Книга - A Warrior’s Honor

A Warrior's Honor
Margaret Moore


Abduction Was But A Prelude To Marriage - Or so Bryce had been let to believe when he'd kidnapped the Lady Rhiannon to be his liege lord's mate.Though never had he seen a more reluctant bride! How could he, in all chivalry, allow such a spirited beauty to be bound to a man she did not want?Unseemly behavior had landed Rhiannon DeLanyea in an isolated keep, a prisoner of one man's revenge and prey to another man's ardor. But could she trust Bryce Frechette, the Norman knight who thrust her heart into a melee of desire?







“It is my curse, to speak without thinking. (#u5c55a303-a8db-55f0-a45a-2c6712c0a78e)Letter to Reader (#u1676e0fe-ffc6-5f9f-aca2-18f465e4cb3b)Title Page (#ucc6ec424-829c-58f4-bd48-53475328b3b0)About the Author (#ud90e88ff-40e3-5416-a25d-a296c852a32b)Dedication (#uaf29274e-93b2-523d-9e7e-d3a1dee5b69a)Chapter One (#udf4ea7e3-65b6-59d6-88ea-4e6aa744ccb4)Chapter Two (#ue60dd908-c406-5118-a299-4042afbe8d1e)Chapter Three (#u5ea8aa7e-4efc-51b0-b524-303c2e19194c)Chapter Four (#u8b3130f9-0967-5064-91c5-b662caba5a9d)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)


“It is my curse, to speak without thinking.

“Please, forgive me.”

She gave him a smile that was both bitter and rueful. “If I had thought before speaking, too, and behaved as you yourself told me I should,” she said, “I would not be in this predicament.”

He regarded her quizzically. “Predicament?”

She nodded her head. “I fear Lord Cynvelin acted with undue haste.”

“What are you saying?” he whispered, scarcely daring to believe what her words seemed to be indicating.

“I am saying that there has been a mistake.”

She looked so sorrowful and distressed, he wanted to comfort her. “If you do not wish to stay...”

“I don’t.”

“You should ask Lord Cynvelin to escort you.”

“I have and he will not.... Would you help me?” she asked softly, a pleading look in her eyes.

A trusting look. A look that made him feel an honorable man again.


Dear Reader,

Next month, Harlequin Historicals


turns ten years old! But we have such a terrific lineup this month, we thought we’d start celebrating early. To begin, the ever-popular Margaret Moore returns with her fifteenth book, A Warrior’s Honor, the next Medieval in her WARRIOR SERIES. Dubbed a “master storyteller” by Affaire de Coeur, the versatile Moore brings us the sensational story of a knight who is tricked by a fellow nobleman into abducting a beautiful lady, but, guided by honor—and love—seeks to rescue her from the evil clutches of his former friend.

And in a rescue of a different sort, a rancher turned fugitive inadvertently becomes a bodyguard to the very visible Duchess of Malvem in The Duchess and the Desperado, a dynamite Western by award-winning author Laurie Grant. A beautiful young woman on a quest for vengeance unwittingly falls in love with the man she thinks may have harmed her sister in The Shadowed Heart by Nina Beaumont.

And don’t miss Susan Mallery’s latest historical, Wild West Wife, the final book in the MONTANA MAVERICKS: RETURN TO WHTTEHORN series. This is the story of the very first Kincaid, who kidnaps his enemy’s mail-order bride to get revenge but instead falls for his beautiful captive!

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


.

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


A Warrior’s Honor

Margaret Moore














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


MARGARET MOORE

confesses that her first “crush” was Errol Flynn. The second was “Mr. Spock.” She thinks that explains why her heroes tend to be either charming rogues or lean, inscrutable tough guys.

Margaret lives in Scarborough, Ontario, with her husband, two children and two cats. She used to sew and read for reasons other than research.


To Geoffrey Clayton, Ph.D,

coauthor of

“Starburst-Like Dust Extinction in the

Small Magellanic Cloud”

and

“Ultraviolet Observations of the Hot R Coronae Borealis

Type Star, V348 Sagittarii, During a Deep Minimum,”

among others;

and a friend who reads my books.


Chapter One

England, 1228

Bryce Frechette leaned back against the stone wall, a small, indulgent smile on his face as he watched the boisterous company enjoying the festivities after Lord Melevoir’s tournament.

Their host was a genial man who believed in fine food and wine, good sport and loud music. His hall, while not as large as Bryce’s father’s had been, evinced the Norman nobleman’s appreciation for the luxuries a wealthy life afforded. A blazing fire in the hearth dispelled the chill of the spring evening, and fine beeswax candles in a number of holders brightened the room, as did torches in sconces upon the walls.

After an excellent and bountiful meal, the long trestle tables had been taken down and now leaned against the thick stone walls, with the benches in front for those not dancing. Well-fed hounds prowled among the rushes, looking for scraps and somehow managing to avoid getting in the way of the energetic dancers, who whirled past like so many colorful children’s tops in the center of the floor.

Bryce reflected it was a wonder some didn’t fall and break their heads, especially the ones who were obviously drunk. As it was, the laughing and talking of the lords and ladies nearly drowned out the music of harp, tabor and drum.

His gaze strayed again toward a lovely young woman with dark hair and bright eyes who danced gracefully, and whose joyously merry laugh had nothing to do with too much wine. Sometimes he could see her face clearly when she passed near him in her bright blue gown under an overtunic of indigo and gold brocade, and with her gold jewelry flashing in the light of the candles.

The skin crinkled at the corners of her mirthful, shining green eyes beneath shapely dark brows. Wisps of black hair escaped her headdress and scarf to brush her smooth pink cheeks. He admired her straight and shapely nose, and her full, smiling ruby lips parted to reveal pearl-like teeth.

He wondered who she was and what her name might be. She was without doubt the most attractive woman he had ever seen, and he envied whatever main danced with her, including their portly, elderly host.

If he were titled still, Bryce thought, he would be dancing with her, too, looking into those expressive, vivacious eyes and, he had to admit, trying to get her into a shadowed corner to steal a kiss from those enticing lips.

But he was not titled, he reminded himself with a bitter scowl. He was not the Earl of Westborough, although by rights he should be; he had no estate.

And the beauty was probably a spoiled, pampered young woman who would want nothing to do with the likes of him.

He could not even afford an extra shirt. The only one he possessed had been torn in the tournament, so he had been forced to come to the feast wearing only his leather tunic. Acutely conscious of his less-than-well-dressed state, he nevertheless wanted to enjoy the banquet a little longer. It gave him a taste of the life he used to know, when his father was alive.

Therefore, he told himself, it didn’t matter who she was or what her name might be, any more than it mattered that these noblemen and their ladies ignored him.

As if to refute that rankling thought, a darkly handsome man with a silver goblet in his hand came to sit next to Bryce on the bench. Bryce knew he was a Welshman, and the black-haired beauty had been talking and laughing with him before joining in the dance with Lord Melevoir.

“Seen happier faces on a tomb, I have;” the stranger remarked casually. “And you winning the purse, too! A pity it is ten silver pieces don’t make you happy. I’ll gladly take them from you if that would please you.”

“You could try,” Bryce answered in a calm yet warning tone.

“Ust, man, no need to sound so fierce.” The Welshman grinned, his eyes dancing with merriment. “You deserved to win. There aren’t many who can beat me, but glad I am to say that I do not bear a grudge. Look you, you were the finest with the lance on the field, and it would be a fool who would say otherwise. I am not a fool.”

Bryce relaxed, pleased by the fellow’s manner as much as his words. It had been a long time since a nobleman had treated him as an equal. “Forgive my lack of courtesy, sir,” he said with an answering smile. “I would that every man I bested spoke with such generosity.” He bent his head in welcome. “I am Bryce Frechette.”

“Generosity, is it?” the dark-haired man replied. “Good sense, I call it, and of course I know who you are.”

Bryce mentally braced himself for the inevitable questions.

Which did not come. “I am Lord Cynvelin ap Hywell of Caer Coch, the finest estate in Wales,” his companion announced jovially. He ran another appraising glance over the Norman. “I’ve made it my business to hire the best men for my company. I hope you will consider joining my retinue.”

Bryce’s first impulse was to refuse. He was not born to be any man’s hireling.

“Since we are gentlemen, we will not barter terms like merchants. If you agree, you shall have whatever you require in arms, clothing, food and lodging, and if, after a year or so, we are both well pleased with one another, I see no reason I should not reward you further.”

Bryce knew he could always make a living fighting in tournaments. If worse came to worst, he could go to his sister and find a home in her castle.

Yet he had been traveling and fighting for years, and no one else had ever offered him such a chance. As for going to his sister...he would feel like a beggar at their gate.

Bryce’s pride gave way to practicality. His family had lost title and estate, and all the money he had was the ten coins in his purse. If he didn’t accept this nobleman’s offer, eventually he would be reduced to fighting in yet another tournament and hoping to win a prize, as if he were a trained bear fighting for his food.

Besides, this fellow was not just friendly, but respectful, too. Both were rare reactions to him these days. And, he reasoned, how difficult could service in such a man’s retinue be? He could always leave it if he chose to, and his alternatives were few indeed.

“My lord, I shall be delighted to accept,” he answered with another bow of his head.

Lord Cynvelin clapped his hand on Bryce’s shoulder and smiled warmly. “Excellent, my friend!”

Bryce took a deep breath. “You can rely on me, my lord,” he said, the words almost a challenge.

Lord Cynvelin became serious. “If I thought it would be otherwise, I would not have made the offer. Many of us were foolish and headstrong youths. Besides, man, think what it will do for my glory when others hear that Bryce Frechette, champion of Lord Melevoir’s tournament, is in my company.”

Bryce nodded, pleased and relieved and flattered all at once.

“We leave for Wales after mass tomorrow. I trust you can be ready?”

“Wales?”

“Aye. Where else would a Welshman live?”

Bryce nodded. “Of course.”

“That is not a trouble to you, is it?”

“No, my lord,” Bryce replied, stifling any reluctance to travel into the wilderness inhabited by the Celts.

“Good.” Lord Cynvelin sighed and took a drink of his wine. “A fine feast, this. I have never seen so many pretty ladies in one place.”

“Pretty, rich and titled ladies,” Bryce amended, giving his newfound friend a sardonic glance. “That puts them out of my reach.”

Lord Cynvelin chuckled and looked at Bryce appraisingly. “You’re as good-looking a man as I’ve ever seen, except for myself, of course. I would find it difficult to believe you would have to sleep alone tonight.”

Bryce’s smile had a tinge of bitterness. “Given my lack of title, none of these ladies would look at me twice.”

The remarkably handsome Cynvelin laughed, a deep, rich bass laugh that caused several people to look their way questioningly, including the beautiful unknown.

“Look you at all the women watching us,” Cynvelin said when he quieted. “What more proof do you need?”

Bryce slid a surreptitious glance around the hall. “It’s you they’re watching, my lord.”

“Well and why not?” Lord Cynvelin observed with another chuckle. “But you, too. I noticed when I was at the dancing. And you it was took the finest prize in the joust when you got your lance through the ring five times. I tell you, man, you have but to crook your finger and you could have your choice to share your bed tonight.”

“I think I would do better to prepare for the journey tomorrow.”

Lord Cynvelin smiled. “If you would rather. I can only admire such dedication to duty. As for me, I’m off to speak to the woman I’m going to marry, if she’ll have me. There she is, dancing with Lord Melevoir. Have you ever seen a more graceful, lovely creature than Rhiannon DeLanyea?”

“She is very beautiful,” Bryce observed, watching the no-longer-unknown beauty step lightly to the music and deftly avoid their host’s awkward and large feet.

“I warn you, Bryce Frechette, she belongs to me,” Cynvelin chided, his eyes full of laughter. “Besides, her father is half-Welsh, and a baron, and a very fierce fellow. The man who would win his daughter’s love will have to deal with him.”

“I assure you, my lord, I have no interest in her beyond the admiration all men must accord her.”

Cynvelin chuckled again. “You speak like a Norman nobleman right enough,” he said as he rose. He straightened his black tunic and adjusted the goldembossed belt at his waist. “Now then, I will go to her rescue. We shall meet at the stables in the morning, Frechette.”

Bryce nodded his farewell, then watched Lord Cynvelin stroll across Lord Melevoir’s hall and approach the beauteous Rhiannon DeLanyea.

Lady Rhiannon DeLanyea, Bryce silently corrected, who was his new overlord’s intended bride.

Well, so be it, he thought as he once again leaned against the wall, smiling to himself. He had come to believe that no nobleman would ever offer friendship or treat him as an equal again. That he would forever be the dishonored, disgraced son of the Earl of Westborough.

Now it seemed there was hope that this could change and he might yet gain tide on his own merits. If that, what else could he not hope for?

After all, there would be other laughing, beautiful young noblewomen who would not be beyond the reach of a knighted Bryce Frechette.

Rhiannon sat upon the nearest bench and tried to catch her breath. Lord Melevoir bowed his graying head and she reciprocated before the elderly nobleman tottered away, looking for somebody else with whom to dance.

At least she had managed to stay on her feet, she reflected as she fanned herself with her hand. Lord Melevoir had been rather zealous in the round dance, and at one point, Rhiannon had feared she was going to be sent spinning into the musicians.

“Some wine, please,” she panted when a maidservant appeared at her elbow.

“Allow me, my lady,” a masculine voice said in Welsh, and slender, familiar fingers held out a goblet.

She accepted the drink gratefully and looked up into the smiling face of Lord Cynvelin ap Hywell.

“Lord Cynvelin!” she said happily. “How good of you! Thirsty, I am, and worn my feet to my anklebones, I think.”

“There is not a more lovely, delightful dancer here, so all the men want to take a turn with you,” he answered, sitting beside her.

Rhiannon smiled in response, then took another drink, nearly choking. “O‘r annwyl!” she spluttered as Cynvelin quickly moved to take the goblet from her. “If I am not careful, I will be reeling about like a sot. Lord Melevoir is a most excellent man and so is his wine. I am not used to such full-bodied drink.”

“Whereas I am getting drunk only on your beauty,” Cynvelin replied in a low voice.

Pleasantly flattered, Rhiannon blushed. “I thought you didn’t like me anymore. You might have rescued me sooner from the round dance instead of talking to that Saxon. Imagine coming to a feast without a shirt on!”

She nodded at the man seated across the hall. His brown hair fell to his broad shoulders, and he wore only a plain leather tunic laced up the front, open at the neck with no shirt beneath, so that his bare, muscular arms and chest were exposed. There was something almost savage or untamed about him, and the unnerving way his gaze darted about made her feel he was containing a vigorous energy that he could release at will.

“A Norman he is, my lady,” Lord Cynvelin revealed. “And don’t your father and brothers wear their hair in such a fashion? I have heard that they do.”

Rhiannon laughed gaily. “Indeed, you are right. They claim it makes their helmets sit better, although in the case of my brothers. I think it is only vanity. Perhaps it is so with that fellow.”

“Have you never heard of Bryce Frechette, the Earl of Westborough’s son?”

Rhiannon regarded Lord Cynvelin with genuine surprise. “Of course! Everyone knows about him, and how he argued with his father and left home, and never came back even when his father lay dying. I wonder what he’s doing here? I’m surprised he dares to show his face among noble folk.”

She glanced at the disgraced Norman again, to see him rise and saunter toward the opposite end of the hall. His walk had all the grace of a large cat, and once more she had that sense of a contained power waiting for release.

“And to think you had never heard of me until we met three days ago, whereas you know all about that fellow,” Lord Cynvelin said with a wounded air. “You are breaking my heart.”

She smiled at her countryman. “I am sorry to be breaking your heart, but I’m sure there are plenty of other ladies here who would like to help you mend it.”

“There is only one lady who can do that,” he replied with unmistakable significance.

“Oh, I think not, my lord,” she said with a laugh, suddenly rather uncomfortable. To be sure, she liked the Welsh nobleman and found his attention flattering, but there was a new, searching quality to his gaze she found disconcerting. “Lady Valmont would surely gladly give away her estate and count it well lost if she thought she could win your heart.”

“Perhaps if I am rejected by a better lady, I might have to console myself with a woman obviously inferior and take an estate as a consolation prize.” He leaned closer, so that his breath was hot on her cheeks and she could smell the wine on it, too. “But I would rather not. Besides, I think you overestimate my ability to attract a Norman lady. Lady Valmont has no use for Welshmen. Look you how she’s staring at Frechette.”

“Only because he is a dishonorable rogue, I’m sure,” she said soothingly. “Lady Valmont has made no secret of her fondness for scoundrels.”

“Are you saying, my lady, that I am a scoundrel?” he asked worriedly, placing his palm against his cheek in a gesture of dismay.

“Oh, most certainly not!”

Her companion gave her another smile. “Then I forgive Frechette his notoriety,” he said magnanimously. “I hope you will not question my judgment when I tell you I have asked him to join my retinue when I leave for Wales tomorrow.”

Rhiannon paid little attention to the first part of Lord Cynvelin’s announcement. “You are leaving tomorrow?”

“After mass.”

“My father comes tomorrow,” she reminded him. “I was hoping you would be able to meet him.”

Lord Cynvelin’s expression was all contrition and regret. “Alas, my lady, I cannot linger here, as much as I would like to. I have business that requires my immediate attention.”

“Oh.”

“Perhaps I might be permitted to visit you at Craig Fawr when my business is concluded,” he suggested.

She could think of no reason he should not, beyond a certain discomfort in his suddenly proprietary manner. “We shall be pleased to welcome you.”

“I shall count the hours until I see you again,” Lord Cynvelin whispered, gazing at her with eyes full of meaning.

She blushed again and looked away, taken aback by the possessive expression in his dark eyes. Did he want to meet her father because he wanted to ask for her hand?

She liked Lord Cynvelin. She admired him and she was pleased that he apparently admired her. She respected him. He was Welsh. For those reasons she had sought out his company during Lord Melevoir’s tournament and invited him to Craig Fawr.

But she had only known him three days. That was hardly enough time to know him well, and certainly not enough to fall in love or commit herself to marriage.

Her mother often cautioned her to be more circumspect, and right now Rhiannon wished she had heeded that advice. Obviously she had inadvertently given him cause to believe she cared more for him than she did.

“If you will excuse me, my lady,” he said, standing, to her undeniable relief, “I must speak with Lord Melevoir before I leave and thank him for his hospitality. Then I should retire to my quarters.”

“Yes, certainly, my lord,” she stammered, flushing even more as he lifted her hand and pressed a kiss upon it, looking at her with an expectant expression.

“Until later, my lady.”

He bowed low and strolled away, and for the first time since she had made his acquaintance, she was happy to see him go.

Until later? What had he meant?

She almost groaned aloud. Did he think she was willing to join him in his quarters?

What had she made him believe?

She watched him pause to speak with Lady Valmont, who gave her a speculative look. Did she wonder, too, at the nature of the relationship between Rhiannon and Lord Cynvelin?

Looking away, Rhiannon’s gaze encountered a group of Norman noblewomen whispering and smiling as they glanced at her.

What did all these people assume?

Suddenly the hall seemed too crowded and far too hot. She rose and hurried out into the cooler air of the courtyard. It was a huge open area, surrounded by the high inner walls. Beyond that lay another ward encircled by thicker outer walls, and the most imposing gatehouse Rhiannon had ever seen.

She slowed her pace to a more sedate walk, as befitted a gentlewoman.

Then she halted. His back to her, a man stood in the shadows near some carts outside the barracks where the visiting knights and their retinues were housed. He seemed to be rummaging among the goods on the back of one of the wagons, yet it was too late and too dark for any of the castle servants to be preparing for a journey.

“You, there! What are you doing?” she called out, moving closer, prepared to summon the guards if need be.

She realized the man had shoulder-length hair only a moment before Bryce Frechette turned to face her. “I am looking for my baggage, which isn’t in the barracks. I was told one of the servants put it here by mistake.”

As he spoke, Rhiannon saw that he did resemble a Saxon more than a Norman, with his hair to his broad shoulders, angular face and an aloof, slightly disgruntled expression.

He also stood in an interesting manner, as if he were in a relaxed battle stance. She knew only one other man who stood that way when not actually engaged in combat. Urien Fitzroy, a friend of her father’s, was credited with being the finest trainer of fighting men in England.

Bryce Frechette was a most imposing warrior, too, and yet, now that she was close to him, she did not find him frightening. She found him rather intriguing and wished she could see his face more clearly, particularly his shadowed eyes. “I’m sorry. I made a mistake.”

“Did you think I was trying to steal something?” he charged.

“Yes...no...” she began, then she straightened her shoulders defensively. “You must appreciate that your activity did look questionable.”

“Especially when I am not a nobleman?” he queried, his tone ostensibly polite, but with an undercurrent of hostility.

Why should he have cause to be angry at her? she wondered, her own ire rising when she recalled what she knew of him. “If you are no longer a nobleman, you have only yourself to blame, Bryce Frechette,” she retorted.

“I am honored to think you know my name, Lady Rhiannon,” he replied sarcastically, and with a mockery of a bow.

He was pleased to see her surprise that he knew her name, too, and some of the haughtiness fled her face. He reached out and grabbed her hand, bending low as if he would kiss the back of it.

She snatched it away. “Obviously I know more than just your name,” she said.

“Perhaps you do not know as much as you think you do, my lady,” he said quietly, stepping closer.

He noted that she didn’t move away and remembered how she had behaved in the hall, especially when she was with Lord Cynvelin. Perhaps she was not nearly as virtuous as she seemed. “Would you care to learn more?”

“I might. But this is hardly the time or place for such a conversation,” she finished firmly.

Her forthright answer took him aback, but he recovered quickly. “That is a great pity,” he replied, his deep voice seductively low. “I would like to know more about you.”

Rhiannon cleared her throat. She had been complimented and flattered much these past few days, but no other man’s words seemed to stir her as his did. “Yes, well, another time,” she prevaricated.

“Why in so much of a hurry, my lady? Are you going to meet someone?” he said, advancing toward her.

“No!” She retreated into a shadowed alcove, then raised her chin in defiance of his insolence.

He cocked his head to one side and ran an admiring gaze from the top of her silk scarf to the hem of her gown.

“Please don’t look at me in that impertinent manner, sir!” she said, her whole body warming as he continued to regard her steadily.

“Sir? I see I am rising in your estimation. Let me assure you, my lady, I do not mean to be rude. Far from it.” He took another step closer and smiled.

Not as Lord Cynvelin smiled, as if it were nothing more than a habit. She suddenly felt such a smile from this man was a rare thing, and very much to be prized.

She wished she could see his face better, but it was too dark here in the shadows.

She suddenly realized he had backed her nearly into a corner, and they were quite shielded from the view of the men on the wall walk above.

“From the way you were acting in the hall,” he continued in a husky whisper, “I thought you enjoyed being the object of men’s admiration.”

“Some men’s perhaps,” she answered, crossing her arms over her chest defensively, feeling far too vulnerable. “However, I have no wish to be noticed by a man who would abandon his family and leave his sister in such a perilous situation. Indeed, I was surprised to learn that Lord Cynvelin would want such a person in his company.”

He froze, staring at her. Then his brows lowered ominously and she remembered the sense of controlled power that had seemed to emanate from him. “That is what you think of me?”

“Yes,” she retorted.

He stepped back. “You surprise me, my lady. I thought you had more intelligence than to believe rumors and gossip.”

“So what I have heard is not true? You did not quarrel with your father and leave in a huff like a spoiled child? You did not stay away, even when your father lay dying? Are you telling me that contrary to everything I have heard, you returned to help your sister, who was left impoverished and had to become a servant in her own castle?”

“Have you not heard more?” he charged. “That I am a rogue and wastrel? That my sister cast me out? That her husband, the mighty Baron DeGuerre, detests me? That I lie and cheat and steal?” He came close again. “That I have sold my soul to the devil?”

She gasped, her eyes wide, until he chuckled scornfully.

“Have you so little sense that you will believe everything you hear?” he said.

“How dare you!” she cried, shocked by his criticism. “You dishonorable—”

“No, my lady, how dare you?” he demanded quietly, his voice as cold as ice. “You know me not, yet you dare to chastise me for my past actions. You do not know why my father and I quarreled, or why I left as I did. You do not know why I stayed away, or how I felt when I learned what had happened.” His voice dropped. “You do not know how I have suffered, knowing that I was not with Gabriella when she needed me most.”

Rhiannon flushed with guilt when she heard the remorse in his voice. She had been wrong to judge him so quickly, she thought contritely, yet before she could speak, he was suddenly directly in front of her, his face no more than a hand span from hers.

“Who are you to stand in judgment of me?” he demanded. “I could believe, from the way you danced and smiled and laughed with more than one man in Lord Melevoir’s hall, that if I am lacking in scruples, I am not the only one. So how dare you, my lovely hypocrite? How dare you act as you have, and then upbraid me?”

He looked at her so intently it was as if his gaze rooted her to the ground. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t make an answer to his charges, or utter one word to excuse her own behavior.

He came even closer, so that his body was within a hairbreadth of hers, and when he spoke again, his voice was a low, husky growl. “How dare you stand there in the shadows looking as desirable as any woman I have ever seen, yet if I were to so much as touch you, you would probably call out for the guard and denounce me for a disgraceful villain?”

She swallowed hard, unable to take her eyes from his face. “I wouldn’t,” she said softly.

His expression seemed to change. “You would not do that, my lady?” he whispered, shifting closer. “You would not call out the guard and condemn me for acting on my desire?”

He reached out and gently ran his hand up her arm, his touch sending thrilling tremors of excitement through her.

“I am glad to hear it, for you are the most tempting woman I have ever seen.”

He put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her into his warm embrace.

She knew she should pull away, and yet the moment his mouth touched hers, kissing him did not seem wrong, or immoral, or disgraceful. It felt absolutely, perfectly right.

She had been kissed before, by shy boys who pecked her cheek or lips. Never like this, with power and passion and a desire that seemed to call forth an equally strong reaction from deep within her.

Never had a man’s tongue pressed urgently to enter her mouth.

That did not seem wrong, either, but absolutely, perfectly right, and so she opened her lips to him.

His arms tightened about her. Slowly, languorously, she began to caress the smooth leather of his tunic. As his mouth continued to work its seductive magic, his tense muscles relaxed beneath her fingers.

He gently pushed her back so that she was against the wall. Then his knee thrust between her legs, and her body began to throb with an unfamiliar, primitive anticipation.

Suddenly the door to the hall opened and light spilled into the courtyard. A raucous voice called out a good-night.

At the boisterous interruption, Lady Rhiannon DeLanyea gasped, then a horrified expression passed over her face before she pushed Bryce away from her, lifted her skirts and fled.


Chapter Two

Bryce Frechette muttered an oath as he watched Lady Rhiannon run away. What had just happened here?

What more might have happened if that door had not opened?

Then another curse sprang to his lips as he just as suddenly recalled that Lord Cynvelin ap Hywell wanted to marry her.

God’s wounds, he was a fool. If she told him of their confrontation...

Was he never going to learn to curb his impulses? What did it matter that she was a beautiful, intriguing woman who spoke to him frankly, as an equal. Why hadn’t he left her after he had explained what he was doing at the baggage carts?

He had already caused no end of trouble and shame because he followed his desires first and thought afterward. Had he learned nothing in all the years since he had left home?

Bryce. slumped against the wall. It would serve him right if he had lost the opportunity Lord Cynvelin had kindly offered, and he would have only himself to blame.

No, not only himself. Not this time. She was just as culpable as he for what had occurred in the shadows. Lady Rhiannon had not uttered so much as a murmur of protest when he had taken her in his arms. Indeed, she had responded as fervently to his kiss as any man could ever hope.

Surely she would say nothing to Lord Cynvelin, not unless she was willing to lie.

Which she might very well do.

Scowling, Bryce pushed off from the wall. If questioned, he would not lie, he decided. He would tell Lord Cynvelin exactly what has passed, and let the Welshman believe what he would.

The next morning, Rhiannon scanned the gathering in the chapel. She easily spotted Lord Cynvelin, dressed for traveling in a short black tunic, brown breeches and with a black cloak of light wool thrown over his broad shoulders. He stood beside Lady Valmont, so close that their shoulders touched, and he seemed to be whispering in the lady’s ear almost constantly.

Good. He might not notice her, then, and hopefully she could get to the hall to break the fast without having to speak to him. After last night, she thought avoiding him would save her any awkward moments or explanations.

She had even considered avoiding the rest of Lord Melevoir’s guests, too. Then she had decided she couldn’t stay hidden in her chamber like a terrified mouse. She had to know if she had been seen in the arms of Bryce Frechette, or if he had told anyone that she had acted little better than a wanton bawd last night.

That kind of gossip was too scandalous not to fly about the castle like a feather in a stiff breeze, and this morning, she could sympathize with Bryce’s denunciation of hearsay.

Fortunately, no one seemed to be taking any speciai notice of her. Nobody stared or darted pointed glances her way. Everyone who caught her eye gave her a friendly smile, not a smirk of derision.

She sighed with relief.

Nevertheless, she was glad the Norman was not at mass. She didn’t know what she would do if she had to speak to him.

Perhaps he, too, regretted what had happened between them. After all, he had not treated her as befitted her station.

Just as she had not behaved as befitted her station, or she would have gone on her way the moment she had realized he was not a thief rifling through a baggage cart.

It had to be because he was not what she had expected that she had lingered. He was not a wastrel, for he had behaved with all due decorum at the feast, even holding himself rather aloof from the other celebrants. He was not a bully and a hothead...or rather, not until he was provoked, perhaps.

She had obviously provoked him—but then, he had not been right to criticize her behavior. That was for her parents.

As for what her father would make of her behavior in the courtyard last night, letting herself be guided into the shadows, out of sight of the guards, alone with a young, virile, misunderstood, exciting man....

She shuddered—and she was not thinking of her father’s reaction.

One of Lord Melevoir’s guests, who was standing beside her, gave her a quizzical look that reminded her she was in company. Besides, she chided herself, she shouldn’t be having such thoughts, not in a chapel. Not of a dispossessed nobleman, who had kissed her with such fervent passion.

She could only hope that Bryce Frechette never saw fit to brag of his easy conquest.

And she would never, ever, allow herself to be put in such a confusing, overwhelming situation again.

The mass ended at last, and she quickly went outside into the chill of a spring morning. She walked briskly toward the hall, her only concern getting inside before Lord Cynvelin saw her.

Outside the stable she passed Lord Cynvelin’s black horse, saddled and waiting. His men and his baggage carts were all ready to leave, too, apparently, for several of his guards loitered nearby, some leaning against the stable walls.

“Wonder if she’s a moaner or a screamer?” a rough Welsh voice muttered just loudly enough for her to hear.

Rhiannon halted and slowly swiveled on her heel to look at the lout who dared to make such a rude remark in her hearing. She thought it was the brawny fellow who ran a bold gaze over her, for he grinned when she looked at him.

“What did you say?” she demanded in Welsh, putting her hands on her hips.

“Nothing, my lady,” he answered with wideeyed—and quite false—innocence.

“Is there some trouble here?” a familiar deep voice said in Norman French.

Her whole body warmed as Bryce Frechette came to stand beside her, as if he had materialized out of thin air.

As before, he was simply attired in leather jerkin and breeches, his sword belt slung low on his narrow hips. Despite his lack of mail or other armor, he seemed far more imposing than the chain-mailed brawny fellow, perhaps because of his regal bearing and the sense of self-confidence that seemed as much a part of him as his deep brown eyes or sensuous mouth.

What on earth was she doing, thinking about his mouth? She was supposed to be quite properly indignant.

He looked at the man, then her, his expression inscrutable. “Is anything wrong?”

Rhiannon lifted her chin slightly. “He said something rude to me.”

“Is that so?” Bryce asked before walking toward the soldier. His tone had been calm and noncommittal, but she saw the tension in his shoulders and guessed that he was angry. “Did you say something rude to the lady?”

The man gave him a blank look and answered in Welsh.

“He says he doesn’t understand you,” Rhiannon explained.

Bryce glanced at her over his shoulder. “But you understood him, did you not, my lady?”

“Unfortunately, I did.”

In the next moment, Bryce had the man pinned against the wall, his hands on the man’s shoulders. “Apologize to the lady,” he muttered between clenched teeth. “You understand that, don’t you?”

The man looked at Rhiannon with fear in his eyes. “I don’t understand him!” he cried in Welsh. “What did I do?”

Rhiannon ran forward and grabbed Bryce’s arm, his muscles hard beneath her fingers. “He doesn’t understand you! Let him go.”

Bryce didn’t move. “Then you tell him he should apologize to you, or by God, he will be sorry.”

Rhiannon quickly told the man what the Norman had said, and just as quickly the Welsh soldier stammered out an apology.

Bryce let go and the man slumped to the ground. The rest of the men gathered round him, a few casting wary glances at the Norman.

“As grateful as I am for your championship of my honor, I fear you’ve made some enemies,” Rhiannon said when Bryce turned to face her. She tried to keep an icy demeanor, even though she felt as hot as if she were in the deserts of the east, and if the trickle of perspiration made her feel as if the ice was melting, that had to be because of her physical activity moments before.

He didn’t look at all concerned. “I should thank you, my lady, for the opportunity to show my soonto-be companions-in-arms that I am not to be trifled with,” he remarked grimly. “Otherwise, I might have been forced to create a situation myself.”

Her eyes widened. “Do you often have to create situations, sir? Or is it more usual for you to wait until a lady is insulted, and then you rush to her defense to prove your manliness?”

“I never thought my manliness was in question,” he replied.

Her cheeks grew warm with a blush as he continued to regard her. “Your effort to make him apologize seemed rather extreme,” she noted.

“I know.”

She knew she should leave, yet courtesy decreed she say more. “You were most effective,” she admitted. “You have my thanks, Frechette.”

He bowed stiffly. “It was my honor.”

She glanced around and noted that the soldiers had moved off, away from them, and that no one else was near. “Frechette?” she began, her tone conspiratorial.

His gaze likewise grew serious. “Yes, my lady?”

“You...you will not tell anyone about last night, in the courtyard?”

His expression personified frigid offense. “Did you think I would?”

She was dismayed to think she had insulted him, yet she had to be certain he would continue to be silent. “As you said, and rightly, I do not know you.”

She thought he looked a little surprised, but she could not be sure.

“Then know that I will keep what happened a secret between us,” he replied, “and I trust you will not disparage me to Lord Cynvelin.”

“No!” she cried, startled. “We will just pretend it never happened.”

He nodded, but there was a look in his eyes that made her flush again. She knew he would not forget, and neither would she.

She would not forget the passion he had aroused within her, or his harsh condemnation of her apparent hypocrisy. She would always remember the bitter remorse beneath his ostensible anger when he spoke of his sister. She would never forget him, no matter how much she thought she should.

Then, out of the corner of her eye, she caught a most unwelcome sight.

Lord Cynvelin was striding toward them, concern on every feature. “My lady! What’s amiss?”

Rhiannon had no choice but to acknowledge the speaker, so she turned away from Bryce, who immediately moved toward his horse.

She also noticed that Lord Melevoir and the other guests were making a more leisurely progress toward the hall, and they were watching.

Very aware that many people could hear them, Rhiannon spoke in Welsh when her countryman drew near. “All is well in hand, my lord,” she replied lightly.

“I am glad to hear it, and I am very glad to see you. I knew you would not let me leave without bidding me farewell.” He took her hand and kissed the back of it. “I thought to see you last night, but you had disappeared.”

“I decided to retire.”

“I missed you,” he said softly.

She swallowed hard. “Yes, well, the hall was hot and I was tired.”

He glanced up at the sky, and she did likewise. “We intend to make an early start and break our fast upon the road,” he told her. “The weather threatens to change.”

He was quite right. Gray clouds were moving in from the west. She also noted with relief that his manner was as open and friendly and distant as it had been when she had first met him, with none of that sense of hidden meaning of moments ago.

They looked at each other and she, happy that he was leaving, smiled. “A good journey to you, my lord.”

“Is that all you have to say to me, my beautiful Rhiannon?” he whispered, regarding her with the significant look in his dark eyes that had been there last night. He moved closer as if unaware that they were in the full view of so many people. Including Bryce Frechette.

She felt helpless. She knew she should try to correct whatever false impression she might have given him—but here, where everyone could see?

“All for now,” she prevaricated, not meeting his gaze.

“Until I see you again?”

“If you wish.”

“If you only knew what I wish!” he murmured.

She blushed even more, feeling that this situation was unbearably awkward.

Then she began to get angry. Could he not see her reluctance? Did he not realize how embarrassing this was?

“Farewell, my lord,” she said, a hint of challenging defiance in her voice as she began to turn away.

Without warning, Lord Cynvelin suddenly pulled her into his embrace and pressed a hot, fierce kiss upon her mouth.

She was too stunned to move.

Then he stopped and stepped away, giving her a triumphant smile. She glanced swiftly at Bryce Frechette. What must he be thinking?

His expression was enigmatic, yet that seemed a condemnation, nonetheless.

“My lord,” she said sternly, keeping her voice low by great effort. She had no desire to make more of a spectacle than they already had. “Perhaps it would be better if you were to wait for my father to issue you an invitation to Craig Fawr before visiting there.”

“I...I beg your pardon?” he said, obviously as surprised by her words and tone as she had been by his kiss.

“I believe you heard me. Do not come to Craig Fawr until my father invites you. Good day, my lord.”

She turned on her heel and walked toward the hall.

From his place beside his horse as he waited to mount, Bryce watched Lady Rhiannon leave Lord Cynvelin and enter the hall.

They must be as good as formally betrothed for the Welshman to kiss her in such a way and in so public a place, he thought, even if last night, with him, she had not acted as if she belonged to another man.

What kind of woman was Rhiannon DeLanyea?

Perhaps she was the type of woman whose affections changed almost every hour. Her passion had certainly seemed sincere when he had kissed her.

Or perhaps she was the kind he had originally accused her of being, a woman who enjoyed men’s attention—many men, and many kinds of attention, including the most intimate?

If so, Lord Cynvelin was more to be pitied than envied.

The Welshman bowed to the people who were still gathered in the courtyard. “Alas, she is sorry to see me leave!” he announced mournfully.

Bryce supposed that would explain her abrupt departure as well as anything else.

After his remark, Lord Cynvelin was rewarded with sympathetic looks from the women, and knowing chuckles from the men as he turned toward Bryce.

“Excellent morning, Frechette, is it not?” the nobleman demanded cheerfully as he strolled toward Bryce and his men. “A good day for a journey, eh?”

“Yes, my lord.”

For a moment, Bryce contemplated telling the nobleman about the lady’s behavior.

Then he checked himself. He had only just met Lord Cynvelin, and the lady, too. Even if Bryce was trying to warn him, it could be that Lord Cynvelin would condemn the messenger without heeding the message. Besides, how would he explain what he had been doing in the shadowed corner of the courtyard with her?

And if Lady Rhiannon was a minx, Bryce told himself, she would surely take up with another man before they were five miles down the road, and Lord Cynvelin would find out the truth on his own.

When Lord Cynvelin reached Bryce, the nobleman gave him a curious look. “What happened here before I came?”

“Nothing of consequence, my lord. Your lady felt insulted by one of your men and I insured the fellow apologized.”

Lord Cynvelin ran a scrutinizing gaze over his men, who all wore full chain mail beneath their black tunics. Bryce had also noted that their weapons were very fine, and their accoutrements the best. It seemed his new overlord spared no expense on his troops, even if some of them were lacking the proper respect due their lord’s bride. “Which of them upset her?”

“I’m certain he will not do so again, my lord,” Bryce answered, somewhat surprised. The man made it sound as if he were a child, expected to tell tales on another.

He thought he saw a flash of disapproval in the Welshman’s eyes, but must have been mistaken, for Lord Cynvelin laughed. “If you chastised him, I’m satisfied.”

“The lady needed little help.”

“She has her father’s pride, no doubt.”

Surprised by the slightly hostile tone in the man’s voice, Bryce gave him a curious sidelong glance. “It was my pleasure to defend her honor.”

“Rhiannon was grateful, of course.”

“I gather you have reached an understanding with the lady,” Bryce remarked, leaving aside all talk of gratitude as Cynvelin checked his saddle before mounting.

“Obviously.”

“I offer you my congratulations, my lord.”

“Thank you.” Cynvelin surveyed his men and baggage carts. “Well, then, we are all ready to leave. Come, let us away,” he ordered, moving his horse to the front of the cortege.

Yes, let us away, Bryce seconded inwardly, telling himself he was pleased to be taking his leave of confusing, flirtatious beauties who lured men into the shadows when they were as good as betrothed to another.

Bryce glanced back at the guest apartments, expecting to see the teasing Lady Rhiannon watching her beloved depart, a handkerchief poised to catch her sorrowful tears.

If she was there, he did not see her.

That afternoon, Rhiannon rushed toward the merry company of knights and soldiers who rode into Lord Melevoir’s courtyard.

For the moment, her joy at her father’s arrival took precedence over any dread she might be feeling about certain events becoming known to him. Although she no longer feared her encounter with Bryce Frechette would become common knowledge, she could not entertain any similar hope that Lord Cynvelin’s kiss would be forgotten by those who had witnessed it, or that they would have realized she was not a willing participant.

Certain looks and whispers had already passed between some of the other ladies since the incident, which made her certain that what had happened this morning was the talk of the castle.

She told herself not to worry. Her father would understand. Her anxiety would have been much worse if there was a chance he might hear about her impulsive response to Bryce Frechette.

There were only twenty men in her father’s party, but it seemed like more as their Welsh banter echoed off the stone walls surrounding the courtyard. Then her father caught sight of her and waved.

She was so proud to be Baron DeLanyea’s daughter! How commending he looked, sitting upon his horse with all the majesty of a king, even though his clothing and accoutrements were plain and without ornamentation. He could be fierce, she knew. She had heard the stories of his battles.

But he had always been the doting father to her. She chewed her lip and hoped he would continue to be so, despite what he heard. Then she smiled and returned his gesture.

She looked beyond him, her smile growing as she saw that her foster brother, the roguishly handsome Dylan, was behaving in typical fashion. He was paying more attention to the female servants than anything else.

In contrast to Dylan, her elder brother, the grave, gray-eyed Griffydd, was not bantering or gawking at women. Instead, he surveyed his surroundings with deliberate care. She knew that should she ask him later, he would be able to tell her the exact number of men-at-arms at the gate and on the wall walks, the number of buildings within the castle walls and probably even the count of the windows in each.

Her younger brother, Trystan, who resembled her so much they could have been taken for twins save for the difference in their ages, was not among the company. He had been fostered to Sir Urien Fitzroy to complete his training.

The baron dismounted and she ran happily into his warm embrace. He kept his arms about her as he drew back to look at her with his remaining eye. The other had been destroyed in the Holy Land long ago when he had joined King Richard on crusade.

“So, daughter, did you enjoy yourself?” he asked.

“Lord Melevoir is an excellent man and a fine host,” she answered honestly.

“I knew I should have offered to be your escort!” Dylan declared, easily slipping off his horse. “Who knows what I’ve missed—and for nothing, too.”

“You had other, more important duties,” Griffydd reminded him.

“Supervising a wall being repaired?” Dylan replied scornfully. “I hardly think—”

Her father laughed, the sound deep and rich. “No, you hardly think. Besides, Mamaeth said only Rhiannon and no brothers. I think she had great plans of this visit, didn’t she, my daughter?”

Rhiannon tried to smile as she thought of her father’s old nurse, who had made it very clear that she expected Rhiannon to return either with a husband, or a betrothal, at the very least.

Instead, Rhiannon had made a mess of things. “How is Mamaeth? And Mother?” she asked, deciding to get away from this prickly subject.

“Well enough, but missing you,” her father replied. Suddenly he sniffed and looked up at the darkening clouds overhead, and she realized it did indeed smell much like rain. “Getting inside, us, or we’ll be drenched.”

Griffydd nodded, then began issuing commands to their men while the baron took Rhiannon’s arm to escort her inside. Dylan handed his reins to a groom before sauntering toward the kitchen. He always claimed to admire the arms of the women who kneaded bread and Griffydd always retorted that he simply liked all his appetites satisfied simultaneously.

“I’m going to have to put a leash on that fellow,” the baron muttered sardonically.

Despite his good-humored acceptance of Dylan’s foibles, Rhiannon guessed he would not find hers so laughable. She tried to stay calm, and the thought that Lord Cynvelin was far away was very comforting.

She tried not to notice that she didn’t feel quite the same way about Bryce Frechette although she should, and more so, given what had happened in the courtyard.

The baron smiled at his daughter. “We have all been missing you. Craig Fawr seemed half-empty without you. I think even Mamaeth was reconsidering the notion of having you wed and away by the time we left to fetch you back again.”

“I assure you, Father, I am in no hurry to be married,” Rhiannon answered truthfully.

When her father paused and looked at her with a serious expression, she feared she had betrayed too much.

Fortunately, at that precipitous moment, a puffing and beaming Lord Melevoir appeared at the entrance to his hall.

“Always a delight, Baron!” the older man cried as the baron and Rhiannon hurried toward him. “Forgive my tardiness. It’s this cursed damp. It gets into my bones and makes them ache like the very devil.”

“Then please go back to your place at the hearth, my lord,” the baron said.

“If you will join me,” their host replied.

“Indeed, my bones are not so young anymore, either,” the baron admitted ruefully as they followed Lord Melevoir to some oak chairs that were near the large hearth. A small yet comfortable blaze warmed the air.

As they sat on the age-darkened furniture, they could hear the rain begin to pelt against the stone walls. Lord Melevoir smiled and said, “I am glad you didn’t get caught on the road in such weather.”

“What is rain to a Welshman, my lord?” Baron DeLanyea asked cheerfully. “Nevertheless, I am happy to stay and enjoy your hospitality a day or two.”

When her father looked at her, Rhiannon forced a smile onto her face. She had known that her father’s visit would be more than a night; still, that meant more chances for him to hear about Lord Cynvelin’s kiss. For a moment she considered broaching the subject herself, to put it in the proper light, but before she could, her father spoke.

“Who won the prizes?” he asked their host.

“Bryce Frechette took the largest purse,” Lord Melevoir replied. “He has the truest aim with a lance I ever beheld.”

“Frechette?” the baron asked, giving Lord Melevoir a surprised look. “The Earl of Westborough’s son?”

“The same. I confess I had my doubts about allowing him to participate, but I tell you, Emryss, I’ve never seen a more improved young man,” Lord Melevoir replied.

Rhiannon tried not to betray any overt interest in the lancer, especially after what had happened between them. Indeed, he could well be a fine warrior. That didn’t mean he was a gentleman.

Unexpectedly her father fastened his shrewd gaze on Rhiannon. “What did you think of him?” he asked coolly.

She struggled to keep her expression bland as she shrugged her shoulders. “Lord Melevoir wouldn’t let us watch the competitions.”

“Of course not!” the nobleman declared. “It is not fitting for young ladies to see such things.”

“Frechette acquitted himself well, eh?” her father noted, facing the older man again. “A pity, then, his family lost their estate and titles. We can always use a fine knight.”

“His family lost their estate and titles?” Rhiannon asked innocently.

“His father spent too freely—a warning to us all and I should have used him for an example before I let you go to the fair last spring.” The baron’s expression was severe, but the hint of laughter in his voice betrayed him.

“I had to have new dresses,” Rhiannon reminded him sweetly. “Mamaeth said so.”

“If you were to catch a husband, she said. Did you?”

Lord Melevoir started to laugh, or rather, wheeze with merriment as he looked from one to the other, his eyes twinkling mischievously.

“I told you, Father, I am in no hurry to wed.”

“Then not wanting to be in your shoes when we get home, me, when Mamaeth hears that all this visiting and spending of money has not brought you a husband,” he answered gravely.

Lord Melevoir took a great, deep, recuperative breath. “She was greatly admired, Baron. Greutly admired.”

“Ah, her father’s daughter, then,” the baron said smugly, and he winked his good eye at her.

“One young man seemed particularly smitten. A countryman of yours, too. Indeed, the infatuation seemed quite mutual.”

Rhiannon squirmed uncomfortably as her father regarded her steadily and with no hint of a smile. “Indeed? Who might this Welshman be?”

Rhiannon looked down at her hands, knotting them in her lap.

“Ah, now she will be coy,” Lord Melevoir replied and Rhiannon heartlessly wished he would fall into a swoon or fit. Anything to make him be quiet.

“There was nothing—” she began desperately.

“Nothing?” Lord Melevoir declared indignantly. “Nothing to be kissed in my courtyard?”

Rhiannon wanted to shrink until she was invisible.

“This man kissed you out in the open of the courtyard for all to see?” the baron asked, his tone making Rhiannon cringe.

“Father, I—”

“Now, now, Baron, I fear you are showing your age! A young man does impetuous things when he has been struck by Cupid’s dart. Don’t be cross with your pretty daughter. She made it very plain that she felt he had acted improperly.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

“Oh, tut, now, man! Lord Cynvelin—”

“Who?”

The single word was softly spoken, but never had Rhiannon heard such cold menace in her father’s voice.


Chapter Three

Rhiannon stared at her father as he turned a searching gaze onto her before once again looking at their host.

Lord Melevoir cleared his throat. “Lord Cynvelin ap Hywell. A Welsh nobleman,” he concluded rather hopefully.

“A Welshman born he may be,” the baron said, “but he is a disgrace to us all.”

Rhiannon had never seen her father react with such instant antipathy—and she had not even known that her father was familiar with the man! What on earth had Cynvelin ap Hywell done to so enrage her father?

He regarded her with that same forbidding expression. “Did he speak to you?” he demanded.

She nodded.

“Did he know who you were?”

“Yes,” she answered softly. “Cynvelin ap Hywell said that he knew of you when he introduced himself, but he never implied, either in word or look, that there was anything between you. He was very nice to me, although rather forward.”

“I daresay he was,” the baron growled. “Not waiting for Lord Melevoir to make the introduction, you?”

She shook her head remorsefully, for he was quite right. It would have been proper for Lord Melevoir to make the introduction, and she should have realized that at the time.

“Baron, if I had known there was anything—” Lord Melevoir said haltingly.

Rhiannon’s father took a deep breath. “Forgive me, Lord Melevoir. None of this is your fault. Or yours, either, daughter.” He looked at Rhiannon ruefully. “I should have guessed he might be here and I should have warned you about him.”

He stared straight ahead and she wasn’t sure if he was speaking to her, or only to himself. “But never did I think he would have the gall to speak to any member of my family.”

Despite his hushed voice, Rhiannon got the distinct feeling that her father was still trying very hard to control his rage.

“What has he done to make you hate him so?” she asked wonderingly.

“Indeed, yes,” Lord Melevoir seconded. “If he is such a blackguard, I will not have him back again.”

“He was a blackguard. If Bryce Frechette can be so changed, perhaps Cynvelin can, as well.” The baron smiled, but not with his eyes, which made Rhiannon believe he was saying this only to reassure their host that he had not made a terrible blunder. “He had the makings of a fine knight when I first admitted him into our household.”

“He was at Craig Fawr?” Rhiannon asked, taken aback. “I don’t remember him.”

“You were visiting Lord Trevelyan at the time and, not wanting to admit I had made a mistake, I never mentioned his name after I sent him away.”

“What made you do that?” Lord Melevoir inquired.

“First, it was only cheating at games. Then he started making trouble among all the young men, spreading lies and rumors until they were nearly at each other’s throats. Not that any blame would ever attach to him. Oh, no, he was too clever for that. I finally realized what was going on when Griffydd blackened Dylan’s eye, and I made him tell me why he had done it. When they understood what Cynvelin was about, Dylan was all for killing him on the spot.” The baron grinned wryly. “Cynvelin will never know how close he came to going to God that day. 1 thought a good talking-to would be sufficient, but I was wrong. Shortly after, somebody cut the cinch on Dylan’s horse’s saddle, so that it snapped when he was galloping during a practice with the lance. He fell and could have been killed. Of course I guessed who had done it.”

“And you sent him away,” Lord Melevoir said, nodding his head in agreement.

Her father hesitated, lost in his thoughts, while Rhiannon waited tensely for him to continue. “Yes,” he said after a long moment of silence.

There was more to it than that, she felt certain, but ask anything more, she dared not.

Lord Melevoir sank back in his chair. “Well, by all the saints and cherubim, Baron DeLanyea. If ever there was a wolf in sheep’s clothing! Next thing you’ll be telling me he’s one of those damned rebels, too.”

“A rebel? God’s wounds, no, not that one. Although not surprised, me, if he were to claim to be when it suited him among the Welsh,” her father continued grimly. “But the only person he thinks about is himself. If he ever starts spouting rebellion, you can be sure there’ll be a prize in it for him.”

At that moment, Dylan and Griffydd marched into the hall, followed by their men.

“Do you know who Rhiannon’s been kissing?” Dylan declared angrily, glaring at Rhiannon in a way that made her more angry than mortified.

After all, however shamefully she may have conducted herself, Dylan was hardly a saint. Many a night he sneaked out of Craig Fawr for trysts with village girls. He had already fathered three children by three different women. To be sure, to the Welsh an illegitimate child was nothing to be remorseful about, but such behavior hardly gave him the right to act so indignant.

Griffydd’s expression, however, only made her feel humiliated, and she was very glad neither one of them knew about that other unforgettable kiss in the courtyard.

Nevertheless, she rose swiftly and glared at them, because they were making accusations without knowing her side of things.

As she had accused Bryce Frechette without knowing his side of things.

Which was completely immaterial at the moment.

“I don’t think—” she began angrily.

“Sit down!” her father commanded Rhiannon. “Dylan, lower your voice.”

Lord Melevoir stood slowly. “I believe I will leave you to discuss your family business in private,” he said before tottering away as fast as his legs would take him.

The baron gestured for Dylan and Griffydd to come closer. “We will deal with this once and for all, and then there will be no more said about Cynvelin ap Hywell.”

Dylan glared angrily at Rhiannon. “Do you know what they’re saying about you? That you threw yourself at that cur.”

“I never did!” Rhiannon protested, almost sick to realize that was how her behavior in the hall had been interpreted by some people. Bryce Frechette had certainly been of that opinion. No doubt that explained why he felt free to embrace her. What must he think of her now?

She suddenly wished with all her heart that she had never come here!

The baron glanced at the rest of his men who were coming into the hall, calling out for drinks from the serving wenches. “Lower your voices,” he repeated firmly.

“That is what they are saying,” Griffydd confirmed, his steady gaze far more unnerving to Rhiannon than Dylan’s words.

She flushed hotly, her stance still defiant, even though inwardly she wanted to flee from their accusations. “Who?” she demanded. “Who dares to say such things? I spoke to Cynvelin ap Hywell and danced with him, too!” she declared defensively. “I didn’t know anything wrong of him, and I think you have no right to condemn me.” Not for that.

Her father spoke, his voice calm and firm. “She did not know anything about him. I never told her.” He fastened a steely gaze onto Dylan. “You are hardly worthy to chastise her behavior.”

“But she is a woman and—”

“And I am her father, so I will speak to her about her behavior, not you, although I gather she was not pleased by what he did any more than you.”

Dylan frowned. Rhiannon knew he would sulk a while, yet she didn’t care, not as long as her father realized she deeply regretted what had happened, even if he did not know all that she regretted.

“No fights need be fought over whatever men with too little time on their hands might say, either,” her father warned. “The Normans have never understood the Welsh. They are often as gloomy as hermits in a cold cave, so I would not pay them much heed when they criticize your spritely sister.

“Dylan, Griffydd, this conversation is finished. Your sister may have acted with less decorum than I might have hoped, but even you have done so on occasion, Griffydd—and you often, Dylan. Go, now, and make certain that the men understand they are not to quarrel with Lord Melevoir’s guests or his men over any perceived insults.”

Dylan looked far from pleased; however, he, like Griffydd, heard the baron’s tone of finality and knew it would be useless to object.

They went to the join the others.

“Father, I—” Rhiannon began, even though she was not quite sure what she was going to say, whether to defend herself or beg for forgiveness.

Her father held up his hand to silence her, and when he spoke, his tone was gentle and understanding, “Rhiannon, I know how likable Cynvelin can be, and I blame myself that I did not warn you about him. Do you care for him at all in the way Lord Melevoir implied?”

“I think I did, Father, a little,” she answered honestly. “But when he kissed me in the courtyard and embarrassed me in front of everyone...”

Once again the memory of Bryce Frechette intruded into her thoughts, but she pushed it away.

Her father nodded thoughtfully. “Cynvelin can be very charming,” he said with a sigh. “That’s what makes him dangerous. Tricks people with his manners, that one. Courtesy can be nothing but a costume, daughter, and a title no more than a cloak to hide dishonor. Remember that.”

“Yet clearly he thinks I care for him very much,” Rhiannon said. “On the strength of that belief, he may come to Craig Fawr.”

She expected her father to curse, at the very least. Instead, and to her great relief, he smiled. “He would never dare come there, Rhiannon. Not if he values his life. He knows that well enough.” He reached out and patted her hand tenderly. “There has been no real harm done here, daughter, and I daresay you have learned a lesson.”

“Yes, I have,” she confirmed. “I promise you, Father, the next time I am at a tournament or visiting, I shall be the most modest, decorous young lady alive.”

Her father smiled and his eye twinkled with merriment. “Then you would not be my lively, spirited daughter, and I would be an unhappy man. Griffydd is serious enough for all of us.

“But look you,” her father continued, his tone once again serious as he rose and regarded her steadily, “I may be tempted to send Mamaeth to watch over you, and then there would be no getting into mischief!”

Rhiannon rose swiftly, the prospect of her father’s elderly and loquacious nurse as caretaker far from heartening. “I’m sorry if I embarrassed our family. I will be more careful in future. I give you my word.”

The baron hugged her gently. “I know, Rhiannon. I was young and impetuous once myself. I have not forgotten, and so of course I forgive you.”

Rhiannon held her father tight, loving him with all her heart, and pleased to think no lasting harm had been done by her careless behavior.

A steady drizzle soaked the valley. Beyond, high, rounded hills seemed to enclose Cynvelin ap Hywell’s entourage, so it was like being in the mouth of a large animal. Bryce didn’t think he had seen the sun once since they had reached the Marches, the borderlands between England and Wales, nor had he been completely dry in what seemed an age.

They were making for what Lord Cynvelin described as one of his minor holdings, a fortress named Annedd Bach, and hoped to reach it today.

However, the journey itself had not been long or much of a hardship, for Cynvelin ap Hywell was a generous man who clearly believed his Welshmen worthy of fine food, ale and accommodation. Obviously they believed it, too, for they were all rather arrogant. The fellow Bryce had made apologize, whose name was Madoc, continued to regard the Norman with barely disguised loathing, but that didn’t trouble Bryce overmuch. He was used to being alone after months traveling in Europe trying to earn money for his family, only to find it was too little too late, and then making his way in the world as a dispossessed, disgraced warrior.

As for the others, not a one of them even so much as attempted to converse with Bryce, and after a few futile attempts, he gave up trying.

Lord Cynvelin didn’t seem to care a whit about Bryce’s past, and for that, he was truly grateful. He treated Bryce almost as an equal, just as he had at Lord Melevoir’s feast. During their journey and as they rested, they talked of many things: the tournament; Lord Cynvelin’s castle, Caer Coch, which sounded like the finest fortress in Wales; jousting; Bryce’s experiences in Europe; women.

With one notable exception.

Neither of them mentioned Lady Rhiannon DeLanyea.

Bryce was glad of it, for he wouldn’t have known how to respond if Lord Cynvelin had spoken of her.

Perhaps when he had been with Lord Cynvelin longer, he might hazard a hint that Lady Rhiannon’s deportment was not what it should be, for a lady. On the other hand, Bryce had heard that the Welsh were morally negligent. Judging by the frequency with which the Welshman bedded tavern wenches, that was apparently true. As astonishing as it seemed to Bryce, perhaps Welshwomen acted in a similar manner.

Thinking that was probably so, he told himself it was no wonder his fitful sleep was troubled by dreams of Lady Rhiannon in his arms, her hair loose about her beautiful face, her eyes shining, her lips parted invitingly. As he had told her, she was the most desirable woman he had ever seen.

And no matter how he tried to condemn her, he couldn’t help admiring her valor. He could think of no other noblewoman who would dare to confront a potential thief, not even with guards close by, or one whose vibrant eyes would flash with such scornful anger at a big, brawny soldier who made a joke at her expense.

“There!” Lord Cynvelin suddenly called out, twisting in his saddle to look back at Bryce and the others, pulling him out of his reverie. “There is Annedd Bach.”

Bryce strained to see past him, looking for anything that resembled a building through the dull gray mist.

Lord Cynvelin chuckled. “There, man,” he repeated, “that thing that looks like a big rock. We have a ways to go yet, you see.”

Bryce followed the lord’s pointing finger and finally he could make out a large gray shape that looked more like a rock clinging to the hillside than a fortress.

“Now we will be getting dry!” Lord Cynvelin cried jovially. He spurred his horse to a gallop, sending clumps of mud flying backward.

As Bryce and the others galloped after him, the castle grew more discernible. It had what seemed to be a strong stone wall and inside, a round stone keep.

Soon enough they were nearly at the outer wall. When they approached, Bryce could see some hovels near the fortress. Not nearly enough to comprise a village, they seemed old and decrepit, as if the rain might wash them away entirely. No persons showed themselves, but that could be because of the weather.

The walls of Annedd Bach looked well made, and the wooden gates thick as they rode through the gatehouse, under the portcullis and into the courtyard. In addition to the keep, there was another rectangular stone building of rough, gray stone, which Bryce guessed was the hall. Other buildings in the enclosure were made of wattle and daub.

Lord Cynvelin called out something in Welsh, and a head appeared in the doorway of the hall. When the man saw who had called, he opened the door and hurried out, holding a ragged woolen shawl over his tattered clothing. His pale face was thin and Bryce thought he looked completely cowed.

Again Lord Cynvelin shouted something in Welsh, and a few more men appeared from one of the wattle and daub buildings, which Bryce took to be a barracks.

Like the first man, the other people’s clothes were ragged and their bodies thin. Their manner was sullen and subdued; they certainly did not look happy to see their lord return.

Bryce recalled one of his father’s favorite sayings, that a well-fed tenant was a contented tenant. For years Bryce had believed his father had taken that too far, allowing his villeins to keep too much of the produce of their farms. When Bryce had learned of the extent of his father’s debts, he had been sure the earl had been far too generous to them and they had taken advantage of his goodness.

Nevertheless, as he watched the servants of Annedd Bach come forward, he thought that his father’s opinion might have some merit after all.

Surprisingly, given Lord Cynvelin’s generosity with his soldiers, he seemed to find nothing amiss in the appearance or the manner of Annedd Bach’s servants.

Lord Cynvelin addressed his Welsh guards, who didn’t seem to notice anything unusual, either. Then he dismounted and smiled at Bryce with his easy familiarity. “Come inside and get warm. Then something to eat, my friend. I do not know what kind of beds we’ll find, but at least we’ll be out of the wet.”

Bryce nodded and handed the reins of his horse to one of the waiting castle servants before following Lord Cynvelin into what was indeed a small, barren hall.

With a disgusted expression, Lord Cynvelin went to stand near the empty central hearth, his hands on his hips as he surveyed the room. A lone trestle table, unmade, leaned against the wall. Rain streaked the whitewash as it dripped from a series of narrow windows set high in the wall.

This place was nearly as dismal inside as out, Bryce reflected.

Lord Cynvelin shook his head and frowned darkly. “Away for a while, and what do I find? They’ve stripped the place!”

“Who, my lord?” Bryce inquired, wondering if this part of Wales was plagued with outlaws. That might explain the servants’ unhappy expressions, although if that were the case, he quickly reasoned, they should be much more pleased by the arrival of Cynvelin and his men.

“The servants, of course!” the nobleman retorted with more anger than Bryce had ever seen him display. “Lazy dogs! I’ve a mind to have them all hanged and let the crows feed on their bones!”

“Would they risk your ire by doing that, my lord?” Bryce reasoned. “Surely they knew you would return. Perhaps they’ve moved things to a storehouse for safekeeping.”

At that moment, they both heard a sound near the door leading to the kitchen. An old woman and some younger women watched them anxiously.

“Ah, this is better!” Lord Cynvelin muttered, and he called out jovially in Welsh.

Bryce glanced at him quickly. Lord Cynvelin’s anger seemed to have dissipated like straw in a flame.

Cynvelin strolled toward the women, speaking to them as if nothing were amiss. The old woman nodded and tottered off while Cynvelin slowly turned on his heel and smiled at Bryce. “You were right. They put the furnishings away, not knowing when I would be coming. Regrettably, they tell me that they have little food. I gather the harvests were not good.” He shrugged his shoulders. “No matter. We have enough provisions in my carts for a few days. And the hunting is good in the hills.” He sighed and once again surveyed the hall. “Perhaps I do not come here as often as I should,” he mused.

When the rest of the men came into the hall, Lord Cynvelin called out to Madoc. The soldier punched his friend on the shoulder and came forward.

The other man was Twedwr, smaller and more compact, but Bryce didn’t doubt who was actually the stronger of the two. Like Madoc, Twedwr always had a glint of hatred in his eyes when he looked at Bryce, although whether it was because of what had happened with Madoc, Bryce’s past or the fact that he was simply a Norman, Bryce didn’t know.

After Lord Cynvelin talked to them, Madoc and Twedwr reluctantly went back out to the courtyard while the others broke into small groups, grumbling. Clearly they, too, had expected better accommodations. Lord Cynvelin sauntered toward them and made placating gestures as he spoke with them in their native tongue.

A serving wench, who looked about fifteen, appeared from the kitchen, carrying rushes which she proceeded to lay upon the stone floor. Every time she bent over, one or another of the men would make what had to be a lewd remark, to judge by the chortles and winks that passed between the men, and the blushes on the young woman’s face. Smiling, Cynvelin made no effort to interfere.

Madoc and Twedwr returned, accompanied by servants carrying baskets and pouches that Bryce recognized from Cynvelin’s carts. The servants continued on toward the kitchen, getting an occasional kick or shove from Madoc to speed them on their way. Again, Cynvelin made no effort to interfere, and Bryce began to wonder how the man customarily treated his servants. He did not like what he was seeing.

Bryce reminded himself that he knew nothing about the people here. Maybe the girl was simply shy, or perhaps even coy, so her seeming embarrassment was nothing more than a show for their benefit. And maybe the slow-moving men were habitually in need of prodding of some kind.

Besides, now he was a hireling, too. He no longer had the right to chastise or criticize anyone for their treatment of their servants and tenants, so he had to hold his tongue, no matter how that galled him.

Other servants began coming to the hall with furnishings, wood for the hearth, and ale. They worked quickly and silently, occasionally casting nervous glances at Lord Cynvelin, his soldiers and Bryce.

Bryce wasn’t sure what he should do while they labored, so he strolled toward the door. It was still raining. Although every so often he had to move out of the doorway to let a servant or soldier pass, he surveyed the wall surrounding the small castle. It was well built and strong; outlaws wouldn’t be able to make much headway against such defenses if they attacked.

Yet why should the servants look so hungry? Had the harvest been that bad? It hadn’t been in the rest of England—but then, the rest of England wasn’t this wet.

He tumed, thinking he would ask Lord Cynvelin if poor harvests were a common occurrence, and he saw the Welshman talking to the girl who had laid the rushes.

She looked frightened and flustered, her face flushed. Perhaps she had done something wrong, although Bryce couldn’t begin to guess what that might be.

The girl bowed slightly, then hurried off toward the kitchen corridor.

“Annedd Bach usually looks better than it does today,” Lord Cynvelin said, sauntering toward Bryce and then clapping a hand on his shoulder. “It seems you were right. There were reports of outlaws, so they thought it best to hide everything of value.”

“Is that why she looked so afraid?”

“Who?”

“The girl you were just talking with. Have outlaws stolen their food?”

“Ust, man, they have enough to eat. If they seem afraid, I suppose they assume I have come because I haven’t received my rent and there might be reprisals.”

“Forgive the impertinence of my question, my lord,” Bryce said, “but why have we come here?”

Lord Cynvelin’s handsome face grew serious. “Because I haven’t received my rent and there are going to be reprisals.” Suddenly he grinned, then laughed out loud. “Not the kind you seem to be thinking of, Bryce. God’s wounds, you should know me better than that! I have something else in mind for Annedd Bach. A new overlord.”

“Ah!” Bryce hadn’t wanted to believe that the man who had behaved with such kindness and generosity to him would prove to be capable of the kind of cruelty in which some Norman lords indulged. “Who, my lord? Madoc?” he hypothesized, glancing at the glowering Welshman.

“No.” Cynvelin’s grin widened. “You.”

Bryce stared at him. “Me?”

“Indeed, and why not? Madoc and Twedwr and the others are fine fighters, but they’ll never be suitable overlords. Too bloody-minded, for one thing, and I’m sure you’ve noticed they hate Normans like the pox. What would the king say if he knew I’d given command of a castle to men like that? A Norman would please him. Besides, you’ve grown up in a noble household, so you’ll know how things ought to be done.”

“My lord, I don’t know what to say.”

“‘Thank you’ will do for a start. I want you to take command of Annedd Bach at once. There will be the rents to collect, half of which you can keep, and the garrison to command.” Cynvelin’s grin grew rueful. “They’ll probably have to be retrained. You can curse me for a lazy dog if you like, but I fear I’ve been a neglectful overlord when it comes to this estate.”

Cynvelin gestured toward a hearth, where a fire now blazed brightly, and they walked toward it. “This is a fine castle, and with a properly trained garrison, could command the entire valley.”

“Command for whom?” Bryce asked, suddenly mindful of the tales of Welsh rebels. Despite his friendly and open manner, Lord Cynvelin was a Welshman, when all was said and done.

If Lord Cynvelin thought to move against the Normans, Bryce would leave at once. A dishonored, dispossessed Norman he might be, but he was still loyal to his king.

“King Henry, of course!” Lord Cynvelin replied. “I have sworn my oath of loyalty to him, and unlike some Welshmen, I intend to abide by it.”

Bryce relaxed and nodded. “I shall do my best to be worthy of this command, my lord.”

“Good, Bryce, good.” Lord Cynvelin looked at Bryce, his eyes twinkling merrily. “Then you will not mind living in Wales a while?”

“No, my lord.” Not if he was to have a castle to command, and income for his own. No more making a living fighting in tournaments, traveling from place to place like some kind of tinker.

“Excellent. Is there nothing more you would ask as payment for taking on this task?”

Bryce gave him a puzzled look. “My lord?”

“The man who commands a castle should be a knight, at the very least, would you not agree?”

“My lord!” Bryce gasped. He had not expected this. Not at all.

“Not yet, Bryce,” the Welshman said with what sounded like sincere regret. “As much as I would like to, first I must be sure you will be able to control this valley.”

“My lord, I give you my word that I shall do everything in my power—!”

Lord Cynvelin gestured for silence. “I know that, or I would never have given you the command. However, I am afraid that the people here may make it very difficult for you because you are Norman.”

Bryce nodded.

“But I do not think that much of a condition for you, my friend.” Again Cynvelin laid his hand on Bryce’s shoulder. “I am quite certain that in a year, you will be Sir Bryce Frechette.”

“I cannot begin to thank you, my lord.”

“Then let it wait!” Cynvelin pointed at the kitchen corridor. “Here comes the meal, and not a moment too soon. My stomach is flapping against my backbone. Come, sit beside me at table.”

Pleased and honored by all that had happened since their arrival, Bryce joined the Welshman at the trestle table, which had been placed on the dais at the far end of the long hall. Other tables and benches had also been assembled, and the serving wenches began bringing in bread and meat, and pouring mugs of ale. The girl Cynvelin had been speaking with brought two goblets of wine to their table.

She might have been pretty, had she been clean and well fed. As it was, her skin was pale to the point of sickliness, her eyes had no luster, and her dark hair hung limp about her narrow, expressionless face.

Bryce could not help comparing her to her countrywoman, Rhiannon DeLanyea. They both had dark hair, yet beyond that, Rhiannon was like a full-bodied vision of beauty, whereas this girl represented want in the worst form.

“I’ve asked Ermin—the steward, the man who finally answered my summons when we arrived—to gather the rest of the garrison tomorrow. I take it most of the men have been living out of Annedd Bach on their farms. They should be here at dawn. Unfortunately, I fear they won’t be of any real use for weeks yet.”

Bryce nodded, dragging his thoughts away from the memory of Rhiannon DeLanyea.

“Your father was noted for his fine castle and hospitality. Tell me, Bryce, how long will it take to get Annedd Bach ready for guests?”

“I...I have no idea, my lord,” Bryce stammered, completely taken aback by the change of subject. “I would have to see what the sleeping quarters are like, and what linens are in the stores, and the food supply, and fodder for animals.”

“I’m afraid you will have little time for all that, my friend,” Cynvelin replied regretfully. “Your first guest will be here tomorrow.”

Bryce realized that he couldn’t very well refuse the hospitality of Annedd Bach to a guest of Lord Cynvelin, who was still the true overlord. “Who might that be?”

“Lady Rhiannon DeLanyea. We are going to abduct her.”


Chapter Four

“Abduct her?” Bryce repeated in disbelief. “Lady Rhiannon?”

Lord Cynvelin chuckled. “Do not be looking so horrified, Frechette,” he chided, his tone as calm as if suggesting a stag hunt. “I am not talking of a crime.”

“By what other name would you call such an act?” Bryce demanded.

“A Welsh custom,” Cynvelin replied, smiling. “Especially when the groom’s potential father-in-law is a stubborn fellow who fails to see the groom’s merit.”

“A custom?”

Lord Cynvelin’s usual good humor momentarily disappeared. “Aye. An old one, or surely you know I would never propose such a thing.”

“My lord, you’ll forgive me for—”

“Doubting that I am an honorable man?” Cynvelin finished, a hint of a frown on his face. “If so, there is the door, and you are welcome to leave.”

Bryce didn’t respond at once. In truth, he didn’t like the sound of this. Kidnapping as nothing but a quaint custom? It didn’t seem possible, but what did he know of Welsh customs?

Cynvelin’s manner was open and sincere. Surely a man about to commit a serious crime could not behave so blithely.

His companion laughed ruefully. “Forgive my harsh words. I know how this must sound to your Norman ears, but I assure you, my friend, Rhiannon DeLanyea is quite prepared for her abduction, although she’s not quite sure when it will be. Indeed, she’s expecting such a thing and she’ll be disappointed if I don’t come for her.”

Bryce stifled the surge of disappointment that seemed to hit him like an unexpected wave on a calm day at sea.

“And by taking her,” Cynvelin continued, “her father will see how serious I am in my desire to have her for my wife. If I don’t abduct her, her family might think I am a coward. I cannot have that, can I?”

“She will be disappointed if you don’t cart her off unexpectedly?” Bryce asked dubiously, still too wary of the proposal to find it at all droll, as Lord Cynvelin obviously did. “You are contracted then?”

“No, not in the Norman way,” the Welshman replied with a dismissive wave of his hand that told Bryce what he thought of Norman legalities.

As he had suspected, Lady Rhiannon DeLanyea was the most audacious hussy Bryce had ever encountered, kissing him with such apparent passion when she was as good as betrothed to another.

Now more than ever he wished he had abandoned the lady in the courtyard before she had enticed him into the shadows. Nor did he want to be anywhere near Lady Rhiannon ever again.

Nevertheless, Cynvelin was offering him a great opportunity, one that he would not abandon without serious cause. Surely he could manage to avoid the lady for the short time she was here, and she had obviously not wanted her immoral behavior revealed to her future husband. Probably she would avoid him just as studiously. “This expected kidnapping is to happen tomorrow?”

“Aye. We will meet her father’s entourage on the road not far from here as they journey home. It is too far to go to Caer Coch on the same day, so we will stop at Annedd Bach for the night.”

“What is it you expect me to do?”

“Ride with me as one of my groomsmen. We will not be a large party, because this is mostly for show, you see.” Lord Cynvelin ran a cursory gaze over Bryce. “Better clothes you must be having. There isn’t time to buy new, so you may have something of mine I no longer wear.” He held up his hand to preempt Bryce’s protest. “Not hearing a word about that. You must be well dressed, or you will bring me disgrace.”

Clearly Cynvelin didn’t consider his offer of his old clothes an insult to Bryce, and he knew the man meant well, but he was insulted, nonetheless. He detested charity when he was the recipient.

“You, I think, should be the one to bring Rhiannon back here,” Cynvelin mused.

“Me?” he demanded, too surprised to be polite.

“Madoc and the others would probably be too rough. I know I can count on you to do it right.”

“Too rough? Why would they be rough if she wants to come away with you?”

“She has to at least feign some maidenly, modest aversion,” Cynvelin replied. “She might even weep and wail and protest, but you should just ignore it, because it will only be pretend. The moment we are together, she will be happy again.”

“What if the baron refuses to let her go?” Bryce asked.

“Oh, he very well might. He may even look to put up a fight. You know how fathers can be about their daughters.”

In truth, Bryce didn’t know. He had not been home when his sister was of an age to think of marriage, and he had not been there when she had fallen in love.

“That’s part of the tradition, too, you see,” Cynvelin explained, “and that is why I want you to take Rhiannon away as soon as possible. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to my bride by accident.

“Not that it should,” he hastened to add. “Any fighting is just for show, too. And honor, you see, to make the woman think she’s worth a fight. There might be a few knocked heads and scratches. Nothing worse than you might get in a tournament, I promise you. Still, it would be best if you were to get Rhiannon away as quickly as you can. I will give you the word, and you take hold of her horse and gallop away, simple as can be.”

Bryce nodded, convinced of the truth of Cynvelin’s words by his earnestness and the Welshman’s honest demeanor, as much as his explanation. “Very well, iny lord,” he said with a slight bow. “I shall be honored to act as your groomsman.”

And he would be the one to take charge of Lady Rhiannon, because like Lord Cynvelin, he didn’t relish the idea of Madoc and his friend having responsibility for her.

“Here, you!” Cynvelin suddenly shouted at the pale serving wench. “More wine!” He turned back to Bryce and said wryly, “By the saints above, all this talking makes a man thirsty.”

“Don’t you get a dowry or exchange gifts, my lord?” Bryce asked.

“Ah, a wise man you are, Frechette,” Cynvelin replied. “Of course. Not savages, the Welsh. I get the dowry later, and I have to pay the amobr.”





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