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he feared her. But she might not be alone. Once he was far enough downriver, he could double back and trap the devious bitch.
    The river was stronger than he’d thought, and it carried him a goodly distance before he could escape its hold. When he finally clambered out on the opposite bank, his teeth were
chattering and his entire body shuddered with the cold. He was drenched, chilled to the bone and a long way from home. Added to that, once he caught his attacker, he would have to cross the river again to reach his horse.
    His horse!
    The Welsh were notorious horse thieves and Helios was as fine a piece of horseflesh as could be found outside of England. Rage burned off Jasper’s chill and, despite his exhaustion, he began to run, dodging willows and holly bushes, sometimes slipping but never letting up. She would not have Helios. He refused to let a mere woman best him.
    But best him she had.
    Jasper arrived at the place on the river where she had been. Across from him rose the great boulder he’d sprawled upon. What an arrogant idiot he’d been to sit exposed upon the most indefensible spot along the river. And now Helios, who’d foraged in the meadow just beyond the boulder, was gone.
    Rand would be furious.
    “Hell and damnation,” he swore. She’d even taken his wineskin. “Bloody hell and damnation!”
    But cursing did him no good and after a moment reason took charge. He shoved his hair back from his brow and considered his situation. If she’d crossed the river to steal Helios, she would have to cross back again in order to return.
    Return to where?
    Where was she from?
    Not the village of Rosecliffe. He knew all the women of Rosecliffe. Perhaps Carreg Du, or even Afon Bryn, though that was a fair distance for a woman to travel. In order to escape capture, she would have to take Helios far from Rosecliffe.
    Afon Bryn it was, he decided. And he must intercept her before she reached that village and its hostile populace.
    He started off at a steady pace, scanning the riverbank for signs of a horse, and a hundred paces upstream he was rewarded for his efforts. Hoofprints in the muddy bank, then clear signs of a large creature headed south through a stand of arrowhead.
    Jasper felt for his daggers, the large one in its hip sheath,
and the smaller one inside his boot. She thought he was dead and would be careless in her escape. He gritted his teeth and pressed on faster, ignoring the stitch in his side and the dull thud in his head. She would not escape him, this devious wench. She might be exquisite in form, and deadly in intent, but she was only a woman. He would capture her and he would make her pay.
    One way or another, she would pay dearly for this day’s foul work.
     
    Rhonwen trudged through the forest, leading the destrier. She’d struck a blow for Cymry this day, and she should be consumed with joy. But she didn’t feel joy. In its stead she felt a miserable guilt. She’d killed a man—killed him!—and even though he was an Englishman, she felt terrible.
    But there was no undoing what she’d done and so she pressed on toward home. At least the beast was docile and followed her reasonably well. It refused to let her mount him, however, adding further to her guilt. As if the animal knew what she’d done, it rolled its eyes when she approached, and sidled away. He was too tall for her to jump on, and anyway, she was not so used to horses as to be that confident of her riding skills.
    But she had no intention of losing such a valuable prize, so she led the animal toward the campsite between Carreg Du and Afon Bryn. Rhys would be there and he would know what to do with the Englishman’s destrier. And he would be elated to hear she’d killed the man—except that he’d wanted to kill Jasper FitzHugh himself.
    Then again, had she really killed the man?
    Rhonwen gnawed her lower lip. She’d shot him and he’d collapsed into the river, so she must have struck him. If the arrow hadn’t killed him,