Mary Reed McCall (4 page)

Kevyn choked. “Jesu, Aidan, you might as well rip up your betrothal to Helene right now. You cannot go courting another woman under her nose and expect her or her father to ignore it.”

“I’m not going to court Gwynne, I’m just going to help her remember,” Aidan grated. “Think about it. She’s not likely to continue leading the Welsh in battle once she realizes how they used and betrayed her. ’Tis the perfect way to repay my debt to her. Her life will be spared, and the king will get exactly what he wants.”

His friend’s expression didn’t waver. “So you make her remember—make her recall
loving
you, by all that’s holy—and then expect her to walk away quietly so that you can marry another woman? Are you daft? She’s more
likely to pull out her blade and lop off your head than turn against the Welsh for it.”

“What would you have me do, then?” Aidan countered.

“Hand her over to the Court, and certain execution? Let her stay with the Welsh so that I can face her in battle again and try to kill her myself? I won’t do it, Kev. I can’t.”

His friend didn’t respond at first. Shaking his head, he finally muttered, “You’re playing with fire, Aidan, mark my words. ’Twill be a bloody inferno, and you yourself are setting the blaze.”

Aidan clenched his jaw, his mood turning blacker by the second as Kevyn stalked off to rejoin the other men. This plan was the only way open to him, damn it. It was. Difficult or nay, he had no other choice.

And yet a part of him wondered if his friend might be right after all…

Because he swore that he could already feel the first tiny flames rising up to lick at the tender scars of his heart.

Gwynne scowled at Marrok as she stepped away from him to check her mount’s girth strap. It was clear that he was worried about her—more so than she’d ever seen him, even counting the times she’d ridden into what promised to be a vicious battle.

“’Tis the perfect opportunity to see their defenses up close, without risking anything,” she said to him over her shoulder. “I’ll be led straight to the heart of de Brice’s lands, inside his castle. Once there, I can gather information to plan our next attack after I return home.”

“’Tis the returning part that I’m worried about,” Marrok said.

“Why? Do you doubt me?” Gwynne stopped what she was doing and fixed her attention on him. “I need no memory of my childhood to have listened well whenever
you told the tale of rescuing me from the English. I go back now to learn their weaknesses. To use the knowledge I gain against them.”

“’Twill be a great risk,” her mentor argued. “We cannot know what kind of treachery awaits you.”

“I will be careful. The months it takes to dissolve this supposed betrothal will afford me an opportunity to learn de Brice’s habits and routines, so that we may strike at him more surely once I lead our people in battle again.”

Marrok was silent for a moment before finally murmuring, “You cannot trust him,
Chwedl
—or believe him. Never forget that. Once he has you in his keeping, he will try to delve beneath your defenses. I see it in his eyes.”

“There’s naught to fear, Marrok. You trained me well. I can outfight any man who tries to harm me, including de Brice.” She forced herself to grin, hoping to ease his mind.

“None can pose a threat to my safety, old friend, thanks to you.”

He shook his head. “’Tis not only your physical well-being that concerns me. You must promise me to be more careful than usual and keep all of your skills at their peak while you stay with the English.”

“Aye, Marrok. I promise.”

After another moment he nodded once, his face resigned. “Go, then. But keep Dafydd and Owin near to you. They will serve to carry messages back and forth between us. I’ll not have you in that nest of snakes for three months with no word.”

“Agreed,” Gwynne said, clasping his hand in hers. Marrok squeezed back in affection, and a final look of understanding passed between them before he moved off to give his parting advice to Owin and Dafydd.

Gwynne watched him go, trying to quell the uneasy feeling that prickled deep in her gut. Finally she just shook her head, rubbing the back of her neck as she turned
to ready herself for her departure. But at that moment, the English leader turned around as well, apparently finished with a conversation he’d been having with one of his men near the edge of the clearing; his gaze locked with hers, and it sent a jolt of some strange emotion through her, unsettling her as it had before.

“There’s naught to fear,” she murmured to herself, when she was able to pull her stare from the man who both enraged her and set her blood racing every time she looked at him.

But the words rang false in her heart—for she felt, suddenly, that there might be something to fear after all. Something she could not explain or grasp.

’Twas foolish, she knew. She was the Dark Legend. A fierce warrior, destined to lead her people to freedom.

And yet she couldn’t suppress the tingle of apprehension every time she felt the heat of Aidan de Brice’s gaze on her—for the way he looked at her belied that knowledge, telling her in no uncertain terms that she was a woman first in his eyes.

A woman who had once belonged to him.

G
wynne hunched over the fire, blowing on her fingers to ease the sting of the sizzling grease. The spitted pheasant had already begun to crisp on the edges; ’twould be ready soon. Dafydd sat close by, but Owin had moved off to check their mounts. Sounds of laughter and talking came from behind her where the English soldiers, including their maddening leader de Brice, clustered around their own fires; still, she knew by the hot tingle up her neck that she was the focus of much of their attention.

“I expected Owin to be back by now,” she murmured to Dafydd, trying to ignore the weight of the enemy stares on her.

Dafydd shrugged. “He always takes his time with the horses. He swings his blade with the best of them, but let any harm come to one of his animals, and he goes wild. In truth, I think he finds their company more comforting than people’s. ’Tis his way.”

Gwynne smiled. “I understand that.”

But just as quickly her smile faded as a flash of memory shook her—a murky glimpse of a crow with one of its wings in a splint, hopping through a clearing of grass inside an ancient circle of stones.

Shaking her head to banish the image, she prodded the fire with a stick. After turning the roasting fowl so that the fat dripped hissing to the flames, she handed the spit to Dafydd. “Here. Take some of the meat to Owin once it’s done. I’ll eat later.”

Dafydd nodded and remained at the fire while she stood and walked over to some nearby branches, to check the wet tunic and shirt she’d hung there. On the way to this resting point, de Brice had surprised her by insisting that they stop at a stream so that she and her men could wash out their blood-soaked garments. At first she’d refused, galled to accept even a hint of kindness from the Englishman. But when he’d tossed her three shirts to use while their clothing dried, she’d been forced to comply. Cooperating with him vexed her, to be sure, but she’d decided that easing Dafydd and Owin’s obvious discomfort was more important than her pride.

Now she had to admit that she was glad she’d done it. ’Twould be good to get into her own clean clothing again.

She tested the sleeve of her shirt, brushing her palm over its rough surface. Still damp, but dry enough. She was just readying to pull it from the branch and slip into the wood to change when a low voice startled her.

“You might as well let it dry completely.”

She spun to face Aidan’s dark-eyed gaze. Her surprise at not having sensed his approach sent a stab of irritation through her.
Lugh
, ’twas not like her to miss such a thing, and yet this was the second time he had managed to sneak up on her today.

“I’d rather wear my own shirt,” she muttered, reaching to take the garment down anyway.

“’Tis a waste. You’ll not be wearing it long enough to warrant dirtying it again.”

“Why, do you intend to keep me locked away in sackcloth at your castle?” she asked, half mocking.

“Nay. I intend to have you dress as you must to ensure your safety while you reside with me in England—you’ll be clothed in a gown, chemise, and circlet.”

He might as well have told her she’d be parading around naked.

“Not likely,” she said, carefully keeping her voice even.

“We never agreed to such terms. I’ll wear my own clothes during the time I’m forced to stay in England.”

“You’ll wear what I tell you to, or you will find yourself a prisoner to the king, awaiting trial in his Tower.”

Dafydd glanced over at them during this last exchange, and she met his gaze for an instant, acknowledging his readiness to lend his support at any time.

Looking back to Aidan, Gwynne met his implacable expression with one of her own. “You should realize by now that I don’t respond well to threats, Englishman.”

“Damn it, Gwynne, it isn’t a threat. Don’t you see? You are a wanted criminal in England. If anyone learns who you really are, the king will hear of it and dispatch his entire army to take you captive.”

Several of his men ceased talking around their fires and looked over at them. He lowered his voice, scowling. “My own men may be sworn to keep your identity secret thanks to their loyalty to me, but I cannot say the same for the rest of the country.”

Gwynne frowned, uncertainty pricking her. “If I dress as a female, ’twill draw attention to the fact that you, a betrothed man, are bringing an unknown woman into your household. Suspicions will arise concerning your intentions—unless you plan to present me as a servant. And
that
, Englishman, I will never abide. I agreed to live
with you while you dissolve this betrothal you claim between us, but I didn’t agree to serve you.”

“You won’t need to serve me, Gwynne,” Aidan murmured.

An odd tingle shot through her at the softening she saw in his gaze. She crossed her arms over her chest, pretending not to notice it.

“I’ve thought of a story that will ensure you’re treated as a noble guest in my home,” he continued. “As a relative, actually. I will present you as a distant cousin whose entire family was slaughtered in the warring up north. Everyone will believe that I’m taking you in to live with me at Dunston since you’ve no one left to care for you.”

Gwynne almost laughed at that absurd prospect. Instead she raised her brow. “How do you plan to explain my departure back to Wales in three months, then?”

“We’ll have to deal with that when the time comes.”

He looked away for a moment before piercing her again with his gaze—and she got the distinct impression that she wasn’t going to like what he was about to say next.

“In the meantime, we must make your stay with me as believable as possible, for both your sake and mine. While you’re at Dunston, I must make it look like I’m trying to arrange a marriage for you with one of my fellow nobles.”

Gwynne choked.

“At least, try to pretend an interest in it,” Aidan added, ignoring her glare. “As you’ve said, your presence in my home would appear suspect otherwise.” A muscle in his jaw tightened. “And I will not endanger my betrothal to Lady Helene by allowing any colorful rumors about you to reach her ears.”

Lady Helene
. So that was her name.

Annoyed, Gwynne tossed her head and reached up to her shorn hair. “What of this?” she demanded. “Will it not
be difficult to pass me off as a lady, seeing that I don’t possess the silken tresses that seem to be the pride and joy of every weak-minded English female?”

He didn’t rise to her bait.

“We can explain that away by saying you’ve recently suffered from a fever that required its cutting. ’Tis far less dangerous to have you act the part of a gentle-born woman than a man. No one will suspect a female of being the Dark Legend.”

Gwynne scowled again. Damn him and his irrefutable arguments.

“Just when will I have to begin this farce?” she muttered.

“Tomorrow. We’ll be passing through another demesne where I can get you some suitable garments to wear before we reach Dunston by late afternoon.”

“Wonderful.” She gritted her teeth. “But I will consent to this only if you ensure that my own clothing and weapons be kept accessible to me. I still need to train during the time I live with you.”

“Agreed—with the exception of your shield. It marks you too clearly as the Dark Legend. It will have to be sent back to your people for safekeeping.” He studied her for a moment with what might have been a glimmer of understanding in his gaze. “Never fear, Gwynne. It won’t be so bad, you’ll see.”

She glared at him. “Imagine yourself donning a smock and skirt, Englishman. That’s how bad it will be.”

“Ah, but you used to wear such garments all the time. ’Twill be like revisiting old habits.”

“So you claim.” She clenched her fists tight.

A smile edged his lips, sending a jolt of anger through her. The bastard was enjoying this far too much.

Flashing him a dark look, she leaned forward. “Just remember this, de Brice: appearances can be deceiving. I
may be forced to wear a dress while I’m with you, but I will still be exactly who I am.” She slapped the place on his arm where she’d wounded him, relishing his wince as she added, “If you decide you want this stitched, just let me know.”

Then she stalked away, pretending she didn’t hear his quiet chuckle—or feel the strange, hot fluttering in her belly that came from knowing he watched her every step as she made her way back to the fire.

The woodland looked misty in the moonlight, fingers of fog reaching out, veiling Gwynne’s sight as she strode forward. The vapor clung to her, wetting her cheeks, her hair, coating her chain mail with its damp touch. But still she kept on, drawn by the same irresistible force that pulled her each time: the siren’s song that echoed through the depths of her soul.

Her heart beat thickly, her breathing harsh as she pressed forward, searching the wood. The woman was here, she knew it. She was calling out, her haunting refrain filling Gwynne’s head. But it blended and swirled with the howling wind until it was lost, tangled in the dark canopy of branches and sky above.

Her eyes stung. She tried to answer, but her throat clenched tight, the words strangled before they reached her mouth. She thrust forward one gauntleted arm, moving aside a branch thick with rain-drenched leaves…

And saw her there.

The woman floated in a shaft of moonlight, her form pale, her delicate hands reaching out to Gwynne. She was so beautiful. Long, golden hair cascaded to past her hips from the jeweled circlet she wore on her brow; her white gown glowed in the moonlight, lustrous and pristine.

All except for the blood.

So much blood.

It besprinkled the folds of diaphanous fabric and dripped down to the forest floor. The woman held one hand up to her ravaged throat, the other reaching out again, her expression pleading, her mouth moving soundlessly…

With a sharp intake of breath, Gwynne lurched to a sitting position, her eyes wide, her fists clenched tight. The fragments of her dream dissolved and scattered into the night air as her surroundings came into focus.

It was dark. Moonless. The dusky forms of men were spread around her on makeshift pallets, some of them snoring. An owl sounded its cry on a breeze that carried the scent of burning wood. Swiveling her gaze to the spot, she froze. Aidan de Brice sat staring at her, motionless next to the dying fire. ’Twas difficult to tell, but it seemed that a shadow of concern passed over his face before he masked it. Then one of his brows arched, and he nodded to her, lifting the cup of whatever he was drinking in her direction.

Gwynne stared back for a moment before looking away with a scowl. She threw herself down on her pallet and rolled over on her side. Damn the man. Damn him for what he was doing to her—for stirring up such troubling feelings, such needling sensations. Damn him for coming into her life at all. It had been nearly a year since she’d had the nightmare. Nearly a year since she’d been forced to wake herself from that choking sense of emptiness. But now because of him, it was back, as vivid and disturbing as ever.

Letting her breath escape in a rush, she squeezed her eyes shut and resolved not to think about the dream anymore…to concentrate instead on other, more pleasant things—like all the ways she was going to make de Brice pay.

Reaching under her pallet, she checked to see that the cool, hard length of her blade was still there and at the
ready. Then, pulling her woolen cloak up under her chin, she set her jaw in a grim line and slept.

Aidan stood next to his steed, struggling to remain patient as he waited for Kevyn and Colin to return from the village. Ribbons of golden light filtered through the trees, belying the chill and setting the dew-soaked grass to a sparkling tapestry of green beneath their feet.

But even the sun couldn’t dispel the storm clouds he’d seen in Gwynne’s eyes when he’d been foolish enough to glance her way a few moments ago. She’d glowered at him, then, her silver gaze crackling, filling the clearing with foreboding. His men had felt it too, he knew, by the way they shifted uneasily around their mounts and talked to each other under their breath, though her own guards, Dafydd and Owin, seemed unconcerned about her black mood.

Would that he could be as nonchalant. Clenching his jaw, he checked the fit of his stallion’s bridle strap for the fifth time this morning.

Curse this incessant waiting…

“They return, my lord,” Stephen, his squire, murmured, gesturing toward the pathway.

“’Tis about time.” Aidan strode forward to meet them. Taking action relieved some of his tension, and he nodded to Kevyn as he approached. Colin came close behind, carrying a bundle of what appeared to be dark blue fabric in his arms; he slipped as he came closer and then cursed as a wispy piece of sky blue silk fluttered out of his grasp onto the muddy ground. Snatching it up again, he brushed it off, his expression looking the same as if he’d been made to sit in the dirt and eat worms.

“I see you’ve found something,” Aidan said to Kevyn, even as his gaze flicked to Colin and his burden.

“Aye, though ’twas more of an effort than we antici
pated. ’Tis naught more than a woman’s hooded cloak and veil, yet we had to use all of the coin we’d brought.”

“
All
of the coin?” Aidan looked aghast at his friend.

“You’re jesting.”

“Nay,” Kevyn said, shaking his head. “’Twas the only way to make the lady part with her goods.”

“God’s wounds, it had better be worth it.”

Kevyn shrugged as Aidan took the mantle from Colin’s arms and shook it out, shoving the flimsy veil, for now, into the front of his tunic. The cloak was wrinkled, but of a costly weave, long, and of rich color. He glanced from it to Gwynne, eyeing the size. It seemed the right length for her height, he’d warrant, though a bit scant through the bosom and shoulders if she used the clasp; she was a warrior, after all, and her build in those areas matched the activities to which she was accustomed: swordplay and battle.

But it would have to do until they reached Dunston.