The Warrior's Reward (6 page)

Rosamunde absorbed the words. A treasure? That was how people saw her? She should be flattered she supposed, yet it made her feel as though she might believe herself to be better than others when she knew full well that was not the case. No wonder she had received no other offers for her hand. Men likely thought they would never be granted it.

She narrowed her gaze at him. “So you came here to hunt for treasure. Did it disappoint you, good sir, when you discovered ‘twas simply me?”

“Nay, I was not disappointed. After all, your dowry would fill many coffers.”

Drawing in a sharp breath, she resisted the desire to bring her palm across his face. Was he jesting? Nay, surely not. His eyes were as dark and as serious as ever.

“So you want me for my wealth and naught more,” she said, half to herself. “Why the guise?”

“Guise?”

“You
were
quite the chivalrous knight.”

“Perhaps I wished to see if you were suited to me.”

“I think you care not whether I suited you. Any man can be persuaded to like a woman well enough if she is rich. I think you take pleasure in games.”

He lifted a shoulder and shifted his hand down the bedpost a fraction so that his fingers brushed hers. Rosamunde intended to pull her hand away but decided against it. These were her chambers, this was her bed. Then his hand shifted farther and wrapped around her fingers that now ached from gripping the wood so tightly. Shivers skated over her skin and bolstered the dull throb in her chest as it reminded her of when she had enjoyed that touch.

“Rosamunde, whatever you believe of me, I wish not for you to be angered.” He squeezed his fingers around hers, but there was no comfort in the movement. It was one of possession. “Do not do anything rash.”

“Rash? Like press my father into announcing a betrothal I had no knowledge of?”

Ieuan’s teeth ground. She heard the awful grating noise.

“You did press him, did you not? My father would never wish to surprise me like that.”

“Perhaps I did. Mayhap I wished to claim my treasure as soon as I could. Regardless of the manner of our betrothal, you are mine now, Rosamunde, and I am telling you not to do anything foolish.”

“The contract is not signed yet. Or is it? Did you sign it at the same time as you forced my father’s hand?”

“’Tis not signed yet,” he said, dropping his hand from hers. “But ‘twill be, do not doubt that. Now I suggest you rest well this night, my lady. We have a busy day of preparations ahead.”

Rosamunde longed to spit and rage further but what else could be said? The ink might as well be dry on their contract after her father’s announcement. This stranger now owned her. So instead, she turned away, refused to give him one more moment of her time. Arms folded, she waited until his footsteps moved away. A heavy sigh came from him before the door shut, as though he regretted their exchange, but what did he have to regret?

“She’s gone.”

The words didn’t surprise Ieuan. That she had slipped past Phylip, one of his men-at-arms, did however. Ieuan crossed his arms and eyed Lord Tynewell. The man’s face was the shade of a ripe berry and it deepened as Phylip made the announcement, as if to signify the level of his anger.

Bracing himself for a tirade, he lifted his chin. His primary reason for following her last night had been to caution her against something rash. He’d known she would try something, he felt it in his bones and her exploits the previous night did nothing to dissuade his notion of her impulsiveness.

He recalled the way she shook and the slight shimmer to her eyes. Regret panged deep in his chest but he shoved it aside. He hoped they’d have a civil marriage, but she would have to learn to tolerate his lack of manners. Welshmen were hardly known for their chivalry, after all. He wouldn’t harm her however and he regretted it if she feared him. A man protected his woman, regardless of how he felt about her.

Which, at this point, was extremely frustrated.

“Tis your fault,” Tynewell spat, thrusting a large finger his way.

“She’s your daughter, my lord.”

“She’s your betrothed.”

“She’s spoiled. You’ve indulged her for too long. A true lady would have accepted her father’s decision with grace.”

Tynewell stepped swiftly around his desk and stalked across the solar toward him. “How dare you.”

Ieuan held his ground. He lifted his chin and stared down the earl. The truth was, he was starting to question if he’d done the right thing, agreeing to take on this lady. She was a handful and now she’d run off on the eve of their wedding. Was he really that bad of a prospect?

“I’ll find her. She will not have travelled far.”

“If anything happens to her...” Tynewell warned.

“Aye, you’ll render my head from my shoulders. I know. I shall bring her back and we will be wed on the morrow, I can promise you that much, my lord.”

Without waiting for a response, Ieuan turned and exited the solar, Phylip on his heels. Damned woman. He might not be the richest or most handsome of men, but he was better than most of the pompous noblemen who surrounded her. He stomped down the spiral stairs, strode across the hall and burst out of the doors before anyone could open them for him. He paused in the bailey and faced Phylip.

“Speak with her lady-in-waiting.  She shall know something. Both of them were at the morning meal and it is not yet noon. She will likely still be in the village. Mayhap asking for help. Tynewell will want to send his men out but I’m not willing to wait for them. I’ll go ahead. Tell the earl should you find out anything.”

“Aye, sir.” A slight grin sat on Phylip’s face at the idea of speaking with the lady-in-waiting. The dark-haired woman had a fine face if Ieuan recalled, though in truth, he could hardly remember. His betrothed was quite the distraction.

Ieuan headed directly to the stables and was frustrated to find he had to wait for Melfed to be saddled. He folded his arms and rested against the door frame of the wood and straw building, the scent of manure making his lips curl in distaste. When his stables were restored, he’d have them cleaned out before the morning even started.

When his destrier was finally saddled, he climbed on with ease and bunched the reins in his hands, taking a moment to enjoy the leather pressing against his palms. He’d find her and he’d marry her.

She’d liked him before. Was he only good enough for a dalliance? Good enough to kiss but not good enough to marry him. Mayhap she did not wish to be married to a Welshman. She likely thought him barbaric and a heathen. He allowed himself a grin and spurred the horse down the short slope toward the village. If he caught up with her, he’d show her just how barbaric he could be. He’d have her tied up somewhere until their wedding day.

Ieuan slowed his horse as he made his way through the pavilion tents. She could be hiding in one of them, he supposed, but for all her impulsiveness, he did not think her that foolish. The tents would be taken down today and then where would she have to hide? Where she even expected to go, he knew not, but her first stop had to be the village.

He urged Melfed into a gallop once he’d moved past the red and white tents. His own worthless tent had been dismantled and packed away by Bryn as they had slept in the Great Hall last night. Sleeping on a pallet on the floor had certainly been preferable to sleeping in a draughty tent.

The village sat on a flat piece of land, almost surrounded by a river, save for a stretch of fields that were planted and nearing ready for harvest. He crossed the bridge and nodded to the villagers who dipped their head in greeting. A few congratulations drifted up to him but whether they meant to congratulate him on his betrothal or his victory, he knew not. At present, neither achievement felt worthy of praise. Mayhap once he had his bride safe and sound, he’d be more willing to accept their felicitations.

The white cottages dictated his path through the village. They were huddled close together, lining the rutted roads through to the other side of the river. Would she have sought shelter in one of them? Most were simple homes and far from the luxury she was used to but most appeared cared for. The walls were clean, the wooden struts dark with recent coats of stain. He doubted she would have entered any of them though. If the tales were true, she rarely set foot outside of the keep and would a peasant even agree to hide her? It would take a brave person indeed to go against their lord.

Besides which, the village was quiet. Many were in the fields or clearing up after the tournament. So she must have continued on. Where the hell did she expect to go?

Though forced to trek slowly through along the rough, narrow road, Ieuan forced himself to take deep breaths. He could still catch up with her with ease if she was on foot. No other horses were missing and she’d have had a time trying to sneak out on horseback so he suspected she had to be.

When he rounded the corner of a tiny blacksmith’s shop, he grimaced and drew his mount to a stop. An errant cart had been abandoned across the road. Could Rosamunde have been responsible for it? Nay, surely not. He dismounted and put his shoulder to it to push it to the side. It had to weigh more than his damned horse so there was no way she moved it. With a grunt, he managed to shift it and continue on.

It was when he emerged from the largest cluster of houses that he spotted a flash of purple against the white wall of the few smaller cottages spread haphazardly around the edge of the river. He grinned to himself and tensed, like a hunter after his prey. She hadn’t gone far then. Mayhap she had decided to hide until nightfall. Whatever her plan had been, it was about to fail.

He slowed to a trot and stifled a chuckle when he spotted her darting between the houses again. In a flash of silk, she moved like a minnow in the reeds, hoping to evade the larger fish. He didn’t think she’d noticed him yet so he couldn’t quite fathom why she kept emerging from her current hiding spot, but something had her riled.

Ieuan kept up his slow pace and headed to the spot she’d scurried into last. He peered between the two houses but saw no sign of her. Then a scuffling noise drew his attention. A large pig plodded past, snorting at him in dissatisfaction before vanishing into the same place Rosamunde had. A screech split the air and another splash of purple broke the monotonous black, white and brown of the village.

It took all Ieuan’s strength not to fall from his horse when he saw her sprinting toward the nearest bridge, the huge pig on her tail. Who knew what the pig liked so much about her—mayhap her skirts reminded him of turnips—but Ieuan would have to reward the animal richly later for bringing his prey out into the open.

Skirts in hand, she paused to shoo away the animal but it only seemed to encourage him. He butted into her. She let out another squeak and dashed away. He couldn’t help but laugh. As much as he could watch this for a long time, he had a bride to return home and arrangements to make so he spurred on his horse. Her head snapped his way at the sound of horse hooves and he saw her eyes widen in horror.

Flapping a hand at the pig, she fell into a run. Ieuan shook his head. Did she really think she could outrun him? The pig followed, as did he.

“Rosamunde,” he called but she ignored him, barrelling toward the bridge on the other side of the village.

It happened slowly, much to his amusement. Her foot hit a patch of mud by the riverbank. Much of the land was muddy from carts, and puddles of water hung about the ruts and dips. She skidded one way and found her footing but when she took another step, her other foot went out from under her. Rosamunde toppled to one side and fell with an audible splash into the edge of the river. Ieuan brought his horse up beside her just as the pig approached and began nuzzling the wet, muddy pile of silk that counted as his bride-to-be. She sat in only half a foot of water and looked thoroughly miserable and defeated. A tiny thread of sympathy wound through him and he slid down, his boots squelching deep into the mud. He didn’t offer her a hand as he wasn’t sure she’d take it. She pushed the pig away and folded her arms. Rosamunde refused to look at him.

With one easy movement, he scooped the muddy bundle into his arms and set her on the horse, ignoring her squeak of indignation. He joined her on the horse and settled her shivering form against him. “Let us get you home.”

***

In spite of Ieuan wrapping his mantle around her and his arms holding her secure on his lap, a shudder wracked Rosamunde. She thought it more likely to be from humiliation than cold. The day was growing warm and her cheeks were heated with embarrassment. A drip of mud plopped from her hair onto the wool of his cloak and the dirt on her face was beginning to dry and make her feel as though her face might crack at any moment.

What a fool. What had she even been thinking? She had never set foot outside the castle with the exception of the tournaments. Did she really believe she could survive on her own somehow? She saw herself as Ieuan did—as others probably did—not as the perfect daughter but as a naive, silly girl, who was pampered and spoiled. And would the perfect daughter have run away instead of accepting her fate?

Rosamunde sniffed and Ieuan tightened his grip on her. Did he fear she would run again? She laughed inwardly. As if. She had learned her lesson and she supposed she should be grateful that the worst thing that happened was she got a little muddy.

Defeated. Thoroughly defeated. She could do nothing but accept this marriage and become Ieuan’s wife. On the morrow, she would leave the only home she’d ever known and become his.

She sniffed again.

“Do not cry.” His voice was low and it whispered across her ear, making her shudder.

“I am not crying.”

Rosamunde was forced to swipe at her damp nose. How could she have been so careless? The ground by the river was quite slippery and when she had seen him coming, she’d panicked, racing to hide by the bridge. Her footing gave way and she had ended up a crumbled, slightly soggy mess. Already frightened and frustrated, that was all it took for the tears to spill and for her to curse to the skies. Every bit of her behaviour had been thoroughly unladylike. Not at all like that of a
treasure
.

She snorted—and the noise came out wet and bubbly. The Treasure of Tynewell. Had people really been calling her that? It made her sound so... ridiculous.

“What is it?”

“Sir?”

“You snort whenever you’re thinking.”

A hand over her mouth, she drew in a breath. She snorted. Lord, that was not ladylike either. And he knew. He must have been paying close attention to her to have discovered a trait she did not even know she had.

“I was thinking that not a soul would think of me as a treasure now.”

“You are filthy and wet,” he conceded, “but it would take more than mud and water to hide your beauty.”

Rosamunde held back yet another snort. That was a habit she would have to conquer. One moment he spoke of her callously, as nothing more than a purse of coin and the next he held her tight and talked of her beauty.  She heartily wished she understood her betrothed better if they were to spend a lifetime together. Was he the rough barbarian Welshman or her chivalric champion?

As they made their way from the village to the pavilion tents that were in the process of being taken down, she hunched into the mantle. Ieuan positioned her so that his cloak covered much of her.

“I thank you,” she whispered, aware he could have let her be further humiliated by leaving her uncovered while they passed the people unhooking the fabric and hefting down the wooden poles.

The muscles of his chest undulated against her side and back. She had one hand gripping the horn of the saddle while she sat astride his lap. Had she been with any other man than her betrothed, the position would have been shameful. His arm brushed her breast. Two mantles and her thick silk gown should have prevented her from noticing but she did not.

She noticed everything. Noticed the scent of him—fresh soap again. Noticed how his skin was warm under his shirt when she accidentally brushed it. Noticed his breaths stirred her hair. Rosamunde need only turn her head marginally to eye him, to see his lips parted with his breaths, but she dare not. She had already been charmed by him once and she wouldn’t let it happen again. As much as she might be resigned to their marriage, she wouldn’t be made a fool of again.