beginning to wonder if he would make it home before sunrise when he heard another noise.

Men’s raised voices, shouting something he could not quite make out. They were distant, as if the shouters were far down the path, but growing louder.

Then a woman’s scream.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Nay. It was not possible.

More shouts, and then another scream, and Gruffydd’s blood ran cold. He recognized that voice.

Isabelle‘s voice.

Almost before he had time to wonder how she came to be there, two soldiers dragged her into the clearing. The moonlight hit her bare head and Gruffydd’s fists clenched. She looked so scared.

“We have your wife, Dragon!” The soldier on her right shouted. His hand was gripping her upper arm tightly. “Mayhap now you will show yourself!”

“Show yourself or she dies!” shouted the other one.

Isabelle screamed. “Nay! Stay where you are! Do not come here for me!”

There was no decision to be made. Gruffydd was already climbing down the tree when he heard the ringing slap, heard her scream again. His vision went red.

*****

Isabelle fought as hard as she could. She’d left Harvington Castle immediately, hoping to arrive at Trwch Maenol in time to warn Gruffydd of the trap that had been laid. Taking the fastest horse from the stables and a wineskin, she’d ridden at a gallop all day.

Her heart was bursting, the tears running down her cheeks for most of the ride as she prayed she would not be too late.

Instead of going through Trwch she’d taken the path through the woods she and her family had ridden only days before. It cut some time off the trip.

But this night she was stopped by two men who stepped in front of her horse, making it shy and rear and almost throw her.

They did not speak French, and Isabelle was trying to make them understand that she meant no harm when she heard a familiar hoarse voice.

“Ah, Isabelle. I was hoping to find you.” He motioned at the two men holding her reins and they yanked her down from the saddle.

Isabelle barely resisted the urge to spit in Hugh Desmond’s face. “I hoped never to lay eyes on you again, save a glimpse of your head on a pike.”

He laughed, a low chuckle that had no humor in it. “Such venom! What have I done to you?”

“’Tis not what you did to me. ’Tis what you did to my lord husband and my father. May you rot for it.”

“Such harsh words from a lady. You would do well to hold your tongue.”

“How dare you even speak to me.”

She retreated as he stepped towards her, only to be grabbed by the two men in the path. They held her arms tightly as Hugh advanced on her He smelled like copious sweat and some choking perfume, a heavy combination of lavender and myrrh. Isabelle wanted to gag.

He smiled at her, a terrible grin, and raised a hand to her face. She turned away as he stroked her cheek, her skin crawling with revulsion.

Suddenly he drew his hand back and slapped her, hard. She cried out, but he clamped his hand quickly over her mouth.

“I told you to hold your tongue,” he hissed. “Do not make me hurt you worse.”

When he removed his hand she did spit at him, but he only smiled and wiped it off. Turning his back, he spoke in Welsh to the men who held her. They began pulling Isabelle forward, and with an awful sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach Isabelle realized what they were doing.

Gruffydd had not shown himself. The men milling around in the clearing did not look triumphant, as they would have done had they captured him. They looked nervous.

And they were going to use her as bait.

If she had stayed home…if she had brought guards…if she had sent a messenger…

Gruffydd would be safe.

Why had she come here? She should have trusted him. Gruffydd was not a fool, as he’d pointed out to her before. He saw everything, knew everything.

Of course he would have made certain it was safe before he entered the clearing.

And now, because of her, he would have to surrender.

She screamed again and tried to pull away as they forced her into the clearing. One of the guards shouted something into the still night air, then the other one chimed in. She could not understand the words but had a pretty good idea of what they said.

“Nay!” she screamed, praying he would heed her. “Stay where you are! Do not come here for me!”

Her words were cut off by the slap. Her head snapped to the right, pain exploding behind her eyes.

Please, please do not show yourself, she thought. For the first time she truly understood Gruffydd’s feelings about death and sacrifice.

I do not care if I live, so long as you do, she thought, unsure now if the tears in her eyes were because of the pain in her head or in her heart. Some things are more important.

But even as that realization dawned, the men nearby went silent and looked up.

The Dragon walked slowly into the circle of moonlight, his hands at his side. She heard the men gasp and realized that she too was frightened.

He moved like a creature of legend, like an angry God seeking vengeance. Like a demon silently emerging from the smoke of Hell.

He was all in black, from his boots to his helm. His mail and sword were black as well. He seemed to be not so much a man as a great shadow, a complete absence of light that was gliding across the ground towards her.

“Nay!” she screamed again, struggling to free herself. “Leave me!”

But he did not speak, did not even react. She could not imagine how deep his fury with her must be. Was this not, in part, why he had ordered her to leave Wales?

For a long moment he stood there, the moonlight gleaming dully off his helm. Isabelle could almost feel the anger burning inside him, the heat coming off him in waves.

When he spoke, she hardly recognized his voice. She did not understand the words, but his tone made her shiver.

One of the men said something in reply, and Gruffydd spoke again. Then Gruffydd dropped his sword onto the ground.

Isabelle screamed again, but the sound was buried in the avalanche of shouts from the men. She struggled, but could do nothing as they fell upon him.

*****

He was choking.

Was his head under water? There was liquid trickling down his throat, up his nose, making him sputter and cough as he tried to turn his head.

“Ah, so you are alive,” he heard a hoarse voice say with satisfaction. “I was afraid we had killed you already. That would have put an end to my fun.”

Gruffydd opened his eyes, blinking into the flickering light from the torch that Hugh Desmond held.

He was in a dungeon. That he knew from the odor, from the stillness of the fetid air and the hard stone under his body. The torchlight only confirmed it. There was an ache in his wrists that told him he was chained to the floor, and his face and chest were wet with what smelled like vinegar.

“Have you nothing to say, Dragon?” The contempt in Desmond’s voice was enraging.

“Where is Isabelle?”

“Your concern is touching. But I think I shall surprise you with that news later. Do you like surprises?”

Gruffydd responded to this question with a string of oaths. He called Hugh every foul word he knew, in every language he could, spitting out a mixture of Welsh, French, and even English and Latin that made Desmond’s pale face go red as he drew his foot back and kicked Gruffydd viciously in the side.

“You’ll mind your tongue or I will cut it out,” he snapped.

“Burn in Hell, you son of a whore.”

This time Gruffydd was ready for the kick and was able to turn his body towards it, making it slightly less painful.

His entire body screamed. Dimly he recalled the soldiers, kicking him, punching him, the sharp iron toes of their boots slicing into him over and over again, before he sank into blackness.

“You do not listen, do you? I can make this easy for you, you know. I can make your death as quick or as slow as I please. ‘Tis your choice. But know this…” Gruffydd watched in distaste as Hugh licked his thin lips. “I will kill you, and I do hope you choose a slow and painful death.”

Gruffydd gave one of his wrists and experimental pull upwards, hoping that perhaps he could loosen the chains that bound him to the floor. He succeeded only in making himself queasy and light-headed, but found that he did have about an arm’s length free to play with.

“I doubt you have the authority to kill me, Desmond,” he said, letting the hatred burn in his eyes as he spoke. “Surely Gwenwynwyn wants to see my death for himself. I doubt he would be pleased to find he missed it.”

The expression on Hugh’s face flickered for a moment, and Gruffydd saw that he was right. “It matters not,” Hugh replied. “I may not kill you today, but I will do it soon, for Prince Gwenwynwyn arrives on the morrow. And he for certes did not order me to keep you healthy until then.” He drew a wicked-looking dagger from his belt. “In truth, I feel confident that he would not begrudge me some amusement. I have noticed you are quite a taciturn fellow. Shall we see what it takes to make you scream?”

Gruffydd forced himself not to react, not even when Hugh’s boot landed on his wrist, crushing it as it pinned his arm to the floor. He remained stoic even when the thin blade ran over his chest and he felt blood beginning to ooze from the wounds. The pain was sharp and searing.

“Hmm. No response. Mayhap I can try something else. I can tell you what I plan to do with your wife, if you like.”

“If you dare harm her, Desmond, I swear—”

“You are in no position to swear,” Hugh interrupted smoothly. “The dead do not exact revenge.”

“But families do,” Gruffydd replied. “Think you that Stephen de Harvington will allow you to go unpunished if you harm his daughter?”

“Stephen de Harvington will be unable to do anything, not without a considerable army to invade South Powys, and I sincerely doubt his good King will allow such a thing for one wayward wench.”

Gruffydd clenched his jaw so tightly he felt certain his teeth would break from the pressure.

“Do not call my wife a wench.”

“She will soon be my wife, and I shall call her what I please.” While Gruffydd’s ears began to ring, Hugh leaned confidentially forward. “I shall do to her what I please, as well. Tell me, Gruffydd, is she as delightful to lay with as she looks to be?”

Gruffydd’s heart was pounding, the ringing in his ears growing louder as his body tensed with rage. The pain of it helped clarify his thinking. Still he did not speak, unwilling to give Desmond the pleasure of a reaction.

Hugh shrugged. “Not telling, aye? It matters not. I shall find out soon enough. I am looking forward to it, I assure you. Mayhap I shall even be able to do what you have not done, and fill her belly with a child.”

He smiled and touched the blade of his dagger, then made another small cut on Gruffydd’s chest. “So you see, there is no point wondering what de Harvington will do. By the time he has been notified of our marriage, ‘twill be too late to end it. If he even tries to, which I doubt he will. Why would he want to break the marriage of his daughter and his new friend?”

“Stephen is no fool,” Gruffydd said tightly. “I do not think he will still consider you his friend after he discovers your role in this.”

“My role?” Hugh smiled at him. “But that is the best part, you see. ’Tis not my role he will discover, ’tis that foolish musician, what is his name? William. He is the one who corresponded with Gwenwynwyn ere your marriage, and I have copies of every letter he sent to prove it. The fool thought Isabelle would be given to him, but changed his mind and asked for gold instead. So I asked for her.”

Gruffydd closed his eyes. William. That was the missing piece. It was he who invaded the training building and snooped around.

Why had he not seen it before?

Because he’d been too blinded by his dislike, his jealousy. He’d wanted so badly to believe William a fool, inconsequential and weak, he’d not even thought of him as a man.

“With such overwhelming evidence of his servant’s duplicity, I am certain de Harvington will be far too busy to come after me, and once he sees how wonderfully I have consoled his child on the loss of her reckless husband…how I saved her from death by intervening on her behalf with Gwenwynwyn…”

“Isabelle will not keep the peace,” Gruffydd said. “She will fight you.”

Hugh shrugged again. “Then she will die,” he said. “Once I take my pleasure with her—something I will likely spend several months doing—then she will either give in to me or I will kill her. ’Tis very simple.”

“I suppose killing is simple for you,” Gruffydd said.

“It does not bother me, I admit.”

“You have killed many people.”

“I have.” Now Gruffydd felt the dagger’s blade on his thigh. Did Desmond even realize what he was doing, as he chatted and casually sliced Gruffydd to ribbons? It did not seem so.

“And you save remembrances from all of them?”

“Remembrances? What made you ask that?”

“’Tis only a question,” Gruffydd replied.

“I do not keep them, nay. Although I do think in your case I will make an exception. A lock of your hair, perhaps?” He flicked his blade against Gruffydd’s scalp. “Or your hand? Think you it will bring me luck?” Again the blade flicked, again Gruffydd felt the sharp pain and the wetness of his own blood.

“But you kept my mother’s brooch.”

Hugh looked at him, puzzled. “Your mother’s brooch?”

“The ruby. The one you gave Isabelle. You killed my mother for it.”

Gruffydd’s entire body tensed. He knew he was not wrong. Did Hugh not even remember that day in the woods?

“The ruby brooch I gave Isabelle. How could that have been your mother’s? I took it from a woman and child traveling alone, many years ago. There was no—”

Then his eyes widened as he inhaled sharply. “She lied to me. She told me her son was dead.”

“I was in the woods,” Gruffydd said. “I watched you.”

Hugh was silent for a moment. “Then this is a special pleasure for me,” he said. “All these years I have haunted you…I’ll wager you’ve spent your entire life planning your revenge, and now here you are, chained to a dungeon floor, feeling the sting of my blade.”

He held the dagger up in front of himself, twirling it slowly in his hands. “This is the same knife, you know,” he confided. “I’ve always kept it sharp. Flemish steel. It will last forever. It slid through your mother and sister’s throats just as smoothly as it slides through your skin now.”

With sudden violence, he brought the blade down sharply onto Gruffydd’s right arm, cutting deeply. Stars of pain exploded behind Gruffydd’s eyes, and he turned his head away.

“You will die, Hugh Desmond,” he said through gritted teeth. “Make no mistake.”

“Then I shall see you in Hell,” Hugh replied calmly. He stood up. “But I shall see you again before that. Soon, in truth. I have something I would like to show you.”

He brought the blade down again, carving a vicious trail across Gruffydd’s stomach, back up his chest, and this time Gruffydd found to his great shame that he did not have the strength left to keep from giving Hugh Desmond the scream of pain that he’d longed to hear.

He heard Hugh’s sigh of satisfaction, heard him say, “I see you are not so tough as I imagined, Dragon,” contemptuously. “I shall enjoy hearing that scream again.”

And he did.

*****

“Why did you refuse a bath?”

Hugh Desmond’s eyes were cold as he stared at her.

“I want nothing from you.”

He sat down on the edge of the bed, pushing the furs aside to clear a space. The room itself was sumptuously furnished, with rich gold velvet bed hangings and embroidered hangings. A large brass mirror hung on the wall, and it was into this that Isabelle looked, examining the bruise on her cheek and ignoring the tub full of steaming water that stood by the cold fireplace.

“You will want things from me eventually,” he said. “I am certain of it.”

“I want only my husband and my freedom.”

“Neither of which you can have. Isabelle, when will it sink into your pretty but thick head that it is over? Your husband will die and you will be wed to me.”

She did not bother to suppress the shudder that went through her at his words. He sighed.

“Unless you want the rest of your life to be very unpleasant indeed, you will start being kinder to me.”

He stood up and crossed to her, his eyes glittering in the candlelight. It had been a day since that horrible scene in the forest, and she could not get the images from her mind.

Gruffydd, walking slowly into the clearing. The shouts of the men as they set upon him. Her own screams, then nothing after Hugh Desmond punched her.

She had awakened in this room, not knowing how much time had passed until she saw the sunrise. Now it was growing dark again, and the fear that had plagued her was becoming terror.

“I would rather die than marry you,” she snapped.

“Methinks you will change your mind when you see your husband’s head on a pike.”

She tried to hide the tears that sprang to her eyes at his words. “You make me sick,” she said.

“I will make you more than that.” His hand reached out to her, gripping her chin and twisting her face towards him. “I will make you beg. I am certain you will find the pleasures of my bed far surpass those of your husband’s.”

She tried so hard to be strong, but could not. Not any longer. “You want me to beg? Fine. I beg you now to let me see my husband.”

He paused, and then to her surprise said, “Aye. Why not?” She did not like the gleam in his eyes.

Holding her arm firmly, he led her out of the chamber and into the hall. Isabelle had no idea where they were, only that it was a large keep somewhere in south Powys. The chamber she’d been kept in was on the first floor, off the great hall, but she had seen little of the hall and nothing of the rest of the place.

They walked now through the buttery and into a storeroom behind it.

“Gruffydd is here?” she asked hesitantly.

She did not like Hugh’s smile as he nodded and spoke to the guard.

The guard nodded, glancing at Isabelle with interest, then turning his eyes away at Hugh’s sharp word. He opened a trapdoor at his feet and nodded, then strode through the empty room and back out into the hall.

Isabelle turned back in dismay, but Hugh plucked a torch from the wall and held it over the opening in the floor.

“Down there,” he said, smiling faintly. Isabelle hesitated.

“I can assure you, he is down there.”

There was no decision to make. If Gruffydd was down there, if she could see him, it would be worth anything.

And if he was not, she would rather be locked in a dungeon than spend another moment in that finely decorated prison she’d just left with this odious man and his revolting caresses.

She descended the ladder carefully, the torch Hugh held at the top providing enough light for her to see her way down.

The dim light flickered gold in the room, and as Isabelle’s eyes adjusted she saw a figure lying supine in the center of the room.

“Gruffydd!”

Heedless of Hugh’s presence, she ran to him. The light flickered over his ashen face, swollen and bruised. His eyes were closed, his chest savagely marked with wounds.

“He will likely not wake up, lady,” Hugh said.

She spun around. Her hand on Gruffydd’s chest was burning hot; his body was scorching and slick with blood. She stifled a sob at the sight of the cuts on his chest and glared at Desmond. “What have you done to him?”

“Nothing important.”

Tears blurred her vision as she looked at her husband, lying on the floor like a broken doll, but she blinked them back. She would not give Hugh Desmond the satisfaction of her misery.

The whole room was hot, even being underground as it was, and the air was foul. She noted how shallow Gruffydd’s breathing was and another jolt of fear ran through her.

Surely he would not die?

“Gruffydd,” she whispered, smoothing his dark hair off his brow, “please wake up. Please talk to me.”

“You would like him to wake? Let me try,” said Hugh smoothly, pulling her aside. He stepped towards Gruffydd and delivered a vicious kick to his side.

Isabelle ran at Hugh, meaning to slap him as Gruffydd moaned, but Hugh grabbed her arms and held them. “You wanted him awake,” he said. “Forgive me if my methods are not as gentle as yours might be. Kindness is wasted on the condemned, I feel.”

Isabelle glared at him and knelt by Gruffydd’s side again. “Can you hear me?”

“Isabelle?”

His voice was so faint. She had to strain to hear it.

“Aye, Gruffydd, ’tis me…I am here.” She fumbled for his hand but it was behind her, so she gripped his shoulder instead. “I am here.” Turning towards Hugh, she said coldly, “I would like a moment alone with my husband.”

“Nay, I do not think so. I have something I would like to show him.”

“I do not think he would be interested in anything you may have to show him.”

“On the contrary, I think this will be of great interest to him.” Idly he began toying with a ring that hung from his belt. His hand was in shadow, but Isabelle heard a clink and wondered if he held the keys to the rings that bound Gruffydd’s hands to the ground.

“Do not try it,” she heard Gruffydd say. She turned back to him, pleased that his voice sounded a bit stronger, but he was not looking at her.

He was looking at Hugh Desmond, and the expression on his face was so full of rage that Isabelle quailed.

“I shall do more than try,” Hugh replied, and before Isabelle knew what was happening he grasped her wrist and yanked her to a stand.

His grip was painful, and he held Isabelle so closely she could smell the wine on his breath. “Unhand me,” she said, trying to pull away, but he laughed.

“Nay, my dear. Not until I am ready.”

Terror crept through her. It was beginning to dawn on her what Hugh Desmond planned, why he had brought her here, and the thought made her sick with revulsion.

“I will not submit to you,” she said, knowing as she spoke that she had no choice. He was too strong, and he had her husband chained to the floor.

He saw the admission in her eyes and smiled, cold and sharp as a sliver of ice. “You will, and your husband will watch.”

She heard Gruffydd’s voice behind her, a growl of fury, but could not make out the words as Hugh Desmond’s mouth descended upon hers.

Chapter 15

She struggled and tried to bite him as his lips pressed against hers, but he gripped her wrists harder, making her cry out in pain. This seemed to excite him further, and when her mouth was open, he invaded it with his tongue.

This time she did bite down, the feel of her teeth sinking into his flesh making her ill, the taste of his blood filling her mouth and making her stomach heave.

Abruptly he let go of her wrists, and before she had a chance to do more than stumble back he raised his arm and backhanded her across the face, knocking her to the floor with a painful thud and a cry. Her head was exploding, and when she raised her hand to her cheek there was blood on her fingers. The large ring he wore had cut her.

Gruffydd yelled again, something Isabelle did not understand but was certain was a curse. Through the stars dancing behind her eyes she caught a glimpse of his face, contorted by fury.

Hugh turned to him and delivered another kick, this time to Gruffydd’s thigh where Isabelle had seen a fresh cut earlier. Her husband’s face went a shade paler but he did not take his eyes from Hugh.

“See, my lady? Do not try that again, for I shall take it out on your husband,” Hugh said.

Isabelle spat the taste of his blood from her mouth and glared at him as he crossed the room to her and grabbed her again, even more painfully than he had done before.

“Do not make me knock out your teeth,” he hissed, his foul mouth on hers again. She pressed her lips as tightly shut as she could, trying to turn her head away, but his hand held her chin firmly in place.

Her mind was racing. When Hugh pressed her close to him again the jagged point of a key dug into her hip. He had the keys to release Gruffydd on his belt. He would not have come down here without the opportunity to taunt Gruffydd with them. She knew it as surely as she knew her own name.

Sill protesting, she reached her hand down towards, sliding it along until she felt the cold metal of the key ring.

It was hooked around his belt. He would have to take it off…or she would have to take it off him.

His hands slid down to her bottom and squeezed her painfully, the rasp of his beard rough across the tender skin of her chest. She tried to move away from him, but he reached up and grasped her by the back of her neck.

“Do not make it harder on yourself,” he said. Isabelle flinched. The eyes that stared into hers were empty, soulless. She had never seen anything like it, the pleasure in their depths at the pain he was about to cause her.

His fingers yanked at her hair, jerking her head backwards. She tried to be stoic but could not, and cried out as tears sprang to her eyes.

Then his free hand moved to his belt and began to untie it, speaking softly to her, telling her how much he was going to enjoy this. She shut out his words as best as she could and concentrated on his belt. This was her chance.

The belt fell to the ground with a metallic clunk, and Isabelle managed to catch it on her foot. She screamed again, hoping to mask the sound as she kicked it across the floor towards Gruffydd. She dared not look at her husband as she did this, praying that he would find the key and be able to use it.

Hugh Desmond was untying the tapes that held up his hose now, and she knew that in only moments he would be undressed enough to complete this awful deed. She had to buy some time, but she could not dare to hit him, for it would only make him turn on Gruffydd and possibly catch him in the act of releasing himself from the chains that held him to the floor.

“Wait,” she said. “Do we have nothing soft to lie on? The stone will hurt my back.”

“Do not distract me,” Hugh replied. “This is not for your benefit.”

“But I am certain I would enjoy it more if—”

“I care not if you enjoy yourself,” he snapped. The look on his face scared her, but at least she’d made him pause his assault, even for only a minute. “This is for my pleasure, not yours, and your words do not please me. Nor do I care about your back.” He gave her hair another vicious yank, then leaned in to bite her neck, hard. Her throat ached from screaming.

“That’s it,” he said, his voice muffled. “I like it when you cry.”

She felt sick. She had never encountered a man like this before. He was not even a man. He was evil incarnate.

With his head buried in her neck, she dared a glance over at Gruffydd and nearly collapsed with relief. He had one hand free and was beginning to work on the other one.

Hugh squeezed her breast, then began pulling at the fabric of her gown. Suddenly they tumbled to the floor, his arm heavy across her chest, holding her down.

He moved it to her throat and held it there, smiling.

“Do not get any ideas about causing me pain,” he said.

She did not reply. He kept her pinned to the floor as he pulled her skirt up her legs, the cold skin of his hands sliding up her tender thighs. Instinctively she tried to wriggle away, her fear turning into panic as she realized that Gruffydd may not be free fast enough to save her.

His hand brushed against her and she stiffened, and then heard Gruffydd shout her name.

Hugh turned his head away from her. She caught a glimpse of the bewilderment in his eyes as he saw the empty spot on the floor where Gruffydd had been before he was yanked upwards, off her. Isabelle did not mean to, but she screamed as she rolled away, away from the sight of her husband looming over Hugh Desmond like an avenging angel with fire in his eyes.

Hugh swung his arm in a wide arc, his fist striking Gruffydd’s temple. She saw Gruffydd blink but he did not ease his hold, and when he slammed Hugh up against the hard stone wall of the dungeon he took the opportunity to punch the man in the face.

Isabelle felt sick, sicker than she ever had in her life. She huddled on the floor, shaking uncontrollably.

“You killed my mother,” Gruffydd said fiercely, delivering another blow to Desmond’s face.

“You killed my sister.” Another blow.

“You tried to rape my wife.” This time he punched Hugh in the stomach, making Hugh’s body jerk convulsively forward.

Gruffydd let Hugh drop to the ground now and stepped away, picking up the belt from where it lay and removing from it Hugh’s dagger. He held it up to the light, examining it.

“So what shall I do with you now, Hugh Desmond? What think you would make a reasonable punishment?”

“Do what you will with me,” Hugh spat between gasps. “You know you can never hope to make it out of here alive.”

Gruffydd knelt down in front of Hugh, his expression curiously impersonal.

“On the contrary,” he said. “I have every intention of making it out of here alive, thanks to you and your foolishness. How does it feel to know you have failed?”

“You will not bring your family back by killing me,” Hugh said.

“I know that,” Gruffydd said softly. “But you will still be dead.”

Isabelle did not know what she expected. She had always imagined that seeing one man kill another would be dramatic, would shake her to her soul.

But she almost did not realize what happened when Gruffydd brought the knife down and cut Hugh Desmond’s throat. His hand moved so quickly that she was still wondering if she had really seen it when blood darkened Hugh’s shirt, when his breathing ceased and he fell sideways to the floor.

For one brief moment Gruffydd looked savagely triumphant.

Then he turned away from her, and the dagger fell from his hand. The clatter of steel on stone seemed deafening, and when Gruffydd’s shoulders began to shake she realized with horror that he was crying.

*****

Finally he spoke. “We need to get out of here.”

“Aye.”

He hesitated, as if he was waiting for her to say something else, then said, “Are you badly hurt?”

“Not as badly as you.”

She reached her hand out to his shoulder, then pulled it back. “Gruffydd, I do not know what to say.”

He turned to her then, his eyes red and full of pain.

“Where are we?”

“I know not. Only that we are in a large keep, and I assume we are in South Powys.”

“Where in the keep are we? I mean, where is the dungeon?”

Mystified, she said, “Under the buttery.”

“Do you know if there are chambers on the first floor, or is there only the solar with separate buildings in the bailey?”

“I was kept in a chamber on the first floor, off the great hall.”

“Ah. We are in Llanwych.”

“How do you know?”

He gave her a wry smile. “’Tis my business to know.” He stood up slowly, and Isabelle bit her lip as she watched him. Blood trickled down his chest, and she could not imagine what pain his wounds must be bringing him, for they would surely have felled a lesser man.

He walked carefully over to the ladder where Hugh had left the lantern, and picked it up.

“There is a small window in the buttery,” he said. “Across the bailey is the shed where hay is stored. If I can throw the lantern on to it and start a fire, it should create enough of a distraction for us to attempt an escape.

“Is the guard still in the buttery?”

“Nay. Hugh sent him away.”

Anger flicked across his face again. “Likely he wanted none to hear what went on down here.”

She looked away and nodded, unable to speak.

He sighed. “Wait here.”

Alarmed, she looked up. “Nay, you cannot!”

“I do not understand.”

She stood up herself, and reached out to him, but again pulled her hand back ere she touched him. She was not certain why she was so afraid to do so, but she was. “If you are seen, it will raise the alarm. If I am seen, it will not be suspicious. ‘Tis safer to have me go.”

“Isabelle, you cannot,” he said.

“But it makes more sense for me to do so,” she said. “I can throw far, if I have to. I will not miss.”

“Nay.”

She was too intent on keeping his freedom from discovery to notice how tense he had become again.

“Gruffydd, we cannot risk you being seen.”

“Isabelle!” He spun around, his hands hard on her shoulder, his eyes staring fiercely into hers. At his touch, the cold that had invaded her body began to ebb away, and her mouth went dry. “I have already seen you captured once. Do you truly think I could stand to see it again?”

“I am sorry,” she said, tearing her eyes from his. “I know ‘twas foolish of me to come back.”

He released her, the fire in his eyes fading. “Indeed,” he said, and began to climb up the ladder.

She grabbed his leg, inadvertently squeezing one of his wounds. He cursed and almost fell.

“I am sorry,” she said again, pulling her hand away as if she’d been burned. “But please, let me go up. I do not want to see you captured.”

“I do not intend to be captured.”

“You are in no shape to fight off an attacker.”

“I fought off one already.”

“Please!” She swallowed and glanced over at the still body on the floor. Gruffydd told her only a child did not admit its fears. “Please do not leave me alone with him,” she whispered. “I am frightened.”

He looked at her for a long moment, then wordlessly offered his hand.

The buttery was empty, but she heard voices nearby, relaxed men’s voices speaking in Welsh. Gruffydd led her to the small window and pulled the shutters open.

“Keep watch,” he murmured, and she turned, feeling the sharp movement of his body as he flung the lantern across the bailey, hearing the sudden laughter of the men in the other room.

Then Gruffydd grabbed her and pulled her back to the ladder, down into the darkness.

Without the light to show her his face, she could only guess at how pale he must look now. She still felt the heat radiating from his skin and worried about his health. His breathing was not yet even.

“Gruffydd…”

“I do not want to discuss it, Isabelle,” he said quietly. “We truly should not speak at all lest we be heard.”

“But I need to say this,” she whispered. “I must apologize.”

There was a pause. “Apologize?”

“Aye. ‘Tis my fault we are here. I should not have come, I put you in danger.” She felt the tears in her eyes again and was glad it was so dark.

He was silent for a long time. “Nay, ‘tis I who put you in danger.”

“But I am the one who interfered. I did not have faith in you. I should have known you would be too clever to walk into a trap.”

“Had I been more honest with you mayhap you would not have. Had I not sent you away you could not have.”

“Nay, I cannot—”

She heard a wheezing sound and realized that he was laughing. The sound warmed her heart even as she worried that it did not sound anything like his normal rich laugh, and her worry grew when he started to cough, a rasping, ragged sound.

He reached out, fumbling in the darkness, and took her hand. His grip was strong and comforting, but his skin was too hot and moist for her liking. “We are forever doomed to argue, it seems,” he said. “I expect we shall be—”

He stopped. Isabelle started to ask what was wrong, but he cut her off with a “Shh.”

She stayed silent, and then heard what he’d heard: the sound of raised voices above them, of distant footsteps thundering on the floor.

“The fire must be burning bright now,” he whispered. He dropped her hand and shifted position. “A few more minutes and we will go up.”

*****

They sat in silence. Gruffydd’s head was spinning. He yearned for rest, to lay his head down and sleep. His body screamed at him with every movement, and he knew that even without the darkness of the room his vision would be black around the edges.

He was going to die. Never before in his life, not even when he’d received the gaping wound across his chest that had interested Isabelle, not even when he’d been hidden in a cave stuck with arrows and rescued by the men his wife sent, had he been so certain.

His only hope was to get Isabelle out of this place before it happened.

He had never imagined that he would die in bed. His was not a life lived with an eye towards peaceful old age and a comfortable end surrounded by loved ones.

He’d not had any loved ones, not since the age of seven.

Not until now.

His heart had frozen when he saw Isabelle held captive in that clearing. He’d known already his feelings for her ran deep, deeper than he’d ever imagined they could. But it was not until he saw her in the arms of the devil Hugh that he knew.

He loved her. He loved his wife, so completely and fully that her face filled his vision and her body seemed made of pure magic.

She had shown him there was more to life than he’d thought. She’d shown him that there was a whole world outside his own, that caring did not have to mean weakness, that life’s pleasures were things to be sampled and not avoided.

He’d never expected happiness or fulfillment. Never expected to feel joy in his empty soul. Never expected to be more than an instrument. The Dragon.

But he did now. Just being near her was a pleasure so intense it made his heart leap in his chest. Just touching her was enough to make him dizzy with delight.

She was his home.

And the only sadness he felt now was that he had finally found her, and was not likely to live long enough to show her the depth of his feelings. What point was there now, in telling her how he felt?

She had come back to warn him, aye. In truth he should have expected no less. She had the heart of a lion, did his wife.

But it meant naught. She had watched him kill a man. What woman, even one as forthright and strong as Isabelle, could easily forget seeing that most savage and secret place in a man’s heart?

How would she ever be able to forget watching his hand deliver that killing blow?

He had killed Hugh Desmond, the man who killed his mother and sister. He had finally laid them to rest, and the shock and relief of it had made his soul shatter.

But in doing so, he had also killed any hope of living a happy life with Isabelle.

It was several minutes before he felt the noises above had faded enough for them to chance leaving.

He took her hand again, suppressing a shiver at the feel of her tiny fingers entwined in his own, and stood up carefully.

“I will go first,” he whispered.

And then time stopped for him again, as he inhaled the sweet fragrance that even now still clung faintly to her. He knew there was no time, but for one brief moment he stopped caring.

He drew her close to him and kissed her.

She felt like heaven in his arms, her body soft and light, her mouth warm and sweet. He felt her arms come up around his neck, her hand gentle on his shoulder as if she feared he would break.

He would not. Not yet.

A faint sound escaped his throat as he pulled her closer, the feel of her pressed against him sending shivers up his spine. His body ached where he had been injured but he cared not. It did not matter now. What mattered was Isabelle’s lips, tender under his, sending shivers of joy through his body, making him feel whole again.

He kissed her as if he had all the time in the world, knowing that this was likely the last time he ever kissed her, trying to put all the things he could not say, all the tenderness and love he felt, into that one moment in time when it was just the two of them together.

He was dizzy. His heart was pounding as he caressed her body, as he felt her own pulse quicken and her body come alive in his arms.

But it was over too soon. He pulled away. Their time was running short.

“Gruffydd,” she said.

He squeezed her hand. “Later,” he replied. “We can speak later.”

She did not reply, and he climbed slowly up the ladder, pushing the trapdoor open and crawling out.

The great hall was silent. Dimly, he heard the shouts of men outside and knew that they had only a few minutes in which to make good their escape.

Isabelle’s head appeared as she too climbed out of the hole in the floor, taking gulps of fresh air.

There were no candles or rushlights lit in the buttery, but the lights from the great hall provided just enough illumination for him to see her face.

He stood up and reached again for her hand, helping her to emerge fully from the dungeon, bringing her to stand next to him in the room. He tried to ignore the sight of his own blood soaking the front of her gown.

Slowly they crept out of the relative protection of the buttery and into the great hall. It was empty, and he blessed their luck as they made their way to the door and down the steps into the bailey.

He could see the flickering glow from the fire he’d started as they crept along the wall of the keep to the corner.

“The outbuildings are close here,” he whispered to her. “If we hurry we can get to the outer wall without being seen, and from there to the gate.”

He glanced at her long enough to see her nod, and gave her hand another squeeze, looking both ways to ensure none were about to see.

Their luck held out. It seemed everyone was busy fighting the fire, as he’d hoped, and he did not even see any guards standing on the outer curtain wall to raise the alarm.

Moving as quickly as they could, they crossed the bailey until they were standing in the shadows of the stables.

Gruffydd’s breath was coming harder. He felt as if he could not get enough air into his lungs.

“Gruffydd?” Isabelle whispered. “Gruffydd, I am worried about you.”

“I am fine,” he replied, hoping he sounded more certain than he felt. “Just a bit sore.”

“I imagine you are worse than sore,” she said softly, her hand reaching up to touch his face.

He looked away. Not now…please, not now. He would not be able to make it out of here if he let himself feel.

“The gate is there,” he said. “Let us steal a couple of horses and make our way out.”

She nodded, and they walked carefully into the stable, where they managed to get two horses saddled and ready. He helped her mount, feeling the fresh wounds on his chest and shoulder cry out with red-hot agony, and managed to climb onto a horse himself.

“Gruffydd, mayhap we should ride together,” she whispered, but he shook his head.

“North is that way,” he said, pointing. “When we leave the bailey head in that direction, and do not tarry. You will be in Trwch in a matter of hours.”

“We,” she said. “We will be in Trwch.”

He nodded and tried to smile. “Aye…we.”

He cursed the fact that he did not even have a weapon as they rode out into the bailey. His sword had been taken, and he had not wanted to hold Hugh Desmond’s dagger for a moment longer than he had to. Touching it had made him feel ill, but he felt ill enough as it was, and it would have been better to have something. Even that.

The gates were open, a piece of luck Gruffydd had not expected, and he found himself almost smiling as they rode out of the bailey. All they needed to do was put a mile or two between themselves and the castle.

But it was not to be. They had ridden for only ten minutes or so when he heard shouts in the woods off to the right and knew they had been spotted.

Isabelle cried out and turned back to him, the fear on her face visible in the moonlight. “Gruffydd!”

He reached out for the reins of her horse. “Stay close to me,” he said tersely, bringing her mount to a halt. He dismounted himself and helped her down, staggering under even her light weight.

The ground seemed to be slanting at an odd angle; it was hard for him to keep his footing. He was suddenly very thirsty as he led her back into the trees. There was a dip in the earth back here. He’d used it often when he came to spy on the comings and goings at Llanwych, and he knew it was a safe hiding place, at least until the scouting party had left the area. It was almost invisible, even when you walked right past it.

Isabelle stopped.

“Come,” he said. It was difficult to get his mouth to work properly. “I know a place where we can hide, not far away.”

“Nay,” she replied. “Gruffydd…I know that voice.”

Now that she mentioned it, it sounded familiar to Gruffydd as well. Where had he heard it before?

“My lord.”

It was a whisper, coming from the trees behind him. From his small hiding place, in fact. Gruffydd squinted, trying to see who it was. If only he could remember…

“My lord.” It was louder now.

“Rhys?” He felt too disoriented to think. If he could only sit down for a minute and catch his breath, shake the cobwebs from the corners of his mind.

Nay. He could not sit down. He had to protect Isabelle. He had to save his wife.

But where was her horse?

There were other voices now, other familiar voices.

“Christ Jesus! What happened?”

“My darling girl, I thought you would be dead!”

“Father! How did you—”

That was Isabelle. He knew that was Isabelle. But why was she talking to her father? It was so dark. If only he could see better.

“My lord!”

“We thought we were going to have to storm the gates!”

“Good thing we saw that fire, we might have been lost—”

And then Isabelle’s voice again, speaking his name. She sounded scared.

He blinked. She was standing right there, so close to him. He reached out for her, but she was just out of reach.

A chill came over him. This was his nightmare. It was just like his nightmare.

But he’d killed Hugh Desmond. Hugh couldn’t hurt Isabelle now. Gruffydd had killed him.

Hadn’t he?

He heard her speak again and held his hand out. This time he thought he felt her hair.

His eyes would not focus. He tried, but he kept seeing three of her.

They were all beautiful. It did not matter.

He felt himself stumble as he tried to walk closer to her.

“Isabelle.”

“My lord!” Was that Rhys?

“Isabelle.” Her face filled his vision and he tried to smile.

“Isabelle…”

And then he felt himself falling, falling down to the ground, through the ground, and just before his consciousness left him he thought he heard Isabelle scream his name.

Chapter 16

Isabelle was never again able to think on that night without cold fear and hot tears.

Gruffydd…lifeless on the ground…the shouts of the men as they watched him fall, her own voice, screaming his name as she dropped to her knees beside him.

Then the hands, strong warm hands that pulled her away from his side.

Then only the scratchy wool of her father’s mantle against her cheek as she cried.

The next hours were a nightmarish jumble to her as they rode silently back to Trwch. The journey seemed to take forever, but the sun had not risen when they arrived. There the servants hastened to take Gruffydd’s limp body from the horse they had draped him over and into the keep.

She tried to ignore their cries of distress, but each one felt like a slap.

It was all her fault.

She had killed the man she loved.

And she did love him. Just as she had known the minute she saw William’s face again that she did not love him, she knew the minute she learned of the plot against Gruffydd that she did love him.

Completely and fully.

She had never imagined she could love a man like him. Bold, arrogant, gruff, dark and complex and difficult to know.

She remembered her thoughts ere they wed, that she wanted a man who enjoyed poetry and music, who did not spend time at games or jousts or the quintain. How innocent she had been, to think that someone like William could ever make her happy.

She could bully William, and control him. William was a boy.

Gruffydd was a man.

A man she could love as an equal. A man who was her equal.

Rhys and some of the men took her husband upstairs, while she watched dully. She was grateful that none spoke to her, pleased that she did not have to speak herself, but when Rhys stood in front of her, that changed.

“My lady,” he said, bowing. He glanced up at her, and she turned her head away quickly. She had seen the sadness and horror in his eyes and knew what he was going to tell her, and she could not bear to hear the words.

“Rhys, may I have a drink?”

He nodded and signaled to one of the maids, who brought a goblet and jug over. Isabelle filled the cup, drank it down, and filled it again. She had never been truly drunk before, but she would be this night, and none were going to stop her.

She pulled a chair away from the table and sat down, then squared her shoulders and looked at Rhys.

“Tell me,” she said.

He pulled another chair over, looking at her questioningly. She nodded and he sat, then reached for her hand.

“My lady…he was grievously injured.”

She nodded.

“But more than the wounds and the loss of blood is the fever. It also seems to me that his head was badly injured, and as you know serious head wounds are often fatal.”

Again she nodded. Her hand clenched more tightly around the cup. Damn it, why did he not just come out and tell her that Gruffydd was dead?

“He will not wake up,” Rhys said. “I am afraid that if he does not do so soon he will not survive.”

She stared at him. “He is not—he is not dead?”

“Nay. But I must tell you, I do not know for how long.”

She nodded, trying to hear him, trying to keep the hope that had just soared into her breast and filled her soul with light at bay. It was no good hoping. He was not dead yet, but if Rhys did not think he would live…

“May I see him?”

He nodded.

She drained her cup again and refilled it, marveling at how pleasantly flavored the mead was after several days of wine, and wondering why this detail seemed so important.

Then she stood and crossed the room to the staircase.

She did not know what to expect when she entered the solar. She had been gone only a few days, but it felt like so much longer that she would not have been surprised to find a completely different room than the one she had left.

But it had not changed. The candle flickering at the side of the bed showed her a room that looked exactly as she’d left it.

Except for the pale, still body on the bed. He did not even appear to be breathing at first, but as she stepped closer she saw the faint fluttering of his pulse at his throat, the almost imperceptible rise and fall of his chest that told her that life still existed in his body.

For a long time she only sat next to him, holding his hand. Rhys and Gronw came to the room with their needle and herbs and went to work on Gruffydd’s many cuts, but they were almost silent as they worked, and she paid them little heed. Her father came to her and stroked her hair for a while. It felt good but she still did not speak.

She talked only to Gruffydd, when they were alone together.

*****

Gwledyr was sitting with Gruffydd so Isabelle could rest. It was past midday, and her stomach had begun to grumble alarmingly, so she’d gone down to the hall to scrounge some food and see her father.

“He will be well, my dear,” Stephen said, draping his arm over her shoulders and pulling her into an embrace. “I feel certain of it.”

She managed a smile, because she knew that was what he wanted. “I hope you are right, Father.”

“I am always right,” he replied, and the old half-forgotten joke brought a half-smile to her lips.

“Of course you are,” she agreed. “A right miracle you were last night. Why did you come to Wales? How did you know where we were?”

They walked to the table and sat down. Rhys placed food and drink in front of her, then sat down across from her.

“It was William,” her father said. “And curse the day I ever let him set foot on my property! If not for him, your husband—well. Let us not speak of it.

“When I arrived home from visiting Smithspool I found the place in an uproar. You were gone, and William was gone, and your poor sister was nearly hysterical with worry. I found out from the grooms that you had ordered a fresh horse saddled and fled the keep in a tearing hurry, and quite distressed about something. Then they said William left only thirty minutes or so ere I arrived, and he had taken a satchel.

“So of course I was suspicious, and sent men out to find him, which they did. The fool. The traitorous fool.”

There was so much distain in his voice that Isabelle looked up, shocked. Her father was not one to get angry, but his eyes were blazing now as he spoke.

“He told me what he’d done, told me everything. How could you have kept this all from me, my dear?”

“I—”

He waved his hand. “It matters not, not now. I knew something was wrong when Lord Gruffydd asked me to take you back to England with me to keep you safe. But I had no idea William was involved.”

“Where is William?” Isabelle asked. Not that she cared, but she wanted to get her father off the subject of her return to England.

“In the servant’s quarters. With guards,” he added. “I have not yet decided what to do with him.”

“It is not all his fault,” she said. “He is a fool, but not an evil one. I do not think he realized what would happen.”

“I wish I could believe that.”

They were silent for a moment. Isabelle thought of William, of how she had once felt about him…of how those feelings had caused the problems they were now dealing with.

It was not a pleasant thought.

“When I found out what he’d done, I knew you had to have come here,” he continued. “So I gathered some of the men and followed.”

“Your father gave me quite a fright, Lady Isabelle,” Rhys said. “He and his knights arrived after Compline and demanded entry. Lord Gruffydd was not yet returned, and I thought they were attacking us.”

“But he recognized me quickly,” said Lord Stephen, “and when I told him the story—”

“I was certain I knew what had happened. ‘Tis not unusual, as you know, for my lord to be out all night. But you had not arrived, and my suspicion turned to fear when we realized you would have ridden straight into the path of the enemy.”

“So we began hunting,” her father said. “Once we decided you must have been taken we came back here to plan our next move. And as you know, we headed out as soon as ‘twas dark to begin hunting for you in Powys.”

“And you found us,” Isabelle said. Tears sprang to her eyes but blinked them furiously away.

“Aye,” replied her father. “We did. I only wish—”

But whatever he was about to say Isabelle never learned, for he was interrupted by a shout from the solar.

“Take your hands off her!”

They froze. It was Gruffydd’s voice.

“Stop!”

Isabelle leapt from her seat and ran, followed immediately by her father and Rhys. She arrived in the solar, slightly out of breath, and found her husband sitting up in bed, his face a mask of fury, and Gwledyr cowering on the floor next to the wardrobe.

“I’ll kill you!” Gruffydd roared, his eyes wild and unseeing beneath his glistening brow.

“He is awake,” she heard her father say.

“Aye, but I fear he is delirious,” Rhys replied. “His fever may have returned.”

Isabelle took a step forward, then another, until she stood by the bed. The others stayed in the doorway.

Gruffydd looked awful. He was so pale that the bruises and cuts on his face and body stood out in dark relief, making him look like a vicious ghost.

She spoke softly, hoping he would hear her voice and not attack her. Hoping he would recognize her.

“Gruffydd.”

He still scanned the room feverishly, his breath coming in short, painful gasps, but she fancied his expression changed slightly.

“Gruffydd, I am here.”

Now she knew she was not imagining it. He was calming down.

“I am right next to you,” she said softly.

He turned his head in her direction, but still did not see her.

“Isabelle?”

She reached out and touched his hand. He was clutching the sheets in a tight fist.

“Aye, ’tis me.”

When he did not lash out at her, she moved her hand slowly up his arm. She heard a noise behind her and glanced over quickly. Gwledyr was leaving the room, and she saw Rhys and her father were already gone.

“Not dead?”

“Nay, my love.” Her hand was on his shoulder now, and she gently reached up further and stroked his wet hair away from his forehead. She flinched. His skin was afire.

“Not dead.” He reached up and touched her hand, clasping it in his. He lay back on the pillows. “I killed him, Isabelle. He was going to hurt you.”

“I know. ’Tis not important now. Sleep.”

“Cannot sleep. Bad dreams.”

“Shh. I will stay here with you.”

“Stay,” he agreed, and then closed his eyes.

“Stay.”

*****

Two days passed before he was able to speak again. The fever that had so worried Isabelle scared Rhys as well, and the two of them took turns watching him and applying cold wet cloths to his brow, neck, and chest. They forced jug after jug of weak mead down his throat, and strong mutton broth boiled with garden herbs strained through a cloth and cooled.

Sometimes he sighed when they did this, sometimes he jumped or mumbled, but he did not speak.

“Will he recover?” Isabelle asked the question what felt like hundreds of times, but each time Rhys only shrugged, his usually cheerful face etched with worry.

“I cannot say. I hope so, but unless this fever breaks…”

And Isabelle would sigh and look worriedly at her husband.

She was alone with him when it happened. He was sleeping, and she thought his breathing sounded stronger, more even than it had. She reached for his forehead. While it was still warm, it was not as hot as it had been, and before she could call for Rhys his hand held her wrist and his eyes were open.

“Isabelle.”

She did not know why she blushed, but she did. “Aye.”

“How long have I been asleep?”

“Three days. How do you feel?”

He grimaced. “Like a tree fell on me.”

“We were worried about you.”

“Were you?”

She looked down at her lap. “Of course we were. You were very badly hurt.”

“Not ‘we’, Isabelle. You. Were you worried about me?”

His fingers entwined through hers and his free hand began lightly caressing her knuckles. Her face grew hot as a mixture of fear and excitement spread through her body and she knew he was watching her carefully.

*****

Gruffydd saw her pulse quicken and his breath caught in his throat. He had not been lying when he told her he felt as if a tree had fallen on him. He was in so much pain he could hardly move. Even the feel of the sheets against his skin was agony, and his head still felt queerly unattached from his body.

But he did not care. He wanted to talk to her.

She took a deep breath. “You know I was.”

“Nay, I do not.” His breathing seemed unnaturally loud to him. “Tell me.”

Her fingers tightened almost imperceptibly in his. “I was worried,” she said, in a slightly husky tone that made something in his stomach tighten.

“Isabelle. You do not hate me?”

Her blue eyes widened as she met his gaze. “Nay! Why would I hate you?”

Now it was his turn to look away. Dragging his gaze from hers, he said, “I killed a man in front of you.”

He would never in his life regret killing Hugh Desmond, but he would also never stop seeing the look of horror on her face when she saw it happen. How could she possibly forget it?

“He was attacking me. He almost killed you, and he would have if you had not stopped him.”

Her tone surprised him. Was she angry?

“Aye, but it still is not a pleasant thing to watch.”

“Gruffydd, please let us not speak of it!” Her voice was anguished, and he instinctively drew her closer to him, ignoring the fresh waves of pain this action caused.

“Isabelle, I am sorry. I am so sorry you had to see that. I would do anything if I could change things, so you did not have to. But I cannot, and I just wish—”

“You just wish?” There was so much anger in her tone that he drew back in spite of himself. “I drove you to it! Were it not for me, me and my foolish bumbling, none of this would have happened. ’Twas my fault. I let them capture you. That man almost killed you, and it was all my fault!”

She turned away from him and took her hand from his, bitter sobs escaping her throat, and Gruffydd was once again amazed by his wife. She had taken watching him do murder in her stride, it seemed, but was upset that he himself had been hurt.

How was this possible?

“Cariad,” he said softly, reaching his hand out to touch her shoulder. He had never called anyone “beloved” before. It felt strange on his tongue. “Why were you there?”

She did not turn back to him as she replied. “I wanted to warn you.”

“Warn me?”

She half-turned now, hastily wiping the tears from her cheeks. “I wanted to warn you the meeting was a trap.”

“And how did you know this?” He knew the answer, but he wanted to hear it anyway.

“William told me,” she admitted, glancing over at him as if she expected him to grow angry. “When I was back in England. He betrayed you, Gruffydd. He searched your building and found something, I know not what, but—’Twas all my fault!”

She covered her face with her hands and turned away from him. “I behaved so dishonorably. I should have ended my friendship with William the minute my father told me of our betrothal. I betrayed you, and I led William into betraying you as well. I know you must hate me. I hate myself. You were right, all the things you said about me that day. I cannot—”

She glanced up as Rhys entered the room. “You are awake, my lord,” he said, the surprise and relief plain on his face.

“I am,” Gruffydd replied. “But, Rhys, I am rather busy. Can you come back later?”

Rhys’s glance went quickly to Isabelle’s tear-stained face, then back at Gruffydd. Gruffydd ignored the question in his seneschal’s eyes and repeated, “Later.”

“I am afraid I cannot. You do have a visitor.”

“Have whomever it is wait in the hall. I will come down in a few minutes.”

“My lord, you cannot possibly—”

Gruffydd rolled his eyes. “Rhys, I feel perfectly capable of walking down some stairs. My injuries are not what has kept me in bed these past three days, are they?”

“But you are still weak.”

“I may not be ready to go hunting, but I can walk. Now go and tell my visitor that I will be down shortly. I want to speak to my wife now.”

“And when do I get to meet this wife?”

Isabelle did not recognize the voice, but Gruffydd clearly did, for his face broke into a smile. He was obviously pleased to see the man who now stepped into the room, but did he also look nervous?

Isabelle wondered who could possibly make her fearsome husband anxious. It must be someone very important, she thought. Someone like—

“My lord Prince,” Gruffydd said.

Isabelle gasped and turned to examine the visitor more closely, wiping the tears from her face as she did so. So this was Prince Llewelyn.

He was tall, about Gruffydd’s height, and strong, but not quite so solidly muscled as Gruffydd. His face was handsome, though, and he was smiling at her as she stood and hastily made a deep curtsy.

“My lord Prince,” she echoed.

Llewelyn crossed to her and took her hand. “So you are Lady Isabelle,” he said, smiling as he bent to kiss it. “Long have I wanted to meet the woman brave enough to wed our Gruffydd.”

“As I’m certain she has longed to meet the man who chose me as her husband. I’d arm yourself, were I you,” Gruffydd said dryly behind her.

Isabelle turned pink, surprised that her husband would say such a thing to his liege lord and Prince. For certes King John would not allow such teasing. But Llewelyn only laughed.

“And did I do so badly?” He glanced meaningfully at where Isabelle sat as he entered the room, perched next to Gruffydd on the bed.

“I should go,” Isabelle said hastily. She did not want to hear Gruffydd’s reply. All of her insecurities came flooding back, and she realized that her position was no more secure than it had been a sennight ago. Gruffydd could still send her away. It was even more likely now, that he knew how it was her fault that he’d been captured.

“Stay.” Gruffydd’s hand was on her arm, and she turned to meet his eyes. Her breath caught. He had never asked her to stay near him before, and she had never seen him look at her in quite that way. She nodded, feeling that she could not have spoken if she wanted to, and sat back down next to him.

He reached again for her hand, the touch of his skin making her face warm. The blush deepened as she saw Llewelyn’s eyes on her and knew he had seen her involuntary reaction to her husband’s touch.

Rhys quickly produced a folding bench and set it on the floor for the prince to sit.

“I will bring drinks,” he murmured, and at Llewelyn’s nod left the room.

They sat in silence for a minute, then Llewelyn smiled. “So,” he said. “It seems I get to make the acquaintance of two people I have longed to meet.”

Isabelle felt Gruffydd’s hand tighten on hers, but he did not react any other way. “Aye?”

Llewelyn stared at him for a moment, then chuckled. “You are truly a marvel, Gruffydd. I do not know if I should hug you or hit you.”

“Neither, if you please,” Gruffydd replied. “I am already in enough pain.”

Rhys returned with several goblets and a jug and proceeded to pour drinks for them all. Isabelle was pleased to have something to do with her hands, and found herself sipping almost continuously as the conversation continued.

Llewelyn, though, raised the cup to his lips, took a single long drink and set it down with a thud.

“Why did you not tell me?”

“Tell you?”

Llewelyn stared at Gruffydd for a minute, then laughed. “I always knew you were good at keeping secrets, man. But I never imagined you would keep them from me, much less continue to try to keep them when I sit in front of you in obvious possession of the truth.”

“I do not understand.”

“Aye, you do understand. Why did you never tell me that you were the Dragon?”

Isabelle, whose head had been moving quickly back and forth to watch both of the men as they spoke, inhaled sharply. Gruffydd sighed.

“It did not seem important,” he said.

“Not important?” Llewelyn seemed to realize how high-pitched his voice was as he said this and colored. “How could you think it was unimportant, when you knew how badly I wanted to know the Dragon? When you yourself aided me in providing a reward for him to coax him—you—to come forward?”

Gruffydd shrugged. Llewelyn stared at him for another minute. Then he exploded.

“Are you truly telling me that you could not trust me with this information?”

“Wait. That is your interpretation. You know there is no lack of trust between us, Llewelyn, nor friendship. I told none but Rhys, and only because I needed his help and his silence. I did not tell you because I did not need your help.”

“I could have helped you,” Llewelyn said.

“I have no doubt of it. But this was not your fight, my friend, ’twas mine. And…” he sighed. “After what happened last year, and your relationship to the English King, the knowledge was not a burden I wanted to place on your shoulders.”

“I could have lied, if asked.”

“I did not want you to have to lie.”

Llewelyn thought about this, then nodded. “I see.” He smiled briefly. “But I do wish I had been allowed to make that choice myself.”

“I know.”

Isabelle looked down at her cup. It was empty. Had she drunk the whole thing while listening? Rhys appeared at her side with the jug and refilled it, smiling, then refilled the Prince’s as well.

Llewelyn drank again. “So what will you do now, if secrecy is so important to you?”

Gruffydd’s expression was instantly wary. “What mean you?”

“I mean that now I know the truth. So, I daresay, do Gwenwynwyn and his men. So what do you do now?”

Gruffydd closed his eyes. Isabelle felt his thumb begin to slowly stroke back and forth across her own, sending shivers through her.

“I know not,” he admitted. “I cannot continue to be the Dragon if my identity is no longer secret. ’Twould not work.”

“I agree. And I do not think Gwenwynwyn would stand for it if you did.”

Gruffydd said something in Welsh that Isabelle was certain was not a word she should be hearing, a thought that was confirmed when Llewelyn laughed and nodded.

“Aye, that he is. And trust me, I itch to have his head. But we need him now. He claims to have no knowledge of raids, and says that the men who did the raiding must have been acting on their own.”

“You spoke to him?”

“I did.” He laughed. “In truth, I have never seen the man so cowed. If we did not need his aid for the—” Here he glanced quickly at Isabelle, who realized that he was not sure if he could speak freely in front of her. She felt branded as an outsider, and felt the blush creeping onto her cheeks as she made ready to stand again.

“I do believe I have business in the hall,” she started to say, but Gruffydd cut her off. He looked at Llewelyn.

“My wife is to be trusted,” he said. “You need not fear to speak in front of her.”

Her blush deepened as she glanced at Gruffydd. Why was he being so kind to her?

And what did that kindness mean? The thought made her heart beat a little faster.

Llewelyn nodded. “I meant no disrespect, my lady,” he said to her, and she nodded herself, barely listening to his apology. Gruffydd trusted her.

“As I was saying,” Llewelyn continued. “We need Gwenwynwyn if we are to take back the Perfeddwlad. Unfortunately we cannot do it without him. I had assumed that after our agreement in May the raids would end…but we both know what kind of man he truly is, and I cannot say I am surprised that he tried to go behind my back in this fashion.”

Gruffydd nodded. “Nor am I.”

“It does not change the fact, though, that we cannot afford to move against him now and risk battling on two fronts. Taking our lands back from the English is far more important than taking Gwenwynwyn’s lands from him…for now, at least.”

Gruffydd smiled slowly. “But after we have reclaimed Perfeddwlad…?”

Llewelyn smiled back. “I see I do not need to elaborate.”

“You never have.”

“Nay, I never have. Not to you.”

The two men looked at each other, and Isabelle was pleased and relieved to see the warmth between them. She had truly been afraid, when Llewelyn mentioned her husband’s secret, that Gruffydd might be punished.

Then Llewelyn looked down and took another drink. “But that still leaves us with the problem of the Dragon,” he said. “I assume you still do not want it known.”

“Nay, I do not.” Here Gruffydd took a drink from his own goblet, which he’d been steadily refilling. She wondered how much pain he was in. His thumb was now tickling the palm of her hand, making her slightly dizzy, but he did not look at her. “But I assume it will come out.”

“It does not have to.” Llewelyn looked down.

Gruffydd’s eyes narrowed in curiosity. “What mean you?”

Llewelyn sighed. “In my discussion with Gwenwynwyn, I extracted a promise from him to keep your identity secret.” Isabelle waited for her husband to speak, but he did not. Llewelyn was not finished.

“He agreed to do so only if his men can be safe from—as he put it—’being attacked for merely walking in the woods’.”

Gruffydd nodded. “So as long as the Dragon is seen no more, Gwenwynwyn will keep his mouth shut, is that it?”

“Aye.”

“I see.”

Isabelle glanced at her husband. His face again was carefully blank, and she thought of what he had said about a blood vow. Would he be willing to put the Dragon away?

Finally Gruffydd nodded. “I shall think on it.”

Llewelyn laughed. “You do play chess like a master,” he said. He settled back against the wall and Rhys refilled his goblet again.

“Now,” Llewelyn said, “suppose you tell me all about this man, this Hugh Desmond who was found dead in the dungeon at Llanwych.”

Isabelle inhaled sharply, but the only indication of surprise Gruffydd gave was that his thumb paused for a second on her hand.

“He was attacking my wife,” Gruffydd said.

Llewelyn gasped and looked quickly at Isabelle. “My lady, I am sorry…”

She managed a smile. “There is no need to apologize. My lord husband did save me.”

Llewelyn sat back again. “I am most pleased to hear it. Is that how you got that cut on your cheek?”

She raised her hand to it and nodded.

“And how did they manage to get you there at Llanwych?”

Isabelle glanced at Gruffydd, but he was looking at her, a wry smile on his face. Clearly he was not going to speak, so she swallowed and told Llewelyn of her discovery of the plot and her ride to Wales to try and stop it. She finished with Gruffydd’s capture, and Hugh’s plans to marry her when Gruffydd was dead.

“Then he took me into the dungeon,” she finished.

Llewelyn interrupted her quickly. “You need not say more, my lady,” he said. “I believe I do understand from there.” He looked at Gruffydd. “Your lady wife has a stout heart.”

“Aye, she does.” He squeezed her hand. Then, his voice casual, he asked, “So did Gwenwynwyn tell you how this man Hugh came to be in his service?”

“According to Gwenwynwyn, he was not. At least, not regularly. Gwenwynwyn did not seem too distressed by the man’s death, in truth. He said Desmond came to him a few years back and offered his services as a spy, for a nominal fee. What Gwenwynwyn truly thought the man wanted was his protection, for he learned later that Desmond made his living as a thief and highwayman ere arriving at his door. ’Tis no surprise he kept him on after learning this.” There was an edge of disgust in Llewelyn’s pleasantly deep voice as he spoke.

“So he was not working for Gwenwynwyn for long?”

“Nay.”

Isabelle felt a little of the tension leave her husband’s body. If Hugh had been working for Gwenwynwyn when he’d killed Gruffydd’s mother and sister, Gruffydd would have found it difficult if not impossible to keep himself from going after Gwenwynwyn himself.

Now, perhaps he could finally let them go.

She hoped so. Twenty years was a long time to carry a burden.

The men chatted for a while longer, making jokes and exchanging gossip. Isabelle spoke little, save when she was spoken to. Her head still swam with all she’d learned and the questions that information brought to mind, and Gruffydd’s thumb caressing her hand made it difficult to concentrate on anything.

Eventually Llewelyn stood. “I fear I do need to leave,” he said, smiling. “I should like to return to my own wife ere night falls.”

Gruffydd smiled back. “Give her my best wishes,” he said.

“I will. Any chance we will see you soon?”

“We shall meet on the field, will we not?”

Llewelyn shook his head. “I do not think you will be in any condition to fight so soon, Gruffydd,” he said.

Gruffydd raised his eyebrows at him, and Llewelyn chuckled. “Fine. So I will see you then. But mayhap you could come to Aber early, and spend a few days? I know Joan would love to see you, and meet your lady wife.”

Gruffydd glanced at Isabelle, who smiled.

“I am certain we can manage it,” he said.

Llewelyn bent and embraced Gruffydd, then smiled and took Isabelle’s hand. “Will you accompany me, my lady?” His eyes twinkled as his lips touched her knuckles.

She nodded. “Of course.”

Chapter 17

Llewelyn’s hand was warm on hers as they walked down the stairs and into the hall. “So,” he said, glancing over at her, “are you going to tell me what your husband is hiding?”

Startled, she almost tripped, but recovered herself and replied, “I know not what you mean.”

“I mean, there is something in this whole business that confuses me. Who was Hugh Desmond? What part did he play in this?”

“Just as my husband and I told you,” she said, trying to hide the nervousness in her voice. “He attacked me, and Gruffydd killed him.”

They stopped near the doorway, Llewelyn’s eyes searching her face. Then as she watched in amazement, he threw back his head and laughed.

“God’s blood,” he said, when he finally stopped, “you are just like him, are you not? Both of you so secretive. You would not tell me who the man was if I paid you, would you?”

She smiled. “I am certain I know not what you mean, my lord,” she said, licking her lips.

“Call me Llewelyn,” he said, still smiling. “I feel certain we will be seeing a lot of each other. I do think my wife will find your company most welcome indeed.” He chuckled to himself.

She felt herself blushing. “I do look forward to meeting her,” she said.

“Not half as much as I look forward to seeing you again, Lady Isabelle,” he replied.

“Just Isabelle, please.”

His face grew serious as he looked at her. “I must thank you, Isabelle.”

“Thank me?”

“Aye. I do not think I have ever seen my friend look so happy. I wish I could take credit for it, as I am the one who bade him marry you, but I cannot. So I thank you.” He glanced back at the foot of the stairway. “He deserves peace, and I do think he has found it.”

She thought of Hugh Desmond’s death and said, “I cannot take the credit.”

He looked into her eyes, a little half-smile on his face. “Can you not?”

But before she could reply, he stepped to the door and kissed her hand again. “It was truly my pleasure to meet you, Isabelle,” he said. “Be well…and take care of my friend.”

“I will,” she replied, smiling nervously.

“I have no doubt of it.” He smiled at her again.

“My—Llewelyn,” she said. “May I ask a question?”

“Of course.”

She looked down, then back up, meeting his warm brown eyes. “Why me?”

“I am not certain I understand.”

“You said you bade him marry me. Why me? Was there a reason?”

His expression changed slightly. He was still smiling, but there was something in his eyes that told her he was debating with himself how to answer her question. Finally he spoke.

“I remembered you from my wedding,” he said. “And more importantly, though I ask you not to mention it, he did.”

“He did?” Isabelle blushed, aware of the slight squeak in her voice as she spoke.

Llewelyn’s expression grew serious. “Aye, he did. He told me shortly after I wed the, ah, circumstances of your meeting.”

Isabelle felt as if her face was on fire. For Llewelyn to know of her shame that night…

He seemed to know what she was thinking, for he placed his hand on her arm reassuringly. “Isabelle, you need not worry. He was taken with you that night. He had to have been, to have told me about it.”

“But he was irritated with me. He acted like he hated me.”

“You should know well by now that our man is a master at hiding his feelings.”

“Aye, I suppose I do.” She paused awkwardly, then asked, “So that is why?”

“I’ve met your father in the past as well, and esteem him highly. He could not speak enough of his daughter Isabelle and her brains and spirit.” He shrugged, his hand still warm on her shoulder. “From what he told me, it seemed that you might be the woman Gruffydd needed. I was not wrong, was I?”

She shook her head. “I do hope not.”

“I know not. Trust me, Isabelle.” He touched her hand. “I am your prince, after all.” He flashed her one more smile and turned to a group of men standing in the bailey, speaking rapidly to them in Welsh. Immediately a saddled horse, one that Isabelle had not seen before, was produced from the stable, and Llewelyn mounted.

“Until next time,” he said, raising a hand, and then he was gone.

Isabelle stood uncertainly in the doorway. Should she go back up to the solar, where Gruffydd waited, or would he want to be alone?

She did not want him to be alone, she thought. The memory of his hand in hers was too strong for her to want to be anywhere but at his side. Her hand still felt warmed by his touch, as if his skin had left an invisible imprint on her own.

But her father was sitting at a table, clearly curious about their visitor, and she felt her nerves were still too jangled to go back upstairs to her husband, who was likely deep in conversation with Rhys about the implications of Llewelyn’s words.

He was too busy for her, she thought. It could wait.

*****

Gruffydd sighed impatiently. Three days had passed, and he’d not had a moment alone with Isabelle in all that time.

It scared him. Why was she so afraid to be alone with him? Was it because she had decided to return to England again with her father?

There was no reason for her to stay.

No reason…except that he loved her.

Her father was always around, or Rhys, or Gwledyr. It seemed that she did not enter the chamber without one of them in tow, and she either ignored or did not see the meaningful looks he cast in her direction. He was sleeping more than he normally did, an unfortunate side effect of the mead he’d been using to help kill the pain in his body.

His wounds were healing, though, and he was beginning to feel strong again. Strong enough to get out of bed for ever-lengthening periods of time, strong enough to sit in the hall and have his meals with everyone else.

Strong enough to make love to his wife, he thought crossly. If he was given the chance.

And if she wanted him.

For the first time in his life, he cursed his lack of experience with the opposite sex. If he’d ever had even a regular lover, he might have had a better idea of how to read a woman’s feelings in her face or eyes, how to know if she still desired him.

But he had not, and he did not. He could only hope that she was feeling what he felt, could only hope that he was not imagining the connection between them when their eyes met or their skin touched.

If only he did not sleep so soundly!

He had never imagined this would be a curse. He was not able to wake up when Isabelle came to bed at night, nor did he wake when she rose in the morning.

His sleep was dreamless. It felt odd.

Finally he could wait no more. Isabelle came upstairs one evening with a tray, for he’d been asleep when it was time for dinner. She had Gwledyr in tow, as usual, and he sighed when he saw his seneschal’s daughter’s cheerful face come around the corner.

“Good eve, my lord,” she said. “We have brought you—”

“Thank you,” he interrupted. “I am certain ‘tis fine.”

Isabelle walked into the wardrobe where, he imagined, she was taking off her dress. The thought made his blood run hot.

“Gwledyr,” he said, trying to ignore the mental picture of his wife clad only in her chemise, “I do appreciate your aid. But you look tired. Mayhap you would like to go to sleep.”

“Oh, nay, my lord, I am not yet tired. All are still awake downstairs, we thought mayhap after you have eaten you would like to come down for a game?” Her gaze faltered as he glowered at her. “Or perhaps not,” she said hastily. “But I myself would love to join the fun. Do you mind if I go ahead?”

“Nay,” he said. “Do go, and enjoy yourself.”

Gwledyr nodded, glancing over at the wardrobe as she did so, then left.

So when Isabelle stepped out from behind the wall, he was ready. He had set the tray down beside the bed, and filled a goblet for her.

His breath caught when he saw her. She was not undressed, to his disappointment, but had changed her dress for a lighter one, for the night was warm.

At least, he thought it was. He was sweating.

She crossed to him, a slight frown on her lovely face. “My lord,” she said, “did you finish eating so quickly? I can go down and bring more—”

“Cnychu uthell,” he said, suddenly very cross. “I am not an invalid, Isabelle, nor do I want more food. What I want is to talk to you, but you seem intent on avoiding me.”

She faltered. “Avoiding you?”

“Do not pretend you have not been.”

She nodded, her gaze still not meeting his. “I…I was afraid.”

“Afraid? Of what?”

She twisted her hands together. “I was afraid you were angry with me.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “Because of William. Because I got you captured. Because my father brought Hugh Desmond into your home. You have many reasons to wish me from your sight.”

“And yet I do not.”

She glanced up at him now, shyly, and Gruffydd’s heart beat a little faster. He was uncomfortably aware of his growing arousal. Simply having her close to him made his body react.

“Isabelle, come and sit down.” He indicated the bed beside him and looked at her.

He saw the moment of indecision on her face before she sat. He took her hand and was gratified that she did not pull away.

But what to say now? He had never been in this situation before, and did not know how to handle it.

“Isabelle,” he said slowly.

“Aye?” Her voice sounded faint to him, and he wondered why. He could smell her, the faint lilac scent filling his nostrils, making him dizzy. She smelled so good.

“Isabelle.” She shifted position slightly, then again.

“Would you sit still, please?” he asked. “’Tis not an easy thing for a man to do, telling a woman he’s treated badly that he’s sorry.”

She glanced at him, her skin pink in the dim candlelight.

“I accept your apology,” she said.

They were silent for another minute, then Isabelle said, “You are going to send me away again, are you not?”

Nothing she could have said would have made Gruffydd feel guiltier. He had thought he was making the right decision, when he’d bade her return to England, but now, looking back on it, he realized how wrong he had been.

“I am not,” he said. “I want you to stay.”

He heard her breath catch. “You do?”

“Aye.” She turned to look at him, and he held his own breath as he stared into her deep blue eyes. “Isabelle…” He reached his hand out and caressed her cheek. Her skin was unbelievably soft. Her eyes closed slightly as he stroked her, making his chest feel tight. “You know I am not very good with words, at times.”

There was no hiding his desire for her now. He shifted position, hoping that mayhap she would not notice how desperately he wanted her.

“I do not know how to apologize,” he said finally, knowing that his words did not even begin to express what he was feeling.

*****

Isabelle barely heard him. Her entire being was focused on his hand stroking her cheek, on his body warm and solid next to her. She longed to lean closer to him but dared not. He said he wanted her to stay, that he was sorry he’d forced her to leave.

But could he ever truly forgive her for her foolishness and betrayal?

She did not know, and until she did she could not give in to the feelings his hand was evoking in her body.

She wanted him. She wanted him to draw her tightly to him and remove her clothing. She wanted the feel of him on top of her, inside her.

But she could not say that, so she settled instead for letting a sigh escape her lips as he caressed her face and throat.

“Gruffydd,” she whispered.

But whatever she had been planning to say next was lost as his lips descended on hers, softly at first, then more urgently as he felt her response.

“I love you,” he whispered. “Isabelle, I love you.”

Tears sprang to her eyes, but she cared not. “I love you,” she whispered back, as his mouth moved to her neck, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. His hands were buried in her hair, caressing her head and neck, sending shivers through her body.

“I love you,” he said again, bringing his face back up to hers, staring into her eyes. “Do not ever leave me again.”

She sighed as his mouth took hers again, his hands hot on her body. It felt like he was touching her everywhere at once, and when he began sliding her dress up her legs she did not protest.

His hands were warm and sure on her body as he lifted the gown over her head, exposing her body to his blazing eyes.

“Did I tell you how beautiful you are?” he said, lowering his head, feasting on her nipples each in turn, making her moan softly and run her fingers through his thick dark hair. She felt as if she had a separate heart beating below her waist, a throbbing pulse that cried out for his touch. “Did I tell you how the sight of you makes something inside me break? You have broken me, Isabelle, you alone. Will you stay with me, and make me whole again?”

“Aye.” His flowery speech meant all the more to her, knowing as she did how difficult such things were for him. Once she’d thought pretty words were important. Now she knew ‘twas the sentiment that mattered, the actions, not the words, although the words still made her heart sing. “I will always stay.”

Gasping, she reached down and discovered that he was completely bare beneath the bedcovers. His manhood was heavy and searing hot in her hand, and when she touched it, he gasped and flinched before resting in her palm.

Her blood boiling, she ran her hand up the length of it, marveling at the feel of the silken skin that covered this most intimate part of his body. It was soft and hard at the same time, and as she experimentally slid her hand up and down he moaned.

“Isabelle,” he panted, his voice ragged with desire, “I need you.”

She pulled him to her, her entire body throbbing with passion.

His lips were hot on hers, his tongue a weapon of pleasure in her mouth as she spread her legs to accommodate him, already desperate to feel their bodies become one. His body was cradled over hers, his lean hips between her thighs. The hair on his legs was both strange and familiar to her, the scent of his skin overwhelming. She could drown in him, sink into him, and she lifted her hips, encouraging him to take her. To make their union complete.

He slid into her with an ease that made them both gasp, his blood roaring in his ears, his eyes fixed on her face beneath his.

She closed her eyes. He lifted his hands to the sides of her face, gently coaxing them open, forcing her to look him in the eyes, forcing her to give him this last piece of herself. She did, and was rewarded with his secrets, with his soul. There would be no more hiding between them, not any more.

The movements of his body grew more urgent. He swelled inside her, stretching her walls, the heat and friction of their bodies together building to heights she’d never experienced before. The play of his muscles beneath her hands was precious, beautiful. The look in his eyes was even more so. She wrapped her legs around his thighs, moving with him, their breaths mingling. His right hand found her left and clasped it, pressing it into the soft whiteness of the bed, their fingers interlocked as their bodies entwined.

He spoke softly, words of love in French and Welsh, his voice adding another layer of sweetness to what was already perfect, and as they moved together and neared the pinnacle of pleasure, he claimed her mouth again in a final searing kiss.

She exploded beneath him, her body arching upwards, her hands clutching at his back, pulling his hair, her legs squeezing him as she gasped his name, barely hearing hers on his lips as they both burst apart with terrifying, glorious intensity.

He was hers, and that was all that mattered now.

*****

They spent the entire night and next day in bed, talking, touching, making love over and over as the sun rose and set. Sometimes they were soft, gentle, their hands barely skimming each other as they whispered their words of love. Other times they were rough, demanding, urgent, their bodies moving together in a frenzy of passion, shouting the same words into the hot sunlight of the solar.

“What will you do now?” she asked him, as they lay panting for breath on the soft mattress, her body covered with a fine sheen of sweat. He longed to lick it off.

“Give me a few minutes,” he replied, smiling. He reached out and took one of her breasts into his hand, marveling at the soft weight in his fingers.

She smiled back. “I mean, what will you do? Now there can be no more Dragon?”

He paused, his face growing serious. “I know not,” he replied. “I cannot imagine.”

“Will you do it anyway?”

He considered this for a moment, rolling her nipple gently between his thumb and forefinger. She gasped and arched her back, then touched his hand, taking it in her own and moving it away from her breast. “My love,” she said, grinning wickedly, “if you want a few minutes you had best stop that.”

He leaned over and kissed her. His head was still swimming with joy. He had never imagined he would find a woman who loved him, a woman he loved with such intensity, and it still felt unreal.

“I apologize,” he replied. “As to your question, I know not. ‘Tis important to Llewelyn—which means important for Wales—that the Dragon not appear and stir up trouble with Gwenwynwyn. At least, not before we take back the Perfeddwlad.

“But ‘tis equally important that my identity not be discovered, and that travelers in the area and citizens of Trwch and the neighboring villages be kept safe. So I do not know how to answer your question, cariad.”

She considered his words. “But Gwenwynwyn will give you away if you attack his men again.”

“Aye.”

“And you cannot stop.”

He paused, and she continued. “You said you made a blood vow, a promise to your mother.”

He nodded, and his face grew somber. “She was buried near Shrewsbury. ‘Twas the night before my fourteenth birthday, and I went to their grave. I knew I would be leaving on the morn, you see.”

She nodded.

He held out his left hand to her. “That scar there,” he said, pointing with his other hand to a small circle shape on the mound of his palm. “I used my knife to make it, and I promised my mother and sister that this would be the last of our family’s blood to be spilled without good cause. I swore by my blood that I would avenge them, that I would not allow more innocent lives to be lost.”

She was silent for a moment, her finger stroking the scar, her eyes far away. He swallowed at the sight. Was this lovely woman truly his?

She kissed his palm. “But you did avenge them.”

He nodded. “Aye. But does that mean I can turn my back on others who may be in danger? I do not think I can do that.”

“I do not either.”

He glanced at her, surprised. “Isabelle…what are you saying?”

She smiled and wrapped his fingers in hers. “I am saying, my love, that I know I cannot expect you to stay indoors every night. I knew that when I came back here, when I knew how much I loved you. Do you not see? It is part of the reason why I love you so, your desire to protect those in your care and to see justice done.”

He was embarrassed to feel tears in his eyes, but he did not blink them back as he replied, “But Isabelle…you know it is not the safest life to lead. I cannot in good conscience continue without knowing that you accept the risk I take, the risks we both take.”

“I love you,” she said simply. “I know you take risks, but I also know you take them in doing what is right, and you might not be you if you did not do that.”

She brushed a lock of hair from his forehead, let her finger trail down his nose, over his lips to his chin. “I learned from my parents that life is for living, and every moment is precious,” she continued. “What good would it do me to have you home, if you grow resentful and feel that you have betrayed yourself by being there? What good would it do me to leave you, to go back to England and spend my life alone, without even the comfort of knowing that we took whatever time was given us together? Besides—” She smiled. “I am fairly certain you are indestructible.”

He held her hand to his lips and nibbled each of her fingers in turn. “I am a lucky man,” he said huskily, reaching out his free hand and stroking her face.

“Indeed?” Her smile was flirtatious, an invitation he was not about to ignore.

“Indeed.” He leaned over to kiss her breast, his teeth scraping lightly against the delicate skin, his hand already wandering down between her thighs as her legs parted slightly and she rolled onto her back, sighing in pleasure.

A knock on the door interrupted them.

“Come back later,” he growled, dragging his gaze from her beautiful body.

“’Tis time for dinner, my lord,” Rhys said from the other side of the door. “We have not seen you all day, and were concerned.”

“Damn.” Gruffydd looked at his wife. “Are you hungry?”

She pouted for a second, then looked up at him. “I suppose I am, in truth,” she admitted. “I ate little last night, and this has been a busy day.”

“Aye, it has,” he agreed solemnly. “Busy indeed.”

Gruffydd felt himself falling into the depths of her eyes as they smiled at each other. He had fallen in love with her in spite of himself, and he could only wonder now how could it have taken him so long to tell her how he felt. Why had he been such a fool?

She was amazing, and he felt a fervent gratitude to whatever power—be it God, Llewelyn, or even King John—that had brought her into his life.

He had never been so happy.

Glancing regretfully at her bare body, he called out, “We will be right down, Rhys.”

Laughing, he helped her lace up her gown, and clumsily attempted to plait her hair before she finally removed his hands gently.

“I see this is not one of your many skills,” she teased.

“Nay, it is not. Would you like me to demonstrate for you something I am skilled at?”

Her eyes flashed at him as she smiled. “After dinner, please,” she replied.

He raised his eyebrows at her and smiled a promise, then took her hand. They walked down the stairs together.

*****

Her father stayed for another month. Gruffydd had to leave for a few weeks, to join Llewelyn and the other Welsh Princes in their successful invasion and reclamation of the area of North Wales known as Perfeddwlad.

They had decided just before Gruffydd left to send William back to Gwenwynwyn’s court, and Stephen had written the letter that very night. It had been a pleasure for Isabelle to see her father and husband talking so companionably, and she’d said little. It was enough to sit, curled in her chair, listening to the good-natured arguments of the men. Even Rhys had become garrulous. It was not until Gruffydd returned, uninjured and triumphant, that Stephen de Harvington made ready to return to England.

“I hope to see you again soon,” she said, blinking back tears. It seemed such a short time that she’d had both him and her husband at her side, and she hated to think of how much time may pass before she had them again.

“Will you visit ere Matilda leaves?”

She bit her lip. “I will try.”

Her father looked at her searchingly, then smiled. “Mayhap I shall bring her here instead.”

Isabelle blushed. She was saved the necessity of a reply by the arrival of Gruffydd, who’d been speaking to Rhys in the corner by the buttery.

“My lord,” he said, taking Stephen’s hand. “You will have a safe journey, I hope.”

“And you will take care of my daughter,” Stephen replied, smiling.

Gruffydd nodded. “I will.”

Isabelle and Gruffydd stood next to each other, watching as her father and his men left the bailey and the heavy door was shut behind them. Gruffydd put his arm around her shoulders.

“I will never forget watching you leave here,” he said softly. He kissed her on the side of the head. “How will you ever forgive me?”

“Hmm…I suppose there are ways you can make it up to me,” she replied, smiling.

“Aye?” His voice was low and intimate as he nipped gently at her earlobe. “And what will I have to do?”

“Come with me and I will show you,” she said.

He grinned at her. “I have some ideas of my own.”

“Oh? What are those?”

He cocked his eyebrow at her. “Come with me and I will show you,” he said, taking her hand.

But instead of going into the keep, as she expected, he led her into the garden. Isabelle had not spent much time there recently, for she had been tired and too busy with her father.

Gruffydd smiled now and indicated a pile of wood leaning against the garden wall. “A gloriette,” he said. “I would have built it as a surprise, but I did not think I could get it done without you noticing.”

She gasped. “Thank you, my love. ‘Tis just what I wanted.”

His dark eyes studied her face. “And have you everything else you wanted?”

She reached her hand out and stroked his cheek. “You know I have,” she said softly.

He kissed her then, making her weak and dizzy with excitement, and led her back into the hall, into the solar, where he demonstrated to her again just how much he loved her.

Afterwards, as they lay cuddled together on the bed, Isabelle asked, “Is there anything else you want?”

He sighed and pulled her closer still. “I can think of nothing.”

“Nothing at all? Not in your wildest dreams?”

He smiled and kissed the palm of her hand. “You know my dreams are generally less wild these days, thanks to you.”

She did know. In the past month, she’d been awakened only three times by Gruffydd’s nightmares, and she hoped fervently that in time he would stop having them altogether.

But at least now, the touch of her hand, her soft voice saying his name, was enough to soothe him back into sleep. She felt certain that once he was able to get out at night again and be of more help to his people the dreams would slow further.

“Aye,” she said. “But I can think of something I hope you will enjoy.”

Isabelle took his hand and placed it on her stomach.

“I have a surprise for you, too,” she said.

He looked at her, puzzled for a moment, then his face broke into a smile of purest, wildest joy.

“Have you?”

And when he took her in his arms and kissed her again, she felt all the love and gratitude that was in her heart reflected a hundredfold, with all the fire and power of which her husband was capable.

Her husband. Her lover. Her other half.

Her dragon, who would love her for the rest of both their lives.

Epilogue

Trwch, Wales

January 1216

“Cariad.”

Half-awake, she rolled over and smiled, feeling the warmth of her husband’s hand on her cheek. At first she thought mayhap he’d had another nightmare, infrequent now as they were.

Then she sat up. He was home. He was home, and that meant the conference was over.

“What happened?” she whispered, casting a glance to the pallet at the foot of the bed where their two-year-old daughter, Generis, slept soundly.

She could barely see him in the darkness.

“Come downstairs.”

He leaned over and kissed her, and she felt the familiar tightening sensation in her belly. It had been too long since they’d spent the night together.

Gruffydd had gone with Llewelyn and the other Welsh Princes in December to reclaim more castles and land lost in the past years. He had returned shortly after Christmas, unharmed but for a few cuts and bruises, to give her the joyful news of their victory, but had to leave again almost immediately.

Now another month had passed, and longing rose in her body at the touch of her husband’s lips.

He felt it, too, for his hand slid down from her cheek to caress her bare breast. “Or my news can wait,” he murmured.

She glanced over at baby Stephen, nine months old, sleeping peacefully next to her. “Not unless we want to put him on the floor,” she said regretfully. “He will have to be taken down to the hall, and Generis with him. I did not expect you this night, my love, and told the nurse they would sleep with me.”

His soft laughter was intoxicating. “I see. I should have stayed with Llewelyn. He would not have put another man in my bed.”

She laughed quietly herself. “But he would not have shared your bed, either…and I doubt he would be willing to do for you what I have planned.”

“Aye?” She could not see his face well, but knew he was smiling at her, his eyebrow raised. “And what is that?”

She raised a finger to his lips. “After you tell me what happened.”

As smoothly as possible, she rose from the bed and slid her chemise over her head, followed by a fur robe. Little Stephen did not wake as she picked him up gently from the bed, and she heard her husband crooning softly in Welsh to Generis as he lifted her from the pallet.

She smiled in the darkness. She had never seen a man so devoted to his children, not even her own father.

They made their way down to the hall, where a fire still burned in the fireplace. It warmed the room, and gave enough light for Isabelle to watch Gruffydd kiss his daughter and place her in her little bed before he took his son from her arms and did the same. He smiled up at her and took her hand.

For a few minutes they did not speak, instead watching silently as their children slept. This was her favorite part of the night, when Gruffydd would return home from his nocturnal wanderings to the cold meats she had set out for him. They would look at the children, then eat and talk quietly, before returning to bed.

Where they were generally not quiet, she thought, blushing. It amazed her that after almost four years of marriage it was still just as sweet, just as powerful between them as it had been the first time.

She squeezed his hand. “I had a letter from Father a few days ago.”

“Aye? How long did this one take to arrive?”

“Over two months. But he seems to be enjoying Constantinople immensely, and says he plans to tour France next on his way back.”

He chuckled. “I think I would have had apoplexy had your father planned to return straight home. He truly is enjoying himself, is he not?”

“Aye. I gather the dowager Countess of Stoketon is enjoying herself, as well.”

“I did not know he had a companion.”

“He did not. But they met while aboard ship, and seem to be getting along wonderfully. He’s mentioned her several times, and as it seems she has family in Angouleme, it surprises me little that he has a sudden urge to visit France.”

“And how do you feel about that?”

She thought for a moment. “I feel good about it, in truth,” she said. “He has been alone for a long time, and with Matilda in the convent, and my lord brother and older sister so busy, I would like to see him have a companion.”

“Companionship is good,” Gruffydd agreed. He leaned over and nibbled her earlobe gently. “But passion is better.”

“That it is,” she whispered, her voice husky as his teeth sent shivers through her body. “But you have not yet told me how it went.”

“How what went?” His breath was warm on her neck.

“The meeting,” she replied, smiling. “You know…the reason you left here?”

“Ah, that. Better than we imagined,” he said, his smile dazzling in the dim light. “They gave him their allegiance. Llewelyn is Prince of all Wales. I watched that whor—watched Gwenwynwyn kneel and pledge fealty with my own eyes. And though he may not be able to claim the title formally, that was it for Llewelyn. He has united Wales, my love.”

She gasped with delight and threw her arms around his neck. “I am so pleased,” she said, stepping back again to look him in the face. “Joan must be thrilled.”

“Aye, she is,” Gruffydd replied. “She did regret you were unable to come, though, and share the day with her. She asked me to bring you a letter. ‘Tis in my satchel.”

“I am certain she did,” Isabelle said. “So she read my letter?”

“She did, and I would ask what you say about me in there, for she did give me a sly look on reading it.” He pulled her gently forward, so that her chest pressed against his. “Is there something I should know? Have you taken a lover to comfort you when I am not about?”

“Do not be foolish,” she replied, smiling. “Although you have been gone rather a lot lately.”

She raised her hand to stroke his cheek, lifting her lips to his. His arms tightened around her as he kissed her, their tongues entwining. Isabelle’ breath grew short.

“If this is the welcome I get,” Gruffydd whispered, “I shall go away more often.”

“Nay, you will not,” she said. “’Tis enough for me to do without you several nights out of seven, but for you to be gone for a month…”

He kissed her again. “It is not easy for me, either,” he said, the urgency of their kisses mirrored in his voice.

“Of that,” she replied, “I am certain.”

He took her hand. “Why do we not go back upstairs and I will show you how hard it is?”

“I already know,” she whispered. “’Tis obvious.”

He groaned softly. “But you will not have mercy on me and let me take you upstairs?”

“I will,” she said, feigning confusion, “but I did think you wanted to know what was in my letter to the princess.”

“I do,” he replied, his hands roaming freely down her back, cupping her bottom, “but mayhap there is something else I want more.”

“Like another baby?”

His hands paused for a second, then continued on their lazy journey. “That would be nice. Am I going to get another baby?”

“You are.”

He kissed her again, deeply. “All the more reason we should get upstairs and in bed. You do not want to catch a chill, do you? Let me warm you up.”

She giggled. “You are pleased?”

“Of course I am pleased.”

“Truthfully?”

He looked her in the eyes. “Isabelle, everything about you pleases me, and everything about our life pleases me, and I love you and our children more than life itself and the prospect of having another baby only makes me love you all the more.” He paused, gasping after his speech. “So can I please make love to you now?”

A delicious shiver ran through her. No matter how many times he told her he loved her, it was still just as exciting, just as wonderful.

“I love you, too,” she whispered. “And aye, you can.”

The End

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Dear Readers, I have a confession to make. I have lured you into this tale under false pretences.

King John of England and Llewelyn ab Iorwerth, Prince of Gwynedd and husband of John’s illegitimate daughter Joan, did indeed go to war with each other several times. And in late summer of 1211, John did advance his armies far into Wales, almost destroying Llewelyn’s power base, before switching his royal favor to Llewelyn’s enemy, the prince of southern Powys, Gwenwynwyn ab Owain Cyfeiliog. This, along with the events of the novel’s ending regarding the two princes joining forces to regain large parts of Wales, and Llewelyn’s ultimate defeat of Gwenwynwyn, are all true.

But King John never ordered the marriages of further Norman noble ladies to any Welshmen. At that particular point in time, given that John allowed Llewelyn to keep what power he had for the sake of his daughter Joan, it is highly unlikely that he would have permitted such a marriage to take place if there was any way he could have stopped it.

However, both Gruffydd and Isabelle were so alive in my mind, and so insistent that I find some way to marry them without giving up their time period and loyalties, it seemed to me that my dear Readers would be willing to accept a little bit of fudging for the sake of a good story. Forgive me?

A few notes on pronunciations:

“dd” in Welsh is pronounced “th”. Gruffydd is not “Gruffid”, but “Gruffith”—essentially Griffith with a slightly different first vowel sound. “Trwch”, the fictional principle village in the fictional cantref of which Gruffydd is lord, would be pronounced “Tr-oo-ich”. “C” was always a hard c, a “k” sound. “Cariad” was pronounced “Kare-ee-ad”, for example. The accent in Welsh is always on the penultimate syllable.

Lastly, as I’m sure you’ve surmised, “ap” or “ab” in a Welsh name meant “son of”. Although surnames were not unheard of in Wales at that time, the nobility did not use them. Instead, their names were given genealogically. If you’re wondering, Isabelle’s name would have been “Isabelle wreic Gruffydd” in Welsh, or “Isabelle uxor Gruffydd” in Latin.

The question of names and Latin inevitably brings up the question of literacy. Here I can only offer my opinions based on over ten years of serious research and a lifetime of casual interest, from scholarly books by professors of Welsh history to the fun and fascinating, well-researched fiction of Sharon Kay Penman and Enid Pargeter. I’m sure there are some who might disagree, but the majority of my sources say that although the common people were not necessarily literate, it was certainly not impossible or unheard of for members of the nobility to be. Rare, perhaps, but not so rare that Isabelle and her family would have been anomalies. The Bodleian Library at Oxford University, for example, currently houses about a thousand documents from the medieval period, including The Song of Roland from the 12th century and one of the earliest copies of Tristan and Isolde from the late 12th/early 13th century.

There is a tendency at times to think of medieval people as sort of grunting Cro-Magnons. I once had someone ask me, on hearing what I was writing, if people in the middle ages actually felt love. The answer is yes, they did. Of course they did. They loved and hated, made friends and enemies, gossiped, sang, cried, ate, slept, wondered, and learned—just as we do, although the framework and surroundings were different. People are still people.

Indeed, my feeling was that Isabelle’s father, a man of great intellectual curiosity, would have wanted his family to learn to read and write. (More medieval women could read than write; they were often considered separate skills). Isabelle’s sister Matilda would have needed both skills in her life as a nun, as well. Therefore, I felt nary a qualm in allowing Isabelle to have her way when she insisted she was capable of both.

Gruffydd was easier. As the nephew and ward of a Chief Bailiff of Shrewsbury, he would have been expected to learn—writing would have been one of his uncle’s duties. Also, the Welsh had a stronger tradition of literacy. Their minstrels and poets not only “wrote” stories through song, but copied them down, as well—Gerald of Wales (1146-1223) wrote of seeing the manuscripts.

For me, though, the most important reason for Gruffydd to be literate was Gruffydd himself. He simply would not tolerate being ignorant of a skill, so even if he had managed to evade learning in his early childhood, by the time of his fourteenth birthday he would have made a decision to learn.

Books were expensive, as was parchment (as were polished brass or silver mirrors, both of which Isabelle and Gruffydd owned). I’ve wondered if the materials may have been cheaper in Wales, simply because “raw” parchment—that is to say, sheepskin—was so abundant there. The Welsh were not really farmers; they kept livestock. However, this is conjecture on my part. The truth is, materials were expensive. Parchment, which can last over a thousand years, was often “cleaned” by scraping off the ink and re-used again and again. Sacrificing enough parchment to make a book—even a small one, as Gruffydd did—was doubly a sign of how strongly he was coming to care for Isabelle. Burning William’s two letters, as Isabelle did, shows us how desperately she wanted to eradicate his words. She wasn’t even willing to scrape them off and keep the parchment.

A note about historical accuracy in general: I have tried my best to be as accurate as possible, according to my knowledge of the period. However, we all know this is a romance novel, not a dissertation, and in the interests of creating an enjoyable story, some liberty has been taken. For instance, it is extremely unlikely that, even with the most liberal of fathers, Isabelle would have made it to her fifteenth year without being married, much less her age at the start of chapter two, which is about twenty-one. Gruffydd, twenty-eight in chapter two, would more plausibly still be single, but even then it would be doubtful. He also would have received a significant dowry, including lands, for marrying Isabelle, but I have not mentioned these as they were not important to the story. He didn’t care about them, so neither did I.

Nor have I elaborated on the very real possibility that one or both of them would have had lice or fleas no matter how clean they tried to keep themselves; that there probably would have been numerous dogs in the keep, milling around at the diners’ feet during meals to catch scraps and that flies would have been a constant irritation during the warmer months; that the smell of the privy would have been at times overpowering and they would have used straw to clean themselves after using it; and that Isabelle would likely have worn some kind of swaddling or used a very early precursor to the tampon (small wads of cloth, retrievable by a thread tied around her upper thigh) when menstruating. The phrase “make/ing love” was not used, either, but their words-“tupping” and/or “swiving”, among others, sound frankly unromantic to modern ears, so I have not used them.

I explain this not to bore you, dear Readers, but in the hopes of giving you more information about a time and place in which I hope you have enjoyed yourself, and a few people—fictional though they may be—who are close to my heart, and I hope yours too. (A complete list of sources and recommended reading can be found at my website, www.decemberquinn.com.)

One last note—we may see the idea that Gruffydd’s servants did not know the Dragon’s identity as being a bit strange, perhaps even impossible. I cannot say with certainty what they know or do not know; I did not ask them, and they were too loyal to tell me. However, I can point to Gwledyr’s attitudes towards both Gruffydd and the Dragon, and leave you to form your own conclusions…

Thanks for reading!