Mary Reed McCall (26 page)

They both fell away from each other, Gwynne scooting backward, gripping her side, while Rutherford, who seemed more seriously wounded, lay almost motionless in the dirt. Aidan reached Gwynne at almost the same time as Dafydd and Owin; the men surrounded her, trying to ascertain how badly she was hurt. Dafydd made her lean back against him while Aidan assessed the wound. Owin moved a little away to stand over Rutherford, guarding him, though from the shallow, gasping sound the man was making, ’twas most likely an unnecessary caution.

Gwynne winced, sucking in a hissed breath as Aidan examined the area, then helped her out of her surcoat and
hauberk, before peeling back the cut edges of her shirt to reveal where the blade had sliced into her side. It bled heavily and would be painful when she moved, but Aidan saw that her hauberk had caught enough of the force from the blow that it didn’t appear life threatening.

“Thank God,” he murmured, blessed relief flooding him, before he added more loudly for her benefit, “’Tis not too deep, but it should be stitched anyway.”

“No stitches,” Gwynne muttered, her teeth gritted tight from the pain. “Just get some strips of cloth and help me to bind it. ’Twill heal in time.”

“Can you not use your gift to aid it?”

She grimaced, looking as if she might have laughed if she wasn’t in so much pain. “Nay, it doesn’t work that way. I cannot heal myself.”

“I don’t think ’tis a good idea to leave it with no stitching,” he argued.

“
You
didn’t want stitching when I sliced your arm near Craeloch. ’Tis the same with me. Binding it will be enough.”

“My wound was different.”

“’Twas not,” she retorted, wincing again when Dafydd, who had had enough of their bickering by now, shifted away from her to fetch the cloths she’d requested.

“Damn it, Gwynne,” Aidan murmured, darkness filling him at the sight of her pain. At the hurt she was suffering because of him. The enigmatic look in her eyes unleashed a torrent of more tender emotions, obscuring the darkness for the moment. He shook his head. “You are the most strong-willed, stubborn woman I’ve ever known, Gwynne ap Moran,” he added softly.

“No more stubborn than you are, Aidan de Brice,” she answered, husky-voiced. But before he could say more in response, she lowered her gaze, taking in a hitched breath, her mouth tightening and her skin paling even more.

“Hurry it up, man,” Aidan called to Dafydd, gripping Gwynne’s hand and helping her to sit up a little, while the older bodyguard prepared the dressing for her wound.

“’Twas difficult to find anything clean,” Dafydd explained, handing strips of a brown-hued cloth to Aidan.

“’Twill do, Dafydd. Thank you,” Gwynne murmured, sitting stoically as Aidan pressed a pad of folded cloth hard against her wound, before wrapping the first strip of linen around it and then tightening, tying it snugly beneath her arm.

As much to get her mind off of what he was doing to her as anything else, Aidan murmured, “Why in hell did you come back here, anyway, woman? We were even, remember? You said it yourself.”

“Perhaps I am lured by lost causes,” she drawled, a hint of humor in her tone, though she gave another little groan when he pulled the next strip of linen tighter around her ribs. Gritting her teeth again, she looked at him with the familiar glint of challenge in her eyes. “Why—would you rather I’d left you unaided, to be dispatched by the executioner?”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t grateful. Just surprised.”

“Then it seems we are truly even, since I’ve become acquainted with that feeling as well, during the course of this day.”

He didn’t answer at first, instead tugging the last of the strips into place. After brushing his fingers over the dressing to check that it would hold, he started to sit back on his heels, but something stopped him from pulling completely away from her. His job of tending her wounds was finished, yet still he tarried, trying to concentrate on anything he could other than the warmth of her skin beneath his touch and the pleasure of her nearness to him again—a nearness that he realized he was loath to give up.

Gwynne shifted a little under his ministrations, her
cheeks flushing with the most color he’d seen in her face since she’d pulled off her helm. She was as knowledgeable as he in the ways of war, he knew, to recognize that he was finished binding her, yet she too seemed unwilling to end this contact, brief as it was, between them. He cleared his throat, frowning. “Gwynne, perhaps we should discuss—”

“We’ve got a bit of a problem here,” Owin interrupted, making a little clicking sound with his tongue against his teeth as he walked up next to them, away from his position guarding Rutherford. “The duke is dead.”

Dafydd grunted before walking over to check the corpse; Gwynne remained silent, while Aidan cursed under his breath. ’Twas not from any misplaced grief over Rutherford’s passing, but rather because ’twould lengthen the list of crimes against Gwynne even more than before.

And Helene
. Helene would be devastated. He didn’t have to be in love with the woman to feel saddened by what she would endure because of this. But there had been no help for it. Rutherford had been given the chance to leave unharmed, and he had chosen to attack instead.

Aidan shook his head, pausing before pushing himself to stand. He reached down to help Gwynne to her feet, noticing that she did her best, this time, to avoid any overlong contact between them.

“You’ve a price on your head, Aidan, and Rutherford’s death is only going to make it worse,” Gwynne said finally, breaking the silence between them. She stood with her hands crossed in their usual defensive pose across her chest; her jaw looked tight, but she kept her gaze even on him as she added, “I can tell you from experience that life as a wanted criminal is difficult at best. You should ride to the coast as quickly as you can; board a vessel for France, perhaps. ’Tis your best bet for staying alive.”

“I don’t intend to run, Gwynne,” he answered, walking
to the cart to reclaim his sword and belt, which had been shoved beneath the seat after his arrest. “I will take care of my own affairs here, in due time.” He fastened the belt round his waist before stalking over to Rutherford’s body to retrieve the key to his manacles. Slipping the piece of metal into the lock-piece, he turned it, and the shackles fell off.

With a grimace, he kicked them aside, throwing the key after them as he faced her again, and rubbing his wrists gingerly. “However, right now, clearing my name will have to wait, because I’m going into the mountains with you.”

“
What
?” Gwynne choked, rounding on him, her expression incredulous and her fists planted on her hips.

“You must have lost your wits to think I will allow that.”

“You will need all the help you can get up there, Gwynne, and you know it,” Aidan said, adding, “There is nothing to hold me back, now—and ’tis the least I can do.” He glanced to the horizon, noting the darkening hues of gold and russet that were spreading across the sky. “We’ll have to hurry, though,” he added, reaching down to pick up a dagger, dropped by someone in the fighting, before sliding it into his boot. “We’ll only have light enough to travel for an hour more at best.”

Dafydd and Owin had resumed their old positions on either side of her, and all three of them faced him now, scowling, the stiffness of their poses screaming rejection of his plan. “I didn’t risk my neck saving you out here, Aidan, just to have you ride up into Welsh territory and get yourself killed,” Gwynne said finally, shifting her gaze to Dafydd for a moment, and giving a slight nod. The large man stalked away, on a mission to gather their mounts, Aidan decided, after watching him approach one of their steeds and reach into the pack on its back.

He ceased following Dafydd’s movements and looked
back at her. “But that is the point, Gwynne—you
did
risk your neck for me. ’Tis only fair that you allow me to return the favor.”

“I am truly sorry, Aidan, but I cannot do that,” she said quietly, and the apologetic look in her eyes—a look he thought he’d
never
see there, knowing Gwynne as he did—gave him a moment’s pause. She gave another brief jerk of her head, and a tingle of warning shot down his spine in the instant before he heard the whistling descent of the club that Dafydd swung into the back of his head.

And as he crumpled into the dark oblivion dealt him in that mercy blow, the last thing he heard was Gwynne’s husky voice, murmuring, “And you should know, Aidan, that I never promised to play fair.”

G
wynne awoke with a start. Wispy fragments of the dream still floated around her, pervading her mind, digging deep into her heart. ’Twas the same as always—the woman in white, her long, golden hair waving to her waist, holding her hand to her throat and opening her mouth in the soundless plea that Gwynne could never understand. Only this time it had been different at the very end. This time the vision woman had pulled her hand away, the bloody, gaping wound or bandages of the earlier times gone, to reveal a span of soft, fair skin, unmarred by any scar. And then she’d said something aloud, uttered in a melodious voice that had seemed to resound in Gwynne’s very soul.

’Twas a phrase, Gwynne thought, squeezing her eyes shut, struggling to hold onto the image. A message of some kind…

Gwynne…ah, my sweet child. Never fear to follow your heart
…

Gasping, Gwynne snapped her eyes open. Jesu, what did it mean? The woman had looked beautiful this time, healed and whole. And she had spoken out, after all these years of silence. ’Twas so strange…

“Are you ready to continue,
Chwedl
?”

Dafydd’s quiet question scattered the remnants of the dream. She shook her head a little, trying to regain her focus. Then, taking a deep breath, she tucked thoughts of the vision into their usual place, far back into her mind, knowing that she had a great deal more to worry about today than just making sense of something that had troubled her for years.

“Aye. I’m ready,” she answered. She swiped her hand across her eyes and pushed away from the moss-covered log against which she’d fallen asleep, wincing at the pain in her side as she stood—realizing that she’d forgotten, while she slept, about the wound. After checking her dressings to ensure that they were still tight, she looked to the horizon, just visible now through the interspersed shadows of the trees. ’Twas near dawn, the pink-tinged, thready clouds serving as harbingers of the new day.

Owin called a greeting to her, and she returned the pleasantry, glancing over to where he stood with their mounts already prepared for the remainder of their journey. They’d all taken a short rest, after having traveled the path up into the mountains for most of the night, but it appeared that she’d been the last to rise. Now ’twas time to go. Time to return to the home they hadn’t seen in more than three months.

Time to face the accusatory glances and charges of treason that most surely awaited her there.

As she swung astride her mount and led her men on the final stretch to the Welsh settlement, she couldn’t help but think of Aidan and of the way they’d left him last night,
lying so motionless and quiet, still senseless from the blow she’d ordered dealt to him. They’d done their best to make him comfortable, and then they’d resumed their journey into the mountains.

Regret bit deep, followed by the bittersweet recollection of his earlier insistence to join her on this journey. It had been a noble gesture, to be sure, but she hadn’t been able to escape the thought that it had been offered from a sense of obligation—a kind of repayment for her aid in freeing him from the duke.

And she’d had enough of duty and obligation to last her for two lifetimes.

Clenching her jaw, Gwynne picked up the pace that would lead her and her men toward home. Nay, the past was over and done with; as much as that truth hurt, she had to accept it. The only thing that she could control right now was her present, and the future that would result from it. Just what that future entailed was going to become crystal clear in the next few hours, when she rode back into the bosom of the people that had molded her into a Legend…

And took hold of her own destiny at long last.

Aidan paused as he neared the Welsh settlement nearly fours hours after dawn; his breathing was slow and steady, his hands tingling with anticipation of what he might be forced to do to keep himself—and perhaps Gwynne—alive long enough to get them out of here again. He’d paid hell to get up the mountain as quickly as he did, and still he feared he’d taken too long. ’Twas already mid-morning; if they’d traveled all night, as he knew she’d planned, Gwynne and her men would have reached this settlement hours ago. He’d lost valuable time thanks to Dafydd’s club slamming into the back of his skull. Rubbing the aching knot on his head again now,
he reminded himself of the need to repay the man for that little gift.

He’d awakened in one of the village huts just outside of Dunston to find Old Alana tending him—an arrangement Gwynne had apparently insisted upon, Alana had said; Gwynne had sought assurance that he was all right, waiting until Alana had examined him before she and her men had ridden off into the night.

He’d cursed aloud when he’d heard that, and, not caring whether or nay the price on his throbbing head made it dangerous for him to do it, he’d thrown himself from his pallet and gone in search of Kevyn, finding his friend still dutifully ensconced at Dunston. He’d asked Kev to go to Rex for him, to explain what had happened; then, after throwing together what he thought he’d need for the journey into the mountains, he’d saddled Revolution and set off as if hell’s hounds pursued him, determined to reach the Welsh settlement by dawn.

Determined to reach Gwynne.

Her head start had made things difficult, a situation compounded by the lack of a clear trail for him to follow; her experience at organizing ambushes and leading expeditions had meant she’d expertly covered most of her tracks. But he’d managed, following what signs he could find, and they had led him here.

Now he dismounted almost silently, tethering his steed to a branch and creeping closer to the settlement’s edge. He’d gone over the possibilities in his mind a hundred times on the way here, working and reworking his plans, based on what he might find. He knew that Gwynne might be imprisoned somewhere in the village for the crimes Lucan had levied against her, or perhaps even accepted back into the fold of the people, with all forgiven. Or anything in between. He had no way of knowing.

But he’d realized at some point after she’d ridden out of
Dunston yesterday that no matter what else happened, he loved her. Loved her with everything he was and ever would be. She was the one true constant of his life—the woman he would yearn for with his whole heart and soul, forever—and no amount of duty or family honor could ever change that. He didn’t want to change it.

And so he knew that no matter what the risk to him, he couldn’t bear the thought of her facing the specter of danger without him by her side, ever again.

Ducking down, he peered through the brush, seeing several huts along the perimeter of the settlement. The buildings blocked his full view, but if he’d had to, he’d have guessed that beyond the huts lay the village square. If Gwynne was in trouble, she’d be held somewhere near there, in the center of the settlement, where escape would be more difficult.

Making note of two large dogs he saw sleeping in front of the dwellings, Aidan felt in his pack for the scraps of meat and biscuit left over from the repast he’d all but inhaled on the way here. ’Twould come in handy when the time came to sneak past the animals in search of Gwynne.

Finally, after checking the location of his mount one last time, Aidan stepped from the wood and into the clearing, running to take cover behind one of the huts. A prickle went up his neck as he paused, focusing on keeping his breathing steady; he suddenly realized that he saw no people. Anywhere. The village was quiet. If not for the dogs and a few wisps of smoke that rose from the top of the huts, he’d have thought the place deserted.

Tossing a scrap of meat to one of the beasts that growled low in its throat as he passed, Aidan continued on, slipping ever closer to the center square. As he neared, he began to see some of the villagers; they clustered at the far end of the open area, involved in what
seemed to be a confrontation of some kind, with two groups standing opposite each other, shouting and shaking their fists.

Scowling, Aidan squinted, edging closer from his position behind a pile of drying grasses, trying to see if Gwynne, Lucan, or either of her bodyguards were visible anywhere. With a start, he recognized Dafydd’s broad back; the older man faced away from him, spine stiff, watching the shouting match rather than getting caught up in the fray. Aidan let his gaze sweep over the area again; Owin, Gwynne, and Lucan were nowhere to be seen.

Suddenly, everyone began to quiet, the shouts and insults fading to grumbled comments and whisperings. A tingle went up Aidan’s back, and he crouched lower behind the grass pile, hoping that the unexpected hush didn’t mean he’d been spotted. In the next instant, everyone seemed to shift, the opposing sides widening to form a circle—and then Aidan realized why.

The door to what appeared to be the main building of the rebel settlement swung open, and Lucan stalked out, followed by Gwynne, who was led forth between two warriors Aidan had never seen before. ’Twas clear that she was being held captive; her surcoat, mail and sword belt had been taken from her, and her hands were bound behind her back.

Aidan’s heart thudded painfully, and he searched her with his gaze, praying that she’d not been harmed in any way since he’d seen her last. He held his breath, watching as the two men forced her toward the center of the makeshift circle; as she got closer he could see that her face showed signs of strain from whatever had been happening here this day, and she walked stiffly, no doubt from the pain of her wounded side—but otherwise she seemed unharmed.

Thank God
.

Letting the air from his lungs out in a rush, he glanced quickly to the right and then the left before darting to the corner of the next building. As he crouched down, the fetid stench of rotting vegetables that had been tossed out the back door nearly choked him, but he tried to ignore it and focused instead on working his way ever closer to Gwynne.

Determined that, when the moment was right, he was going to make his move to aid her.

As she walked across the main square, Gwynne squinted, her eyes unaccustomed to the glare of the sun. Her head throbbed, and she tried not to think about the burning ache of the wound on her side, but that feat was near impossible; the pain had increased tenfold in the past two hours. Shortly after her entrance into the village, Lucan had ordered her locked in the council building, away from the watchful eyes of her supporters. He’d joined her there a brief while later and spent the time from then until now interrogating and trying to force a confession from her—which had included a few well-placed, brutal strikes to her injured side. It had taken all her strength to stand up straight again once he was done with her, and a burst of pure will to walk unaided into the center of the square just now.

“Speak, woman!” Lucan snarled at her yet again, repeating the command he’d made countless times while they’d been inside. “Confess your treason or suffer the consequences!”

She remained silent, not even condescending to look at him, in hopes that her disdain would incite him to strike her again here, in front of these people, many of whom still worshipped her as the Legend and would no doubt eschew altogether the trial he’d called, simply to take matters into their own hands. But as furious as he was, even
Lucan wasn’t foolish enough to risk turning the people against himself.

He stood, almost shaking with anger, for a moment, before he stilled, a new idea seeming to cross his mind. Making a self-satisfied sound, he came close enough to bring his mouth next to her ear, growling, “Confess to the people, cousin—or I will ensure that our English hostages die.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” she grated, speaking at last as she turned her head toward him and withered him with her gaze. “’Tis against the agreement Marrok and I made with de Brice. I am back safely, and they must be returned home the same.”

“I am in command, now, in my father’s absence. The people will do as I say,” he boasted. “If I wish them to die, they will die. Speak your confession now, and they will be spared.”

“I do not believe you, Lucan,” she muttered, “and I’ve told you before, I will not speak until I see Marrok.”

Stiffening her back, she looked away from him again, letting him see her contempt as she ignored him; he stalked off with a curse toward the line of his men—discussing further strategies for bringing her to heel, no doubt—and so she was left alone, to gaze into the writhing, milling crowd. She frowned, looking over the square. It seemed that nearly the entire village had come to witness the open trial Lucan had called. But the confusion of emotion, condemning expressions on the faces of some, tear-filled sympathy or indignation for her on others, sent a pang through her, chilling her anger for a moment.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Not like this, with division and conflict driving a wedge between these people. These were the same villagers she’d known almost all her life, most of them honest men and women, who believed in the fight for justice as much as she did. And now, thanks
to her—thanks to Lucan and his damned need for retribution—they were in danger of falling into a war amongst themselves.

Her gaze lit on Dafydd, standing, stalwart as always, at the back of the crowd. He nodded, trying to bolster her spirits, though the depth of concern in his eyes belied his unease about what was happening.

Aye, he was worried, and rightfully so; Lucan and his backers were out for her blood. Before she’d entered the village this morn, she’d sent Owin ahead to find Marrok and bring him back from the scouting expedition that had prevented him from receiving her message four days ago, but if her bodyguard came back empty-handed, she feared that her cousin and his men just might get what they seemed to desire so urgently.

“Make her confess before the people,” she heard Isolde hiss to her son from the edges of the crowd. “If they hear her say it, they cannot support her any longer!”

“I have tried, Mother,” Lucan muttered, though few but those in closest proximity to him were able to hear the exchange. “She will not yield!”

Gwynne continued to stare straight ahead, unwilling to give the woman the respect of looking at her; if there was any way to accomplish it once this was over, she promised herself to see Isolde stripped of her position as soothsayer to the clan for the perfidy she’d shown here today.