The Pledge Read Free

garb. She couldn’t close her ears
     to the ribaldry that was so much a part of the Scots, though she wished she could. Hearing about the outlander who’d be her
     spouse put a bad taste in her mouth.
    These Scots were an unseemly people with little good sense. She’d never experienced such in Wales. The men might talk in a
     lascivious way to one another. She’d overheard such when she’d been hidden away in a cupboard. No such talk of coupling was
     stated openly by Welshwomen as was done with Scotswomen. Had they no shame? If truth were told she knew a goodly amount of
     what went on between animals. She’d been raised among the hills and dales where sheep and goats played and rutted. Weren’t
     the actions of men and women the same? She knew enough, and didn’t care to hear her future privacy with her spouse discussed.
     Nor did she wish to ponder how their coupling would progress.
    “… and they say he’s hung as a destrier is. What a ride she’ll have…’struth he’s bedded enough wenches to people a village…
     nay, they were glad to be plowed by such a stud.”
    When they grinned at her, Morrigan nodded as though she had not understood such words, though she struggled to control the
     blood flowing to her cheeks.
    The women thought her illiterate, as some were in Wales and their own land. How could they know she’dbeen tutored as her brothers had been, in Greek, Latin, with a background in Euclid and the Egyptian healing ways? She’d been
     instructed, too, by the witches in the keeping and preserving of herbs.
    To be sure they were no different from most who thought her an adulteress, a woman who’d bedded a man not her spouse, and
     had only been protected by the Llywelyn name. So, now she was mother to one thought to be a Llywelyn by bastardy, not a Trevelyan
     by birth, who was heir to a large, imposing holding. It was not in Rhys’s best interest that anyone know he was not a natal
     Llywelyn. One day—
    “Milady, do not thread your hands so,” one of the seamstresses urged. “Each motion pulls the fabric out of the stitching line.”
    “Sorry,” Morrigan whispered. Her life could be over that day when it was discovered she’d not known the touch of a man. Would
     she be entombed in her bride’s clothes? She had to force herself to remain still and standing. How ironic that she could and
     might be castigated for being a possible conspirator against the Scots because of her virginity, if only because they believed
     her to be a mother.
    The solution to her dilemma had eluded her these many days since her betrothal was first trumpeted throughout Wales. Many
     of the Welsh thought her little more than a human sacrifice. They understood the need, but pitied her, and she could expect
     little more, being afallen woman. None of them knew her problems were greater than they perceived.
    As the ceremony grew closer, her desperation grew. She had to find a way to protect herself. If her husband decided to kill
     her who would take care of Rhys?
    Taking a deep breath, she stared at the water clock. It took all her mettle not to grab Rhys and run. Foolhardy! She wouldn’t
     get far.
    That very night she’d be joined with a man she didn’t know. She’d seen the joinings of animals and such. It didn’t assuage
     her trepidation. If anything such ponderings magnified her fears. She didn’t know, beyond that, nor did she care to, about
     the detailed intimacies a man and woman shared, since she was a virgin. Most in Scotia and Wales thought her well past bedding
     and breeding because she was beyond two decades by three changes of the moon, and had a child by another man. Proving them
     wrong didn’t set well. It could mean a very painful death if her new husband questioned her, demanded an explanation. If she
     could save Rhys by confessing his parenthood, she would. Mayhap the wild MacKay would listen to reason and spare Rhys. Lord
     knew he was as much at risk as she.
    She glanced out an