“Then she travels to Wales to meet more easily with the Welsh princes.”

“Aye,” she answered. And for the men to survey and raid the English outposts, to test the strength of them. But she did not say it. “And I think not only the Welsh, though I cannot say who among the Norman lords might join with her.”

At this, he scoffed outright.

“None with any worth, is sure, and they more likely to follow the Welsh princes than a woman. Do you know these princes?” he asked, having roundly dismissed her mother’s role as insignificant. “How like are they to defy Edward in earnest?”

Something in the careless way he spoke to her seemed to open a great chasm between them, and she gazed at him across it. He thought of his king, when she could only think of her men, of their families weeping when they were killed by Edward’s soldiers. Her mother, her men, everything she had ever loved at risk – yet he did not care. Why should he, after all?

Numbly she gazed at his face, the deep blue of his eyes and the line of his jaw where she had pressed countless kisses. She saw with a breathtaking suddenness how far she had fallen from everything she had always known.

She dropped her eyes to her hands. They were growing soft, the hard callouses from years of handling a sword beginning to fade. Almost unconsciously, she moved her shoulders to feel the fabric give easily where once it had strained against the bulk and breadth of the muscles there.

She did not recognize herself, so different had her body become under his touch.

“The Welsh princes,” she repeated, trying to remember what he had asked. “Only Llewellyn has any true power, of them all. Only if he acts will any others consider joining.”

“And does she meet with Llewellyn?”

“No,” she lied easily.

In truth, she could not know, but she had no doubt her mother was in contact with Llewellyn. If Madog had bought fine steel and more armor, then it would be to impress upon Llewellyn that Ruardean stood ready for his word. Her mother was no fool.

“Then there is no need for worry.” His hand, warm and strong, came over hers where it clutched the paper. “She thinks herself capable of much, but she can accomplish little on her own.”

“Can she not?”

His thumb caressed the back of her hand. She felt her body respond even to that small touch, but her eyes stayed fixed on the letter she held. Often does she weep.

“Haps she can achieve a rope around her neck, is she not careful.”

She snatched her hand away and strode to the window, feeling a flush rise up her neck. There was jest in his voice, and under it was a thread of contempt that she could not mistake.

“How lightly you speak of it.”