well,” Josselyn answered. “I hope someday you too will find that sort of happiness.”
“I hope so,” Rhonwen murmured. She cast about for some way to excuse herself, but before she could, the boy, Gavin, dashed breathlessly into the hall.
“Aunt Ness is here!”
At once the littlest girl scrambled down from Jasper and toddled off in her brother’s wake. The older, Isolde, leaned against her uncle and took his hand. Jasper tugged on one of her long shining curls. “Go along now, Isolde.”
“But I hoped we could play a game of chess. You said we might.”
“And we will. But not this very moment.” He chucked her under the chin, gave Rhonwen a deliberate look, then turned when Nesta came into the room, a child on each side.
Rhonwen saw Isolde’s eyes gaze up at her uncle, then slide back to fasten upon Rhonwen. At once the child’s mouth turned down and her young gaze hardened with dislike. But why? Rhonwen wondered.
When Isolde smiled back up at Jasper, the answer became obvious. The girl was possessive of her uncle’s attentions. She clearly had a childish infatuation for him and viewed Rhonwen as a competitor for his affections.
How ridiculous, and what a disaster, Rhonwen thought. But there was no longer any hope of a quick escape. In the ensuing minutes Nesta settled into a chair near the hearth, a maid brought hot mulled wine and ginger biscuits, and Josselyn forced Rhonwen to sit beside her again. Little Gwen climbed up into Nesta’s lap, Gavin played with a small ball and a half-grown pup, while Isolde settled herself next to Jasper.
The conversation, at least, was harmless. Josselyn asked Nesta about several of the villagers, of Dewey’s rheumatism and Baran’s gout. They discussed the day’s market and the warming weather. But they did not speak of Rand’s journey to meet with the other English lords, nor of anything at all to do with politics.
Rhonwen wondered if that was due to her presence in the hall. If Nesta had come alone, would they be freer with their subjects? She supposed she would never know.
And all the time that talk circulated, she was acutely conscious of Jasper’s presence. Her skin tingled. Her entire being was aware of him, as if he projected some aura that only she sensed. It was madness, and yet she could not make it cease. Had the bard Newlin given him some love potion that made
him attract her so? Or had he, perchance, cast a spell upon her?
She’d never heard of Newlin dabbling in such matters. Yet what else was she to think when her English enemy drew her and her Welsh compatriot did not?
Blessedly, the thought of Rhys dragged her back to her purpose at the English stronghold. She’d come here at Rhys’s behest, on a mission of his devising. She needed to focus on that to the exclusion of everything else. She still had not overcome her distaste for taking one of the children captive, but as she observed them, she began to see a way to safeguard them.
She would not let Rhys take Gavin. As the only son, he might be treated too harshly. The temptation to be rid of him would be too high. Nor could she allow Isolde to be captured. She was too pretty a child, and too near the budding of womanhood. While she trusted Rhys not to harm her, there were others in his band who were less trustworthy. And even Rhys could be pushed to the breaking point.
That left Gwendolyn, and Rhonwen’s gaze shifted to her. The youngest child, Gwendolyn was a sweet-faced cherub. No one, English or Welsh, could possible harm a baby like that. Besides, she would be the least likely to try to escape, and therefore would be guarded in a less oppressive manner.
Yes, Rhonwen decided. If she must help Rhys to take a hostage from among these children, it would be the youngest girl—and she herself would see to Gwen’s well-being.
Bolstered by her decision, she moved to sit beside Nesta and smiled at the now-drowsy child. “How old are you?” she asked.
The girl held up three
“I hope so,” Rhonwen murmured. She cast about for some way to excuse herself, but before she could, the boy, Gavin, dashed breathlessly into the hall.
“Aunt Ness is here!”
At once the littlest girl scrambled down from Jasper and toddled off in her brother’s wake. The older, Isolde, leaned against her uncle and took his hand. Jasper tugged on one of her long shining curls. “Go along now, Isolde.”
“But I hoped we could play a game of chess. You said we might.”
“And we will. But not this very moment.” He chucked her under the chin, gave Rhonwen a deliberate look, then turned when Nesta came into the room, a child on each side.
Rhonwen saw Isolde’s eyes gaze up at her uncle, then slide back to fasten upon Rhonwen. At once the child’s mouth turned down and her young gaze hardened with dislike. But why? Rhonwen wondered.
When Isolde smiled back up at Jasper, the answer became obvious. The girl was possessive of her uncle’s attentions. She clearly had a childish infatuation for him and viewed Rhonwen as a competitor for his affections.
How ridiculous, and what a disaster, Rhonwen thought. But there was no longer any hope of a quick escape. In the ensuing minutes Nesta settled into a chair near the hearth, a maid brought hot mulled wine and ginger biscuits, and Josselyn forced Rhonwen to sit beside her again. Little Gwen climbed up into Nesta’s lap, Gavin played with a small ball and a half-grown pup, while Isolde settled herself next to Jasper.
The conversation, at least, was harmless. Josselyn asked Nesta about several of the villagers, of Dewey’s rheumatism and Baran’s gout. They discussed the day’s market and the warming weather. But they did not speak of Rand’s journey to meet with the other English lords, nor of anything at all to do with politics.
Rhonwen wondered if that was due to her presence in the hall. If Nesta had come alone, would they be freer with their subjects? She supposed she would never know.
And all the time that talk circulated, she was acutely conscious of Jasper’s presence. Her skin tingled. Her entire being was aware of him, as if he projected some aura that only she sensed. It was madness, and yet she could not make it cease. Had the bard Newlin given him some love potion that made
him attract her so? Or had he, perchance, cast a spell upon her?
She’d never heard of Newlin dabbling in such matters. Yet what else was she to think when her English enemy drew her and her Welsh compatriot did not?
Blessedly, the thought of Rhys dragged her back to her purpose at the English stronghold. She’d come here at Rhys’s behest, on a mission of his devising. She needed to focus on that to the exclusion of everything else. She still had not overcome her distaste for taking one of the children captive, but as she observed them, she began to see a way to safeguard them.
She would not let Rhys take Gavin. As the only son, he might be treated too harshly. The temptation to be rid of him would be too high. Nor could she allow Isolde to be captured. She was too pretty a child, and too near the budding of womanhood. While she trusted Rhys not to harm her, there were others in his band who were less trustworthy. And even Rhys could be pushed to the breaking point.
That left Gwendolyn, and Rhonwen’s gaze shifted to her. The youngest child, Gwendolyn was a sweet-faced cherub. No one, English or Welsh, could possible harm a baby like that. Besides, she would be the least likely to try to escape, and therefore would be guarded in a less oppressive manner.
Yes, Rhonwen decided. If she must help Rhys to take a hostage from among these children, it would be the youngest girl—and she herself would see to Gwen’s well-being.
Bolstered by her decision, she moved to sit beside Nesta and smiled at the now-drowsy child. “How old are you?” she asked.
The girl held up three
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