Rexanne Becnel (20 page)

He wanted her and he would do whatever was necessary to have her. Earlier this morning Druce had made him vow not to force Wynne in any way, but Cleve knew how easy it would be to seduce her. She could be made willing; that had been clear on at least two occasions already.

“Bedamned!” he swore as he brought Ceta to a stiff-legged halt. If he did not curb his randy thoughts soon, this ride to Kirkston Castle would be the worse sort of torture for him.

But every time he thought of her—so eager and soft in his arms, so warm and responsive to his kisses—his loins fairly ached. Then his mind would begin to imagine them finishing what they’d begun, and he could hardly bear it.

With another vicious oath he slid off Ceta, then just leaned heavily against the beast, willing his raging passions away. By Saint Osyth’s soul, they were but two leagues gone on this journey. How was he to survive?

Wynne’s fury knew no bounds when Cleve deposited the sleeping Arthur on her lap, then rode so abruptly away. What right had he to treat her in so rude a manner? But then, why should she expect any better of him? He needed no reason to be cruel. It was a part of his nature.

Yet even as she settled Arthur more comfortably between her arms, she was unable to cling to her righteous anger. Some other aberrant emotion seemed to worm its way into her heart, and she only ended up feeling even more alone than before. She hugged Arthur tighter than ever, praying she would not lose him to this English lord, then glanced back at the twins and prayed just as fervently that she would not lose them either.

Men and their sons. Why could they not be as pleased with their daughters? Why couldn’t they be as content to pass their properties through their girl children?

But they weren’t, not Englishmen, nor Welsh. Nor any other country she’d heard of either. Men invariably chose to pass their hard-won lands to their sons. It was as simple as that. Would her boys be as rigid when they reached manhood?

She glanced over at the two girls who rode with Druce and Barris. They were both every bit as smart as the boys, though they were as different as night and day. What would become of them in the years ahead?

Indeed, what would become of all five of them? What would they do; where would they live? For an uncomfortable moment she wondered if perhaps she was being selfish. What endless possibilities might this Lord Somerville’s wealth provide for one of her young charges? But just as quickly as it surfaced, so did she bury that weak thought. Her children did not need English wealth to be happy. Radnor Forest and the vast lands at their disposal would provide for them, as it had for so many others.

Besides, the children clearly were not concerned with the future just now, for all of them were nodding and very near falling asleep.

Arthur shifted, and Wynne felt a twinge in her left arm. She could not carry him this way for long. Her arms were not strong enough. A quick glance at the sky told her that it was near midday. Time enough to stop for a rest and something to eat. Without a word to anyone, she turned her mare off the ancient road and toward an inviting stand of young beeches.

“Wynne,” Druce called in a loud whisper. “What are you doing?”

She glared over her shoulder at him. She did not plan to forgive him anytime soon. “I’m tired and hungry. So are the children. We’re stopping here.”

He hesitated for a moment and glanced at Barris for support. But his brother only shrugged and turned to follow Wynne. In short order the Englishmen also followed her lead.

She had them spread rugs for the children in a shady spot and urged her charges to continue their naps while she prepared them a meal. But once disturbed, the twins could not doze off again. Before very long all five of them were wide awake and curious about their new environs.

“Look at these rocks,” Rhys said as he kicked at the edge of the road.

“They look like coins, so flat and round,” Madoc said.

“Let’s play market day,” Bronwen suggested as she squatted down and began to place the newfound coins one by one onto her lap.

“I’ll sell medicines and herbs,” Isolde said. “And love potions and magic spells,” she added with a grin.

While the others busied themselves with their newfound sport, however, Arthur only frowned and looked around their little campsite.

“Where’s Cleve?” he asked, directing the question to no one in particular. When he received no reply, he tugged on Wynne’s skirt.

“Where’s Cleve?” he demanded suspiciously.

“He rode on ahead,” Wynne answered in an even tone, though she, too, wondered where the man had gotten to.

“He hasn’t left us, has he?”

Wynne turned at the panicked sound in Arthur’s voice and at once put aside the knife and loaf of bread she held. She took the child’s hands in hers and looked earnestly into his eyes. “He’ll be back, sweetheart. Don’t worry. He’s probably just scouting ahead to make certain we don’t go the wrong way.”

Arthur sighed in relief. “Yes, that must be it. He’ll be back soon.”

He scampered off after that and joined the other children at their play. But his new contentment only increased Wynne’s concern. It was plain that Arthur adored Cleve. What had begun as simple hero worship seemed to have grown now into a much stronger emotion. But instead of putting an end to it, her failed attempts to discourage Cleve in his cruel mission had somehow served only to strengthen the bond between him and Arthur.

She concentrated on preparing the simple meal, dividing bread and cheese into five child-sized portions, but all the time she worried. In the end Cleve and Arthur must part. Whether she kept all her boys with her or—God prevent it—any of them remained in England, Cleve would not stay a part of Arthur’s life. Yet with every passing day the connection between them seemed to grow stronger.

By the time she had them settled at their meal, she knew that she must speak to Cleve about Arthur. Though she considered the arrogant Englishman the most hateful and selfish man alive, he
did
seem to care for the boy. Perhaps if she appealed to that side of his nature, he would recognize the harm he did by befriending Arthur.

Her chance did not come until evening. Though she caught a glimpse of Cleve several times during the long afternoon ride, he stayed a good distance ahead of them. Once Druce rode up to confer with him, but Druce was soon back with the rest of their party, a thoughtful expression on his face.

“Well, and what has that Englishman to say for himself?” Wynne had asked, unable to disguise either her irritation or her curiosity.

Druce had shrugged. “He’s thinking, was all he said.”

“Thinking? Hah. More than likely he’s plotting some new and nefarious scheme to convince this Somerville that one of my boys is his son.” She glared at the empty road ahead, trying to spy the object of her ire, but when she failed, she turned her anger toward Druce. “But I forget myself. You no longer care which of my boys goes to this English rapist, do you? So long as the lad becomes heir to the man’s wretched lands. No doubt you’d call him father yourself if it would gain you a castle or two!”

Druce had not replied to that. He’d only slowed his horse and let her go ahead so that she rode alone. And so she’d ridden the whole day, her anger and fear festering inside her like a bitter and untended wound.

Now, as she turned her mare over to the English soldier called Derrick, she plotted her next move. Poisoning would not work, at least not at the moment, for though she might not balk at killing the Englishmen, she knew she could not endanger Druce or Barris that way. And as long as Druce and Gwynedd supported Cleve’s quest, her children would not be made safe by such actions. No, the only way left to her was to make all of the Englishmen fear her and her powers and, in their fear, hesitate to take one of her children into their midst. It was a weak plan, she glumly realized, but it was all she had.

Meanwhile, however, she and Cleve must discuss Arthur’s inappropriate affection for him.

Cleve was standing with his back to her, deftly removing the saddle and sidepacks from his tall gray destrier. She knew, however, that he sensed her, for his broad shoulders tensed when she drew to a halt but three paces from him.

“I would have a word with you.”

He did not respond to her demand at once, but only slid the sidepacks to the ground, then squatted on one knee to unfasten the girth strap.

“I would have a word with you.”
Uffernol cnaf
, she silently added.

He pulled the saddle free, then turned slowly to face her. For a moment he didn’t answer, but simply stared at her with the most intent expression on his face. His eyes slid down the entire length of her, from her sunburned cheeks and nose, down along her dusty traveling gown to where her muddy boots peeked from beneath her skirts.

For the merest fraction of a second she felt the oddest and most inappropriate emotion begin to unfurl within her. From belly to breasts to the very tips of her fingers and toes, the feeling raced, and she found herself wishing she did not always look so bedraggled in his presence.

But as quickly as those unreasonable emotions flared, so did she beat them down. He, too, seemed to reconsider the boldness of his gaze—no doubt because she looked so wretched—for he scowled and heaved his saddle to the ground between them.

“What now?” he barked as he once again turned his back to her and began to tend his horse.

Uffernol cnaf,
she thought with even more vehemence than before. Hellish knave. She adopted her iciest tone. “There is a problem with Arthur.”

He twisted his head to meet her glare. “What do you mean, a problem? Is he hurt? Or ill?”

Wynne felt an edge of her tension ease. At least in this she was correct. He did care for the boy. Now, if she could only convince him that the attachment between them could come to no good.

“No, he is not ailing. But I fear …” She clasped her hands nervously. How she hated making this appeal to him. “I fear he becomes too attached to you. And no matter the final outcome of this … this quest of yours, one thing is certain. You will not remain a part of Arthur’s life. Whether he resides with me or with this … this Englishman who seeks a son of his own,
you
will not long be around.”

He studied her for a moment, but his face revealed no hint of his thoughts.

“If Arthur is the one that stays in England, I will see him. I’ll make it a point to check on him.”

“You will be too busy with your own wife—and children,” she threw back at him. “If you marry this Edeline, you’ll probably reside in another place and will soon forget about Arthur. But what of him? He would be left all alone in a strange place, surrounded by strangers.”

“He may not be Sir William’s son. It might be the twins.”

“Perhaps,” Wynne conceded. “And perhaps
none
of them is his son. But even so, Arthur will be hurt the most. For when we return to Wales, you will be out of his life. Forever. The fact is, this affection you show him now will only hurt him later. You think to comfort him, but when you are gone from his life, he will be left with a new and painful emptiness.”

Cleve frowned. “What would you have me do, then? Cast him aside? He’s but a lad and in urgent need of a father.”

“But
you
can never be that father, so don’t pretend to be,” Wynne snapped in a rising tone. She glared at him, her hands clenched into fists. She was prepared to fight for Arthur—for all the children—in any way she had to. But Cleve’s next words took all the wind from her sails.

“What if you stayed in England—with all of them?”

She blinked, not understanding in the least what he meant by such an outrageous suggestion. “Stay in England! Me?” Then she frowned. “You are truly addled, Englishman. Have you perchance eaten of the black mold? For your mind does twist in fanciful directions. Stay in England, hah! I’d rather reside in hell.”

He stepped over the forgotten saddle. “England is not so unlike Wales, but you will see that soon enough.”

Her gaze narrowed at the odd, almost coaxing tone in his voice. “I’ll not stay. No, not even one minute beyond what I must. Once this matter is done with, we shall take our leave from there, even though the skies fall upon us and the winds threaten to blow us away. Nothing could keep me there.”

She stared challengingly up at him. But in the short silence she grew uncomfortably aware of his nearness. She swallowed once and started to step back, but he caught her by the arm.

“You could stay with—” He broke off and cleared his throat. “I could find you a place to live. Someplace where you can see Sir William’s son—or sons—as often as you like.”

Wynne felt a sudden rush of blood through her. Whether it was caused by his touch, as had so often been the case, or by the very thought of leaving one of her children behind—or by the idea of staying in England and being near to Cleve—she could not be sure. All she knew was that all of her logical arguments seemed to fly right out of her head.

With a movement that was rooted more in self-defense than in any lingering anger, she jerked out of his grasp and stepped safely away. But there was no safety to be had merely in keeping her distance from him, for Cleve’s gaze followed her, and she was unable to break the hold of his mesmerizing gaze.

“Give it some thought,” he said in a voice low and far too soothing. Seductive. “Give it some time, Wynne. We’ll cross the Dyke tomorrow and be in England. You’ll see then that the forests are as thick and green as your own. The birds and beasts are familiar. The land but becomes a little gentler, and you’ll see more roads and villages. Give it time—”

“No!” She shook her head adamantly. “A hundred years would not be enough time to sway me to your way of thinking.”

“Listen to me, Wynne.” He stepped forward as if he meant to take her in his arms and convince her in the same way he’d managed to convince her in the past. His kiss made his words seem not so misguided. His intimate caress dissolved all her protests every time. Yet knowing that, Wynne was nonetheless unable to prevent the erratic leap of her heart, nor a hot surge of the most unwarranted feelings from deep within her belly. But he stopped before he reached for her, and though the sudden arrival of Arthur made it clear why he’d halted, Wynne was consumed by the most acute sense of disappointment.