Carys de Titouan blushed furiously. “I’ve not had that many.” Her gaze inevitably moved to Elizabeau, standing in polite silence a few feet away, and her face lit up with a smile. “A wife! You’ve finally married again!” She threw her arms around her brother’s neck before he could reply. “Oh, Rhys, I’m so happy for you! You swore you never would again but I knew it wasn’t true. I knew it!”
Elizabeau’s expression went slack as she looked to Rhys beseechingly. Rhys gazed back, helplessly, as his sister squeezed the life out of his neck before releasing him and running towards the house screaming. As they watched her run, Elizabeau made her way over to him.
“Rhys, stop her,” she whispered.
He opened his mouth but caught himself. His sister’s assumption gave him an idea; in fact, he should have known it all along.
“Perhaps it is better this way,” he said quietly, listening to the manor come alive with more voices and doors banging. “We have, after all, been pretending we are married for the majority of this trip.”
Elizabeau’s eyebrows lifted. “What are you saying?”
He held up a hand before she could gain a head of steam. “You’re supposed to be hiding,” he said thoughtfully as he turned to face her. “Understand that my sister cannot keep a secret to save her life. I’ve been attempting for the better part of eight days to figure out a way around her finding out who you are. She’ll spread it no matter how much we tell her not to.”
Elizabeau’s eyebrows rose. “And you are just telling me this now? ‘Tis a fine time to mention it, now when it’s too late.”
Rhys shook his head, his brilliant blue eyes fixed on her. “It is not too late. My sister has unknowingly provided the answer to the dilemma.” He took a step or two towards her just as more people began to pour from the door of the manor. “Would it be too much of an imposition to continue the pretext that you are my wife until we leave for Ogmore? We did it for the merchant. Now we must continue it for my family’s sake.”
Elizabeau didn’t know what to say. She stammered over an answer as Carys crossed the yard with a woman, young boy, and very small child in tow. She eyed the approaching group, still struggling, when Rhys reached out and grasped her by the chin gently.
“What is your mother’s name?” he whispered, his blue eyes glimmering.
Her eyes flickered with confusion but she answered. “Julianna,” she replied softly. “The Lady Julianna de Mawgan Treveighan.”
He didn’t have time to answer; the horde was upon him and a short woman with very dark hair and a lovely face was suddenly embracing him. Elizabeau watched as the woman kissed his stubbled cheeks over and over.
“Rhys,” the woman declared when she finally stopped kissing him. “My beautiful boy, you look marvelous.”
Rhys smiled down at the woman to whom he bore a striking resemblance. “’Tis good to see you, Mother,” he looked at the boy standing next to her, a lad of eleven or twelve years with dark hair and dark eyes. “Dylan, you scamp. I see you’ve been growing behind my back.”
Dylan de Titouan smiled broadly at his older, substantially larger brother. When Rhys ruffled his dark hair, the boy batted at him and Rhys gave him a good natured shove that nearly sent him to the ground. But that was as far as the horseplay went for the moment; standing slightly behind his mother, holding Carys’ hand, was a toddler of no more than four years of age. Rhys crouched his enormous bulk in front of the child but made no attempt to touch him.
“Greetings, Maddoc,” he said gently, his brilliant blue eyes soft. “Do you remember me?”
The boy looked up at Rhys’ mother, who nodded her head encouragingly. Then he looked back at Rhys. “Aye, Daddy.”
Rhys held out his arms, allowing the boy to choose whether or not to come to him. He was, after all, a virtual stranger to the child; he’d seen him a total of six times during his short life. After several long seconds, the child fell into his father’s embrace. Rhys stood up, holding his son gently against him.
“He’s grown a mile,” Rhys said with tenderness in his voice that Elizabeau had never heard before. “He’ll be a fine knight in no time.”
Orlaith de Titouan scowled at her eldest. “You’ll not hurry this one into combat. He’s still a baby and will remain so for quite some time.”
Rhys grinned as Maddoc stopped hugging his father long enough to begin playing with his helm. Rhys pulled it off, offered it to him to play with, and set the boy back to his feet as the child struggled under the weight of the helm. When Uncle Dylan tried to help him, the child screamed and pulled his new toy out of his uncle’s reach. Rhys drank in the sight of his son a moment before turning to Elizabeau.