mind for an answer that was not precisely a lie. “ ’Tis invaluable for expelling worms. Here.” In relief she pointed toward a plant. “Here’s what I’m looking for. And there are more over there.” Then she turned and hurried back toward the children.
Perhaps his reaction to the irritating juices of the fresh leaves would not be too severe, she rationalized as she searched for the sturdy webs of the tree queen spider. Perhaps the itching would only last a day or two. But even as she began to carefully remove one web from the limbs of a young elm tree, Wynne could not escape the feeling that she would somehow come to regret the devious trick she was playing on him. He had the look of a man who could be as ruthless and vengeful to his enemies as he had proven to be kind and patient with the children. It would not take him long to determine what she’d done, and then he would surely group her among his enemies.
She glanced back at him, biting her lip doubtfully. At the same instant he looked up and met her eyes. For a long moment their gazes remained locked, and she was assailed with that strange and vital awareness of him that had affected her long before she’d ever laid eyes on him. There was some link between them, she realized with a sinking sense of dismay. What that link was remained a mystery to her, but it did not change things. They were connected by fate. She was certain of it.
Yet she feared that by this casting down of the glove, as it were, she had irrevocably directed that fate down the path of outright warfare.
Still, she knew there was no other way. Her hand went to the ever-present Radnor amulet that hung between her breasts. He was English; she was Cymry. They were destined to clash.
5
T HE MORNING SEEMED TO stretch out forever. Though the children were surprisingly diligent in their efforts, and the linen bags and leather pouches she had brought were swiftly filled, Wynne could take no pleasure in it. She kept stealing glances at the Englishman and veering between regret and righteous anger. She should have warned him to wear gloves with the parsley fern; he would be furious with her and was bound to find a way to retaliate. And yet he would at least recognize that she was a more than worthy opponent. He would think very carefully before tangling with her again.
“I’m hungry,” Isolde announced as the midday sun began to find its way into the deeply shadowed ravine. “Can we eat now?”
“What did you—”
“—bring to eat?” the twins asked.
Wynne looked up, relieved for a break from her warring emotions. “We’ve Gwynedd’s barley bread, cheese, herring, and dried raisins. There’s a small spring beyond that hanging vine—right up in the wall. Why don’t all of you wash up there? Wash especially well and get any grit or plant stains off your hands,” she added with a guilty glance at the Englishman.
Cleve FitzWarin was sitting back on a thick carpet of moss, and the sun shining through the tree branches above dappled him with light. Wynne was uncomfortably aware once more of the vital strength of him. What was worse, however, was that he watched her now with the most discerning of gazes. The leather pouch she’d given him was filled, but she couldn’t help wincing at the sight of his green-stained fingertips.
“You’d better wash too,” she muttered reluctantly. “Here, use this soaproot.”
He caught the stringy bit of root mass she tossed him, then handed it to Arthur. “Go along, lad. Do as Wynne says. I’ll wash in a bit.”
When Arthur scampered off, FitzWarin turned his disturbing gaze back on her. He scratched the back of one hand idly, and Wynne swallowed uneasily. It was just a matter of time before his skin reacted to the irritating sap. She wanted to be back at Radnor Manor before that happened.
“I’d like to know more about the children,” he began, surprising her with his directness.
All her mixed feelings fled, and she gave him a wary
Perhaps his reaction to the irritating juices of the fresh leaves would not be too severe, she rationalized as she searched for the sturdy webs of the tree queen spider. Perhaps the itching would only last a day or two. But even as she began to carefully remove one web from the limbs of a young elm tree, Wynne could not escape the feeling that she would somehow come to regret the devious trick she was playing on him. He had the look of a man who could be as ruthless and vengeful to his enemies as he had proven to be kind and patient with the children. It would not take him long to determine what she’d done, and then he would surely group her among his enemies.
She glanced back at him, biting her lip doubtfully. At the same instant he looked up and met her eyes. For a long moment their gazes remained locked, and she was assailed with that strange and vital awareness of him that had affected her long before she’d ever laid eyes on him. There was some link between them, she realized with a sinking sense of dismay. What that link was remained a mystery to her, but it did not change things. They were connected by fate. She was certain of it.
Yet she feared that by this casting down of the glove, as it were, she had irrevocably directed that fate down the path of outright warfare.
Still, she knew there was no other way. Her hand went to the ever-present Radnor amulet that hung between her breasts. He was English; she was Cymry. They were destined to clash.
5
T HE MORNING SEEMED TO stretch out forever. Though the children were surprisingly diligent in their efforts, and the linen bags and leather pouches she had brought were swiftly filled, Wynne could take no pleasure in it. She kept stealing glances at the Englishman and veering between regret and righteous anger. She should have warned him to wear gloves with the parsley fern; he would be furious with her and was bound to find a way to retaliate. And yet he would at least recognize that she was a more than worthy opponent. He would think very carefully before tangling with her again.
“I’m hungry,” Isolde announced as the midday sun began to find its way into the deeply shadowed ravine. “Can we eat now?”
“What did you—”
“—bring to eat?” the twins asked.
Wynne looked up, relieved for a break from her warring emotions. “We’ve Gwynedd’s barley bread, cheese, herring, and dried raisins. There’s a small spring beyond that hanging vine—right up in the wall. Why don’t all of you wash up there? Wash especially well and get any grit or plant stains off your hands,” she added with a guilty glance at the Englishman.
Cleve FitzWarin was sitting back on a thick carpet of moss, and the sun shining through the tree branches above dappled him with light. Wynne was uncomfortably aware once more of the vital strength of him. What was worse, however, was that he watched her now with the most discerning of gazes. The leather pouch she’d given him was filled, but she couldn’t help wincing at the sight of his green-stained fingertips.
“You’d better wash too,” she muttered reluctantly. “Here, use this soaproot.”
He caught the stringy bit of root mass she tossed him, then handed it to Arthur. “Go along, lad. Do as Wynne says. I’ll wash in a bit.”
When Arthur scampered off, FitzWarin turned his disturbing gaze back on her. He scratched the back of one hand idly, and Wynne swallowed uneasily. It was just a matter of time before his skin reacted to the irritating sap. She wanted to be back at Radnor Manor before that happened.
“I’d like to know more about the children,” he began, surprising her with his directness.
All her mixed feelings fled, and she gave him a wary
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