Rexanne Becnel (10 page)

Taking a shaky breath, she forced herself to face him. “Isolde is my niece, daughter to my only sister. But she could just as easily have been mine. You see, my sister hid me. She sacrificed herself to the … to the English swine who meant to have
me
—” Her voice broke, and she turned awkwardly away from his scrutiny. She hadn’t meant to cry before him. It was the last thing she wanted to do. But even her boundless fury could not overshadow the piercing pain of these memories.

“Wynne,” he began in the gentlest of tones. It stiffened her resolve at once.

She stared at him over her shoulder and continued in a voice gone as cold as ice. “My sister bore the child. Then she leaped from a cliff. She ended her own life—”

Her voice failed her, and in frustration she clenched her jaw, willing her emotions away. “I took Isolde as mine, and the other children were brought to me when their families heard of it. I raise them all as mine—they
are
mine. And no one—not you nor your powerful lord, nor even your damnable king himself—shall take them from me.”

He seemed to be without words, and for that Wynne was enormously grateful. One more minute of this conversation would have seen her dissolved completely in tears.

Even as she willed him to leave, she heard his footsteps crossing the quiet glade. His step grew softer as he crossed a mossy bank, then made his way from her private bower. She would like to have rejoiced at his disappearance and to have believed he would now depart for good. But she knew this was not over. He had been moved by her impassioned recital, it seemed, but she feared he had not been chased off.

And why should he? she berated herself. He’d seen her at her weakest, both emotionally and physically. He’d touched the raw wound that seven years had yet to heal. That was bad enough. But she’d also let him see into that closed part of her, that deep, private place no one else had seen before. He’d felt her tremble in his embrace.

In that moment, in that quiet glade where only the wind and the movement of wild things interrupted the silence, Wynne knew that this battle would be far worse than she’d anticipated. His reason for being here was enough to make him her foe. But his new presence in her life—his prying with his watchful eyes, disturbing touch, and overpowering kiss—made him her mortal enemy. She was fighting for her very existence.

But even if she won—and she would—she nonetheless knew that her life would never be the same again.

“G
WYNEDD SAYS YOU ARE
to come to her.”

Wynne looked up from dark thoughts of fairy cap and the black mold to see Isolde and Bronwen watching her with wide eyes and grave expressions. She would have been alarmed by their serious demeanors, except that they didn’t appear in the least frightened.

“Well, and what is this all about?”

“I think you’re in trouble,” Isolde answered.

“Gwynedd says that was a very wicked thing you did,” Bronwen added.

That, at least, brought Wynne out of the wretched mood she’d been in since the Englishman had left her glade yesterday afternoon. So he’d awakened to find his hands aflame from the parsley fern, had he? Good. That would prove to him that her threats were not to be ignored.

Isolde clucked her tongue, sounding very like Wynne when she was about to scold one of the children for a naughty prank. “You should know better than to be mean to our guests.”

“Sir Cleve is a very nice man,” Bronwen interjected. “Why did you make his skin itch?”

Became he’s not really nice at all,
Wynne wanted to correct the little girl.
Became he has no honor or morals and would willingly steal one of you from me.

But she couldn’t say that to them, so she only stood up slowly, shook out the skirts of both her plain kirtle and her plunket cloth bliaut. Then she pushed her narrow sleeves up to her elbows. “Well, shall we go see what his problem is?”

It was easy for Wynne to be smug and self-righteous with only the children around. But at the manor, under Gwynedd’s disapproving stare, sightless though it might be, she was considerably more uncomfortable. He was getting only what he deserved. But Gwynedd obviously did not agree.

“You have a gift,” the old woman began in her soft, lilting voice. “ ’Tis not for you to misuse in such a fashion.”

Wynne frowned. “Run along, girls,” she told the two watching children. Once they were gone, she replied to her aunt.

“He wishes to take one of our children back to England. I told you what he planned, and now, even though I told him in no uncertain terms that I will not allow it, he is nonetheless determined to do it. He wants to know which child was sired by this English lord of his. As if I will help him determine such a thing!”

Gwynedd took in Wynne’s impassioned words without a change in her expression. “What you did was wrong. What plant did you have him handle?”

Wynne stared at her aunt disbelievingly. “Haven’t you heard anything I’ve said? Don’t you care at all that he wants one of my children?”

Gwynedd sighed and raised her gnarled hands to press against her clouded eyes. “Of course I care,
nith.
But these children will not always be children. They will grow; we will die. They will have to make their own way in this world and make their own decisions. His quest is not without merit.” She stared straight at Wynne. “Now, what plant is it that irritates his hands so?”

Wynne had never felt so powerless. Of all people, she would have expected Gwynedd to understand and support her against this English enemy. “ ’Tis parsley fern that brings him such misery,” she revealed most reluctantly. “But he shall consider his present discomfort as nothing compared with what I have planned for him if he doesn’t flee Radnor Forest soon,” she finished belligerently.

“We shall see about that,” Gwynedd answered with unaccustomed sharpness. “Now, help me up.”

Wynne could not deny her great-aunt’s request. When the old woman’s hand closed around her arm, however, she felt an odd mixture of reassurance and dread. Gwynedd’s hold was firm, and the old sensation of power seemed to flow from her into Wynne. Her aunt was determined to let this man have his way, Wynne realized. And she was still a force to be reckoned with.

“I want you to prepare a cleansing wash and then a poultice to ease his pain,” Gwynedd ordered as they made their way toward the capacious stillroom. “You know what is needed, and I depend on you to do a good job of it. As good as if it were Druce or Barris or even one of the children who was so afflicted.”

“I’ll
not
aid him. If you wish to heal him, then you may do so. But I shall not.”

“You will, girl. You caused his pain and you shall undo it.”

“But Gwynedd—”

“Is this the way you would abuse your gifts? Is this the example you would set for Isolde? She may one day be Seeress here. Do you wish her to learn that her skills may be used as readily for spite as for good?”

“ ’Tis hardly spite to protect your family,” Wynne retorted.

But Gwynedd was unaffected. “
You
will be the one to ease his pains. You.”

Had it not been for the five observant faces that greeted her just outside the stillroom door, Wynne would have argued further. But their confused and watchful expressions bothered Wynne even more than Gwynedd’s accusing tone. The children did not understand how she could have pulled so cruel a prank on someone they all liked. Arthur especially stared at her with a hurt expression on his innocent face.

Oh, how could she ever make them understand?

With an unhappy sigh she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “I’ll see to him,” she muttered. Then she and her conscience escaped into the comforting privacy of the stillroom.

What was it about that damnable Englishman? she fumed as she snatched up pottery containers with unaccustomed vehemence. He was the villain, and yet Gwynedd seemed prepared to forgive him anything! She slammed a leather pouch down on the table, then repressed an oath when its seam split, releasing a quick puff of a pale orange powder. Just look what he’d made her do now! Even after she had a clear wash of moth herb in rosewater, and an ointment of bittersweet and yellow dock prepared, she was no less irate. But as she made her way toward the English encampment, she vowed to suppress it. Anger would not help her, but cool, calm reasoning could. He needed to determine which child was sired by this Lord Somerville. Well, there was no way he could ever know without her help. And even if she did cooperate—which she wouldn’t—she wasn’t certain they could ever know for sure. It was hardly likely that any of the children’s mothers had known their rapists’ names. Certainly her sister had not. There’d been too many of them. Besides, three of the four mothers were dead.

Even with that thought uppermost in her mind, she could barely repress the shiver of fear that snaked up her back when she entered the English encampment. So many men, and every one of them her enemy. Cleve FitzWarin especially was glaring at her with undisguised animosity. But it was that very anger of his that helped to banish her fear.

“I hear that you have need of my healing skills,” she said in English, not trying in the least to hide her amusement. She swept the other men sitting before the low-pitched tent with a slow, appraising stare. “As anyone in Radnor Forest will tell you, I have uncanny skills as a healer.”

When they all shifted uncomfortably, she turned her smug expression back on the man who was the true focus of her ire. Ignoring the dangerous glitter in his eyes, she went on. “ ’Tis fortunate for you that I have this gift, for such an affliction as you have would surely test the skills of a lesser healer. As Gwynedd has told you, the magic of this place imbues both the plants and the people with powers quite beyond the ordinary.”

His eyes narrowed. “Leave us,” he snapped to his men, though his eyes bored into hers. Only after the men scrambled hastily to obey did he address her directly.

“While your performance may impress my soldiers, it holds no weight with me. Play the role of seeress or witch or whatever you wish. But understand this, Wynne ab Gruffydd. I know you for what you are.”

His eyes moved over her, from her now angry face, down the full length of her body, thoroughly examining every aspect of her appearance. When he at last raised his insolent gaze back to her face, she was burning with outrage, as well as a distinctly more uncomfortable emotion. How dare he look at her as if he meant to … meant to consume her.

As if he sensed her discomfort and was pleased by it, he relaxed back against the massive cedar tree behind him. “Here are my hands, O witch of the Welsh forests. You’ve done your worst on them. Now come heal them.”

Hiding her fury as best she could, she drew nearer. He obviously knew Gwynedd had forced her to help him. But he couldn’t be completely sure that she would comply. If nothing else, she could make him wonder, and at least wipe that smug and arrogant look off his face.

“ ’Tis my pleasure to heal you, my lord,” she said with exaggerated sweetness. She glanced at his red, chapped hands, and though she was successful in restraining her grin, her eyes gleamed with malicious delight. “Oh, dear, how dreadfully that parsley fern affected your fingers.” She knelt down beside him and spread out her medicinal concoctions. “Is your skin always so sensitive?”

Without warning he grasped her chin and jerked her face up toward his. “Not always. It depends on the particular stimulus. For instance, my hands react to your parsley fern. Other of my parts react directly to you.”

He released her chin, and before she could respond, he let his raw knuckles stroke ever so lightly down the column of her throat, a slow, possessive exploration.

She would have scrambled back from him at once, but he grabbed her wrist. “Oh, no, you don’t, my little Welsh witch. Your work is not yet finished here.”

Wynne had never felt so trapped. She’d known not to look into his eyes. She’d known she mustn’t let him touch her. Yet here she was, doubly caught by him once more.

For a long, trembling moment their gazes remained locked. She felt the heat of his hand on her skin and the heat of the angry emotions in his eyes. Yet the fire that leaped between them burned hotter than it should have. It was his damnable magic, she knew. This terrible, powerful magic he possessed.

Though her heart pounded and her mouth was unaccountably dry, she forced herself to reply. “If you will release me, I’ll do as my aunt has requested. But if it were left only to me …” She didn’t finish the sentence. But then, there was no need.

With a snort of disgust he let her go, but it was clear he was far from pacified. He started to scratch his left palm, then thought better of it. “Heal this bloody itch,” he growled. “And no tricks, or you shall pay a severe cost.”

Removed from both his touch and the mesmerizing power of his bottomless brown eyes, Wynne felt the slow return of her equanimity. She still seethed with fury, yet she knew she must remain calm with this man. She must control her emotions and thereby control the situation. As she soaked a small square of linen in the cooling wash, she counted silently to ten. First in Welsh, then in English.

“Hold your hands over this bowl,” she ordered, pleased by the steady sound of her voice. She smiled as she lifted the dripping cloth. Though the wash was healing, she knew that at first it would sting his irritated skin. She squeezed the cloth over his outstretched hands, but when he only flinched ever so slightly, she glanced up at him in surprise.

The gaze that met hers was cool and appraising. A little threatening too. “The sting is no doubt necessary to the healing.” He made it a statement, not a question.

“It must burn away the evil spirits,” she automatically mouthed the answer she always gave her patients. “The more it stings, the better it is working …”

Her words trailed off as she realized he didn’t believe a word of it. She jerked her eyes away from his too-aggressive stare and concentrated on her odious task. “Turn your hands palm up.” She squeezed more of the wash over his hands. Though she would have been perfectly happy if her preparations did not work in his case, a part of her was nonetheless unable to do less than her best.