Page 8 of A Savior for Branwen (The Welsh Rebels #2)

Chapter Seven

B ranwen woke up nose to nose with a man, something that had never happened in her life. Her hazy mind took a moment to remember who the man was and what he was doing in her bed. When it finally did, it was too late. The scream had already left her throat.

“What the?—”

Cursing, Matthew bolted to his feet and darted to the scabbard he’d placed on the table the previous evening. Before Branwen had time to recover from the shock of waking up in a man’s arms for the first time in her life, she was staring at a warrior ready to fight. Eyes ablaze, hair in disarray, sword drawn, he was magnificent.

He was also half naked—and hard.

Branwen swallowed. She knew men woke up in such a state, so this was likely not caused by their proximity during the night, but it did not seem to make much difference to the heat invading her body. Everything that was feminine within her seemed to respond to the proof of his virility. Dear God, but this man was making her feel things she’d always thought herself incapable of.

“Are you all right?” he asked, eyes glued to the door, as if he expected an enemy to burst in at any moment. “What did you hear? What’s happening?”

“Nothing, I’m sorry,” she croaked, trying to settle the beating of her heart, something made rather difficult by the sight in front of her. “Only, I saw you in my bed when I opened my eyes, and for a moment I thought … I didn’t know who you were. I panicked.”

He lowered his weapon and nodded, muscles relaxing. “I see. Of course. It is understandable.”

The sword was placed back in its sheath without comment. Only then did he seem to realize the sight he was presenting with his naked chest and his shaft tenting his braies. He coughed and turned around on the pretext of helping himself to some ale from the pitcher on the table. Branwen was grateful for the intention.

While he drank, she did her best to restore her composure. Her cheeks were burning and her throat was dry. After a while, she averted her eyes, because his back was no less alluring than his chest, if in a different way. Strong muscles bracketed his spine, tapering his trim waist to come kiss the perfect, tight buttocks hidden under his braies. The simple act of lifting the cup to his lips caused his bicep to bulge and her insides to melt in answer.

By all that was holy, how could such a man exist, never mind be in her home, half naked, after having spent the night in her bed? And how could she not lust after him? She had no idea. Perhaps she should simply stop fighting temptation and accept what was blossoming inside her. It felt good, soothing, like gentle rain falling over a scorched landscape, nothing spectacular, but still strong enough to be felt, and welcome. Could it be enough to restore life to it, make it whole again? She hadn’t felt alive for so long, or so it seemed, that she didn’t know.

In just a few days, Matthew Hunter had made her see that perhaps all hope was not lost. She might be able to heal one day, in the same way a burned landscape could become lush again.

“Could you …” she started, her voice reduced to a whisper. What did she want to ask? She wasn’t sure. “Could you pour me a cup as well, please?”

“Of course.”

Matthew handed a cup full of ale to Branwen, who refused to meet his eye when she accepted it.

Was she ashamed of having woken him up with a start, or as affected by their proximity as he was? Both explanations seemed possible. He’d never slept next to a woman before, so perhaps the experience was new for her as well. The scream that had split his ear upon waking up certainly seemed to suggest so. After what she had told him about her life, he doubted she held men in high esteem, and the ones who came to her certainly didn’t come to sleep, so it stood to reason she had never spent the night next to anyone.

Perhaps it had been for the best she’d awoken him so abruptly, for who knew what he would have done if he’d found himself with a sweet-smelling, warm, alluring woman next to him when his mind was still prey to the mists of sleep? It would have appeared like a dream. He might have reached out for her, his hand might have landed on her breast. He had only suckled her before, not caressed her, but he knew they would feel perfect in his hand, soft and pert at the same time. The pointy tip would have teased his palm and before he knew it, he would have squeezed and rubbed, before rolling her under him and?—

No! he chided himself. He could not think like that. His erection had finally gone down, he could not resurrect it now with such lewd thoughts. With his body under control, they might be able to have a sensible conversation. After what she had endured, what she was enduring still, Branwen was the last woman he could afford to frighten with the proof of his lust.

“Does your sister visit you often then?” he asked, seizing the first subject that came to mind.

“Yes, at least once a week. Her name is Eirwen,” she said almost shyly, as if she had not mentioned her sister to many people and wasn’t sure how to talk about her. He felt honored by this mark of trust and, to hide his emotion, decided to tease her.

“Ah. Eir wen . So ‘white’ something, but what? Coal? Pepper? You never know what goes through the mind of you Welsh people.”

To his relief, she laughed, easing some of the tension in the cottage. “No. As Welsh names go, hers is quite sensible. It means ‘white snow’.”

“Yes. Very sensible.” He pursed his lips. “As fancy, poetic names go, that is. We are still a far cry from Mary or Elizabeth, I would say.”

She made a dismissive gesture with her hand. “Yes, but my parents would never have given us such English names, in the same way that yours would not have called you Iorwerth or Maredudd.”

Matthew gave a mock shiver intended to relax her further. After the difficult conversation they’d had the day before, he didn’t want to leave her to mull over her dreadful past and the vile men populating it when he left, as he must soon. Connor would be waiting for him at Esgyrn Castle, wondering why he’d spent the night away from the place for the first time since they’d arrived.

But he knew he would have difficulty thinking about anything else for the days to come. Branwen’s confession had shaken him to his core. For now, though, he would behave as bravely as she was, and pretend her life was normal.

“Thank the Lord they didn’t call me that, for who’s ever heard of a man not able to pronounce his name properly?”

Branwen could not believe this conversation. Who would have thought dour Matthew Hunter could be so understanding and gentle? She had kept her story a secret, not only because she was ashamed, though she certainly was, but because she had not thought anyone could believe her. They would assume she was merely trying to justify her scandalous behavior and hide a lustful nature. But against all odds the forbidding Englishman had listened to her, been outraged on her behalf, and agreed to stay the night with her. Now, he was even making her laugh. It was perfect, and she wasn’t sure she wanted him to leave. Ever.

Pushing such thoughts out of her mind, she asked. “Your parents must have wanted the best for you, to give you such an easy name to pronounce.”

Branwen regretted the comment the moment the words passed her lips. She had meant it as a jest, but Matthew’s face, so open a moment ago, closed up. The topic of his parents was obviously a painful one. For a moment he didn’t say anything, instead helping himself to a second cup of ale.

“You must know I’m not Connor’s real brother?” he said eventually, running a hand through his hair.

Yes. Esyllt had told her as much a few months ago. “You’re his milk brother.”

“Aye, and a bastard.”

She flinched, as much at his harsh word as the bitterness in his voice. “I’m sorry,” she said inadequately.

“Don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault.”

No, it wasn’t, but she should have guessed it would be a sensitive topic. She of all people knew what dark secrets sometimes lurked in people’s pasts.

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

Damnation, where had that question come from? Her mind had really been addled by the proximity of his naked chest. She’d just seen that the topic of his parents was a sensitive one. Why would he want to share it, with her or anyone?

But to her surprise and relief, he joined her back on the pallet and started to talk.

“My mother, Rose, was a maid at Sheridan Manor. She birthed me the day before Connor was born, which was why she was chosen to feed him. Despite our difference in stations, the two of us grew up to be as close as real brothers can be.”

Yes. This Branwen knew as well. Her friend had made no secret of the bond between the two men, and the protectiveness of her brother-in-law toward her husband. She had seen the proof of it herself. Matthew would die for Connor without the least hesitation. “Esyllt told me as much.”

“When I was six, my mother died of a fever. I don’t know what would have happened to me if Connor had not made his parents raise me. Though I was only the bastard son of their maid, they fostered me as they would have the son of a noble family. I will always be grateful to them for the opportunity they gave me, for I never had any family who could have taken me in.”

“Your father …” Her voice trailed, but Matthew didn’t seem to take offense. Perhaps after what she had confided in him the day before, he thought no topic was too sensitive between them. It certainly felt that way.

“I have never known who my father was, only that he never married my mother or bothered to find out what had happened to her, or me. I would hate him if I knew who he was, but I don’t even have that luxury.” He clenched his jaw. “I often wish I could meet him just so I could plant my fist in his face.”

That had to be the saddest thing Branwen had ever heard, and she was no stranger to misery.

“I’m—” He stopped her by throwing her a glance that might have passed for amused had they been discussing something less serious. She almost smiled back. “Well, forgive me, I know none of this is my fault, but I am sorry all the same. It must be hard.”

He took her hand in his and gave it a comforting squeeze. “It is. Especially that I am under no illusions. He was probably a visiting noble who thought he could use the servants to empty his aching balls whenever the need?—”

Matthew stopped and stared at Branwen in horror. How could he have said something like that? How could he have been so crude when he knew dozens of men had used her for precisely that purpose, when she was in constant danger of ending up like his mother, raising a bastard child imposed on her? Never had he felt worse in his life.

“I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I’m a fool, I don’t know why I said that,” he said, lifting the hand he was still holding and kissing each of her fingers in turn. How could he make amends for his thoughtlessness?

“You said it because it’s true,” she whispered, as if taken aback by the gesture. Nevertheless, she didn’t take her hand away, for which he was grateful. Holding her felt good. “We both know there are too many men like this.”

Yes, they did, but the difference was, she had learned it the hard way and suffered every day because of it. He should never have said anything that would remind her of her ordeal.

“Is that why you don’t bed women, why you don’t want to father illegitimate children?”

The question was blunt, and stirred painful emotions within him, but he welcomed it because it meant that she had by some miracle forgiven him for his awful lapse in judgment. Though he wasn’t sure he deserved her generosity, he was comforted by the notion.

“Yes, that’s why I was a virgin, why I was determined not to bed a woman until I married.” He had told her the day before he didn’t want to be responsible for a little boy or girl growing up without a father, but not the reason why. Now was the time. “I wanted to be sure my children were legitimate, and grew up with their father. I was tempted, of course, many times, but every time I wanted to allow my urges to take over, I could not. Everything within me froze and I could not go through with it. A man cannot perform if his body doesn’t cooperate.”

She reddened, no doubt remembering that it had not happened like that between them. She had taken the initiative, before he could think the better of it, and had not given him much choice. True, as he’d said, he could have lifted her off his lap, but by then it had been too late. His body, so often unresponsive when in a woman’s arms, had betrayed him. It had done more than cooperate, it had leapt at the chance to take what it had craved all these years.

“I’m sorry I?—”

“I’m not sorry you did. I told you. I would have burst if you had not taken me.” Though he didn’t say it, he was honored she would have wanted to take him in the first place. To know that she had trusted him enough to want to see how it would feel to take a man for once, as opposed to being taken against her will.

“If it eases your mind, you can be assured our encounter will not bear fruit,” Branwen said shyly.

Yes, it should ease his mind, but oddly it brought a lump to his chest. “You mean that you’ve bled since?” It had only been a few days, but it was possible she already knew she was not with child.

“No, not yet.” The color on her cheeks reached alarming proportions, discussing such intimate details.

“Then how can you be sure?”

“I visit a healer regularly, and take herbs that prevent conception. I can’t afford not to. The risk of falling with child is too great, considering …” Yes. Considering she was bedded by every randy goat that crossed her path. He bunched his fists, remembering how he had accused her of being in a position to have a child fathered by a man whose identity she wouldn’t know. He swore never to speak like this to a woman ever again. “As much as I love children and wish to have my own babes one day, just like you, I refuse to have one when I know I will not be able to offer them the safety of a family.”

He nodded. Of course she would take herbs. It made sense that she would do what she could to preserve what little choice she had. She could not stop the men from coming to her but she could ensure she did not bear their bastards. God on the cross, he wished he could geld each and every one of the ones who had dared place a hand on her.

“Is that why you don’t want to be around children?” he asked softly.

To think he had mocked her for it, when she was only trying to spare herself the pain of seeing what she thought she could never have.

“Yes. ’Tis just too painful, because I know this joy is not for me.”

The expression of sorrow on her face was a knife to the gut. Would there be no end to his shame?

“Please, Branwen. Though I know I do not deserve it, I ask for your forgiveness for what I said the day Esyllt gave birth. I behaved like the bastard I am. It was cruel and?—”

“You’re forgiven,” she cut in. “After all you’d heard and seen about me, you could not have thought any different. You had seen a man come out of my cottage, a man who’d told you … what I’d done to him.”

Yes, the blasted Englishman had boasted about using her talented mouth. “I should have throttled him for what he made you do.” If the man had the gall to come knocking at her door now, he would gut him before a word of protest could pass his lips.

“He didn’t make me, exactly. More often than not, I am the one who suggests it.” She flushed at the admission, as if fearing he would think it was through personal preference. He did not, because he knew none of this was her choice. “It’s less painful than to have men actually take me and it reduces the chances of conceiving. I cannot bear the idea of having a son who would grow up a bastard and never know who his father was.” She stared at him, knowing he would understand the pain that could cause. “Or a daughter who would only grow up to be used like I am.”

“Oh, sweet.” His heart broke, and he almost drew her into his arms. “This would never happen to a child of yours. You’re too strong. You would love your son as fiercely as my mother loved me, and you would protect your daughter like you protected Eirwen. And perhaps … perhaps one day there will be a man by your side to help take care of the children you secretly crave?”

“I think not.” She gave a sad smile, resigned to her fate. “For what man would have a child with me, when they could not be sure who the father was? When they knew I’d been possessed by dozens of men? When they thought a child of mine could end up like my sister, whom everyone here pities or mocks? That man would have to be a fool.”

I’m no fool , Matthew thought. And I would have a child with this woman .

He started. Where had that thought come from? He’d never considered having children, at least not until he was safely married and certain their legitimacy could not be put in question. At the back of his mind he knew he wanted children, just like any man, but because he didn’t feel ready to take a wife yet, he had not given the possibility any real thought.

Connor had on occasion introduced him to ladies of modest rank, hinting that a union between them would be acceptable to their fathers, who were of the opinion that his connection to the Hunter family was as valuable as any real title would have been. He was, for all intents and purposes, Lord Sheridan’s only brother, and that was worth something.

Matthew had always been uncomfortable with the idea of marrying one of those ladies, however, because say what he might, he did not belong to the same world as his nobly born brother, and he would never be at ease amongst people who would make him feel the difference between them in subtle and no-so-subtle ways.

He’d never dared tell Connor as much, because he didn’t want to appear ungrateful and his brother’s intentions were laudable. Instead, he’d always found real or imaginary faults with the women to justify his refusal to consider proposing to them.

To give him his due, Connor had stopped pushing for such a union since he’d married Esyllt more than a year ago. Perhaps he now thought that there could, and should, be more to marriage than mere convenience. Matthew was relieved, because he would never have been happy as the husband of a lady, even one of modest rank. He would always have felt at a disadvantage, not a comfortable position for a man. He wanted to be chosen on his own merit, not because he’d been lucky to be raised by a powerful lord.

His birth hadn’t been planned. His father hadn’t wanted him, his mother hadn’t chosen to have him. In all probability he had been imposed on her, and even if she had loved him, he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life feeling he had been imposed on anyone, much less his wife.

But with a simple villager who’d fallen for the man he was, not the lord’s brother, there would be no danger of this happening. He would not feel like a fraud. A simple villager like the one standing in front of him, a beautiful, brave woman who had made a man out of him.

Dear God, this was all turning into such a mess.

“My life is such a mess,” Branwen said, echoing his thoughts. “If I didn’t have Eirwen I often think I would …”

Matthew blinked when her voice trailed. What was she saying? Not what he was thinking, surely? She was not considering ending her own life?

“I forbid you to think like that, do you hear me? You are the bravest, most selfless woman I have ever met,” he said fiercely, taking her by the shoulders. “I will not have you?—”

A knock on the door interrupted him, quickly followed by a man’s voice, speaking in Welsh. He felt Branwen stiffen under his palms and she shook her head, indicating he should not respond, and pretend she was out. Yes. Good idea. He was not ready to put an end to the moment they were sharing either. When no one answered, the banging resumed, betraying the man’s impatience.

“Branwen, I know you’re in there.” Matthew could not be sure that was what the man had said, but it had to be something to that effect. A kick on the door was heard next, then what he imagined to be a curse.

He didn’t stop to think.

He sprang to his feet, sword at the ready. The bastard had to be one of those men who thought Branwen was only here to satisfy his needs. There was no other explanation. A friend, or even a simple visitor would not be trying to break down the door to see her. Well, he would regret choosing today of all days to come to her, and Matthew would enjoy unleashing the powerlessness he’d felt after hearing Branwen’s story. Much better to pummel a pathetic weasel to the ground than go mad with frustration.

Quick as a flash, he unbolted the door, and fell onto the unsuspecting intruder. He had the blade of his sword pressing against the side of his neck before the man had time to understand what was happening. His eyes widened with fear and Matthew could not resist nicking at the flesh, and letting the man feel his blood trickle down his neck. Serves him right for thinking he could barge in Branwen’s home at dawn, demanding to be serviced. Only the fact that she could see them prevented him from inflicting a much more gruesome injury, one that would ensure this sad excuse for a man could not bother any woman ever again.

“Whether Branwen is here or not is of no interest to you, do you hear, you bastard?” he growled, his nose a mere inch from the man’s temple. “Go and jerk yourself off in the forest if you need release. You will never touch a hair on her head ever again, or I guarantee it will be the last thing you do.”

It was obvious the man didn’t understand the English words. Nevertheless, he could not mistake the intent. He was to leave Branwen alone.

There was a garbled sound Matthew did not even try to interpret. He was too far gone in anger. Up until that day he would not have thought he was a vicious man, but he was starting to think differently. He wanted to see the man squirm and regret ever laying eyes on the woman he’d taken under his protection.

“Or perhaps I should see to your needs, see how you like that,” he purred, grabbing him by the crotch and giving a cruel squeeze. “Word of warning, I might not be as gentle as you wish.”

A word that he assumed to be a plea left the man’s lips.

“Wait, Matthew!” he heard Branwen cry from behind him. “It’s not what you think, he’s not one of the … He’s only the owner of the cottage.”

The owner of the cottage? This stopped Matthew in his tracks.

It seemed he’d been wrong and the man was not after sexual gratification. Still, the realization failed to make him regret his actions because there had been no mistaking the aggression in the man’s voice. He’d pounded at her door like a man possessed and would have forced his way into the hut had Matthew not stopped him. Whether he’d been here to bed Branwen or not, it was clear he could not be trusted not to hurt her.

Nevertheless, in view of what he’d been told, he had no choice but to release him. The man grunted in relief, and dabbed at his neck slowly. He whimpered when he found his hand wet with blood. Not sorry in the least, Matthew came to stand behind Branwen. With his bare chest and his hair in disarray, he guessed he would appear like her lover, fresh from her bed. Well, all the better to give him some legitimacy for defending her. If the Welshman thought the two of them were involved, he might think twice about bothering her. An Englishman in possession of a sword and a destrier was not someone to be dismissed lightly.

Before he could think, Matthew placed a hand on the small of Branwen’s back, the gesture signaling without doubt that she was under his protection.

“What does he want, then?” he growled. Damn it all, if only he could understand what was going on. Now that he lived here, he would really have to learn the people’s language. The alternative was dying of frustration.

“He’s come to collect what I owe him for this month but …”

She didn’t finish the sentence but there was no need. This month she didn’t have what she owed the man, whatever that was. It didn’t surprise him. Hadn’t he remarked the day before that she didn’t appear to have enough to live in comfort? It would have been extraordinary if she’d had anything to spare for anyone.

It was obvious from the look in the man’s eyes, however, that he was not too worried about Branwen’s lack of funds. In a moment he would offer her a way of acquitting herself of the debt in a manner that did not involve money. The blood in Matthew’s veins heated up again and the hand at the small of Branwen’s back snaked around her waist to draw her closer. The possessiveness of the gesture was not lost on the man, who took a step back, as if remembering this could end badly for him.

Yes, very wise.

Matthew turned to look at Branwen. “Tell him to take this, and not to come back to see you again before the beginning of next year,” he said, articulating each word carefully. “There should be enough in here to satisfy him until then at least.”

As he spoke, he extracted two gold coins from the purse he always carried at his belt and threw them to the Welshman who stared at them in stupefaction. In all probability, it was more money than he’d ever held in his life. Well, he was welcome to it. Matthew would have paid a king’s ransom to keep Branwen safe.

“No, you cannot!” she started to protest.

“I already have. This is not just for you. Connor will not countenance to have any of his tenants being harassed thus. He put me in charge of the smooth running of the estate. That’s what this money’s for.” He nodded to his purse, which still contained three times the amount he’d given the man. “Fret not, he will give me the money as soon as I get back to the castle.”

Of course, there was no such arrangement and his brother would not even hear about the sum he’d supposedly spent to ensure Branwen spent a year free of worry, but Matthew had to say something because he could tell she was uncomfortable with accepting charity. He didn’t like to put her ill at ease, and he wanted to preserve her pride as much as possible, but the priority was her safety and well-being. There was no way he could allow the man to have any excuse to demand her favors, today or ever.

The Welshman needed to be told in no uncertain terms he had better not bother her ever again. If she surrendered once, he would only be back for more. The idea was unbearable.

When she hesitated, he added, “Tell him that you are now under the protection of Lord Sheridan, as is everyone in the village.” And mine. He didn’t add the words but he hoped she could see them in his eyes. “Make sure he gets it into his thick head that if he has any grievances, he should bring them to him.”

Her voice trembling, Branwen translated his words to the man, who shook his head vehemently, as if to say he didn’t have any complaints. Matthew was not so easily appeased by this apparent surrender. The bastard had definitely hoped for an opportunity to abuse his power. What would have happened if Branwen had not asked him to spend the night in her cottage didn’t bear thinking about.

“Thank you,” Branwen sounded so relieved he could not help but tighten his hold around her. “He says he will not be back before next spring.”

“Oh, but he will. He will be back before the end of the week to see to the hole at the back of the roof. If this really is his cottage, then it is his responsibility to see that it is in good repair.” The man would not get away with shirking his duty as easily.

Branwen’s lovely eyes went as round as coins, and almost as shiny. “You saw that?”

“Of course. It’s a disgrace. He had better get it fixed before I mention it to Lord Sheridan, who will not be as lenient as I am.”

As soon as she had translated his words, he dragged the dishonorable owner to the back of the hut, and pointed at the damaged roof menacingly. The man nodded so much Matthew feared his neck might break under the strain.

“ Diolch .”

Though he was loath to thank the man for promising to do something that should have been done weeks ago, it was a way of ending the conversation and making him understand he assumed the repairs would be done without further intervention on his part. For good measure, Matthew planted his sword into the ground, the message clear. As long as the man held his end of the bargain, he would be safe.

After one last word to Branwen, the man left.

“He said he would be back in two days’ time.”

“Good.” He stayed in front of her a long time, then shivered when he remembered he was still bare-chested. Up until then, too enraged by the man’s attitude, he had not felt the cold. “I think I will go and get dressed now. I don’t want to end up as the next English skeleton in a ditch when I perish from cold.”

Branwen’s lips quivered, making it impossible for him not to think about kissing her. He ran back inside the cottage to find his undershirt and tunic before he could do that.

As soon as Matthew had disappeared from view, Branwen collapsed on the bench behind her.

Thank God he’d been there.

Daffydd had been about to demand she service him to compensate for her inability to pay what she owed him; she had seen the intention in his eyes. She had seen that look too many times to doubt it. The mere idea had sent her stomach roiling. Had Matthew not intervened, she would have found herself in an impossible situation, because there was no way she would have agreed to lie with him. It would only have made him think that from now on he could use her as his whore, as well as collect the rent she owed him.

Now she was safe from Daffydd’s advances, and guaranteed to keep a home for almost a year. Though she wasn’t sure she believed the story of Connor being the one behind this generosity, she had been too weak to refuse Matthew’s help. What alternative did she have?

He reappeared a moment later, splendid with his velvet tunic and scabbard around his trim waist. The difference in status between them struck her anew. Here was a knight in all his splendor, not a poor villager. Because she had been friends with Esyllt all her life, and used to going to Castell Esgyrn, she had never thought twice of being in the presence of noble people. But with him … Or perhaps it had nothing to do with his clothes, and more to do with his attitude toward her, or the fact that she had confided in him, or that they had kissed, and made love.

Everything was different with him.

“I’ll be going now. Connor will be wondering where I am.” He glanced in the direction of Esgyrn Castle. “Will you be all right on your own?”

A lump rose in her throat, because suddenly she wasn’t sure she was ready to see him go. “I have lived alone for years,” she forced herself to answer.

“Yes.” And they both knew what kind of life she’d had. He didn’t need to say more.

“Thank you, Matthew. For … everything.”

For listening to me, for not judging, for staying with me last night, for defending me against Daffydd, for forgiving what I did to you, when I took your virginity.

The list was endless.

Matthew moved. At first Branwen thought he was going to go to the stallion waiting for him, but he stopped in front of her instead and drew her to him. For a moment it looked as if he was about to kiss her. He was cradling the back of her neck in his palms, with his thumbs resting on her cheeks. There was so much tenderness in the gesture that she felt tears spring to her eyes. What was he doing to her? Wasn’t he supposed to be scathing, detached, arrogant, forbidding, cruel—anything but understanding and kind?

“Thank you for trusting me with your story,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “And I am sorry for having been such a blind idiot. I should have seen something was not right.”

“It’s not your fault. Considering what you heard about me and what you saw, you couldn’t have?—”

“I could. But it won’t happen again. I promise.”

She could only nod and he finally released her. Without a word he walked over to his stallion, who’d spent the night tethered to the old beech. She watched while he got him ready with swift, efficient gestures. There was something preying on her mind, but she wasn’t sure how to broach the topic. Once he’d tightened the girth on the saddle, she found the courage to speak out.

“There is something I would ask before you leave.”

He turned to face her, eyes ablaze. “Of course. Anything.”

“What did you mean that day by the lake when you asked me who had sent me to you?”

She had tried to puzzle it out since then, without coming up with a satisfactory explanation. Now was as good a time as any to ask him. To her surprise, he shuffled on his feet, and lowered his gaze to the ground. If she’d not known him for a confident, powerful knight, she would have thought he was embarrassed. Eventually, he answered, his voice low.

“I feared when I first met you that you had been sent to me by a Welsh rebel.”

Branwen received the full impact of the insult like a blow to the chest. “You mean … someone like Gruffydd? You thought I’d kissed you because I was trying to lure you in, bring you to a man who wanted you dead because you’re English?”

The look on his face was enough to tell her that yes, he had thought that. Branwen was both horrified and outraged and she didn’t try to hide it. He’d thought her in league with a murderer, thought her capable of sending a man to his death.

It was unbearable.

“I’m sorry. But after what had happened to Connor, I had to be careful. I couldn’t understand why you’d acted the way you did. Kissing me, making love to me without me even trying to seduce you. It made no sense to me. We were strangers and we were supposed to be enemies.” He took her hands in his, his face a mask of contrition. “Now that I know you, and your story, I am sorrier than I can say for doubting your motives. I know you could never have done anything like that. Only, I couldn’t understand why you would want to be with an Englishman you didn’t know. It was the only explanation I could think of. I’m a suspicious man by nature and had to guard myself and my family by necessity.”

Her fury dissipated as quickly as it had come, because she could see it hadn’t been personal. As he’d said, only a few months ago his brother had been the victim of a similar plot, and had been captured because his wife had been the one helping the rebels. Esyllt had been blackmailed, of course, but it went to show that women could all too easily be used as tools to get to the despised invaders. Why would she not be one such woman? Matthew would have been a fool to trust an unknown Welsh woman throwing herself at him.

“And now, what do you think?” Though she thought she already knew the answer, she needed to hear it from his lips.

“Now I understand that I am the luckiest man in all the world. The only man you have ever wanted and whom you trusted with your story. Now I know I have nothing to fear from you and your motives were pure as snow. Or whatever other dark substance you mad Welsh people would consider pure.”

Tears welled in Branwen’s eyes at the same time as laughter burst through her lips. The silly man! How dare he mock her in that moment. Would she ever meet another man like him? Perhaps. Would she want him as much as she wanted this one? It was doubtful.

Matthew lifted the hands he was still holding and kissed them gently.

“Will you forgive me, Raven, for thinking the worst of you?”

“You didn’t. And you don’t need my forgiveness for being cautious.”

It was her turn to lift his hands to her lips and place a kiss on each. She watched as his eyes darkened and she realized she didn’t want him to leave. Dare she ask him to stay another night?

Before she could say anything, he took a step back.

“I will be back three days hence to see if the roof has been repaired,” he said, before vaulting on top of his stallion.

Branwen nodded again, a small smile tugging at her lips despite her wretchedness. Heaven help Daffydd if he didn’t keep his promise.

Matthew stormed to the barbican, his mood as black as it had ever been. On the ride back to Esgyrn Castle he had played his conversation with Branwen again and again in his mind, in every painful detail, and he was now itching for a fight. He hadn’t been able to use the cottage owner to ease his frustration, but the two men guarding the gate might provide a satisfactory outlet for his anger, because he had not forgotten a word of their exchange either.

“My lo?—”

“How many times did she come?” he growled, backing them both into a corner. He felt like a savage dog about to rip a coney to pieces.

“I b-beg your p-pardon?” Owen stammered, looking at his friend with wild eyes. They clearly both feared they would end up with his sword through the gut, an all too likely possibility at the moment, Matthew had to admit. He was in a rare state.

“Branwen, the Welsh girl you told me about the other day. The one you took turns with.” Christ almighty, imagining Branwen alone with the two of them was enough to make him want to retch. “You said you labored over her all night, so how many times did she come? Five? Ten times?”

“Well …” The men looked at one another uncertainly.

“How many times?” he snarled, placing himself in front of them. “Think. Did she moan? Did she say anything?”

He remembered their vile boasting.

Did she utter a word of protest?

No, he now knew she wouldn’t have, and why. She hadn’t protested, wary of what the two burly men would do if she refused them when they were aroused. Facing one man’s retribution was daunting enough for a slight woman, two was inconceivable. So she had waited for it to be over, praying to get out of the ordeal unscathed, just as she did every time. It had been as it always was. Owen and Thomas had come to her, drawn by her reputation of willingness, and she had been too petrified to say anything, too desperate not to provoke their ire to offer any resistance. Dear God, the notion of all she’d had to endure was unbearable.

The two friends looked at one another as if realizing only now that her behavior had been odd. Too aroused to think overmuch or see the clues, they had genuinely thought her a willing participant, he could tell.

Well, he would make sure they were left in no doubt about what had really happened.

“Who initiated it? You said she didn’t say no. But did you go to her or did she come to you?”

“We did,” Thomas admitted slowly. “Edgar had told us she’d ridden him like a wild thing the week before, so we thought we’d try our luck as well. What harm could it do? And just like we’d hoped, she didn’t refuse.”

It was all clear as crystal. Branwen was trapped in a hell of her own making. The more men she was unable to refuse, the more her reputation as a willing woman grew. Men were starting to flock to her, two by two. Where would it stop? This was becoming dangerous and he had to put an end to it immediately.

“Listen to me, and listen well,” he told the two guards, making sure to appear every inch Lord Sheridan’s powerful brother. “You are not to go to her ever again, and if she visits the castle, you are not to even look at her, do you hear me? You are not to mention her to anyone or spread the word about her supposed willingness.”

“Supposed!” Owen scoffed. “With all due respect, my lord, she was the one who knelt at Eric’s feet, and you should have seen the way she rode our?—”

“I care not what she did or how. You are not to even think about her ever again, in any manner whatsoever.”

He gritted his teeth because he knew exactly how she behaved with men. She had told him and he had seen it for himself. That day she’d ridden him like a woman on the edge of sanity, with a desperation verging on panic. There had been a distant look in her eyes, as if she had not really been there, but in another place, separate from her body … It was her way to remain sane, he now understood. As to her kneeling at men’s feet, it was no proof of willingness, it was just another protection strategy. She’d explained why she preferred not to be taken. Attack was the best form of defense. As a skilled swordsman, Matthew knew all about striking before your opponent had a chance to hurt you.

“She didn’t want to be taken, by you or anyone,” he told the men, wondering how much to reveal of Branwen’s past. It was not his decision to make. But he could impress on the men the importance of never behaving in such a way again, with her or any other woman. “She didn’t want to be hurt, so she thought it preferable to give you what you wanted before you took it by force.”

“By force!” At least the men appeared suitably horrified at the notion. “My lord, we would never have?—”

“No, I know.” At least he hoped so. The men Connor employed could not be such bastards. He trusted his brother to seek out reliable, honorable men to work for him, even if they did not always behave toward the womenfolk with finesse. “But from now on make sure you stay well clear from her, or any woman who does not give you her explicit agreement to be bedded, or you will have to answer to me for your actions. Am I clear?”

“Perfectly clear.”

There was nothing more to say. He stormed out of the barbican in search of the master of the hounds. Next, he had a pup to find.

“Will you be Gwenllian’s godmother?”

Branwen swallowed, looking at her friend. Could she accept? Only a few weeks ago she would have recoiled at the thought of being so close to a child, but oddly, admitting out loud to Matthew why she was wary of being in contact with babies had made it easier to bear being with the little girl. Or perhaps the fact that Gwenllian had been born in her house had created a bond between them. Whatever it was, for the first time she was considering accepting the request. She looked at the baby, asleep in her mother’s arms and her heart melted. Yes, perhaps she could agree to become her godmother.

Still, she was an odd choice, there was no denying it.

“Why me? You must have dozens more prestigious?—”

“There is no one better,” her friend interrupted. “Elena has already agreed, but I need a second godmother, and there is no one I would want in your stead. She was born in your house, and you and I have been friends since we could talk together. ’Tis only fitting. I wanted you to be Sian’s godmother, but Gruffydd objected, and convinced Gwyn we should choose someone he deemed more suitable. I am ashamed to say I did not fight the decision.”

Esyllt’s eyes, usually so full of warmth, became hard as ice, as they did every time the man was mentioned.

The Welsh lord, who’d been a friend of her late husband, had revealed his true, manipulative nature when he had forced her into a marriage with an Englishman, with the sole aim of disposing of him. Fortunately, he had happened to choose for her a man she loved and who loved her back, and he had failed in his attempt to kill him. He was still being pursued by Connor, who meant to make him pay for what he had made himself and his wife go through. Unfortunately, the wildness of the Welsh landscape made it all too possible for someone who wanted to vanish to do just that. It might be years before he was caught, if he ever was. Unfortunately, he might never be made to suffer for his villainy.

Just like Bryn, whose status protected him from retribution. Who would take the side of poor women against a powerful lord?

“I’m sorry. I know what you went through because of Gruffydd,” Branwen murmured, pushing the unpleasant thought out of her mind.

“And I know what you went through with that vile man, what you are still going through.” Her friend’s voice wavered. “You made me swear not to tell Connor about it. I honored your wishes, but it’s eating at me. Please say you have changed your mind and want the man brought to justice. He needs to be punished.”

“No. I can’t.”

A tense silence filled the room, then eased. The two friends had never been able to stay angry at one another for long.

“Say you will be Gwenllian’s godmother.” Esyllt placed a kiss on her daughter’s forehead as she pleaded. The gesture was so full of love that Branwen’s heart leapt. She knew then that she would accept.

“I would be honored. Who is the godfather?” she asked even though she had already guessed the answer. There was only one man Connor would want to stand as godfather to his first child with his beloved new wife.

His beloved, trustworthy brother.

Esyllt gave her a slanted look, confirming her suspicions. “Who do you think? I swear I’m not out to trick you. It’s only, as I said, that you are the most obvious choice and Matthew is as well. He never got to be Connor’s first children’s godfather because his late wife had numerous brothers and insisted on choosing one for each of their three girls. But we now have no one to please, and you’ve both been by our sides through it all and we love you dearly.”

Branwen fell into her friend’s arms, the baby’s warmth nestled between them.

“I love you too. And I thank you. I will be Gwenllian’s godmother.”

They remained locked in the embrace a moment. Then Esyllt gave her a watery smile. “Let us go tell Connor then. He will be very pleased.”

They found him by the east tower, deep in discussion with a group of guards. When they approached, his squire led the men away and only Matthew remained. Branwen could barely meet his eye. They hadn’t seen each other since the morning they had woken in the same bed. Fortunately, Connor’s pleasure at seeing his wife and child prevented the moment from being awkward.

“How is my girl today?” he asked, holding out his arms to the baby as eagerly as if he had not set eyes on her for weeks.

“She’s well,” Esyllt answered, handing him the little girl. “And she is soon to have the perfect godmother.”

Branwen blushed when Connor dazzled her with a smile. “Thank you for accepting. I know it means a lot to Esyllt.”

“It means a lot to me too.” It was a first step toward a new life, one where she could allow herself some joy.

She could not help stealing a glance at Matthew, who was part of this life. His eyes were warm with approval. Had he guessed what it meant to her to have agreed to let a child into her heart? Probably. He was a very perceptive man, and he now knew her story. They remained with their eyes locked a long moment, while the new parents decided on the best way to dress their daughter for her impending christening.

Heat started to invade Branwen. Men had looked at her in lust more times than she cared to remember, but never with such admiration. It was disconcerting, but it made her feel special, worthy. It was just like it had been the other day, when he’d asked her forgiveness for doubting her motives. Despite her past, he seemed honored to be her friend. Although … they weren’t friends exactly. So what were they?

More to the point, what could they be?

The baby started to fuss, providing a welcome distraction.

“Give me Gwenllian back,” Esyllt said with a sigh. “I guess she will be hungry again. After all, she’s only fed three times this morning.”

Her husband gave a throaty laugh and leaned in toward her. “I understand all too well her desire to be at your breast night and day, my love. Would that I could do the same. Only I wouldn’t stop at the suckling.”

Though he had spoken in a low voice, Branwen heard the heated declaration. She suspected her cheeks had gone the same crimson color as Esyllt’s, and Matthew’s smile only confirmed it. He’d heard his brother’s words as well, and he was enjoying her reaction.

Connor straightened up and cleared his throat, as if suddenly aware he was not alone with his wife.

“Why don’t you go sit in the sun over there? It’s a nice day, and God knows these are rare enough. You should make the most of it.”

“Yes, you’re right.”

Branwen followed her friend to the bench by the chapel and watched as she started to nurse her child as naturally as if she had been a simple villager. It was in moments like these that she understood how the two of them could be friends despite their difference in rank. Esyllt had never thought herself more important than anyone or above any task required of her. This had been remarkable enough when she’d been the local lord’s daughter. Now that she was Lady Sheridan, it was all the more astounding.

Even as he talked with Connor, Matthew watched the two women huddled together in the sunshine, one as fair as a spring day, one as mysterious as a dark night. He could only guess what Branwen would be thinking while her future goddaughter fed. Would she one day get her own babe to nurse thus? He certainly hoped so, for he didn’t doubt she would make the most loving, the most protective mother. Hadn’t she proved it time and time again? With Eirwen? With Elena?

“Lord Sheridan?”

Matthew started. Lost to his contemplation of the women, he hadn’t seen that a short, thin man wearing a cassock had stopped in front of them. The man was obviously wondering which of them was the lord of the manor. Connor straightened up, used to having strangers hesitate between the two of them.

“Good afternoon, Father. I’m Lord Sheridan. How can I be of service?”

“I’m Father Paul, the new priest in town. I thought it was time I introduced myself to the local lords who haven’t come to me yet. I’ve been in post for a month already.”

Matthew gave the man an assessing glance. Though he appeared to be quite young, his hair had already started to recede along his temples. That and the fact that he seemed imbued of his self-importance gave the effect of a man twice his age. He’d not lost time in suggesting that Connor should have been the one going to him, rather than the other way around. There was also an obsequious air about him, as if trying to ingratiate himself in noblemen’s good graces had become as natural as breathing to him. The way Connor had stiffened seemed to suggest he shared this assessment. His brother had never liked people who pandered to him just because he was noble, and ignored others around them. The man had not even looked in Matthew’s direction once, evidently thinking him of no importance compared to the lord of the manor.

“I was sent here by the king himself,” he continued, oblivious to their reaction. “He thought it expedient to ensure his subjects stationed here to protect his domains had access to a clergyman speaking their language and sharing their feelings at having been sent to a hostile land, and I can only agree with him. It didn’t take me long to see that the Welsh are every bit as uncivilized as they are portrayed.”

Unsurprisingly, this speech did little to endear himself to Connor, who was married and deeply in love with one of those supposed barbarians. Matthew, who had admittedly at first thought the land inhospitable and the people somewhat rough, was astounded to hear the man express such an uncompromising opinion in front of strangers.

“I see. If such is your opinion, I can imagine you are eager to meet my neighbors. What with them being lords and ladies in their own right, you should find them to be more refined than the villagers you’ve seen since your arrival. Or is it all Welsh people you despise?”

Matthew worked hard at containing his smile. Connor was mocking the priest, but the man missed the sarcasm.

“I’m afraid I cannot imagine how their rank will make any difference. The men are a violent lot and the women shamelessly debauched.” As he spoke, he nodded to the bench where Esyllt was restoring order to her dress while Branwen held little Gwenllian tenderly against her chest.

Matthew’s blood boiled. Admittedly, Esyllt’s shoulder was bare at the moment but only the worst kind of bigot could have ascribed a lewd intention to the scene. She’d been feeding her child, for Christ’s sake, not exposing herself to the men around! His dislike for the man crystallised into something like hatred, and there was no prize in guessing what Connor would be thinking.

He rounded on the priest, all pretense at politeness or sarcasm abandoned.

“That is my wife, Esyllt, you’re talking about,” he warned. “I do hope you’re not suggesting she is a promiscuous wanton for doing nothing more than feed our daughter—in other words, doing the most natural and beautiful thing in the world. I might as well tell you that I will not take too kindly to anyone casting aspersions on her character.”

The ice in his voice matched the frost in his eyes. For all his pleasant manners, his brother had a temper on him, and nothing was guaranteed to rouse it faster than slurs against his wife. Had Father Paul been a knight rather than a priest, he might well this moment be pinned to the wall with a sword at his throat.

“No, my lord, of course not,” the priest hastily assured him. “It was not my intention to speak ill of Lady Sheridan, as you can imagine. I meant the other one, the one next to her, the villager with the black hair. You wouldn’t know of course, but I’m afraid she is not suitable company for your lady wife. You see, I know for a fact she?—”

“Branwen is my wife’s dearest friend. I will not have anyone call her unsuitable.”

“You might if you knew what depravity she is?—”

“The matter is closed.” This was Connor at his most commanding and there was nothing Father Paul could do. “Matthew, please escort the good priest back to the gate. I’m afraid I have no time to see him now. I was on my way to see Father Rhisiart to make arrangements regarding Gwenllian’s christening.”

The blow had the desired effect on the priest. “The christening! You’re not seriously considering having a Welsh?—”

“No. I’m not considering it. It’s already been decided. My daughter is half Welsh, her godmother, Branwen, and my beloved wife are Welsh, we live here at Castell Esgyrn. Gwenllian will be christened by our Welsh priest. Father Rhisiart is a good man, not prone to spreading slander, which is more than I can say about others.”

With those words he walked over to the bench where the two women were watching him with quizzical looks. Even from where they were, they would have picked up on the tense atmosphere. Matthew could not blame them. He was bristling with rage and it undoubtedly showed.

Doing his best to behave normally while still in full view of them, he led the priest back to the barbican, as he’d been instructed.

As soon as they had passed the gate, he grabbed him by the collar, barely resisting the urge to slam him against the wall. Father Paul’s shock at such treatment was obvious, and even justified, but Matthew was past caring. He would not have anyone call Branwen a debauched, shameless barbarian in his presence and leave unchallenged.

“Listen to me, priest,” he growled in his ear. “There are only two ways you could know about Branwen’s supposed depravity.” Either he had heard in confession one or more of the Englishmen who had bedded her, or he had approached her himself, in search of forbidden pleasures. Clergymen breaking their vow of chastity was not unheard of, and Father Paul had struck him as a weasel from the start. He wouldn’t put it past him to try and abuse his power in that manner, especially with people he thought so lowly of. “The first one makes you a gullible bigot, the second one a lecherous bastard. One will earn you my contempt, the other, my fist down your throat. Which is it?”

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking a?—”

“How do you know about Branwen?” he cut in, not in the least interested in his protests. “You only arrived a month ago, and yet you seem awfully familiar with her alleged wantonness. So what have you done to her?” The mere idea of this man forcing himself on Branwen was enough to make his skin crawl.

“Done to her? Nothing, I swear! Me, have carnal knowledge of a creature of Eve?” The man shuddered. “I would never sully myself thus.”

His outrage was not feigned. He was truly repulsed at the notion of lying with a “creature of Eve,” whatever that was.

Matthew released him. If the priest had not gone to Branwen himself, that meant he had heard about her from the English soldiers stationed in town. The despicable men would have gone to him to be absolved of their sins, no doubt so that they could go find another woman and start all over again. His stomach roiled at such hypocrisy. Who were the depraved ones in that story? Certainly not Branwen.

“You heard about her during confession then. What lurid tales did your parishioners regale you with?” Considering what he knew, he could imagine all too well. The whole thing was sickening.

“I cannot tell you what I heard. I’m bound to secrecy, as you must know. The confession is sacred.”

Yes, so sacred that the pompous fool had used the knowledge he’d gained that way to warn Connor about Branwen’s unsuitability.

“But how many of your precious countrymen told you the truth, I wonder? How many admitted to you that they had in fact raped her?” he hissed. “Let me guess, they didn’t. They merely said they needed forgiveness for having been lured into sin by a Welsh temptress.”

“They stood no chance, that much is certain.” Now that Matthew was not holding him any longer, some of the priest’s inflated confidence had returned. “The woman is a Jezebel, capable of every act you can?—”

“She is as much a Jezebel as you are a saint,” Matthew spat. “And I am telling you she never wanted any part in it. Unlike you, I know her, you see.”

“No need to ask how.”

Was the man determined to get hurt? Matthew glared at him and took a step back, not sure he would resist the temptation to hit him if they carried on this conversation. But he would not create problems for Connor, who had managed to keep his own temper on a leash.

“Go, before I show you it is not the Welsh you should worry about, but me.”