Defiant Passion Read online

  He embodied primitive masculinity and vitality, with eyes like green jade and the tanned, weathered skin of a man who lived his life in the open air. Around each of his muscular biceps, a narrow band of Celtic knots had been etched into his skin.

  He was intimidating to behold and she knew the mere mention of his name struck fear into the hearts of those living on the English side of the Welsh border. To them he was a feral force. To his own people he was a folk hero of mythical proportions. Though few had ever met him, all knew of his deeds.

  Morwenna’s presence had already caused Rhonwen’s belly to tighten, but this man, intimidating though he was, produced an altogether different reaction in the lower part of her body. He was beautiful, and his beauty drew her like a lodestone.

  Rhodri stood. “Lady Countess of Ellesmere, I bid you welcome, and I apologise for your difficult journey. I wasn’t aware you’re with child. Permit me to introduce myself. I am Rhodri ap Owain ap Dafydd ap Gwilym, Prince of Powwydd.”

  He bowed slightly.

  Despite his primitive garb, he spoke courteously in accented Norman French, and Rhonwen could see the Countess was taken aback, though she tried not to show it. She must be aware this was the man her husband thirsted to kill after their encounter at Ruyton.

  “Lord Rhodri,” the Countess stammered. She returned the bow, but not deeply. “My children and my serving women are in need of food and clean clothing. And—I am in need—of an explanation—as to why we have been—?”

  He silenced her with the same slight movement he had used with Morwenna. “Forgive me, Countess, I haven’t yet finished my introductions. I believe you’re acquainted with my betrothed, Morwenna verch Morgan ap Talfryn?”

  The bile rose in Rhonwen’s throat. Never had she felt such hatred. Mabelle de Montbryce looked straight at the girl. “Oui. Morwenna, murderess of my unborn child and of Myfanwy Dda.”

  Morwenna protested. “It wasn’t I who murdered the foolish old hag—”

  Again Rhodri silenced her with a look, and she sank back into her chair, scowling.

  She had an accomplice! Someone within Ellesmere Castle?

  Rhodri spoke again, his voice jerking her back to look at his face. “As to why you’re here, Countess, it must be obvious by now we intend to ransom you to your husband. He and I have met before, you know.”

  Rhonwen was afraid her mistress was about to swoon, and Giselle moved forward to support her elbow as she swayed. But she seemed determined to speak. “Do I have your assurances then that my children and my serving women will not be harmed while we’re here? Your men have already killed my escort at Whittington.”

  Rhodri came to his feet abruptly, strode quickly from the dais and reached the captives in a trice, his hand on the hilt of the large dagger tucked in his belt. Before the exhausted Countess could react, Rhonwen moved to protect the boys, and stood defiantly between them and the aggressor. Rhodri seemed taken aback for a moment as he glared at her. She did not think he had noticed her before. After a few moments he turned back to Mabelle de Montbryce.

  “Not a single one of the soldiers in your escort was killed when you were taken. I give you my word as Commander of Cadair Berwyn and Prince of Powwydd that no harm shall come to any of you as long as you’re in my care. Unless, of course, you try to escape.”

  He laughed and winked at the Countess.

  Suddenly he turned back to Rhonwen, and speaking to her in Welsh, asked her name. She replied in the same language. “I am Rhonwen the healer, daughter of Myfanwy Dda.”

  He looked at her with surprise and she could not turn away from his insistent gaze. Fear chilled her spine but, strangely, it was not him she feared. This man’s aura of primitive power drew her and brought on conflicting feelings. As a healer, she recognised and admired a strong, healthy body when she saw one. The mystical side of her, passed down through generations of Ddas, drew her to him. She sensed an affinity that transcended the physical and it alarmed her.

  She wanted to reach up and touch his dark face, fondle his braids, run her hands over his tattooed biceps, feel the controlled strength emanating from him. His deep, sonorous voice evoked the memory of the rich, melodious Welsh folksongs they had enjoyed at the fayre in Whittington.

  Her thoughts made her blush. How childish to expect a Celtic prince to welcome the attentions of a lowly woman such as her. She determined to quell her feelings, knowing with dire certainty she would avenge her mother’s death by killing Morwenna, his betrothed. It was a harsh knowledge for a woman who had dedicated her life to healing, to saving others.

  ***

  Two things surprised Rhodri when his eyes fell on the healer. One was the strength of his sudden arousal. The other was the feeling of calm that swept over him when he heard the lilting way in which she spoke his language. It was the Welsh of the Marches. The interview with the captives was something he had prepared for, and anticipation had filled him with nervous tension. Yet now, the intrigue, the plot, the ransom, all seemed somehow insignificant. Something in nature had shifted and he knew with certainty the change would affect his life dramatically. Who was this young woman he had barely noticed when the hostages were first led in? When she told him she was the daughter of the murdered healer, he wanted to reach out to console her, to explain it was none of his doing. He was drawn to this diminutive woman much more than to his betrothed who now sat glowering at him. But the healer was his captive and probably terrified of him. He turned away sadly and walked back to the dais, glad he was wearing his long jerkin.

  ***

  Rhodri returned to his chair. Morwenna glared at Rhonwen. She had not failed to notice the brief exchange between Rhodri and the healer. She smiled at him, but her thoughts were black.

  You look at her while you’re betrothed to me. A curse on you! I have another who’ll give me much more than this windblown fortress.

  “I want to kill the healer,” she told Rhodri after the captives had been escorted back to their chamber and food ordered for them.

  He looked into her eyes, his voice cold. “You’ll not kill any of them, Morwenna. I’ve sworn an oath they’ll be protected here. They’re worth nothing to us dead. We need the coin their ransom will bring. It will allow us to buy the things we desperately need to continue our struggle. Our people have to be fed, clothed and armed. Many in the villages of our commote will starve without this ransom money.”

  He turned to Andras. “We don’t have much time. I’ll write the ransom. Prepare four men to ride to Ellesmere. We must act before the weather turns against us. The Countess is expecting a child, which I wasn’t aware of. We don’t want the babe born here, then he’d be a Welshman!”

  Andras snorted in agreement. “When is our loyal friend from Ellesmere expected to arrive?” he asked with a hint of sarcasm.

  The grin left Rhodri’s face. “On the morrow.”

  Morwenna’s eyes widened.

  ***

  Phillippe de Giroux arrived at the isolated fortress of Cadair Berwyn exhausted and frustrated. He had lost his way twice. Despite his peasant disguise, he had been unable to ask for help because he did not speak Welsh and was afraid his manner of speech would jeopardise him. Once he found the right trail, his pony came close to losing its footing on the high path.

  “Curse this wild country, and curse these ignorant Welshmen with their fanatical obsession of ousting us,” he muttered as he stabled the pony and went in search of Rhodri. “They’ll find out to their regret we can’t be defeated, but till then I’ll use them to my purposes.”

  He found Rhodri in the great hall, now filled with tables and benches. People were gathered for a meal. The air was redolent with the aroma of venison. He helped himself to a chunk of it from the large trestle table at the side of the room, hacked off a generous piece of coarse black bread and poured a goblet of ale.

  Rhodri came down from his chair on the dais and joined the treacherous Norman who had helped him secure the prize. Rhodri detested spies who betrayed their
own countrymen and hoped his contempt did not show.

  Morwenna remained on the dais, staring at them. Giroux glanced in her direction and asked, “All went well?”

  “Ydi, yes. Very well. I thank you for your help.”

  “Has the ransom been sent?”

  “Ddoe,” Rhodri automatically replied in Welsh. How irritated Giroux was he had spoken to him in Welsh! “Yesterday, hier,” he explained.

  Giroux had betrayed Montbryce for his own reasons, not for the freedom of Wales, and he wondered what had caused the anger that drove a man to seek revenge at such a high risk.

  “I didn’t see your men on the trail,” Giroux began. Rhodri knew then that the Norman had lost his way.

  Giroux seemed anxious to change the subject. “The weather is already bad in the passes. I hope they get through.”

  “They’re Welsh, they’ll get through.”

  ***

  Rhodri was mistaken. The blinding snowstorm howled out of the frigid peaks and caught the messengers unawares. Though autumn blizzards weren’t unheard of in these mountains, the sudden ferocity of this one forced them to seek shelter in a shepherd’s hut.

  The snow stopped after two days, but they had to wait another sennight before the weak sun melted it sufficiently to make the track safe enough for travel. They had used up their supplies. If they got to Ellesmere, it was unlikely there would be time to return to Cadair Berwyn with the reply to the ransom demand they carried. If they left Ellesmere alive, they would have to winter in the foothills, and return to the mountains in the spring.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Milord, there are messengers from the barbarian, Rhodri.”

  Roused from his constant berating of himself for not adequately protecting his family and household, Ram de Montbryce tore his gaze from the embers in the hearth, leapt to his feet and instructed his commander to lead him to the Welshmen.

  Once they came to the cells, he could see the four prisoners had undergone a difficult journey. They were dirty, their beards unkempt. Yet there was dignity in their bearing. He could sense when a man was afraid, and these men showed no sign of fear as he strode into their dank cell. He wondered how long they had been on the road to his castle with the message.

  Their leader did not wait to be spoken to. “Earl of Ellesmere, Comte de Montbryce?”

  His enemy was an educated man, a warrior. “I am he. Who are you and what is your message?”

  “Aneurin ap Norweg,” the Welshman replied curtly, withdrawing a small metal tube from inside his sheepskin jerkin. He handed it to the Earl. “I have a message from Lord Rhodri ap Owain, Prince of the commote of Powwydd.”

  The Earl snatched the tube, willing his hands not to shake in front of these enemies. He pulled out the parchment coiled tightly inside. It was damp, but the message was still legible.

  To Rambaud de Montbryce, Earl of Ellesmere

  Herein my requirements for the release of your wife, children and household servants.

  Two thousand pounds in Fleury pennies to be brought back to Wales by the messengers.

  If they are killed, and no ransom paid, you will not see your family again. I guarantee the safe return of the captives upon payment.

  Rhodri ap Owain, Prince of Powwydd.

  Montbryce’s gut tightened. It was impossible. He shook his head. “I can’t comply with these demands. This sum is the equivalent of a year’s income from all my properties. For all I know they’re already dead.”

  He could barely speak the words, and yet, in the depths of his despair, he had never sensed his wife and children were dead. He thrust the document back at the Welshman.

  Aneurin refused to take it. “Lord Rhodri is a man of honour. He has sworn an oath none in your family or household will be harmed, if the ransom is paid.”

  The Earl smirked. “Your Lord must have a different code of honour if he believes kidnapping women and children is honourable.”

  He spat out the words, though he knew many Norman knights thought such misdeeds acceptable in time of war. Aneurin remained silent. Montbryce looked at the Welshmen for long minutes. “We’re both aware of the atrocities men are capable of. However, I will not send you off with a chest full of coin. You wouldn’t make it back before winter. I assume you’ve taken them deep into the mountains. My family is trapped. Why have you come so late?”

  Aneurin reluctantly agreed, explaining the delay of the blizzard. “We’ll take whatever message you send back to the foothills, and wait until the spring to return to the mountains.”

  The Earl wanted to shout that his cherished wife was pregnant and he feared for her life if she gave birth in the wilds of the Welsh mountains, but his fear made him swallow the words.

  “But Rhodri will believe you’ve been killed,” Gervais interjected.

  The Welshman shook his head. “He will not act upon his suspicions until our deaths are confirmed.”

  These men obviously held their leader in high regard. “I could order you be tortured until you reveal where Rhodri is holding my family.” It was an empty threat. Such men would not succumb to torture.

  “I’ll save you the trouble and tell you they are safe and well in the fortress of Cadair Berwyn. If you could find it and arrive there alive, it would profit you nothing.”

  A flicker of hope blossomed in the Earl’s heart. Aneurin spoke as though the Montbryce family was alive and safe in Cadair Berwyn. He paced in the dark cell, trying to ignore the bile rising at the back of his throat, brought on by the stench in this squalid place and his own fear.

  He gave a curt order. “Gervais, escort these men to a chamber in the North Tower. Provide them with pallets and a bath, and food. Bolt the door.”

  He left the cells before Gervais could protest.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Aneurin has not returned, Rhodri. It’s been a month since they left. The Earl has executed him and his men. We must kill the hostages.”

  Morwenna and Rhodri were at supper in the neuadd. The Earl of Ellesmere’s family and servants had been given leave to eat their meals in the hall. The Countess, Rhonwen and Giselle ate at a separate table from the others. Rhodri sensed the noblewoman appreciated this bit of decorum and privacy as her pregnancy became more evident. He worried about her condition. It was an unforeseen complication he would rather have done without.

  Morwenna had badgered Rhodri with her demand the hostages be killed every day for a sennight. The failure of the messengers to return worried him too, but why did the woman have such a blood lust? It was less and less clear to him how he had become involved with her. How had their betrothal come about? He supposed when her father had proposed the union, he had been smitten with her beauty, but now hatred distorted her lovely face. Even her ample breasts did nothing to rouse his lust. She sickened him. He also suspected, if they married, she would not come virgin to his bed.

  And now I’m smitten with another.

  He understood passion. He was as passionate as anyone for his beloved country but had no personal hatred for the Earl of Ellesmere, whom he recognized as an able administrator, a fair man who strove to better the lives of the people who lived in his lands. He could have killed the Earl years ago, at Ruyton, if he had wished, if he was the sort of man who killed adversaries knocked into oblivion by a blow to the head. He wanted none of the Norman usurper’s earls ruling his own country, and would fight to keep them out, but had no reason to slaughter the Earl’s wife and children. He had given his oath they would remain safe and he reminded Morwenna of it again.

  She leapt to her feet and stormed out. Though the hostages were too far away from the dais to hear what had been said, he suspected they knew the woman thirsted for their deaths.

  Despite his best efforts, his gaze kept returning to the hostages. He made the excuse he was preoccupied with the possibility the baby would be born in his fortress, but in his heart he knew it was Rhonwen who drew his eyes. He longed to take her small, delicate body in his arms and bury his face in her
long black hair. Those enormous grey eyes had him bewitched.

  ***

  That same night, the Prince of Powwydd had a dream. He sat contentedly amid his children. There were five of them, and two had flaming red hair. A hazy vision of his grandfather, Dafydd, drifted across the dream, his copper hair ablaze in the sun. It was a happy dream, different from the ones he usually had when he returned from raids. He did not enjoy killing and death often stalked his nightmares.

  Belief in the power of dreams ran deep in his Celtic blood. In this dream, Arianrhod, the virgin white goddess of birth, was revealed to him. It was a dream of hope and promise for the future. The goddess conjured an image of the mother of his children. She was a diminutive woman with long black hair, high cheekbones and eyes like grey pools, the woman he had been unable to stop thinking about since setting eyes on her.

  When he woke, he whispered her name. “Rhonwen.”

  He felt calmer than he had in many a year. Perhaps there was an end in sight to his loneliness. He gave thanks for the honour the gods had bestowed on him. The healer was not high born. Her mother was Welsh, but her father? She had never lived in Wales, only in the Marches, and he sensed she burned with a desire to kill his betrothed, to avenge her mother’s murder.

  He only hoped he would be worthy of her and could win her heart. Then the dream could be fulfilled. He resolved to begin his wooing this very day.

  ***

  The Normans had been escorted back to their chamber after the meal, and Giselle soon had the yawning boys tucked up in their pallets. In consideration of her condition, Rhodri had provided a bed for the Countess, but the lads liked their pallets.

  “What brave little soldiers you are,” their mother whispered, gazing at their tousled heads.

  The noise of the bolt being thrown back and a tapping at the door made them instantly wary. They were usually left alone at night. Rhonwen opened the door a crack. Andras stood on the threshold. He spoke to her in Welsh. “Lord Rhodri requests you come to his chamber.”