Rhyd Ddu, mountains of Eryri, Cymru — 1149
“Take it off, Ysbail.”
She stood her ground, shoulders back, gazing into her husband’s
black eyes, daring him to make her.
Their marriage was still fresh in her mind, as was the humiliating
bedding that followed. He had granted her some respect in the
task by ushering would-be witnesses from the chamber, but he
had done no more than that before laying her on the bed, lifting
her gown, and taking her most precious possession. While he
had apologized for what must be done, she still had not liked
it. His taking of her had been swift and every bit as horrible
as she had heard it would be.
Her father, Alun ap Wnffre of Ellesmere, had been the governor
and close friend of Madog ap Maredudd, Prince of Powys. Her
mother had died in childbirth, and Ysbail had barely been out
of swaddling when her father was killed fifteen years previously
during one of the frequent border wars. Madog had promised to
raise her until she was of marriageable age. With the rapidity
of the event, she felt Madog could not wait to be free from
his responsibility. So afraid she might bolt, he had waited
until her arrival in Oswestry from her home at Ellesmere to
tell her of her betrothal.
He was right to worry, for she was to marry Bedwyr ap Owain,
one of King Owain Gwynedd’s bastard sons, and his most
notorious henchman. Legends preceded Bedwyr. She grew up hearing
tales of his bloodlust and the carnage left in his wake. He
was what his name foretold, for Bedwyr meant grave-knower.
“Take it off, Ysbail. I would see you now.”
She inhaled sharply at his repeated command, his gaze piercing
through the chamber’s heavy shadows. The only light came
from the small fire in the hearth, which only served to enhance
her husband’s fearsome visage.
Bedwyr was not unpleasant to look upon. Had she not already
known of his reputation, and despite the scar crossing his left
brow, she might have called him handsome. Dark, unruly waves
hung about his shoulders. More often than not, they also shielded
his eyes and hid high cheekbones. Belying his shaggy and unkempt
appearance, he preferred a shaven face, which accented his ever-present
scowl and served to deepen his features. His smile, if it could
be called such, looked more like a snarl—the white of his
teeth being the only brightness about him.
Just the size of her husband should have frightened her, never
mind his looks. But in the time it took to travel from Oswestry
to Bedwyr’s keep high in the mountains, he had been nothing
but considerate and thoughtful. He had not tried to bed her
again during their journey, but she knew once they arrived he
would waste no time forcing himself upon her. He was a man after
all. At least he had given her a pair of weeks to adjust to
her new home before making it clear he would come to her. Earlier
in the day, he had ordered she and her meager belongings be
moved into his chamber. The lustful look she saw on his face
told her in no uncertain terms that he would take her again
this night.
She knit her brows together, hoping to emphasize her scowl
and displeasure at what was to come. When she made no effort
to yield to him, he reached up and pulled free the laces at
the top of her gown. He slipped a single finger under the edge
of the fabric, letting the back of it brush one of her nipples.
She gasped at the sensation.
“Remove it or I will do it for you.” His voice was
deep in timbre yet low in volume, yet spoke of his determined
insistence. Stranger or no, she knew she would do his bidding
or suffer his wrath.
She felt her nostrils flare as she breathed deeply, trying
to control her racing heart.
With trembling fingers, she loosened the ties and pulled the
gown over her head, letting it fall to the floor beside her.
The fabric of her shift rasped her breasts. She knew without
looking down that her heaving bosom was well in evidence, for
the look on her husband’s face told her.
“The shift as well.”
She swallowed hard while continuing to gaze at him. She kept
her spine stiff, refusing to cower before him. She would not
let him see her apprehension.
Removing the final barrier between them, she let it slip from
her fingers onto the pooled gown.
It was her wifely duty to give her husband what he wanted without
their private chamber, and within. Her only solace was that
if the task went as quickly as before, she could endure it.
Just.
“Ysbail,” he murmured, gauping at her and unmoving.
Was there a hint of surprise in his voice?
Perhaps he had changed his mind about bedding her once he saw
her petite form and the smallness of her breasts. Now that he
was seeing her fully for the first time it was very possible
she repulsed him.
Not so, she found.
