Читать книгу A Warrior's Honor - Margaret Moore, Paul Hammerness - Страница 9

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.