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.
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
