She moved her hand by inches down the sword until it met his. “Davydd,” she repeated, for something to say. The line of his mouth was rigid, his eyes unmoving. “He journeyed with you?”

“Aye,” came his terse reply.

It was witless conversation. She knew it was, but did not know where to begin, how to say any of what was in her heart. He had not told Edward. He had schemed to keep her alive, and schemed still. He had journeyed here, had come to find her. She thought she might weep with the joy of it, the vast relief she felt to have him again by her side. In the hopes it might convey some of what she felt, she covered his hand with hers, squeezing his fingers.

At this he raised his eyes at last. The force of his anger hit her like a blow and she made an instinctive move to back away from him. But he would not let her. His hand came over hers, pulling it from the sword and flinging the weapon away. It clattered across the floor as his other hand came up to the neck of her mail shirt, gripping it in his fist and hauling her face closer to his. She braced herself against his coming fury, ready for him to shout or threaten or strike. But his fist only tightened, the mail digging into the flesh at the back of her neck. Their breaths mingled, and she waited.

And then he was kissing her, his mouth hard and unforgiving on hers. His hand did not relax its grip and his touch did not soften. Nothing in him was gentle, not even after she yielded, sighing and leaning into him, returning the kiss with equal hunger. His hands twisted in her hair until her eyes watered. He forced her face to his, her lips pressed hard against her teeth. She tasted blood, but did not know or care if it was hers or his.

Just as suddenly as it had begun, it ended. He pulled his mouth from hers and moved his eyes over her face, scorching her with a look of disgust before thrusting her away from him. She heard his ragged breaths, and her own. She saw the smear of blood at the corner of his lips and tasted it on her tongue. Then she reached for him.