Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Epilogue

Copyright

“Who are you?” Ian snarled.

He jerked his head to the side as Lily’s hand traced streaks of fire down his left cheek. Grabbing her arms, he forced her back until her legs pressed against the bed frame. “Don’t you know who I am? Have you not heard of Llywelyn’s Dragon?”

Lily’s gaze darted toward the bed, and her resistance increased. “Leave me be,” she shouted, squirming against his hold.

Did she think he meant to bed her now? All he wanted were answers. Cursing, Ian wrapped his arms about her and pulled her flush to his body. Their eyes met, the heat of their breaths mingled between their lips.

Suddenly the fight seemed to leave her. She slumped against him, lowering her head until her hair veiled her face. “I cannot tell you who I am, milord…because I do not know.”

Dear Reader,

Every year at this time, the editors at Harlequin Historicals have the unique opportunity of introducing our readers to four brand-new authors in our annual March Madness Promotion. These titles were chosen from among hundreds of manuscripts from unpublished authors, and we would like to take this time to thank all of the talented authors who made the effort to submit their projects to Harlequin Historicals for review.

Our choices for the month include Heart of the Dragon by Sharon Schulze, the medieval tale of a young woman in search of her identity, who must rely on the help of a fierce warrior willing to give up his freedom in order to protect her from harm, and Emily’s Captain by Shari Anton, a story about a heroine whose desperate father sends a dashing Union spy to get her safely out of Georgia against her wishes.

The Phoenix of Love by Susan Schonberg, a Regency novel with a marriage of convenience between a reformed rake and a society ice princess who must overcome tortured pasts and present enemies before they are free to love, and The Wicked Truth by Lyn Stone, a second-place finisher in the 1995 Maggie Awards, about a woman with a ruined reputation and a straitlaced physician who join forces to discover a murderer in Victorian England, round out a terrific month.

Whatever your taste in reading, we hope you’ll find a story written just for you between the covers of a Harlequin Historical.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Harlequin Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

Heart Of The Dragon
Sharon Schulze

www.millsandboon.co.uk

SHARON SCHULZE

is a confirmed bookaholic who loves reading as much as writing. Although she has a degree in civil engineering, she’s always been fascinated by history. Writing about the past gives her the chance to experience days gone by—without also encountering disease, vermin and archaic plumbing!

A New Hampshire native, she now makes her home in Connecticut with her husband, Cliff, teenagers Patrick and Christina, and their miniature dachshund, Samantha. She is current president of the Connecticut Chapter of RWA; in her spare time she enjoys movies, music and poking around in antique shops.

With love and thanks to my husband, Cliff, and my children, Patrick and Christina. I couldn’t have done it without you.

To Julie Caille, Ellen Keefe and Nancy Block, for encouragement, faith and steel-toed boots when I needed them.

And with love to my parents,

Colleen Towle and Howard Cottrell.

You raised me to be stubborn—thank you!

Prologue

They called him Llywelyn’s Dragon.

A warrior bold as the creatures of Welsh legend, his temper as fiery, Lord Ian ap Dafydd was the prince’s right hand. Men of power quaked at word of his arrival, for he was the sword to carry out Llywelyn’s judgment.

‘Twas rumored he’d do any deed at the prince’s bidding, avenge any slight to his master’s name. Only Llywelyn had the might to direct the Dragon’s fury, to shape the form of his vengeance.

Or so the prince believed.

But shrouded deep beneath that scaly hide, the Dragon’s true nature slumbered.

Obscured by fire.

Hidden from harm.

Buried beyond the reach of pain.

Until he met her.

The woman with the power to free the heart of the Dragon.

Chapter One

Northern Wales, Spring 1215

Lily breathed deeply and stared up at the obstacle looming before her. Of rough stone, darkly menacing in the fitful moonlight, the curtain wall surrounding Dolwyddelan Keep rose above her like a vision from hell.

She loosened the strings of her cloak and slipped it off. Rolling it in a bundle, she hid it in the shadows at the base of the wall, next to the sack containing her meager belongings. The wind whipped about her, pressing her short tunic and loose braes snug against her quivering flesh.

The cold didn’t make her shake, though she felt naked in the unfamiliar clothing. Nay, she’d borne worse. During the course of this ill-conceived trek, she’d encountered weather as unforgiving as the abbess herself.

She couldn’t even call it fear. It was desperation that made her shiver—but it had also lent her the strength she needed in the weeks since her mother’s death. Without that spur to goad her on, she’d never have escaped the confines of the cloister, let alone found Llywelyn.

For all the good it had done her.

Lily held her icy fingers to her lips in a vain attempt to blow some life into them. Exhaling deeply, she forced all her qualms to the back of her mind. It was no use thinking about it yet again. Some things had to be done, ‘twas all. She focused upon the rough-cut stones and, hands and feet groping for purchase, began her ascent.

Ian leaned back against the wall, arms folded across his chest. If only he could shut out the noise as easily as the cool stone banished the heat of the overcrowded room! Tumultuous revelry filled Llywelyn’s hall, spilling out into the anterooms and up the stairs to the gallery above. Wine, mead and ale flowed freely. He’d even caught a whiff of fiery Irish usquebaugh when the revelers reeled near in their drunken attempts at dancing.

But Ian stood apart, as alone among the raucous crowd as within the cool green depths of the forest. Ever silent, ever vigilant, he derived nothing more than a mild amusement from the scene unfolding before him. Once he might have joined the revelry, quaffed as deeply as the rest, but such foolishness no longer held appeal.

A woman stumbled toward him, skirts bunched in her hands and raised to the knees to expose her legs. “Care to dance, milord?” she asked coyly, leaning close until her abundant breasts pressed against his folded arms. She freed one hand to trail her fingers down the front of his tunic. “Come, I’ll teach you,” she said, her eyes promising more than a dance.

Something deep within him recoiled. Perhaps it was due to the smell rising from her tightly laced bliaut— old sweat and new ale—or mayhap it was simply her bold manner. Whatever the reason, he moved slightly away.

A burly soldier came up behind her and slipped his arm about her waist. “Here, Meg—are you mad? What d’ye want with him?”

The woman cast one last look at Ian, lips curled into a pout, before she allowed the man to lead her off. Breathing a sigh of relief, Ian shifted to a more comfortable position.

As he settled back again to observe the evening’s entertainment, he noticed one of his men elbowing his way across the hall.

“Beg pardon, milord.” Dai leaned close to speak near Ian’s ear. “The guard on the south walk sent word someone’s climbing the curtain wall.” His lean face creased into a wry smile. “Appears they’ve lost their stomach for it partway up.”

“By Christ, not another one.” Ian pushed away from the wall and headed for the door, traversing the long room easily as a path opened before him. Not two weeks past, some half-wit from the hills had tried the climb at first light to prove his valor to Llywelyn. His scream of terror and the sight of his body lying broken at the rocky base of the wall should have been warning enough to any other fool tempted to follow his example.

Who could be so stupid as to attempt such a feat in the dark of night?

Ian ducked beneath the door frame and ran lightly up the stairs to the walk, tugging his cloak close about him against the icy wind blowing down from the mountains. The guard joined him as he peered over the crenel.

“Didn’t hear him till he’d gotten near where he is now, milord.” The guard’s eyes shifted nervously beneath the brim of his helm as he made the admission, but he stood straight and his voice was strong. “At least ‘tis just the one.”

“Aye.” This time, at any rate, Ian thought with disgust. He’d need to speak again to the captain of the guard, lest they wake some morn to find the keep taken.

“Bring me rope,” he commanded, turning his attention to the dark shape huddled against the wall. “I’ll deal with you later.”

Ian scarcely noticed the guard’s hasty retreat as he tossed aside his cloak and unbuckled his sword belt. His attention remained fixed on the motionless fool below him as he propped the weapon against the wall, then climbed onto the uneven embrasure. He lay on his stomach, booted feet hooked round the merlon, and hung as far over the edge as he could reach. “Are you hurt?” he shouted. “Or just afraid?”

The shadow shifted, the movement resolving the dark blob into the form of a man. “I fear nothing,” he said. He slowly turned his head toward Ian in a surprisingly arrogant manner, revealing a face too youthful for a man full grown. “I’m simply resting.”

“I should leave you here to ‘rest’ all night,” Ian said. “Idiot halfling,” he muttered to himself. Inching farther over the edge, he tried to judge whether his sword belt would reach, for he doubted the boy’s strength would last much longer. Faint moonlight gleamed white off knuckles that held the wall in a death grip. Mayhap they’d have to lower someone to pry those rigid fingers free.

But another glimpse of that pale face convinced him the guard would return too late. Moving quickly, Ian pulled himself back, out of the embrasure, and slipped the scabbard from his belt. He untied the other belt he wore about his waist and joined the strips of leather with a firm knot.

Even with the two belts together, they didn’t look quite long enough. He’d need to stretch as far as he could. “I’m going to lower a rope,” he said, then whipped his tunic over his head and tossed it aside.

Ian wrapped the belt twice around his hand and, gripping the leather so tight that the metal studs bit into his palm, he levered himself over the lip of the wall and lowered himself and the makeshift rope.

The end stopped a bare foot short. “Look up.” He kept his voice even, afraid the lad would loosen his hold. “See the rope?”

Face pressed tight against the rough stone, the boy tilted his head and opened his eyes. “Aye,” he answered, then squeezed his eyes shut.

“You’ll have to climb a bit more. Do you think you have the nerve for it, boy?” Ian asked, infusing the question with just enough mockery to raise the lad’s ire. “Or do I need to come down after you?”

The boy immediately eased one hand from its death grip upon the stone. A quiet moan blended with the soughing wind as that hand inched closer to the dangling leather. The lad had courage, he’d give him that— despite this foolhardy climb.

The provocation had the desired effect. In no time at all, the lad had scrambled close enough to grab the belt. “Have a care,” Ian warned, as the leather stretched taut beneath the youth’s surprisingly meager weight He wound the end tighter about his hand. Now, if the knot would hold…

Muscles bunching from the strain, Ian pulled the boy toward him. Strong hands grabbed at his feet and held him, allowing him to haul the lad into his arms.

They flopped over the wall together and landed in a heap at the guard’s feet.

Sweet Jesu save him, this was no lad! It had been some time since he’d held a woman, but he couldn’t mistake the soft curves beneath the coarse male garments. Cursing, he shoved her aside and stood, tugging her upright to stand beside him.

The guard stepped forward to take her. Ian shook his head and jerked the woman’s arms behind her. “You see to your duties,” he told the other man. “I’ll take care of this.”

No need to have the guard carry this tale, at least not until he’d discovered why she’d attempted the wall. One hand a vise about her upper arm, Ian snatched up his sword and tunic and dragged the woman toward the stairs. They hadn’t taken two steps before she dug in her heels and pulled to a halt.

“Come on,” Ian growled. She remained rooted to the spot. His sword clattered against the walkway as he spun to face her. “Are you deaf, as well as stupid?”

“I wish to see Llywelyn.”

The faint moonlight gilded her face, highlighting her mulish expression. But her stubbornness didn’t matter. Two could play at this game—and he had no doubt that his strength of will could overpower any resistance. “Indeed?”

Her lips tightened into a grim line, and her chin rose another notch. “Aye. Take me to him, if you please.” Her expression didn’t change, making a mockery of her attempt at courtesy.

“Come.” He tightened his grip on her elbow.

She pulled against his hold, mouth opening to speak.

Sweet Mary save him! Did she dare to defy him again? Tossing his belongings aside, Ian hoisted her over his shoulder, then scooped up his sword. She’d come with him whether she wanted to or not. Accompanied by a stream of insults from his captive, he ran lightly down the stairs, his lips curved into a smile.

Lily’s breath ran short before her scant supply of curses did. His firm grip said as clearly as words that any attempt to free herself would be doomed from the start. She knew firsthand of his strength. How else could he have hauled someone as tall as she up and over the wall with such ease? She’d always felt huge and clumsy, towering as she did over the sisters—as well as the few men she’d met. But the top of her head came no higher than his shoulder. She’d do well to respect his size, and the power and confidence he wore like a mantle.

Besides, she was inside Llywelyn’s keep, just where she wanted to be. In the company of a man of some authority, if the guard’s reaction was any indication. Still, being carried thus certainly lacked dignity—as well as being painful. She tried to get more comfortable, but couldn’t squirm into a position where his brawny shoulder didn’t force the air from her lungs with every jolting step.

The heat on her face had more to do with the cursing she’d done than with hanging upside down. With blasphemy added to all the sins she’d committed of late, she’d be better off going back to the abbey and taking the veil in atonement. And likely doing penance the rest of her life.

Where was he taking her? The sounds of revelry soon grew faint as he carried her toward a shadow-filied corner of the bailey.

She doubted she’d see Llywelyn this night.

Her ill-planned scheme didn’t seem any more likely to bring her to the mighty prince’s notice than anything else she’d tried. Although there didn’t appear to be the strict social order in Llywelyn’s court that she’d expected, she knew no one who could help her. Tonight’s foolishness had been a desperate act, she’d known it from the start.

But then, she was a desperate woman.

However, clinging to the curtain wall had been less frightening than her present situation. A lifetime spent within the confines of the cloister hadn’t prepared her for the darkness she’d seen in her captor’s eyes.

As surefooted as a cat’s, his step never faltered. The shadows grew deeper, closing about them until the moonlight was little more than a memory. They entered a building—she could feel the walls surrounding them, but she didn’t realize it was a tower until they began to ascend the spiraling stairs.

They stopped, his sword clattering against stone. A faint, metallic jangle told her he held a ring of keys.

The door opened silently. Her captor kicked it wider, then crossed the chamber and dumped her from his shoulder.

She couldn’t help grabbing for him, her only reality in this fearful sea of darkness. Her fingers grasped emptiness as she landed flat on her back on a soft pallet.

Did he think to bed her? Why else would he have carried her off to his lair? Sister Alyce maintained that men thought only of their pleasure whenever they were around a woman; ‘twas the reason so many young girls sought the safety of the cloister. As unlikely as that seemed, she’d best take no chances. She scrambled to her knees, hands reaching for the edge of the mattress. Mayhap she could get away before he kindled a light, or at least—

The scent of burning tallow brought her head up, and the sight before her held her transfixed. The candles he held cast his features in harsh relief, lending a satanic aura to his face and giving credence to her fears. “Going somewhere?” he asked, raising an eyebrow in inquiry.

His voice was smooth, melodious. A shiver rose at her nape in response to its seductive timbre. Heart pounding wildly, Lily crawled off the bed and stood. He reminded her of a wild animal, beautiful, appealing and untamed. But she knew better than to show fear before him. Taking a deep breath, she stiffened her spine and met his gaze.

His eyes held her captive as he set aside the branch of candles and moved to stand before her. “If this is meant as a disguise,” he said, slipping the cap off her hair, “it doesn’t work. Not in the light” He took her chin in his hand, his fingers hard and warm against her skin, and tilted her head. “Only a fool would mistake you for anything but a woman.”

Her pulse quickened at his touch, then spun out of control when he smoothed the tangled tresses from her face. She told herself ‘twas fear made it so, and not the deep green of his eyes—dark as an emerald, and as cold. Yet despite their chill, she saw something there…

Loneliness? Yearning? Need?

A dark curl fell over his forehead. Her fingers itched to caress that silken bit of midnight.

She closed her eyes, but it mattered not. Something drew her to him still, made her want to move closer, even as he made her tremble. Had she gone so long without human touch that she longed for such from a stranger?

What sorcery was this?

The night’s events had addled her brains. Speak, she told herself, do anything to break the spell. She opened her eyes, pulled together the tangled threads of thought and found her voice. “I wasn’t trying to hide. ‘Tis easier to climb in this than my usual clothes.”

The sound of her own voice gave her the strength to move, to attempt to pull away. When she stirred in his grasp, he released her and crossed the small room to shut the door. Grateful for the reprieve, she drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, struggling to shake free of this enchantment.

“Why did you bring me here? I wish to see Llywelyn.” ‘Twas a pity she could think of nothing else to say; he’d surely believe her a simpleton.

Besides, her questions were for his master, she reminded herself. And she didn’t know if even Llywelyn could provide the answers she sought.

What would she do if he couldn’t? She had nowhere to go, no one to turn to. Llywelyn had to hold the key; beyond that, she refused to consider.

Ian leaned back against the rough wooden panels of the door, crossing his arms as he watched the woman, seeking some clue to her purpose here. He found her persistence astonishing. But then again, it took an immense amount of determination to do what she’d done this night. The idea of a woman attempting—and nearly succeeding—to scale the walls of Dolwyddelan was mind-boggling.

However, he hadn’t brought her here to admire her tenacity. Or anything else about her, he reminded himself as he remembered the feel of her tall, slim body slung over his shoulder. He rubbed his back against the door, as if that would wipe away the lingering sensation. “Tell me who you are and why you wish to see him.”

“My name is Lily.” A trace of pain tinged her features, so fleeting he almost thought he’d imagined it. “Just Lily.”

Her composure disturbed him. Didn’t she realize the threat he posed? He couldn’t recall the last time a woman had remained so calm while in his chamber. By Christ, even those he’d invited here generally quaked like frightened geese in his presence.

This woman presented a challenge, one he’d take on gladly. He’d never met anyone he could not break.

“What business could you possibly have with the mighty Llywelyn?” he asked, glancing at her threadbare garments with insulting deliberation. He noticed how they clung to her soft curves, and forced his gaze back to her dirt-smudged face. “He has no need of a filthy villein to warm his bed.”

She gasped and took a few steps toward him. The candlelight hit her full in the face, giving him his first clear look at her and illuminating her tangled fall of hair.

‘Twas her expression of outrage that caught his eye. He straightened and pushed away from the door. Perhaps all women looked thus, but he’d never noticed. By the rood, something about her face seemed so familiar, it caught his breath.

And her hair, pale copper, the color shining forth like a beacon…

What trickery was this?

He captured her chin in his hand once more, his fingers as harsh as his voice. “Where have you come from? And what do you here?” He snatched the branch of candles off the table and brought them closer. “Who are you?”

For the first time since he’d pulled her from the curtain wall, she appeared frightened, and he could feel the fine tremor running through her. “I told you. Lily.”

Her voice shook, too. Good. Mayhap he could use her fear to get what he wanted. He set aside the candles and tightened his hold. “Lily who? You must have more name than that. Who are your people? Where do they live?” He tugged at her until the heat of her body reached him through his linen shirt. “How could they permit a woman like you to wander the countryside alone?”

She shoved at his hand, to no avail. Her strength was no match for his. But she paid no heed to that fact—he began to doubt she was even aware of it. “Why should I tell you aught? My questions are for Llywelyn, not some lackey.” Ignoring his tightening grip, she curled her fingers and raked at his face with her nails. “I demand you take me to him.”

“She-devil,” he snarled as he jerked his head to the side—though not far enough. Twin streaks of fire trailed down his left cheek. “You demand?” He grabbed her arms and forced her back until her legs pressed against the bed frame. “Don’t you know who I am? Have you not heard of Llywelyn’s Dragon?”

Her gaze darted toward the bed, and her resistance increased. “Answer me,” he snarled, shaking her.

“Stop! Leave me be!” she shouted. Renewing her struggles, she squirmed against his hold.

“Damn you.” By Christ, did she think he meant to bed her now? All he wanted of her was answers. The heat rising in his blood meant naught. Any man would react thus, to feel a woman’s softness pressed to his flesh.

But he would not let her go—not yet In this battle of wills, he would yield nothing.

Cursing, Ian wrapped his arms about her and pulled her flush to his body. Their eyes met, the heat of their breath mingled between their lips. He fought the urge to lower his mouth to hers, to close the hairsbreadth separating him from sweet temptation.

Suddenly the fight seemed to leave her. She slumped against him, lowering her head until her hair veiled her face. “I cannot tell you who I am, milord…because I do not know.”

Chapter Two

The feel of strong arms surrounding her, and the steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek, broke through Lily’s sorrow. Horrified, she pushed herself away, swaying until she found her balance, her breath coming in sobbing gasps.

Her captor—the Dragon—stood staring down at her. She couldn’t read his expression in the wavering light, but she doubted he planned to ease his lust upon her. He’d had ample chance just now, had that been his intention, but he’d let her move out of his hold. He’d sounded angry, almost puzzled, though why that should be his reaction, she did not know.

Chest still heaving, she stepped back. Her gaze never left him as she considered what to do.

Aye, she had heard of Llywelyn’s Dragon. Who had not? He was legend among the village folk near the abbey. Even the sisters, their voices filled with a kind of fascinated horror, had been known to discuss the deeds he’d done in Llywelyn’s name. In truth, she’d thought him to be older, although his size and strength proved no surprise.

And the aura of power she’d felt in his presence… Yes, she could believe this man capable of every exploit attributed to him—and more. And yet she did not fear him.

When had she become such a fool?

His eyes measured her, examining her face with such intensity she feared he could see her very soul. Why should he stare at her thus? She tried not to squirm, but couldn’t keep from swiping her sleeve over the hated tears filling her eyes.

“Why have you come here?” the Dragon asked, his voice calm now, the smooth sound an invitation to answer him.

Lily knew better than to fall into that trap; the abbess had used the same technique, usually as a prelude to some horrendous punishment. “I am sorry, milord. Where I’ve come from would mean nothing to you. ‘Tis your master I must speak with. Only he can answer my questions.”

He headed for a wooden chest beside the bed before she finished speaking and slammed the lid open with scant regard for the delicate carving adorning the piece. The tunic he chose was the same deep emerald shade as his eyes. She looked away when he tugged the garment over his head, unwilling to fall victim once again to the power of his gaze.

He snatched up the scabbarded sword leaning against the coffer and belted it about his trim hips. “You will not talk? So be it, then. Mayhap a night spent in the cellars will loosen your tongue.” The expression on his face had her backing away, but he grabbed her by the arm. “Who knows? You might even get the chance to speak with my ‘master’—if I’m of a mood to plead your case.”

But the harshness in his eyes before he snuffed the candles warned her there was little chance of that. Her heartbeat unsteady in the sudden darkness, Lily let the Dragon lead her from his lair.

Ian crossed the courtyard as the rising sun cast a rosy glow over the gray walls of Dolwyddelan. Icy puddles crackled beneath his boots, the perfect accompaniment to the wind whipping around the battlements.

He loved the brisk air, the cold serving to stoke the fire in his blood. It thrummed through his veins, lent energy to his steps as he descended the stairs into the vaults below the keep.

The promise of battle with a certain mysterious fierymaned stranger had nothing to do with it.

The guard snapped to attention beside the cell door, then grinned his thanks when Ian dismissed him to break his fast abovestairs.

Ian shook his head at the young man’s hasty retreat. No doubt he’d been bored to distraction standing here through the night, but perhaps ‘twould teach the lad patience. That virtue was sadly lacking in most of the hot-tempered warriors who had gathered behind Llywelyn’s banner.

He’d do well to control his own impatience before he unbarred the door and met with his captive once again. Last night, somewhere between the curtain wall and his chamber, he’d lost his usual impassive demeanor.

And try though he might, he hadn’t regained it in the hours since he’d left the elusive Lily locked behind this door.

Taking a lantern from the hook beside the door, he removed the bar from its brackets and entered the cell.

Lily sat up, shielding her eyes from the light. She leaned back against the damp stone wall and tried to ignore the way straw from the small heap she’d slept upon poked through her clothes. Although she knew she should stand—courtesy required it, not to mention the fact that she hated to have him tower over her—a night spent curled on the hard-packed dirt, after her midnight climb, had left her so stiff she could scarcely move. “Good morrow to you, Dragon,” she said, infusing her voice with the strength her body refused to supply. “Have you word from your master?”

“I am Lord Ian ap Dafydd of Gwal Draig.” He closed the door behind him and hung the lantern from a peg in the rafters. Three steps brought him across the narrow cell to stand at her feet. “No one calls me Dragon—to my face.”

Did he give her his full name—and the name of his home—apurpose, to show her own lack? Rage and hurt overcame Lily’s aches and brought her to her feet without pain. A glorious surge of power straightened her backbone and lifted her chin until she looked him in the eye. “I have never feared to be different, Lord Ian of Gwal Draig. I shall call you Dragon.” She brushed straw from her clothes with apparent unconcern.

She expected him to do something…anything. For reasons she’d rather not examine too closely, she welcomed the chance to cross swords with him once again. Lily braced herself for the storm.

But he did nothing, nothing at all, if she discounted the slight gleam in his eyes. Did she see a challenge there?

‘Twas a trick of the flickering light, more like. Lily bit her lip. She needed him to react, to lash back at her. Otherwise she’d never be able to sustain enough fire in her blood to do what she must. But his disregard of her meager show of defiance sapped her mettle. Fresh pain throbbed to life, making the simple act of standing torture. Shivers racked her, beyond her will to ignore.

Still silent, the Dragon left the chamber and returned with a three-legged stool. “Here, sit before you fall.” He slammed the stool down and, grabbing her by the shoulders, pushed her onto the seat.

She closed her eyes and rubbed at her arms, certain she’d bear the imprint of his strong, callused fingers for days to come. But he’d spared her the indignity of collapsing at his feet.

Rough wool settled over her shoulders and startled her into opening her eyes. The warm folds of fabric enveloped her in her captor’s scent. She tugged the cloak more tightly around her body and tried to ignore the sense of solace his unexpected gesture brought. It wouldn’t be wise to feel grateful to him, to owe him anything. Who could tell what the Dragon might demand in return?

“Are you ready to talk today?” he demanded, his voice gruff. He leaned back against the wall with complete disregard for the cold, slimy stones and folded his arms across his chest. “I’m curious. Why must you see Llywelyn? What is so important that you’d risk your life to get to him?”

Lily fought the seductive slide into comfort as the cloak warmed her body. Within her mind raged a furious debate. Should she tell him? Sweet Mary, she knew little enough herself. But she’d heard it said that the Dragon had Llywelyn’s favor—indeed, even his trust. He could help her, if he wished.

“Is Llywelyn even here?” The question had haunted her through the night. Until then, she hadn’t allowed herself to consider that her efforts might be for naught. The guard she’d spoken to—the one who’d refused her admittance to the keep even as he laughed at her request to see the mighty prince—had told her Llywelyn planned to stay at Dolwyddelan for a sennight more. But given his reaction to her, he might simply have been amusing himself further at her expense.

Lord Ian looked at her as if she were mad. “Do you mean to tell me you don’t know? I thought your actions foolish before, but now—” He shook his head.

“Just tell me,” she cried, rising from the stool and gathering the mantle about her. She wanted to pace, to move, but the chamber was too small and his cloak too long. She sighed her frustration. “Please.”

“Aye, he’s here. But I doubt he’ll see you. His labors begin with the dawn, and continue without cease until the sun is set. In the evening he makes time for nothing but merriment.” Did she detect scorn in his voice?

His face told her nothing, but what did his opinion of his master matter to her? She had run Llywelyn to ground at Dolwyddelan, climbed the curtain wall and survived. Relief weakened her already shaky knees. She plopped down on the stool. “Saints be praised,” she said, smiling.

Ian stared. Her smile transformed her face, and her green eyes appeared lit from within. Although dirty streaks still covered her cheeks, she looked happy. And beautiful.

Christ on the cross, had he turned into a besotted fool? He shifted his gaze to the narrow beam of sunlight streaming through a slit high in the wall. Somehow, this woman had addled his brain.

But he refused to give in to the temptation she presented. The image of a strong, unified Wales rose in his mind, the shrine he worshiped above all others. He’d likely given up all hope of heaven, of family and a life of his own, to attain that goal. A mere slip of a woman would not keep him from it.

He’d ignored far more compelling distractions, he reminded himself as he forced himself to look at her again.

Her smile had disappeared. Perhaps God’s light still shone upon him, after all.

“Would you plead my case, milord?” she asked. “It truly is important. I’d never have tried so hard to see him, otherwise.”

What harm could there be in it? Christ knew, she’d shown more valor than many a noble warrior. She’d earned her chance to speak—to him, at least. “I’ll hear what you have to say.”

“Thank you, sir.” Lily settled herself on the stool, her spine straight as an arrow, despite the fact that she had to ache like the devil. “I searched for the prince for more than a fortnight, though it seems as though my quest had gone on forever.”

“Where have you come from?”

“I’ve lived in the abbey of Saint Winifred all my life. My mother and I were boarders there.”

“What is your mother about, to permit you to wander the countryside alone?” He began to revise his initial opinion of her. No one of low degree boarded at an abbey, especially an abbey as wealthy as Saint Winifred’s. And her speech carried the refined tones of the nobility. His wits had gone begging. He should have noticed that immediately.

“My mother is dead, milord, this month past.” She made the sign of the cross. “May God grant her peace.” She closed her eyes, sadness etched upon her face.

Perhaps grief at her mother’s death had confused her, sent her upon this senseless journey. “Surely you must have family,” he said, ignoring the way her eyes had filled with tears—-just as they had last night. “Someone must have paid the abbey to keep you. The Church’s charity doesn’t stretch that far.”

Lily shook her head and met his gaze. She believed what she told him, he could see it. And no cloud of madness or confusion tainted the clear emerald of her eyes. “The abbess, Sister Maud, swore my mother was the only family I had. And that our board had been paid, and would continue to be paid, by a benefactor unknown to her.”

“Surely the bishop—”

“I sought him out first of all, once I’d escaped the confines of the abbey.”

“Escaped? They had no right to hold you,” Ian said. The more she told him, the less he understood. Nothing she’d said made sense.

She stood up, slipped his cloak from her shoulders and placed it carefully on the stool. “There are many ways to hold someone close by without making them a prisoner, Dragon. The sisters never locked me up. They simply made certain I had no opportunity to leave.” A winsome smile lit her face. “But I used their own ways against them. All my life they sought to school me to patience. So I bided my time and lulled their suspicions. Eventually a chance arose and I took it.” She laughed. “I truly doubt they care that I am gone—I’ve been a trial to them since I first learned to speak.”

He could imagine it. “What did the bishop say?”

She paced the narrow confines of the cell before she replied. “I never saw the bishop himself. But his clerk assured me the bishop knew nothing about my situation. And I could scarce return to Saint Winifred’s to question the abbess. I’d never get away again.”

When would she come to the point? He could have growled with frustration, but he pushed the feeling deep. If only he had patience, he’d learn what he wanted to know—sooner or later.

But he had more important things to do than listen to a mysterious young woman recount her meandering tale. “How does Llywelyn fit into this? He isn’t a patron of Saint Winifred’s, I know that for a fact. And I doubt even he has the power to force the bishop to tell you anything.” Straightening, he crossed the room and stood before her. “What is it you want from Llywelyn?”

“I think he knows who I am.”

Ian shook his head in disbelief and bit back a laugh. “Do you think the prince so powerful he knows all— and everyone—within his domain? I cannot believe God himself has such dominion.”

Lily looked at him as if he, and not she, were the fool. “While my mother lay close to death, I could swear I heard one of the sisters ask another if they should send word to Llywelyn. When I mentioned it to the abbess, she turned my question around and never gave me an answer. That way she did not have to lie, if it were true. Sister Maud prides herself on her honesty,” she added, her voice scornful.

She held her hand out to him in supplication. “My mother was all I had, though she rarely knew me. I have nowhere else to turn, milord, and nothing left to lose. I am tired of being alone. All I want is to find some place where I belong.”

That, he could understand. It did not bother him to be on his own, but he also had his sister, Catrin, and his cousin Gillian, to turn to when he tired of his own company. And Llywelyn was his kinsman, as well as his overlord.

He chose to live a solitary life. Lily didn’t have that choice.

“Is there anything else I should know? Your mother’s name, at least—you must know that.”

“Nay. Everyone called her ‘milady.’ I never heard her name.” She sighed. “You must understand—she lived in a world all her own, a world filled with people who didn’t exist. I believe ‘twas why she’d been sent to the abbey. No one wanted to care for her, most like. But she wasn’t mad, just filled with sadness. No one could lift her from it”

Something inside Ian recoiled at the lonely life Lily had led and the matter-of-fact way she spoke of it. He couldn’t imagine a childhood spent without a mother’s love. And it didn’t sound as though the sisters of Saint Winifred’s Abbey had spared any affection for Lily. His parents had been everything to him; he would have done anything to save them, if he could. Their loss was a pain he buried deep and refused to expose.

Perhaps he could help her. “I will do what I can for you.”

She reached out and took his arm in a firm clasp. “Thank you. You have no idea how grateful I am, milord.”

He looked down at her hand. He liked the way it felt, far too much. So he did what he had to to make the feeling go away. “I make you no promises. Llywelyn may not wish to hear what I have to say. He has little time to waste on one person’s petty concerns.”

She released him immediately. But the wounded expression in her eyes lingered, long after the warmth of her touch faded from his arm. “I understand. And I appreciate whatever you can do, sir.” She turned and picked up his cloak. “I’ll bother you no further,” she said, holding the bundle out to him.

“Keep it.” He crossed the room swiftly, feeling as if he’d kicked a helpless animal. “You need it more than I.” Cursing under his breath, he jerked the door open and made good his escape before he did something even more gallant.

And more stupid.

Lily huddled within the welcoming folds of the Dragon’s cloak and struggled yet again to recall any snippet of information useful to her quest. She’d racked her brain on numerous occasions over the course of her journey, but so far, she could remember very little.

Her life at the abbey had consisted mainly of endless days of stultifying boredom. The only child among the few boarders, she’d counted herself fortunate when an elderly noblewoman enlisted her help to spin or sew. Rarer still had been the chance to venture beyond the cloister walls into town. The games the village children played in the meadows, running and shrieking with joyous abandon, were as foreign to her as the sight of a man of fewer than fifty years. Other than their elderly priest, she’d seen men only from a distance. The sisters had been careful to keep her close by on their infrequent forays into the village.

She’d been astounded by the size and strength of men when her travels took her into a town, alone. And their crude suggestions had shocked her, though not for long. But she didn’t fear them, a fact that surprised her. Indeed, she found nearly everyone she encountered a refreshing change from the occupants of the abbey, with their regimented lives and devotion to duty.

In a way, this journey was the embodiment of a childhood dream. How many times had she lain in the grass, staring at the birds flying overhead and envying them their freedom? She’d always known a whole new world existed beyond the abbey walls. Now she had the opportunity to explore it.

There had been a gatekeeper at the abbey years ago, a very old man who’d traveled far and wide. He told her of lands and people different from any she’d ever known. His brief stay at the abbey shone as a rare bright spot in her memory. She’d never forgotten the tales he’d shared with her.

If the Dragon couldn’t help her, perhaps she’d make her way south, to Pembroke or Manorbier. Each castle had its own town, of a size she could scarcely imagine. Strangers from foreign lands came there to trade, bringing with them news of places far beyond her ken.

Though she knew that for many the cloister provided a safe haven, to her it had been a prison. She’d never return, no matter what she had to do to survive.

The sound of the bar thumping against the door startled her. Her heart pounding wildly, she stood and tossed aside the cloak. Had the Dragon returned so soon?

The door flew open beneath the force of two brawny men. Before she could do more than gasp, one entered the cell and grabbed her roughly by the arm, while the other stood guard in the doorway.

He pulled her arms behind her and bound them with a coarse rope. “What are you doing?” she asked. Already her shoulders throbbed with pain, so tight were the bonds. “Did Lord Ian order this?”

“Ye’re to come with us,” the guard said. “Don’t give us trouble, missy, else ye might get hurt.” He wrapped a musty rag around her mouth and tied it behind her head.

He gave her a shove to start her moving. Her feet slipped in the loose straw, and she scrambled for purchase, stumbled and almost fell on her face. Her burly escort saved her from that fate, but her arms felt wrenched from their sockets.

For the first time since the Dragon hauled her up the wall, she felt afraid. Her guards set a hellish pace. She tried to keep up, but they made no accommodation for her shorter legs as they hauled her through a maze of dark, winding corridors. The filthy gag made her cough; the fear in her throat made it almost impossible to breathe.

The ground sloped downward, the hard-packed dirt grew uneven. The distance between torches grew so great that she could scarce make out the walls. For all she knew, this might be the passageway to hell itself.

Her arms numb, Lily struggled to find her way, a task made more difficult when the hallway narrowed. One of the men continued to shove her ahead of him, pushing her into the rough-hewn stones whenever the walls curved.

Suddenly he jerked back on her bonds. Lily bit back a groan; her arms still had feeling, after all. Cruel hands dug at the knot holding her arms, then jerked the gag from her mouth before spinning her about and thrusting her into the shadows.

She landed on her hands and knees. The impact sent unbearable pain through her already aching body. But she found her footing and crawled to her feet “Wait!” she cried. “Where have you brought me?”

Silence was her only reply.

Then metal clanged against metal, and the darkness became complete.

Chapter Three

Lily bit back a whimper. The shadows pressed in on her from all sides as she wavered on her feet, then sank to her knees beneath their weight.

Her arms hung, useless, from her shoulders, yet already they tingled with the return of sensation. She forced her fingers to move despite the fiery pain, hoping to speed up the process. For now, any further motion was impossible.

Only darkness met her frantic gaze. Darkness meant the unknown. Her mind envisioned a thousand formless terrors lurking all around her. She drew a deep breath. Perhaps if she learned the bounds of her new prison, it would cease to frighten her. Since she could not see in the impenetrable gloom, she closed her eyes and concentrated on her other senses. The air tasted dank and moist upon her tongue. A foul stench emanated from somewhere to her left; she’d be careful not to move in that direction.

She had no intention of standing up, lest there be spiders or some other horrid creatures above her.

The faint sound of scurrying she recognized. Rats, loathsome but familiar. So long as they kept their distance, she had no objection to sharing her cell with them. She found their company preferable to that of the men who’d dragged her here.

Why had they brought her here?

She hadn’t been surprised when the Dragon had locked her up. Though she posed no threat to anyone, she could see the need for caution, especially in the prince’s keep. If the guards had been willing to allow a stranger in to see Llywelyn, she wouldn’t have ended up on the wall—or in the Dragon’s custody.

The sudden chill in her heart rivaled the cold air surrounding her. The Dragon had to be responsible for her new accommodations. She thought he understood her dilemma, the need that had driven her to Dolwyddelan.

How could he do this to her? And why?

Lily huddled in a ball on the floor, her arms wrapped tight about her knees for warmth and comfort. His betrayal cut deep. Although she’d confided in him, trusted him with her story, he owed her nothing. And the pull of attraction she felt in his presence simply meant she was ignorant of men, a fool.

Shame and anger jolted her. Self-pity solved nothing. Her journey thus far hadn’t been easy, but she knew her situation could be worse. Battered and bruised, cold and hungry—she’d been all those things before. But she was still whole and healthy, with a spirit to match.

She would survive. And triumph.

A lifetime spent within the imprisoning walls of Saint Winifred’s Abbey had taught her the value of patience. She’d use that patience again. What else could she do but familiarize herself with her surroundings and make her plans? In time she would discover what the Dragon wanted of her, why he’d sent her here.

And he would learn her spirit would not break so easily.

Ian’s interview with Llywelyn haunted him long after he left his overlord’s presence. Something about the meeting disturbed him, though he had yet to figure out why. Llywelyn had listened to his words and agreed to consider permitting Lily to meet with him soon. There was nothing unusual about that, contrary to what he’d led Lily to believe. Llywelyn possessed a deep sense of curiosity and a well-developed mind. Ian admired his ability to look ahead and plan for the future.

It was their shared vision of a united Welsh people that had led Ian to join forces with Llywelyn. Llywelyn could bring that dream to fruition, draw together the independent nobles into a power to be reckoned with, whether dealing with Norman tyrants—or Welsh ones.

In this quest, he’d committed deeds he could never have imagined in his youth, before the destruction of his family. The bastards responsible for his parents’ deaths had paid with their worthless lives long ago, but his desire for justice remained. He knew his sister wondered at the change in him, perhaps even mourned the loss of the man he had once been. When he looked back at that innocent, he did not recognize himself. But what did that matter, in the greater scheme of things?

He would do anything necessary to achieve his goal.

At times, that task seemed nigh impossible. His latest chore promised to tax his patience—and that of his small company from Gwal Draig—to the limit. Dai and several others had joined him in the bailey to watch as ten young men from the hills—future warriors all, he reminded himself with a snort of disbelief—played at mock combat.

“D’ye think any of them has ever seen a weapon close up, milord?” Dai asked, his voice choked with pent-up laughter. “Look at how they’re holding their swords. Were we ever so daft?”

“I hope ‘tis just ignorance, not stupidity. We’ll find out soon enough.” He saw nothing to laugh about in the chaotic scene. Rarely did they find men like these, freemen without an overlord to command their loyalty. With luck, they’d gain some decent fighters, always in short supply. If not, he didn’t doubt he could find some task for them. He’d suggested this exercise to determine what he had to work with.

But he could tell right off. Shepherds and farmers, the lot of them. When he could no longer stand to watch their clumsy attempts, he stripped off his shirt and tunic and, snatching a practice sword off the ground, leaped into the fray.

His first battle roar sent half the company to the curtain wall, backs pressed against the stone. They blanched and shook with terror, much to the onlookers’ amusement. Once he began to lay about him with the dull blade, only two men held their ground to parry his attack.

Their movements were awkward, but he saw their confidence increase with every swing of his sword. He didn’t try to overpower them—he wanted to test their mettle, if they had any, not scare them off. But, unlike the others, they rose to the challenge and worked harder still.

After a time, one stepped away, sweat streaming down his face as he gasped for breath. But the other pressed on, grinning, his eyes alight with the joy of battle.

Ian pushed harder and brought him to his knees, the blade at his throat. “Do you yield?”

“Aye, m-milord,” the youth stammered. He looked Ian straight in the eyes. “But only ‘cause I got no choice.”

“Get up.” Ian handed the sword to one of his men and picked up his shirt. “You and you—” he nodded to his other opponent “—come with me. The rest of you,” he said, raising his voice to reach the men along the wall, “stay here with Dai. See if you can learn something from him.”

Dai rolled his eyes and offered a mocking salute. “Whatever I did to offend you, milord, I apologize—a thousand times over. By Christ, you don’t really expect me to make fighters out a them, do you?”

“We need every man we can get. If you can’t teach them to use a sword or a bow, at the least they should be able to handle a spear. It’s not too different from a shepherd’s crook,” he added dryly. He tugged his shirt over his head. “When you’ve finished here for the afternoon, come to me in my chamber. I’ve another task for you, one I’m sure you’ll find more to your liking.”

Laughing at Dai’s grumbled curses, Ian led his two apprentices away.

He practiced with them until they looked ready to drop and he’d worked up a sweat, as well. But the labor brought satisfaction, as hard work always did; he couldn’t help smiling as he returned to his room to wash and change his filthy clothing before the evening meal.

He found Dai leaning against the wall outside his room. His lieutenant’s sparse, grizzled locks stood out from his head as though he’d dragged his hands though them more than once. “Seems you had a good afternoon,” he snarled as Ian unlocked the door and motioned him into the room. He flopped onto a stool with the ease of long acquaintance. “Wish I could say the same.”

Ian grinned. “I think we’ll make fighters out of those two.” He filled a pair of mugs with mead and handed one to Dai. “Here. Your favorite, made by my sister’s own hands. I can see you need it. Getting too old for this work? You know there’s a place for you at Gwal Draig.” He tried not to laugh at Dai’s expression of disgust at the familiar taunt—and his typical reply.

“Aye, beneath six feet of dirt.” Dai drained the brew, then stood up and helped himself to more. “They worked you over good, eh, lad?” he asked, tugging on the trailing cuff of Ian’s sleeve.

“Not a scratch on me. They look worse than I do. I doubt they’ll be jumping too lively with the ladies tonight.” He finished his mead in one swallow, then poured water to wash. “Did you have any luck with the others?” he asked, without much hope. Yawning, he stripped off his shirt and tossed it onto the chest, then stretched the kinks out of his shoulders.

“Are you daft? You know as well as I, that lot’ll never be ready. Even after all I put them through,” he said, his voice tinged with exasperation, “or mayhap because of it, most of them will still turn tail at the first sign of battle.” He sipped at his mead, then asked, “What of the lad you pulled from the wall last night? Anyone willing to try that must have a measure of courage.”

In the process of scooping cold water over his head, Ian chuckled, and he came up sputtering. He groped for the drying cloth. “That she does.”

“Something wrong with my ears, lad? I could swear ye said ‘she.’”

“I did.”

He took his time drying off, savoring the other man’s glare. Dai hated to wait more than almost anything. ‘Twould do him good to learn patience. By the time Ian had tugged a clean shirt over his head and picked up his comb, Dai looked ready to explode. “She’s the reason I asked you here.”

“Who is she?”

“She says she doesn’t know.”

Dai leaped to his feet. “Did she hit her head on the way up the wall?” He slammed his empty cup onto the table. “Or did you hit yours? Enough of your foolery, milord. ‘Tis a jest, am I right?”

“’Tis no jest. ‘Tis more a puzzle.” He walked over to the bed and stared down at the place where Lily had sprawled. He could see her there still, her hair shining against the dull gray coverlet. That image had haunted his dreams, just as the look on her face when he agreed to help her had dominated his thoughts throughout the day. Mayhap he’d have time to see her before the evening meal. He’d take Dai to meet her, he decided, instead of simply sending him—

“Come on then, milord,” Dai said, cutting into his thoughts. “Can’t say something like that, then leave me hanging. Tell me more.”

“In good time. Will you allow me to finish dressing, or must I parade through the bailey bare-assed?” Ian asked as he settled a clean tunic over his shirt and leggings.

Dai snorted. “Aye, the ladies’d like that, I make no doubt. Not that you’d notice. Never saw a man turn away so many invitations as you, milord.”

“It’s not me they want, but the chance to bed the Dragon. Besides, ‘tis damned difficult to lay a wench who’s staring at you with fear in her eyes,” Ian said with disgust.

“So don’t look at their eyes. Christ, how’d you get so choosy? If the lass is a toothsome armful and willing, what does the rest matter?”

“It matters to me.” Ian scanned the room for his cloak before he remembered he’d left it with Lily. He didn’t need it, anyway. His blood had flowed hot from the moment he first tussled with her. The feel of her in his arms remained imprinted upon his body.

And his mind.

Dai’s words made him think of her vivid green eyes. He had recognized many things in her gaze when it rested so steadily upon him. But he hadn’t seen fear among them.

Jesu, he grew maudlin! Next thing he knew, he’d start composing a song about the way her hair glowed in the candlelight. Perhaps he’d spent too much time in his Norman brother-in-law’s company and his courtly manners had rubbed off on him.

A quick glance at the sky through the window slit showed the sun hovering just above the horizon. If he wanted to take Dai to meet Lily before supper, they had best go now.

“Come along, old man,” he said, urging Dai away from the mead and out the door. “I’ll show you a woman who doesn’t know how to fear.”

“Indeed, milord.” Dai squinted at his face in the dim light of the corridor; Ian felt the measuring weight of his scrutiny. “And how would you know that?”

“She calls me Dragon.”

Ian fought back a smile as they left the tower and crossed the bailey. Seldom did he move Dai to silence, but the other man hadn’t said a word since his last comment. Although he valued Dai’s counsel, and trusted him implicitly, he often found himself only half listening as he prattled on.

He picked up his pace as he led the way down the stairs into the cellars, but then stopped dead in the corridor. No guard stood outside the cell.

And the bar to the door lay on the floor, as though tossed aside in haste.

Motioning to Dai to keep silent, Ian drew his sword and crept forward, then pushed on the door. It swung inward in a slow, creaking arc, revealing the darkness within.

Dai snatched a torch from the wall and handed it to him. Sword at the ready, Ian entered the cell.

He paced the narrow boundaries, but of Lily he found no sign. The three-legged stool sat where he’d placed it, his cloak draped over the seat, the only clues that his visit hadn’t been a dream.

“Lord Ian.”

He whirled at the sound of Dai’s voice, then kicked the stool aside and snatched his cloak off the floor. “Where is she?”

The formless suspicions he’d harbored after meeting with Llywelyn crowded into his head, a jumble of curiosity and accusation, barely noticed hints that something wasn’t right. He should have followed his instincts, sent Dai off to investigate sooner, instead of—

“Mayhap Llywelyn let her go,” Dai commented.

“He hadn’t agreed to see her. Even if he decided to meet with her, he would have sent for me to be there, as well. I’m the one who questioned her.”

“What does it matter, lad? She was here, now she’s gone. You said yourself she didn’t know who she was.” Dai shook his head. “I know for a fact you’ve got more important work to do than this.”

But it did matter. “There’s something strange about this. The situation Lily described seemed odd.” He righted the stool and sat down, his mind working furiously. “I want you to go to Saint Winifred’s Abbey once we discover what has happened here. I’m certain you’ll have better luck finding answers than a lone young woman would,” he said pointedly.

“Aye, milord.”

“But first we need to find her.” Ian rose to his feet. “Come. Let’s see what Llywelyn has to say about this.”

The prince had yet to leave his chamber for supper, which suited Ian’s purpose. He’d rather not discuss the mysterious Lily before all and sundry in the hall.

Once the meal ended, the revelry would begin. And when the wine began to flow, any kind of conversation would be impossible.

“May we speak with you privately, milord?” Ian asked. At Llywelyn’s nod, he ushered Dai into the chamber. “I’ve matters of importance to discuss.”

Llywelyn returned his attention to a basin of water as Ian pulled the door closed with a sharp snap. His expression revealed nothing but impatience as he took his time drying his hands on a strip of fine linen.

Tossing the towel aside, he crossed the room to a table in the center and picked up a jeweled chalice. “Would you care for wine?” He poured the deep red liquid from a pitcher, sending the scent of spices wafting through the air.

Ian declined the wine and the offer of a chair, then waited impatiently as Dai accepted a goblet and joined the prince at the table. Finally the niceties were satisfied, and Ian got down to business.

“I went back to see the girl, to tell her you would deal with her once you had more time.” He watched his kinsman’s face with interest, although he kept his own expression casual, disinterested. “I planned to release her from the cell, since she poses no threat to anyone.” He toyed with a thread on the sleeve of his tunic, continuing to observe Llywelyn from beneath lowered brows. “I was surprised to find she wasn’t there.”

All Llywelyn’s attention seemed focused upon his wine. Then he glanced up and met Ian’s gaze. Ian could see nothing in the other man’s face but a mild annoyance, gone so swiftly he might have imagined it.

“You needn’t have bothered,” Llywelyn said. “Any more than you should have bothered me with her tale in the first place. I know nothing of her or her mother, and so I told her.”

“Then where is she?” Ian demanded.

“She had no wish to stay, once she saw I could not help her. A guard escorted her from the castle.” Llywelyn raised the goblet to his lips and avoided Ian’s scrutiny. “She’s here no longer. Beyond that, I cannot say.”

Chapter Four

A light glowed before her, shining through a small slit set high in the door. She had to be dreaming. Lily raised her head from her updrawn knees and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. She looked again, but the light didn’t disappear. Instead, it shone brighter.

“Who’s there?” she called, slowly rising to her feet. A strange shuffling noise, accompanied by the rustle of fabric, came from the corridor. No one answered.

She had no way to mark the passage of time, but her rumbling stomach told her that many hours had passed since she’d broken her fast. Perhaps one of the guards had returned with food. They had to feed her sometime—didn’t they?

Though her body protested with every step, she made her way toward the door. The wide, metal-banded planks felt solid and impenetrable when she leaned her weight against them. She ran her hand along the edge, where the door met rough plaster and stone, but she couldn’t find a handle. Anyone lodged here was meant to stay.

She had to crane her neck to see out the window. The glare from a torch blinded her, but her nose worked all too well. Coughing, she moved down from the opening and slumped back against the wall.

She couldn’t imagine anything that could cause such an indescribable stench. Whatever it was had to be on the other side of the door. Even the dank, fetid air of her cell smelled better.

She filled her lungs before rising on tiptoe to peer out once more. She blinked several times, until her vision adjusted to the brightness.

The sight that met her eyes had to be a fiend of Satan. She couldn’t imagine how anyone could suffer such injuries and live. She’d seen cripples before—many had come to the abbey for help—but never had she encountered such a horrifying combination of infirmities.

Bent almost double, he leaned on a rough stick, one misshapen foot twisted at an unnatural angle. A scraggly beard covered most of his face, but through the silver-shot hair she could see that his nose and one cheek had been smashed nearly flat. His left eyelid drooped closed. His forehead, and the hand that held the torch in an unsteady grip, were covered with scars.

“Might not want to look,” he rasped. “I’m not a pretty sight.” His laugh had a maniacal quality to it, sending a shiver down Lily’s spine. She crossed herself, thanking God this unfortunate creature couldn’t see her—or the loathing and pity she couldn’t hide.

“Who are you? Why have you come here?” she asked when she found her voice. She backed away from the door to catch a breath. “Are you here to let me out?”

“Nay. I saw the guards bring you here. ’Tis the first chance I’ve had to follow. I wanted to see for myself.” He shuffled away from the door and placed the torch in a bracket on the wall. “A shame I can’t reach the window —I didn’t get a good look when they dragged you from the other cell. But I heard about you.”

He’d heard about her? Was his mind as twisted as his body? Even if she had the Dragon to thank for her new accommodations, she couldn’t believe he’d discussed her with that…creature out there.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

He laughed again, a humorless sound. “I had a noble name, and power, once, not so long ago. But that man is dead—or so I hear.” He coughed, sounding as if he were choking. “Until I can prove them wrong. You can call me Toad. ’Tis as good a name as any, for now.”

She stared at him again, forcing herself to take in every wretched detail. He must be a madman. He could no more be noble than she.

But even a madman deserved pity, as long as he did no harm. And from the sound of him, he wasn’t long for this world—a blessing, she had no doubt. She’d listen to him ramble, just to hear another human voice. But she didn’t have to look at him.

She stepped away from the door. Sweet Mary, his image was already etched upon her mind’s eye. And he wouldn’t know whether she could see him or not.

She moved to the middle of the floor and sank down upon the cold stones, drawing her knees to her chest and gulping great breaths of fresher air. “So tell me, Toad, what have you heard of me? I’ve been here but a day—hardly anyone knows I’m here.”

“My honored kinsman knows. Though he isn’t quite certain what to do with you. Have a care, girl—you’ve upset his schemes. He doesn’t like it when that happens.”

Did all madmen speak in riddles? Just so had her mother rambled on. Their words made no sense to any but themselves, and woe betide those who tried to understand them. She’d found ‘twas best to let them wander. It harmed no one—although it frustrated Lily no end not to understand.

“Should I fear for my life, then?” God knew, she’d thought of little else since the cell door had slammed shut behind her.

He chuckled again, an evil sound over the restless shuffling as he moved about. “Perhaps.”

She’d kept her gaze on the window while they spoke, grateful for even the dim glow from the corridor. But suddenly the light faded. “Wait!” She sprang to her feet and rushed to the door. “You cannot leave!”

Especially not after his last remark. She needed to know more—

Lily stretched, catching a glimpse of him, but he’d almost disappeared from view. “Toad! Come back!”

“Sleep well, milady,” he called as he rounded a bend in the corridor.

Leaving her in total darkness once more.

Frustration left Ian feeling like a caged beast. He prowled the confines of his chamber, his body as restless as his mind. He knew Llywelyn had lied to him, could feel it deep within his bones. He’d witnessed that act of innocence too often not to recognize it now. He simply didn’t understand why Llywelyn would treat him thus.

“Quit your pacing and sit down, milord,” Dai snapped. He shoved a stool in Ian’s direction. “All this stomping about is making me daft. You’re acting like a spoiled little lordling. Christ, man, use the brain God gave ye.”

He forced himself to stop, and faced Dai, letting the words sink in. When would he learn to listen with his head, instead of his emotions? Most of the time, he could keep his temper contained. But Dai had witnessed it often enough in private that it had no effect on him— except to exasperate him.

Nodding, Ian righted the stool and sat down. “He’s lying. We both know it.”

“Aye. And why would he do that, milord? I think you’d better tell me more about this girl.”

“Woman,” he corrected absently. “She’s a woman full grown.”

“Is she? Is that what’s got your head in a spin, lad? I’d never have believed it of ye, but there’s a first time for everything. Even a dragon needs a mate.”

Dai knew him too well.

“Something about her haunts me,” he admitted. “Although she’s dirty, and wears men’s clothes, there’s a…beauty about her. She won’t leave me alone.”

“Tell me about her, and what you want me to do.”

It didn’t take long, he knew so little.

“I want you to go to Saint Winifred’s Abbey and find out all you can. Something about this bothers me— all the more because of Llywelyn’s reaction. I’ll nose around tonight. She could still be here.”

“Should I wait till the morn to leave?” Dai asked.

“Aye. No need to arouse suspicions. Take two men with you. If anyone asks, I’ll say you have business for me at Gwal Draig. But get back to Gwal Draig as swiftly as you can. If I cannot meet you there, I’ll send word. I mislike this entire situation.”

He ushered Dai out, then went to stand by the window. Darkness had fallen. He stared out into the welcoming shadows and sought counsel from the night.

The wisest course would be to return to the hall, as he did most evenings, but the chances he’d learn anything of value there were virtually nonexistent. Perhaps he ought to share a few ales with the castle guard in their quarters. No one would think anything of it. He’d done so before.

Whether Lily had left Dolwyddelan of her own volition, as Llywelyn maintained, or had simply been moved, someone had to have seen her.

He would find her.

And when he did, somebody would pay.

By midnight, Ian felt awash in ale but no closer to finding Lily. His feet heavy on the tower stairs, he sought the cool night air. He needed to clear his head before deciding what to do next. After half a night spent dicing and drinking, the only information he had was that no one had seen her leave.

So either Llywelyn had lied to him, or the guards at the castle gates had all gone blind. In his present mood, ‘twas all he could do to prevent himself confronting his princely kinsman and demanding the truth.

That would gain him nothing.

No one had seen Lily outside, but there were bound to be passageways throughout the keep that he didn’t know about. A smart man always left himself an escape route. He would return to Lily’s cell and investigate further.

There wouldn’t be a better time. No one had any business in the cellars at this time of night.

He moved quickly through the shadows and retrieved a shuttered lantern and his cloak from his chamber. He saw no one as he slipped into the cellars and closed the door behind him.

As far as he knew, none of the cells held prisoners. He should be able to search to his heart’s content. A rabbit warren of corridors lay deep beneath the keep. He’d never had reason to explore them before, so he set about it in a methodical fashion.

From the number of undisturbed spiderwebs he found, he knew that some areas hadn’t been occupied in quite a while. But several passages could have been used recently. He chose the widest and set off.

He hadn’t gone more than fifteen paces before the corridor ended in a wall.

Ian smiled.

Only a fool built a passageway leading nowhere. He set the lantern on the floor, then felt around the edges of the wall, pushing and prodding at the stones until his patience was rewarded. Just as he had suspected, the wall was actually a door. Surprisingly silent, it opened inward. Picking up the lamp, he pushed on.

The air had a sweetish scent overlaying a dank, earthy odor, as if something had died. The stench, combined with the ale he’d consumed, made his stomach roil in protest. But he kept walking. The ceiling dropped so low his hair brushed against the splintery planks above him. Crouched low over the lantern, he almost missed the two doors to his left.

“Lily?” he called, banging on the first door with his fist. “Are you here?”

He heard the sound of footsteps, then pounding on the other door. “Dragon?”

He couldn’t mistake that voice.

And no one else called him Dragon.

Holding the lantern high, he turned toward the door. “Aye, Lily, it’s me.”

He tugged on the door, but the lock held firm. “There’s no key,” he said after scanning the area. “I’ll have to try my dirk.”

When he lowered the lamp to the floor, Lily called out, “Don’t take away the light.” He could understand her plea; it must be black as pitch inside the cell. He hooked the lantern over the wall pricket and drew out his dirk.

The blade scarcely fit in the lock, but Ian took his time. If he snapped the knife off, he’d never get her out on his own.

And he had no intention of seeking help, now that he saw where they’d put her. Locking her away down here could only be a deliberate attempt to keep her hidden.

Most likely from him.

Slowly, gently, he wiggled the knife, until he felt the lock give. He pulled the dirk free, shoved it back in its scabbard and yanked the door open.

Lily leaped into his arms with an inarticulate cry.

He gathered her quivering body close and held her tight, smoothing his hand over her tangled hair. “Hush,” he whispered. She tried to speak, but the words came out jumbled and indistinct. “Slowly, sweeting. Hush. It’s all right.”

He held her as he would an injured child, trying not to notice the way her body fit so well to his, nor the softness of her hair beneath his cheek.

But his body would not listen. Heat rose in his blood, intensifying her scent, magnifying the feel of her pliant curves pressed against his hardness.

Carrying her with him, he stepped back into the corridor, into the light. He framed her face with his hands and stared into the eyes that had haunted him, asleep and awake, for the past day. She met his gaze, stare for stare, until, with a muttered curse, he crushed his lips to hers.

Her mouth didn’t move, but neither did she try to push him away. She kissed like a child, lips pressed to lips. He gentled his hold and showed her another way.

He outlined her mouth with his tongue, then nibbled at her lips until they opened enough to allow him entrance. Pressing on the corners of her mouth with his thumbs, he urged her to give him more.

She sighed and took a step back, her eyes wide. Then, grabbing the front of his tunic in her fists, she pulled him close again.

But this time she burrowed her face against his chest and clung to him. “Why did you send me here?”

“How could you think that?” He drew back enough to see her face. That she believed what she said, he could not doubt, not after searching her eyes.

“No one else knew about me.” She eased her hands from his mantle and smoothed the wrinkled fabric. “And you’d locked me away already.”

“Only because I didn’t know what else to do with you. I’ve never found a woman scaling the castle walls to see Llywelyn before,” he said, his heart pounding harder in remembrance. “I did not send you here.” He held her gaze until he thought she believed him.

A shiver coursed through her; her skin felt icy beneath his hands. He drew his cloak off and wrapped her securely within its warm folds. “They didn’t give me a chance to take this,” she said, her voice faint.

He pulled her into his arms again, just to warm her, he told himself. Never mind that holding her brought him a measure of comfort, as well.

“Who brought you here? And when?”

Lily closed her eyes, as if trying to remember—or to forget. “Two men burst into my cell, before midday, I think. They bound my arms and gagged me, then dragged me here. ’Twas too dark—I could not see. Before I realized what they were about, they untied me and shoved me in here.”

He could feel the effort it took for her to recount the tale so calmly. But her voice stayed even, almost emotionless. He knew she was frightened, but she hid it well. Few men had her courage. He brushed a kiss across her brow and held her close a moment longer.

“We must leave,” he told her. “You’ll be safer away from this place, while we decide what to do.” He released her slowly, reluctant to let go.

Lily grabbed his sleeve. “If you didn’t send me here, who did?”

“I’ll tell you later, once we’re away from here. Come, don’t you want to leave?” He’d rather wait until she’d had a chance to eat and get warm before he told her his suspicions.

Besides, he wanted to learn more before he leveled his accusations against the man she’d come to for help.

Llywelyn.

He drew his knife again, weapon enough in such close quarters, should he need it. She stared at the dirk, then his face, for what seemed forever, thinking he knew not what. But she must have found what she sought, for she nodded once. “Lead the way, Dragon,” she said. She unhooked the lantern from the wall, then tucked her hand in the crook of his arm. “I trust you.”

He might well be the only person here she could trust, he thought as he closed the cell door.

He’d do whatever he must to prove himself worthy of it.

Lily clung to the Dragon’s arm, her grip barely short of desperation, as he led her through the labyrinth of passageways. She expected Toad—or some other creature like him—to slither into their path at any moment. Even with enough light to see, ‘twas a frightening place.

The relief she felt at the knowledge that Lord Ian hadn’t sent her into the cryptlike cell was near overwhelming.

But if not the Dragon, then who?

Toad said he knew who had sent her there, and much else, besides. But how could she believe such an obviously deranged person? Nothing he’d told her made any sense.

And he certainly didn’t appear to be someone a prince would confide in.

No, she’d simply have to be patient. The Dragon would tell her what he knew, when the time was right. She knew he’d keep her safe.

She knew he was worthy of her trust.

When the corridor seemed to end, he gently eased her hand from his arm and took the lantern. “In case anyone’s watching,” he said, extinguishing the light and plunging them into complete darkness once more. Before she could ask him what he was about, the Dragon pushed on the edge of the wall and a door pivoted toward them. He stood silently for a moment— listening, she concluded—then handed her the lantern. “Come—no one will see us now,” he whispered. Grasping her by the elbow, he led her through the corridor.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked. Not back to the other cell, surely?

“To my chamber, for now. We’ll decide what else to do in the morning.”

They skulked around the dimly lit boundary of the bailey with far more stealth than on the previous night. But except for the fact that this time she was able to walk, instead of riding slung over the Dragon’s shoulder, it felt much the same.

Lord Ian ap Dafydd seemed most comfortable lurking in the shadows, from what she’d seen of him thus far. She could feel a darkness within him; perhaps ‘twas why he sought the shadows instinctively.

But although she should probably fear that side of him, it intrigued her.

Especially since he’d kissed her.

She sensed he’d held himself in check—his touch had been quite gentle—but she’d felt a wildness simmering on the edge of her awareness.

That might have been nothing more than a reflection of the heat that bubbled through her veins at the mere thought of his lips touching hers. He drew her to him by means of some invisible thread—a look, a touch, all it took to make her want to return to his arms.

No doubt he’d be horrified if he knew. She was naught but a stranger to him, ignorant of men and women, no one of importance.

And he was Llywelyn’s Dragon.

She’d know better the next time her emotions threatened to overwhelm her. The first time, she could pass off as an accident; if she did it again, he’d know her for a fool.

With luck, she’d find out what she needed to know soon, perhaps on the morrow. Then she’d be on her way.

And the Dragon need never know how he’d singed her heart.

Chapter Five

Once again Lily waited outside the Dragon’s chamber while he found his key, then turned it in the lock. But this time he kept her behind him when he slipped through the door into the dark room, his dagger in one hand, the other wrapped about the hilt of his sword.

She wondered at his caution, until he shoved her backward as the room filled with light. She fell sideways into the corridor, landing on the floor and bumping her head against the stone wall. Though her head reeled, she sat up and groped for the lantern to use as a weapon. Before she got a good grip on the handle, someone wrenched it from her hand. She glared up at the soldier, then slumped back against the doorway.

The Dragon slashed wildly at two armed men and laid open the face of one with his knife. As the fighter spun away, a voice cried, “Hold, Ian! Would you murder our own people?”

Lily blinked to clear her foggy vision. Lord Ian slowly lowered his sword and stepped closer to her. “Nay, milord,” he said. Without turning to face her, he reached down to help her to her feet. She took his hand and pulled herself up beside him. He gestured to the four guards in the room, meeting the wounded man’s glare with a mirthless smile. “Do you threaten us?”

The speaker came toward them from the shadowy end of the room. Though dressed no differently than the others, he wore authority as if it were a mantle. He could only be Llywelyn, prince of Wales.

She couldn’t interpret the look he sent the Dragon, but she knew it didn’t bode well for him. “I see she didn’t leave after all,” Llywelyn said with a wry smile. “Clearly someone made a mistake—a costly one for him, I’m sure.”

The Dragon sheathed his sword, but kept his dirk in his hand. “No doubt,” he agreed. “Mistakes happen.”

Llywelyn moved closer. His gaze swept over her, taking her measure, then staring into her eyes. She couldn’t tell if she passed muster, or if he found her lacking. But she refused to back down or look away first. It was a relief when he ceased his scrutiny and returned his attention to the Dragon.

“Trust you to find her before any knew she was missing, Ian. I’ve always known I could count on you for anything,” Llywelyn said. He motioned to one of his men. “Take this woman to her quarters. ‘Tis too late to discuss anything of importance now.” When the Dragon stepped forward, he added, “She’ll be perfectly safe, Ian. You’ve done your duty. ‘Tis no longer your concern. I’ve other work for you.”

Lily placed her hand on the Dragon’s arm and looked earnestly at Llywelyn. She couldn’t understand why he refused to meet her gaze. “Milord, I don’t wish—”

At Llywelyn’s nod, the guard took her by the elbow, tugging her away from her protector and out of the room. Ian turned to watch as they led her away, his expression unreadable.

Outwardly calm, Ian watched the two men lead Lily away. But inside he seethed with fury, a fury he did not intend to show Llywelyn.

He needed to tread warily. By looking for Lily after Llywelyn told him she’d left, he’d already committed a grave error. He didn’t wish to compound his mistake now.

The results were too important.

Llywelyn had made a mistake, as well, and Ian had caught him out.

Llywelyn knew something about her, something he wanted to keep hidden.

The trick would be to discover that secret—and soon.

With a nod toward the door, the prince ordered the other men from the room. Ian closed the door and leaned against it, waiting for the ax to fall.

He didn’t have long to wait.

Llywelyn stood tall, an imposing figure, though he didn’t intimidate Ian. He’d committed too many sins in Llywelyn’s name—the other man owed him too much. But Ian wasn’t a fool. He knew how easily a powerful man’s favor could turn to vengeance.

“What were you about, Ian? Do you doubt my word now, that you must go behind my back and foul my plans? If I thought you needed to know where the girl was, I would have told you.”

Thus he gave himself away. Ian hid his satisfaction, and sought the words to free himself from this coil. “I understand that, milord. And I didn’t doubt you. But I hear things from many sources. Word reached me that led me to believe you’d been given false information. I merely wished to verify what I’d heard. There’s no harm done. She’s back in your possession, to do with as you will.”

For the moment, Ian added to himself.

Llywelyn eyed him assessingly. He evidently passed muster. Ian saw nothing but approval in the other man’s expression. “Very well. ’Tis forgotten. Besides, I have need of your expertise in the trouble with my nephew Rhys. He’s begun making noise about reclaiming his lands. I want you to find him, make him understand my position before he goes too far. I’d rather not be forced to harm my own kin,” he added, his gaze steady. “Leave as soon as you can, and take as long as you need to make him see reason. We’ll manage fine until you return.” He nodded and headed for the door.

“As you wish, milord,” Ian said, opening the door and bowing as Llywelyn walked past.

His movements slow, he pushed the door closed, then turned the key in the lock. He stared at the worthless piece of metal, then heaved it across the room.

Damnation! It didn’t do much good to lock the door when someone else had a key.

He couldn’t have done worse tonight if he tried. Now Llywelyn had taken Lily away. If Llywelyn tried to hide her again, Ian could be certain he wouldn’t find her this time, unless Llywelyn allowed him to. And that wasn’t likely to happen.

By the time he returned from placating Rhys, she’d be so well hidden, he’d never find her. Assuming, of course, that they let her live. Considering where he’d found her, that was not a certainty.

Weary beyond belief, he removed his sword and dagger and placed them within easy reach before he stripped off his clothes and fell into bed. He didn’t even bother to douse the light, hoping the brightness burning through his eyelids would show him whatever clue he kept missing.

Letting his mind drift, it filled immediately with images of Lily. He would never forget the expression of joy on her face when he’d opened the door to her cell. Again that jolt of familiarity assailed him, the sense that the knowledge he sought hovered just beyond his reach.

Her smile lingered, and he focused on it, the way her green eyes glowed, the slight tilt of her lips at one corner…

He sat bolt upright. He knew that smile, had seen it a thousand times before. When he added the green eyes and coppery hair—similar, but not quite the same—he truly thought he’d gone mad.

What he had in mind was impossible. There was no way that Lily could be related to Gillian de l’Eau Clair FitzClifford, marcher baroness.

His cousin.

The soldiers hustled Lily across the bailey and into the keep itself. She followed where they led; ‘twas the least she could do, since this time they hadn’t bound or gagged her. She scarcely had the energy to walk, let alone try to escape. Besides, running would avail her nothing, for she had nowhere left to go.

She returned the stares of the revelers they met on the stairway. Never had she seen such fine clothes, nor so many people the worse for drink. Several women, their bliauts laced so tight she could have seen a flea bound beneath them, smiled invitingly at the guards and frowned at her.

It was a relief when they stopped outside a chamber at the top of the stairs. She almost didn’t care where they put her, so long as it was bright and warm. And if they brought her food, as well, she’d think she’d gone to heaven.

They unlocked the door and motioned for her to enter. A maid followed her in and placed a tray on a stool next to the straw pallet. A chamber pot in the corner completed the furnishings.

The maid and one of the guards left. The other guard kindled a lamp hanging next to the door. “Stay quiet and give us no trouble,” he said gruffly before pulling the door closed.

She heard the key turn in the lock with a curious sense of pleasure. This, her third prison of the day, was certainly the best appointed. It met her simple requirements amply.

She’d already noticed that there was no window in this door, so she availed herself of the facilities with a sigh of relief. There was even a ewer of water, she scrubbed off as much of the past few days’ filth as she could before investigating the contents of the tray.

‘Twas simple fare, coarse bread and hard cheese, with a mug of warm ale. To Lily it seemed manna from heaven. She savored every bite, setting aside half, lest they bring her nothing on the morrow. Besides, after the scanty meals she’d had the past few weeks, her stomach could bear no more.

More comfortable than she’d been since her mother’s death, she settled on the pallet to mull over everything that had happened. She’d believed that coming to Dolwyddelan would give her answers; instead, she had more questions than before. But she couldn’t regret that she’d come here, despite her sojourn in the bowels of the castle.

She couldn’t regret meeting the Dragon.

Absently working her fingers through her tangled hair, she tried to think, but her brain reeled with exhaustion and confusion, not to mention the lump still swelling on the side of her head.

She needed sleep to clear her mind. Only then could she make sense of everything.

But she’d no sooner closed her eyes than she heard the rattle of a key in the door.

Sweet Mary, what did they want now? Had they permitted her the luxury of refreshing herself, of food and drink, only to drag her back to the pit? If that was their plan, she would not go.

She’d been too compliant, not wishing to anger Llywelyn. By God, what more could he ask? She refused to go against her nature any longer.

When the door swung open, she stood ready with the tray, prepared to knock her jailer over the head, if need be. She hit the man in the head three times before he managed to wrest it from her, although she inflicted little damage.

“Leave me be!” she shrieked. “All I want is a decent night’s rest! I’ll go wherever you wish tomorrow!”

He held her wrists in one meaty hand, making a mockery of her struggles. “You’ll do as I wish, girl, else you’ll pay for it.” He chuckled, the sound resonating from deep within his massive chest. “They told me you were a quiet thing, and meek. Ha! What do those Welsh bastards know? Puny little runts, most of them, with brains to match.”

Lily stared up into his face, intrigued by his strange looks and accent—and intimidated by his sheer size. He towered over her. Hair so fair it looked almost white hung past his shoulders, and his eyes gleamed an icy blue in his deeply tanned face. Even his clothing was odd, the fur-and-skin tunic leaving his arms and part of his chest bare. Despite his forbidding mien, laugh lines crinkled the corners of his eyes; indeed, he was smiling down at her now, clearly amused by her meager show of rebellion.

“Who are you?” she asked. And, more important to her—why was he here? He couldn’t be Welsh. What business could he have with her?

“I am called Swen Siwardson. Your prince sent me to take you to your new home. Here,” he said, releasing her and tossing a bundle on the bed, “I have brought you proper clothes.” His gaze swept her from head to toe. “Though I like what you wear now well enough.”

He made her feel awkward—naked—in her tunic and leggings. Turning away, she wrapped her arms about herself for a moment, then unfolded the packet.

It contained an underdress of linen, softened by many washings, and a faded wool bliaut. Though well-worn, they smelled clean. Lily held them up—they should fit, with room to spare.

But she still didn’t intend to go anywhere.

“You put them on, then we will leave,” Swen told her. He stood in front of the door and, drawing his dagger, flipped it through the air. It landed, quivering, in the opposite wall.

“Would you go out into the hallway to wait?” she asked when she found her voice. If he’d done that trick to intimidate her, it had worked.

“Nay. You get dressed now.” He crossed the room in three strides and retrieved his knife. “We must be far from here before dawn.” Another flick of the wrist, and he sent the blade into the wall just past her head.

He’d made his point. Hands shaking, Lily picked up the undertunic and pulled it over her head, then, using the roomy garment as if it were a tent, slipped out of her old clothes.

She had trouble lacing up the bliaut, but what did it matter, so long as she didn’t trip over the excess fabric? At least Swen didn’t watch her dress—not so she could tell, anyway. The thought of traveling to some unknown destination with him frightened her, but she didn’t seem to have a choice. She might as well go with him willingly; he looked capable of killing her with his bare hands. He’d probably enjoy it, too.

After she gathered the Dragon’s cloak about her, she ripped a square of material from her shirt and wrapped the extra food to take with her, then joined Swen by the door.

Reaching into a pouch at his waist, Swen pulled out a slender piece of rope. Sweet Mary save her, but she was growing tired of this! She remained silent while he took her bundle of food, then bound her wrists. He picked up her torn shirt from the floor and eyed her consideringly. “You going to be quiet, or do I need to tie your mouth, too?”

“I won’t say a word, I swear,” she assured him.

He nodded, a grin on his face. “Good. But it won’t matter if you do. No one will hear you where we’re going.” Swen moved to the wall and shoved at one of the wooden panels. It slid open to reveal a dark, gaping passage. “Come on, then, girl.”

Grabbing her by the rope wound about her wrists, he drew her into the wall with him, and they plunged into darkness.

She would never forget her journey with Swen so long as she lived. The man didn’t understand how it felt to be tired, he just plodded along and carried her with him, alternately bullying her and encouraging her to keep her moving. They traveled through the passageway seemingly for hours before they emerged from a rocky outcropping well outside the castle walls. No one would even know she’d left, unless they came looking for her.

Since no one had seen them leave, how long might it be before that happened?

A horse stood tethered in a copse of trees, loaded with several small packs, awaiting their arrival. After checking the area to be sure they were alone, Swen tossed her into the saddle, then climbed up behind her.

He held her steady before him, but she didn’t like his arm wrapped around her waist, nor his body pressed against her back. He was larger and more muscular than the Dragon, but she’d far rather have had that enigmatic Welsh lord holding her close than this blond giant.

However, she didn’t have a choice.

Looking back over his shoulder, Lily caught her last glimpse of Dolwyddelan Castle as the moon set behind the towers. Would she ever see it—or the Dragon— again?

That question haunted her as they jogged along, both man and horse apparently tireless. Lily fought sleep as long as she could; once the sun rose, she concentrated on taking note of anything unusual along the way. If she managed to escape Swen, she needed to know the route back to Dolwyddelan.

Not if, she reminded herself firmly as she stifled another yawn. When. When an opportunity to escape presented itself, she must take it. Her chances of getting away—and staying out of his reach—were much better here in the hills and forest than they’d be once he locked her up again.

If Swen hadn’t been her captor, she’d likely have found him an amusing companion. He loved to talk, and it didn’t seem to matter whether she answered him or not. He just kept up a steady stream of comment, his deep voice droning on in her ear until she could ignore him no longer.

“I don’t know where you’re from, but do all people in your homeland talk as much as you?” she asked in exasperation.

He chuckled. “Not all, but most. My home is far north of the Frankish lands. ’Tis cold there much of the year, not like this place. In winter the nights are very long. We like to gather round the fire, drink ale and tell stories. Much like your Welsh bards, only merrier.”

Here was a chance to quench her insatiable thirst for news of foreign places. “You miss it.” She heard it in his voice.

“Aye.”

“Then why have you come here?” She looked back at his face. “Why are you doing this?”

His expression told her nothing. What made men so inscrutable? She found it far easier to read women’s faces, though perhaps ‘twas only that she’d had more practice.

She poked him in the gut with her elbow. He grunted, but appeared unharmed. “You cannot go silent on me now,” she chided. “Do you owe Llywelyn a debt? Or has he offered you riches? I don’t understand why he wants me locked away. It makes no sense, since I cannot possibly be of any value to him, but nothing that’s happened since I scaled the castle wall has—”

“You climbed the wall?” He gave a muffled grunt of laughter. “I would like to have seen that. Did you make it all the way up?”

“Almost. The Dragon pulled me over the top of the wall.”

Grabbing her chin in his callused palm, he turned her head and stared down at her face. Finally he shook his head. “Quiet and meek! Llywelyn’s men are fools. And I worried that this would be an easy task, boring, a waste of my talents. I will need to watch you carefully,” he said. A wide smile split his face. “Good.”

Lily jerked free of his hand and turned her back to him. That slip of the tongue would cost her dearly. The last thing she wanted was Swen watching her more closely; those pale eyes already saw too much. Beneath his affable mien a sharp mind—and a dangerous man. She’d been a fool to underestimate him.

Exhaustion made her mind too dull to focus on anything important now. Instead, she badgered Swen for more information about his home. Finally, his deep voice rumbling in her ear, she drifted off to sleep.

Swen looked down at the girl, her face resting back against his shoulder, her body slumped against him with the bonelessness of utter exhaustion. She surprised him. As he’d told her, she was nothing like those idiots had led him to believe. Perhaps everything else they’d told him was a lie, too.

They expected him to accept her as a convent-bred lady, escaped from the abbey to run off with a Norman churl? It hadn’t rung true even before he met her. And now that he had…

He didn’t believe a word of it.

Llywelyn wanted her out of Dolwyddelan, Swen knew that much. She hadn’t wanted to leave. And the look in her eyes—and something in her voice when she said his name—pointed toward the Dragon as the man Llywelyn wanted to separate her from.

For her protection, or the Dragon’s?

This grew more interesting by the moment.

Swen shifted the girl in his arms, savoring the way she nestled against him. If she belonged to the Dragon, he had no intention of enjoying more than this. A pity, but he didn’t poach on another man’s territory.

Especially the Dragon’s.

Lord Ian could be on their trail even now. Swen’s blood heated in anticipation. This situation might prove to be far more enjoyable than he’d imagined.

He gazed at Lily’s face once more. Soft skin, vivid eyes, hair of flame.

And courage.

The Dragon would find them.

Swen smiled. He loved a good fight.

Chapter Six

Before dawn, Ian stood outside Lily’s chamber, key in hand. Fortunately for him, the man on guard at the foot of the stairs owed him a favor, one he’d never imagined he’d bother to collect. But he needed to see Lily, without Llywelyn’s learning of it. This was the only way.

He unlocked the door and slipped in quietly. Flickering lamplight cast an eerie glow over the small room, but nowhere did he see Lily.

Hell and damnation. He swiftly drew the door closed and leaned his forehead against the planks. Llywelyn had done it again.

Heart pounding hard with frustration and concern for Lily’s safety, he stalked over to the pallet and picked up the clothes tossed carelessly aside. At least she’d gotten a chance to change, hopefully into something better. He forced himself to calm, and looked about the room with more care.

A wooden tray lay near the door, bread crumbs scattered around it on the floor. Her shirt had been torn, but it didn’t appear to have been ripped from her body, thank God. A square of the fabric was missing. A bandage? He searched the area around the pallet, but he didn’t find any blood.

However, he did notice several blade marks in the walls. The wood appeared fresh-cut. Lily didn’t have a knife, not even an eating knife, though these cuts had been made by something larger, thrown with force, to judge by the depth.

Ian clenched his fist around the remains of Lily’s shirt. He knew of only one man with the habit of tossing his knife.

Swen Siwardson.

Had that arrogant Viking bastard been in this room— with Lily?

Siwardson had arrived at Llywelyn’s court scarce three months ago, sent by his father to handle trade negotiations. Almost immediately he’d wormed his way into the prince’s favor.

Ian felt no jealousy over that fact, but he didn’t trust the Viking’s constant jovial manner. Unless the man was daft, how could he be so happy all the time? His size and strength, combined with his unusual looks and good humor, made him near as popular with the ladies as the Dragon, though he took more advantage of that popularity than Ian ever would. He couldn’t fault the man for that.

But what business did he have in this chamber with Lily? He couldn’t have gotten in without a key. Ian could see Llywelyn’s hand in this. Clearly, his overlord intended to take no chances with the Dragon’s obedience. If Lily wasn’t there, she couldn’t tempt him away from his duty.

Or so Llywelyn thought.

Since he’d come to realize that Lily reminded him of Gillian, his mind hadn’t stopped conjuring up reasons to explain the resemblance. Every explanation that came to mind was far too bizarre to contemplate. He hoped Dai would discover something useful. Llywelyn’s actions only served to reinforce the feeling that there was more to Lily’s tale than he’d first thought.

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