The Beauty Bride (The Jewels of Kinfairlie) (27 page)

A
ruby flush rose from Madeline’s throat to suffuse her face. Her eyes gleamed
angrily, their vivid hue akin to lightning, and her words were low and hot.
“You go too far in this. You did not even know James, you never heard the magic
he could wring from a lute, and you have no right to despoil my memories of
him.”

But
Rhys was angry now, and he was fearful of Rosamunde’s intent. It seemed
suddenly critical that Madeline face the truth that this James was an
unsuitable match for her. “I shall wager that you wished to wed your betrothed
afore his departure to France,” he said curtly. He rose and gathered together
the remnants of their meal. “But your father forbade it.”

All
the color abandoned Madeline’s cheeks as she gaped at him. Her voice was almost
inaudible. “How could you know this?”

Rhys
barely glanced at her, so irked was he that she failed to show her good sense
in a matter of such import. “Because your father knew James, obviously, and
must have known the truth of James’ lack of military ability. No man would
willingly wed his daughter to a man who might not be able to ensure her safety.
Your father undoubtedly reasoned that James would either die in France, or he
would prove himself to be more of a warrior than he had been thus far.”

Rhys
shrugged. “You were better wedding him after that truth was known or not
wedding him at all. Your father fulfilled his responsibility to you, as I will
fulfill mine to our daughters, should we be blessed with any.”

With
that, Rhys began to pack their meal away with savage gestures. Madeline said
nothing at all, though he could feel her dismayed gaze upon him. He had not
meant to wound her heart, though he had no doubt he had done so. He would not,
however, have the repute of the great saintly James thrust upon him each time
he faltered in his wife’s expectations.

Especially
as that man was very likely in pursuit of them. He might not be able to avoid
the prospect of Madeline choosing between them, but he would do his best to
ensure that she had no illusions if ever she did so.

He
glanced back to find her pulling the bundled cloth from beneath her kirtle, her
tears falling with such vigor that he felt a knave. She had loved this fool
James, and he should not fault her for that.

“Leave
it, Madeline,” he said softly. “Your scheme is a good one.”

She
halted and stared at him, her face streaked with tears. “I love James and that
will never change.”

“I
understand.” Rhys was contrite, for he had spoken too harshly to her. “I shall
not speak of him again, out of respect for you. Indeed, I apologize that my
temper was lost so much as it was.”

“I
will never love another,” she said, her voice hoarse.

Rhys
nodded once and turned away, understanding what she was telling him. There was
a hollowness within him, a regret that Madeline could not offer him all that
she had offered James, but Rhys was accustomed to making do with the remnants
of others.

He
saddled the horses, then offered her his hand. “Come, my lady. It is time to
ride again.”

* * *

Rhys
FitzHenry had no heart at all. Madeline was wed to a man who did not care that
she would never love him. She decided that this revelation was not so
surprising, after all. Was there not a saying that a woman wed once for duty
and thence for love? She supposed she would have to survive Rhys to have a
chance of such love in her second marriage.

It
seemed a thin prospect. They rode onward in grim silence, only the calls of
birds and the occasional rustle in the undergrowth carrying to Madeline’s ears.

At
least they were not being pursued.

And
the weather was not as bad as it might have been.

That
seemed a sorry list of Fortune’s favor, but there was no changing it. Madeline
watched Rhys and wondered about his hidden thoughts.

The
man had no shortage of them, it was clear.

Sadly,
his indifference to love was evident. Such tender feelings must not be of any
import to a man of war such as himself. She had seen the glow in his eyes when
he spoke of Caerwyn, and guessed that he loved that keep. Though she knew that
she should not have been surprised that he cared only for property, she was
deeply disappointed.

Perhaps
it was time that she prodded more of his carefully kept secrets into the open.
She had precious little to lose.

Madeline
eyed her spouse, noting that he was more grim than usual, and urged her steed
slightly closer to his. Rhys barely spared her a glance, his own gaze darting
restlessly over the shadowed greenery on their every side. It was falling dark,
a triumphant smear of pink staining the indigo of the western skies.

“Who
do you know in Glasgow?” Madeline asked.

If
anything, Rhys grew more grim. “It is of no import.”

Madeline
had not expected an easy confession from him. Indeed, she could be as stubborn
as he was and it was time he confronted the truth of it. “How do you know of
any soul in Glasgow? That town is far indeed from Wales.”

“It
is of no import.” Rhys led his destrier from the path and cut a course through
the forest, making it impossible for Madeline to continue their conversation.
She waited, albeit impatiently, until he halted in small clearing by a stream.
He dismounted, moving with confidence in the shadows, then aided her to
dismount.

“Do
you simply make a visit, or do you expect aid from this friend in Glasgow?”
Madeline asked, keeping her tone deliberately bright. She won a hard look for
her trouble, but lifted a finger before he could speak. “I think this is of
import.”

Rhys
shrugged. “And I do not.” He unfastened his saddlebag, removed something, and
strode into the woods. Gelert darted after Rhys, his tail waving like a
bedraggled banner in his excitement.

With
half a dozen steps, he was gone. Half a dozen more and she could not even hear
him.

He
had effectively abandoned Madeline to her own questions. Madeline shouted after
her spouse, to no avail, and the sounds of the forest closed around her. The
horses bent their heads to graze, swishing their tails and amiably bumping
alongside each other.

The
man had the manners of a boar! Madeline shouted again, not truly expecting any
reply. She did not receive one.

Cur!
Knave and ruffian! Rhys FitzHenry had the worst manners of any man who ever she
had had the misfortune to meet. He yearned for a son, did he? Oh, he could
count himself fortunate indeed if ever he found himself between her thighs
again. He was welcome to keep a hundred whores, given his attitude.

What
manner of man left a woman alone in the forest at night? No man of merit, that
was for certain!

Madeline
grit her teeth, then unfastened the saddlebags, casting them to the forest
floor. He had no squire, so she must perform the duties of one, or see the
steeds suffer.

Wretched
man. She unfurled the two blankets she found within Rhys’ bag. She could only
manage to remove the palfrey’s saddle, for that of the destrier was not only
too large, but the beast itself stood too tall. She dropped the reins over the
horses’ heads and let them graze, then found the horse brush in one bag.

Indeed,
what need of Rhys of a squire when he had a wife? She brushed down the two
horses with vigor, for it was not their fault that their master was a selfish
cur. There was no merit in letting them fall ill from the chill of their own
sweat.

Madeline
soundly cursed her husband’s irresponsibility as she worked. Once she was done,
she set to gathering wood for a fire. She supposed that the presence of his
destrier indicated that Rhys would return, though she would not have wagered
her last denier upon it. She also would not rely upon his provision of a meal
for both of them whenever he did return. For all she knew, he might have
sniffed the ale of an inn in the distance, and hied himself off to warmth and a
good meal.

If
he thought she would let herself freeze to death, or sulk at his absence, he
was sorely mistaken. Fortunately, there was a good bit of dry kindling to be
found. It must not have rained as diligently in these parts as it had further
east.

As
her anger ran its course and faded, Madeline’s fear began to grow. She kept
herself busy, painfully aware that she had never been alone in the forest
before. She was accustomed to the security of high walls at night, and she
recalled all too readily the tales of ravenous wolves that she had so often
heard.

She
fed the fire to a tremendous blaze, hoping to dissuade any predators from
coming close. Despite her efforts, night fell and a wolf howled in the
distance. To her dismay, another answered from the other direction. They
sounded close to her inexperienced ears, too close. Even the horses eased
closer to each other, their ears flicking.

Madeline
told herself to ignore the gleam of watchful eyes in the forest around her -
surely the sight of them was no more than her imagination. She wrapped her
cloak tightly about herself, cursed her spouse once more, then sat and took a
bite out of an apple. She would eat a meal, then she would sleep.

Or
at least she would try to do so.

“I
had thought you would desire a hot meal on this night,” Rhys said with humor.

As
usual, the man reappeared at sudden proximity, only his words revealing his presence.
When Madeline pivoted to face him, she found him standing in the shadows, the
dog fast by his side. He held a trio of fish aloft, as if that and his smile
could compensate for his abrupt departure. The confidence in his manner was the
last vexation that she needed on this night to lose her temper in truth.

“You
faithless wretch!” Madeline cried, more relieved by the sight of Rhys than she
cared to admit. She cast her apple at her spouse with all the force she could
muster, hoping only that the resulting bruise was large and lasting.

* * *

Chapter Eleven

To
survive three teasing brothers, Madeline had learned to aim and throw, and she
had learned to do it well.

The
apple hit Rhys square in the nose, so astonished was he by her assault. He
yelped and jumped backward, dropping one fish, then cursing as he searched for
it in the leaves.

The
apple meanwhile hit the ground and bounced. Gelert darted after it, tail
wagging with delight when the apple was discovered. The dog trotted to
Madeline, uncommonly proud of itself, apple held high, then laid at her feet to
eat its prize.

Rhys
was not so happy. He regarded Madeline warily as he came closer, still shaking
dried leaves from the retrieved fish. “You are annoyed,” he said, as if her
response was inexplicable.

“What
splendid fortune to be wed to a perceptive man.”

“Where
did you think I had gone?”

“Perhaps
to hell.” Madeline folded her arms across her chest, intrigued despite her
annoyance at his manner. Did Rhys truly not understand that she had been
afraid?

His
gaze slipped over her features and she knew he missed no detail. “You cannot
have thought that I had abandoned you,” he said, as evidently the prospect
occurred to him.

“What
else was I to think?” Madeline spun to tend to the fire, fairly hearing Rhys
think as he watched her.

“I
take care of what is mine own,” he said.

Madeline
snorted. “How welcome it is to know that you count me among your possessions.
Like your saddle, or your knife. Perhaps your hound.” She jabbed a stick into
the fire. “There is a sentiment to warm a woman’s heart.”

She
heard his steps just afore he seized her elbow and spun her to meet the fire in
his eyes. “You make accusations without cause! There is a river. Can you not
hear it?” He shook his head in irritation. “Could you not guess that I would
provide a hot meal for us? You had to know that I would return.”

“I
knew no such thing.”

“Then
why did you build a fire?” He spared it a disapproving glance. “No less one as
big as a pyre. Those who hunt us will find us without effort, if this continues
to burn so high.”

That
he should criticize her resourcefulness in this moment was too much.

“Then,
perhaps they will find their prey roasted upon it!” Madeline kicked some of the
wood out of the bonfire while Rhys regarded her with astonishment, then stamped
upon the burning faggots.

By
the time she was done, the fire was much smaller, as was her irritation with
Rhys. All the same, she spun to confront him and propped her hands upon her
hips. “Does that suit you better, husband? You should leave more precise
instructions in future, that I might do your bidding fully!”

The
air fairly crackled between them, then Rhys shook his head. “Surely you cannot
have been afraid,” he said, frowning as he gutted the fish with decisive
gestures. “You are too intrepid a woman to be fearful of shadows.”