In the Shadow of Midnight - By Marsha Canham Page 0,15
indolent and watchful Lord Rhys ap lorwerth, Dark Prince of Gwynedd.
As much as she despised who he was and where he came from, there was no denying he was a man who would not stand on convention to get what he wanted. She could believe he had wanted one hundred of Pembroke’s prime cattle and had taken them without a care to the consequences. His princely brother had commanded him here to make humble amends for the deed, but it would be done, she suspected, with his tongue firmly thrust into his cheek.
It made her wonder what else he would do if the mood … or the incentive … suited him.
“How much have you come to offer my aunt in reparation for the cattle your tribesmen stole?” she asked bluntly.
Lord Rhys, standing with a shoulder leaned casually against the stone mantel, examined the splayed fingers of one hand with exaggerated interest.
“I know nothing of any stolen cattle, my lady,” he mused. “There was some question of a discrepancy in numbers, and in a gesture of good will, my brother has sent me to offer—”
“Yes, yes, yes,” she said impatiently. “Penitent words and a handful of copper coins, no doubt; neither of which would equal the value of one hearty bovine.”
“Ariel!” The countess gasped.
“You have some other suggestion to make?” Lord Rhys asked blithely. “Some other method of repairing any damage this sorry misunderstanding might have caused?”
Isabella started to protest again, but Ariel’s habit of voicing a thought the same time it sprang into her mind cut her aunt short.
“My lord,” Ariel said, her eyes leaf-green and sparkling with conspiracy as she addressed the tall Welsh prince. “You have seen this messenger and you know what he looks like? What road he is likely to travel?”
Lord Rhys nodded, vastly amused by the wench’s audacity. More than that, he was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate on what she was saying when all he could think about was the way those sweetly shaped lips would feel beneath his. She was a magnificent beauty: high-spirited, hot-tempered, yet as supple and silken as fresh, warm cream. It was no great stretch to envision her naked on a bed of dark furs, or to imagine the heat of her body wrapped fiercely around his. So strong was the picture he formed, so real and so exciting, he felt fine beads of moisture forming across his upper lip.
“Would it not be child’s play,” she was asking, “for a man of your considerable … talents … to waylay this rogue and carry him north into your own lands, there to hold him as your, ah, guest … until such time as a suitable ransom could be squeezed from the king for his safe return? Is that not a common method employed by your kinsmen to prick the royal temperament? Common enough he would not suspect the deliberate selection of one courier over another?”
Lord Rhys returned her stare for a long moment, then slowly, slowly gave way to the smile that had been toying at the edges of his mouth. “Of more appeal is our fondness for stealing away heiresses the king has designated for his lackeys, and to marry them out from under the royal nose without a care for writs or charters.”
Ariel’s heart skipped a beat, but she stood her ground and submitted to the boldness of his gaze moving speculatively down the length of her body. She could sense movement beside her and knew that Henry was not reacting quite so calmly to the Welshman’s impertinence, but she managed to catch his eye and discourage him from displaying any errant gestures of protectiveness. She could handle this brigand herself.
“I do not believe my uncle would take too kindly to that particular solution to the problem. It could, in fact, lead to an unpleasant urge to retaliate.”
“The beauty of a deed that has been done is that it cannot be undone.”
Ariel’s skin began to burn, as if she was standing too close to the fire, but she suspected it was the heat of his eyes searing her, his lust blazing as bright and hot as any flame.
“By the same token, my lord … would you not prefer my uncle’s gratitude instead of his enmity?”
Rhys waited, curious despite himself, guessing what was about to come from between the vixen’s luscious lips, but never in his wildest imaginings believing he would hear it.
The objects of his focus required a liberal moistening before she could dare voice the absurdity