Rexanne Becnel Read Online Free PDF Page B

enraged her, but she could not free her hands no matter how she fought. So she fought him with the only weapon left to her. She bit him.
    She got a mouthful of wet wool, but he jerked just the same. “Damnation, but you’re a feisty one.” He caught a handful
of her hair and yanked down so that she had no choice but to look up at him. It was a terrifying experience.
    His eyes were gray. Not blue, but a true gray. Like wet slate. Ten years ago he’d been captured by the Welsh and she’d seen him up close. But he’d been too concerned with his own survival to notice a little Welsh girl. She’d not actually looked into his eyes that time, and since then she’d kept her distance from him.
    But there was no distance between them now.
    She stared up into those gray eyes, and she remembered the whispers of the women at the well. Even the devil could not best him when it came to the pleasures of the flesh, they said.
    Then he smiled and she began to shake.
    “I’m neither a bastard,” he said, his low voice rumbling from his chest into hers, “nor impotent.” As if to provide proof of that, he shifted his hips and she felt the unmistakable outline of his manhood.
    “My mistake,” she muttered. “I should have called you a coward and a rapist.”
    He laughed. The sound was ludicrous under the circumstances. But whether furious or amused, he was dangerous. Rhonwen did not delude herself on that account.
    “Pray tell, wench, what are you called?”
    Rhonwen did not answer.
    Holding her gaze, he shifted again, and she felt the strength in his hard warrior’s body. If he meant it as a threat—a reminder of her vulnerability—he succeeded very well. She swallowed hard.
    “What are you called?”
    “Rhonwen ap Tomas,” she spat.
    “Why did you try to kill me, Rhonwen ap Tomas?”
    “You are English,” she replied. Was he a simpleton?
    “I am English, so you would kill me and steal my horse and consider it a good afternoon’s work. Where were you taking Helios?”
    Rhonwen glared at him. She could do little else. How long did he mean to continue this ridiculous conversation? How long did he mean to hold her crushed to him?

    The answer was obvious and her heart sank: Until his arousal was complete and he could begin raping her.
    She tried to look away. She didn’t want him to see her fear. But he moved his hand up to the back of her head and made her face him once more. “Where were you taking my horse? Afon Bryn?”
    “Yes. What difference does it make?”
    “’Tis always wise to know where my enemy sleeps.” She laughed. “Your enemy sleeps all around you. Even in the village beneath the castle walls.”
    “So you know I am of Rosecliffe.”
    “Jasper FitzHugh. Brother of the man who styles himself lord of these lands.”
    “Brother-in-law to Josselyn. Yes,” he added when her eyes clouded over. “I know you once were friend to Josselyn. I know who you are, Rhonwen ap Tomas. And I know also the debt I owe you.” Then, to her utter surprise, he loosened his hold on her and stepped away.
    Rhonwen stumbled back, bewildered by so abrupt a change in her circumstances. She shivered with the sudden cold, for she’d grown warm in his embrace.
    Across the narrow path they stared at one another. He was tall and well formed. His thick brown hair had begun to dry, but his damp clothes clung to his shoulders and arms and legs. Yes, he was well formed. Straight and strong, with comely features and all his teeth. And those intense gray eyes. She hated him, yet she was a woman and she could see now why women flocked to his side.
    Was he fool enough to think his magnanimous gesture might win her over? Was he fool enough to think he might lure her into his bed?
    She crossed her arms over her chest and backed farther away. “You are letting me go?”
    He lifted his right hand, the one missing a finger. “My hand is attached to my arm still, thanks to a brave little girl named Rhonwen. So this once I will let you go.