“You have a debt to pay. You owe me your life.”

Anwen, bastard of Brynmor, has fought hard to find her place in the world. But she’s forced to rethink everything when she’s saved from death by her enemy Teague, Lord of Gwalchdu. Instead of releasing her, he holds her captive...

Teague trusts no one. So, with ominous messages threatening his life, he must keep Anwen under his watch, no matter how much her presence drives him wild. And when passionate arguments turn to passionate encounters, Teague must believe that the strength of their bond will conquer all!

It was pitch-black when Anwen woke again.

This time she didn’t move her head. Her throat was sore and her stomach was filled with acid. Sleep was blessed, but something had woken her. There was a smell nearby like leather and sandalwood.

She opened her eyes. He was so close she thought the blackness of his eyes was simply the darkness of the room. Then the heat of his gaze touched her and she realised this blackness was alive. A feeling of quietude entered her. The one who’d comforted her in the night had returned.

‘You’ve come back,’ she said, trying to smile.

He did not reply, but his eyes held hers. She couldn’t look away.

NICOLE LOCKE discovered her first romance novels in her grandmother’s closet, where they were secretly hidden. Convinced that books that were hidden must be better than those that weren’t, Nicole greedily read them. It was only natural for her to start writing them—but now not so secretly. She lives in London with her two children and her husband—her happily-ever-after.

Books by Nicole Locke

Mills & Boon Historical Romance

Lovers and Legends

The Knight’s Broken Promise

Her Enemy Highlander

The Highland Laird’s Bride

In Debt to the Enemy Lord

Visit the Author Profile page at millsandboon.co.uk.

In Debt to the Enemy Lord

Nicole Locke

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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To Mary,

Look, oh, look. I finally finished this story! The one I started so many years ago; the one you patiently read as I turned sentences around and repeated paragraphs.

Please look at this book, this wonderful, dreadful book. The one I never finished while you were still here.

Oh, it’s not the book I want you to see, but your family, your grandchildren, their red hair so similar to yours.

I so wish you’d look, oh, look and see how much we miss you.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Extract

Copyright

Prologue

Helplessly, he stood beside her in the early morning light. He stood partly in darkness, but she knelt on the cold stone floor at the entrance of the fortress and the sun’s light cut like spears across her huddled form.

She wept.

Tears streamed from swollen eyes and fell to clenched hands. Her fine grey gown gathered around her like shadows and her black hair, tangled, writhed to the floor. She pulled her head back, suddenly, like a wounded animal showing its jugular to its killer and the cruel light slashed across muscles strained with sobbing. She opened her mouth, but the only sound that came out was a guttural crackling deep in her throat. Then silence. Then with a sound he would never forget, he heard her scream a name he would never allow to be spoken again in his presence.

‘William!’ Her body contorted upwards, her face raised in an effort to throw her voice. The name whipped around him as her breath came in small pants.

Teague watched his mother weeping. Watched, as she tore at her dress and as the deep jagged sounds shuddered and tore through her body. He watched and could do nothing to change the truth. No matter how long she cried for him, his father could not hear his mother’s call. His father was dead. He had been standing by his mother’s side when the messenger delivered the news.

Now, he stood behind a pillar and clenched his fists against his sides. He did not grieve. His pain came from a much deeper and darker emotion. Anger. The anger he’d felt since he heard his mother and his aunt arguing a fortnight ago.

Their voices had been soft, but discordant, and he had hidden behind the green-linen wall coverings to hear them. It did not matter that he was only a child. He had understood then, in their rushed accusations, his father was never coming back. His father was dead, but he paid no heed to the news. To Teague, his father had died when he had forgotten his son and forsaken his wife.

He did not mourn his father’s death, but he was helpless at the sight of his mother’s grief. She wept, when he could not. She loved him still, when he would not. They were both unwanted. They’d been betrayed. Yet, he could hear the love she felt when she screamed his father’s name. Teague stepped out from behind the pillar and placed his arms around his mother’s neck. He held her for only a moment before she suddenly stilled and let out a new sound. One hand clutched her heavily swollen stomach, while the other clenched his hands.

‘Teague! Teague, get help!’ she gasped.

Beneath his mother’s knees the stones darkened with water and rivulets of red. The foreboding liquid pooled and streamed towards his feet before he let go. As he raced to find some help, Teague made his heart a promise.

Chapter One

Wales—1290

‘I’m going to die,’ Anwen of Brynmor muttered. ‘And why would that be? Because I climbed a tree and plunged to my death. That’s why.’

She circled the giant oak again. The thick lower branches could easily hold her weight. But it wasn’t the lowest branches terrifying her. No, it was the thinnest sprays of green at the top where she needed to go. She could no longer see her hunting goshawk tangled in the highest branches, but she could hear his screeching.

‘Oh, now you need me, do you? It would have been useful if you heeded me when you broke your creance and flew into Dameg Forest.’

She jumped, reached but missed the lowest branch. Her great blue gown billowed heavily around her legs. She quickly began unlacing the bodice.

‘No, I called and called and you just flapped your little wings, trailing your leather jesses behind you. You care now, don’t you? Now your jesses are tangled.’

Finished unlacing, she shrugged her shoulders until the gown pooled at her feet. Shivering, teeth chattering, she stepped out of the material. It was too cold to be in the forest, certainly too cold to be shedding any layers of clothing. At least it was also too cold for many people to be in the forest at this time of morning so there was no one to protest her lack of modesty. Shaking out any mud or wrinkles, she laid the gown gently on a fallen tree. It was her best dress despite the worn hem and hole in the sleeve.

‘I’d leave you if I could, Gully. But we have England’s fine King, and Gwalchdu’s arrogant lord, who’d order a hand chopping for losing you.’

The tiny hawk let out a wild screech.

‘Oh, you’re for the death punishment as well, are you? It won’t be me who will be punished, it will be Melun. That kind old falconer never hurt you one day in his life. So I’ll fetch you for his sake, not for your stringy neck.’

Stepping closer to the trunk, she crouched low and leapt. She was rewarded with shredding her hands against the bark and falling on her backside in cold, partially frozen mud.

‘Owwww!’

She sat catching her breath, but not able to catch her anger which bloomed up out of her. Punching the mud, she vented her frustration. ‘Why couldn’t I simply go home peacefully? You know I loathe visiting Gwalchdu village with all its perfectly thatched houses and perfectly cleaned streets.’

Thinking of Gwalchdu angered her more. She sprang up and threw mud at the tree trunk. ‘Then you fly off, making more work for me. And now I’m ranting, you rotten bird!’

Jumping, she grabbed the branch with her lacerated hands. Pain knifed through her arms, but she wouldn’t let go. Swinging her legs, she pushed her feet on to the roughened bark. Her grip slipped and fury arced through her.

It was bad enough losing her pride and yelling at a bird. It was worse yet wanting to sulk. And for what? Only so she could compare Brynmor with Gwalchdu? Her home was superior to Gwalchdu and it always would be.

She bit her fingers deep into the bark. She refused to slip. Strongly Welsh, Brynmor had fought to the end of the war against the English and so would she. Pulling up with all her might, she screamed.

* * *

‘Did you hear that?’ Teague, Lord of Gwalchdu, halted his horse.

‘There is nothing here in Dameg’s Forest but the beasts, the trees and the icicles clinging to my stirrups.’ Rhain shuddered. ‘In fact, I can think of little reason to be this deep in God’s forgotten forest this early in the morning.’

‘Silence.’

Rhain snorted, but pulled his horse closer.

Teague forced his ears to listen for any sounds above the frozen ground crunching beneath the horses’ hooves. The late autumn air was heavy with the smells of pine and damp earth and the fluttering sounds of small creatures. If there was someone in the forest, they weren’t nearby.

Dismissing the sound as a bird’s cry, he growled. ‘You know why we are here. It’s the only place left to hide.’

‘We hold no chance of finding anyone here,’ Rhain said. ‘It’s been hours since we received the threat and the enemy is gone by now. We search for only a trace.’

Teague’s frustration mounted as he urged his horse forward. ‘Then we search for a trace.’

It was too early in the morning for this search and too cold with a storm threatening. If the enemy was in the forest, they were more foolish than he thought. But it had to be a fool who threatened a Marcher Lord. One who retained and gained more power and land through the wars between Wales and England over a decade ago. One who could request aid from King Edward himself.

But Teague didn’t want aid, didn’t want to call attention to what threatened his home. So he and his brother searched alone. But so far had found no trace of an enemy. An enemy who, without provocation, left him hostile messages.

At first, he dismissed the messages. After all, he’d never been liked by his own countrymen, the Welsh, and certainly not by the English. Still, he earned the right to both sides’ respect. Though his countrymen continued to roll with hatred toward the English, the war was over. It was just a matter of the Welsh accepting their fate. He’d certainly accepted his fate as a traitor when he sided with the English. When he helped win King Edward’s war and kept Gwalchdu as his home.

No, he wasn’t well liked by his countrymen and he could dismiss petty threats. However, now the messages no longer just threatened his own life, but those of Gwalchdu’s inhabitants. When the enemy attached bloodied carcasses of animals he protected within Gwalchdu’s stone walls and showed that his fortress’s defences could be breached, Teague could no longer dismiss the threats.

He didn’t understand why the messages began so long after the war and didn’t understand the purpose of them, since the enemy demanded nothing. But Teague understood that he would put an end to them.

‘It’s uncannily quiet here.’ Rhain slowed his horse to follow him through the narrow passages between the trees. ‘What I wonder, dear brother, is why you are risking your precious neck for this purpose? If your enemy hides here, you disadvantage yourself by going blindly into his lair.’

Teague leaned to avoid a branch. The skittish horse sidestepped and he pulled the reins sharply to avoid slicing his leg against bark. ‘The coward will not show his face to me, but by God’s breath, I will find him.’

He would find the enemy, and when he did... But it would not happen with words. And it would not happen while he discussed his safety with his brother. ‘I have no patience for this conversation. We will separate until the sun reaches midday.’

* * *

His sword ready and hidden by dense foliage, Teague stood awestruck. At any moment Rhain could rejoin him, but he couldn’t clear his thoughts. His blood, coursing hotly through his body, pooled lower. Whatever he was expecting when he heard the harsh creaking of shaken branches, this woodland nymph was not it.

She stood on the branch of an enormous oak tree. Her back was to him and her arms were wrapped around the trunk. Her blonde loose hair fell far down her back as she gazed upwards.

But it was not her standing in a tree that riveted him. It was the fact she was almost...naked. The grey chemise she wore was so threadbare he could see the rosiness of her rear and the large holes gave him glimpses of pure soft skin underneath.

She pulled herself over a higher branch and straddled it. When she grasped it between her hands, her chemise pulled tight and the position outlined the generous curves of her body.

By necessity, he leaned forward to get a better view. It was not enough; he stepped forward. He was less quiet, less hidden, but he did not care. She wore the most tantalising outfit ever conjured in his fantasies.

‘And there I’ll be, trapped in purgatory!’

He paused mid-step and adjusted his sword. Her husky voice was not that of a woodland nymph, but a vengeful harpy. Someone was with her. And that cracked through his desire like the tip of a cold sword pricking his neck.

‘If it wasn’t for the food you hunt...’ she stood clumsily, her feet and hands finding little purchase until she braced herself against the tree ‘...food we desperately need, I might risk my hand with the false King Edward.’

Crouching back into the shadows, but not out of sight, Teague listened to her treasonous talk.

Her movements were abrupt, shaky, as she pulled herself up to the next branch. ‘It’s the Traitor’s fault I’m climbing this tree.’

Whoever was with her remained silent. She not only spoke of treason, she talked like his enemy. Higher and higher she climbed, to the slenderest branches, and still she did not stop.

‘All I wanted to do was give you a little training, purchase some fine jesses and return home.’ Adjusting her weight, she stretched out far from the trunk and the branch creaked loudly until she grabbed one above her. ‘I didn’t want to get stuck in this rotten forest. And I certainly didn’t want to have to purchase your jesses from my tanner that the Traitor stole.’

He edged closer, now confident she was alone. It was then he saw her goal: a bird caught by the leather straps around its legs. She talked to the bird and was spouting foolhardy words he was sure she’d want no one to hear.

Especially him.

‘Just like the Traitor stole everything else when he sided with the English vermin.’ Her hands sliding above her, she shuffled away from the trunk until she stood beneath the bird’s branch. With one hand she tore at the thin strips of leather until the bird rose free. ‘Wales should have won the war. Would have, too, if the almighty Lord of Gwalchdu hadn’t switched sides. And why? So he could feed his fat belly!’

His enemy was here. And not a man, but a mere woman, who was neatly trapped in a tree.

Teague slashed the brown dried undergrowth with his sword and strode out underneath the oak’s branches.

Startled, the woman’s hand slipped off the upper limb of the tree. The thin branch she stood on swayed as it took her entire weight. ‘You!’

Even from this distance, he saw her incredulity, then recognition, then a look so full of venom, he knew it mirrored his own.

‘Yes, me.’ Teague’s satisfaction was so complete, he felt like a fox sinking fangs deep into prey. ‘And you will come down to pay your due.’

‘My due?’ she spat, her body tight with ferocity. ‘My due!’ she repeated, as the branch she stood on protested with sickening snaps.

She spun towards the trunk. Too late.

‘Catch me!’ she demanded as the branch cracked. Surging out from the broken tumbling limb, she swung her arms wildly, but it was not enough.

Her arm, her body, her head glanced against unforgiving branches before her landing in his arms forced the breath from his lungs. Then he couldn’t breathe at all when he lowered her seemingly lifeless form to the ground.

She breathed, but blood coursed from her left temple. He laid her down, tore a strip off his outer tunic and wrapped the fabric around her head. Avoiding the deep gashes on her arms and legs, he felt for broken bones. She was intact, but for her head, and she desperately needed a healer.

She was his enemy, but she was alone. Her golden hair was matting with blood. With her paling complexion, she looked ready for the grave. If he left her here she would die.

Cradling her head within the crook of his arm, he lifted her to his chest and whistled for his horse. It would take precious time to reach Gwalchdu on foot, but he could not risk jarring her head.

This wasn’t how he felled his enemies. His enemies died by his own hand, not by some tree.

* * *

‘What has happened?’

Teague veered to his right. With several miles to go before he reached Gwalchdu, he hadn’t expected to see anyone. It took a moment to realise his brother’s presence did not represent a threat.

‘Where the hell have you been?’ Teague demanded.

Rhain dismounted. ‘The way you ordered me away, I would not have guessed my presence was so desired. I could have told you how wasteful it was to separate for our search. If I didn’t know better, I would think you thought little of my sword skills.’

‘I have no time to mend your hurt feelings. She is wounded.’

‘Let me help you mount and then I’ll go ahead to notify Sister Ffion.’

‘She’s not dead!’

Rhain stretched out his arms. ‘I can see that, dear brother. Ffion may have the necessary herbs to help heal her.’

Teague placed the woman in Rhain’s arms, before mounting his own horse and gathering her close to him again. Edward’s wars trained them well in handling the injured. But this was no soldier’s body, heavy with armour. This was a woman: one so slight it was like holding nothing at all.

‘Ffion will not be pleased that you bring someone home at this time,’ Rhain said.

Ffion would not be pleased when she knew whom he brought home. ‘When has our aunt ever been pleased? It appears her God was not listening when He deemed me this woman’s only protection.’

‘You could always leave her with one of the villagers.’

‘No!’ Teague said, surprised at his reaction. He did not want to leave her in the care of someone else. ‘We waste time. Ready my room.’

Teague didn’t wait to see his brother go. His attention was pulled to the woman in his arms. Limp, she moulded against him and he could feel each shallow breath filling her body. His white tunic wrapped around her head was soaked bright red with blood, her hair was tangled with leaves and bark and her face was almost translucent. He had the horse but even so, the journey to his home would be slow.

He only hoped he wouldn’t be too late.

Chapter Two

‘Who is she?’ Rhain spoke in an undertone, more for privacy than for courtesy.

Teague didn’t look away from the woman lying on his bed. ‘I don’t know,’ he answered. ‘But I have my suspicions.’ The servants had worked quickly and now a warm fire blazed in the grate, hot water steamed in buckets, and Ffion was mixing healing herbs.

‘And you brought her here to Gwalchdu, to your room?’

‘Yes.’ Teague crossed his arms. He watched Greta, one of his most trusted servants, bathe the head wound. The woman’s eyes fluttered, but they did not open. She could die despite the care given.

‘Yes?’ Rhain repeated. ‘“Yes” is a very interesting word, dear brother. Very interesting indeed.’ He turned to leave the room. ‘I’ll be in the Hall, eating.’

Teague watched Rhain close the door behind him. He knew he should go. He would need to explain what had occurred in the forest.

There was no reason for him to stay. No need for him to watch Greta gently pat around the wound to dry it. He needed to bathe before eating, as he was still covered in sweat and blood. Her blood.

She looked so different now to how he’d seen her in the forest. There she had moved, without grace, but with an unexpected strength. Now, but for the steady rising of her chest, he’d think her dead.

Her head wound needed stitching. He watched as Greta plaited the woman’s hair to keep it out of the way. It was a menial task, one he had never seen before, but simple enough. Yet he stood transfixed as Greta’s thick fingers wound to the very end and secured the plait.

He remembered how the long golden strands shimmered when the sunlight touched it. Bound, her hair lay as limp as she did.

He quickly dismissed the feeling of loss and left his room.

* * *

After his bath, Teague entered the Great Hall. The evening meal was over and his footsteps rang in the vast emptiness of the space. Rhain sat on a large high-backed chair before a low fire crackling in the smallest hearth.

‘What happened in the forest?’ Rhain asked.

Teague poured the wine left on the table and drunk deeply before grimacing.

Rhain chuckled. ‘The wine has been watered. You may not be so observant, but you know how Ffion is when it comes to the wine.’

‘Remind me to have a word with my steward about keeping a closer eye on my personal supplies.’ Sitting on the other great chair, Teague explained what he had seen and heard from the woman in the forest.

‘It doesn’t make sense. Why would she be in the forest by herself? Especially so deep and so close to Gwalchdu,’ Rhain said, after Teague recounted all the facts.

‘She is the enemy.’

‘Are you so sure?’

‘She spoke against me and the King.’

‘We are on the border of Wales. What villager hasn’t spoken against you or the King? I worry your insurmountable patience is thinning and you are jumping to conclusions.’ Rhain stopped and tented his fingers against his lips. ‘Why don’t you blame me?’ he asked.

Teague’s eyebrows raised. ‘For what? You were not on watch last night when the message was left.’

‘The threats didn’t start until I returned to Gwalchdu.’

Teague flashed him a look of irritation. ‘You’re not the enemy.’

‘You trust too easily; that could be your undoing.’

‘I trust no one.’ Teague swirled his goblet in both hands. ‘And I don’t know why I am encouraging this conversation.’

‘Because you are no fool,’ Rhain argued. ‘The facts easily point to me. I came home last summer after being separated from you since childhood. The messages began a month after I arrived. Those messages are specific threats against your life and brought to you in your own keep, yet you cannot find who is behind the messages.’

‘It isn’t you,’ Teague said.

‘Who is to gain from your death? I am. Who can move freely to leave those messages? I can. Who can get close enough to kill you? I can.’

‘Enough,’ he growled.

‘Why are you so sure?’ Rhain pressed.

‘You are my brother.’

‘You are mad.’ Rhain chuckled. ‘Or perhaps you feel my more reasonable influence and you realise it would be foolish for me to threaten my own home.’

‘Or maybe I realise you talk too much to hold any secrets.’

Rhain reached for the wine. ‘Then why have you so quickly concluded this woman is the enemy? Because she is silent?’

Teague peered into the depths of his cup. The colour of the wine looked black in the low light and he could not see the bottom.

‘Why was she so near my keep?’ He took a draught of wine. ‘Her coming here, albeit by my hand, is too convenient. If she is not the enemy, then maybe she’s a trap.’

Rhain rubbed his hands against his knees. ‘She is no trap. She almost died falling from that tree. She needs our trust.’

Teague had expected his brother’s open nature to surface. ‘And you call me mad?’

‘Well, it’s your nature to mistrust. It’s my nature to trust. You are still stubborn, while I am as flexible as water. Why should now be any different?’

‘Perhaps because our home is being attacked by an unknown enemy?’ Teague said.

‘And you think that injured woman in your bed is the enemy?’

‘Yes, I do. It’s better to approach this situation with caution, rather than to be knifed in the back.’

Rhain arched one golden eyebrow. ‘That situation lying in your bed was brought into this home by you. And she can hardly keep awake, let alone wield a knife.’ He stood and stretched. ‘No, I am curious about her. I believe once she is well, I will simply ask her for answers.’

* * *

It was late at night, the keep was quiet and Teague found himself returning to his chambers. The woman was not alone. Greta slept in a chair in the corner, her great chin resting on her chest.

Compelled, he crouched by the woman’s bedside so his face was closer to hers. He could not get her out of his mind: her climbing the tree, her hair swinging with the movements of her legs and arms.

Then, in that moment when the branch broke...his powerlessness; her demanding that he catch her. He knew she was his enemy, he knew he could not help her, but still he had held out his arms. Though hatred was etched across her every feature, she fell towards him.

Before he could stop himself, Teague placed his hand upon her head and brushed his fingers across her hair. Her eyelids fluttered, but she did not wake. He was...grateful. Somehow, this caress quieted him. Made him less restless...less alone. The feeling was as foreign to him as the other feelings she had inadvertently inspired in him.

Hope. She’d given him hope. With his arms outstretched, she had leapt towards him as if she could make it.

Hope. A ridiculous emotion that served no purpose.

He stood and walked away. He must be tired. It was not in his nature to be open. He’d been alone most of his life, as he would continue to be. His people trusted him to protect them.

A woman could be as deadly as any man, or even more so. It was the reason he’d not lain with a woman since the threats began. In these times, hope had no place. Their very lives depended upon it.

* * *

Drifting on something soft, warm and comfortable, Anwen was half-asleep when the door creaked.

She opened her eyes. In the now-opened doorway was a small boy shaking mightily from the weight of a water bucket.

‘Oh!’ He dropped the bucket. ‘You’re awake!’

Her head throbbing relentlessly, she could not reply.

The boy straightened the bucket. ‘I have your washing water, my lady. But you’re awake! The house must be told.’ He fled, but she could not move her head as she stared at the empty doorway.

Her vision cleared as a man filled the door frame. He was the most beautiful man Anwen had ever seen.

He was golden. From his head to his feet, he had the look of pure gold in sunlight. His eyes, the colour of warm amber, were brilliant against a square jaw and aquiline nose.

Then he smiled. She knew that smile would make many a maiden faint, but not her. Not under these circumstances.

‘Where...where am I?’ She forced the words out.

‘You don’t know?’ Grabbing a stool, he stepped closer. ‘Do you remember anything?’

Pain, her head full of knives. ‘No.’ Blackness hovered, threatening to take her again, but she couldn’t let it. ‘No.’

The man placed a cloth to her face. Welcoming the cool moisture, she closed her eyes. Images flashed through her mind: someone taking care of her, a deep voice, a gentle, callused touch. Was it this man?

‘Who are you?’ she asked.

‘My name is Rhain. Be easy.’ He grabbed a cup of something and cradled her head so she could drink.

Struggling to swallow the diluted wine, she tried to concentrate on his words. ‘My head feels...tight.’

‘You’ve hurt it. The tightness is the dressing there.’ Rhain sat down, put out a hand and stilled hers. ‘No, do not touch it. Your wound is still too fresh.’

‘But how did I—?’ She stopped. There had been someone. Under a tree. Someone...

The door swung open and in walked a god or a demon—no, it was a man, but he was no ordinary man. Where Rhain was golden, this man was dark. His hair, his eyes, his sun-darkened skin all reminded her of the night. But it was more than his colouring, it was the man himself. He was dark. Wariness overcame her, but she would not take her eyes off him.

He was familiar, like someone she’d seen in the darkness, but it could not be him. She remembered the person who had soothed her when the blackness overcame her, when the pain worsened. This man did not soothe, he cut.

‘She wakes?’ he asked, his eyes never leaving hers.

Rhain’s eyes narrowed as he took in the dark man’s mood. ‘Is this necessary?’

‘More than ever.’

Anwen’s eyes burned as she strained to keep them open. The closer he got to her, the more she wanted to protect herself against the great waves of tightly controlled anger emanating from him. Power and authority were etched in every curve of his face. It was clear he wanted something from her and if she didn’t give it, he would take it. Pain slashed across her head as her body tensed.

‘She is not well. Leave her in peace.’ Rhain stood and pushed the stool aside to let the other man stand closer to her.

‘She is awake; she can speak.’

She could not speak. Her heart beat too fast and sweat covered her. Her stomach churned as she took in great gulps of air.

‘Brother,’ Rhain warned.

The rolling in her stomach would not subside, her head was spinning. Great waves of nausea drowned out whatever else was around her.

‘I am—’ she tried to say. The dark one leaned closer to her. ‘I am—’

Anwen pushed herself up and retched over the breeches of Lord Teague of Gwalchdu.

‘By Gwyn!’ he exclaimed, before she blacked out again. It was a moment before the two men reacted to the considerable mess Anwen had made.

‘Well, that was a first, I must admit.’ Rhain’s droll tone was not lost on Teague, who shot him a look. ‘Oh, Teague, she did it not on purpose.’ He took the cloth from the bucket of cooled water and wiped Anwen’s mouth and face.

‘I did not think her so weak.’ Teague grabbed another towel and dipped it into the bucket to wipe his front.

‘Ah, yes, weakness. I forgot what an unforgivable trait that can be. But she is a woman and even God allowed them a softer side, regardless of whether you acknowledge such a terrible flaw.’

‘I am no beast. I know she is a woman. It’s only—’ Teague remembered her determination in climbing the tree and her quick thinking when she flung herself away and towards him. She was not like most females of his acquaintance.

‘She surprised me,’ he finished.

Rhain’s mouth pursed in amusement, his gaze pointed at Teague’s wet front. ‘Yes, well, I can see that, but I differ with you regarding her weakness. She is not weak. Only strength of will could have pulled her out of such an injury.’

‘She’s weak now and useless to me asleep.’

‘Why the need for interrogation? Have you heard from Robert at Brynmor?’ Rhain asked.

‘Yes, he sent me a missive. It appears they are missing a woman. An Anwen.’

‘Now the question is if this is Anwen.’

‘And if she is the threat,’ Teague said. The woman’s face had softened now she was sleeping. But her hands were still curled into fists, lending her an air of determination at a moment in which she should have been most vulnerable.

Teague remembered she had not cried out in fear when she fell. To see her this fragile went against everything he knew of her. Frustration rushed through him. He didn’t know her at all; he needed answers.

‘I must get clean.’ Teague dropped the soiled rag into the bucket. ‘Make sure she receives care,’ he ordered before he left the room.

* * *

It was pitch-black when Anwen woke again. This time she didn’t move her head. Her throat was sore and her stomach was filled with acid. Sleep was blessed, but something woke her. There was a smell nearby like leather and sandalwood.

She opened her eyes. He was so close, she thought the blackness of his eyes was simply the darkness of the room. Then the heat of his gaze touched her and she realised this blackness was alive. A feeling of quietude entered her. The one who’d comforted her in the night had returned.

‘You’ve returned,’ she said, trying to smile.

He did not reply, but his eyes held hers. She couldn’t look away. If she could look long enough, she’d see—

Pain!

It slashed across her head and exploded behind her eyes. Moments of agony, subsiding only when she became aware of her gasping breaths, and a warm hand holding hers. She concentrated on the warmth and gentleness of his hand. It was a while more before her breathing eased and she was left with a dull ache weighing her down.

‘I didn’t mean to wake you.’ His voice was deep, soft and vibrated through her.

They were such simple words, but she could hear...something...some meaning. The hand holding hers belonged to this voice. If her head didn’t hurt, she’d be able to understand. Maybe it was concern? No, it sounded more like pain, like loneliness, but that was more confusing. She was here and he wasn’t alone.

It didn’t matter if she couldn’t understand. She felt the need to do something for him, but she couldn’t seem to open her eyes and blackness was seizing her again. He was being so kind. She didn’t want him to feel pain.

‘I’m here,’ she whispered, her voice slowing as gentle waves of sleep took her.

A mad desire to keep her awake plaguing him, Teague watched the woman return to sleep. Looking at her hand still in his, he listened to the gentle rhythm of her breathing. It was almost enough to keep his restlessness at bay.

It was time to go. There was no logical reason for him to watch over her. The ravages of her fever were far from over and while she could suffer a relapse, she was regaining consciousness. Despite the pain, she was recovering. Soon, he would be forced to decide what to do with her.

Teague scrutinised the room. Since he’d brought her to his bed four nights ago, the sole change to the room was Ffion’s mortar and pestle and some herbs littered on a table. Yet it felt foreign to him.

Gently placing her hand on the bed, he walked to the windows and opened the thick shutters to look into the courtyard below. The lit torches dotted across the dark stone walls and the full moon made it easy for him to watch his soldiers on patrol. He tried to put a name to the feeling of longing in him as he watched them.

Envy. His soldiers understood their tasks. They had a purpose in the night. He felt envy, too, that they had companionship as they went about their tasks. For him, although he was busy during the days, he was alone during the nights. His brother was here now, but Rhain had too many female admirers to be much company. His solitary nature had never bothered him before...but now he felt a longing that couldn’t be fulfilled.

With the threats on his life, companionship was a luxury he could ill afford. Still it did not stop the conflict between his wanting and denying.

He turned from the courtyard and leaned against the window frame. There was no reason in any of this madness. It must be tiredness making him ache. Without sparing a glance at the sleeping woman, Teague left the room.

Chapter Three

Anwen woke to puffs of air brushing across her cheek. Two cloudy grey eyes, surrounded by folds of papery wrinkles and topped with hair the colour of snow, were mere centimetres from her face.

The old woman gave a delighted giggle. ‘Ooooh, you’re awake. My name is Edith. Are you feeling a mite better? We knew you would wake today. You tried so hard yesterday though the blackies would get you again and of course you got awful sick. Almost undid all my hard work!’

Anwen blinked. She tried to make sense of Edith’s words, but it was like listening to wind through trees and she felt, rather than understood, the words.

‘Today, I said that little child would live.’ Edith grabbed a wet cloth and gently wiped Anwen’s face with cool water. ‘You still have a mite of fever, I feel. Nothing like you had, though. You nigh had us scared witless when he carried you in five days ago silent as a kitchen rat.’

Anwen turned her head with some effort. ‘Five days?’ she asked. ‘Where am I?’

The bright light pouring through the many narrow tall windows hurt her eyes, yet she could still make out the dark, intricately carved bed she lay in and its cream-coloured coverlet bordered with rich red which was repeated in the linens covering two walls to give warmth. The rest of the room was decorated with deerskin rugs, carved tables and chairs, and a chest with locked brass fastenings.

The room belonged to someone of great wealth and she didn’t recognise a thing.

‘Ooh, you can talk. Oh, yes, m’lady. Well, maybe a wee bit more than five days.’ Edith grabbed some pillows and carefully stuffed them behind Anwen’s back. ‘You’re probably starving, you poor thing.’

With confusion setting in, Anwen shouldn’t be tempted by food, but the small bread loaf and flagon smelling of wine on the table next to her resembled a feast.

‘Nothing but broth for days.’ Edith tore off pieces of bread and fed them to Anwen. ‘How does it taste? Good? Too much?’

She couldn’t answer around the bread in her mouth.

‘Now what was I saying? Oh! Though you’ve been asleep, you’ve had the house in an uproar, what with him always asking how you fared, and if the answer wasn’t satisfactory, he’d check on you. Never saw anything like it.’

Edith kept stuffing bread in her mouth, but Anwen wanted to ask questions. Such as where she was and who Edith kept talking about, and who, for that matter, was Edith?

‘Him?’ she finally managed to say.

‘Did you say “him”? Don’t you remember anything at all?’ Edith shook her head. ‘That’s one question answered for us. We had a bet, you see—not exactly we and not exactly a bet, because I don’t do those sort of things—but there are some in the kitchens who have been wondering, heavily, whether you went into the sleep because of your head wound or because of him. But you see, since you didn’t know about him, then that answers the question for us.’

With a flash of a practically toothless grin, Edith turned around and faced the door. ‘I need the towels by the bucket, Greta. She doesn’t know about him.’

A large woman with big beefy hands carried linens into the room. She didn’t say anything, but her face was open and her brown eyes danced as she gave a wide friendly grin.

‘Who is he?’ Anwen could feel a headache beginning because of the kind of commotion no ancient old woman the size of a rinse bucket should make.

‘Why, he is the lord, of course, m’lady.’ Edith rolled down the covers. ‘Dear me, that head wound must make you suffer some. I’ll need to cool you with water while you lie still.’

Edith pushed Anwen’s chemise up to bare her legs. ‘You must be weak as a fawn.’

Anwen inspected her chemise. The weave was too fine and too white. It was not hers. ‘What happened? Where am I?’

Edith sighed. ‘Oh, very well. I’ll not be saying much that you couldn’t find out by looking out of a window. Just outside the walls is Dameg Forest. You have heard of Dameg Forest?’

‘Yes, I live near Dameg Forest, but where am I now?’

‘Well,’ Edith started, ‘we’re by the forest, too.’

Anwen looked to Greta for a clearer answer, but the other woman simply wrung a cloth in her hands. The worry on their faces turned her confusion to panic.

Flashes of memory. Brynmor. Gwalchdu. Gully flying into the forest.

Anwen’s heart lurched as she remembered the sickening crunch of the breaking branch. There was a man under the tree. She was angry. No, that didn’t make sense. Why would she be angry if he was there to catch her? She was safe. The man made her feel safe. But who was he?

She contemplated the fine furnishings of the room, the thick stone walls, the rich wall coverings and an awful thought filled her head.

‘Who is the lord of this place?’ she asked.

Edith was suddenly all of a flutter. ‘Don’t you mind me none. Got no manners and don’t know my place. I know that, by goodness I do. Going on like I did and you hurt and all. Why I could be causing you more harm than good.’ Edith bent to wring the water from the cloth.

And that’s when the answer to her question entered her room. Framed by the doorway, he was dressed in partial chainmail as if for a joust. But this was not the type of man to do mock battle. His black eyes were too harsh, his face too hardened and, despite the daylight, shadows emanated from him. This was not a man to play at things, but to take and take by force.

‘Are you well?’ he asked, his voice deep and resonating around the room.

Vaguely aware of Edith and Greta, both of whom were now standing at the far end of the room, she stared at the man walking towards her.

‘Did you eat? Can you hear me?’ he repeated.

He was the dark man to the golden man’s light. He was anger to any kindness. He was the man who had watched her for days and at night had held her hand. He was the man beneath the tree and the man who had saved her life. In one incredulous moment, she knew who he was.

He was Teague, Devil of Gwalchdu and the Traitor. He was a legend with the sword, a Marcher Lord of King Edward and her sworn enemy. And here she was lying in his bed. But she was no coward.

‘Yes, I hear you,’ she answered.

He nodded, before his eyes skimmed down to her legs.

Her bare legs.

Before she could cover herself, Teague closed the distance between them and tossed the covers roughly over her. When he did not step back from the bed, she was forced to look up.

‘You should not move,’ he ordered. ‘Are you well?’

Teague of Gwalchdu stood before her. Why hadn’t she recognised it immediately when Edith was the only one in the room, when there might have been a chance to escape? How could she have been such a fool? But how could she have imagined she’d ever be brought to hell?

Without turning, he addressed Edith and Greta. ‘Leave us.’

Frustration swamping her, she watched as Edith and Greta closed the door behind them. She was alone with the man who had torn her family apart and had brought the ruination of Brynmor. She had dreamed of meeting him face to face, but not when she was so weak she could barely sit up.

He narrowed his eyes, assessing her. ‘No, you’re not. You’re far too pale and that bruise is likely to continue spreading before you are healed. Does it hurt?’

‘Do you care?’

He ignored her. ‘Who are you?’

‘Is it important?’

He lowered his arms to his sides. It was clear he wanted an answer.

She didn’t feel like giving him one. He didn’t know who she was, or more specifically where she came from. It was no secret Brynmor and Gwalchdu were enemies. If she could keep her identity from him for long enough, perhaps she could escape.

‘If you don’t provide me with a name, I will give you one of my own.’

‘Anwen,’ she bit out.

‘Anwen?’ he asked and his tone implied he expected more.

‘Yes, Anwen,’ she said, repeating her name slowly as if he didn’t understand her.

‘Have I missed anything?’

It was this man’s brother, the golden one, who opened the door. He looked so different to Teague. His reputation was different, too. This man had been too young to fight in the Welsh wars. To him she would be civil.

‘Rhain?’ Anwen said.

‘Yes!’ Rhain grabbed a stool and a chair and set both by her bedside.

‘Do you remember anything else?’ Rhain asked, sitting on the stool.

She shook her head once. It was safer to pretend.

‘No one has told you of this place?’ Teague did not take his eyes from hers.

‘No,’ she answered.

‘You would want to know who we are and where you are, I imagine.’ Teague’s voice had grown silky, his mouth shaped into a mock of a smile. ‘How rude of me not to introduce myself, especially since you have supplied so much information to me.’

He sat on the chair Rhain had placed near the bed. He was now so close she could see the growth of his beard, the deep furrows around his mouth. His lips held an odd curve, making them full, soft, yet harshly masculine at the same time. Without releasing her gaze, he answered, ‘I am Teague, Lord of Gwalchdu.’

She could say nothing as her worst suspicion was confirmed. She lay in the bed of Gwalchdu’s lord. ‘Gwalchdu’ meant ‘black hawk’ and there was no more evil a bird in all of Welsh myth. The name fit this place and the traitor who now sat before her.

‘So you have heard,’ he said, gauging her reaction.

‘I have heard, but have seen nothing.’ She tried to keep her eyes unreadable. She had hated this man all her life. She would not back down now, despite the pounding in her head.

He gave a curt nod. ‘You are wise to be blind. But it seems you watch now.’

This was no word game he played with her. This was no pastime of a bored nobleman and there was no false smile on his face.

Anwen tensed and immediately regretted it as her body protested. It would take all her resources to escape. But she had herself. That had proven enough in the past and it would prove enough now.

‘I don’t watch so much.’ Anwen tried to get her thoughts together as pain slashed across her left temple. ‘I’ll watch even less once you let me go.’

Rhain stood. ‘We should go. It is clear you are unwell and have need of rest.’

Rhain glanced at Teague, but the lord’s gaze locked with Anwen’s. For a moment she didn’t think he would answer.

‘She needs time, Teague,’ Rhain argued.

‘Call for Ffion.’ Teague’s voice was low, but not soft.

* * *

Anwen did not breathe again until the two men closed the door. She was trapped. Trapped by a huge giant of a man with eyes as dark as obsidian. Eyes she knew matched his soul. She knew his name, as a person knows the name of evil. At Brynmor, the people did not even whisper his name aloud without crossing themselves and he had sat so close to her she’d noticed the slight shadows under his eyes.

Why would she notice he was tired? He was the Traitor. Dear God, she was beholden to the Traitor of Gwalchdu! It was clear he had saved her life by bringing her here. But now she recognised him, she wondered at his motive. She doubted it was kindness or gentleness. She’d seen his eyes caressing her bare legs; his motive could not be kindness.

The pain was increasing, but she must fight it. She put a hand to her head, the thick dressing holding its shape; if only the dizziness didn’t increase, as well. The Traitor wanted something from her and she had no intention of staying to find out what. Anwen pushed until she was able to sit up. For a moment she thought she would make it, then the room spun, and blackness overcame her.

* * *

‘Well, at least we know she is innocent of any treachery,’ Rhain whispered before they reached the bottom stair.

‘Do we?’ Teague walked through the entrance into the rare winter sunlight. He headed towards the gardens. It was wash day and the shrubbery was covered in linens.

Rhain followed. ‘She called herself Anwen. Since we know Brynmor is missing someone by that name, we know she belongs to them. Now it will be simply a matter of letting her rest until we can return her.’

Teague sat on a bench and stretched his legs. He admired the newly tilled and almost bare garden, knowing his winter larder was full. ‘But she didn’t say she was from Brynmor.’

‘She didn’t?’ Rhain thought for a moment, then shrugged. ‘So?’

‘So, she could have been given that information.’

‘What significance can it have? All manors have sworn allegiance to Edward.’ Rhain sat, and adjusted the dagger at his waist.

‘All manors have, but not all the people.’

‘You think that woman is a threat?’

‘Yes. When she practises deception and tells us nothing.’

Rhain shrugged. ‘Does it matter since we know her identity and her home?’

‘It matters that she deliberately hides facts. What else is she hiding?’

Rhain fingered his dagger’s hilt. ‘She suffered a severe head wound and could have mistaken your questioning.’

‘No, I saw her eyes on me when I entered the room. She knew who I was. She is hiding something.’

Rhain pursed his lips before answering. ‘She has been deeply hurt, Teague. Let her go. She can have no knowledge of what plagues us here.’

Teague scuffed his foot through the rough dark dirt. Many razed stalks were bare, but protected by compost. Come spring, he was sure the herbs would be flavouring his meals. Yet he wasn’t sure of the woman in his bed. He couldn’t take a chance on her innocence. ‘Like hell I will.’

* * *

It was the time of night that was almost day, but despite the hour, she could feel he was there. She was too tired to fight and didn’t open her eyes. ‘Why are you here?’

Teague watched Anwen fall asleep, watched as her breathing slowed, and her eyelids ceased their fluttering. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, even though she could not hear him.

He shouldn’t be here. Now that she was conscious, it was time to stay away from her. He might know her identity, but he still did not know her motivations and those would take time and distance to discover. But still he lingered idly by her side like some besotted troubadour.

No, this wasn’t an idle feeling, but a deep churning in his blood.

When he entered his chamber, the sight of her had been like the flat of a sword to his gut. She had lain in his bed, propped up with his pillows, her legs bared as if waiting for him. As if she belonged. He was ill-prepared for the lust which had assailed him.

When he tried to find some semblance of control, she refused to answer his questions. Weak as she was, she defied him. She might have been truthful in giving her name, but she withheld something. He could feel it. She had known he wondered where she lived, but had avoided answering him. She’d asked where she was, even though she already knew.

Teague averted his gaze from her sleeping face. It was wrong for him to be here, but she was wrong in hiding something. She could not be allowed secrets. He had an enemy threatening his home. He would discover what she hid from him. He had to. For all their sakes.

Chapter Four

‘You have overexerted yourself, I see.’ With long strides, an older woman, wearing voluminous black robes, approached the foot of Anwen’s bed. ‘Take care, girl. I am Sister Ffion and I don’t have time to cater to you and do my duties here.’

Biting her lip to keep from snapping at a woman of God, Anwen watched Ffion pull herbs from her satchel and place them in the mortar on the nearby table.

‘You took a blow to your head.’ Ffion lifted and swirled the matching pitcher before pouring the dark liquid on top of the herbs and mashing them more. ‘I’ll do the best I can, but it is in God’s hands.’

As Ffion ground the concoction, the air turned foul. Anwen’s eyes watered.

‘I’ll have none of your complaints.’ Ffion set the pitcher down and came to her side. ‘You about undid all of my healing. For days this poultice has been placed on your head to help heal your wound.’

Anwen tried to breathe through her mouth, as she lifted her head and concentrated on Ffion’s cold hand supporting her neck. ‘You have been here?’

‘From the beginning.’ Ffion unbound the wrappings. ‘Dear Rhain notified me immediately of your arrival. He knew of my healing abilities. Why, if it wasn’t for him, you would have died.’

Ffion dropped the bandages in a bucket. ‘It’s quite a miracle you pulled through. Rhain was right in notifying me immediately. I was able to prepare the herbs in time for them to take.’

Anwen patted the side of her head. ‘Wasn’t...wasn’t Lord Teague under the tree? Didn’t he save—?’

Ffion seized Anwen’s wrist; her cold fingers dug like claws into her skin. ‘Gwalchdu’s lord saves nothing!’

Anwen jerked her wrist free and Ffion’s lips pursed before she shook her head. ‘I only meant it is better if you don’t touch the wound. You may harm my healing.’

Anwen rubbed her wrist and quickly damped her anger. Ffion was trying to help her. ‘How bad is my wound?’ she asked.

‘You’ll scar.’ Ffion began to clean the wound and the water brought both pain and relief. ‘It’ll be permanent, too. Most likely a disfigurement so no man would have you. But that is probably for the best.’

Ffion slowly rinsed the linen in a bowl, as Anwen processed the Sister’s almost gleeful words. Despite her Welsh-born accent, Anwen knew Ffion would be no ally.

‘But your disfigurement does not seem to keep some men away now, does it?’ Ffion dabbed at the wound. ‘However, the wound is healing according to God’s wishes. You must still be chaste.’

Anwen didn’t want to think about all of Ffion’s words, but she needed to clarify something. ‘It’s healing?’ she asked.

‘Yes. In His great wisdom, God gave me gifts and knowledge of the healing arts. I suspect your healing to take at least another sennight.’

‘Surely it won’t be that long.’ The poultice stung.

‘A few days ago, we didn’t think you’d live. You are staying here for a sennight so you will not undo all my work.’

‘I didn’t mean to stay as long as I have.’ Demanding woman of God or not, Anwen had no intention of staying. She was needed at Brynmor. And not only for Melun’s sake. She wondered if Alinore, her sister, was alive; if Urien, Lord of Brynmor, had hurt her again. It hurt to think of them. She needed a distraction from knowing she wasn’t there to protect either of them now.

‘Have you been here long?’

‘Almost all my life.’ A look of pain crossed Ffion’s face as she added, ‘Many years.’

‘You’ve known the family that long?’

‘I am the family. I am the sister of Teague’s mother and Rhain’s aunt.’

Edith opened the door, her hobbling-and-hopping gait shaking the bread and pitcher on the tray she was carrying.

Ffion’s frown increased. ‘I had requested Greta bring food for you. Pity, for Greta would be better for your healing.’

There was a loud rattle as Edith set the tray on the table at the far end of the room.

Gathering her mortar, pestle and satchel, Ffion said, ‘It will do you well to remember the seventh commandment. Now go with God.’

Edith continued to arrange the tray until the door closed behind Ffion. ‘Go with God, she says. As if that woman walks with the Maker himself! Her lecturing you not to commit adultery, when you’re having trouble eating!’

Edith opened the door and stuck her head through it.

‘But surely she means no harm,’ Anwen said.

‘Oh, don’t mind me, dearie.’ Edith gave her a smile over her shoulder. ‘Don’t mind me. I’m an old woman and tend to talk when I shouldn’t.’

Anwen thought about furthering the conversation when the smell of food wafted in. Edith stepped away from the door and Greta carried a large tray of dried meat and cheeses into her bedroom.

‘Thank you.’ She smiled at Greta, who was setting the tray across the bed.

‘Oh, don’t mind Greta none,’ Edith began, as she checked the fireplace, then straightened the window shutters. ‘Speechies took her voice away a long time ago, but you’ll never find a smarter soul than our Greta.’ Edith paused, then said more reflectively, ‘Maybe the lord and his brother, but certainly nobody kinder.’ For all her small stature, Edith moved and talked like a whirl of dust in a storm. Shaking her head, she added, ‘Simply look her way when you speak, and she’ll get your intention sure enough. Hearing’s good.’

Looking at Edith and Greta, Anwen wondered at the one-sided conversations these two women must have had over the years.

She looked back at Greta. ‘Thank you, again.’

Greta’s smile lit up her brown eyes.

Anwen chose a piece of cheese. When it stayed down, she felt a faint glimmer of hope. Despite everything, she was healing. Soon, she could return home and everything would be set aright again.

* * *

‘I thought I’d find you here.’ Rhain climbed the last two stairs to the top of the outer bailey tower.

Despite the cold, Teague stood just beyond the torches’ flames so he could remain in the shadows. It was easier to watch his men this way. It was also easier to hide that he stood alone while they walked the cold night in camaraderie. He had long become accustomed to being a voyeur to the life they led.

‘Ffion says Anwen is recovering, but she still needs to stay a sennight,’ Rhain said.

News of the woman again, who was as obscure to him as the darkened forest beyond the courtyard. Was it she who made him aware of his solitary life?

‘Well?’ Rhain prompted.

‘Let Ffion have her say in this.’

‘It may be easier, but I wonder.’ Rhain shrugged. ‘Ffion is not as she was.’

‘You left when you were a child,’ Teague reminded him.

‘True. But what about tonight’s episode during dinner. Has it happened before?’

Ffion’s episodes, as well as her anger and unintelligible murmurings, were worsening since his brother’s return. He worried for her. ‘Yes, it has happened before, but tonight it was mild.’ Teague pulled his cloak tighter around him. The ground was already hardening with frost, his breath gusted out in front of him. He hadn’t been aware of the cold until his brother arrived.

‘It was as if something upset her.’

‘Christmas approaches. Though Ffion is fierce on celebrating Christ’s birth, there are those who celebrate more than the Christian traditions. It is a battle she doesn’t like to lose.’

‘You once wrote to me about the Mari Lwyd. Is she still arguing about that?’

‘Every year,’ Teague said. ‘Ffion insists the decorated horse skull with white linen is to celebrate the Virgin Mary and should come at the end of the Christmas season in January.’

‘But the villagers...’

‘Still bring it out at the end of harvest on Martinmas. When we slaughter the animals for winter, there’s always celebration.’

‘Wassailing? I could see how that would worsen her condition.’

‘It does.’ Teague nodded. ‘Since Martinmas approaches, I am glad you are here.’

‘For all her faults, at least her stubbornness proves she’s family.’

Ffion had shown Teague only stubbornness and animosity. Though he never doubted she was family, it wasn’t what secured her home at Gwalchdu. It wasn’t the reason why he protected her, when her episodes became noticeable, and the Church made enquiries.

No, it didn’t matter if his aunt hated him, most people did. He would protect her; he would pay off the Church and their damning enquiries because he would be for ever in his aunt’s debt.

‘Stubbornness is no doubt what gives her strength,’ he said.

‘Well, the battle of winter traditions will certainly make for an interesting Christmas,’ Rhain said.

No one ever won, but Teague ensured Ffion’s wishes were obeyed and that the villagers hid their pagan ritual. It was the least he could do for his aunt.

He’d been a mere boy when his mother gave birth to Rhain and, as a result, he was barred from her birthing chamber. But Ffion had been by her side, tending to her in those last hours. Knowing what he knew of Ffion’s skill now, he had no doubt she’d waged war to save his mother’s life.

‘It seems as if her condition worsens.’ Rhain sighed raggedly, his breath visible in front of him. ‘I knew she wasn’t well when she approached the table. I could see the whites of her eyes and she was sweating profusely.’ Rhain wrapped his arms around him and patted his sides as if beating off the cold. ‘But her prayer! I couldn’t understand a word she said.’

When Teague had paid his respects to his mother, he hadn’t known what to expect. He’d been but five years old and within hours witnessed his mother’s heart breaking and heard her pain-filled labour. Yet when he saw her lying there in the bed all he saw was peace.

Ffion had given his mother peace in the last moments of her life.

‘Tonight, you had a calming effect on Ffion.’ Teague tilted his head. ‘When it happened before, I stepped in, but her rage worsened and she was dragged out of the Hall.’

There was a part of him that still believed as the child did, that Ffion, in order to give her sister peace, had taken the grief and pain as her own. For ever after, Ffion was never the same. Her countenance was lit with some wrathful vengeance he couldn’t understand.

But he didn’t need to understand everything. He understood what mattered most. That he owed his aunt a debt he wished he could pay. And he hated that she suffered.

‘It’s almost unbearable to see her so altered,’ Rhain said.

Teague couldn’t disagree. Ffion was the only family they had left. Over the years her episodes continued and so did her demands for control and order.

Just like the demands she made now when it came to Anwen of Brynmor. He stamped his feet against the cold seeping into his shoes. Instead of ruminating on the past, and freezing his toes in the process, he should be searching for Gwalchdu’s weakness and the enemy.

He should be scanning the forest beyond for a fire. If Anwen wasn’t his enemy, or was only an accomplice, the main perpetrator would still be nearby. On a cold night such as this, a fire would be necessary.

But the darkness beyond Gwalchdu’s walls was complete. So Teague turned his attention to the barbican. There were two guards above the gate and two standing next to the closed portcullis. Such manpower was excessive, but the threats could not continue.

And though his aunt’s demand for Anwen to stay had been made with the greatest disdain, it was a simple request to agree to. In fact, he wouldn’t want it any other way.

‘Let the woman stay the sennight,’ Teague said. ‘But I want a guard at her door.’

Rhain glanced at Teague. ‘A guard at Anwen’s door? I wonder you do not apply this to all passages.’

Teague shot him a look.

Rhain shrugged. ‘She won’t like it, but it would do more harm to move her and no harm will come of her staying.’

Teague’s mouth twitched. ‘No harm? What of the threats and the fact she is not from Gwalchdu, but an enemy’s manor?’

‘We haven’t received any messages attached to a slaughtered animal since the day we brought her here.’

‘There were weeks between messages before and the villain still won’t show himself.’

‘It is all very odd. The messages never demand anything, neither money, nor horses, nor services. There’s never a pattern to their appearance. Everything we’ve been taught about an enemy doesn’t apply, except the slaughtered animals and the threat of your death, which is always there.’

Teague leaned over the rampart to feel the burst of cold night wind. Everything Rhain said was true. The enemy didn’t follow any normal pattern. He couldn’t negotiate to stop the threats when he didn’t even know who to negotiate with. Until the enemy revealed himself, Teague was a warrior in a ghostly war. His sword and training were useless because he could not see or strike his enemy. A lord with no power to protect was no lord at all.

‘How?’ Teague hit the rampart. There was not the usual talking amongst the soldiers as would be expected this time of night. All the men had been notified that there would be a great reward for any information or capture of the enemy. ‘How is he coming in? How is he getting to the livestock or my falcons?’

‘He’s not getting in; he’s already here.’ Rhain gestured in front of him. ‘Look at this place. There are torches lit at night, when we expect no visitors; extra soldiers at the entrances, when the gates and portcullises are closed.’

Teague shook his head. ‘The threat is too recent. The people here are loyal and this is their home.’

‘I think we need to stop asking how it is happening, but why.’

Teague hid his impatience. ‘I thought the messages made it clear.’

‘Yes, someone doesn’t like you, but why now? Why these threats, but no action?’

‘The enemy waits for fear to seep in before they strike. It’s just as we did in Dolwyddelan. Fear, ultimately, is the conqueror.’

‘And is there fear here?’

‘By God or Gwyn, no,’ Teague growled. ‘Never.’

‘Exactly.’

He turned to Rhain. ‘Exactly what? The enemy doesn’t want me afraid?’

‘No, it means it’s something else.’

‘Or it could mean the enemy miscalculated,’ Teague said. ‘We’ll know who is right when the next message comes.’

‘Are we so sure it is but one person?’ Rhain asked. ‘It would seem, given the wide dispersal of the messages, that it could be at least two.’

‘No, it has to be one. I’ll not question Gwalchdu’s defences that much. They’re too tight for two or more people to go unnoticed.’ Teague paused, before his tone turned lethal. ‘But one man or twenty, I will end this ghostly battle.’

‘When you are like this, I do not wonder why you are known as the Devil of Gwalchdu. No wonder the King trusts you so well with such a strategic castle.’

‘Gwalchdu belonged to our family long before Edward’s Welsh Wars or his campaign against Scotland. He would need to be a hundred kings before he could wrest its governing to someone else.’

‘Have you told Edward about the threats?’ Rhain asked. ‘I am sure he would not appreciate games here.’

Teague shook his head. ‘He is spread too thin with the Scots. He barely responds to correspondence regarding our positioning in Wales; I could not bother him with private matters.’

‘Perhaps he’s distracted by his worry of Eleanor, who has been sickly.’

Teague could never understand Edward’s obsession over his wife. The time he spent with her could be used to solve the problems in Scotland, to tighten his reign in Wales. Instead, the King was almost...devoted to her.

He remembered his parents’ relationship. They, too, had seemed devoted to each other. But it had been all a lie. His father had abandoned his family, his pregnant wife, for another woman. And with grief racking her body, his mother had begun an early, bloody and heartbroken labour.

‘The King’s affection for Eleanor seeps the strength from him,’ Teague said. ‘She bore him enough sons for a dozen monarchies. He wastes his time on petty worries.’

Rhain slapped Teague on the back. ‘It’s love, Teague, not simply affection, and some would disagree with you and say their love strengthens Edward for all his trials.’

Teague knew better. Love had sapped the strength from his mother just when she needed it most to bring Rhain into this world and it had killed her.

‘Love? What use is love?’

Chapter Five

‘I trust you are well today?’ Ffion entered Anwen’s room without knocking.

Anwen didn’t turn from her seat in the window. The courtyard was full of market wagons, kitchen maids with arms of laundry and soldiers training.

‘Your situation will not end simply because you ignore it,’ Ffion continued.

‘I did not know prisoners were allowed any benefits.’

‘You are hardly a prisoner,’ Ffion admonished as she went to the table to make her poultice.

‘I have been well for three days. Well enough to return to my home, yet a guard is at my door and he will not let me leave this room.’ Anwen unwound the bandages from her head. Ffion had taken the stitches out a few days before, but the poultice and the wrapping of her head continued.

‘As you know, the guards have explicit instructions you are to remain here for a sennight. Need I remind you that if it were not for me and the hospitality of Gwalchdu, you would be dead?’

Ffion never failed to remind Anwen who tended her.

Anwen tilted her head so the older woman could apply the paste. ‘If you’d let me have a mirror, which must exist here, I could put this on myself.’

‘Of course we have a mirror, we have several, but I believe you need these visits.’ Ffion pressed her hand to secure the bandages so she could wrap them. ‘There is much sin in this keep and many lecherous thoughts. We need God and prayer to purge us. Have you been practising your lessons of chastity, obedience, poverty?’

‘I am a Christian, Sister,’ Anwen said, ‘and do my prayers as often as time will allow.’

‘At Gwalchdu I expect prayers to be six times per day. Now you are better, perhaps it will be time for you to join us.’ Ffion raised her finger in the air. ‘Remember: community—’

‘Prayer, study and service,’ she interrupted. ‘But I am not staying at Gwalchdu and you cannot keep me here.’

Ffion opened the door, and stepped across the threshold. ‘It seems we will both have to await God’s answer to your fate. In the meantime, I will expect you to pray with us. The bells will tell you when.’

Anwen turned her attention to outside her window. She had no intention of following Ffion’s directives and she had no intention of staying here.

From what she could see, she was in an inner tower that was surrounded by a low wall. Directly underneath her, there were no gardens with flowers and benches. Without any ornamentation, the grey stone walls jutted out forcefully from the hard-packed ground. It was as if the castle stood in defiance of nature. Very much like the lord who governed it.

She had not spoken to Teague since the day he had asked for her name. Then she had still been so weak and sick, she could only feel the darkness and tightly coiled anger surrounding him.

But at night, Teague had been almost reluctantly kind. There was such a difference between the man at night and the man at day, she wondered whether she had dreamed the night. It had probably been Greta or Edith. There could be no kindness in the Traitor of Gwalchdu.

The cold reality of daytime should prove that to her. She was kept a prisoner here no matter what Ffion said. She doubted the lord kept her here because Brynmor was her home. If he knew she was from Brynmor, all he had to do was inform Sir Robert and ask for a boon. Teague was Marcher Lord and consequently had power over Brynmor. He also had power over her.

She rested her head upon her knees and stared out the window. If she was counting the days correctly, she had been here over a sennight. It was long enough for either someone to rescue her, or to think her dead.

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.

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