Chapter 7 #3
“Jesus.” He rubbed his hand over his face like a man chasing a nightmare. “I’m so sorry, I should have been there, I should have been the one to stop him, I’m—”
“It’s all right.”
But Alexander heartily disagreed. None of what had happened that afternoon was all right, not in any way. He had sensed something was wrong from the moment the old man had ran up to them, but, like a fool, he had not done what he should have and acted on his instinct. And here was the result.
Gwenllian had almost been raped.
Compared to that, the fact that he could have died from the blow he’d suffered barely registered.
He drew her into his arms, wanting to assure himself that she was whole and safe. She seemed to be telling the truth about having stopped the man, at least. Her gown was intact, and he could see no signs of violence on her person, thank God.
“You’re a fierce woman, you know that, Buttercup?
” he murmured against her temple, grateful beyond belief for her courage.
How would he have borne to hear that she’d been raped through his lack of vigilance?
He’d saved her from that fate once, but this time, if anything had happened, it would have been his fault.
“I don’t think I am that fierce,” she said against the skin of his neck. “Only I knew I didn’t want to be raped.”
Lord. Of course. He drew away to look at her, wanting to assure himself once more that she was unscathed.
Alexander wasn’t sure who moved first. All he knew was that, before he realized what was happening, his lips met Gwenllian’s and everything within him dissolved.
That kiss, motivated by complex emotions he wasn’t sure he could identify, was like none he had ever shared.
It was like an absolution, a promise, a proof of his desire all at once.
Her taste was sweet, her touch tentative, but the heat of her tongue and the willingness with which she was pressing herself into his arms overwhelmed his senses in an unprecedented way.
Before today, he had liked kissing. Today, it was not a question of liking it. It was a question of being.
Of allowing everything to make sense.
They drew away, panting. He braced himself for the inevitable regret, or word of apology that would follow. It never came. Instead, Gwenllian gave a little smile.
“Thank you,” she murmured. “I needed that.”
“Yes, so did I.”
He’d needed to feel that she still trusted him to protect her, did not resent him for being too stupid to see to her safety, needed to see that she was not afraid of him as a man after what had happened. She wasn’t afraid or resentful, their kiss had made that clear.
He offered his arm and led her back to the river, the horses and the old man who had sat on the ground and was staring in the distance, looking lost. When he saw them, he started mumbling.
“He hit him, Isobel. Our son, he hit this man with a branch for no reason.”
“I know,” Gwenllian told him gently, placing a hand on his arm. She talked to him with as much ease as if they had known each other all their lives. “But he’s all right. Look. He’s fine now.”
Yes, Alexander thought, he was fine, for the most part. There was an egg-sized lump at the base of his skull, but it could have been much worse. Hatred for the man’s son flared anew in his gut. They had to go, before he let it consume him. He looked at Starburst, who was grazing by Buttercup.
“Let’s ride before I change my mind about what to do to the bastard lying over there,” he mumbled to himself.
He made for the horses, and Gwenllian hurried after him. But instead of reaching for the mare, she placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Please, we cannot leave the poor man here to be used by his son again when another woman who looks like his dead wife crosses their path,” she whispered, turning her back to the old man, who had not moved from his place by the river and was still staring off into the distance.
“It’s not his fault that he’s confused and miserable. ”
No, it wasn’t. Or was it? Had she considered the possibility that the two men worked together?
One pretended to recognize his wife, tugged at the woman’s heartstrings with a story of woe, and the other reaped his reward.
Alexander could see how it would work on unsuspecting women and the people accompanying them. It had almost worked, in fact.
“What tells you Old John is not complicit in the scheme?” he asked, more brusquely than he intended.
He wasn’t angry at her, but after everything that had happened, Alexander was ill-disposed to generosity.
He’d been hurt and humiliated. Worse, much worse, Gwenllian had almost been raped.
Thankfully, she had managed to fight off her attacker, but it had been too close for comfort.
He wasn’t sure anyone deserved a second chance.
“Alexander. Please. Look at him. Do you really believe he knows what his son meant to do?”
He sighed. There would be no gainsaying her.
And in truth, no, the man didn’t look like he was out to trick anyone.
He likely had no idea how his son exploited his grief and confusion.
But what could they do? He could not drag the man all the way to Scotland with them.
And riding back all the way to Audley now, only to lose a week and see Colin and his accursed mistress again, was unthinkable.
“Very well,” he said when he landed on the perfect solution.
“We’ll take him to the nearest town, just on the other side of the hill.
I know the tavern owner, having stopped there a few times on my travels.
For a modest sum, he will send his son to Audley with a message for my steward.
Master Simon will know what to do. I have no doubt he will find Old John a place to stay somewhere in the village. ”
“Oh, thank you, that is perfect.”
She looked relieved, and even close to tears.
This reaction confounded him. The man was nothing to her, and his son had just attacked her.
Why was she so determined to help him? Because she was a much better person than he was, that was why.
He would have ridden away without a backward glance and left the old man to his own devices, but now that Gwenllian had made him do something to help, Alexander felt chastised.
As a man of honor and a knight, sworn to protect those weaker than him, he should have thought of providing the man with a better situation than his current one.
She was right. John was powerless, and it was not his fault that his son was a bastard taking advantage of the unfortunate situation.
With a nod, he walked back to the river, determined to set things right.
“You’re coming with us,” he told the man, lifting him by the elbow. “Can you ride?”
The man scoffed, and his eyes suddenly cleared, as if he’d been recalled back to the present. In just a few heartbeats, he seemed like a different person.
“I was riding before you took your first step, young man.”
Young man. This told Alexander with certainty that the man was not playing any games. He really had lost his grip on reality. No man in his right mind would have dared address him thus when he was so obviously his superior.
“Well, then,” he said, leading him back to the horses. “You will ride Buttercup, and I will take Lady Gwenllian on Starburst with me.”
Would Old John ask who this “Lady Gwenllian” was, since he took her for Isobel?
No, to Alexander’s relief, his attention seemed now wholly focused on the destrier.
This was an animal the likes of which a villager would not have seen often.
And indeed, from the way he vaulted on top of the animal, it was clear that the man knew his way around horses.
He would be able to follow without mishap.
That was something less to worry about, at least, Alexander mused. Because as soon as Gwenllian sat in front of him, he understood that this ride would try his control to the limit.
“Let’s go,” he said, doing his best to hide his turmoil. “I’d like to reach the tavern before nightfall.”