The Warrior's Reward by Samantha Holt Page B

any moment.
    What a fool. What had she even been thinking? She had never set foot outside the castle with the exception of the tournaments. Did she really believe she could survive on her own somehow? She saw herself as Ieuan did—as others probably did—not as the perfect daughter but as a naive, silly girl, who was pampered and spoiled. And would the perfect daughter have run away instead of accepting her fate?
    Rosamunde sniffed and Ieuan tightened his grip on her. Did he fear she would run again? She laughed inwardly. As if. She had learned her lesson and she supposed she should be grateful that the worst thing that happened was she got a little muddy.
    Defeated. Thoroughly defeated. She could do nothing but accept this marriage and become Ieuan’s wife. On the morrow, she would leave the only home she’d ever known and become his.
    She sniffed again.
    “Do not cry.” His voice was low and it whispered across her ear, making her shudder.
    “I am not crying.”
    Rosamunde was forced to swipe at her damp nose. How could she have been so careless? The ground by the river was quite slippery and when she had seen him coming, she’d panicked, racing to hide by the bridge. Her footing gave way and she had ended up a crumbled, slightly soggy mess. Already frightened and frustrated, that was all it took for the tears to spill and for her to curse to the skies. Every bit of her behaviour had been thoroughly unladylike. Not at all like that of a treasure .
    She snorted—and the noise came out wet and bubbly. The Treasure of Tynewell. Had people really been calling her that? It made her sound so... ridiculous.
    “What is it?”
    “Sir?”
    “You snort whenever you’re thinking.”
    A hand over her mouth, she drew in a breath. She snorted. Lord, that was not ladylike either. And he knew. He must have been paying close attention to her to have discovered a trait she did not even know she had.
    “I was thinking that not a soul would think of me as a treasure now.”
    “You are filthy and wet,” he conceded, “but it would take more than mud and water to hide your beauty.”
    Rosamunde held back yet another snort. That was a habit she would have to conquer. One moment he spoke of her callously, as nothing more than a purse of coin and the next he held her tight and talked of her beauty.  She heartily wished she understood her betrothed better if they were to spend a lifetime together. Was he the rough barbarian Welshman or her chivalric champion?
    As they made their way from the village to the pavilion tents that were in the process of being taken down, she hunched into the mantle. Ieuan positioned her so that his cloak covered much of her.
    “I thank you,” she whispered, aware he could have let her be further humiliated by leaving her uncovered while they passed the people unhooking the fabric and hefting down the wooden poles.
    The muscles of his chest undulated against her side and back. She had one hand gripping the horn of the saddle while she sat astride his lap. Had she been with any other man than her betrothed, the position would have been shameful. His arm brushed her breast. Two mantles and her thick silk gown should have prevented her from noticing but she did not.
    She noticed everything. Noticed the scent of him—fresh soap again. Noticed how his skin was warm under his shirt when she accidentally brushed it. Noticed his breaths stirred her hair. Rosamunde need only turn her head marginally to eye him, to see his lips parted with his breaths, but she dare not. She had already been charmed by him once and she wouldn’t let it happen again. As much as she might be resigned to their marriage, she wouldn’t be made a fool of again.
    Thankfully another rider interrupted her thoughts. She recognised him as one of Ieuan’s but couldn’t name him. He was tall, well-built but not as broad as her betrothed. Sandy-coloured hair flowed over his shoulders and he held himself with pride. It was the same posture