Rexanne Becnel Read Online Free PDF

surely he had drowned. She’d watched his body catch in the current, then careen down the swollen river. Yes, he was dead. He must be. But she could not be glad for his death.
    She trudged forward, up an embankment, following a dim trail through the newly budding forest, and with every step
guilt plagued her. She’d never killed anyone before. She’d hunted, of course, and killed fish, fowl, and small game animals. But that was for food. That was for survival.
    Then again, her people were fighting for survival against the English, and he was an Englishman.
    But she couldn’t put him out of her mind. Had he died easily or not? Had the arrow quaffed his life quickly, or had he slowly bled to death? Or had he drowned, desperately sucking in water instead of the blessed air?
    She paused on the narrow trail and inhaled great breaths of the cold spring air. Death by drowning. She shuddered at the thought. Somewhere above her a crow let out a raucous cry. She looked up, startled. The horse behind her blew a hot breath onto the back of her neck and she jumped. Then it nudged her with its nose, nearly knocking her over.
    “Stop that, you great, overgrown beast,” she swore in a shaking voice. She tightened her fingers on the reins and twisted the leather around her hand. She was behaving like a frightened child, starting at shadows. Let her mother fret and worry; Rhonwen was made of sterner stuff.
    “Come along,” she muttered, starting forward again. Rhys’s rebel camp was not too much farther. But the horse had turned balky. It started forward, then stopped. “Come along!” she repeated, yanking on the leather reins.
    The animal only eyed her, staring down his long nose from his superior height.
    What if he refused to go any farther? How was one to bully so large a creature?
    “If you come along, there will be cool water and a lovely meadow waiting for you,” she said in Welsh. Then, realizing he was a Norman lord’s horse, she translated the words to the best of her ability.
    The destrier stared at her with dark, intelligent eyes. His ears pricked forward and she could almost believe he understood what she’d said. Once more he blew out a hot breath. Then his ears flickered backward, heeding the soft call of a wren.
    All at once Rhonwen’s skin prickled. A wren? Wrens were
not found in these parts until midsummer. Something was not right.
    At once she backed up the path, tugging for the horse to follow. But the huge animal did not move. The reins tightened around her hand, nearly jerking her off her feet. Then, before she could free herself from them, a man burst out of the woods. A tall, wet man with murder in his eyes.
    He wasn’t dead!
    “No!” Rhonwen grabbed for her dagger with her left hand, but it was too late. He caught her wrist in a harsh grip and, with a jerk, ripped the reins from her other hand.
    She struck at his head with her fist, then tried to claw his eyes, to no avail. She could not best him physically. He was too big, too strong, and too furious. Yet she could not let herself acquiesce. So she twisted and kicked, and tried to knee his groin. She bit him and clawed him and screamed curses with every breath.
    “Plague among men! Scourge of the earth!”
    He grunted when her elbow caught his chin.
    “Snake!” she screeched. “Coward! Impotent bastard!”
    “Not hardly,” he muttered in her native Welsh. Suddenly he lifted her off her feet, then threw her up into the air.
    Rhonwen shrieked—was he mad?—and braced herself for a painful landing. But he caught her and before she could react, he had captured both her wrists and twisted them behind her back. Then he pulled her hard up against him, holding her so tight she could barely breathe.
    Her face was smashed into his padded wool tunic. Her breasts flattened against the studded chest piece, and her thighs felt the muscular weight of his legs.
    “Give in, vixen. You have been caught, and in a trap of your own making.”
    His smugness