Книга - The Welshman’s Bride

The Welshman's Bride
Margaret Moore


THE LADY GENEVIEVE WAS IN DESPERATE NEED OF RESCUE So much so that even Welsh charmer Dylan DeLanyea looked like the answer to her prayers. But as she took her solemn vows before the exalted guests, she could only hope that her handsome husband would someday forgive her for trapping him into a hasty wedding.Dylan's Lady wife was a woman of many talents. Indeed, his unplanned marriage to the beautiful chatelaine was turning out to be very pleasant indeed… and definitely more passionate than he had ever dreamed!







“I will kill you!” (#uff6919b3-31c5-5ae2-af66-9f025cc981b4)Letter to Reader (#u6fce08ad-f0b5-5b8a-97e9-8a0714349e51)Title Page (#u9b5704a6-c0a1-5043-80bc-16ba286ff2a1)About the Author (#u47e276d1-bfed-59e5-ab79-cef902ea1d79)Dedication (#uc1e272de-4c4e-5cd3-a2e7-6924e6f30078)Chapter One (#uf21c079b-fd43-55cd-89cf-dd67893c38d3)Chapter Two (#u74ea3cdd-51f8-5e43-afe7-7a8c860161d0)Chapter Three (#u136516f6-af49-5fa2-994e-7769c771a585)Chapter Four (#u7ecf847e-2450-5e24-9fc0-0eec772f85c5)Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


“I will kill you!”

Still half-asleep and completely naked, Dylan rolled over and stared at the enraged Lord Perronet at the door of his bedchamber.

The man’s face was as red as a cherry and—most surprising of all—he was fumbling for the sword at his side.

Now wide-awake, Dylan reached for his own weapon, which should have been beside his bed. He halted in stunned shock as his hand encountered an unexpected mound.

That moved.

“Uncle?” Genevieve Perronet said as she sat up, holding the coverings over herself.

It was obvious that beneath those coverings she was as naked as he.

“I’m going to kill you for what you’ve done!”

Lord Perronet roared, finally succeeding in drawing his sword.

Dylan leapt from the bed, searching frantically for his weapon.

What had he done with it last night?

What had he done last night, period!


Dear Reader,

Entertainment. Escape. Fantasy. These three words describe the heart of Harlequin Historical novels. If you want compelling, emotional stories by some of the best writers in the field, look no further.

After recently publishing her first mainstream historical romance for Avon Books, award-winning author Margaret Moore returns this month with a terrific “opposites attract” story, The Welshman’s Bride. Part of Margaret’s ongoing WARRIOR SERIES, this is the tale of a roguish Welsh nobleman who must many a shy chatelaine after the two are caught in a compromising situation. Don’t miss the humor and passion as they learn to appreciate their differences and fall in love!

Hunter of My Heart is a fresh and exciting Regency by talented newcomer Janet Kendall featuring two Scottish nobles who are bribed into marrying to protect their past secrets. And be sure to look for Laurie Grant’s final DEVLIN BROTHERS book, Maggie and the Maverick, about two wounded souls who share friendship and love under Texas skies.

Rounding out the month is The Unlikely Wife by Cassandra Austin, an author known for her stories of emotion and drama. Here, the flirty Rebecca Huntington is truly an unlikely wife—until officer and gentleman Clark Forester shows her what the love of a good man can do!

Whatever your tastes in reading, you’ll be sure to find a romantic journey back to the past between the covers of a Harlequin Historical


novel.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Harlequin Reader Service

U.S. 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont L2A 5X3


The Welshman’s Bride

Margaret Moore


















www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


MARGARET MOORE

Award-winning author Margaret Moore began her career at the age of eight, when she and a friend concocted stories featuring a lovely damsel and a handsome, misunderstood thief nicknamed “The Red Sheik.”

Unknowingly pursuing her destiny, Margaret graduated with distinction from the University of Toronto with a Bachelor of Arts degree. She has been a Leading Wren in the Royal Canadian Naval Reserve, an award-winning public speaker, a member of an archery team, and a student of fencing and ballroom dancing. She has also worked for every major department store chain in Canada.

Margaret sold her first historical romance, A WARRIOR’ S HEART, to Harlequin Historicals in 1991. She has recently completed her eighteenth novel for Harlequin. Margaret lives in Toronto with her husband, two children and two cats.


With thanks to “the Fam,” for their witty repartée

and help with the housework.


Chapter One

“Don’t be daft!” Dylan DeLanyea exclaimed with a roguish grin as he regarded his unsmiling cousin.

His head cradled in his hands, his feet crossed at the ankles, Dylan lay upon the large bed in the chamber made over to his use while he visited his uncle at the castle of Craig Fawr. “Not serious, me, and she knows it. You could have saved yourself some trouble and stayed in the hall with your wife.”

“How can you be so sure what she thinks?” Griffydd demanded, his arms folded over his broad, muscular chest. “If I did not know you well, I would think you were wooing Genevieve Perronet with marriage in mind.”

Dylan shook his head, his eyes twinkling merrily. “Everybody knows I’m not ready to be married, and I’m too young, besides.”

“Not ready, maybe—but you’re older than I am,” the newly wedded Griffydd reminded him.

“Just because you’ve got yourself a wife doesn’t mean everybody thinks of marriage. I was only enjoying the young lady’s company.”

“Lady Genevieve Perronet is already betrothed.”

“There, then!” Dylan cried triumphantly, shifting to a sitting position. “She can’t think I’m serious.”

“People have broken their betrothals before this, and I hear you’ve been doing a little more than talking to her,” Griffydd said, looking at Dylan with grim intensity.

Dylan flushed. “A few chaste kisses hardly count as trying to break a betrothal,” he replied, wondering if one of the nosy castle servants had seen him with her and gossiped.

“For you, perhaps. It could be Genevieve Perronet thinks differently. She has led a very sheltered life with Lady Katherine.”

“And now she’s free for a short while. I don’t see anything wrong with amusing her.”

“Tell that to her intended. Lord Kirkheathe might take a different view.”

“Well, as I am an honorable knight, I would never come between a man and his future wife,” Dylan said with genuine conviction.

“And you are being honorable, aren’t you?”

“God’s wounds, what’s that supposed to mean?”

“You aren’t trying to seduce her?”

“I’ve considered it.”

“Dylan!”

“But only considered,” he assured Griffydd jovially. “She’s a well-bred, betrothed lady for whom I have the greatest respect, for one thing. And for another, there’s her uncle. Norman to the bones, that one, all gloom and ambition. I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of him.”

“I’m glad you’ve realized that. Her uncle does not strike me as a forgiving man, should his plans for her be thwarted.”

“They won’t be, although I must say it is a waste to marry one so young to one so old. Kirkheathe must be—what? Sixty?”

“Forty.”

Dylan stretched, his movements lithe as a panther. “Making too much of this you are, Griffydd.”

“Making too little of her feelings you are,” Griffydd retorted. “A woman’s heart is not something to be toyed with.”

“We’re both enjoying the game, that’s all,” Dy-lan insisted. “And if she’s a little sad when she leaves here, I see nothing so wrong in that. I will be sad to see her go, too.”

“So you like her, then?”

“Of course. What is there not to be liked? She’s young, she’s pretty, she laughs when I make a joke.” Dylan leaned conspiratorially closer. “She’s as shapely a woman as ever I’ve seen, and her kisses—chaste though they were—were very pleasant.”

“You are beyond redemption,” Griffydd growled.

“Nonsense! I’ve done nothing that requires redemption.”

“Did you tell her about your children?”

Dylan frowned. “There was no occasion to mention them. We are having a little harmless fun before she marries that ancient knight, is all.”

“You are absolutely certain she understands that is how you feel?”

Dylan could not quite meet Griffydd’s steadfast gaze. “I said so, didn’t I? I’ve given her no reason to think otherwise.”

“I hope you’re right. I wouldn’t want anything to spoil these celebrations. This is Trystan’s time. He’s worked hard for his knighthood, and I don’t want the festivities disrupted because you can’t keep it in your breeches.”

Dylan scowled. “Anwyl, listen to you! I told you, I haven’t done any harm. And speaking of Trystan, should you not be seeing if your little brother has recovered from his vigil and his knighting? It’s long past noon, and he was still asleep the last time I looked. I hope he’ll be well enough to attend tonight’s feast.”

Griffydd nodded as he rose from the stool. “You will be at the feast?”

“Where else?”

Griffydd raised an eyebrow.

“Maybe I do have a notion to go see Bertha at the village tavern, for old times’ sake.”

Griffydd shook his head. “You’re hopeless,” he muttered as he strode through the door.

“Only joking, me!” Dylan called out as the door banged.

For a moment, an uncharacteristically serious expression appeared on his darkly handsome face, then, being Dylan, the expression disappeared, replaced by a merry grin.

He rose from the bed and started to whistle as he went to see if pretty Lady Genevieve would keep their rendezvous in his aunt’s garden.

Genevieve pulled her fur-lined cloak more tightly around herself as she waited. She shivered despite the warm lining, for it was a chilly morning in early March. Occasional remnants of snow dotted the stone path and beds, and the bare stalks of the climbing roses rubbed against the garden wall.

She wondered if she should have come here at all. Perhaps she should have stayed in her chamber, where her uncle believed her to be.

She should have been engaged in her prayers, instead of sitting in a barren garden awaiting a young man.

A very handsome, charming young man.

The first time she had set eyes on Dylan DeLanyea, he had been standing in the courtyard among a group of other knights. They, warriors all, had turned to look at her uncle’s cortege.

Her gaze had been drawn to the dark-eyed, good-looking man whose black hair brushed his shoulders. He stood with his arms casually folded, his weight on one long, lean leg.

At once she had been reminded of Lady Katherine’s cautions regarding evil young men who only had one thing in mind when it came to women. The one thing was, Genevieve had to assume from Lady Katherine’s tone, something a young lady should not want.

This dangerous goal had remained a mystery until that night when the older girls also fostered to Lady Katherine had taken it upon themselves to enlighten the younger ones. Certain portions of that fascinating discussion had immediately returned to Genevieve as she tried to look away from the handsome stranger with his devilish grin and merry eyes. She had not been able to manage it until her uncle barked at his men to dismount. Half-afraid and half-hopeful, she had wondered if the young man would approach her. He did not, but later she had discovered that he was Dylan DeLanyea, the nephew of Baron DeLanyea, lord of Craig Fawr.

What would her uncle say if he discovered her now, in this secluded garden, waiting for Dylan?

She could not even imagine the extent of his ire. They were guests of the DeLanyeas, breaking their journey north at the baron’s castle and, incidentally, attending the knighting of the baron’s youngest son. Nevertheless, she was sure her uncle would not hesitate to condemn her in front of them all if he thought her guilty of shameful behavior.

As for what Lady Katherine would say, that was easier to guess, for she had lived the past eight years under Lady Katherine’s roof, being instructed in the skills, duties and manners of a chatelaine.

Lady Katherine would say that Dylan DeLanyea, for all his smiles and kind looks, was not to be trusted.

Genevieve didn’t believe that. Dylan was noble and chivalrous, and completely trustworthy.

To be sure, he had kissed her, even though he knew she was betrothed. Three times. Once on the cheek, and twice on the lips.

Her heartbeat quickened. During the somewhat tedious business of the knighting of Trystan DeLanyea, Dylan’s cousin and foster brother, she had realized that Dylan was looking at her—often. And smiling. He continued to do so during the subsequent feast.

And then came the dancing. She had thought she would swoon when Dylan approached her and asked her to stand beside him in the dance. When he had taken her hand, she had scarce been able to breathe.

Fortunately, thanks to Lady Katherine’s teaching, she was able to dance the steps, even though she found it exceedingly difficult to concentrate.

Afterward, Dylan DeLanyea had escorted her back to her uncle. Then he had returned and beseeched her to dance again.

That time, when the dance was over, he did not take her back to her uncle, who was engaged in deep conversation with the baron and his eldest son, Griffydd. Instead, he led her to a more private part of the hall—still in full view of everyone, of course, so there could be no charge of impropriety.

She was, after all, betrothed—albeit to a man old enough to be her father.

Her face flushed as she thought of what had happened next. Somehow, and she wasn’t sure just how, she found herself farther back in the shadows. Nor could she recall what they had been speaking of, for all at once, Dylan DeLanyea had suddenly leaned forward and kissed her.

She was not cold now, as she remembered the sensation of his warm, soft lips first brushing her cheek, then touching her mouth.

“There is a rose blooming here, after all.”

She started when she heard Dylan’s musical Welsh voice.

She stood as he came through the gate, closing it softly behind him before he faced her, smiling.

His untamed hair moved gently in the chilly breeze. He did not look cold, although he wore no cloak. He was clad in an open-necked shirt beneath a leather tunic girded by a thick sword belt. The tunic brushed his muscular thighs, which were encased in breeches. Fur wrappings covered his shins and boots.

Plain clothing indeed, and yet he looked absolutely splendid. She did not think a prince could look finer, especially when he regarded her with that intimate smile and those shining eyes.

“I was afraid you would not come,” he said as he approached her.

Genevieve looked at the frosty ground. “I should not, perhaps, have done so.”

“I would have been very sad.”

She risked a glance at him. “Truly?”

“Most truly. Come, sit here beside me.”

He sat on the stone bench she had recently vacated. Her heart throbbing so that she was sure he must be able to hear it, she hesitated a moment, then joined him, sitting as far away as possible.

Although she had been unable to resist the lure of being alone with him in the garden, she was a lady, and there were certain proprieties to be observed.

But not by him, apparently, for he boldly reached out and took her gloved hand in his.

She knew she should not allow such familiarity, but the words of protest would not come.

“Baron DeLanyea tells me you are to leave tomorrow,” he said softly.

She nodded.

He sighed. “I will be very sorry when you go.”

Emboldened by his manner and his words, she looked at him. “So will I.”

He smiled wistfully. “You are to be married within the month?”

“Yes, within the month,” she replied, not troubling to hide her dismay at her impending fate. “To an old man.”

“That is often the way of it,” Dylan replied gravely. “An old man and a young wife.”

“Why must it be so? It doesn’t seem right.”

She saw that her forceful words startled him. “I know such a match is not unusual, and I know my marriage to Lord Kirkheathe pleases my uncle, who is my guardian now, yet I wish I were not betrothed.”

When Dylan answered, he sounded as sad as she felt, and his hand squeezed hers. “But you are.”

“I wish I could stay.”

“I wish you could, too,” he replied softly, reaching up to caress her cheek.

“Is there nothing to be done?”

“I fear there is not, my lady. We must say our farewells. Let us do so here, where we can be alone.”

Her eyes welled with tears. “I do not want to say farewell.”

“Then do not,” he whispered, bending his head to kiss her.

For a fleeting instant, it crossed Genevieve’s mind that she should not allow such a liberty.

Yet she could not stop him, or herself. She wrapped her arms around him and leaned against him as she lost herself in the wonderful sensations his lips engendered.

Dylan shifted closer, moving his hands into the warmth of her cloak to hold her in his arms. He caressed her slim back as his kiss deepened.

Engulfed in the pleasure of their embrace, he let himself drift on a sea of delightful perceptions. The perfect softness of her lips. The slight arch in her back. The brush of the fur lining on the backs of his hands.

Her lips parted ever so slightly, and he needed no more invitation to push his tongue gently between them. As he did so, he moved his hand to cup the malleable flesh of her breast.

As her tongue boldly intertwined with his, she made a sound in the back of her throat, half moan, half whimper.

The small noise broke the spell, and reminded him who she was, as well as what she was.

Despite her responses, she was Lady Genevieve Perronet, the betrothed of Lord Kirkheathe, niece of stern Lord Pomphrey Perronet, and on her way to be married.

With more reluctance than he cared to acknowledge even to himself, Dylan pulled away and tried to smile as he looked at her. The corona of blond curls that clustered around her heart-shaped face was a little disheveled. Her cheeks glowed, and her bold, blue-eyed gaze seemed to transfix him and render him speechless.

As well as fill him with a burning desire.

He did not want to talk, let alone say a farewell.

He pulled her onto his lap. No tender, tentative kiss this time, but a passionate taking of her mouth. She responded with equal fervor, clutching him as if she never wanted to let go. With increasing need, he stroked and caressed her, drawing forth small moans and sighs that spurred him on, as the shifting movement of her body increased his arousal.

Usually, he preferred to take his time and linger over every delightful step on the path. Here, now, with this young woman who looked so innocent yet who kissed with such wanton abandon, he simply could not wait.

Still kissing her, he fumbled with the ties of her cloak, determined to undo it Finally, with a low growl of both want and frustration, he tore the strings and shoved it from her shoulders. He did the same at the back of her bodice, until it was loose enough for his hands to travel inside to the warm, satiny flesh.

She gasped when he touched her, then arched, another moan breaking from her slender throat.

He kissed her there, too.

“Dylan,” she whispered fervently, her breasts rising and falling rapidly. “I... I must go.”

Even then, she cupped his face with her palms and pressed more kisses upon his cheek.

“Stay,” he murmured, grinding his hips in response to the pressure of her buttocks.

One hand left the confines of her bodice and went to her ankle. He began to slowly push her skirt higher, his hand running up her slim bare leg.

He had to possess her.

The bell that summoned the servants to the evening meal began to ring.

Dylan went still as a stone when he realized what he had been about to do. With a betrothed lady. In his aunt’s rose garden.

He had not even intended to kiss her. He had thought only to say a brief and suitably touching farewell in the garden before this evening’s feast.

He had meant every word he said to Griffydd. His flirtation with Genevieve Perronet was just that: a flirtation. A bit of meaningless fun while they were at Craig Fawr.

He simply had not been prepared for the startling intensity in her eyes as she had looked at him, or the extreme sadness in her voice as she spoke of leaving. Nor had he at all anticipated the fire of passion in her willing kiss.

Anwyl, he, a man who had been intimate with a number of women and fathered children by some of them, had never guessed shy, demure Genevieve Perronet possessed the power to be so astonishingly arousing.

Appalled by his lack of self-control, he gently pushed her off his lap and stood. “Forgive me, my lady.”

Her hair more disheveled than ever, her lips swollen from his kisses, her cheeks red and her bodice loose about her body, she regarded him with obvious confusion.

He tugged his tunic back into place, then strode to the gate. His hand on the latch, he paused and glanced back, to see that Genevieve had pulled her cloak around her shoulders.

“Farewell,” he said softly, and then he opened the gate and left her.

That evening at the feast, Genevieve anxiously searched for Dylan DeLanyea. She had to be subtle about it, for her uncle was sitting beside her. Although her hawklike relative seemed most interested in discussing matters of state with the other nobles around him, he was not ignoring her.

The comfortable hall was filled with fine and titled men and their wives, both Norman and Welsh: the Baron DeGuerre, Sir Urien Fitzroy, Sir Hu Morgan, Sir Roger de Montmorency, to name but a few. Their host was quite well-known in his own right, and rather fearsome to look at, Genevieve thought, with his scarred face, one eye and limping gait.

The women of Craig Fawr were friendly and seemed quite nice, except perhaps for Griffydd DeLanyea’s bride. Seona was with child again, and it seemed she was having a difficult time. Perhaps that was due to the fact that her second pregnancy came so hard upon her first, for her infant son was not yet a year old. Still, Genevieve envied her the children, and looked forward to the day she would be a mother.

She also envied her hostess, who seemed to be everything that Lady Katherine said a chatelaine should be: kind, competent, pleasant. Everything at Craig Fawr was well-regulated and comfortable, too. Genevieve sighed and hoped that she would be so successful when it was her time to take on such duties.

The center of most people’s attention tonight, however, was Trystan DeLanyea. Like all the DeLanyea men, he was comely. He shared Dylan’s dark, curling hair, worn to his shoulders in the manner of his father, brother and cousin, so that altogether, they reminded Genevieve of a band of savage Celts. Trystan also shared Dylan’s sensual lips, although he did not smile as much. He lacked his cousin’s snapping black eyes, possessing instead the grave, gray eyes of his older brother.

So, Genevieve mused as she regarded him, he was young and handsome, but he did not fascinate her, not as Dylan did.

She had been rather astonished to think that Dy-lan was not already married, but perhaps, she thought with a secret, satisfied smile, he had never met the right woman before.

She wondered where he was. She knew he was still at Craig Fawr. She would have heard if he had ridden out, for he came with a troop of ten men, although his own castle, Beaufort, was not very far away.

It had to be love she felt for him, she told herself. She seemed to melt whenever he looked at her with his passionate dark eyes, and when he kissed her... there were no words to describe what she felt then.

And he must love her, too, to embrace her as he had in the garden.

Of course, they had perhaps gone a little far, but that only proved that he returned her love. He had looked so sorry when he stopped and even more when he said farewell. If he did not come to the feast, she didn’t doubt it was because he thought their situation hopeless, since she was betrothed to Lord Kirkheathe.

“We will leave at first light,” her uncle said beside her, momentarily drawing her attention away from her silent search. “Be ready.”

“Yes, Uncle.”

“The journey to Lord Kirkheathe’s estates should take a sennight.”

Genevieve nodded her head—then her heart seemed to stop, for Dylan was there, seated half-hidden by a pillar in the vast hall. No wonder she had not been able to see him before.

Looking at Dylan, she knew she could never marry Lord Kirkheathe now. She started to raise her hand in greeting, then glanced at her uncle.

Better, perhaps, if she made no sign.

Despite her conviction, her uncle was an ambitious, unsympathetic man who would never understand her feelings—but something had to be done to prevent her arranged marriage.

Again, her gaze strayed toward the dark-haired warrior. Even his smile was enough to make her heart race and her mind recall how his lips felt upon her own.

Her breath caught in her throat as he looked her way, but he did not meet her gaze. Instead, he turned away, a slightly troubled frown on his handsome face.

Because he was as upset as she was at the possibility of her marriage to another, Genevieve didn’t doubt. He must feel it too painful even to look at her.

Yes, something had to be done to prevent her marriage to Lord Kirkheathe. Dylan, being an honorable man, would not seek to do so.

She, therefore, must, she decided.

She, therefore, would.


Chapter Two

“By God, I’ll kill you!”

Still half-asleep and completely naked, Dylan rolled over and stared at the enraged Lord Perronet at the door of his bedchamber.

The man’s face was as red as a cherry and—most surprising of all—he was fumbling for the sword at his side.

Now wide-awake, Dylan reached for his own weapon, which should have been beside his bed. He halted in stunned shock as his hand encountered an unexpected mound.

That moved.

“Uncle?” Genevieve Perronet said as she sat up, holding the coverings over herself.

It was obvious that beneath those coverings, she was as naked as he.

“Anwyl!” he cried. “What—?”

“Varlet! Churl! I’m going to kill you for what you’ve done!” Lord Perronet roared, finally succeeding in drawing his sword.

Realizing the man seriously intended to attack him, Dylan leapt from the bed and frantically searched for his weapon.

What had he done with it last night?

What had he done last night, period!

He spotted his sword belt slung over the chair in the comrner and lunged for it as Lord Perronet charged toward him.

Genevieve screamed. Dylan grabbed his sheath and drew his sword, whirling around and jumping out of the way of Perronet’s blow without a moment to spare.

“Stop! Uncle, please! Stop!” Genevieve cried.

“Quiet, woman!” Perronet bellowed.

Dylan crouched in a defensive stance, ignoring Genevieve and keeping his gaze firmly on his opponent. He could tell Lord Perronet had not wielded a sword in some time. Nevertheless, even an unskilled man could be dangerous with a heavy broadsword.

“Dylan, my love, don’t hurt him!”

Dylan glanced at Genevieve, then back to her enraged uncle. “Put up your sword, my lord, for I warn you, I will defend myself.”

“You defiler of women! Base, despicable lout!” Perronet shouted. “I should have known! Your father was the same, and his father before him!”

A muscle in Dylan’s jaw started to twitch. “Be careful what you say to me, old man. I don’t want to hurt you, but I’ll kill you if you insult me again.”

“It is you who have insulted the honor of my family!” Perronet cried. “Your family hasn’t had any honor in a hundred years!”

“Shut it, Perronet, or God help me, I’ll run you through!”

“Dylan! Uncle!”

“Do you think everyone’s forgotten about your lout of a father, you bastard?” Perronet snarled as they circled each other. “We all know the stories of his rapes and thievery and dishonor! A scoundrel from a line of scoundrels—and you are just the same!”

With a bellow like an angry bear, Dylan lifted his sword to strike.

“Please, don’t!” Genevieve shouted.

Dylan hesitated at her distressed plea, and in that moment, Perronet moved out of range of Dylan’s blow.

“What in the name of God is going on?” Baron DeLanyea demanded from the door.

The combatants ignored the baron and continued to circle each other warily.

“Baron DeLanyea!” Genevieve cried, relieved by his presence, for surely her uncle and the man she loved would not come to blows if the baron interceded.

The baron looked at her, the brow over his remaining eye rising with surprise, and she modestly pulled the bedclothes up to her chin.

She had been expecting some kind of confrontation between her uncle and Dylan. That was necessary—but she had never imagined that her uncle would try to kill him.

“I said,” the baron repeated in a voice as firm and cold as iron, “what is going on?”

“Your nephew has seduced my niece!” Perronet replied. “That rogue of a bastard has ruined her!”

The baron ran his gaze over Genevieve again, and this time, she thought she saw something other than surprise and dismay.

Disrespect?

She flushed hotly at that notion, but told herself there was no help for it. She had to break the betrothal with Lord Kirkheathe and sneaking into Dy-lan’s bed had seemed the easiest way.

Of course, it would not be without some damage to her reputation, but that would happen however she contrived to break the betrothal.

“Dylan, is this true?” the baron asked with amazing calm, given the circumstances.

“No! I have no idea how she came to be in my bed!”

“You do not know?”

“You lying bastard!” Perronet charged.

“Say that again, and I will kill you,” Dylan growled.

Wrapping herself in the bedclothes, for her folded clothes were on a chest on the other side of the room, Genevieve clambered from the bed. “Please, don’t fight. This can be settled—”

“Look there! What more evidence do you need?” Perronet demanded, pointing with his sword to the dried drops of blood Genevieve had squeezed from her pricked fingertip onto the bottom sheet.

“We will simply have to be married,” Genevieve said.

“What?” Dylan gasped, lowering his sword and staring at her, wide-eyed with...horror?

Her stomach knotted. “Yes. You love me. I love you. We...we spent the night together. We have to be married.”

He shook his head, his angry gaze boring into her. “Oh, no, we don’t.”

Now truly dismayed and fearful, she stammered, “You...you kissed me...and...”

“Quiet, Genevieve!” her uncle commanded as he marched toward the baron. “Your nephew, who is, I understand, also your foster son, has basely used and deceived my niece. What are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing—at the moment,” the baron replied just as calmly. “I suggest we let them get dressed and then we can discuss this...situation...in a more rational manner.

“Without swords,” he finished pointedly.

“She’s right. They’ll have to be married,” Perronet declared. “Lord Kirkheathe—”

The baron held up his hand, silencing him. “Please, Lord Perronet, let us take some time to calm ourselves. Then we can decide how best to proceed.”

Her uncle hesitated, then sheathed his sword while continuing to regard Dylan disdainfully. “Because you ask it of me. Baron, I will. But that whelp will make amends!”

With that, he reached out and grabbed Genevieve roughly by the arm.

“Come along, girl!” he growled, pulling her toward the door.

“My dress—”

“Leave it!” he snarled as he all but dragged her past the baron.

Dylan raised his sword again and took a step forward.

“Let them go,” the baron commanded. “Did you hear me, Dylan? Let them go!”

“He cannot treat her that way!”

“Get dressed.”

Dylan glanced down at his naked body. Without another word, he threw his sword on the bed and picked up his breeches, which were lying on the floor. He looked around for his tunic, noticing the unfamiliar clothing on the chest

Not unfamiliar, he corrected, for he recognized the gown Genevieve had worn last evening at the banquet, when he had done his best to avoid her.

He spotted his tunic stung over the chair and yanked it on.

“No matter what she’s done, he shouldn’t have been so rough with her,” he muttered before he stuck his head out of the garment.

“Her uncle has the right to treat her as he sees fit,” the baron replied, coming farther into the room. “What rights have you been enjoying?”

“Not that! I don’t know how she got in my bed.”

With a sinking heart, Dylan noted the skeptical quirk of the baron’s lips as he sat in the chair. He looked like a king about to dispense judgment.

He suddenly wished the baron’s wife were there. Lady Roanna’s serenity would be welcome at a time like this. Unfortunately, the baron’s ancient nurse was very ill; Lady Roanna had been tending to her when she was not involved in the preparations for the festivities surrounding Trystan’s knighting.

“He called me a bastard, that cur,” Dylan said defensively.

“You are a bastard,” the baron replied evenly.

“I know that!” Dylan replied. “But he had no right to impugn my honor.”

“He thinks he does, and the evidence is against you.”

“Don’t you think I would remember having a beauty like Genevieve Perronet in my arms?” Dy-lan protested, his arms akimbo. “I didn’t make love with her!”

“Sit down,” the baron ordered, pointing at the bed.

Dylan didn’t like the coldness of his uncle’s tone.

Nevertheless, he had been told to sit, and that was some cause for comfort. When he had been naughty as a child, he had been kept standing while he was chastised.

Of course, this situation was different from stealing apples or sneaking out of the castle at night, and he wasn’t ten years old anymore.

When he was seated, the baron said, “You can see how this looks, Dylan. She was naked in your bed.”

“I never touched her. At least, not last night.”

The baron reached up to scratch the scar that extended beneath his brown leather eye patch. “But before then? What were you up to with Genevieve Perronet?”

“Nothing—or nothing much. I certainly never said I wanted her to break her betrothal, and God knows I never invited her to my bed. You have to believe that, Uncle. I’ve never seduced a woman with a promise of marriage.”

“Good thing, or you would have been married at fourteen.”

The baron’s remark, although grimly said, made Dylan relax a little more. “I honestly have no idea how she came to be in my bed, naked or otherwise.”

“That is what I find most surprising of all. Is it possible you could have brought her here without remembering? Were you drunk last night?”

“I had some wine and ale, and I was very tired. But I’m certain I would have remembered making love.”

Indeed, as he recalled the perfect pale flesh of Genevieve’s shoulders and the pretty tumble of her blond hair, he knew he would have remembered. “She must have come into my bed after I was asleep.”

“I suppose that might be possible,” the baron replied with a dubious expression. “How do you explain the blood on the sheets?”

“I don’t. I can’t—because I don’t know how it came to be there. Maybe I’ve got a cut someplace and it bled.”

“That’s possible. Did you look?”

“Not yet.”

“Lord Perronet will no doubt want to see such a cut, if it exists.”

Dylan regarded the baron steadily. “There was no need for him to try to kill me, or to manhandle Genevieve that way.”

“Put yourself in his place, Dylan. He manages to get her betrothed to one of the most powerful men in the north of England, and then he finds her in your bed.”

“I didn’t—”

The baron nodded patiently. “I believe you. But he may not. He hardly knows you.”

“He seems to know of me, or at least my family,” Dylan replied dourly.

“Your grandfather was well-known, and your father had a certain...”

“Infamy,” Dylan provided.

“Yes. So you see, he knows no good of your family. When he saw her in that bed, the poor fellow must have nearly died of shock. God’s wounds, I almost did myself when I got here.”

“How did he come to find us together?” Dylan asked suspiciously. “Who told him Genevieve was with me?”

“I don’t think anybody did. It was rather obvious last night that she could hardly keep her eyes off you.”

“I gave her no encouragement last night. I didn’t dance with her, or even say a word.”

“Perhaps not, but if a man finds a girl missing, and that girl is clearly attracted to a personable young man, his thoughts might tend to certain conclusions.”

Dylan sighed heavily as he ran his hand through his thick hair. “That’s why I tried to ignore her last night.”

“Regrettably, your actions did not have the effect you intended.”

The baron leaned toward him. “What happened between you before last night, Dylan? It’s clear she thought if the betrothal was broken, you would wed her. Did you give her cause to think you wanted to marry her if she was free?”

Dylan smote his forehead. “God’s holy heart, that’s why she did it—to break the betrothal!”

“Obviously. Did you tell her that?”

“Anwyl, no! I said I would be sorry to see her leave or some such thing.”

“What else?”

“Nothing else!”

“What else did you do?”

“I...there may have been some kissing,” he muttered, looking at his feet.

“Kissing?”

“Passionate kissing,” he confessed.

“Just kissing?”

“A little more.”

“What ‘little more’?”

Frustrated, Dylan raised his eyes and regarded the baron resolutely. “You’re a man. You can guess. But I never made love to her, or even got close to it.”

“Dylan,” the baron began not unkindly, “do you never stop to think? Lady Genevieve has been with Lady Katherine DuMonde the past eight years. I doubt she’s even talked to many men that whole time. Now she’s traveling to be married to a man she’s never seen, and who she knows is not young. They stop here, and who does she meet but you?

“I won’t be telling you anything you don’t already know when I say you’re as handsome a young man as she’s ever likely to meet, and—” he grinned for an instant “—you’ve got a merry devilry that reminds me of myself at your age, so I know how attractive that quality can be.

“I do not doubt that you’ve grievously underestimated the effect you had on her,” he continued, serious again. “She thought you liked her more than you intended, and saw a way to get out of a marriage she didn’t want.”

“I suppose I should have listened to Griffydd,” Dylan muttered.

“What does Griffydd have to do with this?”

Dylan shrugged. “He tried to warn me, but I...”

“Yes, you should have paid attention,” the baron replied. “But that is past. The question before us now is, what can we say to assuage her uncle?”

“I won’t be forced to marry her just to save her honor, which she compromised,” Dylan warned.

“You know I am not a proponent of forced marriages, for any reason,” the baron replied. “We must think of a way to let the marriage to Lord Kirkheathe proceed as planned.”

As the baron regarded the silent young man he had known from his birth, his brow furrowed with concern. “You do want the marriage to Kirkheathe to proceed?”

Dylan shrugged again. “Naturally. But after all the racket Lord Perronet made, her reputation may already be too seriously ruined. Kirkheathe might spurn her.”

“That is true.” The baron sighed.

“Unless I can convince Lord Perronet that I did not make love to his niece and so there is no reason she cannot marry Kirkheathe.”

“You will convince him?”

Feeling a certain amount of guilt over what he had done with Genevieve, he nodded. “I will try.”

“So there is no reason at all she cannot marry Kirkheathe?”

Dylan rose and faced his foster father. “If there is, it is only in her own mind.”

“Or heart, perhaps.”

“Perhaps,” he agreed after a short silence.

“Well, then,” the baron said, rising. “I suggest you waste no time. The longer Lord Perronet is on the rampage, the worse the damage to Lady Genevieve’s reputation will be.”

Dylan nodded and turned to go.

Before he could leave, the baron reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder. “She seems a sweet girl, if misguided. Do not fault her too much for her foolishness.”

Dylan smiled his irrepressible smile. “Because she claims to be in love with me, I will be chivalry itself when I talk to her.”

Then a scowl replaced the smile as he strode from the room.

“As for her uncle, I can make no such promises.”

Having hastily dressed in a gown of what she considered a most appropriate black, Genevieve sat staring at her hands folded on her lap. Her uncle was going to be here at any moment, and she was doing her best to compose herself.

It was not easy. Indeed, if someone were to offer her a means of being spirited out of Craig Fawr to the farthest reaches of Europe, she would consider herself the most fortunate of beings.

Sadly, no such miraculous event was in the offing.

And yet it was not shame and sorrow that filled her heart at the moment. It was a fierce and righteous anger, because she had been tricked by a clever rogue bent only on his own amusement

She never should have trusted Dylan DeLanyea’s kisses and his smiles and his sorrowful words. She should have remembered Lady Katherine’s admonitions that most young men were scheming, lustful rascals best avoided.

To think she had believed that he loved her! That his passionate kisses meant that he cared. Instead, as she had discovered to her horror and her shame, he had only been toying with her and amusing himself at her expense.

She should have been a dutiful niece and gladly gone to her marriage instead of climbing into a bed beside a naked and softly snoring Welshman who had promised her... nothing.

And she never should have cut her own finger to make it look as if she had bled. That was something one of the other girls at Lady Katherine’s claimed would happen the first time she lay with a man. That girl had lost her virginity some time before to a soldier in her father’s employ.

How she had looked down on Cecily Debarry after she had heard that, Genevieve thought, disgusted with herself as she remembered. That was how people would think of her now, as a sinful, immoral creature—and it was Dylan DeLanyea’s fault!

“Are you dressed?” her uncle demanded from the other side of the door.

“Yes,” she answered, rising and steeling herself for his anger. She would try to tell him the truth—that she was a virgin still—and her reasons for the deception, but she had little hope that he would listen.

What hope she had was squelched the moment her uncle marched into the chamber. He was still so angry, his hawklike face seemed filled with fury and his brown eyes fairly snapped with wrath as he slammed the heavy door shut.

Explanations would be useless. How could she save herself from his ire?

Quickly she knelt before him in an attitude of humble contrition, her anger masked, her head lowered, pressing her palms together as if she were praying—and she was, silently begging God to help her from this morass she had created.

“Uncle, I beg your forgiveness for my shameful conduct,” she murmured contritely. “I am very sorry.”

“So you should be.”

Noting that he didn’t sound quite so angry, she risked a glance up at him, and thought she saw a crack in the veneer of wrath.

“I was weak and foolish.”

Because I thought he loved me.

“All women are weak and foolish,” her uncle growled. “It is their nature.”

“I regret that I have sinned so grievously.”

And trusted him.

“You could not help it, I suppose,” he said, slightly mollified. “Like Eve when she was tempted by a snake.”

She tentatively raised her eyes to regard him.

“I suppose the betrothal to Lord Kirkheathe must be broken?” she asked with very real remorse.

She had never met the man, did not know him—but could marriage to him make her feel any worse?

“He very specifically wanted a virgin,” her uncle muttered as he strolled to the window and stared out, unseeing.

Genevieve swallowed hard. That did not make the man sound any more attractive; still, what alternatives existed?

“You will have to marry DeLanyea.”

She stared at him. “After what he did?”

Her uncle turned to face her. “We have little choice.”

“Lord Kirkheathe lives far away. Rumors may not reach him, so he need not know—”

Her uncle’s fierce scowl silenced her. “I will know, and I gave the man my word that you were a virgin. Besides, Kirkheathe hears everything one way or another. Since you are no longer pure, honor demands that I break the contract, just as honor demands that DeLanyea marry you after what he has done.”

“But I do not want to marry him now!”

“You wanted him enough last night to dishonor yourself,” he noted, glaring at her.

“I... I was overwhelmed by him. I made a mistake. I should not have done it.”

“Girl, get it through your head. Your reputation is irrevocably destroyed—unless he marries you.”

She got to her feet.

“Uncle,” she said resolutely, “I am a virgin still. It was a ruse to break the betrothal. I crept into his bed last night when he was already asleep.”

Her uncle’s eyes narrowed. “Did that bastard tell you to say that?”

“No! It is the truth. I thought he loved me and would want to marry me if I were free. Clearly, I made a serious error,” she finished bitterly.

“Yes, you did,” her uncle concurred grimly. “Whatever stupid thing you thought, this is not some childish prank, easily mended. Easily forgiven.”

It was unfortunately obvious that he did not believe her explanation.

“There is only one way out of this with even a hint of honor. You must and shall marry Dylan DeLanyea, and now I will ensure that is what comes to pass.”

He started for the door.

“I would rather die!”

He halted, then wheeled slowly on his heel to regard her dispassionately, as if she were a stranger to him. “There is a window. Jump.”

Appalled at his cold remark, she could only stare at him.

“I thought you would not,” he muttered as he left her.

After he closed the door, she heard the sound of a key in the lock.

Smking down on the chair, she put her head in her hands.

And cursed herself for a fool.


Chapter Three

“My lord!” Dylan cried as he nearly collided with Lord Perronet on the steps leading to Genevieve’s chamber.

“DeLanyea,” the nobleman snarled, glaring at him.

Dylan tried to remain calm, or at least as calm as he had been since his abrupt waking this morning. He would rather have talked to Genevieve first, but he might as well get the worst over with, he told himself. “I would speak with you, my lord.”

“Yes, you will,” the man replied. “But not here.”

Dylan fought to keep the scowl off his face. Of course he would not discuss this business on the stairs. “My uncle’s solar would, perhaps, be best.”

“Show me the way.”

Without a word, Dylan turned on his heel. He led the man down the stairs and through the hall, ignoring his uncle and cousins as they sat breaking the fast, to a tower recently built abutting the hall. The lower levels were used as offices by the steward and the bailiff. The baron’s solar was on the second level, and a fine new bedchamber for the baron and his wife comprised the third.

He waited for Lord Perronet to enter the room, then followed him, closing the door behind him.

“Please, sit,” he offered, gesturing at the baron’s chair behind the large wooden table.

“I prefer to stand.”

Dylan shrugged, then he himself took the baron’s chair. At that, Lord Perronet looked even more irate, but Dylan didn’t much care. If the man insisted upon standing, so that now he looked like a humble penitent brought before the lord of the manor, he had only himself to blame.

Like his niece.

“You’ve dishonored her, so you’ve got to marry her,” Lord Perronet declared without further preamble.

“I did not, so I do not,” Dylan replied. “I don’t know what she told you, but I didn’t even know she was in my bed until you came barging into my chamber this morning. If there’s dishonor here, you cannot lay it at my feet.”

“It’s not your feet that ruined her,” Lord Perronet growled. “She was in your bed with blood on the sheets, man! That’s evidence enough for what you did.”

“That is evidence that somebody bled for some reason. Otherwise, it is my word against hers.”

“The word of my niece against that of a—”

“Bastard?” Dylan regarded him steadily. “I must say, my lord, I’m surprised you would insist I marry her, given your low opinion of my family.”

“You gave me no choice.” The nobleman’s brows lowered. “Perhaps that was your plan—to get her dowry as well as entry into my family.”

“If I did dishonor her, as you claim, those would be the furthest things from my mind. I don’t need her dowry, and I certainly don’t want to be related to you in any way.”

The nobleman’s frown deepened. “Then why did you do it? To destroy my allegiance with Kirkheathe?”

“I don’t give a fisherman’s fart for your allegiances,” Dylan retorted. “That’s a Norman for you, thinking only of power and gain.”

“You young—”

“Welshman,” Dylan interrupted.

If the man insulted him again, he was quite likely to lose what remained of his control over his temper, and that would be a mistake.

“Or rather,” Dylan continued, “happily more Welsh than Norman. Tell me, my lord, what does the lady say? Does she claim that I made love to her under promise of marriage?”

Lord Perronet didn’t hesitate a moment. “Yes.”

The bile rose in Dylan’s throat. Genevieve had lied as blatantly as any charlatan, making him bear the blame.

“She is but a weak-willed girl easily led astray by a honey-tongued young man.”

Dylan thought of Genevieve’s eyes before his passionate kiss.

She was no weak-willed girl; she was a woman, with a woman’s passion.

And a very adult capacity to lie without detection.

He rose and faced Lord Perronet. “Whatever I may or may not have done, I will not be blackmailed into marriage.”

For the first time, it finally seemed to penetrate Lord Perronet’s brain that Dylan could not be compelled to marry Genevieve under these, or perhaps any, circumstances.

“I hope you realize you’ve destroyed her chances,” he snarled. “There’ll be nothing for her but a convent—a secluded one.”

“That is not my concern.”

“No, it isn’t, is it?” Perronet demanded. “Just like your father, aren’t you? Don’t think about consequences—just so long as you get what you want! Greedy to the bone!”

“If you were wise, you would cut out your tongue before you spoke of my father again,” Dy-lan said quietly as he came out from behind the table.

Lord Perronet’s eyes filled with panic, and he took a step back.

“I am not the greedy one here, my lord,” Dylan continued in that same softly menacing tone. “What will you forfeit if the betrothal between your niece and Kirkheathe is broken? Money? Power? Influence? All three? Was there ever any thought of her happiness when you made that betrothal?”

Lord Perronet stepped back again as Dylan approached him like a lion stalking its prey. “Perhaps if you had thought of her, she would not have been driven to impugn my honor to avoid marrying against her will.”

“I...she...”

“You would sacrifice her happiness for your greed,” he accused.

“You...you impertinent—!” Lord Perronet spluttered.

“Watch your tongue, my lord! Or should I say, Uncle?”

The man’s eyes widened.

“Why look so surprised? Isn’t that what you came here demanding, that I should marry your niece? Anwyl, maybe I should. She wanted me, after all, so there is that to consider. And you are a rich, powerful man.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Lord Perronet gasped.

“You seem to think I am capable of anything. Why not honorable marriage? Tell me, my lord, what might her dowry be?”

“It is—it doesn’t matter what it is! You will never see it!”

“This may be an appropriate time to point out that my own family is not insignificant,” Dylan said. “While I agree my father and grandfather were despicable monsters, my uncle and his sons are considered among the finest nobles in all of England. Baron DeLanyea is easily a match for you in powerful friends, as well as wealth. So you see, my haughty Norman, perhaps marriage to me is not to be considered a fate only slightly better than life in a secluded convent.

“Now, I ask you again, what is the lady’s dowry?”

Baron DeLanyea glanced at the entrance to the tower containing his solar, then back to the bread and ale before him as he broke the fast.

“God’s wounds, nerve-racking this is, and no mistake,” he muttered to his sons, who sat on either side of him.

“If he doesn’t part the man’s head from his body, it will be a miracle,” Griffydd observed.

“Then someone should go and make sure he doesn’t,” Trystan said, looking pointedly at his father.

“He won’t attack the man,” the baron said, although not without the merest hint of doubt in his voice. “He wouldn’t be that stupid.”

“He hasn’t proved to be very wise these days,” Griffydd remarked.

“That is true enough.”

Trystan stood abruptly. “Someone should see what they’re doing.”

“Sit down,” the baron ordered. “If we have to interfere, we will—but not unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

“He’ll make things worse, and hasn’t he done enough harm already?”

“He says he has not,” the baron reminded his younger son.

“I saw the way he looked at her,” Trystan replied. He looked at Griffydd. “You did, too. I know you spoke to him about his behavior.”

“And I thought he had taken heed.”

“He says he did,” the baron said. “He didn’t even talk to her at the banquet last night, did he?”

“That doesn’t mean he’s innocent,” Trystan charged.

“I know,” the baron replied. “But let us not be casting blame where it isn’t deserved.”

Suddenly, the older man straightened. “Shh! Someone’s coming from the solar now.”

All three watched expectantly as Lord Perronet strode out of the tower, through the hall and outside.

They exchanged puzzled glances.

“At least he’s not dead,” Griffydd offered.

“He looked angry, though,” Trystan noted warily. “What do you suppose—?”

They fell silent as Dylan appeared, his head bowed as if lost in thought, a scowl on his usually smiling face until he looked up and saw his relatives.

Then he grinned, but all realized there was no true joy in it. “Congratulate me, gentlemen. I am to be married.”

Griffydd and Trystan stared openmouthed as the baron slowly got to his feet. “What are you saying?”

“I am saying I am going to marry Genevieve Perronet. Today.”

The baron sat back down heavily.

“Why?” Griffydd demanded, eyeing him sternly. “You claim you did not dishonor her.”

Finally, a spark of mirth appeared in Dylan’s dark eyes. “Maybe it is because I am of an age to be married.”

“Are you certain this is a wise decision?” the baron asked. “Lord Perronet didn’t force—?”

“Him? Force me to do anything?” Dylan scoffed. “That would be something to see.”

“What about Lady Genevieve?” Trystan demanded.

“It was her idea, wasn’t it, although she went about letting me know that she wanted to be my wife in a rather unusual way,” he replied.

He turned to the baron. “You yourself heard her confess that she loved me, Uncle. Obviously, she is an intelligent woman and no one can deny her beauty.”

“You are absolutely certain about this?” the baron asked.

“Uncle, do you honestly believe I could be forced by any man—or woman, either—to marry against my will?”

“No,” the baron admitted.

“Griffydd?”

“No,” he agreed.

“Trystan?”

“No,” the youngest knight grudgingly concurred. His gaze mirrored the intensity of his father’s. “Do you love her?”

“Not yet, but I shall, beginning this very night. Now if you will all excuse me, I had better start arranging my wedding.”

He marched from the hall, whistling a jaunty tune as if he got married every day, leaving the other three feeling like men who had been expecting a pitched battle, only to find themselves sent home without so much as a glimpse of the enemy.

Below the table, Trystan’s hands balled into fists.

Genevieve stared at her uncle in disbelief. “My what?”

“Your wedding dress. Get it out and get it ready. You are going to be married today.”

“Married? To whom?”

He gave her a sour look. “To whom do you think? Sir Dylan DeLanyea, lord of Beaufort, that’s who.”

“But what of my betrothal to Lord Kirkheathe?”

“That is obviously at an end, thanks to you. I shall find some means to make amends. Maybe your cousin Elizabeth can be persuaded to marry him in your stead.”

“Uncle!”

Genevieve rose from her chair and faced him resolutely. “I admit I made a grievous error, but I will not compound it by marrying that man.”

“Oh, yes, you will!” her uncle replied harshly. “How dare you refuse? After what you did, you should be glad we’ve got a way out of it before your reputation is totally sullied. There will be rumors and gossip enough as it is. As for what Lord Kirkheathe might think, I don’t want to even consider. You should thank God I’m not sending you off without a shift to your name.”

“I would prefer that fate to marriage to Dylan DeLanyea.”

Her uncle looked at her as if she had gone mad. and clearly he thought she had. “You were in his bed naked, Genevieve!”

“To my everlasting regret. I would rather marry Lord Kirkheathe.”

“That’s impossible, and you know it! Marry DeLanyea, or so help me, I’ll send you to the most remote convent I can find and leave you there to rot!”

As she looked at his angry visage, she knew he would do exactly that. She would be exiled to an existence little better than a living death, with no husband and no possibility of children.

“Lord Petronet?”

Genevieve started and looked at the door, where the baron’s wife stood.

Lady Roanna was tall and slim, dressed in a simple gown of fine red wool girdled with a belt of soft beige leather. Her hair was covered by a red cap and white scarf.

She regarded them placidly, her pale, patient face showing signs of weariness, yet her voice, while soft, was as commanding as the baron’s.

Genevieve quickly curtsied. As she did so, she glanced at her proud and pompous uncle. He looked as humble and contrite as an errant child.

“Lord Perronet, I have been informed of my nephew’s impending marriage and would like to speak to your niece alone, if I may. One woman to another, as it were.”

When she spoke, her voice and expression were such that Genevieve doubted anyone would deny whatever request she cared to make, even including the king.

And as if to prove Genevieve’s observation, her uncle nodded, meek as a lamb.

“Of course, my lady,” he said. He went to the door, then hesitated, glancing back at Genevieve. “The ceremony will be at noon.”

After he was gone, Lady Roanna glided into the room.

“May I sit?” she asked, and Genevieve couldn’t help but be relieved by the change in her tone. She sounded much more sympathetic.

“Of course, my lady,” Genevieve replied.

Lady Roanna took a chair and then gestured at the other. “Please.”

Genevieve did as she was bid.

Lady Roanna turned her vibrant green eyes onto Genevieve, eyes that seemed to demand truthfulness. “So, you are going to marry my nephew, not Lord Kirkheathe.”

“I have been told I must,” Genevieve replied, and not without a hint of bitterness.

“You do not sound pleased.”

Genevieve didn’t answer. She couldn’t, not with Lady Roanna’s steadfast gaze on her.

“I gather your uncle has good reason for demanding this change.”

“I was in your nephew’s bed.”

Lady Roanna’s expression altered ever so slightly and in a manner that made Genevieve flush. “Dylan denies seducing you.”

All Genevieve could do was stare at the floor and blush like a child caught in an outrageous lie.

“Did he seduce you?” Lady Roanna asked gently.

Compelled by the older woman’s sympathy, Genevieve raised her eyes and shook her head. “No, my lady. And so I told my uncle.”

Lady Roanna smiled a little. “I see. I gather this was a plan on your part to avoid marriage to Lord Kirkheathe?”

Genevieve felt her eyes welling with hot tears as she nodded. Suddenly, she felt silly and stupid and ashamed.

“Then I would say you have succeeded admirably. But tell me, were you not consulted about the betrothal to Lord Kirkheathe? Did you not agree?”

“No, my lady. That is,” Genevieve amended, “I did not openly disagree. I thought I had no other choice, until I met Dylan.” Her voice quivered. “I suppose you think I have behaved disgracefully.”

The older woman reached out and pressed her hand warmly. “I think you have acted like a desperate young woman who believes herself in love. However, I must say I am surprised you are not happier at the prospect of marrying my nephew, since you must have suspected this would be the ultimate result of your scheme. Perhaps you have heard things about his family that have upset you?”

Although they had not been uppermost in her mind, Genevieve remembered the epithets her uncle had hurled at Dylan and his hostile reaction. “I know my uncle thinks very poorly of his father and grandfather, but I do not know why.”

Lady Roanna sighed deeply. “Dylan’s father and grandfather were selfish, cruel, vindictive men who craved power. They did terrible things trying to attain it. Thankfully Dylan is not like them.”

“My uncle called him a bastard.”

“He is. His mother was a servant girl at Beaufort.”

Genevieve frowned, confused. “Yet he has inherited that estate?”

“Yes.” Lady Roanna made a wry little smile. “The Welsh are not as concerned with legitimacy, and it is a good thing, too, or my husband would not be lord of Craig Fawr. He is a bastard, too.”

“Oh, my lady, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“There is no need to apologize. I just thought you might hold Dylan’s birth against him.”

“No, that is not what I hold against him,” she replied.

She mustered her pride. “I was most unhappily misled, my lady. I thought he loved me.”

“Why?”

Genevieve was not quite prepared for the blunt question, but if Lady Roanna wanted to know, she would tell her. “He was very kind and pleasant, and flattering. No man has ever looked at me as he did. And then he kissed me, more than once, with great passion. And when he said farewell...”

Her words trailed off into an awkward silence, for if she said more, she would perhaps reveal too much of her own wounded feelings, and that her pride would not allow.

“I understand he never told you that he loved you and wanted to marry you.”

“No, my lady. But his embraces were...they gave me some cause to think he cared for me.”

“Dylan is a passionate man,” Lady Roanna observed. “He sometimes acts without much thought.”

“Did he agree to marry me because my uncle forced him?” Genevieve demanded suspiciously.

Lady Roanna smiled. “If I did not know Dylan better, my dear,” she admitted, “I might think that But I do know him. No one could force him to do such a thing.”

“Then why did he change his mind and say he would marry me?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Lady Roanna replied. “But he does seem very determined to do it.” She leaned forward, her gaze searching Genevieve’s face. “What I must know is, do you want to be his wife? If you do not, tell me. Neither my husband nor I believe in forced marriages.”

A strange look crossed Lady Roanna’s face. “For very good reasons. So, if you would rather not marry Dylan, just say so and it will not be.”

“My uncle threatens to send me away to a remote convent if I do not,” Genevieve replied warily.

“We would convince him otherwise.”

Despite Lady Roanna’s calm conviction, Genevieve found it difficult to believe they would be able to change her stubborn uncle’s mind.

So now it was up to her to decide: marry Dylan DeLanyea, who only hours ago had made it very clear that he did not want her for his wife.

Or be sent to a convent, forever unmarried and childless.


Chapter Four

Somewhere in the dim recesses of Dylan’s mind, he had always known he would marry one day. He had, however, envisioned doing so under distinctly different circumstances.

Whenever he had taken a moment to contemplate his future spouse, for example, he had pictured a spirited Welsh woman of voluptuous build who would understand about his children and the women who had borne them.

He had certainly never imagined himself married to a pale, blond girl-woman of Norman blood, especially one who had tricked her way into his bed, he reflected as he stood in the hall with his relatives, along with the baron’s assembled guests and the castle servants.

They were all awaiting the arrival of his bride and the blessing of a priest hastily summoned.

He had also naturally assumed he would be passionately in love with his bride, a passion beyond anything he had ever felt for the many and various women who had already shared his affection and his bed.

Genevieve Perronet was attractive, of course, and she had been arousing—but he did not love her. Anwyl, he hardly knew her.

And therein, of course, lay the biggest problem. Angry and frustrated, he had proposed a marriage with scarcely a thought of the bride-to-be, his primary motive being to annoy her haughty, pompous uncle.

At least Genevieve would be pleased, he consoled himself, his natural optimism reasserting itself. She would be grateful that he was marrying her and saving her damaged honor.

And she had said she loved him.

A grateful, loving wife with a dowry of five hundred gold coins was not something to be dismissed out of hand. As for his children, he would simply have to explain to her that the Welsh were not so hypocritical when it came to illegitimate children. In Welsh eyes, a child was a child, whether born in wedlock or not.

If he and Genevieve had a son, that firstborn son would inherit Beaufort according to Norman law. Trefor, his eldest son out of wedlock, would be given his own land out of that estate, as would his other bastard son, Arthur, equal to that of any subsequent issue.

Genevieve would simply have to accept that.

The baron, standing beside him, shifted, drawing Dylan’s attention from his own musings. Glancing around the hall, Dylan realized the guests and servants were exchanging wary glances.

“Brides are often late,” the baron muttered. “Wanting to look their best, is all. You know how women are.”

Dylan nodded. Yes, he knew women, and so he would be patient. “Will Lady Roanna be here for the blessing?”

“Old Mamaeth is very bad but—” the baron started to explain when suddenly there was a commotion at the entrance to the hall.

Dylan found himself holding his breath, then, when he saw the reason for the disturbance, letting it out slowly.

It was Lady Roanna and the baron’s old nurse, who was being carried in, seated on a chair borne by two brawny servants as if she were an Oriental potentate.

“Not missing this,” the elderly woman chirped cheerfully. “It’s about time that young devil settled down and got married and quit sowing his seed all over Wales.”

Dylan tried to smile. He was happy Mamaeth had made the effort to see him wed, of course, and happier yet to see Lady Roanna, who was like a mother to him.

But Mamaeth had a tongue that wagged, especially when she was in a celebratory mood, and no sense of propriety at all.

Which she proceeded to demonstrate.

“Where’s the bride?” she demanded querulously. “Not changed her mind, I hope, after all the uproar! Nearly stopped my heart, that.”

The people in the hall smiled, but the smiles were a little strained.

“It is a good thing she is taking her time,” Dy-lan replied with a merriment he didn’t quite feel. “Otherwise you would have been late.”

“Humph!” was all the answer Mamaeth could think to make to that before she subsided into an uncharacteristic silence, and for that, Dylan was grateful.

“Ah, here they are!” the baron cried softly.

Again Dylan looked at the entrance to the hall—and then gasped with delight.

Genevieve wore a gown of white silk whose long cuffs, lined with gold samite, reached nearly to the floor. Over this was a tunic, also of gold. Her girdle of gold and silver embroidery encircled her slender waist, crossed in back and was knotted again in front, so that it fell low on her hips.

Her hand on her stern uncle’s arm, she slowly approached the group waiting on the dais, and as she did, her low-slung girdle seemed to highlight the graceful sensuality of her walk.

Surprisingly aroused, especially given the crowd surrounding him, Dylan swallowed hard and forced himself to look at her face. On her head was a stiffened band with matching embroidery held in place by a white silken scarf that passed from one side of the crown under her chin to the other.

Without the cluster of golden curls that usually surrounded her face, she looked older, and more womanly.

His heart beat faster.

Then she came near enough for him to get a good look at her expression.

Rarely had he ever seen anyone, including Griffydd, appear so grimly resolute. She looked more like a condemned prisoner being led to the block than a woman who had connived to bring about her own marriage.

If she did not want to be married to him, why was she there?

Confused, and with his pride wounded—for never had he imagined his bride would have such a look on her face—he glanced at Lady Roanna He knew she had spoken with Genevieve. Perhaps Genevieve had given his foster mother some inkling...?

Lady Roanna smiled tranquilly, as if this were nothing more than a joyous occasion and she glad to be there.

Surely she would not look so calm if she thought there was trouble in the offing.

Next, Dylan glanced at the baron, who had a somewhat troubled frown on his face, and his sons likewise.

Dylan grew aware of the puzzled murmurs of the assembly, and the various expressions of the guests, who generally seemed to be regarding him with a certain questioning gravity, and Genevieve with...pity?

Anwyl, this was her doing. Her fault. The result of her scheming and trickery. He would have no one think this was being forced on her!

Or him, either, his pride reminded him.

So Dylan left the dais and approached his beautiful, scheming bride. When he reached her, he yanked her into his arms, and boldly and passionately kissed her.

Dylan’s unexpected kiss quite took Genevieve’s breath away—and threatened to strip her of what dignity she retained in front of all these people.

Try as she might to feel nothing, or perhaps only anger, the moment his lips were on hers, her blood began to throb wildly, and her knees felt strangely weak.

Finally he stopped kissing her, although he still held her in a grip of iron. His lips trailed across her cheek toward her ear while she tried to catch her breath.

“This was more your doing than mine, my lady, so smile,” he whispered harshly, “or by God, I’ll walk away and leave you here.”

Passionate kiss or no passionate kiss, she knew he meant it. He would do it. He would see her humiliated yet again, and he would probably have the gall to say she had only herself to blame.





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