In the Shadow of Midnight - By Marsha Canham Page 0,16
herself, but she did it, keeping her face straight and her voice steady all the while.
“An alliance between our two families would not be entirely without advantages.” “An alliance, my lady?”
“Yes. A … a matrimonial alliance. Assuming the proper candidate could be found, of course.”
“Of course. Would I do?”
Ariel blinked. “You?”
“Assuming I was interested, of course.”
“Of course,” she murmured. “Well—” Her composure suffered a small stumble and she lowered her lashes in an attempt to appear modestly embarrassed. “Naturally, my uncle would have to sanction any proposed union, but … if he could be convinced it was not entirely to my disliking …”
Lord Rhys’s pulse beat visibly in his temples. He was no fool and knew it was only a ploy to buy time, but by God’s teeth, the idea was not without enough appeal to send a shiver of awe down his spine. He had raged at Llywellyn a full week before grudgingly bowing to the command to present himself at Pembroke Castle, there to grovel in mock vassalage while the self-declared Prince of Gwynedd feasted on the roasted spoils of his labour. Returning to the forests of Deheubarth with the lion’s niece bound to his loins, willingly or not, would more than make up for the humiliation. He would not only be able to thumb his nose at his lordly brother—who had been trying for years to win the marshal’s favour—but quite possibly be in a stronger position to challenge Llywellyn for control of all of Snowdonia.
His dark, gleaming eyes studied the lowered sweep of Ariel’s lashes a moment longer, not yet trusting his voice to conceal his excitement. While it was barely conceivable that William the Marshal would sanction a union between the House of Pembroke and the Dark Prince of Gwynedd, it was equally doubtful he would agree to bind his favorite niece to the loins of a common gaoler’s son. The proposed union was itself an outright slap in the face for the ld warrior—an insult to his integrity and popularity with the people. If he was presented with a viable alternative, however farfetched, but delivered with honour and sincerity—not to mention a promise of extended peace along the Welsh Marches—by God … he might just take it.
He might just take it!
Rhys’s gaze slid past Ariel’s shoulder. Lord Henry de Clare’s handsome face was without expression save for the tension keeping the muscles in his jaw strained and jumping. It was plain to see he was fighting the urge to grab his sister by the shoulders and shake her until her teeth rattled. Both Rhys and Dafydd had acquired a healthy respect for the tawny-haired Norman as well as for the hulking shadow of Lord Sedrick of Grantham. The pair had ridden boldly and without escort into the heart of Gwynedd, and had ridden out again, their skins intact, their dust cloying the throats of the two Welsh princelings forced to follow like humblies in their wake.
A debt was owing there too, Rhys determined. A debt that could be avenged with the greatest pleasure each time the sister’s bared thighs spread beneath him. In the meantime, the De Clare scion would require careful handling. A hook, perhaps. Something of distinct benefit to himself that might make him regard the proposed union as being more than a bad jest.
His humour restored at the thought, Lord Rhys smiled again. “I certainly have no qualms about extending an invitation to the king’s man to be our guest for as long as you wish it. But would it not be easier to simply run the harbinger through and leave him for the sheriff’s men to find at some future date?”
“Benedicite,” Isabella groaned and covered her face with both hands.
“As my aunt has already made clear,” said Henry evenly, “we are not murderers, nor do we condone murderous acts.”
“We merely wish to have the delivery of the king’s writ delayed,” Ariel added.
“To what end?” Henry demanded, his patience with his sister’s madness drawing dangerously near an end. “The king will only send another and another. Suppose our uncle does not see any merit in this”—he wanted to say crackbrained scheme, but checked himself at the last instant—“this proposed union … and sees instead that he must obey or run the risk of defending a charge of treason? How do you explain this waylaid messenger then?”
Ariel squared her shoulders. “The king is at war with France. He is in jeopardy of losing control over Normandy. In his absence, his child bride