Rexanne Becnel Read Online Free Page A

shifted, and before she could look away, he turned and caught her staring. At once Isolde averted her gaze. But she was shaken by the directness of his bold eyes.
    Beside her Magda once again giggled, then caught Isolde by the arm and pulled her down the street. After a moment
Isolde laughed, too, but only to hide her sudden disquiet. Who was that man?
    “Ooh, he’s a fierce one,” Magda whispered, glancing back toward the smithy’s shed. “I wonder what he looks like beneath that beard.”
    Isolde did not respond, but she too glanced back at the dark-haired stranger. She did not recognize him, and yet there was something about him, as if she knew him—or should know him.
    He was still staring after her, as well, as if he’d like to get to know her. Again Isolde looked away, and this time she forced herself not to look back. Staring at strange men in the street was not acceptable behavior by anyone’s standards, her father’s, her mother’s, or her own.
    But as Isolde ambled away, arm in arm with her maid, Rhys ap Owain kept his stare steady upon her. So that was Fitz-Hugh’s daughter. He’d watched from the woods as the large party departed this morning. Since then he’d heard snippets of gossip about the eldest daughter’s dispute with her father, and his mind had spun with the possibilities that presented to him.
    Now as he watched her disappear around a street corner, those possibilities moved closer to reality.
    The obnoxious little brat had grown tall and filled out most becomingly, he grudgingly admitted. No doubt, however, she’d also grown more disagreeable if her challenge to her father’s authority was any sign.
    He stroked his beard as he considered his plan. Her presence at Rosecliffe Castle changed nothing. In fact, it would probably aid him. Randulf FitzHugh had been a maudlin fool for his children ten years ago. Rhys had not been able to capitalize then on that flaw in his character. But he was ten years wiser now, ten years angrier, and ten years more determined to exact vengeance.
    He would begin his conquest with Isolde FitzHugh, move on to the castle itself, then end it with the death of her father and uncle, and anyone else who stood in his way.
    He stared up the hill toward Rosecliffe Castle within whose donjon he’d twice been confined. This time he would not be the prisoner. This time he would enter a free man and only depart when he had become its lord.

     
     
    The next morning Isolde sat cross-legged in her bed brushing her hair in long strokes. She had awakened before dawn, alone in the bed she usually shared with Gwen and Elyssa. She’d often longed for the privacy of her own bedchamber, and this morning she’d stretched, then curled in the center of the bed, luxuriating in all the space. She’d not been able to regain her slumber, though, so she’d reached for her silver-backed hairbrush and begun the routine of the day. But she was aware of the different sounds on this particular morning. No muffled voices from her parents’ chamber above hers. No footsteps on the stairs as the maids descended. With so many retainers accompanying her family to London, Rosecliffe felt strangely empty.
    But she would stay busy, she told herself, refusing to let yesterday’s loneliness return. For the next month she must perform the duties as the lady of Rosecliffe Castle, and first of all, she must look the part.
    She parted her hair into two lengths, then sprinkled a few precious drops of oil of lavender on her brush and worked them through the heavy locks. She was proud of her hair, perhaps even a little vain, for she’d always thought the thick chestnut waves her best feature. She was of average height, with an average figure, neither too thin nor too buxom. Even her features were regular. But her hair was rather nice and so she always took special care with it, no matter what Gwen said.
    By the time dawn crept up the narrow window of her bedchamber, her hair was dressed in two long