In the Shadow of Midnight - By Marsha Canham Page 0,13
any time, day or night, and is perforce the only witness to any … accident … that may or may not have befallen that same prisoner …” Lord Rhys paused and let his eyes rove downward to where the firelight was gilding the outline of firm, round breasts. “Would it not give meaning to the king’s sudden gesture of magnanimity? Surely he could have realized far greater profits by selling your hand to the highest bidder.”
In the pensive hush that followed, Ariel felt herself drawn into the Welshman’s eyes—eyes that were not black, as she had first supposed, but so deep and dark a brown as to be easily mistaken. They were dangerous eyes, gleaming with secrets that did not offer too close a scrutiny. The nose dividing them was a straight slash of authority that had somehow escaped the usual damage and breakage of the long years of a misspent youth. The mouth beneath was full and generous, confident of its own sensuality and given to frequent smirks of insolence. His age? Ariel guessed him to be nearing the end of his third decade, although, if he were to scrape away the lush black growth of elflock curls on his jaw, he could scrape away as many as four or five years from that guess … or add as many again by virtue of exposure.
His brother, on the other hand, was not much older than herself—twenty, perhaps—with large, expressive eyes that gave him the look of an earnest-faced puppy. No doubt he had cultivated his beard in an attempt to add substance to otherwise tender features, although to Ariel’s mind, it only made him look like a wilder puppy.
“Are you implying, sirrah,” she asked slowly, taking careful measure of the closed expression on Lord Rhys’s face, “that De Braose was in some way responsible for Prince Arthur’s death?”
“His death has not yet been confirmed,” Rhys replied, treading with equal care into the lure of the emerald green eyes. “His disappearance, however, would seem to match the gaoler’s unexpected turn of good fortune at having his lands around Radnor returned to him.”
Ariel felt the skin begin to constrict in waves along her spine. He was right. The coincidence was too obvious to dismiss out of hand.
“Oh, the poor, poor prince,” Lady Isabella said, sinking weakly onto a chair, “if such was indeed his fate. And it is no secret the king rewards his assassins with great prizes.”
“It is even less of a secret,” Henry said bluntly, “that our valiant king demands hostages from those he suspects of plotting against him. Hostages in the form of brides and grooms wed into households of his choosing.”
“Plot against him?” Isabella whispered. “But my William made him king. When Richard died and the crown could have gone to Geoffrey’s son—”
“Should have gone to Geoffrey’s son,” Lord Rhys interjected quietly.
“My lord husband swayed the barons’ vote in support of John over Arthur,” the countess concluded. “He has no reason to suspect William of treachery.”
“The king has a notoriously short memory,” Henry said dryly. “And a distinct distrust of men who hold more wealth, command more respect, wield more influence than he does. Lackland would plot to have the lord marshal discredited outright if not for fear of turning the entire barony of England against him in open rebellion.”
“The whole world could rise against him in open rebellion,” Ariel cried, flinging her arms wide in exasperation, “and it would be too late to save me from this wretched writ he has imposed upon me!”
She paced a quick, hot path to and fro the length of the hearth. Her skirt dragged the surface of the stone floor, collecting and discarding bits of rushes and dust as she walked, brushing Lord Rhys ap Iorwerth’s booted foot each time she passed. She had not taken the time nor trouble to braid her hair upon returning to Pembroke Castle and the firelight was playing havoc with the foaming red curls, shooting them with threads of gold and amber and bright russet.
Dark Welsh eyes followed her every movement, speculative eyes that roved with increasing interest over curves and angles, noting a firmness here, a softness there. He was growing rock hard himself, and it was a true test of mettle to look away and try to concentrate on what Henry de Clare was saying.
“We have a little time, at least. We have preceded the messenger by a day or two, for he comes by way of Kidwelly and Carmarthen, where he