Mary Reed McCall (11 page)

She made a scoffing sound. “You’ve lost your senses if you think I’ll waste my time dancing with your English friends.”

“They’re not my
friends
,” Aidan ground out, subduing the familiar dull pain he felt in admitting that fact. Since his father’s execution for treason, most of England’s powerful families had treated him and Diana with begrudging tolerance at best. His own efforts for the king against Wales and his betrothal to Helene were all that had prevented them from excluding him altogether from their important social functions. “They’re simply other nobles from the area,” he added evenly.

“They’re
Englishmen
,” Gwynne argued. “’Tis likely that I’ve sacked their lands and killed some of their men.” She shook her head. “Nay, de Brice. Celebrate with them to your heart’s content, but I’ll be staying in my chamber on that night.”

She’d taken a position next to Dafydd as she spoke, seeming to gain some sort of comfort from his presence, even though she was almost equal to him in height and possessed, Aidan knew, far superior combat skills. A sharp jolt of resentment swept through him at her easy reliance on the man. He scowled, facing them as they stood, shoulder-to-shoulder, arms crossed over their chests in virtually identical positions of obstinacy.

“I’m sorry,” he said at last, his voice tight with the effort to keep the unfamiliar emotion contained. “But that sounded like a refusal.”

“I stand corrected, then,” she said, arching her brow again. “Your sense of hearing is apparently intact.”

The last of Aidan’s calm dissolved, and he took a step toward her, noticing that Dafydd stepped forward as well. Ignoring her bodyguard’s none too subtle attempt to intimidate him, he grated, “Refusal is not an option, Gwynne. We covered this weeks ago. You agreed to go along with the pretense of my arranging a marriage match for you, and you must attend this function—or any other
like it that I deem necessary—in order to do that and allay suspicion about who you really are.”

“You never said I’d need to be shown about like some sort of prized livestock.”

“It won’t be that way at all, I promise you.” He took another step toward her, intending to explain and allay her fears, but he was forced to stop short thanks to Dafydd’s solid form between them.

Scowling again, he snapped, “’Tis devilish hard to have a conversation with you like this.” He swiveled to glare at her bodyguard, adding, “Do you think you could allow us a few moments of talk in private? I promise not to attack or brutalize her in any way during that time—you can stand over there and keep an eye on us, if it will make you feel better.”

Now ’twas Dafydd’s turn to go red; the color spread from his neck all the way to the roots of his hair. He glanced to Gwynne, who had the good grace to look abashed as well. She nodded quickly, and Dafydd offered her a bow before he backed off twenty paces or so, returning to his former spot near the wood.

She settled her gaze on Aidan again. “You didn’t need to be so harsh with him. He was only doing his duty.”

“Aye, well, ’tis a foolish duty, if you ask me, to have to watch over you like a mother hen with a chick,” Aidan growled, still bristling with annoyance at their solidarity against him. “’Tis not as if you’re a delicate female in need of protection; Christ’s blood, you’re the only woman I know who could possibly succeed at slicing me in two if you had a mind to do it.”

As soon as the words came out, he could have strangled himself for uttering them. A look of hurt lanced across Gwynne’s face, and he felt as if he’d been punched in the gut, knowing ’twas he who’d put it there.

But in the next instant, her expression tightened, her mouth twisting sardonically, though she couldn’t mask the huskiness in her voice when she spoke. “Don’t look so stricken, de Brice; you’ve spoken the truth for once. I’m
not
like other women, and I never will be. You’d do best to remember that.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“No need to take it back,” she broke in, cocking her head in that defiant way he remembered all too well from the battlefield. “’Tis good to be reminded of the truth now and again. Perhaps you need it even more than I do.”

Her eyes glittered like chips of silvery ice, the last traces of pain shuttered behind them. “You should strive to recall that
this
is but an illusion,” she said, fisting her hand in her skirt and pulling it away from her like something distasteful. “A farce. I am a warrior, through and through, sworn to fight, maim, and kill to set my people free.

“I will attend your celebration next week only because I promised to uphold this charade of yours—but I tell you, I will not be offered up in display for your noble guests. If I must dance to maintain appearances, ’twill be with you alone, for I vow I’ll not be able to restrain myself from bloodshed if another cursed Englishman tries to put his hands on me.”

“I understand,” he said, still wishing he could do something to take back the hurt he’d inflicted. “I will do all in my power to ensure that you are treated with respect.”

She gave a jerky nod. “We see eye to eye on it, then. But just remember, de Brice—a little more than two months. That is all I have left to endure. After that, all bets are off between us.”

Her gaze chilled him for a moment longer before she turned on her heel and stalked away, gesturing to Dafydd to join her as she departed the glen.

Aidan watched her go, left behind to deal with the aching emptiness he felt inside of him in the best way he knew how…

Which turned out to be not at all.

G
wynne watched Diana flitter around the great hall, already worked into a tizzy over the celebration that was still two days off; the sight of her excitement only increased Gwynne’s angry thoughts. Would that she was done with this cursed castle and all its inhabitants—most especially Aidan and his voluptuous twit of a sister.

She banged her empty cup down on the table, directing a black look at any of the castle dwellers who dared glance in her direction because of it. Owin, sitting across from her, lifted his head from his food for a moment, looking first at her and then over at Diana’s lush, silk-clad form. Gwynne scowled, her annoyance spiking higher at Owin’s constant and appreciative notice of the wretched woman. Dafydd, sitting a little farther down the bench, didn’t react at all to either Gwynne or Diana. Unusually subdued, even for him, since the unpleasant incident with Aidan in the glen a few days ago, he kept his gaze on the table in front of him.

She’d tried to get him to ease up—to join with her and Owin last night as they’d sat together, joking and talking about conquests and victories past—but he’d remained quiet—brooding, no doubt, about de Brice and his biting tongue.

“I can’t say that I blame you,” Gwynne muttered, sliding her gaze from her bodyguard to the man who was behind both her and Dafydd’s ill humor. Aidan sat near the enormous hearth that graced nearly the entire length of the wall, discussing something with Kevyn, and laughing, every now and then, as he raised his cup to drink.

“Cursed Englishman,” she said under her breath, feeling the same sharp pain from three days ago course through her.
You’re the only woman I know who could possibly succeed at slicing me in two if you had a mind to do it.
Aidan’s brutal assessment of her rang out in her mind again, mocking her. And that, in turn, made her angry, since she knew that his thinking of her as a warrior first—a dangerous and powerful warrior—was exactly as it should be.

Then why the devil did it bother her so much?

“He can go to hell, for all I care,” she said, pushing herself up from the table, followed close behind by both Owin and Dafydd, who rose to their feet as well. Aidan looked over when they all stood, his penetrating gaze locking with hers and seeming to see more of her inner turmoil than was comfortable. Swallowing hard, she turned to Owin and mumbled, “I need to go train. Ready my equipment for me, will you?”

He nodded. “Aye,
Chwedl
. ’Twill be waiting for you.”

Dafydd glanced up as Owin strode by him with a murmured wish for safe travel; then the older bodyguard shifted his gaze to Gwynne, his concerned expression cutting her to the quick.

“Have you a message for Marrok,
Chwedl
?” he asked quietly. “I’ll be leaving soon, to meet with our envoy in the wood.”

“Aye, Dafydd.” She reached into her tunic for the sealed parchment she’d completed last night, feeling a twinge as she handed it over to him. It contained none of the troubling thoughts she’d struggled with these past weeks; as with each missive before, she’d tried to sound encouraging about their progress, not wanting Marrok to worry about her unduly during their stay with the enemy.

The enemy
.

The jabbing ache inside her increased, but she did her best to ignore it, instead clapping Dafydd on the shoulder and wishing him Godspeed on the daylong journey. He paused for a moment, meeting her gaze in silence, as if he were about to say something. But then he simply bowed his head and strode from the hall to undertake his duty.

Damn.

She watched him go, more disconcerted than before. Dafydd’s obvious unease was not a good sign. Not good at all…

Frowning, she stepped back from the table, readying herself to leave the hall and prepare for her training session, when a sharp-fingered hand clamped down on her arm. She wrenched herself free and whirled to face whomever had been so foolish as to touch her, just barely restraining herself from gripping the idiot by the throat and slamming him up against the wall.

’Twas Diana.

Damn again
…

“Going to practice your dancing?” Aidan’s sister all but purred, wearing an expression of smug superiority as she confronted Gwynne.

“’Tis none of your business what I’m going to do,”
Gwynne answered sharply. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“Nay, not quite yet,” Diana said, stepping to block her path. A wicked smile curved her lips, making her look more feline than female. “I have something to say to you first,” she glanced over at Aidan, whose back remained to them, “while we have a moment of privacy out of my brother’s hearing.”

“How exciting.” Gwynne shifted her weight back, crossing her arms over her chest and raising her brow.

“Please begin, so that I can hang onto your every word.”

Anger sparked in Diana’s green eyes. “Go ahead. Enjoy yourself while you can. It won’t last long.” She raised her chin, flicking a silky auburn lock over her shoulder with practiced skill. “I’m here to warn you to stay away from Aidan. He is already spoken for and needs no distraction from that truth by the likes of you.”

“You must be joking,” Gwynne grated. “Your brother means nothing to me. I have no intention of distracting him from anything—or anyone.”

“That’s not what it looked like the other morning in the glen,” Diana snapped.

Heat rose to Gwynne’s cheeks, and she cursed herself for the reaction. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I’m in no mood to try to figure it out. Suffice it to say that you’ve nothing to worry about.” She gave Diana a cold stare, trying without much success to rein in her anger. “Now, if you’ll get out of my way…”

She started to push past her, only to be waylaid again by the woman’s surprisingly solid form. Diana leaned in toward Gwynne and hissed, “This is my last warning—leave Aidan alone, or I promise you will regret it!”

Gwynne froze still, her foul mood, the nagging guilt, and a too long suppressed battle rage all coming together in a riotous torrent. With a growl, she grabbed a fistful of Diana’s gown just below the neckline and jerked up, tak
ing Diana off the floor with it to deposit her none too gently at the side of the walkway. Still clenching the silky fabric, she yanked the woman toward her, halting when they were eye to eye.

“’Tis
you
who will be sorry, lackwit, if you ever dare to threaten me again,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Now, I told you to get out of my way, and I meant it!”

Releasing Diana abruptly enough to make her fall back onto the bench, Gwynne turned to go. But a commotion at the front of the hall gave her pause; even Diana’s loud gasps of indignation faded to silence when little Ella broke through the gathering of people across the hall, near the door, shrieking, “Oh, help—someone, please help!”

Aidan twisted around from his position at the hearth, his face concerned. “Ella—child, what’s the matter?”

“’Tis Clara, milord,” Ella sobbed, nearly falling into his arms. “We were playing near the pond when she fell in and—”

The little girl began to weep uncontrollably, her slim form shaking as she cried out, “I tried to save her, milord—I swear did! But I couldn’t reach her, and…Oh God, milord, but I think Clara is drowned!”

Aidan crashed through the brush that led to the pond, his heart racing and his throat tight.
Please let me be in time.
The simple plea repeated itself over and over in his head, his mind shutting down to the possibility of anything else. She was just a child. A sweet and sunny, loving child…

He heard the others close behind him, people from both the castle and the village racing down to the water’s edge to help if they could, or to offer support and comfort, if need be. Pray God it would be the first.

He was almost there now. Just a few paces more…

Breaking through the last of the brush, Aidan jerked to a halt, searching both the water and banks for any sign of
the little girl. A gentle breeze blew, and at first he saw nothing but the piercing glint of the sun on the pond’s surface; he shaded his face, trying to make out anything unusual in the water, his eyes straining and his heart heavy.

And then he saw her.

She was floating at the far end of the pond, face down, her coarse-spun bliaud fanning out from her waist like tiny, misplaced angel’s wings.

Roaring with anguish, Aidan threw himself into the water, moving as fast as he could to reach her. After what seemed an eternity his fingertips brushed the sodden edges of her gown; he grabbed ahold of it, pulling her up to cradle her against his chest. She felt so small, so slight in his arms. Several of the villagers splashed into the water after him, to help him drag her onto the sandy bank; there he rolled her onto her side, trying to get the water from her lungs.

She didn’t respond. Her hair clung in wet strands to her cheeks, her cherub’s mouth turned to a pale, sickening shade of blue. And she wasn’t breathing…

“Give us some room,” Aidan rasped, gesturing for the people surrounding them to back away. “She needs some air.”

The onlookers shuffled back, silently forming a half-circle around him as he rubbed his fist up Clara’s back again and again, trying to make her cough. Trying to make her expel the fluid that filled her lungs. But she remained limp and cold.

God help him, she wasn’t breathing.

“Clara,” he whispered harshly, pressing his fingers to her neck to check for a pulse that wasn’t there, even as he half-lifted her from the sand. “Clara, lass, you’ve got to breathe. Come on, child, breathe!”

“Let me through. Now, damn it.”

Aidan heard the commanding voice moments before its owner sank down onto the ground next to him.

Gwynne
.

Ah, yes, Gwynne. Thank God…

His gaze locked with hers, and he felt the familiar jolt of connection pass between them.

“Can you do it—can you save her?” he murmured, watching surprise shadow her face when she realized that he knew full well the healing power of which she was capable.

“I don’t know.” She frowned as she bent over Clara’s tiny body. “I never know until it happens.”

A shriek suddenly ripped through the crowd, and the people began to shift, jostling each other in an attempt to make way for the woman running toward the pond’s bank. Clara’s mother burst through the throng, her headrail askew, and with bits of wool still clinging to her skirts from her weaving. Her face was red, her eyes brimming with tears as she reached out, desperately crying her child’s name.

“My baby! Oh, Clara, my sweet baby, oh, God…”

Aidan lurched to his feet to grab the woman before she could throw herself on her daughter’s body. “Hush, Anna, ’twill be all right,” he said, cupping his hand to the frantic woman’s cheek and trying to make her look at him, to calm her. “You must stay back though now for Clara’s sake—please.”

Glancing past Anna, he saw Kevyn, who’d been standing close by since their arrival at the pond. Kevyn nodded as he met Aidan’s gaze and then walked up to slip his arm around Anna’s waist. Supporting her against him and murmuring words of comfort, he led her a few feet away.

Anna buried her face in Kevyn’s chest, continuing to sob as Aidan turned to the crowd again and said gruffly, “I
need you all to keep back—just for a few moments, so that we can do everything that is possible for Clara.”

Water dripped from his clothing and his breath felt harsh in his chest as he murmured a prayer and sank down in the sand near Gwynne and Clara. Using his body as a shield, he kept them both from the onlookers’ view. Several of the villagers coughed or shuffled their feet nervously in the sand, but save for that and the muffled sound of Anna’s sobbing, all was deathly quiet.

Vaguely, Gwynne sensed Aidan’s movement as he kneeled near her, but she blocked out any awareness of him, knowing that she needed to focus on Clara alone. Her stomach tightened and her head felt compressed in a vise, as it did every time she attempted a healing.

Bending over the little girl’s body, she cursed softly, squeezing her eyes shut. Her hands rested, fingers spread, on Clara’s chest, and now she tilted her chin down, grinding her teeth into her lower lip. She bade the power to form, the heat to rush into her center—struggled to make it surge through her body and along her arms, to flow into the child.

I can’t fail again. Oh, please, God, don’t let me fail like I did with Damon
…

A smoldering sensation erupted behind her eyes, burning heat that spun and spread down, swirling into her shoulders and chest, gathering in intensity before finally stabbing down her arms and into her hands. As if from a great distance she heard her own sharp intake of breath, felt her body stiffen with the power coursing through her and into the little girl. The blessed healing power…

Clara arched violently upward, a gasp wrenching from her throat. Gwynne’s hands fell away and she leaned back on her heels, her vision blurring for an instant while Aidan reached for the girl to tip her on her side again. Water
came from Clara’s mouth in retching gushes—volumes of it as she coughed and choked until it was all gone.

And then she began to cry.

The sobbing sounded thin and watery at first, but it gained in strength as Aidan sat her upright, lifting her into his arms. In the next instant Anna was on her knees in the sand, grasping little Clara to her breast and weeping as she rocked the precious gift of her child rhythmically back and forth, murmuring words of praise and thanksgiving that she could hold her again.

Gwynne somehow managing to gain her feet and stumble a few steps back, slipping out of the way as the crowd closed in around them. Through the potent energy swirling inside her, she saw Aidan, Clara, and Anna swallowed up by the cheering, joyful throng; she turned from them, knowing that she needed to get as far from everyone as she could.

Her vision jumped and wavered as she made her way to one of the boulders jutting from the pond’s bank, intending to get to the other side of it; but the rush of power sweeping through her made her sink down on the stone; it wasn’t a bad feeling, but it made her body react and shake—much the same, she’d noticed, as what happened to some of the women in her clan after they’d birthed their babes. Her legs trembled and her hands shook as she cradled her head in them.