Mary Reed McCall (3 page)

Marrok muttered a curse. “He saw your face, didn’t he? ’Tis why he stood like one bewitched; he knows you’re a woman.”

“He knows nothing,” Gwynne answered, jerking her gaze back to him. “I was covered in blood, dirt, and sweat. Even without my helm, there is no way the English bastard could have known me for what I am.”

“Ah, but that is where you are wrong,
Legend
,” a man’s voice called from behind her.

Gwynne whirled around and backed up, the sound of her and Marrok’s weapons clearing their sheaths drowned
out by the metallic hiss of the rest of her men’s swords, as they all turned to face the owner of that imposing voice. Her comrades silently moved into position around her, even as the English leader stepped into the clearing, flanked by more than twice her number in soldiers.

All went still as the opposing forces faced each other down. Tension filled the clearing, prickling up Gwynne’s back like a thousand needles of fire.

“I take it you are prepared to die this day, Englishman,” Gwynne said, her voice dangerously soft as she fixed her gaze on the warrior whose trap had caused the deaths of six loyal men. Her hand tightened on her hilt, lust for battle swelling in her blood.

“I could ask the same of you,
Legend
, considering the outcome of our last meeting and the numbers you face here now—but I would much rather ask something else.”

She said nothing, only keeping her gaze hard upon him.

Reaching up, he pulled off his helm, and a little shock went through her, followed fast by hollow panic. A full half of her life was a blank in her memory, and the sight of his square-jawed face, his eyes, and the thick, dark hair that fell to his shoulders sent a prickle of warning through her—a maddening sensation of something she couldn’t quite place.

She heard Marrok’s sharp intake of breath, felt him stiffen beside her, and her heart began to thud more wildly.

The Englishman cocked his brow.

“Do you know me, Gwynne?”

The sound of his voice uttering her true name lanced through her like a stinging arrow, and she glared at him, trying to quell her reaction. “Aye, I know you,
marchog
—you call yourself the Scourge of Wales, but you’re no different from the rest of the soft-bellied English dogs that I dispatched today.”

She thought he might smile for a moment, but then his expression shifted, a dangerous glint darkening his eyes.

“’Tis an unfortunate answer, Gwynne, for there is much more you ought to know about me.”

“I know only that you toy with me, Englishman,” she said, her anger building, “and I don’t like it. Just who the devil are you, and why are you here, if ’tis not to fight?”

“Ah, now we come to it.” This time the corners of his mouth lifted into a mocking smile.

“Allow me to oblige. I am Aidan de Brice, the third Earl of Sutcliffe and a loyal servant to King Henry II, as well as an English warrior under oath to defeat all Welsh rebels…”

His gaze locked with hers, scorching and chilling her at the same time.

“And I am here to claim you as my lawful bride.”

A
idan’s men swung their heads to stare at him, their mute expressions of disbelief echoing the cries of denial rising from the Welsh side. Kevyn finally looked away and muttered a curse, but Aidan kept his gaze forward, watching Gwynne’s face, seeing her magnificent eyes spark with rage.

Those eyes were all that remained of the girl he’d once known. The rest of her was as fierce and sharp as any battle-hardened warrior. Aye, she’d changed. But he knew she’d sensed something familiar about him. In that second after he’d removed his helm, something had glimmered to life in her memory—fleeting, perhaps, but real.

“You must be out of your mind, Englishman,” Gwynne growled at last, taking several steps forward. “I’m no man’s
bride,
nor will I ever be. Now, use that sword you’re holding to defend yourself, or suffer being cut down where you stand.”

“If you attack me now, ’tis possible that you may reach
me,” Aidan answered, “but you are outnumbered, and ’twill go badly for your men in the aftermath.” He flicked his gaze to the corpse strapped atop one of the mounts behind the Welsh group. “Think of them, Gwynne, if not of yourself.”

“Every one of my men would gladly risk death for the pleasure of slicing through an English cur, never fear it.”

Aidan cocked his brow again at the savage howling of support that rose from the Welsh side. Without another word, he tipped his sword down and pressed the point into the dirt, very slowly, before lifting his hands up, palms forward. The Welsh cries died down at his unexpected action, and when it was finally quiet, he offered Gwynne a half-smile. “Call it a sign of good faith. I have an offer to make that I think even you will approve.”

“You might as well save your breath for battle.”

“Patience, Gwynne. You see, I need to
dissolve
the betrothal that is between us, so that I may marry another—an English lady who has already agreed to become my wife.”

“You can marry any milksop you like,” she gave him a feral look, “provided you’re alive to do it.”

Christ, she wasn’t making this any easier
.

Aidan clenched his jaw, trying to decide what he could say to make her listen, when the older-looking warrior near her stepped forward and murmured something in her ear. As the man talked, her face went white before settling into the lines of the blackest scowl Aidan had ever seen. Then she swung her head and whispered angrily, her weapon still gripped tightly in her fist. The heated exchange continued for a moment before she once again directed her icy glare at Aidan.

“Whether or not such an agreement may have ever existed between us, de Brice—and I am not saying it did,” she flicked a dark look at the man behind her, “it has no bearing now.”

“The law says it does, whether you wish it or nay.”

“
English
law does not bind me.”

Aidan bit back another retort and looked past her to the older man who had talked with her; his gaze settled hard on him, studying him. Aye, he looked familiar. It had been many years, and time had blurred those hours into nightmarish images in his memory, but ’twas possible that he was one of the Welsh warriors who had attacked Gwynne’s cottage so long ago and taken her away from him.

He nodded toward the man, deciding to take a chance on it. “Your friend there knows I speak the truth. He’s seen me before.”

The warrior glared at him. “My name is Marrok, Englishman. And perhaps you forget, but we are at war. Your woman troubles do not interest us.”

Aidan shook his head and made a clicking sound with his tongue, as he leaned his forearm onto his hilt. “Ah, but they should, Marrok, since the vows Gwynne and I made were uttered under the law of handfasting, and sworn to within a sacred circle of stones.”

Renewed grumblings and murmurs arose from the Welsh, and Gwynne scowled deeper. “If ’tis a release from this phantom betrothal you seek in your own addled mind, Englishman,” she called, “then consider it done, so that we may get on with the matter of war between us.”

“’Tis not so simple as that. Our betrothal must be dissolved
legally
.” Aidan steeled himself to finish what he had to say. “And that means you must return to English soil with me to do it.”

Shocked silence greeted him. Jesu, but she was angry now—more so than he’d seen her yet this day. Rage fair spilled from her in waves, scorching him with heat.

“You can go to hell, de Brice,” she finally growled. “I spit on England. The only reason I would go there would
be to kill Englishmen.” She cocked her head and impaled him with her gaze. “Like you.”

“Even if it meant sparing your people the fear of attack for three months?” he countered, undaunted. “Even if it meant food, warmth, and security—a chance for your clan to rebuild its strength to wage war more effectively against its enemies?”

As he spoke, he gestured behind him to Cedric, who handed him a large sack of coin, which he threw into the clearing. It landed with a heavy, metallic sound, leaving no doubt as to the king’s ransom in gold it contained.

Marrok’s mouth twisted sardonically, and he stepped closer to Gwynne. “You’re good at throwing money about, de Brice, but it will gain you no more today than it did when you were a lad. You must be daft to think we would let
Chwedl
return to England with you. ’Tis a trap, clear as day.”

“There is no trap, I assure you. I promise her safety while she is with me.”

“Why would you want to aid us, even for a short time?” Gwynne broke in, scoffing. “Our people are enemies, and yet you offer money and a temporary peace—why would you do so if not for the fact that you have greater plans for my destruction while I am in your keeping?”

Aidan considered how to respond, finally settling on telling what was in most part the truth. “The situation that I mentioned earlier, the one with the English lady, is…imperative. Until this day I did not know that you still lived, but now I cannot go forward with my own plans until what is between us is dissolved. I will do whatever is necessary to clear my way to that end.”

“You could always just try to kill me. ’Twould rid you of your problem as completely.” She gave him a cold smile. “If you succeeded, that is.”

He saw her silver eyes spark with heat and realized that she would relish just such an attempt on his part. But he could never do it.

“Dark Legend or nay, you are still a woman I once knew,” he allowed, leaving out the part about once loving her as well, “and I will not try to kill you. I have principles, and I give you my word that you will be treated well if you come with me. No harm will come to you, I swear it.”

“Your word means nothing,” Gwynne muttered.

“It means everything,” he ground out.

By God, he was rapidly losing patience with her.

“I vow that you’ll be safe in my keeping for the space of the three months it will take to dissolve our union. At the end of that time I will return you to your people unscathed, and you can then prepare to wage war again if you so choose.”

He thought she might throw his words back at him as she’d done each time he’d mentioned their betrothal, but suddenly her expression shifted, her eyes narrowing for an instant. Without answering him, she turned to Marrok and murmured something.

This time it was Marrok’s turn to scowl. He shook his head sharply, muttering something in Welsh that Aidan couldn’t understand. Gwynne argued back, and Aidan knew by the rigid line of her jaw that she meant to have her way. She said something more, and Marrok tensed before nodding once, his hands fisted at his sides.

Gwynne faced Aidan again, her face still unreadable. “What kind of assurance would I or my people have that you will honor your word, Englishman? For though you claim that it alone is enough, it is not.”

Aidan paused, biting back a retort at her insult to his honor. He was close to victory, now, he sensed it. Very close.

“What kind of assurance do you seek?”

“A trade.” Her jaw tipped higher, her hand clenched, white-knuckled, on the hilt of her blade. “An exchange of warriors. Four of your best men for me.”

“
Four
of my men?”

“Aye.” Her brow arched, and a shock went through him. ’Twas the same expression she’d made at him countless times in their magic circle. So long ago, when they’d still loved each other…

“I am my people’s leader in battle,” she continued, seemingly unaware of her effect on him. “Equal to you, at the least. But then, if the trade was you for me, it would defeat the purpose, wouldn’t it?” She lifted her brow a little higher, sending that stabbing ache of longing into his heart again.

He swallowed. “I suppose it would.”

“If we agree on this, then when I am returned to my people, your men will be restored to you in like condition.”

He was readying to reject her offer when Cedric stepped forward. “Allow me to go, my lord,” he said. He was followed by Gareth, Bryan, Kevyn, and another half score of his men, each boldly asserting their willingness to participate in the trade that would allow their leader to bring home the Dark Legend.

Speechless for a moment, Aidan viewed them, pride filling him. This could well be a fatal mission, and they all knew it—none better than Aidan himself. The trade might stop the Dark Legend, but only temporarily; his duty to King Henry would remain. And by the terms Gwynne suggested, if she wasn’t given back to the Welsh alive and well at the end of their agreement, his men would be unmercifully slaughtered by their Welsh captors.

An idea that had flickered to life as he’d led his forces into Welsh territory bloomed in full now. ’Twas possible,
he supposed. It would mean complicating his life, but he could do no less with his men’s safety hanging in the balance.

And three months was a fair amount of time…

“Very well,” he said, finally. “I accept your terms. Four of my men for you.”

“Nay,” Marrok called out before Gwynne could answer him. “She must be allowed two of her
teulu
, her bodyguards, to accompany her, or she does not go at all.”

“Then I’ll be trading you four for three,” Aidan said.

“So be it,” Marrok growled, crossing his arms over his chest and ignoring Gwynne’s glare.

“Well, Gwynne? What say you?” Aidan directed a pointed look to her.

She paused, tight-lipped, for a moment, before jerking her head once. “Agreed. Let’s get on with it, then.”

With a grimace she sheathed her sword; the Welsh reluctantly followed suit, as did Aidan’s men. In the end, Cedric, Bryan, Edward, and Gareth crossed to the Welsh side, while Gwynne came over to the English, accompanied by a seasoned-looking warrior named Dafydd, and a younger man she called Owin. Marrok walked over with her as well, pulling away to approach Aidan. He stopped to stand face to face with him, for a moment just studying him, seeming oblivious to the activity around them.

“Before you leave, know this, Englishman,” Marrok finally said, his voice as unflinching as the stony set of his jaw. “If you go back on your word—if anything happens to
Chwedl
in your keeping—I swear to you on my last breath that I will hunt you down and drain the life from you drop by drop. Do not mistake me.”

“And do not mistake me, old man,” Aidan answered evenly. “I live by my honor and my word. ’Tis not
I
who pillage homes and kidnap unsuspecting young women.
You’d do well to remember that. Gwynne has nothing to fear from me.”

Marrok didn’t answer, only staring at Aidan for a moment more before making a noise in his throat and moving away to have a few final words with Gwynne.

Kevyn came up next to Aidan, handing him his helm and leaning in to talk with him as the others around them finished preparations for their departure.

“Christ’s blood, I can’t believe ’tis really her. But even so, what in hell were you thinking to publicly claim a betrothal with her?” he asked quietly. “’Tis ancient history. You’re risking all you’ve worked so hard to gain with Helene and her father if they learn of it.”

“I know.” Aidan tried to ignore the burning ache of the old wound in his chest. “But I could think of no other way to make her come with me peacefully.”

He shifted his gaze to the cause of this day’s troubles. She was in heated conversation with Marrok and unaware of his stare. “I had to do it, Kev; I can’t explain why, except to say that I owe her a life-debt—and I couldn’t very well repay it by trying to kill her.” He pulled his gaze back to his friend. “You’re right, though; it will be risky. I’ll need your help in making sure the men remain silent about who she really is and why she’s with me once we’re home.”

“What do you want them to say about her, then?”

“I don’t know yet. I’ll figure out a story before we arrive at Dunston.”

“It had better be a good one,” Kevyn said, following Aidan’s stare back to Gwynne. “Though I can’t pretend to understand why you’re doing this. It won’t matter in a few days. Once the king learns you’ve captured the Dark Legend, he’ll demand her surrender—and you know the likely outcome of that. Cedric and the other lads might as well make their peace with God now.”

Aidan paused. “I’m not going to tell the king.”

“What?” Kevyn fixed him with an incredulous look.

“Not yet, anyway.”

“Christ, Aidan, ’tis not as if you can hide her. She’s a warrior, for God’s sake. She’ll fit into English society about as easily as a wolf mingles with sheep.”

“That’s why I’m going to keep her secured at Dunston, at least until I have a chance to work on her for a while.”

He watched Gwynne, saw the graceful movement of her hands, the quick way she tilted her head, and memory upon memory slammed into him—of Gwynne, young and lithe, bending over to heal a bird’s broken wing. Gwynne, her hair rippling down blue-black in the sun where she sat atop a stone in the ancient circle, playfully pelting him with acorns. Gwynne, wrapping her arms around his neck and smiling up at him as she slid her lips sweetly across his.

He swallowed hard, banishing the images. “She knew me once, Kev. Better than anyone. She may not remember it now, but I intend to bring it back for her. To help her remember her life before the rebels stole her away.”