Gwen stopped at the bottom of the steps and hung back in the shadows where she could observe the occupants of the great hall, yet remain unseen herself. It was yet early in the day and the men had returned from their morning business to break their fast. Gwen had given much thought to the timing of her entrance. Sir Rhys would have to acknowledge her as he left the hall after finishing his meal. And if he did not do so then, she had other plans to plant herself in his path and leave him with no choice but to look at her. What she would say to him then, she didn’t know. She prayed something would come to her. For now, it was enough to have him look on her and see her.
Even by the light of torches on the walls, she had no trouble finding him. There were many who sat at her father’s lower tables, but none who set the very air about them to trembling merely by being there.
He sat with his back to the fire, his helm on the table next to his arm, and a dark cloak pushed back over his shoulders. The torchlight shone on his dark hair and glanced off his perfectly chiseled features. His clothing was simple and unadorned, though as Bertram’s favored foster son he likely could have bedecked himself as lavishly as did Alain and his brother Rollan. Gwen decided then that he had no need. Not even the simpleness of his garb could hide the nobility of his bearing and the beauty of his face.
And to think he was a mere knight with nothing to his name but his sword and horse.
By the saints, ’twas no wonder Alain hated him so. He was everything Alain wasn’t.
He ate quickly, speaking gravely to those about him only when he was spoken to. Gwen watched him finish long before those around him had satisfied themselves, rise and beg leave of Lord Bertram to depart the hall, and make his way out the door. He was gone before Gwen had realized that her initial plan to put herself in his path before he left the hall had failed miserably. She would have to exert better control over herself. Gaping at the man while he escaped the web she set for him would get her nothing but fodder for her dreams at night. She fully intended to have more. Her parents might have intended her for Alain of Ayre, but she had a different idea.
Even if it entailed wedding only a knight.
But that wouldn’t happen until she had speech with him, and that surely wouldn’t occur until she had found a way to attract his notice. She certainly wasn’t going to roll about in the pigsty again to have it. She was a woman now. Though she’d been but a child the last time she’d encountered him, she’d known then he was what she wanted. Now that she was grown, surely he would take her desire for him to be her champion more seriously.
She walked from the hall as quickly as she dared, hoping her father would think she had ignored his calls to come sit and eat due to a sudden loss of hearing on her part. She breathed a sigh of relief when she found that no one was following her from the great hall. She might succeed after all.
Sir Rhys had gone to the stables. She knew this because it was his habit to check on his mount after the morning meal to assure himself it was being treated well. And after his visit to the stables, he would return again to the lists, where he trained for several hours a day. Surely he wouldn’t mind interrupting his habits this once.
She ran toward the entrance to the stables, fearing she might have missed him already. She had almost reached the opening when her toes made contact abruptly with a sharp stone. She greeted the pain with a most unladylike expression and hopped about on one foot, clutching her offended toe with her fist.
She hopped, of course, directly into Rhys de Piaget’s substantial chest.
He caught her by the arms. She looked up, her pain forgotten. Indeed, she had to remind herself that breathing, not standing there gaping at him like a halfwit, was the best way to make a favorable impression.
She lowered her foot as casually as she could. She made no move to straighten her garments, for that might have induced him to release her and that she couldn’t have.
“Hurt?” he asked.
Ah, but he did have such a rich voice. Surely the stuff of any maid’s dreams.
He frowned. “Are you unwell?”
It was all she could do not to fling herself into his arms and blurt out her love for him right on the spot. Instead, she shook her head and prayed she looked even the slightest bit dignified while doing so.
“Well, then,” he said, releasing her abruptly and taking a step backward. “Good morrow to you, lady.”
He was halfway across the bailey before she managed to gather up enough wits to realize he had once again escaped her clutches.
“Sir Rhys, wait!”
He didn’t stop. Gwen couldn’t credit him with rudeness, so she assumed perhaps too many victims screaming for mercy had ruined his hearing. She hiked up her skirts and dashed off after him.
“Sir Rhys, wait,” she repeated breathlessly when she caught up with him. His ground-eating stride did not slow, which forced her to keep running alongside him. “Won’t you stop and have speech—”
“Have things to do,” he said curtly, increasing his pace.
“But,” she said, breaking into a full run.
“No women in the lists,” he threw over his shoulder as he fair sprinted to his destination.
Gwen realized how foolish she must look, so she stopped and frowned. No women in the lists? So he thought. He obviously was unacquainted with her determination. She would have the chance to win his heart before his visit was up or perish in the attempt. Surely he couldn’t resist her. She was wearing her mother’s finest wimple, for pity’s sake. Had he no idea what kind of sacrifice that was?
She thought about following him to the lists, then realized that perhaps she might need to rethink her strategy.
But he would succumb in the end. She would give him no other choice.
Rhys leaned on his sword and forced himself to take deep, even breaths. It wasn’t that honing his skills against the majority of Segrave’s garrison wasn’t enough to cause him to pant; indeed, any man might have been forgiven a bit of gasping after the morning’s exercise Rhys had just taken.
But not every man had Gwennelyn of Segrave loitering along the walls, watching his every move.
He could feel her gaze on him, just as surely as it had been for the past three days. Relentless, that’s what she was, relentless and determined. He’d never felt so scrutinized in his entire life, and to be sure he’d had his share of souls watching him to mark any misstep. But he’d never forced himself not to pant for any of them.
The saints preserve him, he was losing his mind.
He’d done his best to ignore her. He’d even gone so far as to be rude to her on more than one occasion. Once he’d realized she knew his habits, he’d changed them, thinking that she couldn’t possibly outwit him. Obviously there was a very clever girl under all that beauty, for she’d discovered him straightway and thereafter taken to shadowing him. She would have made a bloody good spy.
He had no idea what she wanted of him. Likely to talk him into another rescue. He scowled. He’d learned his lesson the last time. It hardly mattered what he did for her, for he would never have her. What was the point in pleasing her?
A pity the thought of pleasing her was the one that had haunted him for six years.
Out of the corner of his eye, he checked to see if she still held her position. Still in place, aye, but seemingly overwhelmed by the taxing nature of her chase. In spite of himself, Rhys began to smile. He walked over to the wall quietly and stopped a few paces away from her. He fussed with his gear, lest he be observed, and surreptitiously drank in the sight of the young woman snoring so peacefully where she sat with her back against the wall.
Six years had done nothing but enhance the promise of beauty he’d seen in her. No wonder Bertram wanted her for his son. She would bring a loveliness to his table no jewel-encrusted goblet could hope to equal, and she would likely do all Alain’s thinking for him. It was a wise choice to have made as far as Ayre’s future was concerned. Rhys would have done the same thing in his lord’s place, only
he never would have given such a one as she to his son; he would have taken her for himself.
He sighed, and it felt as if it had come from the marrow of his bones. It had been a mistake to come to Segrave. He’d told himself he would come because Lord Bertram had asked him to come. He’d been asked before, of course, but he’d never dared think he was equal to the task of gazing upon Gwen and remaining unmoved.
Fool, he thought with another sigh. All it had taken was one look at her and his carefully constructed defense against her had crumbled.
He resheathed his sword and cursed softly. He should have gone to France in the spring. He’d planned to. Lord Bertram had been willing to free him from all current obligations in order for him to do so. Rhys had envisioned a few years’ tourneying yielding enough gold to purchase some fine bit of soil somewhere. He’d sketched out in his mind the sort of keep he might build and tallied the number of knights he would have about him calling him lord.
He had, of course, studiously avoided peopling his keep with any kind of family, especially a wife, especially after his first musings had cast Gwennelyn of Segrave in that role.
France had, in the end, seemed a rather unattractive destination that spring. His duty to Lord Bertram, given of his own free will, was almost over. He’d offered seven years of knightly service and had it accepted willingly. Six had been fulfilled and Bertram hadn’t seemed reluctant to collect the seventh at a later time. Still, Rhys had been unable to move himself from Ayre.
And, as he stared at the young woman before him, he wondered if this might have been what he had waited for. Against all reason, he suspected one last glimpse of her had been what had kept him off the continent. Bertram traveled to Segrave often enough. It had certainly been no difficulty to come along.
Now the difficulty would be leaving.
And if he had even a grain of sense in his head, he would have packed up his gear and fled for France that very day.
His feet, however, had a different idea. They seemed to have no intention of responding to his command that they carry him far away from certain heartache.
“Oh, you’re finished!”
The sound of her voice startled him so badly, he stumbled backward. Gwen leaped to her feet. The look of delight she gave him slammed into him like a dozen fists and left him gasping more surely than his morning’s exercise.
Run, you fool!
His common sense had that aright. He made Gwen a low bow and turned to flee from the field.
“Sir Rhys, wait!”
If he had to hear that phrase one more time from her, he knew he would scream, so he did the only sensible thing he’d done since he’d first clapped eyes on her. He fled to the guardtower and closed himself in the garderobe.
After all, how long could she possibly wait for him to come out?
5
Gwen’s feet hurt. Standing outside the guardtower for most of the day had been mightily taxing on them. At least she had the chance to rest them for a bit. She currently did so as she sat at her father’s table and scowled at Rhys’s profile. Who would have thought the man could be so stubborn? He had escaped every snare she’d set for him, resisted every attempt at polite conversation, and resorted to flight when all other avenues had been closed to him. But the most irritating thing of all had been the length of time he’d remained in the garderobe that morn. Who would have thought a man’s business could take him so long? If she’d had a sword, she would have prodded him into an empty corner with it and kept him there with it at his throat until she’d had speech with him.
She nursed the wine in her cup and gave that thought more consideration. She had no sword at her disposal, but she was clever enough for a young woman of her tender years. Perhaps a message, delivered by someone he trusted, would lure him to a private meeting.
After the meal she penned a quick missive, approached Sir Montgomery, and smiled a most innocent smile at him. And bless the man if he didn’t do as she intended, which was smile back at her just as foolishly as did anyone her mother chanced to grace with her attentions. Though people told her she resembled her mother, Gwen couldn’t see it somehow. Blessedly Montgomery seemed to think so as well, so she without hesitation used what wiles she had.
“A favor, good sir?” she asked him.
“Anything,” he said, blinking at her as if he had stared too long at the sun.
She handed him the tiny scrap of parchment. “Might you deliver this to Sir Rhys? Discreetly, of course.”
“Of course,” he said, though she could see in his eyes that he was wondering about the wisdom of it.
“A few harmless words,” she said with a dismissive wave. “Nothing of import.” She smiled again for good measure.
He took a step backward as if he’d been struck, nodded, and turned to walk obediently, if not a bit unsteadily, to where Sir Rhys sat at the table.
Gwen escaped the hall and ran for the roof before Rhys could suspect that she might be behind the meeting. She went out onto the battlements and secreted herself in a darkened corner. No sense in having the whole of her father’s guard watching her as she was about her business. She had every intention of convincing the gallant Sir Rhys to snatch her away before she was forced to wed with Alain of Ayre, but that was best done in secret.
’Twas but a moment or two later that the door next to her creaked. Rhys slipped from it carefully, as if he expected to be attacked. Even the very sight of him, dark and full of stealth, was enough to set Gwen’s heart to racing. Aye, this was surely the man for her, and what a man! Her father could not help but be pleased with his prowess. Gwen tucked that thought away for future use. Perhaps she could suggest to her sire that Rhys would be a far better protector than Alain. Surely he would be swayed by that.
Rhys closed the door behind him softly. Gwen took her courage in hand and reached out to touch his arm.
And before she could even open her mouth to greet him, she found herself slammed back against the wall with a knife at her throat. She would have squeaked, but she didn’t have the breath for it.
As suddenly as it had appeared, the knife disappeared into a sheath somewhere up Rhys’s sleeve. Rhys hung his head and let out a shaky breath.
“’Tis only me,” she managed.
He lifted his head and glared at her. “I could have slain . . .” he began, then he shut his mouth and started to pull away.
“Nay,” she said, grasping him by the tunic sleeve more firmly, “don’t leave.”
He paused.
“Please,” she added.
The moonlight shone down on him, casting his face into shadows. There was no smile that she could see, but she had no trouble hearing a sigh of resignation. It was a sound her father made regularly.
“What is it?” he asked.
Gwen feared he would disappear if she released him, so she kept hold of his arm. It was the same arm she had tied her favor around seven years earlier. She wondered if he still had it.
“What is it you want?” he asked again, more roughly this time. “I’ve things to do.”
“Well,” she said, wishing this were turning out a bit more like she had dreamed it would, “I thought we could talk.”
“I’ve no time for talking.” But he didn’t move.
He wasn’t declaring undying love, but he wasn’t running off either. Gwen rifled through what pitiful wits still remained her for something clever to say to keep him there a bit longer until she could discover for herself if he had tender feelings for her. Then she would present her plan to him.
“’Tis a lovely night, is it not?” she asked.
He growled something unintelligible.
“The moon is quite large,” she added.
“Did you lure me here,” he said through gritted teeth, “to discuss the contents of the heavens or something more interesting? I pray you, lady, come to a decision quickly for I have little time to waste upon foolishness.”
Gwen took a deep breath. Had she been made of lesser stuff,
she might have been cowed by his grumbles. Or, worse yet, she might have taken them to mean he cared nothing for her. She wasn’t about to believe that. He’d agreed to be her champion once before. She felt certain that, given the chance, he would do so again. And if he wanted her to speak frankly, then frankly she would speak.
“I asked you here to discuss my hand in marriage,” she said as calmly as she could.
“Your marriage to whom?” he asked curtly. “Alain of Ayre?”
“Nay,” she said plainly. “To you.”
He blinked. Then he blinked a bit more. And then his jaw went slack.
“You cannot be serious,” he managed.
“Oh, but I am.”
He shook his head. “You’re daft.”
“I believe I’m quite in possession of all my wits. Hence the craftiness of my ruse to get you here.”
He seemed to give it some thought, then a look of coldness came over his face. “Is Ayre so unappealing,” he asked flatly, “that you would lower yourself to wed with a mere knight?”
“Alain is unappealing,” she agreed, “but that is not why I chose you.”
“How arrogant you are, lady, to think the choice is yours.”
It was her turn to stare at him, speechless. That he might not want her had never occurred to her. She had imagined him rescuing her from her current plight so often that she had come to believe that he cared for her as greatly as she cared for him.
She shut her mouth as casually as she could, then gathered her courage about her. She released his arm, though it was done most reluctantly. Then she tried a smile. It wasn’t her best effort, but she persevered.