Daughter of Time: A Time Travel Romance Read Online Free Page B

sense of what he was
saying, but as he got closer, my breath rose in my chest until it
choked me. He must have seen the fear on my face because he
stopped, about three feet from the bed. I finally found my
voice.
    “What?” The words came out as little more
than a squeak. “Who are you?” I dragged my eyes from his and
flashed them around the room again, seeking somewhere to run but
not seeing anything but the long distance to the door and the man
standing between it and me. He didn’t answer my question but again
tried one of his own.
    “ Beth ydy'ch enw
chi ?” he said.
    “ Meg dw i ,” I said, then gasped. I’d answered automatically.
‘ What is your name?’ he’d said in Welsh . ‘My name is
Meg.’
    I stilled myself and
studied him as he stood, still calm, two paces from me. Had what
he’d spoken before been in Welsh that I hadn’t understood, perhaps
too fast, and too complicated compared to what I’d learned from
Mom? Through my foggy brain, I focused with an effort. Who is he?
He still hadn’t told me.
    He was a large man in his
late thirties, thin but muscled, nearly a foot taller than I. He
wore a cream-colored shirt with a dark blue jacket, brown pants,
and brown leather boots. He had a long nose and black hair, close
in color to Anna’s. Anna! Fear rose in me again and twisted to see if she
was on the bed.
    “ She’s
asleep by the fire,” the man said, reading my mind. He followed
this statement by more unintelligible words, except for, “You say,
‘Meg’, but you mean, Marged ?”
    I nodded. Marged was my
formal name, though I never used it. Now more afraid for Anna than
afraid of him, I swung my legs to the floor and ran to where he
pointed. Anna was indeed asleep in a cradle set against the far
wall, with large rockers on the bottom to keep a child
asleep.
    Someone had changed her
clothes too. She wore a white nightgown that was a match to mine
and was covered by a brown woolen blanket that was incredibly soft
to the touch. Though my arms ached to hold her, I was afraid to
pick her up in case I needed two hands to fend off the man, and was
loathe to wake her needlessly. Instead, I stroked the hair away
from her face.
    I sat back on my heels,
still watching her. As I settled there, my surroundings seeped into
my consciousness more clearly: the tapestries on the walls; the
handmade chair and table between the bed and the fire; the clothes
we wore. All forced me to face the no longer ignorable
questions: Where am I? What is this
place?
    “ Who are
you?” I asked again in English, and at the man’s look of
puzzlement, repeated his words back to him. “ Beth ydy'ch enw chi ?”
    “Llywelyn ap Gruffydd, Tywysog o Cymry,” he
said.
    Both hands flew to my mouth. Llywelyn ap
Gruffydd, Prince of Wales , he’d said.
    Every Welsh child ever born had been told
stories of Llywelyn ap Gruffydd, the last Prince of Wales, a man
who’d died on a cold, snowy day in history, lured away from his
companions by the treacherous English. Why was he telling me he was
a thirteenth century Prince of Wales? I glanced around the room
again. Had he constructed a thirteenth century house to go with his
fantasies? Why had he brought Anna and me here?
    “You can’t be.” I dropped my hands to my lap
as reason reasserted itself in my brain.
    “ Englisch? ” His face suddenly
reddened. He took a step towards me but I hurried to forestall him,
leaning forward with one hand on the floor and the other held out
to stop him.
    “No! No!” I said, then switched to Welsh at
his fierce expression. “Na! Na! Os gwelwch yn dda!” Please, no!
    Llywelyn stopped and I took in a shaky
breath, the fear of before filling me more than ever. I knew enough
of violent men to see it in him. My heart raced, but he studied me,
not raising his hand or making any more threatening gestures, and
gradually it slowed. I glanced at Anna, unsure if I should pick her
up to keep her safe, or if it would just draw his attention to her
and