Rexanne Becnel (16 page)

There was a pause during which Wynne was acutely aware of every inch of Cleve’s body melded so intimately to hers. A part of her still yearned for more of the seductive thrill he filled her with. But the practical side of her struggled to break free.

“Shhh,” he admonished her with a forceful kiss that left her breathless all over again.

But Druce was not done with them. “Wynne?” he called once more, a trace of concern clear in his tone.

“I … I am here,” she managed to choke out. “Wait for me. I was … I was just coming in.”

She met Cleve’s still-ardent gaze and felt a sinking desperation when she spied the frustration on his face. One of his hands forced her face nearer his until their breath mingled. She truly thought she would faint from the terrible pull of too many divergent emotions.

“Ah, witch. You have but prolonged the moment when we shall find our pleasure in one another. If it is your intention to torture me, then you have well achieved your aim. But know this,
cariad.
My turn will come. And I promise you a sweet torture of your own.”

Then he kissed her hard and possessively, as if he meant never to release her. When he finally did set her free, Wynne stumbled back, disoriented, confused, and unable whatsoever to marshal her thoughts.

“Wynne!” Druce was nearer now, and his tone had become demanding.

“Yes … I … I’m coming,” she managed to answer him, though her eyes were riveted upon Cleve. The man was a sorcerer in his own right, her disjointed thoughts decided. And he was far too strong for her to stave off.

She jerked about and walked stiffly toward the distant lights from the manor, toward the vague outline that was Druce. At that moment Druce appeared a gift from a protective God, a savior sent to rescue her from the clutches of the devil himself.

“Are you all right?” he whispered when she reached him.

Wynne could only nod. She did not stop nor even pause. She only fixed her stare on the distant manor and continued across the meadow, unmindful of the tall grasses that parted before her and of the two sets of male eyes that followed her. She wished only to find a safe and private place where she could hide from prying eyes and try to mend her shattered nerves.

“What did you do to her?” Druce challenged when Cleve drew abreast of him.

Cleve gauged the other man’s reaction before answering. “I did what any hot-blooded man would do to her, given half a chance. I kissed her.” When Druce’s gaze narrowed, he went on. “Are you telling me you’ve never once tried to do the same?”

To Cleve’s surprise Druce looked away in quick chagrin, and his words came out awkwardly. “I’ve wanted to, I’ll admit as much. Most of the lads in the village have wanted to. But no one’s ever boasted of succeeding.”

A sudden rush of possessive feelings caught Cleve unaware. She’d not kissed another as she’d kissed him!

He and Druce fell in step together, both aware of the slight form that hurried on ahead of them. Cleve cleared his throat. “Has she not been promised to any other man, then?”

Their muffled footsteps and the cry of a nighthawk somewhere beyond the tree line was the only sound for a few moments. Then Druce sighed as if in resignation. “This is not England. While a father may deny his daughter permission to marry a man of whom he does not approve, no Welshwoman may be forced into a marriage she does not want. As Seeress, and with no father to guide her, Wynne’s choice is even more her own.” He shrugged. “Though at one time or another we’ve all thought to win her, she’s never allowed any man to court her. We thought perhaps she never would. But now …”

His words trailed off into the night air, but not before they had imprinted themselves on Cleve’s brain. Court her. Was that what he was doing? He suppressed an uncomfortable spurt of guilt. He was betrothed to Lord William’s youngest daughter—or at least he would be, once he succeeded in returning Lord William’s bastard son—or sons—to him. So why was he dallying with this woman whom he must necessarily abandon?

Wynne’s earlier words suddenly rang in his memory. “Have you ever raped a woman?” she’d asked. Though he had not, he knew nonetheless that he had deliberately seduced more than his fair share. And he’d very nearly succeeded in seducing Wynne tonight. If Druce had not interrupted them …

“I’ll bid you good night,” Cleve spoke curtly to Druce as he veered toward the English encampment.

“Wait. I would know—” Druce broke off, then after a moment’s consideration continued. “What are your intentions toward her?”

Cleve took a slow breath.
What indeed?
“She is a beautiful and intriguing woman.”

“I doubt you’ve any maidens in England quite like her,” Druce boasted, abandoning his cautious tone. “If you’ve a mind to win her over, well, I wish you good luck. You shall need it,” he added with a lighthearted chuckle. “Mind you, however, do not press her beyond where she would go, else you shall answer to me.” Then he turned and walked away, still laughing despite his last warning.

But though he had heard Druce’s words, and even wondered at the man’s amusement, Cleve was too consumed by his lingering desire for Wynne to think clearly. How he wanted that woman, prickly rose though she was. Yet he could not escape the guilty feelings that assailed him. He would have her if he could, and then what? Leave for England with one of her children in tow? What if there was a child of
their
joining?

She could avoid that, he told himself. She was a healer, after all—a witch, as she so often proclaimed. She must know all the methods to avoid bearing an unwanted child.

Yet if she was as untried as Druce said … If she was truly a virgin …

Cleve flung himself down on his blanket, curled one arm beneath his head, and stared up at the faint form of the moon behind the high, leading clouds. Of course she was a virgin. Why should he ever have thought otherwise?

That was one more reason why he should abandon this mad pursuit of her.

Yet the uncomfortable tension in his loins was too insistent to ignore. He shifted, trying to find a more hospitable position. But as the moon wended across the sky and the clouds followed, growing heavy and threatening, he couldn’t help cursing the perverse God who’d offered him the wife and lands he’d always hungered for, then turned around now to tempt him with a woman the likes of which he feared he might never find again.

When he finally slept, it was to toss fitfully beneath the gathering storm clouds, dreaming of a field of the sweetest roses. But when he sought a resting-place amid them, he was ever held back by their thorns.

W
YNNE HAD NO EASY
answer for Isolde’s question. “I don’t know why the English king wanted to make Wales a part of his country,” she finally replied.

“Because he’s a bloody English bast—” Madoc broke off when Rhys elbowed him in the ribs.

But Wynne was too troubled by what she must tell the children to be concerned by Madoc’s language. She sighed and reached out to rub Isolde’s foot. “I suppose King Henry felt Wales was a threat to his people. If he could make the people of
Cymru
his own, well, I suppose he thought he wouldn’t have to worry about us anymore. We would be English then.

“But that’s not what I want to talk about,” she added. She glanced at Arthur, and her nerve almost abandoned her. Though he’d done as asked, and all five of the children had been gathered in their sleeping loft waiting for her to come up, Arthur kept himself aloof. Like the others he was dressed only in his oldest shift, the one reserved just for sleeping. But unlike his brothers and sisters he sat apart, his knees drawn up to his chest. The others sat in various poses around her, all curious and bright-eyed about Wynne’s odd behavior. She usually made them go to sleep long before now.

A single rush-light illuminated the low-ceilinged space with a warm glow, yet from Arthur’s corner there came only an ice-cold chill. Wynne cleared her throat.

“War is more than two armies battling with swords and battle-axes. It’s more than just men fighting against other men. Other people get hurt too.”

“Even little children?” Bronwen ventured.

Wynne nodded. “Sometimes even little children.”

Madoc and Rhys shared a slightly alarmed look. “Are we going to have—”

“—another war with England?”

“Oh, no, sweetheart. That’s not going to happen. At least not anytime soon. And not here,” Wynne hastened to add. “No, you’re all very safe in Radnor Forest.”

“Then why are you talking about war?” Isolde asked.

“Well, I’m trying to explain about your fathers.”

“They were soldiers, weren’t they?”

Wynne looked up at Arthur’s belligerent question. “Yes, they were soldiers.”

“I knew it!” Madoc crowed. He jabbed at Rhys with an imaginary sword.

“And we’ll be soldiers too.”

“Listen to me,” Wynne pleaded, reaching forward to still the irrepressible pair. “Listen to me,” she repeated urgently.

Perhaps it was the sadness in her eyes that finally registered on them, for Rhys and Madoc grew silent, and Isolde and Bronwen leaned nearer one another. Even Arthur finally met her gaze, and she saw both the fear and longing in his eyes. He wanted to know, but in his wise-old-man fashion, he knew the truth would be unpleasant. Otherwise she would have told them all of this long before.

Wynne took a fortifying breath. “You are all Welsh-born. Never forget that. And though I am not your true mother, I am your mother in every other way. Your birth mothers were Welsh also. But your fathers … your fathers were all English soldiers.”

Complete silence seemed to envelop every corner of the low-ceilinged loft. Only the dancing flame of the solitary rush-light gave any indication of movement. Not sure how this news affected them, Wynne plunged on. “Seven years ago the English overran our portion of Wales. They were here off and on for several months. Many of us hid from them. Others resigned themselves to the invaders’ presence and simply tried to make the best of it.”

Isolde frowned and bit her lip, trying to understand. “Well, if the English soldiers married our mothers, how come—”

“They
didn’t
marry them, stupid!” Arthur jumped up with a furious expression on his face. “They
didn’t
marry our mothers! That’s why that bully Renfrew called us little
bastards
when we went to the village with Druce. That’s why Druce got so mad at him. He didn’t want us to hear and figure it out. But I figured it out … I figured it out, didn’t I, Wynne?” He trailed off in a frightened voice.

She stared at him through eyes filled with tears. There was such pain in his voice, such hurt on his young face. Then she nodded and held her arms out to him.

In an instant Arthur had barreled into her lap, sobbing against her chest. Isolde and Bronwen began to wail and squeeze against her, and even the twins began to sniffle and edge nearer. When she extended a hand to Rhys and Madoc, they, too, burrowed into the heap of weeping children.

They didn’t understand, not really. But they understood enough to realize that things were not as they should be. Wynne knew she had to tell them everything—at least as much of it as they could make sense of.

As usual Arthur understood far too much for a six-year-old. She’d often thought that was why he was so sensitive. His quick mind was so logical that he easily reasoned things out. But his little-boy emotions did not so easily accept. After all, he was but a little child—they all were. It was not right that they should have to deal with such difficult facts at so tender an age.

“Oh, my sweet babies,” she crooned, rocking back and forth with them. “I love you all so much. Everyone at Radnor Manor does. You must ignore bullies like Renfrew. What does he know?” she added, smoothing Arthur’s fair hair with one free hand.

Isolde lifted her head and looked up at Wynne. A tear trickled down her cheek to hang trembling on her tiny chin. “But … but what’s a ‘little bastard’? I don’t understand.” She began to cry again.

Wynne forced down the lump in her throat. Arthur met her gaze, and she saw in his teary face no trace of his earlier anger. Time to explain, she reluctantly admitted to herself.

“Here, let’s all dry our eyes first and catch our breath. All right? Then I’ll explain everything to you and answer all your questions.”

It was a subdued group who faced her, once they were all settled down. “When a man and woman marry, they commit to living their lives together and raising a family. Usually the woman begins to have babies and … and they raise their children, and, well, that’s it. But you don’t
have
to get married to have a baby.”

“That’s not what Cook says,” Isolde murmured.

Wynne gave her a wan smile. “What Cook means, sweetheart, is that you
should
marry before you have babies. Both God and the Church prefer it, and it’s best for everyone concerned. But sometimes women have babies before they get married.”

“Babies like us,” Arthur said solemnly.

“Yes, babies like all of you. But don’t blame your mothers,” Wynne hastened to add.

Bronwen shook her head. “But I don’t understand.”

Wynne exhaled a noisy breath. How was she to go about this? “All right. We all know that birds and rabbits and deer have babies, don’t we?”

They all nodded, their eyes steady on her, and she was reminded of a nest of magpies. “The mother and father bird—or whatever—don’t get married. They just decide to have babies. Well, it can happen that way with people too.”

“But how?” Rhys and Madoc chorused.

Arthur shot them an exasperated look. “Haven’t you ever seen the goats? You know, when the ram climbs on the ewe and … and wriggles all around?”

The other four children all nodded, but their blank expressions told Wynne that they still did not understand. In frustration she tossed her hair behind her shoulders and leaned forward earnestly.

“People are like the animals. The man must plant his seed within the woman so that it may grow into a babe. The Church tells us that he must marry her before he puts his seed into her. But some men don’t wait. They put their seeds in women—”

Wynne broke off, for the memory of her sister’s cries of terror and pain came back to her too clearly. The cries had eventually subsided to mere whimpers as man after man had taken her. “Planting his seed” was far too gentle an image for the bitter truth of that day.