Free The Warrior's Reward by Samantha Holt Page A

and Ieuan was tempted to congratulate himself on managing her mood.
    He chuckled. “No more than any other man. Besides which, we are wise enough to acknowledge the power a woman holds.”
    “’Tis easy for a man to speak of power,” she said with a sigh before turning back to the window and gazing out. “I have never had any.”
    “All of Herefordshire spoke of your power over men.”
    “Aye,” she said, bitterness tingeing her tone. “The Treasure.” A snort came from her before she tried to stop it and cut the noise short.
    Ieuan failed to come up with a response to that. He should never have told her about that but he found it hard to believe she was in ignorance. His wife was as sheltered as they come and he would probably end up spending the rest of his marriage paying for her father’s treatment of her. He tried not to sigh. For the hundredth time that day, he wondered what he’d let himself in for.

Chapter Eight
    A jolt stirred Rosamunde awake. She grimaced, feeling how tingly and achy her arm was as she tried to focus her gaze. Wood. A heavy velvet curtain. Several cushions.
    Ieuan.
    She bolted upright. Her cheek was hot from where it had been pressed against his side. His arm slipped from her shoulders. She had fallen asleep against him. She swiped her mouth. Oh sweet Mary, and she had fallen asleep with her mouth wide open by the looks of it. A fine treasure she was.
    “We’re nearly there,” he told her softly.
    Rosamunde scowled at his gentle tone. She’d been hoping to prove him wrong again yet only a few hours in a carriage and she had fallen asleep like a fragile female. She wasn’t used to travelling long distances though. The rock and sway of the vehicle must have made her tired and the day’s exertions were certainly enough to drain her. After all, it was not every day a lady married a knight she hardly knew.
    She peered out of the window and saw it was dusk. Grey-blue light dappled the sky. Clouds dotted the horizon in a vast swathe of texture. The mountains around them were growing steeper and though she was likely only ten or twenty miles from home, the land felt so very foreign. The urge to bury back into Ieuan’s side struck.
    But, nay, she would not give into that urge. She would show him—show all of them. She was not some treasure to be tucked away and pandered to. Nor was she nothing but a beautiful face. She wanted adventure and excitement and this was her chance. If she could gain nothing else out of this marriage, she would have her excitement.
    The carriage rolled to a halt outside a large inn. The windows glowed against the dark backdrop of the mountains, lighting the whitewashed exterior. The sign showed the image of a king on it but she couldn’t tell which it was meant to be as the paint was flecked and weather worn.
    “The King’s Crown,” Ieuan murmured and she threw a quizzical look his way. How did the man know what she was wondering?
    One of the men-at-arms—Huw, she recalled—opened the carriage door and Ieuan stepped out, his dark cloak billowing around him. Wind buffeted the side of the carriage and when she poked her head out of the door, she saw the delicate clouds were giving way to dark, ominous ones. They looked to be in for a rainstorm.
    Ieuan glanced in the same direction. “Let us pray it does not leave the roads impassable on the morrow.”
    “Aye,” she agreed and stepped down. The inn was not particularly shabby but could not compare to those on her father’s land. Trepidation made her limbs feel shaky. She placed her foot on the dry mud and it struck her that this was the first time she had set foot on ground that did not belong to her father.
    Mayhap Ieuan noticed, as rather than allowing her to place her hand over his, he grasped her fingers. His gloves were warm, the heat seeping through her own to reach her fingertips. Memories of rough calluses and heated touches seared her mind.
    Rosamunde cast her gaze over the paint-flecked window