Free Rexanne Becnel by The Knight of Rosecliffe Page B

finally understood the priests’ admonitions against lust, for these inappropriate longings she felt must surely be lust.
    But lust or no, the facts remained the same. He was her mortal enemy, and he always would be.
    By the time she neared Carreg Du she had decided that all she could do was live for the moment. She would deal with Jasper as circumstances demanded, and she would not think about the future. Rhys and Jasper were bound to meet in battle someday, and one of them would not survive. She had no control over the outcome of that battle, therefore she must put it out of her head. If Jasper tried to woo her, so be it. No matter her response to him, she would remind herself that there was no future to be had with him. That way she would not care who won or lost.

    She would do her duty to her people, and she would provide Rhys with the information he required. But she would not let herself become personally involved in their conflict.
    And even if she should somehow become physically entangled with Jasper FitzHugh, she would never allow her emotions to become entangled by the man. No, never.
     
    Jasper groaned and rolled over. His stomach clenched and bile rose in his throat. At the same time his head pounded like Scottish war drums.
    In a long line of drunken nights and miserable mornings, surely this one must be the worst. He’d sworn off such overindulgence months ago. Yet here he was, wanting no more than to roll over and die and be done with this misery. No, he amended. First he wanted to puke his guts out. Then he could roll over and die.
    But before he did that, he needed to relieve himself.
    He opened one eye and stared blearily about. Where was he? The roof above him looked new. No smoke had stained the freshly hewn rafters. Light seeped in from somewhere, but he was afraid to turn his head to seek out the source. He closed the eye and tried to listen past the ungodly thudding inside his skull. He was not in the castle. That much he could tell. The sounds were wrong. But where?
    He tried to think. Last night, after checking the watch, he and Uric, one of the few unmarried knights left at Rosecliffe, had gone down into the castle village. Ever since his confrontation with Rhonwen he’d been hungry for a woman. So they’d searched out a friendly wench or two.
    Then it hit him and he winced at the memory.
    They’d found a friendly wench, all right. Two of them. The widow Ellyn and her cousin come to visit. Two full wineskins and the offer of a silver denier apiece had convinced the giggling women. The nearly completed chandler’s house had provided the privacy. But something had gone horribly wrong.
    “Son-of-a-bitch,” he muttered. He rolled over, groaning at the sharp stab of pain. But he pushed up onto all fours despite it. He stayed in that position a long minute, squatting back on
his heels, braced on his arms, and fighting the spinning sensations that made him want to lie down again. But shame forced him on.
    He had to get away from here. He’d made a fool of himself last night—a bigger fool than he’d ever done before. He’d paid the bouncy Welshwoman for sex and she’d been more than willing to provide it.
    Only he hadn’t been able to do his part.
    She’d giggled and stroked and tried everything she could to coax him to attention, and he’d almost made it. But every time he’d look at her, at her fair hair and lush body, his desire had waned. He’d wanted a dark-haired woman of more petite proportions. The buxom woman’s pale eyes had gleamed with lust, but he’d wanted flashing, dark eyes that glared with mistrust.
    “Jesus God,” he swore. He’d had a warm woman, willing to thrill him the whole night long. But instead of enjoying her, he’d mooned over a woman who’d spurned him!
    “Damn the bitch,” he muttered, dragging himself to his feet. Damn Rhonwen ap Tomas. She’d made a fool of him twice now—once at the river, and again, to his everlasting shame, last night. Would