Beauchamp Besieged. Elaine Knighton

he be disappointed if she did not recover? That he might be pleased wasn’t out of the question. He would have her lands without the trouble she herself represented. Had he not killed his first wife, once he had spent her wealth?

      Ceridwen pushed the dreadful thought to the back of her mind. No Beauchamp would outdo a woman of the Cymraeg. She would leave only when it suited her to do so. After she found the knight in Alonso’s pay who had slain her cousin, and made him dearly regret what he had done.

      Perhaps as Raymond’s wife she might achieve that end…if she survived. But right now she could not face the prospect of his hands on her again. His touch made her so very uncomfortable. Hot and cold and tingly. As though there was an emptiness within herself she had never known needed filling.

      A cricket chirped from a corner of the candlelit sickroom. Raymond gnawed his thumbnail as he gazed at the sleeping girl. Her limbs twitched with fever. Her skin was translucent, and her body had wasted over the last several days. He had watched many a good man die slowly, and it never got any easier.

      The pompous fool of a physician he had summoned from Chepstow had done nothing helpful. Alys’s simples and balms had better effect. Now it was only a matter of time. Ceridwen’s pain would cease, either through death or recovery.

      But he could scarcely believe how he seemed to feel—as though he would shatter if he had to witness either her demise or her departure. And if she stayed, he would eventually destroy her. As he had his young wife.

      Why was he drawn to this woman? Why had he sat here each night until the wee hours, guarding her sleep like some great oaf of a dog? She was no one to him. Of no concern at all. But if he did not follow through with the marriage the clever lord Morgan would plague him without end. Not to mention the fact he would lose the lands of her dowry.

      Raymond winced at the memory of how Ceridwen had taken his clumsy description of her. Small and dark indeed. He had wanted to explain, to tell her the truth—that in his eyes she was perfectly formed, of ebony and cream. Spun of mountain mists and heather, so fragile she might break at his touch.

      But he could not allow himself to become fond of her, or her of him. Even were it possible, she would only suffer for it. To love a Beauchamp was to court disaster. And a Beauchamp in love was a creature out of control.

      If he had no feeling for her, and vice versa, it would not matter so much if they were wed. He might be a decent, dutiful husband, so long as his heart remained detached. But he was a mangler of love relations. Any small chance of happiness had been ground to dust by the circumstance of his birth into the noble family Beauchamp, where loyalty to one’s lord rose above all other virtues and desires.

      Raymond leaned his head on his palm and gazed at Ceridwen. Her lips were full, now pale, but when first he had seen her, the color of sunlit wine. In spite of his determination to remain aloof, he wondered how they would taste. How she would respond if he were to kiss them.

      She sighed in her sleep and her dark lashes fluttered. Raymond closed his eyes. His head ached. At least he could do her the honor of carrying on a bedside vigil without lusting after her. He had to leave the chamber, before he did something he would regret.

      Rising, Raymond entered the adjoining room where Alys slept. From there he took the stairs of one of the corner turrets above the main living quarters. He climbed them to the top and found the watchroom empty. The trees below cast black shadows over the moonswept land, and the marsh waters glittered as the breeze caressed them, their dark depths reflecting silver. An enchanted night. Like the one that had put an end to his foolish ideas about love and faith.

      Inexorably his mind dragged him back towards the place he swore never to return to, and yet despaired of ever finding again. He took a cautious approach to the slippery remembrance of when his heart had loved freely, with no taint of suspicion poisoning each glance and touch.

      The memory was hateful to him, because to love meant willingness to embrace pain beyond measure. To trust was to risk the loss of not only the beloved, but his own soul. He had loved his wife. Immoderately. Passionately. Wholeheartedly and without reserve. And his love had been rewarded by betrayal and death. Never again.

      Raymond ran down the stairs. He could bear no more waiting. To hell with the land, to hell with Morgan ap Madog. Ceridwen was as good as dead, with or without him as husband. And once he openly defied Alonso, he himself would not be long for this world. He must do what was best for her—and that meant getting her out of Rookhaven.

      In the women’s chamber he searched for the nurse among the tangle of serving-girls she allowed in her bed to benefit from her warmth and protection. Nudging her awake, Raymond whispered to her, his voice fierce and desperate even to his own ears. “I must leave now. I will be away a fortnight. When I return, I want Morgan’s daughter gone from here.”

      He heard an intake of breath. One of the maids—Shona, no doubt—was awake and listening. He turned his head in her direction and she vanished under the covers with a squeak.

      “If—when she dies,” Raymond continued, “take the silver from the small chest in my solar. Pay for her burial in a great church, in a place far from here, and for as many prayers as it will buy. If by some miracle she lives, give the silver into her hands and send her to the convent near Usk, where Morgan can find her. Provide her an escort. Someone from outside the keep, unknown to me. I want it to be as if I had never brought her here. Do you understand?”

      “Aye, milord, all too well. Oh, Raymond, what happened to the sweet lad I once knew? You’ll not wipe away the pain of Meribel this way.” Alys’s voice choked with tears. “This lass is the finest thing to come under your roof since—”

      “What do you know, old woman? Keep your witchy words of wisdom for those foolish enough to listen. Do as I say or suffer the consequences.”

      “You’ll be the one to suffer, Raymond. Mark my words.”

      A chill shuddered through him, for she spoke with the certainty of an oracle. “Your words are too late.” Already he had suffered beyond endurance. Leaving Alys he wrenched open the door of the infirmary. He wanted one more look at his never-to-be bride.

      She lay as though already dead, waxen and still. Raymond bent over her to reassure himself that her chest still rose and fell. His hand drifted toward her forehead, then withdrew without touching her skin. Why go through such torture, watching her fade? She hated and feared him like the rest, he had seen it in her narrowed eyes. He meant nothing to her but pain.

      As Raymond lingered at the door, memorizing Ceridwen’s face, her eyes opened and met his. Her lips curved into a poignant smile that tore at his heart. Without thinking, he retraced his steps to her bed. He knelt beside her, his hands on either side of her face, and his mouth came down upon hers in an aching, sweet caress. He gave her all the tenderness he denied in himself, all the caring parts he no longer acknowledged, distilled and concentrated into one potent kiss.

      Ceridwen drifted in and out of her dreamworld. She had seen Owain, standing by the door, love shining from his eyes. He had come to tell her he wanted her to return home to her family—to him. She’d smiled to let him know how grateful she was. How happy she was to have him here.

      He came to her, to hold her once again, to give her a kiss of peace and absolution. His face was a blur—she could hardly see it—but she caught a flash of dark blue eyes. How could that be, when Owain’s were brown?

      Instead of kissing her forehead, or cheek, or even the tip of her nose as he was wont to do when she was small, she felt his mouth upon hers. Warm and smooth. He smelled like freshly honed steel, and the oil to stop its rusting. Like horses and sheepskin. And something else, underneath it all, a rare, earthy aroma. It was intoxicating. His kiss burned like strong drink, heady and uplifting. She could feel it pouring into her, a humming vibration of weightless, light-filled energy. It was rich and pure and heavenly.

      It was not Owain.

      The realization hit Ceridwen as he rose to his feet and turned away. Her vision cleared and she saw his bright hair, his dark surcoat as he swept out the door. Raymond. Her enemy. Her betrothed.