In Debt To The Enemy Lord

She could endure whatever the Traitor expected of her, but there were people who needed her at Brynmor. Melun, who had raised her like a father, was losing his sight and depended upon her to care for the birds. The falconer had probably already been punished for losing a goshawk. And fragile, gentle Alinore needed protection from her father, Lord Urien of Brynmor, and his spitting rages.

Feeling trapped and restless, Anwen fisted the rich green gown they’d given her. She was as unused to this inactivity as she was to long gowns, but it was easy to spot the man responsible for her imprisonment. For days she’d been watching Teague. His tall frame, dark hair and movements were now as familiar to her as a hawk’s flight.

He was training his men in hand-to-hand in the lists. A circle of men surrounded both Teague and a red-haired man. Both of them were crouched, their arms stretched and angled in front of them. Even in the cold heavy mist, they were similarly garbed—bare, except for loose braies that bunched at the waist and fell above the knee.

But it was Teague she watched. On him, the braies didn’t look so much like they were worn as much as they hugged a tight waist that supported a wide defined chest, broad shoulders and arms and legs rigid with muscle.

He was often hardly clothed, yet each time she saw it, it was as if his body presented some new facet for her to watch. He held a savage beauty, like a peregrine’s wings arching back only to pound the air in a fluid rhythm.

His eyes never left his opponent and his arms remained steady, but she saw the almost imperceptive movement of his great thigh muscles when he launched. With one arm sweeping around his opponent’s neck, he forced him to the ground.

Then each of them stood. Teague gave a satisfied grin as the man re-entered the crowd.

Anwen’s breath caught in her chest. It was a strange breathlessness that had occurred to her more than once in the days she watched him. His face did not hold the perfect symmetrical beauty of his brother’s; his features were masculine, hardened, and his cheeks, brow and jaw looked as if they were fragments of Gwalchdu’s stone. One did not call him beautiful as one does not call a cliff that jaggedly slashes downward to crashing waves beautiful, but both held a magnificence that could not be denied. And when he smiled, his eyes flashing victory, Teague was truly magnificent.

Even having won, he did not rest, but pointed to another man, who entered the circle. Teague pushed his long dark locks over his shoulders before crouching in the almost ritualistic stance. It would continue for hours until Teague was satisfied and it seemed he was never satisfied.

He pushed his men as she had seen no man train before. Teague would not call a halt until muscles visibly shook from strain, and sweat built upon sweat and dirt upon dirt. There were times he would get hurt, by a misstep, or a flawed arc to a sword, but never did she see him lose.

Through it all, he still held the air of a leader. Day after day, soldiers and servants came to him. He either directed or simply listened, but she would never see or hear a complaint or an argument against his direction. It seemed everyone obeyed Gwalchdu’s lord out of respect and admiration.

For many days she had watched the Traitor, yet in all this time of trying to find a weakness so she could escape she had found only one. What she knew of Teague now conflicted greatly with her earlier knowledge. His arrogance and power were there, and a few servants crossed themselves on his approach as if warding him away, but he was also a fair leader and generous caregiver. No, Teague of Gwalchdu wasn’t only the Traitor, yet that facet would always exist.

She had seen the consequences of him siding with the English for Brynmor and even now, he kept her a prisoner. For those facts alone, she could not trust him.

* * *

It was hours later when Greta and Edith barged in carrying full water buckets. More servants followed with a large hip tub and more buckets.

‘The kind Sister thought you could use a bath.’ Edith set the buckets near the tub.

There were more important things for Anwen than a bath, but the steam from the buckets was intoxicating. ‘Thank you. But you shouldn’t be cross with Sister Ffion if she wanted me to have one.’

‘Oh, I’m not cross with Her Mightiness about the bath.’ Edith helped Greta pour the water into the tub after the other servants discreetly left. ‘I’m cross because she had to decide when. I knew I shouldn’t have asked for one days ago.’ Edith gestured with her arms. ‘Why don’t you come here then and let me help with your clothing?’

Anwen, who had never been mothered a day in her life, couldn’t get used to the coddling, yet she bent as Edith stripped her clothes and bandages.

When the bandages were gone, Anwen did something she had wanted to do for days.

She approached the tub, leaned over and without touching the smooth water, she scrutinised her reflection. She saw, as she expected, a stranger.

The woman looking back at her was gaunt, with cheekbones pronounced. Her hair fell lank around her down-tilted face, but it was the left side of her face that caused her to gasp.

Ffion was right—despite the stitches and poultice, the wound would scar. The raised jaggedness covered her entire left temple, but it wasn’t so wide, or it would have affected her eyesight. Tentatively, she placed the tips of her fingers over the wound.

She could almost imagine it didn’t exist. But it did and would for ever. Quickly standing, she immersed herself into the bath, causing waves to crash against the surface.

The steaming scent of lavender and sage immediately surrounded her and she rested her head against the back of the tub to simply enjoy it. Which she did, for about two drips of a candle; then Edith was there to assist.

‘You can’t rest now. Why, what if you go to sleep before we can get you clean? Help me here, Greta, get her up a bit, I’ve got to get to that hair and I can’t do it proper and not affect the healing, as well.’

Anwen’s thoughts of a lovely leisurely bath were dashed long before Edith began work on her back and arms. The woman cleaned her with a determination paralleling her speech. The only grace was that it was quickly finished.

Edith beamed and Greta swiftly cleaned around the tub. ‘You look like an angel now.’

She grimaced. ‘Thank you, but only if the angel had tripped and ripped the left side of her face.’

‘Give it time,’ the older woman said.

Greta patted Edith’s arm before she poured another bucket of hot water into the tub.

‘Oh, yes,’ Edith said. ‘Greta thinks we should leave you in peace for a bit now.’

Greta, with a wad of dirty cloths under one arm, grabbed Edith with the other.

‘We’ll be back, child,’ Edith warned, walking as fast as she could with Greta dragging her. ‘Don’t go tiring yourself, just when you’re on the mend.’

‘I won’t move a muscle.’ Anwen smiled.

* * *

Knowing Edith and Greta would be back, Anwen didn’t open her eyes when she heard the door open.

‘Can you talk?’

Teague stood a few steps from her tub. He came straight from the lists and still wore nothing but braies. His wide torso was textured by scars, bruises and the line of black hair that ran down his abdomen. His bare chest gleamed and sweat ran in rivulets following the curves of his rigid muscles and dampening his waistband. Blood showed bright from cuts on his arms. His stance was one of a conqueror; his arms folded across his chest, feet apart.

She felt her heart thumping harder inside her as she took in the smells of sweat, heat and maleness. His black gaze held hers just as steadily, just as transfixed, then he slowly lowered his eyes...to her breasts not quite covered by the water.

Gasping, she stood and quickly turned to grab a cloth. The movement cost her. Swaying, grabbing the side of the tub for support, she wrapped the material around her. He didn’t offer to help, didn’t move at all, but she heard his sharp inhalation.

When the dizziness faded, a slow anger built inside her. For days he’d visited her when she was too sick to defend herself, then he ignored and imprisoned her. Now he didn’t show her courtesy for her modesty. When she turned to face him, she’d lost a handle on her caution.

‘Yes, I can talk and I ask, can you not see? Because if you could, you would know I wish for privacy. Leave.’ Outraged, Anwen wanted to point to the door, but the saturated cloth needed both her hands.

His expression hardened. ‘You are commanding me to leave?’

‘Yes, now. This is not right. This is rude.’

‘Rude.’ He regarded the room. ‘You sleep in my bed, you have worn my clothes and now I am rude?’

‘You want my thanks for your type of hospitality? You, who take advantage of me and keep me prisoner?’

He needed to leave. Now. The longer Teague stared at her, she could feel her precarious position. She could see the light in his eyes, that he, too, recognised her predicament.

‘Take advantage of whom, I wonder.’ He tilted his head. ‘From my position, it could be you taking advantage of me.’

The air changed with his words. Making a slow perusal of her wet hair and her bare shoulders, he took a step closer. If he continued to close the distance between them, she could do nothing to stop him. The moment she stepped out of the tub, she’d only expose more of herself. She was stuck. Ire, frustration and something close to rage ran up her spine. She hated men who prayed on those who were weaker.

‘How could I take advantage of you? When it is you who have afforded me no courtesy, made me well, but allowed me no freedom, you who have provided food for me, but not the open air?’

He tilted his head. ‘Are you that innocent? I wonder. When I first saw you in the forest with your hair swinging and your paltry chemise giving me glimpses of your skin underneath, I couldn’t take my eyes from you.’

He took another step so that his feet almost touched the tub. ‘Then you were so sick, I thought you dead,’ he continued. ‘Ffion and my servants took care of your body, but still I watched, unable to leave you. I watched you, Anwen.’

She could not speak, could not breathe, her anger changing into something else. So she hadn’t been dreaming or mistaken.

‘It was you at night,’ she whispered, when she knew she should accuse him instead. How could it have been this man, this traitor, who comforted her?

‘Yes, it was me at night, my hand you held, my touch you sought when the pain was bad. While you recovered, I knew I could no longer simply watch you. So I stayed away.’

His eyes roved over her body until she blushed with heat. Until she was acutely aware of the cooling water, the brush of cold air in the room.

When he spoke next, his voice was like velvet. ‘You asked whether I can see your present state of undress. Oh, yes, I can see. I can see that although you cover yourself, in my mind you are still laid bare to me.’

Anwen’s blood turned to ice, then to flame; her skin prickled and flushed. The Traitor had comforted her, imprisoned her and now he was doing something else. Something that affected her body more than her anger, more than his care and capture.

His eyes gleamed black mercury as he continued, ‘You clamp your hands to your breasts, thinking that cloth covers you, but instead it outlines. Your breasts are like perfect globes waiting to be touched, silky wet from the water beading on them, just right for the heat of a man’s mouth. My mouth.’

She had no weapons against these words of his. None at all. Her anger had disappeared, only to be replaced by something hotter, more liquid. She could fight his care and escape his capture, but she couldn’t fight her own body’s response to this.

His eyes returned to hers and he seemed to war with himself before he asked roughly, ‘How can you take advantage of me, you ask?’ The sensuousness of his voice was gone, anger surrounded him and when his eyes locked with hers, she could only see cold stone. ‘That is what I intend to find out. Dress yourself and meet me in the Hall. I will have words with you.’

The door closed, but it took several more moments before she could react; her entire body was trembling. She didn’t want to know if it was from her anger, embarrassment, or the heat of his words, so she got out of the tub and briskly dried herself.

Why had she challenged him? It wasn’t as though she would ever win any battle with him. He was a man who commanded, not one to take commands. She was not usually so foolish.

What battle was it she wanted to win? She grabbed her clean clothes off the chair. It certainly wasn’t the one he had challenged her to. His crude words shook her. She was not so innocent she didn’t know what he was speaking of.

Yet, he hadn’t touched her. He had obviously used the words as retribution to her commanding he leave. He’d meant to embarrass her, but the words only humiliated her at first. Then other images came unwittingly: the images of his mouth on her breasts, his dark hair caressing her skin.

Perhaps these images would not have been so real if she had not remembered his touch so acutely. Yet he had touched her, at night, when there was no one but him. She had taken comfort in his hand, concentrated on the gentleness and strength through her pain. Now she remembered how his calloused thumb had slowly rubbed circles in her inner palm and wrist. The fact she could so easily imagine his touch elsewhere should anger her, frighten her...but she could summon neither emotion. They were destroyed by his words.

She needed to escape.

Chapter Six

Swiftly entering the Great Hall, Teague strode to the two chairs set by the smaller fireplace. He needed solace and some wine, two flagons full, and not necessarily in that order.

He had not known Anwen was taking a bath or he would never have gone in the room, but once he’d entered, he’d been unable to leave.

He hadn’t meant to make accusations, but her anger and the way she’d trembled as she stood overrode his better judgement. He didn’t know whether to help her or to wrap her in his arms and kiss her. And he had wanted to kiss her, of that there was no doubt.

Teague shifted his position on the chair and rearranged his legs. Though she argued and spat words at him, the impulse to taste those luscious lips was overbearingly strong. Her lips, like forbidden fruit, had captivated him in the forest; now he was on fire to taste them.

‘What has put you in such a mood?’ Rhain asked, interrupting his thoughts.

He glanced at his brother. ‘I’m surprised to see you alone.’

Grinning, Rhain gestured wide with his arms. ‘Well, I cannot help that this dark and gloomy stone has been bereft of my presence for so long. Can you blame the girls for wanting to bask in my sunnier disposition?’

‘I doubt Mary and Anne are there for your disposition,’ Teague said.

Rhain crossed his arms and shook his head. ‘Mary and Anne following me into the lists today isn’t what has raised your ire. Indeed, you can hardly complain when my betterment of Peter, your captain, was extraordinary...as usual.’ His eyes turned speculative. ‘Has there been another message?’

Teague shook his head. ‘I asked the woman to come down to speak.’

‘You mean to question Anwen again?’ Rhain’s voice held a hint of amusement. ‘Did you bring a change of clothes?’

‘She is better.’ Teague caught the eye of a passing servant and requested wine and food.

‘You have spoken to her then?’ Rhain sat in the other chair, stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles.

‘Yes.’ Teague wished he talked to her through the door. He’d entered that room to confront her, but all thought had gone once he saw her. Her eyes had been closed, her head arched against the back of the tub, the mounds of her breasts glistening from the hot water. The water was deep, but the crests of her knees, thighs, legs, were shown sleekly. She was, as in the forest, revealed and yet concealed.

No, the feeling of lust was stronger this time. Because this time, this time, she was in his bedchamber. She had been so tangible to him in that instant, he had almost felt her, tasted her, sunk deep within her. Then she had opened her eyes and challenged him. Her trembling took whatever control he had over his lust and mingled it with his need to protect. He could not leave the room fast enough, but it hadn’t helped the ache in his loins.

‘That may explain your tenseness,’ Rhain said. ‘I find it curious she makes you prickly.’

‘I do not get prickly.’ Teague shifted in his seat. ‘I do not know who she is and am wary.’

‘The Devil of Gwalchdu is wary of a slip of a girl. Well, this place is certainly not dull. I will sit with you and await her arrival.’

* * *

Keeping close to the wall, Anwen carefully made her way down the stairs. At least her pace and the view from the stairs allowed her to take in the emptiness of the castle.

Gwalchdu’s Great Hall’s opulence, though it was expected, overwhelmed her. To be sure, she knew Edward and the Welsh Prince, Llewellyn, had visited Gwalchdu, but this Hall even outdid royalty’s comfort.

Several large hunting tapestries covered the walls. Where there were no tapestries, thick opulent red-and-green-coloured linens hung and shimmered against the light. Standing candelabras and large sconces provided flickering light. Two fireplaces, of different sizes and opposite each other, brought warmth and ornamentation to the hall. In the middle, three long trestles were flanked by equally long benches. These trestles were intersected by another, which should have been placed on a dais to separate the lord from his soldiers, but it wasn’t. It was level, indicating equality between the lord and his men. The sole indication of privilege at the high table was the ornate cushioned chairs and the huge fireplace behind the table. Both were used to provide the lord the greater heat and comfort.

At the other end of the hall was a smaller fireplace, and two large padded chairs occupied by men whose hair reflected dark and light in the firelight. Anwen strode forward.

Teague heard her first and stood, and Rhain rose after him. The setting sun filtering through the windows was weak, but the lights from the fires shone through her damp unbound tresses that curled like a halo of gold. As she walked, the white of her gown flowed angel-like around her small frame.

‘My God.’

‘What say you?’ Teague’s eyes did not leave Anwen.

‘I thought you mad for bringing her here.’ Rhain spoke low, his eyes riveted on the vision walking towards them. ‘But now that I see her like this, as you must have seen her at first, I believe you the sanest man alive.’

With shuttered eyes, Anwen paused before them. She was still unwell. Her hands trembled and the pallor of her skin shone with exertion just from the small walk.

She had wide blue eyes, with eyelashes so pale they should have been unnoticeable, but instead, the golden colour made her eyes shine. Shine? He quickly rejected the frivolous thought.

‘You came,’ he said, his voice gruff.

‘As you commanded,’ she answered.

Teague looked much changed from when she had seen him earlier. Freshly washed, his hair was wet, and he was finely clothed in a dark blue tunic. The aesthetic affect was almost as unnerving as him standing bare-chested before her. Damp, his hair waved thickly and the tunic fitted his shoulders and skimmed over his chest and abdomen. He was covered, but it did little to hide what was beneath.

‘Do you always follow commands?’ he asked.

‘If they are not unfair.’ Anwen would not curb her tongue.

Rhain coughed. ‘It is good you have fared well.’

Anwen assessed the two men in front of her. From their colourings to their personalities, the contrast between them was stark. Both men were tall and their muscles were outlined even in their clothing, but there the similarities ended. Teague was dark from his hair to his eyes to his countenance. He looked every bit the devil, hewn from far below the earth’s surface. Rhain, his golden handsomeness elegantly garbed in rich red fabrics, was powerfully built, but he was leaner and more graceful looking. He looked hewn from the sun’s light, as if God himself had created a man-angel.

Anwen gave Rhain her most winning smile. She noticed out of the corner of her eye that Teague’s frown deepened, but she paid him little heed. If he was an angel, perhaps she could appeal to Rhian’s mercy. She would press any advantage he could give her. She must.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘My headaches seem to be gone now and I have most of my strength. I fear I would not have fared so well had you not taken great care of me.’

Rhain returned her smile and gave a slight nod. ‘I am glad, despite my desire for you not to be hurt at all. Would you care to sit?’ Rhain indicated the chair he had been occupying.

She was weak, but sitting would increase the position of power Teague held over her. Still, she appreciated kindness, since she so rarely received it, so she gave him another smile.

‘Rhain, Peter needs you in the stables,’ Teague said.

The lord’s brother’s friendly face turned implacable as he gave her a nod. ‘Of course, how discourteous of me to forget. If you’ll excuse me?’

It was the mischievous twinkle in Rhain’s eye, before he turned away, that worried Anwen more than Teague’s frown. It was as if he knew a secret. But what? Teague had ordered him away. Demanded again as he was wont to do.

To be alone with her.

Whatever advantage she hoped to have with Rhain was gone. Only now it was replaced with an acute awareness of how alone she was with the Traitor.

His previous words still vibrated through her. In the bedchamber, had she revealed her body’s treacherous response to him? She was dressed this time and prepared. Whatever happened then wouldn’t happen to her again.

But Teague didn’t speak and it still didn’t matter. Something of his silence vibrated through her, too. She listened to Rhain’s every step as he walked towards the Hall’s doors, and every thump of her heart in her chest sounding like that of a captured bird. Then there was a creak of the door, a gust of unsympathetic wind brushing against her limbs and more of Teague’s watchful silence.

She didn’t want to sit, but her legs were weakening.

‘Are you well enough to answer some questions?’

Ah, yes, he was too watchful. But her stubbornness and strength had been honed by men who flaunted their power and control over those who were weaker. How many times had she protected herself and Alinore against Urien’s fists?

She might feel no anger from Teague now, but she felt his power, as she had since the first time she saw him. And somewhere deep in his silence and scrutiny she felt an insidious connection between them like a creance she’d snared herself on.

It didn’t matter if it had started when he caught her under the tree, or comforted her in the night. It would end as soon as she returned to Brynmor. In the meantime, if her legs were weak and her head hurt, she merely needed to hurry along this encounter with the Traitor. ‘Whether I answer yours depends on whether my question is answered.’

Teague’s eyes narrowed on hers, but then he waved to the servants, who brought two flagons of wine and some fruit and bread and set them on the table between the chairs. ‘Before we get to the questions, perhaps we should have some repast.’

Anwen did not take her eyes from the man who knew she wanted to rush this discussion. He understood it so fully, he was forcing her to wait.

Still, the food and repast gave her a reason to sit where he indicated, so she did. The plush chair immediately supported her just when her body needed it.

Now she wouldn’t worry about fainting. She merely had to tolerate his scrutiny and match it with her own. Prepared, she wouldn’t respond to him as she had standing naked before him. But when he took the opposite seat...something changed.