Three
Haydn kept his stride purposefully long, but the woman kept up despite her smaller stature. Her breath came in panting puffs and he felt a brief flash of sympathy, but he did not slow.
Though he had not shown it, he had been startled when she revealed her name. Bethan of Lampeter. He remembered well the young girl who had risked all to save him from de Bellemare’s butchery. “Twas difficult to believe that this beautiful woman, with long golden hair that cascaded over her full bosom and a face boasting delicate, feminine features and luminous green eyes, was one and the same.
Why was she here? What did she want from him?
He shut the door to his bedchamber and faced her. With the curtain pulled aside, the light of the half-moon shone brightly through the window, more than sufficient for someone with his keen eyesight. His gaze moved over her once more, marveling anew at her delicate beauty. He waited in silence, watching her shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
“You are in my bedchamber. As you requested. Speak.”
The pallor on her face increased. “I have come seek…seeking…” she stopped, stumbling over the words. “Forgive me, but I have the strangest sensation that we have met before.”
“We have met, my lady.” His gaze softened on her. “You knew me once as Haydn of Gwynedd.”
Bethan’s eyes widened. “You survived! I always wondered. And the others?”
Haydn shook his head. “I know not of the other men. We broke apart and each went our separate way, hoping to increase our chances of escape. Did the guards or de Bellemare give chase?”
Her eyes lightened with amusement. “My stepfather never knew you had escaped. The guard that watched the door to your cell changed at dawn. The new guard was brother to the first, so when they came to take the men from your cell to be executed, the second guard insisted you had already been moved. He knew if my stepfather discovered there had been an escape, both brothers would have been tortured and killed.”
“It seems that fate smiled upon us all that night.”
“Indeed.” A victorious grin stretched across her lips.
“Tell me, why have you come all this way, Bethan of Lampeter?”
“I need a husband.”
“You are a comely lass. ’Tis hardly necessary to travel such a great distance to find a man willing to marry you.”
“I need a man with the courage and skill to defeat my stepfather, to free us once and for all from his savage brutality.” She moved closer and placed her hand over his. “I believe you are that man, Lord Meifod.”
In the depths of her eyes, Haydn could see her haunted sense of desperation. Her agony. Yet he forced himself to ignore it. With this offer came trouble—he could feel it deep in the marrow of his bones.
“I have no need of a wife,” he answered. “I desire peace in my life, not vexation.”
“Peace?” Her eyebrows arched. “A strange word for such a skilled warrior.”
“I do not seek battles. I do not make war. I merely defend my own.”
“I also wish to defend my people. But I cannot do it alone. Please, will you not aid me?”
Her simple plea touched him in a way he had not thought possible. More than anyone, he knew precisely the kind of evil that surrounded de Bellemare. She had survived it for years, but her strength was ebbing, her fear increasing.
He took a step closer, surprised by the sudden, savage need within him to protect this proud woman, this lovely mortal whose eyes glimmered with an odd mixture of desperation and strength. Haydn’s gut clenched and he silently called himself a witless fool as his hand reached out to touch her face.
Lord Meifod’s nearness produced a most unexpected effect on Bethan. With one hand he skimmed his knuckles over her cheek, a touch so gentle it turned her insides to knots. Fighting to quell the clamoring of her heart, Bethan smothered the impulse to turn her face into the caress.
She swallowed against the dryness in her throat. “Do we have a bargain?”
“I told you, I have no interest in acquiring a wife.”
Bethan bit her lip in frustration. “Lampeter is a rich property. Our villeins are honest and hardworking, producing some of the finest goods in all of Wales. Once you defeat Lord Lampeter it will belong to you. As ruler, you will be a very wealthy man.”
“I have no need of great wealth. My lands provide a more than adequate life for me.”
“Is there nothing I can use to barter?”
The look he sent her made her heart skip a beat. “You are a lady. I will not dishonor you, tempting as it might be.”
Bethan’s cheeks stung with heat. That was not precisely what she meant, though in truth he had a mesmerizing, sensual presence that she found most appealing. Shockingly, she admitted if he had demanded she give herself to him in exchange for his aid, she would not have protested too hard or too long.
“You misunderstand, my lord. I know my—”
He curled his knuckles beneath her chin and slowly tilted her face to his. Their eyes locked. She read the passion simmering in his eyes and waited for whatever was to come.
“You saved my life and thus deserve my gratitude. For that reason only, I will journey to Lampeter and see what I can do to help you. I cannot promise marriage, but will seek another course.” His voice was low, lulling. Heat, like scalding flames, crackled through the air. “Now go, before I do something dishonorable that we shall both regret.”
A frisson of fear raced through her. Turning on her heel, Bethan scurried from the room. As she neared her chamber, her steps quickened, until she was practically sprinting. She yanked open the heavy door, ran through, then shut herself inside.
Bethan’s breath blew out in short pants. Flattening her palms against the wooden door, she leaned into it for support. As her breathing came under control, she pressed her ear to the heavy wood. She could hear no footsteps, no sounds at all.
She was safe. For now.
A week later, as the mist swirled and the steady rain pounded, Haydn, flanked by a contingent of his most loyal, skilled knights, rode through the gates of Lampeter. He had sent a rider ahead, announcing their arrival and asking for shelter, ensuring that he would be admitted.
They were greeted in the courtyard by the castle steward, a man who had perfected a subservient, bowing manner that was distinctly annoying. He led Haydn and his knights into the great hall where de Bellemare awaited them.
“Lord Meifod.”
“Lord Lampeter.” Though it cost him much, Haydn bowed graciously.
“I bid you welcome. ’Tis an honor to meet the man they call the Warrior of the North.”
De Bellemare did not rise from his seat on the dais, but instead looked down at Haydn, his arrogant expression revealing his belief of the power he held over everyone and everything around him.
“’Tis I who am honored to meet you, my lord.”
Haydn attempted a smile, but failed. The need for vengeance against his bitter enemy burned through his veins and pounced with an ache in his skull, but he restrained himself. The six guards flanking de Bellemare were all large, muscular men. Even with the element of surprise, he would never be able to successfully strike at him.
Haydn noted that two were pale and not as alert as the others. He surmised de Bellemare had most recently feasted upon those two. Though it was something he did not do, ’twas a common practice to keep a close contingency of mortals around to ensure a steady supply of fresh blood upon which to feed. That he took the risk of using his personal guards spoke of de Bellemare’s arrogance. But he was not a fool. The fresh blood kept his powers sharp, his strength nearly unbeatable.
Haydn sighed with genuine regret. When he agreed to journey here, he knew it was the perfect time to seek his revenge. He had hoped to do so without directly involving Bethan. But now that he had assessed the situation, he knew he would not be able to destroy de Bellemare as quickly as he had hoped.
He would have to stay, study de Bellemare’s movements, then plan a surprise attack. There was no other way. In order to stay, Haydn would have to marry Bethan.
“Tell me, Lord Meifod, was there a specific purpose for your visit?”
“I hear you have an unmarried daughter.”
“I do.” The eyes that assessed him were unblinking, hard and ruthless. “Do you wish to meet her?”
“I have no interest in her face or figure. I care only about her dowry. And forming an alliance with you.”
“I will not deceive you. She is not much of a woman; willful, outspoken, at times almost unruly,” Lord Lampeter remarked.
Haydn shrugged. “Even the most difficult creature can be beaten into submission.”
De Bellemare laughed, his eyes smoldering with delight. “You!” he barked, pointing a finger at a young servant, who paled with fright at being noticed by his master. “Bring us wine. I have important business to discuss with Lord Meifod.”
Bethan paced her bedchamber anxiously, waiting for a summons from her stepfather. She had seen Haydn riding proudly into Lampeter, his back straight, his chin raised, his banner of blue and gold snapping in the rain. But that had been hours ago. Surely by now something had been resolved?
The door opened and Sir Colwyn poked his head inside. “Your stepfather has ordered you to stay in your chambers tonight. If you behave, I can fetch you something to eat. If you complain, or disobey, I was told to lock you inside and guard the door.”
“But what about Lord Meifod? Is he still here? What is happening?”
“I know not.” The old knight shook his head. “Meifod is here, cozing up to de Bellemare like a calf suckling from his mother’s teat. There are rumors flying that he has asked for your hand in marriage, but nothing has been announced.”
Bethan’s lips quivered with agitation. Her stepfather and Haydn thick as thieves? The image did not sit well in her mind. Though she would dearly love to storm the great hall and discover what was going on, Bethan feared Sir Colwyn would be punished if she disobeyed her stepfather’s orders. “I shall wait here. Please, promise you will bring me word the moment you learn anything?”
The knight agreed. Left alone for the next few hours, Bethan fought to control her worry. She paced the floor of her bedchamber until she had worn a path in the rushes. Finally, when she thought she would go stark raving mad, there was a knock at her door. She opened it, then gasped with surprise.
Lord Meifod stood framed in the doorway, his expression grim. “I need to speak with you.”
She glanced hastily down the corridor, thankful no one was in view, then yanked him inside and slammed the door.
“Our wedding will take place in two days,” he announced without preamble.
“So soon?”
Haydn’s somber gaze held hers for an unsettled moment, his gray eyes glowing in the flickering candlelight. “If you have changed your mind about the marriage, I shall tell de Bellemare I do not want it. ’Tis your choice.”
“I will marry you.” She moved close and touched his sleeve. “I am grateful for your help, but surprised at your decision. When we spoke at your castle, you seemed most set against marriage.”
“There is no other way. De Bellemare is surrounded by his personal guard. It will take time, planning, and luck to find an opportunity to strike at him.” Haydn’s eyes flashed with emotion. “However, I shall stay only until he is destroyed and you are free from his tryanny. No longer. Do you understand?”
Bethan pulled her hand back and frowned. “Once he is dead, you expect me to leave here, to live with you in your castle in the north?”
“No! I will be here but a brief time. And when I leave, I will never return. I will never see you again.”
“Oh.” Bethan bit her bottom lip as a confusing riot of emotions turned over in her heart.
“Is there a way for you to dissolve the marriage after I have gone?” he asked.
Bethan exhaled sharply. “Divorce? Is that what you demand?”
He raked a hand through his dark hair. “I will not be here as a husband to you, Bethan. In fairness, you should have the chance to choose another.”
The image of spending the rest of her life alone, without the joy of a good husband and the comfort of children, brought a lump of anguish to her throat. But she willed it away. She had to be strong, had to accept that this was her destiny.
“A second husband is the very least of my concerns. However, there is something else I must tell you.” Bethan’s gaze shifted away for a second, her mind searching for the right words. “My stepfather will not be easy to destroy. There is true evil in him, something…unnatural.”
A cold grin stole across Haydn’s handsome features. “I can handle de Bellemare.”
“Does this revelation not disturb you?” she asked, surprised at the complacent expression on his face, worried he did not understand the magnitude of this problem. “His powers give him a great advantage.”
“I am not afraid. All things can be destroyed, Bethan, including evil.”
His harsh, arrogant tone sent a shiver done her spine. His attitude was confusing, for he did not seem to be dismissing her warning, but rather embracing it. She had the distinct and uncomfortable feeling he was keeping something from her, something very important.
“Has my stepfather announced our marriage?”
“Not yet. I think he plans to do so in the morning. I advise you to look none too pleased when you are given the news. I believe it will give de Bellemare great joy to see you miserable.”
“Aye.”
Haydn lingered in her chamber for another moment, his keen gaze rooted on hers. “There is still time to change your mind. If you do so, send word to me through Sir Colwyn.”
Bethan nodded, but she knew there was no going back. He bowed his head, then left. Slowly, she closed the door, then leaned against it. She had orchestrated this entire chain of events. It was what she wanted, and yet Bethan admitted a part of her was afraid of Haydn. The darkness, the violence, the isolation that seemed to cling to him like a shroud was fearful and disturbing.
But another part made her want to hope. To dream. To dare to believe that he was the one man who could defeat her stepfather and set them all free.
But at what price? Bethan shuddered. Wearily, she lifted her hand to her brow. God help her, what had she done?
Bethan stood beside Haydn outside the church doors. Feeling too nervous to look at her groom, she instead glanced down at the royal-blue gown she wore. The dress had been a surprise gift from her mother, the long cuffs lovingly embroidered with golden flowers and vines, the shade matching the silken lining of the garment. Tight-fitting, it was fastened around her waist with an intricately twisted gold belt. In addition, she wore a long, finely woven veil that had belonged to her grandmother. It covered her shoulders and hung down to her feet, concealing her hair, which had been plaited and decorated with pearls.
She felt pretty in her bridal finery, pleased that she had gone to the effort, especially after a quick glimpse of her groom. His strong legs were encased in dark hose, his feet in soft leather boots. His scarlet surcoat was made from the finest material and his coat-of-arms, a mighty griffin with its wings outstretched, was embroidered upon it with precious stones, leaving no question as to his wealth.
In keeping with tradition, the bride and groom exchanged their vows outside the church doors. The chapel at Lampeter was squat and round and crafted of simple stone. Not as pretty or grand as the churches that boasted stained glass, high steeples, and beautiful statues, it was nevertheless a place of true sanctuary for Bethan, for it was seldom used by her stepfather.
Bethan was proud that her voice did not waver as she spoke her vows, nor did Haydn’s. She meant every word as she vowed to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death did them part, if the holy church would ordain it. She reasoned God would forgive the prior agreement she had made with Haydn if she kept those promises to remain a true wife.
Entering a marriage when she knew her husband had no intention of living with her for any length of time might be considered dishonest by some, but Bethan had every intention of honoring her commitment to be faithful and true to him for the rest of her life. She hoped fervently that God would understand.
With the vows exchanged, the newly married couple bowed their heads for the priest’s blessing. At that moment, a thick fog rolled in, encircling them in an eerie, mystical cocoon, separating them from the rest of the guests.
She heard murmuring behind her that this was a sign, an omen of sorts. Good or bad? Bethan could not hear the determination, but she chose to believe it was a good sign.
Father William efficiently calmed the crowd and invited everyone inside the church to celebrate the nuptial mass. Though she tried, Bethan had difficulty concentrating. Her mind wandered as she twisted the ring she now wore on her finger, a gold band with a dark jewel of bloodred that shimmered with fire.
At the conclusion of the Mass, Father William invited the groom to kiss his new bride. Haydn took her face in his hands, framing the delicate bones of her cheeks. He angled his head and swiftly kissed her closed lips. Bethan barely had time to savor the sensation because it was over so fast. Swallowing back her disappointment, she smiled at her groom, then turned to face the crowd.
They retired to the great hall, to indulge in the feast that had been prepared. For the first time since the day began, Bethan risked a glance at her stepfather. He sat in his chair on the dais, his arms crossed, frowning with displeasure.
Her mother had mentioned that de Bellemare was annoyed with the expense of the wedding feast, but faced with her groom’s obvious wealth had little choice but to provide a suitable celebratory meal. The servants had been thrilled to have the opportunity to show their love and gratitude toward Bethan, and their efforts were much appreciated by her.
Fresh herbs and bunches of wildflowers had been hung from the rafters of the great hall above the rows and rows of trestle tables. On the dais the table was set with a white linen cloth, and gold plates and goblets had been placed in front of every chair. Rose petals were strewn along the edge, adding a touch of color and a pleasing scent.
The tables fairly groaned under the vast array of food that was hot and ready to eat. Platters of veal dressed with vinegar, baked trout, tarts filled with spicy pork, stuffed roasted boar, goose in a sauce of grapes and garlic, stewed cabbage flavored with cinnamon and cloves, and thick crusty bread flavored with ale were soon emptied and fresh food brought out.
Ewers of ale, mead, and spiced wine were quickly emptied and refilled as various toasts of goodwill and happiness were offered to the bride and groom. Minstrels filled the air with the sounds of harp and lute, which blended with the tinkling sounds of laughter. Bethan could not remember a time when the great hall had been filled with so much boisterous life and merriment.
Midway through the meal the contingency of soldiers seated below them started pounding on the wooden trestle tables with the edges of their swords. Within minutes, the sound grew deafening. Bethan stole a glance at her husband. His brow was furrowed in confusion.
“They want you to kiss me,” she whispered as she leaned closer. “For luck.”
His silver eyes narrowed. “If they demand it, then I suppose we must.”
Bethan licked her lips in preparation, expecting another quick, almost impersonal kiss similar to the one he had bestowed upon her at the church. But just as Haydn was about to lower his head, a deep voice rang out from the crowd.
“Kiss her like you mean it, my lord!”
The words stopped him cold. A new determination ignited a glint in his eyes as a salacious, challenging smile curved his mouth.
One large hand slipped behind Bethan’s neck at the same moment the other curled around her waist. Haydn pulled her off her feet and into his arms, holding her so tightly she almost couldn’t breathe. Bethan’s heart began to race as she felt her breasts crush against the solid wall of Haydn’s chest, but she ignored the rush of embarrassment, concentrating instead on the tingling anticipation. This was her second kiss and despite the audience she intended to make it a private moment.
She thought she was ready, yet Bethan felt a startling shock as he brought his mouth down on hers. His lips were supple but insistent, almost commanding. Warm, firm, and expertly sensual, his kiss awakened a sudden yearning deep within her soul. At the urging of his tongue, pressing boldly against the seam of her lips, she opened to him.
The nature of their kiss changed. He was no longer gentle, and oddly that pleased her. Haydn tilted his head and pressed a little harder, his mouth hot and hungry as it captured hers. She breathed in and smelled his skin, spicy and inviting.
Her knees wanted to give way, her heart pounded harder and faster. He stroked her lower lip with his tongue and the desire within her shot into flame. Bethan raised her hand and wrapped her arm around the back of his neck. Haydn responded by pulling her closer. Now their bodies touched. Everywhere.
Heated arousal swirled down her spine. The rumbling noise of tankards being banged on the wooden tables, hoots, hollers, and whistles gradually penetrated her mind. Slowly Bethan opened her eyes. A blush of embarrassment colored her cheeks as he let her slide slowly down to her feet. She buried her face in his neck for a few seconds, struggling for composure, then lifted herself away and looked at him.
Haydn appeared as stunned as she felt. His touch lingered on her face for a moment longer, firm and warm. She parted her lips, but could not catch her breath to speak.
The noise in the hall grew louder. Haydn flashed a wicked smile at her, then exhaled sharply through his teeth. Turning toward the frenzied crowd of screaming men, he lifted his goblet of wine skyward and shouted loudly, “A toast. To my bride, whose beauty and courage are beyond compare.”