Rhys silently extended his arms to her and she slid into his grasp. He lowered her to the ground and he took her to the stairway that led up into the gatehouse. Before they disappeared inside, he made sure to instruct the gatekeeper to close all three portcullises and maintain a vigilant watch. The old man with the unruly white hair vehemently agreed.
Once inside the second floor of the gatehouse, it was cool and dark. It was also one enormous room with pulleys and slits in the floor for the portcullises. There were a few men about, not in armor, and she assumed they were servants. They looked at her suspiciously. Rhys took her arm and led her to a narrow spiral stair that led to the third floor of the gatehouse, which was divided into two large rooms. Both rooms were furnished, though it looked as if they had been sitting unoccupied for some time. There were dust and cobwebs draping the furniture.
He took her into the larger of the two rooms and went for a large wardrobe butted up against the interior wall. Elizabeau stood just inside the entry, watching him as he opened the wardrobe and began to pull things out of it. She noticed a satchel and garments of all kinds ended up on the dusty floor.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
He pulled out an old cloak, inspecting it to see if it was serviceable. “To Ogmore,” he replied. “But we must have a few things with us for our journey. You cannot travel day and night in just one gown, and I need my armor.”
She watched as he pulled out what she saw, after a moment, was a surcoat. “Is that your wife’s?” she asked softly.
His intense blue eyes moved to her and he lowered the garment, tossing it over onto the bed. Averting his gaze, he looked back into the wardrobe.
“Aye,” he said quietly.
Elizabeau watched the manner in which his mood changed when she mentioned the elusive Gwyneth; it was like watching a curtain fall. All of the light went out of his face. She glanced over at the garments on the bed, thinking she did not want to wear the clothes of a woman who had caused him so much grief. With a shake of the head, she began to back away.
“I will not wear it,” she said quietly.
His eyes were still on the wardrobe. “You have no choice. You cannot travel over miles of rough and weathered lands in what you are wearing.”
She shook her head firmly. “I will not,” she repeated. “I will not wear something that belonged to your dead wife.”
Her tone made him look at her; he could see she was nearly at the door, eyeing the clothes on the bed as if they were going to jump up and bite her.
“Do not be foolish,” he muttered, picking up the satchel on the floor and moving it to the bed.
She took another step back, to the door. “I will not wear something that belonged to a woman you hated. It will remind you of her every time you look at me and I will not do it.”
He stopped stuffing things into the satchel and looked at her, his expression softening somewhat. He knew what thoughts of Gwyneth did to him, the hatred and resentment they stirred up. In fact, the entire castle brought about those feelings. He knew his manner reflected it and he made a conscious effort to ease up.
“Angel, I would dearly love to spare the time to purchase more new things for you, but I cannot,” he said, more gently. “These are just clothes. They do not remind me of her.”
She blinked furiously as tears filled her eyes. “We have so little time left,” she whispered. “I do not want anything to ruin it, not even the clothes of a woman who hated you, for I, clearly, do not hate you.”
He stopped packing and went to her, putting his arm around her and pulling her back into the room. “Come on,” he kissed her forehead. “Sit down. You have had a tempestuous day and you are exhausted. We will leave here and find a comfortable tavern to spend the night in.”
She sniffled, wiping at her eyes as he set her down. “But is that wise considering we are being chased?”
He gazed down at her, calming now that they were safe for the moment. “Our flight from London was very hard on you,” he said quietly, sitting down beside her. “I was singularly focused on evading the king’s assassins. Whether or not it is wise to stop for the night in a tavern, I am inclined to do so anyway simply for your comfort. I’ve not shown you much on this adventure and I am sorry.”
She smiled faintly. “You were doing what needed to be done.”
He returned her smile. “You are exceptionally tolerant.”
They gazed at each other, brilliant blue on dark green. When Elizabeau reached out to touch his cheek, he kissed her palm and stood back up, resuming his packing. She watched him cram heavy garments deep into the satchel, the strong lines of his face and the way his dark hair tickled his forehead. She reached out and took one of his hands, drawing it away from the cloak he was attempting to pack and laying it on her cheek. When he looked at her curiously, she smiled sweetly.