Stuart, Elizabeth (24 page)

Elen
slipped to her feet, speaking rapidly in English. "Would you put a mother
to death for defending her child... a father for protecting his daughter? Owain
has stood in place of both to me for a long time. You put out the tale I was
ill-treated here. It is you who are responsible for his attack! What kind of
man would sit idly by without lifting a hand to protect his family? Would you,
Richard? Would you stand by and let an enemy abuse your wife or mother or
sister?"

Richard
said nothing and Elen studied his dark face. Her voice dropped. "I think
not, Richard," she said softly. "I think you would fight to the death
for those you loved."

Owain
said something in Welsh, but Elen bit him off with a few sharp words in the
same tongue. Despite the seriousness of the moment, Richard smiled. It didn't
appear Elen was an obedient female even in her own family. "I will think
on it, Elen, that is all I can promise you now. My decision will depend a great
deal on your uncle himself."

He
turned and moved toward the door, pausing a moment as he lifted the latch.
"On tomorrow next we leave for Gwenlyn Keep, so be ready to travel. I've
delayed too long already over this affair and our supplies grow short."

"You...
you will take us with you?"

Richard
nodded. "Yes. I haven't yet decided what to do—with either of you."

Closing
the door behind him, Richard made his way down the narrow twisting stair. Just
what did he intend to do with the man and the girl? The man deserved to die.
And so he would if he couldn't bend to the will of his new sovereign. But
Elen's words had touched him. In truth, Richard had brought Owain's fierce
attack upon himself by putting that story about. Only it was another enemy he
had hoped to snare in the shadowy Welsh woodlands. And could he really put a
man to death for attempting to rescue his kinswoman? The answer was no if that
was the man's only crime.

And
what of Elen? He wasn't about to release her, not yet. He had held her barely a
fortnight and the Welsh were known to be patient. But what if he continued to
hold her? Might not the Welsh Fox grow impatient and come for her? After all,
it must rankle with Rhys to know his mistress was in the keeping of his enemy.

But
that was the only reason for his decision, Richard assured himself. He took no
personal interest in the girl beyond the simple need of a man long without the
pleasure of a woman.

The
vision of Margaret of Chester rose before him in all her blond loveliness. The
woman was as different from Elen as day and night—far more like his past
mistresses. Yes, he'd been too long without a woman, he admitted. But that was
a condition he would remedy soon enough.

***

Elen
winced as the rough supply cart jolted over a ridge of rock and shuddered into
another mudhole. She had forgotten how uncomfortable a plodding trip by ox cart
could be, and her leg still hurt a great deal. Owain gave a low groan as two
men-at-arms put their shoulders to the iron-bound cart wheel and wrenched it
free from the sucking muck. She leaned forward and touched his arm. "We're
almost there," she whispered. "Giles told me we should reach the
English fortress by nightfall. Can you stand the pain till then? It should be
only a few more hours."

Owain
smiled mirthlessly. "Have I another choice, little one?"

Despite
her worry, Elen smiled at the use of the old pet name. "No... not unless
you wish me to toss you over the side of the next cliff."

"A
happy prospect." Owain closed his eyes wearily. "Let me think on
it."

Elen
leaned against a sack of grain at her back, trying to find ease from the jolting
motion. It had been a miserable five days of travel, a journey made more
daunting by the bone-chilling rain that had drenched them both yesterday and
the day before. And the party had made even worse time today than on all the
days before.

The
mounted soldiers about them had fretted openly at the slow travel, but they
dared not leave the valuable supply train until it successfully negotiated the
mountain passes near the coast. It was just the kind of opportunity the Welsh
would be waiting for.

Elen
frowned as she caught a glimpse of Richard's banner far ahead through the misty
green of new-leafed trees. He was riding Moroedd this afternoon. He was
actually riding her horse! And the knowledge of her helplessness to stop him
had fanned the flames of her bitterness.

Moments
later, as if to further goad her temper, Richard flashed by on the narrow
trail, the gray stallion straining at the bit and occasionally kicking up as he
sought to get the better of the unfamiliar rider on his back. But Richard held
him in easily, curbing the animal's natural exuberance and forcing him to a
controlled canter.

Under
her breath, Elen cursed the Englishman and all his ancestors, calling on her
favorite saint to send the man sprawling in the mud. How she would laugh at the
sight! And she wouldn't even care if Richard beat her for it. Surely any good
Welsh saint would sympathize with her prayer.

But
her fervent petition went unanswered. Richard controlled the restive stallion
as only a born horseman could do, and Elen felt somehow betrayed to see the
animal settling down and performing at his best. Moroedd had rarely been so
tractable for her.

The
afternoon waned, lengthening shadows edging out the golden spring sunshine on
the valley floor. The carts bumped and strained as the trail grew more
treacherous, winding upward through a last range of mountains before reaching
the coast.

Suddenly,
Elen's cart gave an unexpected lurch, upending and sending her sprawling
against the side. A sharp pain stabbed her middle. Then she was rolling over
and over in a headlong tumble down a steep embankment to the right of the
trail.

She
came to a painful stop on a bed of loose shale. Opening her eyes, she gazed at
a patch of blue sky overhead, trying to breathe around the constricting ache in
her chest. What in God's name had happened? One minute she was sitting in the
cart admiring the desolate beauty of the dark Welsh mountains and the next she
was staring at the snowcapped peaks upside down.

A
scramble of rocks sounded above, and all at once Richard was bending over her.
"Elen! Elen, are you hurt?"

She
shook her head, still trying to draw air into her lungs. "No. I... I don't
think so."

Richard's
eyes were dark with concern. His hands moved over her, gently but impersonally
checking for injuries.

As
Elen's breathing steadied, so did her whirling thoughts. She pushed Richard's
probing hands away, struggling to sit up. "Owain! Merciful heaven, Owain
may be hurt!"

Richard
caught her shoulders, forcing her to remain seated. "Giles is with him.
Your uncle was thrown from the cart but didn't go off the trail. You can see to
him, but first be certain you've nothing broken."

Elen
sent him an impatient look. "If you'll release me, you'll find I can stand
on my own. Nothing is broken."

Richard
nodded and sat back, still eyeing her closely. "There's blood on your
tunic. Here," he said, fingering a narrow rent at her waist.

Elen
glanced down, suddenly aware of a stinging pain across her middle. She gingerly
parted the torn cloth and touched her bleeding flesh. " 'Tis naught but a
scratch. I must have fallen against the side of the cart as I went over."

She
sighed as she brushed the dirt and leaves from her tattered garment. Her
serviceable woolen tunic was torn in several places and had already been so oft
mended it was something beggars would scorn to wear. She sighed again, thinking
of the fine clothing that had filled her chests at Teifi. No doubt the English
had it now, she told herself angrily.

Richard
rose to his feet, holding out a hand to help her stand. Ignoring his
outstretched hand, Elen stood abruptly, but regretted her hasty action at once.
The blood drummed loudly in her ears and the scene about her spun and dimmed.
She caught Richard's arm, closing her eyes and breathing deeply to steady
herself. "I... I stood too quickly. I'll be all right."

Richard
didn't hesitate. Swinging her into his arms, he turned and began carrying her
up the rocky hillside toward the cluster of people on the trail above. Elen
protested, but Richard's arms only tightened around her. "Hush!" he
admonished. "Do you wish to reach your uncle or not? You don't seem like
to do it on your own strength."

Elen
subsided into mutinous silence, holding herself as stiffly erect as she could.
She could feel the beat of Richard's heart against her shoulder, the warmth of
his body insinuating itself into hers. The feeling of being carried in his arms
was oddly comforting, but she refused to relax against him. It would serve him
right if he tripped and they both went sprawling back down the hillside!

When
they reached the crest of the embankment, Richard lowered her to the ground.
Elen gazed at the scene of chaos. Scattered bags of grain littered the ground,
and the wooden cart still leaned at a crazy angle, its shattered wheel askew.
"She's unhurt," Richard replied in answer to Giles's questioning
look. "But that wheel is beyond saving. Bring up the next three carts and
distribute this grain among them."

Elen
pushed away from Richard, fighting an unexpected urge to linger beside him. The
fall must have shaken her more than she'd thought. She dropped to the ground,
covering her weakness by leaning over Owain to determine if any of his wounds
had reopened. "Is the pain bad?" she asked anxiously, satisfied there
was no new bleeding.

Owain
smiled ruefully. "The ground is not so soft as I remember from my younger
days. Still, it could be worse. As I recall, you did threaten to toss me over a
cliff."

Elen
smiled back in relief. "Yes, and I'm justly rewarded for my threat. It was
I who went sliding down the mountainside."

Moments
later, the carts were reloaded and Richard mounted the fretting gray stallion.
At his order, Owain was lifted into a cart that already contained several
passengers. Elen rose gingerly to follow but a sharp ache in her side triggered
another wave of dizziness. Catching the wooden sideplanking, she leaned against
it for support.

Richard
nudged his mount close beside her. He was still shaken from that terrible
moment when he had seen Elen tumble over the edge of the embankment. Today's
experience along with the memory of her daring leap into the mountain pool set
him thinking. One never knew what mischief might be brewing behind the girl's
wide blue eyes, and he didn't plan to take such a risk again.

He
leaned down, catching her up onto the saddle before him, one arm holding her
securely against his chest. "Margaret, watch over the man and see to his
needs," he directed a young blond woman seated in Owain's cart. "If
he grows restless or complains of pain, send one of the men ahead to inform
me."

Elen
fought against Richard's hold, twisting to stare at him in amazement. "But
I can see to my uncle's needs far better than a stranger," she protested.
"It's my place to stay."

Richard
turned Moroedd down the trail away from the cart. "I should think you'd
had your fill of riding in ox carts. The rest of the way you ride with
me."

"Why?"

Richard
frowned. He really had no reason he could name. "Because I wish it."

Elen
jerked away from the seductive warmth of his arms. Richard only wanted to show
his power. He would humiliate her before Owain and give his men more cause for
talk. "I prefer the cart," she said coldly.

Glancing
down at the dark chestnut head beneath his chin, Richard's lips twitched into a
smile. "I shall remember to ask your opinion—sometime when it
matters."

"Oh,
as you did before stealing my horse?"

"Your
horse?" he repeated dryly. "I would rather imagine your Rhys stole
him from some English knight. Besides, as I recall, you seemed to have some
difficulty remaining mounted the last time you rode him."

"Moroedd
is my horse," Elen snapped, swinging around to regard Richard indignantly.
"He was stolen from no one. He belonged to my father, and after Builth I
took him for my own. And I suggest you try riding him without a saddle during
the middle of a midnight raid. You might find yourself in the dirt as
well!"

Richard's
green eyes narrowed in surprise. "Your father owned an animal so valuable
as this? He must have been a wealthy man. This horse is beyond a whole year's
wages even for a man such as myself. Tell me, Elen, exactly who was this father
of yours?"

Elen
stared at him in dismay, horrified by what she had thoughtlessly disclosed.
Moroedd was far too valuable for a mere fighting man to own. "I don't wish
to discuss my father," she replied. "He is dead because of you and
that is enough."

"Very
well, I'm sure your uncle will talk—with a little persuasion."

Elen
frowned and bit her lip. Having said so much, she needed a plausible tale, else
Richard might become suspicious enough to seek her true identity. And if that
happened, she and Owain would never reach their refuge in France.