He sat back down again and drank deeply from his goblet. "Are you jealous, my pretty bitch?" he asked her mockingly.
"Why will you not imprison her?"
"Because she has done nothing to displease me," he replied. "She is a gentle and good lady. I have no quarrel with her. I simply want a ransom from her husband. It is a business transaction, my pretty bitch. Nothing more."
"Then, why not give her her own rooms?" Isleen persisted.
"Because, as I told you earlier, I do not trust you; and because there are no other rooms fit for a lady such as the lady Eleanore," he said. She was jealous, and it amused him to taunt her.
"Then, give her my apartment, and keep me with you," Isleen half pleaded. "I would be at your complete disposal, my lord, and eager to do whatever you wished me to do." She caught his hand in hers.
"Nay, my pretty bitch. It is better that the lady Eleanore is where I am, and where all know I permit no one else to enter," he replied. "My prisoner is very beautiful, and I would return her to her husband as I found her. Or almost," he mocked his mistress.
"You think her beautiful?" Isleen felt her temper rising. He had never called her beautiful, but he thought the little nun beautiful? "I never before heard it said that Eleanore de Montfort was beautiful, my lord Merin. It is I who am considered a beauty." Isleen preened at him, smiling winningly.
"You are pretty enough," Merin ap Owen told her, "but you are not as beautiful as the lady Eleanore. I know the English consider golden hair and blue eyes such as yours a standard of beauty, but I do not. I find the lady Eleanore with her silvery eyes and pale red-gold hair, her translucent skin, her sweetness of expression, far more beautiful than your common prettiness. Has no one ever told you that? Or have all the men in your life fallen at your feet in awe of your golden and sapphire coloring? You are as wicked as I am, Isleen. That evil is beginning to show through in your face. The lady Eleanore, however, has a good heart, and that is what shows in her fair face."
"You are falling in love with her," Isleen accused him.
He laughed harshly. "Nay," he said. Then he stood again. "I am going to my apartments now, my pretty bitch. Come, and I will see you to your chamber so I may be certain to know where you are." He pulled her up, and dragged her from the high board.
Isleen swore virulently at him as they went. "You are a dog, Merin ap Owen. I will not play your bitch for much longer if you do not treat me better. Have a care! You are bruising my wrist. Owwww! Do not pull me by my hair, you bastard!"
In the narrow stone hallway of the castle, he pushed her against the hard wall, banging her head as he did. "Listen to me. You belong to me and me alone. You are no better than a slave, Isleen. You will do what I say, when I say it, as long as it pleases me. I will tell you when I am through with you, and not you me." His fingers dug cruelly into the soft flesh of her shoulder. "Do you understand me, Isleen? " His dark eyes blazed at her.
Isleen was afraid in that single moment. This man was like no other she had ever known. He terrified her, and yet she adored him with every fiber of her being. She would not let Eleanore de Montfort steal him away and ruin her life yet a second time! She would make Merin ap Owen love her. She would! "I understand, my lord," she said low.
"Good," he said. "Very good, my pretty bitch." They ascended the staircase, passing his apartment, then moving into the even narrower staircase leading to her apartment in the tower. He opened the door and pushed her through. "Do not come out until the morning, Isleen. I will send Arwydd to you. Once she is inside, I will loose the mastiffs. They will tear you to pieces if you try to enter my apartments. Good night." He pulled the door shut and descended down to the next level, where his own rooms were located. Entering, he said to Arwydd, "Go to your mistress, and be warned, the mastiffs will be loosed shortly. Remain with your lady until the morning."
"Yes, my lord." Arwydd curtsied, and hurried out.
Merin ap Owen glanced about and saw the tub had already been taken from before the fire. Walking into his bedchamber, he looked through into the tiny interior chamber opposite his bed. "You have not prepared yourself for bed yet," he said to Elf, who was fully dressed. "Are your garments not damp from the rain?"
"There is no door, or curtain to provide me with privacy," Elf told him.
"It is better that you are where I can see you," he said. "Take off your gown, lady. As you so pithily reminded me earlier, your husband will not pay me for a corpse. I am certain your chemise is a modest enough garment, and my baser instincts can be kept in check. Besides, if I wanted your virtue, my lady Eleanore, I could take it no matter you were dressed in armor."
She stared at him, not certain if she was shocked or amused by his words. "Blow out the candles on the candle stand," she said finally.
"Very well," he replied, complying. Then watching her shadow, for the bedchamber fire gave some light, he drew his own garments off and climbed into his bed. "Sleep well, lady," he said.
Elf listened to his breathing; shortly he was snoring. She whispered her prayers and tried to sleep, but sleep would not come at first. Her mind was filled with questions for which she had no answers. How had Isleen de Warenne ended up here at Gwynfr Castle? And Merin ap Owen? What kind of a man was he really? While his tongue was rough with Isleen, he was courteous with her. Was she safe from his advances, if indeed he even made advances toward her? It was all very confusing. She was not worried about her son, for the Ashlin folk would care for Simon with singular devotion. A wet nurse would be easily found among her serfs. While he might miss her face, Simon would be oblivious to her absence, given a warm breast to nurse upon and sturdy arms to cuddle him. Elf, however, could not shake free from her desperate sense of loss of both the infant and Ranulf. Her breasts ached every bit as much as her heart, which she felt was near to breaking. But for Simon’s sake she had to mask her emotions. Her enemies must not know of his existence.
Ranulf. She sighed softly. He would be safe in Normandy, but when was he coming home? When you hear of King Stephen’s death, she reminded herself, but she had heard nothing of the king, and here it was October. But then Ashlin in its remote location was always last to hear any important news, Elf thought. And she was stuck here in Wales until her ransom was paid. It could not even be demanded, surely, until her husband came home, whenever that was.
Elf felt tears pricking against her eyelids, and blinked them back. She would not allow this Welsh bandit and his evil whore to know she was fearful. Ranulf. Her heart cried out for him. She could see his face in her mind’s eye. The dark bushy brows over his warm hazel eyes. His big mouth that could kiss her both tenderly and fiercely all at once. She could almost feel the softness of his chestnut hair between her fingers. How gently he had wooed her. How very much she loved him, and if she ever saw him again in this life, she intended telling him so even if it would abash him! Had anyone ever loved Ranulf de Glandeville? From what he had told her, the answer was no. Well, it was past time someone who loved Ranulf told him so. He would just have to get used to it, and even if he didn't love her because he didn't know how to love, it would make no difference. She loved him, and that was all there was to it!