The Beauty Bride (The Jewels of Kinfairlie) (23 page)

“You
will not blame me for your cruel confession.”

“Nay?”
For the first time, Rhys showed annoyance. He jabbed a finger through the air
at Madeline as he crossed the chamber, his eyes flashing. “You were the one to
demand honesty of me, but you complain at your first taste of the truth.” He
shoved a hand through his hair and glowered at her. “Would you prefer that I
lie to you about my intent? Would you prefer to be deceived?”

“I
would prefer that you be faithful!”

He donned his tabard with curt gestures. “The remedy for that is within your
own womb.”

Of
course, no woman had control over her womb. Madeline could not choose when to
become pregnant, let alone which gender of child she bore. It was scarce the
same as choosing between red or green samite for a kirtle.

And
Rhys knew it, curse him. Madeline clenched her fists and drew a fortifying
breath, the urge to murder this man growing stronger by the moment.

“I
would ask you to return the crucifix to its rightful place, husband,” she said
with heat. “For I have need of a witness to my prayers.”

“While
you pray for that son?” It was as much a statement as a question. Apparently as
untroubled by her mood as he could possibly be, Rhys retrieved the sculpture
and hung it again.

“Perhaps
I mean to pray for widowhood,” Madeline said sweetly. “For that would solve all
of the woes come to me this night.” She saw the flash of alarm in Rhys’ eyes,
but she did not care. She fell to her knees and prayed with fervor,
acknowledging her husband’s hovering presence no more.

Let
Rhys worry what she asked of the Almighty. He deserved no less than that
measure of uncertainty.

* * *

Rhys
had always found women somewhat incomprehensible and a goodly amount of
trouble. It was small consolation that his new wife proved his earlier conclusions
to be valid.

No
less that she did so with such gusto.

He
watched her pray, well aware that she was deliberately ignoring him. He was
certain her mood would pass, but the night retreated and Madeline did not rise
from her knees. Her lips worked and her eyes remained closed, and he realized
that she was no longer ignoring him.

She
was oblivious to his presence.

And
she prayed, as if expecting results.

Rhys
had never troubled overmuch with prayer. He was of the opinion - taught to him
by his indomitable mother - that God aided to those who aided themselves.
Anything he had ever desired, he had labored to make his own, instead of
demanding divine intervention to see his desired fulfilled. Indeed, he was
skeptical that God would even lend an ear to the prayers of a man like him:
mortal men of power became deaf when bastards spoke, and he could see no reason
why an immortal lord should be different.

Madeline,
however, appeared to have expectations. Was she accustomed to having her
prayers answered? And if that were true, what might she ask of God?

Surely
she had jested about requesting widowhood?

Rhys
was not so certain. It was clear enough that Madeline might have regrets about
the nuptial vows they had exchanged just the day before. It would have taken a
less perceptive man than he to miss the fact that she had not taken well to his
determination to have a son.

The
prospect of losing her troubled Rhys more than he would have liked to admit,
though he knew his marriage was of strategic import alone. He was more
concerned about losing Caerwyn than Madeline - or so he told himself as he
watched her lips move silently in appeal.

All
the same, it would not have been all bad for matters to have remained amiable
between them. Their mating had gone well enough, at least in his view, and he
had been fairly certain she had been pleased as well. She knew he needed a son,
so why did his determination to have one trouble her so much? Bastards were
common in Wales and great lords commonly had concubines living openly alongside
their wives.

Perhaps
matters were different in Scotland.

Barbarian.
Rhys had called many things in his days, worse things by far, but his new
wife’s accusation had stung.

Rhys
shuffled his feet, but Madeline showed no awareness of his movement. He donned
his cloak and noisily resettled his blades in their scabbards. She remained as
immobile as a statue, except for her lips which worked in silent fury. He began
to wonder what request would require such a protracted appeal and a new
restlessness dawned upon him.

It
was then that a whisper carried through the small window. “Rhys!”

It
was Thomas, Rhys was certain of it.

“Rhys,
are you there?” The monk spoke in Welsh, which made Rhys’ blood quicken.
Something was amiss.

He
hastened to the window and peered over the high sill. Thomas huddled beneath
the window. That the monk tried to hide his bulk in the slim shadow there would
have been amusing had his manner not been so troubled.

“I
am here, Thomas. Tell me what news you bring.”

“They
are coming for you, Rhys, six riders on great steeds.” Thomas glanced from the
gate to Rhys repeatedly, his anxiety clear. “They ride directly for our gates.
I will not be able to halt them, but they must not find you here.”

Rhys
clutched the sill. “Whose insignia do they wear?”

Thomas
granted him a glance filled with concern. “They wear no markings, though their
steeds are too impressive for their riders to be of no import at all. Great
black destriers, they are, their coats gleaming like a raven’s plumage.”

This
was no good news.

“I
fear you speak aright, Thomas.” Rhys pivoted and found Madeline watching him
with wide eyes. He cast her kirtle and her boots toward her and spoke so that
she would understand. “Garb yourself with haste. We leave immediately.”

She
held her garments before herself. “But why? Where do we go?”

“There
is no time to speak of it now.” Rhys had no intent of telling his bride how
closely the king’s men had come to capturing him when he last he had ventured
out of Wales. He did not want to frighten her, and in truth, once they reached
Caerwyn, he did not intend to leave those protective walls again soon. A
trickle of dread slid down his spine, for he did not know what the king’s men
would do to his new bride.

He
feared he could guess, though, for Madeline’s beauty could not be denied. His
determination to escape was redoubled.

“Make
haste!” he said so harshly that she flinched.

She
did his bidding, though, at least for the moment.

Rhys
turned again to the window, just as the bells pealed from the gate, and spoke
in Welsh again. “Thomas? Have you a scheme?”

“Go
through the kitchens, Rhys. There are few awake as yet. And linger in the
shadows until this party is shown in to meet the abbess. I will ensure that
your steeds are saddled so that you can flee while they await her hospitality.”

“It
will not give us much of a margin, but it is the sole one we will be granted,”
Rhys agreed.

“Godspeed
to you, old friend, in case I have not the chance again to wish you well.”

“And
thank you for your aid, Thomas. I am again in your debt.”

“You
do not know yet what price that destrier will fetch,” Thomas teased, then he
was gone.

Rhys
turned to Madeline again. To his relief, she was fully dressed and she was
fastening the end of the plait in her hair.

“I
hear horses.” She regarded him with curiosity, her fingers working with haste.
“Who comes that we must leave so quickly?”

He
recalled too well her intent to be rid of him and decided that honesty would
have to be sacrificed until they were too far away for her to betray him.
“Trouble for my aunt, no doubt,” he said. “She is one to pick battles and I
have neither the time nor the inclination to become entangled in her woes.
Come!”

“But
why such haste?”

Rhys
granted her a quelling glance - which had no discernible effect - then seized
her hand instead. “There is no time for discussion. We must be silent.”

Madeline
held her ground. “I wish to know what is happening.”

“Then
I will answer your queries once we are away from here.” He drew her closer and
held her gaze, feeling like a cur for what he had to do. “Trust me in this,
Madeline.”

The
use of her name seemed to soften her resistance. Though her lips remained thin,
she no longer fought his urging. He drew her hood over her hair and opened the
portal.

He
looked to the left and to the right, saw no other soul, then ducked out into
the hall. He decided that the kitchen was to the left, for he could smell bread
rising and they had come from the right on the night before. He set a brisk
pace, his wife fast behind him and blessedly quiet.

Thus
far.

Rhys
already knew his lady wife well enough to realize that situation could not
last.

* * *

Chapter Nine

Madeline
remained silent - with an effort - until they reached the stables. Thomas was
saddling Rhys’ dappled grey destrier. A chestnut palfrey stood beside the large
stallion, its bright eye and tendency to fidget showing that it was ready to
run. Rhys offered Madeline a hand to lift her into the palfrey’s saddle but she
stepped away from him.

“This
is not Tarascon.”

“Nay,
it is not,” Rhys said, speaking through gritted teeth. “Nor is this steed
injured.” He offered his hand again, with greater insistence, and his eyes
snapped with impatience.

“But
I cannot leave without my horse!”

“And
you cannot thwart her healing by riding her hard so soon after that injury.”

“Then
I will not ride hard this day.”

Rhys
made an exasperated noise. Before he could argue, Madeline anxiously looked
around the stable. She could not even spy Tarascon. She feared suddenly that
the palfrey had been killed because of the injury and none had told her of it.

She
clutched Rhys’ arm. “What have you done to her? Where is she? How could you
have her killed and not tell me of it?”

“The
steed is not dead,” Rhys said with such conviction that Madeline almost
believed him. He shoved a hand through his hair, glanced to the courtyard, then
paced to the end of the stables. His next words were more kindly uttered. “Look
here, at this palfrey, and be quick about it.”

He
gestured to a mare of darker hue than Tarascon and lacking the familiar white
star upon her brow. “That is not Tarascon!” Madeline had time to say before the
beast nickered and came to bury its nose in her hand.

She
stared, astonished that this horse moved in so similar a manner to her own, and
indeed, seemed to know her. She glanced up to find Rhys’ eyes twinkling.

“Do
you not recognize your own steed?” he asked, his words low with laughter. “She
knows you well enough.”

Madeline
stared at the horse nuzzling her palm, then stroked her ears. It was Tarascon,
albeit disguised. “But what happened to the star on her brow?”

“Soot,
my lady,” said Thomas. “It rid her of her socks, as well as darkening her hue.
Only one who knew her and looked closely would know her now.”

Indeed,
even Madeline’s eye had passed over the beast.

“She
will be safe here, my lady, safer than we may be,” Rhys said with quiet vigor.
“Come.”

Even
as she formed the question on her lips, voices carried from the bailey to their
ears.

Rhys’
manner changed immediately. “Now! We must begone.”

Thomas
peered through the stable doors. “They go into the abbey. This may be your sole
chance, Rhys.”

Rhys
paused beside the palfrey and offered Madeline his hand again. She was torn
between her loyalty to her lawful husband and to the steed she had known from
its foaling.

“But
I cannot leave Tarascon!”

“You
must.”

“I
will ensure her good care, my lady,” Thomas interjected.

“But
she is my steed. I have ridden her for years. I cannot simply abandon her!” It
was more than leaving the steed that she protested, and Madeline knew it well.
Tarascon was her last link with Kinfairlie, with all that was familiar to her.

“There
is no time for such discussion.” Rhys spoke with such fierce precision that
Madeline knew he was irked with her. “Mount this steed immediately, my lady, or
I will cast you across the saddle with mine own hands and truss you there.”

Madeline
bristled. “That would hardly be appropriate. You may have the right to do as
you will with me, but I do not have to endure it silently.”

“I
scarce imagine you could do so.”

“Oh!”