The Warrior's Reward by Samantha Holt Page B

they were, they were protection enough. Then he would not have to worry for her and he could continue the task of rebuilding the war-ravaged keep.
    They came up around the mountain and a smile teased his face at the sight of his home. From here, it didn’t look crumbling or war-torn. Though set into the valley, the castle had been built on a knoll that meant it loomed across the land. The walls and the three-storey tower jutted out from the green lands, competing with the very mountains themselves. He might have little, but at least he had this.
    Journeying down the hill to the floor of the valley, Ieuan watched his wife for her reaction. Since travelling into the borderlands between England and Wales, she had fallen into quiet awe. It gratified him to see her wide eyes and parted lips. It also made him anxious to see such a look elsewhere—in his bed perhaps. But it satisfied him she found his home as pleasing as he did. For him, the craggy rocks with their rivers of water streaming between them and the bold green and orange mountains were like his lifeblood. He swore that if he was ever away from Wales for more than a month he would simply curl up and die.
    Unfortunately for Rosamunde, the dramatic landscape meant they seldom travelled anywhere by carriage. Much of the borderlands were wild and the roads simply didn’t allow passage with four heavy wheels. It meant days in the saddle for most journeys. And unfortunately for him, his wife would no doubt be exhausted and sore after a day’s ride.
    He put his gloved hand to the back of his neck and rolled his shoulders. The heavy weight of his hauberk seemed to increase with the thought of another night of frustration. He had survived worse, Ieuan reminded himself. Growing up during a rebellion had hardened him in many ways. Fear and death had become commonplace and he supposed he had become numb to it. Rosamunde, however, would not survive long in Wales if he wasn’t careful. Hunger and poverty scorched the lands. There were far worse men than Phylip in the wilds.
    Hand to the reins, he tightened his grip on the leather while they continued their slow pace, the keep growing ever taller. He had no doubt Phylip had intended to betray him to the King of England and inform him of his birth. Not that his father had ever been an important part of his life. He snorted to himself. The bastard son of a prince. There were likely many such as him across the world—cast aside as no more than an annoyance. Yet because of the importance of his father and his role in the rebellion, it seemed suddenly he was a person of great import.
    They didn’t pass through the village as they approached. It was hidden on the other side of the mound. For that he was grateful. The villagers would be pleased with his taking a wife and bringing in new wealth, but in spite of Rosamunde’s stiff posture, he wasn’t sure she could tolerate taking the time to greet the villeins. Everything about his wife shouted protect me . Against the coarse landscape of his country, she seemed other-wordly. Angelic perhaps. Flaxen hair, delicate features and bones. She had fought off Phylip somehow but he put that down to pure luck. The fact she hadn’t swooned still surprised him greatly.
    Now that they were close, the crumbled tops of the tower were evident. There was a hole in one corner of the building and on brighter days, you could see directly into the Great Hall. Unfortunately it had taken a hit from a trebuchet during the uprising. The interior hadn’t fared well either. He slid a glance toward his wife and saw the horror sweep over her expression. He couldn’t help but smirk. The Treasure of Tynewell had never known hardship. It was about time she learned of what it was like to be anything other than a pampered princess.
    He wouldn’t expect much of her. He had sworn to keep her safe and he would follow through on that oath. All he had to do was ensure his walls were strong enough to keep her locked