Mary Reed McCall (23 page)

Disdain shown in every chiseled line and shadow of his face, and though he tried to hide it, Gwynne couldn’t help seeing the gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. With one last glare and a disapproving grunt, he turned on his heel and slipped back into the woods, on his way, she knew, to do exactly what he’d promised.

Everyone remained still for a moment after his departure. Finally Gwynne turned away, unclenching her hand from her bliaud and pulling it, wrinkled as it was, over her head. Her heart throbbed with dull, heavy beats, as from the side of her vision she saw Aidan bend slowly to retrieve his shirt and put it on again. Owin glanced at Dafydd, who nodded, and both men approached from the position they’d maintained while Lucan had been there, at the edge of the clearing.

Her cheeks still felt hot, and the silence in the glen was
thick and awkward, but she forced herself to meet first Dafydd’s gaze, then Owin’s. “If you wish to follow him back to camp, I wouldn’t blame you. In fact, ’twould probably be better if you did, so no one could call into question your loyalty in this.”

“Are you all right,
Chwedl
?” Dafydd asked gruffly, not seeming to care about her caution to them as he frowned his concern for her; she noticed that his gaze kept shifting from her to Aidan, who still stood, unmoving, where he’d been during her confrontation with her cousin.

She paused, not daring to look directly at Aidan herself for fear of the weakness and emotion that she knew would rise up to paralyze her if she did. But she felt his gaze on her nonetheless—a warm, penetrating stare, as he waited, too, for her answer to Dafydd’s question.

She glanced down at her hands; then, for want of anything better to do with them, she clasped them loosely in front of her. Lifting her gaze, she said quietly, “Aye, I am fine, Dafydd. But I have learned, recently, that much of what Aidan—” She broke off, her persistent, shameful longing for him surging through her, even after all that had happened between them. Stiffening, she continued, “I have learned that much of what the English claimed about my early life, before I became part of our clan, is indeed true.”

“How did you discover that?” Owin asked, scowling.

“I have regained my memories from that time.” She willed herself to maintain outward control.

Owin shifted uncomfortably, but Dafydd kept his gaze steady. “What will you do now,
Chwedl
?” he asked.

She looked at her bodyguard, trying to concentrate on breathing evenly, on acting as if her heart hadn’t been shattered and her entire world hadn’t collapsed around her in the past few hours. The answer she would give Dafydd would seal her lonesome, desolate fate, she knew. For no
matter how she felt about Aidan—no matter that her returned memories made her love and commitment to him feel as fresh, as poignant as on the day she’d pledged herself to him twelve years ago—she knew she couldn’t force him into denying his responsibilities on her behalf.

She wouldn’t.

“I am going to gather my things and then return to the mountains to confront Marrok,” she said at last, taking a few steps to reach for her discarded belt as she spoke. “He was part of the raiding party that stole me from my home twelve years ago; he knew the truth, and yet he lied to me all these years. I want to know why. Beyond that, I do not know what I will do.”

“I think you should reconsider, Gwynne,” Aidan said quietly, breaking his silence at last. “Lucan will reach your people first, and ’twill be dangerous at best to be amongst them again once he has had his say about you.”

She braced herself for the impact of emotion as she swung her head stiffly to look at him; even so, she was shaken by the waves of aching loss and yearning that swept through her when their gazes locked. It took her a moment to recover enough to respond, though when she did, she was forced to call on all her old strength, all the battle steel she’d forged in her years of training, in order to speak.

“You seem to forget that your men will die if I do not return to my people to show them that I am safe following my captivity here.”

“’Tis too risky right now. If you will but wait for—”

“I don’t think my safety is your concern any longer,” she broke in, her voice husky with the effort. “You did your good deed. You restored the rest of my life to me. We are even now, and you owe me nothing more. Let us leave it at that.”

Intending to walk back to the castle, she turned away,
knowing she needed to separate herself from him physically and emotionally right now, before what little was left of her resolve deserted her. When he took a step forward and laid a hand on her arm, she sucked in her breath and jerked to a halt, his light touch stilling her as effectively as if he’d clapped shackles on her wrists.

“Don’t go, Gwynne,” he said—adding a plea for her hearing alone. “Please.”

His whispered entreaty made the ache inside of her blossom into pure agony; her body began to tremble, a faint shivering that she did her best to conceal as she pulled her gaze slowly from where his hand rested on her arm, up to his face, feeling the pain rock through her.

“I must,” she said finally, mustering all the dignity she could into that hoarse reply. “You see, I know a thing or two about duty as well, Aidan; I’ve lived most of my life under its power. You have your duty to fulfill in the path you have chosen to take from here…” She gazed into the warm depths of his eyes one last time, unable to stop herself from doing it, even though it made her feel like she probed the wounds in her heart with a red-hot knife. “…and I have mine.”

With that, she very carefully raised her shoulder, lifting her arm up and away from his touch. And then, though it was the most difficult thing she knew she would ever have to do, she turned her back on Aidan de Brice—on the gentle youth who’d grown into a tender warrior—the one man who would ever hold her heart and soul in his hands…

And she walked away.

A
idan stood atop Dunston’s battlements less than an hour later, his gaze fixed on the door that led into the main keep. He ignored the bustle of activity that, as usual, occupied the yard; his sister looked up at him from where she stood near the ribbon-seller’s cart, having emerged from her self-imposed confinement upon hearing word of the Welshmen’s return, but Aidan pretended not to see her. The summer breeze riffled his hair like a mocking caress, and still he stood unmoving and alone, his hands resting atop the jagged stone of the crenellation as he waited for Gwynne and her men to reemerge from the keep.

Kevyn had taken one look at his face when he’d come back from the glen and started asking questions. His friend had tried to get him to talk, but when he’d gotten no more than a brief explanation of what had happened with Gwynne, he’d given up and stalked away, muttering, as he left, about the infernos rising up, finally, to consume them.

His leaving had suited Aidan just fine. ’Twas not that
he didn’t appreciate Kevyn’s concern; ’twas just that he couldn’t stomach any kind of comfort right now. He wanted the godawful pain of what he’d done to sink deep into his bones, to eat at his soul and fester in his gullet, where it would sit, he knew, churning and tormenting him for the rest of his life. He deserved no less.

’Twas hell, pure and simple. A hell he’d earned when he’d held Gwynne’s hand and looked into her eyes after making love to her, and then broken her heart by telling her that he’d still be marrying Helene in little more than a fortnight.

The door of the main keep creaked open, and Aidan’s gaze riveted to it, his heart lurching. Owin came through first, fully geared for battle, as he’d been the day he’d arrived at Dunston; Dafydd followed him, similarly attired. Both men walked toward the three steeds that the stable boy held, saddled and ready to ride.

And then Gwynne strode through the portal.

He felt a shock go through him—heard the audible gasps rise from the people in the courtyard as everyone ceased what they were doing and turned to stare.

She was magnificent, looking every inch the legendary warrior once again—it was a startling transformation that made his gut clench with regret. In the time since the skirmish that had brought them together, her men had apparently cleaned and polished her long-sleeved mail hauberk; the metal links gleamed now in the sun, sending off sparks of light as she moved. Her scarlet surcoat had likewise been washed and stitched; the golden dragon, rampant, on her chest was an echo, he knew, of the device emblazoned on her true shield, which had been sent back to her people weeks ago.

She wore no helm but had pulled her shoulder-length hair back, revealing those startling silver eyes and the ele
gant lines of her face in stark relief. He couldn’t help but see that the old grim and resolute set of her jaw had returned, and the sight of it made his heart twist anew.

She was really leaving. Oh God, she was going to walk out of his life forever, and he had to let her go. He couldn’t be like his father, selfishly acting without thought to the consequences. He wouldn’t. He’d do what was best for Diana, and for the honor of his family name. No matter that he felt like his heart was being sliced to bits inside of him, or that his soul would never recover from the agony of losing Gwynne again. He couldn’t stop her…

Without looking right or left, she stalked to her ebony-coated steed, swinging astride and adjusting her sheathed sword, which she’d recovered from Old Alana, before tightening the long-bow affixed to her saddle. But in the next instant she paused—a delicate stiffening of her back that made Aidan’s breath catch, made his eyes burn as he stared at her, unblinking.

With a barely perceptible shift, she tilted her head a fraction up and to the right, her gaze locking with his for what was just a moment, yet seemed an eternity. Surges of longing, need, and grief pummeled through Aidan then, slamming into his middle and seizing his lungs; he struggled with everything in him against the need to shout down to her, to call out his love for her until his throat was raw and his voice hoarse.

To make her understand that her leaving would kill him as surely as if she drove her blade clear through his heart.

But he forced himself to remain silent, his chest aching—until finally she looked away. The muscle in her cheek twitched as she gripped her steed’s reins, uttering a muffled command before wheeling about to lead her men at a canter from the courtyard.

And as she thundered through the gates, the Welsh ban
ner raised and billowing behind her in Dafydd’s grip, Aidan’s heart felt as if it cracked open and began to bleed inside of him, splintering, it seemed, into so many pieces that he knew he’d never be whole again. He swallowed hard against the tightness in his throat, leaning back against the wall of the battlements, his spine tense and his legs locked stiffly, as the gates swung shut behind her for good.

He could hear his blood roaring in his ears in the terrible silence after her leaving. Swallowing hard, he blinked, trying to rid himself of the dry, scratchy sensation that lodged behind his eyes. Then, wordlessly, he slid down the wall until he sat on the floor, not caring if he would ever rise again.

Kevyn found him there a few minutes later. His friend stalked toward him with purposeful steps. “We have a problem, Aidan. Riders are approaching Dunston from the south.”

“’Tis of little matter,” Aidan muttered, not moving from his position. “If they be traveling in peace, order some food and drink sent down to them.”

“They bear Rutherford’s banner.”

That statement cut like a knife through the fog surrounding Aidan. He lifted his gaze to Kevyn’s, finally, the ache from Gwynne’s loss dulling a bit under the swell of unease that filled him. “
Rutherford
?” he frowned. “Why in hell is the man back here to plague me? Christ, he only left two days ago.”

“I’m not so sure ’tis a friendly visit, Aidan.” Kevyn reached out and gripped Aidan’s forearm, helping him to his feet. “Look,” he said, indicating their approach far off, on the road that trailed away from Dunston’s main gate,

“he comes with a troop of men behind him.”

Aidan cursed under his breath, springing into motion along with Kevyn, calling out orders for readiness, getting
the castle and its inhabitants prepared for whatever the duke’s visit might bring. The yard was cleared of people, vendors either leaving through the back gate or accepting lodging near the stables, while everyone else retreated to positions of relative safety within the walls of the keep.

By the time Lord Rutherford’s company reached the main gate, Aidan had positioned himself near the hearth inside the great hall, with Kevyn next to him and his men lining the walls, at readiness; Diana and Old Alana sat, quietly, a little behind Aidan, where they would be most protected should there be any sign of trouble.

He was trying his best to appear unconcerned—to pretend that the readiness he’d ordered stemmed from his desire to be available at a word to help his betrothed’s father and lend the power of his own forces, should the request be made. But Aidan knew that the duke would never stoop to ask him for help. Nay, not even if he was on his last battalion of men. There had to be another reason for his coming here today…

“Will you try to stall his entrance at the gates to learn, first, why he has come?” Kevyn asked him quietly, so that the women wouldn’t hear.

“I cannot, whether I’d like to or not—the man is to be my father by marriage in a few weeks time.”

Kevyn nodded, at the same time giving a grunt of assent. “Aye, well, at least you can rest easy, now that Gwynne and her men have gone. As difficult as I know it was for you to let her go, ’tis best that you need no longer fear her discovery,” he murmured gruffly, offering what Aidan knew was his best attempt at comfort.

Aidan didn’t answer at first, keeping his jaw clamped tight for the sharp pain that still jabbed him whenever he thought of Gwynne and of the danger she faced, riding up into the mountains after Lucan with only two men beside her.

“We shall see,” he murmured, finally, in response. He rose to his feet and walked calmly toward the door at the signal of the sentry, preparing to greet Lord Rutherford’s imminent entrance to the hall.

He never had the chance to utter a welcome. The duke stalked through the door with grim purpose, leading nearly two score of his fully armed men, the lot of them shoving aside furnishings and people alike as they spread to fill the chamber. Aidan’s men leapt from their positions along the wall, prepared to battle the intruders, but Aidan held up his hand, stilling their action.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this…
unusual
visit?” Aidan asked quietly, once the commotion had settled. He directed his question to Lord Rutherford, his anger at the violence of the intrusion overriding his concern for the moment.

But in the next instant a new rush of emotion nudged the anger aside; the men around the duke shifted at a woman’s low-uttered command, and his betrothed pushed through to stand near her father.

“Helene…?” he murmured, taken aback, startled that she would be accompanying her father on what was clearly a warlike expedition.

“I had to come, Aidan,” she said, the worry in her voice as evident as her troubled expression. “I told father that it wasn’t true, that it couldn’t be true, but he—”

“Silence, Helene,” Lord Rutherford commanded, giving her a stern look. “You’ve no call speaking with him anymore.” He swiveled his gaze to Aidan, his face dark with animosity. “The man is unworthy of you, as I’ve said all along. The traitorous son of a traitorous father.”

A pit opened in Aidan’s stomach. “You had better explain yourself, Rutherford, or, betrothal or not, our houses will be at war.”

“There is no more betrothal, de Brice,” the duke
growled. He took a step forward, his face sharp with contempt. “You gave up any right you might have claimed to my daughter when you plotted against the king and all of England by harboring a known enemy of the Crown within your walls!”

Kevyn cursed softly next to Aidan; he heard Diana’s gasping cry, saw from the side of his vision how she jumped to her feet, then looked as if she might collapse while Old Alana rushed to support her. He turned to Helene, but though her eyes looked huge in her face, she maintained her composure, keeping her gaze fixed on him as her father nodded to one of his soldiers.

“Do you deny the charges?” Lord Rutherford demanded of him, as the soldier brought forth a large, linen-wrapped bundle.

“Deny it, Aidan; there is no proof,” Kevyn urged quietly where he stood next to him. Aidan remained silent. The only sound in the huge chamber came from the clinking of metal from the uneasy shifting of Rutherford’s men and his, facing each other down, and Diana’s soft sobbing behind him.

Kevyn muttered another oath and took a step toward the duke, calling out, “Where is your proof, that you make such a charge against the king’s noble servant?”

“This parcel arrived at my estate some time ago, though it went unnoticed until recently, thanks to my frequent absences to attend King Henry, and my visit here last week,” the duke said evenly, taking the linen-covered object from his guard. He pulled the wrapping from it with a snap, revealing a magnificent golden shield, emblazoned with a red dragon—Gwynne’s shield—to the stunned assembly. “As you can see, it is the shield of the Dark Legend—the only one of its kind. It came with a parchment, detailing the arrangement that had been made with this Welsh criminal, allowing him to remain at Dun
ston, safe from capture, for a price unknown.” Lord Rutherford locked his big steely gaze with Aidan’s. “Unknown to anyone but
you
, that is, de Brice. And so I repeat, what say you to these charges?”

Aidan met the man’s stare and his query in silence.
Him
, he repeated to himself. The duke had said
him
. That meant that he didn’t know about Gwynne. Not really. Whichever one of his men had betrayed him, Aidan decided, he’d kept the language of his condemning message vague—realizing, no doubt, that Lord Rutherford, like everyone else, would never give credence to a claim that the Dark Legend was female. How his betrayer had achieved possession of Gwynne’s shield was a mystery, however, to which Aidan’s troubled mind could find no easy answer. Gwynne’s men had delivered her shield to their envoy themselves, he’d thought. Whoever had done this, whether by switching the shield or stealing it, had gone through a great deal of trouble to achieve this end.

Still forbearing to respond to the duke, Aidan looked around the chamber, lighting on each of his men in turn, wondering which of them was guilty of the treachery. Rex had been right. Currying favor with the Crown had won over honor and loyalty, it seemed, for at least one of his men. The pit in his gut opened wider, and a hammering ache began in his brain. Damn the man who had done this. If the power was left to him after all this was over, he’d ferret out the culprit and ensure that he paid with his life for his disloyalty.

“Come, man!” the duke snapped—tired, it seemed, of Aidan’s prolonged silence. “Will you not have the honor, at least, to admit the deed—or will I need to order other, less pleasant means of forcing the confession from you, once I have you secured in a cell, awaiting your trial?”

Swallowing against the bitter taste in his mouth, Aidan swung his gaze to Lord Rutherford again. He fought the
reckless urge to bark out a humorless laugh, as he faced the man who was trying to loop the same noose round his neck that had ensnared his father. And in truth, the trap was getting tighter; he could sense the doom getting closer with every passing moment, yet all he could seem to feel was the same persistent ache that had been throbbing inside him since the moment of Gwynne’s departure.

He leveled his stare at the duke, dull to the peril facing him, and tired—so tired—of the pain gnawing inside him. “You can do anything you like to me, Rutherford,” he said in a gravelly voice, lifting his brow at him in a mocking salute, “for I am long past caring.”