The Traitor's Daughter. Joanna Makepeace

she was wandering out to meet her lover. She had rejected it out of hand and with considerable indignation. Could he believe her? Would she not, if caught out like that, react in exactly that way? And had he any right to be angered by her behaviour?

      He allowed himself a little secret smile. Certainly she had made no bones about admitting the fact that she despised him. Why? Simply because he was in possession of her father’s former lands? Had she expected to arrive in England and find those estates and manor houses empty and neglected? Was it not usual for the victor in any combat to hand out spoils to his supporters? At Duchess Margaret’s court, intrigue-ridden as it was, she could not be unaware of those situations.

      He had recognised Lady Wroxeter on sight and on impulse offered her his protection on this journey. He knew of the distress of her parents at being so long parted from their daughter by circumstances they were powerless to alter and of the present serious illness of Sir Daniel. It had seemed reasonable and his duty to assume responsibility for the safety of his neighbour’s kin. He had not expected such a hostile reaction from Lady Philippa. He sighed. They would be thrown together for several more days. In honour he must control his growing feelings for her. He had gravely insulted her by his suggestion that she had acted wantonly. There would be time for him to discover if he were, in fact, mistaken and, if so, to attempt to repair the damage.

      The darkness upon the landing was beginning to lighten to grey. He settled himself more comfortably, yet in a position to continue his nocturnal watch.

      Philippa stole back to her bed, careful not to disturb her sleeping mother. Her cheeks were still hot with embarrassed fury directed at the man who was separated from her only by the thickness of the chamber door. Her plan would have to be abandoned. Rhys Griffith would not move from his post this night. She would have to try to find some other opportunity to have talk with Peter away from the man’s insufferable vigilance.

      She punched the straw-filled pillow violently to relieve her feelings and wriggled down in the bed. Yet sleep evaded her. The vision of the man’s dark presence continued to dominate her thoughts. She tossed and turned restlessly. She had never before encountered a man so bluntly and insultingly spoken. No one in the Duchess’s retinue, nor even any nobleman at Queen Elizabeth’s court at Westminster, would have dared to question her so accusingly. He was hateful and she had no way of proving to him how shamefully wrong he was in his suspicions. Peter was a dear and trusted friend whom she had known from childhood. Never could she think of him as—she blushed inwardly at the thought—as a lover. Even if they had had more intimate feelings towards each other, neither would have behaved so indecorously. Peter would have regarded such desires as a blot upon the knightly honour to which he had once aspired. Knowing how vulnerable her position was at court, she had been particularly careful that she was never alone in any man’s company, since her dowerless state would have made it impossible for any man to offer her honourable marriage.

      Rhys Griffith had immediately jumped to the wrong conclusion. Indignantly she asked herself what business it was of his? He had no hold over her. It was as if he were—jealous! The idea was laughable.

      Once more she pounded her pillow in impotent fury. Somehow she must convince him that he had accused her falsely, but without alerting him to the true reason for her determination to meet with Peter privately for that could put them all in danger. Strangely she was most anxious that Rhys Griffith should not think ill of her, though, for the life of her, she could not understand her own reason for caring.