Rexanne Becnel (27 page)

The three boys were already down and running about, scaring up a small hare and flushing a hen harrier from her shelter in the heather. Isolde and Bronwen looked around at their new campsite, then came straight toward Wynne.

“Wynne, Wynne. Can we pick the place to put the tent this time? Can we?”

Wynne forced a pleasant expression to her face, though her bottom ached like the devil. “Why don’t you speak to Cleve about it? Or Druce,” she added, aware that she should not invest all authority to Cleve. At least not before the children.

“Cleve. Cleve,” they chorused as they turned and ran to where he dismounted among his men.

Wynne watched as he squatted before them, nodding and smiling, then giving each of them a fond pat on the head. They scampered off toward where Barris and the now-recovered Henry unloaded the jennets, but her gaze remained on Cleve. He rose to his feet, then with a final stroke and tickle for his destrier, he started toward her.

Wynne couldn’t remove her eyes from him, nor had she been able to do so the whole day long, though she’d kept her distance from him. Last night they had slept a short while together, but when the strange, misty glow of the false dawn had showed, Wynne had risen from their tangled bed and fled back to the tent.

Dear God, but she had truly done it this time, she had fretted, lying there amid the sleeping children. If her situation had been unhappy before, it must be tenfold more so after what they’d done.

Yet Wynne had been unable to be completely dismayed. Even now she had only to close her eyes to remember how he’d touched her and how he’d made her feel. Would she honestly wish to undo all that had passed between them this past night? Now, as she perched painfully astride her mare and stared down into his darkening eyes, she knew she would not.

“The riding has been uncomfortable for you,” he said as he rested one hand upon her knee.

Wynne tried to shrug, but even that hurt. She grimaced instead. “Just get me down from here.”

In a trifling moment he had his hands firmly around her waist, lifted her high, then placed her on her feet before him. When her knees began to buckle, she grabbed desperately at him, but he saved her from falling and pulled her close.

“We should have rested another night at Offa’s Dyke. I warned you that you might find the ride, ah … difficult.”

Wynne met his amused gaze. “You have warned me of many things,” she answered crossly. “But I shall make my own decisions. And go my own way.”

His amusement faded, for he knew she spoke of more than simply the obvious. Their only conversation earlier that day had been similar, him urging her to rest another day and her responding to his patronizing tone with embarrassment, covered by a curt, dismissive air. Then, as now, she’d said things better left unsaid.

“Go your own way,” he repeated her words caustically. “Yes, so you say again and again. But beware, my sweet witch. For all your virginal restraint before last night, such talk as this does reek more of the whore.”

“How dare you!” She tried to yank free of him but to no avail. “You pursue me and hound me. And now you dare to chastise me that I acquiesced—”

“I chastise you not that you gave yourself to me,” he bit right back at her. “But that you seek so quickly to cast that aside and go your own way, as you say. You act as though what has passed between us was an act of no importance, an urge like hunger. Eat the meal and then promptly forget what you just feasted upon. But our ways are now entwined, Wynne. I told you there were consequences to what we did, and so there are. Do not try to avoid that fact.”

Wynne shut her eyes and turned her face away from his angry scrutiny. He spoke a truth she could not dispute—save, perhaps, in their differing expectations of what those consequences would be. He thought they were now somehow bound together. Their lovemaking had initiated some sort of physical permanence in his eyes. But she knew that though the ties that existed between them were powerful, they were emotional, not physical. Oh, yes, she felt that soaring physical longing for him, that aching yearning that swelled from the deepest recesses of her private being to encompass her entire body. But it was her heart that felt it more profoundly than anywhere else. Her heart. Her emotions. That was the connection they would always share. That was the consequence she would have to live with all the days of her life.

“There are consequences,” she admitted with a heavy heart. She shifted in his grasp, making certain that her legs would hold her. Then she lifted her face back up to his and met his black look with a determinedly pleasant expression. “I know there are consequences, Cleve. I feel them most uncomfortably even as we speak. But you must allow me my freedoms. I’ve belonged to no one. Not ever. I’ve been on my own since I was but a child of twelve. I will not be possessed now. Not even by you.”

To her relief he did not prevent her from backing away from him. He merely looked at her as if he would learn every thought in her head, every emotion in her heart if he did but stare long enough.

To be truthful, Wynne was much flattered by his blatant possessiveness. He was a man any woman would want to belong to—
if
a woman wished to belong to a man.

But she did not wish to belong to anyone; nor would any self-respecting Welshwoman. That was for frail and fearful English maidens, not for a strong woman of
Cymru.
And certainly not for the Seeress of Radnor.

“ ’Tis not my wish to possess you in that way, Wynne. I do not seek to steal your very self from you. But I would not lose what we have begun.” He reached out and let one hand run up her arm, from her wrist up past her elbow to her shoulder. Even through the sleeves of her kirtle and gown she felt the special warmth his touch imparted.

It was the magic, she thought as their eyes held and her skin came afire. The most powerful magic in the world. Why must
he
be the one who stirred it to life within her?

But he was, and if she’d wondered the whole long day why she’d gone to him in such a reckless and forward fashion, she had the answer now. It was magic.

He stepped nearer so that they were but inches apart. She could have sworn that her body felt the imprint of him though they did not touch. But she knew how it would feel. His hard thighs against her legs. His brawny chest against her softer breasts. His rigid manhood …

He bent to her as if he might kiss her, and she strained upward in anticipation. But a giggle and a loud “Shhh” brought them swiftly apart.

“I
told
you to be quiet,” Bronwen fussed at Madoc.

“
I
didn’t do anything!”

Bronwen’s scowl faded to a sheepish grin when she looked up at Wynne and Cleve. Her usual shy expression was completely overtaken by a dreamy infatuation, and Wynne feared she knew precisely what the girl imagined.

“What is it you need?” Cleve inquired with an unconcerned grin.

“Oh, well. It’s all right,” Bronwen demurred. “We don’t want to interrupt you.”

“Maybe he
wants
to be interrupted,” Madoc said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Girls may like to kiss, but I don’t think boys do.”

“ ’Course they do,” Bronwen replied. With her fists on her hips and her face patient, she looked the image of a scolding mother. “Well, when they grow to be men, they do. How do you think they get to have children of their own?”

Madoc gave her an equally exasperated look. “It’s not from kissing, stupid. Don’t you remember what Wynne said? About the English soldiers and our mothers—” He broke off at the memory of that violence and gave Cleve a suddenly suspicious stare. “What are you doing to Wynne?”

“Now, wait a minute, Madoc.” Wynne stepped away from Cleve and crouched down before the boy. She took his hands in hers, wondering how she might explain. The last thing she wanted was for her children to think that all men were rapists. “Kissing can be … well, very nice,” she began. “It’s … it’s the right way for a man and woman to … to …”

“To show they love each other,” Bronwen finished. She shook her head at Madoc. “Boys are
so
stupid.”

“We are not!” he shouted back.

“What’s the matter?” Rhys called as he ran up to them.

As he joined the argument between Bronwen and Madoc, Wynne stood up. She had to be more careful, she told herself. Practically kissing Cleve in broad daylight and in view of everyone, children and men alike. She peered cautiously toward where the men unloaded the horses, then promptly looked down at the toes of her dusty boots. Druce was grinning. So was Barris. Cleve’s men looked a little uncertain, but there was still a leering sort of curiosity in their avid gazes.

Oh, but she was an utter fool!

“Kissing can be very nice,” Cleve whispered softly in her ear. He slipped an arm around her waist before she could spring back in dismay. “It’s the right way for a man and a woman to show—”

“That they love each other?” she snapped, unnerved by how he managed always to strike just the right chord in her, whether with a touch, a look, or just the husky sound of his voice. “Love has nothing to do with it,” she vowed as she wrested free of his disturbing nearness.

He studied her. “If you were perhaps more experienced with these matters, I would give your arguments some credence. But we both know you’re not.”

She was saved from responding to that self-serving statement when Arthur insinuated his slight form between the two of them.

“Are you two going to get married to each other?”

His expression was so solemn and his eyes so intent that Wynne was at a loss as to how she should respond. Of course they were not going to get married. That was preposterous. She glanced at Cleve, hoping to appeal to him for help. But to her surprise he, too, was taken aback by Arthur’s innocent question.

At once Wynne’s dismay hardened to anger. What an unfeeling, self-centered brute he was! Of course their kiss would not lead to marriage, for his intentions were not that noble. For all his talk of consequences and entwined futures, he had only one plan for her: that of casual mistress. A woman upon her back for him to ease himself upon, much as this Lord Somerville had eased himself upon some poor Welsh maiden, then left her, pregnant and alone, once he was tired of her.

She stiffened in fury, then turned to Arthur. “Kissing does not always imply love. Nor is it a promise of marriage.” She swallowed hard, forcing herself to soften the curt edge to her voice. “Sometimes a woman must kiss a few men before she finds just the right one—the one she wishes to marry and raise a family with,” she added, shooting Cleve a venomous look.

She took malicious pleasure at the disconcerted expression on his face. When Arthur stared up at him, confusion and disappointment on his young face, Wynne could have sworn Cleve actually squirmed.

“Don’t you
want
to marry Wynne?” Arthur asked, hope still wavering in his voice.

Cleve cleared his throat. He focused on Arthur, ignoring Wynne completely. “It’s not that simple, lad. Sometimes … sometimes …” He glanced at Wynne, and their eyes held. “Sometimes a man
also
must kiss a number of maidens before he finds the one he would spend the rest of his days with.”

They left it at that, though Arthur was not entirely appeased by their vague words. Cleve went off with two of his men to hunt. Arthur climbed a young oak tree and stared up into the cloudless evening sky. Wynne set the other children to gathering firewood and busied herself with food preparations. But every word Cleve had said repeated itself in her head, like an endless echo that would not fade.

What had he meant? Was she just one among the many women he must have a taste of before he settled upon a wife? Or did he mean that now that he’d tasted several, it was she with whom he would willingly spend the rest of his life?

That did not necessarily imply marriage, of course. He’d not said the word, and she was sure it must be for a reason. He did not wish to marry her, but did he wish to keep her in some other fashion?

Or was she only imagining that because it was at least a more flattering concept than outright rejection?

“
Rhegi
,” she swore in frustration. Then she yelped in pain as she sliced into her left index finger with the razor point of her knife.

“Are you hurt?” Druce asked.

She gave him a suspicious look as she sucked at the wound. “I’ll survive,” she muttered as she glanced down at the thin line of dark red blood that oozed from the cut.

“You should be more careful with knives.” He settled himself amiably onto a grassy spot, leaning on one elbow as he watched her.

Wynne glared at him. “Don’t you have something else to do?”

Druce grinned. “Actually I’ve set aside the next hour or so purely for gloating.”

“Gloating?” she asked in initial confusion. Then her lips thinned, for she knew. “Don’t waste your time. Or mine.”

“Ah, England. Who would think this land could be so fair? Who would expect it to offer such rewards to a group of
Cymry
such as we?”

“England has nothing for us,” Wynne snapped. “Nothing whatsoever.”

“Not true, Wynne. You know you do but avoid the truth. For one—or two—of our boys, England promises great wealth. For you, well, you have found your one true love.”

“I have not!”

“And for me,” he continued as if she had not spoken, “for me it offers adventure. Perhaps riches as well. Marriage to a beautiful heiress. Or something,” he finished with a carefree shrug.

“This English air does obviously make you daft,” she spat.

He studied her with the same nearly black eyes she’d known since they were children together, and without warning Wynne felt a barrier fall. Her quick anger became just as quickly a weary resignation. Druce was one of her oldest and dearest friends, and she desperately needed a friend right now.

He must have seen the change in her expression, for his brows drew together in concern. “Wynne? What is it?”

She gave a huge sigh, stared at him another long second, then turned to squint at the eastern horizon. “I don’t know what to do,” she admitted in a small voice.

He sat up straighter and peered at her. “About what in particular?”