The Warrior's Reward (8 page)

A jolt stirred Rosamunde awake. She grimaced, feeling how tingly and achy her arm was as she tried to focus her gaze. Wood. A heavy velvet curtain. Several cushions.

Ieuan.

She bolted upright. Her cheek was hot from where it had been pressed against his side. His arm slipped from her shoulders. She had fallen asleep against him. She swiped her mouth. Oh sweet Mary, and she had fallen asleep with her mouth wide open by the looks of it. A fine treasure she was.

“We’re nearly there,” he told her softly.

Rosamunde scowled at his gentle tone. She’d been hoping to prove him wrong again yet only a few hours in a carriage and she had fallen asleep like a fragile female. She wasn’t used to travelling long distances though. The rock and sway of the vehicle must have made her tired and the day’s exertions were certainly enough to drain her. After all, it was not every day a lady married a knight she hardly knew.

She peered out of the window and saw it was dusk. Grey-blue light dappled the sky. Clouds dotted the horizon in a vast swathe of texture. The mountains around them were growing steeper and though she was likely only ten or twenty miles from home, the land felt so very foreign. The urge to bury back into Ieuan’s side struck.

But, nay, she would not give into that urge. She would show him—show all of them. She was not some treasure to be tucked away and pandered to. Nor was she nothing but a beautiful face. She wanted adventure and excitement and this was her chance. If she could gain nothing else out of this marriage, she would have her excitement.

The carriage rolled to a halt outside a large inn. The windows glowed against the dark backdrop of the mountains, lighting the whitewashed exterior. The sign showed the image of a king on it but she couldn’t tell which it was meant to be as the paint was flecked and weather worn.

“The King’s Crown,” Ieuan murmured and she threw a quizzical look his way. How did the man know what she was wondering?

One of the men-at-arms—Huw, she recalled—opened the carriage door and Ieuan stepped out, his dark cloak billowing around him. Wind buffeted the side of the carriage and when she poked her head out of the door, she saw the delicate clouds were giving way to dark, ominous ones. They looked to be in for a rainstorm.

Ieuan glanced in the same direction. “Let us pray it does not leave the roads impassable on the morrow.”

“Aye,” she agreed and stepped down. The inn was not particularly shabby but could not compare to those on her father’s land. Trepidation made her limbs feel shaky. She placed her foot on the dry mud and it struck her that this was the first time she had set foot on ground that did not belong to her father.

Mayhap Ieuan noticed, as rather than allowing her to place her hand over his, he grasped her fingers. His gloves were warm, the heat seeping through her own to reach her fingertips. Memories of rough calluses and heated touches seared her mind.

Rosamunde cast her gaze over the paint-flecked window panes and the faded wooden beams of the inn. Several men in brown woollen clothes, their faces dark with grime, were huddled by the side of the inn, just under the eaves. A tight band of tension wrapped around her chest but she drew up her chin. She was to prove herself, aye? Well then let her tolerate whatever faced her. She would show Ieuan—nay, the world—of what she was made.

“Have the horses seen to,” he said to Bryn as the lad clambered down from his spot atop the carriage. Then he motioned to Phylip, Huw and the other men. “Find yourself food and drink, we’ll not need you for the night. I shall see Lady Rosamunde to our rooms.”

“Aye, sir,” Phylip dipped his head and Huw followed suit. They headed to the rear of the tavern and she assumed that was where those who served stayed. Clearly they knew the inn which at least assured Rosamunde of its suitability. Ieuan would not take her somewhere dangerous... or would he?

After all, she hardly knew the man and he was Welsh. She knew little of Wales and he was the first Welshman she had ever met, but Father spoke of their fearsome fighting skills and she had heard tell of the rustic nature of life in Wales. Mayhap what she deemed dangerous, he would not.

“Come, let us go inside before the storm breaks.”

She nodded meekly, hating the way her nervousness had stolen her voice. Nevertheless, she allowed him to lead her to the wooden studded door. He pressed it open and the odour of stale beer and herbs washed over her. She managed not to wrinkle her nose and keep her expression taciturn.

But before they stepped inside a voice reached her ears. She peeked to the side and saw the group of three men had moved closer. Ieuan tightened his grip on her hand and shifted her behind him so he could face the men.

“Fair maiden, ‘tis a cold eve,” one said, revealing a set of crooked yellow teeth. He didn’t seem perturbed by Ieuan’s stiff shoulders and the way his free hand lingered on the pommel of his sword. “Ye’ll need company this night.”

“She has company, now be gone with you,” Ieuan said with an authoritative air.

“There be three of us and only one of ye, good sir. Why do ye not relinquish the fine lady and ye be gone?”

Ieuan released her hand and urged her farther back. Her breath jammed in her throat. She had never seen him so menacing, not even when facing down his foe during the joust. Then he had been full of charm with an arrogant, confident air to him. Now anger seemed to simmer through his body. She gulped, understanding now she was seeing her real husband here and the knight at the joust had been a mere act.

“I will not warn you twice,” he said, his voice tight. “Be gone with you. Any insult to my lady wife will be considered an insult to me.”

Rosamunde drew in a sharp breath when the man pulled a knife from his belt. It was no match for Ieuan’s blade but there were three of them. She glanced around. Where were Phylip and Huw? They were likely already inside, enjoying an ale. Oh why did Ieuan have to be so foolish as to dismiss them before they were safely inside the inn?

“Ieuan,” she begged, hoping he would heed her and they would dash inside but he ignored her.

Instead he laughed. “You’ll not do much damage with that.”

“Is it such an insult for me to compliment yer fine lady?” The other men laughed.

Sweet Mary, only a day away from her home and already she was in trouble. She might have wanted excitement, but not this!

“Ieuan,” she hissed. “Come, let us leave these men to their business.”

“Aye, do as yer lady wife tells ye, before I stick ye,” the man sneered.

Rosamunde thought Ieuan had given up. He turned slightly. But with a sudden movement, he twisted his blade and slammed the hilt into the back of the man’s neck. He crumpled, knocked cold. The other men let up a cry of dismay and stalked closer. One held a small blade too, the other a large stick. Rosamunde clutched her hands to her chest and gaped. He’d moved so fast, so viciously. All to protect her honour. She didn’t know whether to be horrified or... or excited.

When the dagger came toward him, Ieuan reacted with more speed than she imagined possible. He threw down his own sword, brought one hand down on the man’s arm whilst bringing his other hand up on the underside. The attacker had no choice but to drop the knife and clutch his arm in agony.

She suspected the man with the large stick intended to retreat but he didn’t have time. Ieuan punched him in the gut and when he bent double, he brought a knee up to his face. Blood spilled out of his nose as he collapsed back.

Swiping his hands down his chausses, Ieuan strode over to his sword and retrieved it. With barely a glance at the injured men, he sheathed his sword and held out his hand for Rosamunde. “Shall we?”

Rosamunde expelled a long breath. Goodness. Exciting.

Candlelight glinted off Rosamunde’s hair as she ran the end of the braid through her fingers over and over. Ieuan clenched his fist at the same time his body tightened. She sat on the large carved bed. A more tempting sight, he had never seen. The maid had helped her remove her travelling dress and bathe, leaving her in nothing but her chemise. She was golden and white against the royal blue bedding and heavy drapes. A faint sheen of damp glistened on her forehead and cheeks.

“You must be weary,” he said when she remained sitting, chewing her bottom lip. That lip slipped out from her teeth and the glossy plumpness sent a bolt of need through him. Sweat prickled on the back of his neck and his tunnelled a hand through his hair.

He slipped off his mantle and drew his sword from his belt to hang them over the large chair in one corner. Ieuan strode to the window and peered at the rain-splattered glass. Travelling was going to prove difficult in this weather but he couldn’t spend another night here—not with her. Her breathing seemed to echo in his ears though he wasn’t sure how he even heard it. He didn’t think she’d moved yet every tiny rustle of linen and cotton vibrated through him.

Shoving both hands through his hair again, he finally braved facing her back. Shoulders stiff, hair tucked over one shoulder, she remained. Why did she not go to sleep? The day had been long. He had no notion of what to do with her. Mayhap she feared sharing a bed with him? She had hardly spoken a word since his altercation with those blackguards. Mayhap he had terrified her.

He could offer to sleep on the floor. His muscles ached from some of the injuries sustained during the joust and he didn’t relish the idea, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to share a bed with her either. Seeing those fragile shoulders and the back of her delicate neck made him want things he couldn’t have quite yet.

He drew in a breath through his nostrils.

Not yet. A few days and then he could claim his wife. In their bed, in his castle. He would take her as gently and as sensitively as he could. He hadn’t done a very good job of it yet but he would prove to her he was no barbarian Welshman.

No matter the cost to him.

“I am going to wash,” he declared to her back.

She nodded but didn’t face him so he began to strip down to his braies. Removing his surcoat, then his shirt, he slipped off his chausses and flung them all in the direction of the chair. Most landed in a pile near the empty fireplace and he saw her jump at the movement. Standing in his undergarments, he stepped over to the coffer and poured some water from the earthenware jug into a bowl. He dipped his fingers into it and shuddered at the temperature. He hoped the maid had warmed it for Rosamunde. The girl had likely never had to suffer washing with cold water before. He smirked to himself. At least it might help erase any heated thoughts he was having.

Ieuan worked quickly, using a linen cloth to scrub across his chest and back and down his legs. He tried to wash the rest of him with as much care for the delicacy of the woman in the room as he could, though he suspected her back was still to him.

He dunked his face in the water and scraped damp hands though his hair. When he came up for air, he cursed to himself. He normally slept naked during the summer months and he’d flung his shirt aside. He’d have to walk past Rosamunde and into her view. Ieuan prayed his scar-riddled body didn’t send her into a swoon.

“Hell fire.” He spat the words and they rang around the room. Her body trembled.

Her naked, pale body.

Lifting both hands to his face, he rubbed his eyes and stared some more. She was on her hands and knees on the bed. The golden glow of the candles flickered and danced over her milky skin. Her bottom was thrust up, round and ripe—practically begging for his fingers to dig into her flesh. Arousal speared through him and if he’d already been close to hard, he was certainly as hard as stone now.

Shadows hid between her thighs but he saw enough. He clenched his jaw so hard it hurt. Then, fearful of startling her, he spoke carefully, “Rosamunde, what...?”

“I am not afeared, Ieuan. You may take me now.”

If he hadn’t been so startled, he might have smirked at her words and the way they came out so shuddery and vulnerable. Oh, she was afeared all right. He drew in two deep breaths and reached slowly for his shirt. In spite of himself, he could not remove his gaze from her gently vibrating breasts or the curve of her rear or even the arc of her spine. He’d never been interested in a woman’s back before but the oddest part of him wanted to skip his finger down that curve and caress each inch of her silky flesh.

And the barbarian side of him longed to line himself up behind her and thrust deep into her heat.

God’s blood, hell fire and damnation. She was a maiden, he reminded himself. Innocent. He couldn’t—he wouldn’t—take her that way.

Punching his arms into his shirt, he dragged it over his head and by some miracle tore his gaze from her. He spotted her chemise at the foot of the bed and moved. Her skin had pimpled and she trembled with the sound of his movements while her face remained straight ahead. He didn’t know if her eyes were shut, but he knew this was not how he wanted to make her his.

Slowly, carefully, he came around to her side and eased onto the bed. Her eyes were clenched tightly shut. The breath he released felt long and heavy, weighted with desire. Defeating Granville had been easier than not taking Rosamunde. He deserved another victory prize for his restraint.

He touched her shoulder lightly and the trembles wracking her increased. He bit back a groan at the amazing view he had of her round breasts hanging down and swaying, begging for his hands.

“Rosamunde, ‘tis late. Rest now.”

Her eyes sprang open. “You wish not to consummate our marriage now?”

As hard as he tried, he couldn’t stop his gaze from skimming over her figure. Why she thought she needed to be up on all fours, he knew not. Indeed, he had taken many women that way but they had not been maidens. He tried to remember ever taking anyone’s maidenhood but he couldn’t recall. Still, he would not take her this way. He’d have her on her back, her thighs spread wide. He would touch and lick her until she was ready.

He handed her the chemise and stood abruptly before he changed his mind. Jaw tight, fists clenched, he waited to hear the bed ropes creak, but no sounds came.

“Put on your chemise, Rosamunde,” he said through his gritted teeth.

Several heartbeats and then finally, sheets rustled and ropes creaked. He waited longer than was probably necessary before turning around and seeing her in her chemise. Ieuan let his shoulders sag and rubbed a hand across his forehead. She stared at him with wide eyes for several moments before turning her head away and slipping under the sheets and blanket.

“I shall sleep on the floor,” he told her, hoping he might get an offer of a blanket.

Rosamunde lifted her head from the pillow long enough to bestow him with a cold look. “As you will.” Then she leaned over to blow out the candle near her bedside.