“Could we not stay here?” she asked quietly. “Surely we are safer here than in a tavern somewhere.”
He looked down at her, feeling himself growing more and more entrenched with her by the moment. With every hour that passed, she was embedding herself deeper and deeper into his heart and he was growing increasingly afraid. She did not want to marry her prince; she had made that very clear. He was increasingly terrified that he would grant her wish were she to beg him again. He should have had Rod take her, but he had not. His uncle had been the wiser when he had recommended it. Now, he was close to destroying his mission and disobeying his liege. He knew that could not happen but he was at a loss to know how to stop it.
“If the king has figured out that you are with me, there are those who know I am lord of St. Briavels,” his fingers began to caress her silken skin. “I have only a few men here to man it as an outpost, certainly not enough to fight off an army.”
“But we saw no army,” she insisted. “Just a few men. They could not breach this place.”
He averted his gaze and shook his head. “Nay,” he muttered. “It would not be a wise decision to stay here. We must move on. I must get you to Ogmore.”
His words were like a slap in the face. She knew that was where they were traveling but to hear him speak it with such determination was like a stab to her heart. She turned away from him, pained and weary.
“Of course,” she murmured. “I am your mission. That is all I can ever be.”
Rhys looked at her, hearing the pain in her voice and feeling pain of his own. But he could not give in to it. With his last thread of willpower, he focused on his task and finished packing the satchel. He kept his gaze averted from Elizabeau, terrified that if he looked at her, he would crumble. He was second-guessing his mission and the thought sickened him.
His old armor was on the floor below them, stored in a small room off the main floor. He needed to retrieve it. Sealing up the satchel, he looked at Elizabeau as she sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the floor. He felt stabs of pity but he fought them.
“I must get my armor,” he said quietly. “Will you be all right here for a few moments?”
She nodded weakly and he left the room without another word. Elizabeau continued to sit, staring at the floor and feeling her grief. The grief was a constant companion and she could never be rid of it, she knew, but that did not prevent her from trying to move past it. In an attempt to distract herself, she began looking around the dusty room, noting the furnishing, the tables and chairs. There was what looked to be a dressing table near the lancet window and she rose from the bed to inspect it.
It was curiosity and nothing more. She sat down on the bench and noted her appearance in the polished bronze mirror; she examined her face, thinking she looked very tired. There were two drawers in the table and she pulled them open, inspecting the combs and hair ornaments that were there. She knew they were Gwyneth’s but it did not bother her; she pulled out the comb and began to drag it through her golden red hair.
The woman gazing back at her in the mirror was older somehow, not the same girl she had known back in London. This woman had matured in a situation where she would not have survived had she not shown some measure of growth and resolve. She ran the comb through her hair until it was a glittering, silken mass that flowed gently down her back. Setting the comb aside, she dug through the drawer until she came across a few hair pins and a lovely butterfly ornamental comb. Braiding her hair, she wound it into a bun at the nape of her neck and inserted the hair pins. Then she put the butterfly comb in it.
She may have looked better, but she did not feel any better. With a heavy sigh, she inspected her shoulders and collarbone in the mirror, running her fingers over the white flesh and wondering how she was going to allow another man to touch her as Rhys had. She wondered how she was ever going to live with a man she did not love, allowing him husbandly rights when the only man she wanted would not be permitted to touch her. It was going to kill her, she knew. Perhaps it was better if Rhys did not serve her in her new life. Perhaps the only way to survive this was to try and forget him.
When Rhys returned later with pieces of older, battered armor and chain mail, she sat on the bench and watched him sort the mail and dress. She didn’t say a word as he donned the mail coat and latched on pieces of plate. He required her help when he reached the breast plate and the armor for his right arm, and she rose silently to his request and helped him finish the straps. Though the armor was old, it was somehow more imposing, like armor that had seen many a battle throughout the years. Rhys was a big man and armor made him appear larger than life. Elizabeau stood there and watched him in silence, afraid to speak, wallowing in sorrow.