Allegiance Read online

  Despite the cooling properties of the salve she had used on Rhun’s hands, his heat had burned into her. The idea such men might find her attractive sent a chill of anticipation rushing up and down her spine. She took in a deep breath. No! The sons of Rhodri ap Owain would never be interested in a village woman. Noble blood flowed in their veins.

  The sound of Rhun’s fingers rasping against the stubble of his chin had made her want to caress his tired face, to soothe his concern for his brother. Perhaps it was the presence of two badly injured noblemen and the heavy responsibility of caring for them that had her sweating one moment and icy cold the next. The hot wetness in a very private place embarrassed and worried her. The experience had left her breathless. She couldn’t wait to tell Isolda.

  Isolda

  Isolda verch Llewelyn ap Aldwyn unbraided her hair and raked her fingers along her scalp, relieved to be rid of the tight plait. It had been a long, wearying day. The sooner she left Affetside, the better. The people welcomed her, grateful that she had come from her own village of Llanfarran to take the place of their healer. However, they understood she would only replace the recently departed Moyra temporarily. She could never leave Llanfarran forever, never be separated from her twin.

  Everyone was aware of her departure on the morrow. A steady stream of complaints kept her busy from dawn till dusk. She sympathized with their fear at the prospect of being without a healer and assured them she would return from time to time. She liked Affetside, but would never live in a different village from Glain. Some invisible thread kept them joined, rendering unthinkable a life apart from her sister.

  The people of Llanfarran should consider themselves lucky to have both a skilled bonesetter and a gifted healer in their midst. The little village was their birthplace, and where their parents had died. They depended on each other, shared the despair of grieving orphans. Their healing gifts helped them survive and prosper.

  Wearied by the long day of dealing with fears and superstitions, of patiently reassuring people, she pulled the smock over her head and slumped down on the pallet, looking forward to returning home. The short journey held no threat. Ewan the Smithy, her uncle-by-marriage with whom she lodged, would accompany her on the route that meandered by Cyfyng Gorge.

  She shuddered, remembering the nervous excitement of travelers who had ridden into Affetside with a tale of two men being taken to Llanfarran after falling into the gorge. She had gleaned only second-hand snatches of their account of the daring rescue. Glain no doubt tended them and might need her help.

  She sensed her sister’s excitement to impart news. Their minds were always in tune, even when apart. They divined each other’s thoughts, though they never spoke of this ability. People were suspicious of such notions. They guarded the secret, one of many they shared.

  As she drifted into sleep, knees tucked into her chest, she recalled fondly her parents’ despair at the antics of their mischievous girls. She and Glain had hated being reprimanded as children, yet punishment had never deterred them. A tear trickled down her cheek. She would welcome even a scolding word from her long dead parents now. She sniffled and pressed her hand to her cold nose. The last thing she remembered before sleep claimed her was the comforting aroma of the healing herbs she had handled during the day.

  * * *

  “She’s coming, Glain, your sister’s coming!”

  Glain looked up from her close inspection of the covering on her patient’s broken leg. “Thank you, Gwilym. You’re a good and faithful lookout. Take this packet of herbs to your mother as a reward.”

  The urchin beamed, grabbed his prize and ran out of the cottage. Lord Rhys was as comfortable as she could make him, drugged to ease his pain. The earl still lay in a stupor by the hearth. She must speak with Isolda before she reached the village, to explain the necessity for her to stay in another cottage.

  Was she doing the right thing? Despite Rhun and Rhydderch’s obvious interest the previous evening, common sense told her neither man would wish to pursue a humble bonesetter. They were the sons of a prince. The reality pained—she had been drawn at once to the one called Rhun. The men were twins, yet one definitely drew her eye, and her heart, and other unmentionable parts of her body.

  However, she would not be any man’s mistress. She wanted a family, children, a husband who loved and cherished her, though she often despaired of the chances of finding such a man in Llanfarran. Male twins stumbling into their village presented a perfect opportunity to play the trick she and her sister had used many times to hoodwink others. The men might be angry once they found out, but they too were twins; they would understand and accept with good grace. Better to enjoy an amusing interlude with these attractive men than to have her heart broken.

  All seemed in order as she glanced round the cottage, throwing on her shawl. She stole away quietly and hastened to meet her identical twin.

  * * *

  Isolda sat down heavily on a massive fallen oak. “But I am weary, Glain. I want to go home.” She came close to stamping her foot like a petulant child. Ewan shrugged his shoulders and sat beside her. “Uncle and I have been walking since dawn. Why can’t we go to the cottage?”

  Glain explained about Rhun and Rhydderch ap Rhodri bringing their wounded brothers. “There’s no room for you to sleep.”

  Isolda had seen the unmistakable signs of the rescue. She shuddered to think of anyone lying injured in the narrow gorge. “I heard about the accident and was told the men had been brought to Llanfarran. But there is more to this than you are telling me. The gleam in your eyes betrays you.”

  Ewan came to his feet with the aid of his staff. “I see it too. Your sister has something naughty in mind.”

  Glain reddened. “Just a harmless idea.”

  Ewan chortled. “Aha! Full of mischief, as usual.”

  The twins exchanged a smile as Glain laid out her plan. They would lead the noblemen to believe they both pursued the same woman. The ruse had worked before with unsuspecting swains.

  Ewan wagged his finger. “You’d best be careful. One of these days you’ll be caught in your own net. You say they are princes?”

  Glain shook her head. “Their older brother is the prince, the one with the broken leg. They’re sons of Rhodri ap Owain.”

  Ewan arched his brows in surprise. “The patriot? Why wouldn’t you want them to woo you?”

  Isolda had not met the twins, but she understood her sister’s concerns. “Men of noble birth aren’t interested in village girls—not as wives.”

  Their uncle sat down again with a sigh. “Maybe you’re right. Too bad. I would be proud to boast my nieces-by-marriage were wed to famous Welsh patriots.”

  They shared the humor, but Isolda noticed a hint of sadness in Glain’s eyes.

  Her sister took a deep breath. “Now, go to Ivor’s cottage. There’s food ready for you both. I must get back to my charges. Take care Rhun and Rhydderch don’t catch us together.”

  Resigned to the game, Isolda came to her feet. “How will I recognize them?”

  Glain giggled. “Don’t worry, you can’t miss them.”

  Waiting Game

  At Ellesmere, Carys and Annalise spent many hours offering prayerful petitions for their husbands’ safe return. Carys felt they both lived, but sensed great pain. Alone in their beds, each wept with the heart-rending helplessness of women who must wait at home in agonized suspense for news of the men they love. Annalise was acutely aware of the toll the ordeal was taking on Carys who seemed to grow paler and more morose with every passing hour.

  She had nightmares about Rhys falling. Where had he fallen? In battle? Off a horse? Carys believed he and Baudoin had fallen, but how could they both have tumbled from a horse? Was he badly hurt? Would he recover? Who was tending to his wounds? How far away were they?

  It was a mystery to her why she cared so deeply. Rhys did not love her, yet she had come to rely heavily on his presence in her life. She had sworn to guard her heart. Now, her heart would b
reak if he died without seeing their child. What would become of her if Rhys did not return?

  She cradled her belly, crooning lullabies to her unborn babe. No-one had ever sung lullabies to her. She longed to hear Rhys’s deep voice singing with her to their child. He had made her body sing, made it come alive. He had made her a woman.

  She loved him! But did he love her? He was kind, gentle and caring, and the passion they shared was more intoxicating than anything she could ever have imagined in her youthful daydreams of her chivalrous knight. Rhys was a chivalrous knight. She had been intent on rejecting him because he was Welsh, and because he had cared enough about his brothers to sacrifice himself.

  But he had never made her feel it was a sacrifice. He made her feel like a desirable woman—loved. Could it be he loved her?

  When Carys suggested they share a chamber so they would not be alone in their torment, Annalise readily agreed.

  After days of uncertainty, riders came to Ellesmere, their horses lathered from the hard journey. They brought news of the accident and rescue. Carys and Annalise stood together hand in hand in the courtyard. Carys gasped when told of Baudoin’s stupor. He had at length opened his eyes and spoken her name. Annalise fell to her knees and wept for her husband’s suffering. But he was alive!

  “I must go to them, Annalise. I’m a healer. They need me,” Carys exclaimed.

  Annalise shook her head. “Rhun’s news assured us they’re in the hands of a capable healer. You’re with child. You can’t undertake such a journey and endanger your babe. Baudoin wouldn’t want you to do such a thing. We must make preparations for their return. Come, let’s weep with relief together, and give thanks that our husbands yet live, and our children are not fatherless before they’re born.”

  * * *

  When Baudoin tumbled over the edge of the gorge, his last thought was that he would never see Carys again. As his wits slowly returned, he opened his eyes and discovered he was lying before a hearth, bound to a crude pallet of some sort.

  “Carys?” he whispered, sure no one but his magically mystical wife could have saved him from death. But why was he bound?

  “I am Glain, my lord,” a warm voice said. “I’m a bonesetter. Your wife awaits you at Ellesmere. You’ve been in a stupor for some time. You hit your head when you fell. We’ve worried about you.”

  He turned his head. A young woman was bending over him. “Rhys?” he asked. “What about Rhys?”

  “Prince Rhys ap Rhodri broke several bones, but he too lives. He’s asleep on the pallet.”

  Baudoin noted the tone of respect for Rhys in her voice and knew he was still in Wales. “Where are we? Who brought us here? Who rescued us?”

  She soothed his forehead with a sweet-smelling wet cloth. “Be calm, my lord. Rhun and Rhydderch ap Rhodri rescued you, but you’ll learn the tale later. You must rest, so I can send you back home to your anxious wives.”

  The tension left him, but he ached in every part of his body. However, he was alive and seemed none the worse for wear, except for an excruciating headache. What a fool—to fall into a gorge, and drag with him his brother-by-marriage who now lay broken on the pallet beside him, somewhere in Wales. And they had been rescued by the two hotheads.

  Who's Who?

  Rhun watched Glain gather herbs in the woods near the cottage. She probably thought he was still at his sleeping brother’s bedside, but he had followed her. Blushing, she bowed her head when she caught sight of him leaning against a tree, half hidden by its shade.

  Blood rushed to his tarse.

  “My lord, you surprised me.”

  He clasped his hands behind his back, resisting the urge to touch her. “You needn’t be formal. My name is Rhun. I’m enjoying watching you.”

  He couldn’t describe the exact color of the long eyelashes she fluttered, but he recognized their effect on him. He hastily unclasped his hands and grabbed her basket to hold in front of his arousal. “Tell me about the herbs.”

  She smiled, poking through the pile, apparently unaware of his discomfort as the woven pannier brushed against his shaft. She rhymed off the names as she touched each one—betony, winter savory, sage, coriander.

  Rhun heard her voice, but was aware of nothing other than the swell of her shapely breasts and the curve of her hips. The aroma of her hair mingled with the scents of the freshly picked herbs. He wanted to wrap the long strands around his body, rub the silkiness between the pads of his fingertips. He closed his eyes and imagined her lying naked beneath him.

  Her voice broke into his reverie. “Lord Rhun? Am I boring you? You asked me about the herbs.”

  His eyes flew open. Something lodged in his throat. “Yes…er…I’m very interested in the properties of herbs. My mother was a renowned healer.”

  Drivel! I’m spouting drivel!

  She gave him a strange look. “I know of your mother, as I told you when we first met.”

  A hint of mockery? “Er…yes, you did tell me.” He took a deep breath, hoping his face was not as red as his hair. “I…I’m so taken with you I forget my own name.”

  She smiled and sighed deeply. “Your name is Rhun. It’s an exciting name, a name to be proud of, a name that conjures images of a brave warrior, passionate about Wales and her people.”

  Her seductive voice singing his praises, uttering words like exciting and passionate, overwhelmed him. He dropped the basket and bent to kiss her, pulling her to him. “This Welsh warrior is particularly passionate about one certain Welshwoman.” He hoped the hard need he pressed to her body would not alarm her.

  To his surprise, she did not resist, but ran her fingers through his hair. Her mouth opened slowly to welcome his probing tongue.

  Her response thrilled him and he murmured her name.

  “Rhun,” she whispered in return, “I love your hair.”

  Many women had expressed their admiration for his hair, but now it was as if he was hearing it for the first time. “I inherited it from my great grandfather, Dafydd. I love everything about you. You fill my senses.”

  She eased away from his arousal and averted her eyes. “Rhun, you’re here for a few days. I’m a maid. I live in this village. I cannot—”

  He pressed his lips to her forehead, the word maid playing havoc with his senses. “I would never shame you. I’m a man of honor, a son of Rhodri ap Owain.”

  Rhydderch’s arrival interrupted their conversation.

  Rhun took his hands off Glain’s waist and pulled away, feeling ridiculously guilty.

  Rhydderch scowled at him. “Rhun, I’ve been looking for you. Baudoin wishes to speak to us.”

  “Go,” Glain murmured to Rhun. “You’re summoned by the earl.”

  His hackles rose. He hated Normans and only tolerated Baudoin because he was married to their sister. As long as he lived, he would never understand why his father had agreed to that marriage. He made a clipped bow and strode off with his brother.

  Once out of Glain’s sight, Rhydderch grasped his elbow and pulled him up short. “Rhun, you and I have shared everything all our lives, but I’ll be hard pressed to share Glain with you.”

  Rhun stared into his brother’s eyes. His heart fell. For the first time in his life his twin was his rival. “Rhydderch…brother—”

  He couldn’t find the right words and fled to Glain’s cottage to await Baudoin’s pleasure and to attend to Rhys.

  * * *

  Much later the same day, Rhydderch encountered Glain as she strained to draw water from the village well. He strode to her side holding out his hand. “Let me help you with the pail.”

  The warmth of her fingers penetrated his skin as their hands came together on the handle.

  She seemed taken aback and removed her hand. “Thank you, er—”

  He smiled to conceal an uncharacteristic irritation. He should be used to having to identify himself. “Rhydderch.”

  She wiped her brow with the back of her hand and fluttered her eyelashes at him, sending heat roaring
through his body. “Thank you, Rhydderch. It’s a relief to have a strong man to help with such heavy tasks.”

  His masculinity stroked, he rose to her bait. “Would I could please you in other ways a strong man can.”

  Inanities! I’ve lost my wits!

  His body heated and his tarse stood to attention, straining against the confines of his leggings. Had she noticed? Was she fighting a smile?

  She touched her delicate fingers to his head. “I love your red hair. Your name befits your coloring. Was your father a redhead?”

  He hoped the pail covered his growing need. “No…er…my great grandfather, Dafydd had copper hair.”

  She smiled. “Ah, copper hair.”

  Was she mocking him? Better to take the bull by the horns. He dropped the pail, put his hands on her shoulders and drew her to his body, nuzzling her hair. “Mmm, like molten silver. You make me lose my senses.”

  She eased away from his arousal, but his hands remained on her shoulders. “Rhydderch, you’re here for a few days. I’m a maid. I live in this village. I cannot—”

  He pressed his lips to her forehead, the desire to bed this maid dominating his thoughts. “I would never shame you. I’m a man of honor, a son of Rhodri ap Owain.”

  Rhun’s sarcastic voice intruded. “You dropped the pail, brother.”

  The woman who had aroused him jumped away and looked wide-eyed at Rhun. Did she feel guilty at being caught with the wrong twin? Did she prefer Rhun? Rhydderch wanted to hit his brother squarely in the jaw when he took her hand and pressed it to his lips.