Читать книгу A Warrior's Passion - Margaret Moore, Paul Hammerness - Страница 8

As the ship slowly drifted into its place beside the wharf, the left-hand side closest to shore, Griffydd scrutinized the men assembled there.

The stocky one in the center wearing the fur robe would be Diarmad. Not only was he in the position of leadership, there could be no mistaking the man, to go by his father’s description.

The collective expressions of the men clustered around him indicated something less than joy at Griffydd’s arrival.

This did not surprise the young Welshman. Alliances, whether political or mercantile, were not something to be taken lightly. The political affected trade, and trade affected politics, so no transaction of the magnitude of the agreement Griffydd was going to attempt to negotiate could be a simple business.

Men in the bow and stern leaped from the ship to the wharf, carrying ropes to tie the vessel in place.

As Griffydd jumped nimbly to the land, Diarmad MacMurdoch stepped forward with open arms to embrace him and give him the kiss of greeting.

“Welcome!” the chieftain of Dunloch cried heartily. “Welcome to Dunloch! My hall is yours!”

As Diarmad drew back, Griffydd managed not to wrinkle his nose at the man’s powerful stench. Instead, he acknowledged the greeting and gravely said, “I thank you for your kind words, Diarmad. My father, Baron DeLanyea, sends his greetings and some gifts from Craig Fawr.”

The old man’s eyes gleamed with pleasure and, Griffydd thought, greed. “I thank him! He is well, I trust?”

“Very.”

“Glad to hear it! A fine man—a fine fighter! The Baron DeLanyea was on the Crusade!” the chieftain declared, apparently for the benefit of the men around him. “Nearly killed, he was, but the heathens couldn’t do it, although they took his eye. Isn’t that right, young DeLanyea?”

“Yes,” Griffydd acknowledged, his body slowly adjusting to the solid, unswaying land.

“And your mother? She is well?”

Griffydd nodded. “Yes.”

“Good, good!” Diarmad cried, throwing his arm about Griffydd like an overly friendly bear, which was, Griffydd realized, what was familiar about his smell. “To the hall then, for some ale.”

Griffydd had no choice but to agree, for Diarmad’s beastlike grip did not loosen. The chieftain led his guest along a wide street through the village to the fortress.

The Welshman felt the eyes of the villagers on him, but he paid that no mind. Instead, he concentrated on what he saw—the smithy, with more than one man busily at work, the well-built houses of stone and thatch, barns, storehouses, wooden outbuildings and even the muck heaps, which could easily tell a man how many horses were kept. Dogs ran barking around them, the largest obviously Diarmad’s hound, for a word from the chieftain brought the brute impressively to heel.

“Fine mail you’ve got there, DeLanyea,” Diarmad noted in a conversational tone. “That sword’s a marvel, too. Must have been a prosperous year.”

“The mail and sword were gifts from my father’s friends when I was knighted,” Griffydd explained truthfully. “The cloak and brooch, as well.”

“Generous friends you’ve got.”

“And powerful at court, some of them.”

Diarmad gave him a sidelong glance but said nothing.

Griffydd sighed rather melodramatically. “As you know, the king has raised our taxes again, and of course, the winter was harsh.”

There was a nearly imperceptible pause before Diarmad responded. “Oh, aye?”

“I heard it was bad here, too,” Griffydd continued evenly.

“So it was, so it was!” Diarmad muttered.

By now, they had reached the tall, wooden wall of the fortress. As they went through the gate, Griffydd took note of the stables, the longhouses, the well—but everything inside the fortress palled beside the enormous stone hall in the center. Although the hall was smaller than his father’s, it was impressive nonetheless, larger and longer than any building of the Gall-Gaidheal Griffydd had ever seen before.

Diarmad strode toward the building and proudly gestured for Griffydd to enter. “Well, here we are! Not so fine as your father’s hall, I know, but fine enough for a poor man like me.”

If Diarmad’s poor, I’m a girl, Griffydd thought sarcastically as one of Diarmad’s men, a dark-haired, sullen fellow, hurried forward to hold open the door.

Griffydd strode into the building, and suddenly felt as if he were in a cavern. There were no windows, and the sod-and-thatch roof gave the air an earthy smell. Smoke drifted toward a single hole above, with much of it lingering in the room lit by oil lamps and rushlights stuck in sconces in the wall. The lamps burned whale oil, if Griffydd’s nose was any guide. A roaring fire blazed in the central hearth, providing more illumination, as well as welcome warmth after the chill of the air. Benches and tables ringed the hearth, drinking horns and trenchers already in place.

A sudden movement to Griffydd’s right caught his eye and he swiftly turned to see a young woman rising from a stool in the corner. She wore a pale brown, rough woolen gown of simple cut. It fell loosely from a curved, unembellished neckline to the floor, although a plain belt hung about her hips and made the full dress blouse. Long, red-gold hair of luxuriant thickness reached to her waist.

Then, with one long-fingered hand, she slowly brushed her amazing hair away from her elfin face and looked at him, her dark eyes large, and their expression one he had never seen before—half defiant pride, half yearning vulnerability.

And totally compelling. As she was.

In that moment, it was as if the breath had left his lungs and his heart had ceased to beat. Then his heart came to vibrant life, thudding with a rapid drumbeat that surely had to be audible.

The woman did not speak or move, but regarded him steadily, her lips parted as if she would speak.

He waited, not breathing, for her to utter a single word.

Then Diarmad shoved his unwelcome way past Griffydd and broke the spell. “Seona!” he barked.

The young woman stepped forward and rose up on her toes to press a light kiss of greeting upon Griffydd’s cheek, the sensation like the touch of a feather tip. She smelled of grass and sea air, a perfume of natural purity that pleased him far more than the costliest unguent from the farthest land in the East.

He had been kissed before, of course, but this gentle caress seemed to make his blood burn beyond anything even the most experienced and passionate of lovers had ever made him feel.

“This is Seona,” Diarmad announced beside him. “Seona, this is Sir Griffydd DeLanyea of Craig Fawr.”

As Griffydd bowed to her, a powerful surge of longing flowed through him and a wild thought sprang into his mind. Had Diarmad set her to wait here because she was to be Griffydd’s servant—and whatever else he wanted—while he was in this village?

Such things had happened before when Griffydd had traveled on his father’s business. Always he had refused the “hospitality,” recognizing it for a tactic intended to distract him.

This time, however…this time, he decided without hesitation, he would accept.

“I am happy to meet you, Seona,” he said, and with a gentleness that surprised even himself.

Then Griffydd DeLanyea did something even more unusual.

He smiled.

“Seona is my daughter,” Diarmad declared with a proud and happy grin.

Diarmad’s daughter? Griffydd’s eyes widened with disbelief. This delicate woman with the bewitching eyes and hair such as he had. never seen or imagined was the offspring of loud, brawny Diarmad MacMurdoch? He could more easily believe she was a faerie changeling.

Then he realized that wily old Diarmad was watching him closely, and Griffydd’s smile dissipated like mist in the valley when the sun rose.

Of course, Griffydd thought with more anger than he had felt in many a day. A canny devil like Diarmad would use any ploy in negotiations, including setting his lovely, intriguing daughter to bewitch a man.

He had to be bewitched. No woman had ever made him feel as she had, and on first sight, too.

He had heard that these Gall-Gaidheals were only partly Christian and the other part pagan still.

A shiver ran through Griffydd as he turned away, suddenly aware that his task here might be more difficult than he had assumed, and Diarmad far more clever than he had anticipated.

Seona stared after Griffydd DeLanyea as he strode toward the bench at the end of the hall to take his seat beside her father.

She had thought to find the Welsh nobleman a short, squat, dark man, for weren’t the Welsh all short and dark? Instead, she beheld a tall, gray-eyed warrior with doe-brown, shoulder-length hair that brushed broad, muscular shoulders. The complexion of his angular face was sun browned and his cheeks were ruddy from the sea breeze. His nose was remarkably straight, his jaw strong like the rest of him. He was well dressed in gleaming mail, black hauberk and a black cloak that swirled about his long legs when he moved.

Those things she had noted when he had first entered the hall and they had been surprising enough.

Then he had looked at her with his grave, gray eyes. What she had seen there had made her heart beat like the rapid movement of a bird’s wings and filled her with a strange thrill such as she had never felt before.

What had she seen there? Approval, certainly, and that was rare enough. Admiration, she thought. Perhaps even desire.

In all her life, no man had ever really looked at her as if he thought her worthy of his interest beyond asking for food or drink.

As their guest drew off his cloak and took his seat to her father’s right, the place of honor for a respected guest, she instantly recalled the sensation of the stubble of his cheek against her mouth, the sea-spray scent of his skin—and the yearning that had blossomed within her.

Most surprising of all, perhaps, was her sudden realization that if her father made his outrageous request of her again, here and now, she would eagerly agree.

Indeed, she more than half suspected if her father proposed a marriage with the Welshman, she would accept him on the spot.

Unfortunately, whatever expression had been in Griffydd DeLanyea’s eyes, it had died when he found out who she was.

Why?

Perhaps he kept his smiles for serving maids, who would be more procurable and appropriate bed companions than the daughter of his host.

Maybe he was playing a game. Perhaps her own astonishing desire had been too evident. He was a handsome man. He must be used to women’s admiration. It was not so incredible that he might think to toy with her, encouraging or dismissing her as whim or strategy suggested.

Her jaw clenched as she told herself that if Griffydd DeLanyea had been truly canny, like her father, he would not have altered a whit when he found out who she was. He would have done his utmost to win her to his side, and so take advantage of her loneliness and anger at her father…

He could not know about that, of course. He was no mind reader, to reach into the recesses of her heart and understand her feelings, no matter how he looked at her with those iron-gray eyes.

Which meant she must and would subdue this wild excitement coursing through her, this sudden burning desire for a man she had only just met.

Yet she could not prevent herself from imagining what might have happened between them if she had not been Diarmad’s daughter, but a maidservant.

Her body throbbed as her imagination envisioned—indeed, almost physically felt—being in his strong arms, his powerful hands and fingers caressing her body as he kissed her passionately.

The men of her father’s council began to take their places, interrupting her ridiculous flight of fancy. As her father introduced them to Griffydd DeLanyea one by one, the Welshman completely ignored her.

No matter. She was used to that, was she not?

“Seona!” her father barked, making her jump.

Griffydd DeLanyea had said her name softly, in a way she had never heard before. Gently. Like a caress.

She grabbed the carafe of wine on the table nearby and hurried forward as other women entered with food and ale for those who preferred that beverage. Around her, her father’s men spoke in low mutters and cast wary glances at their guest.

Not all of them welcomed an alliance with the Welsh, she knew. Some, like her father’s oldest comrade, Eodan, would not question his plans. Others, like the religious Iosag, would look for signs from God as to whom they should choose as allies.

Then there were those such as Naoghas, a sullen, dark-haired fellow Seona had never liked, who would rather ally themselves with the Scots. Naoghas and his friends traced their forebears to the royal house of the Scots—or so they claimed—regardless of any influx of northern blood. They favored only compacts with Scots, and no one else.

As for her father, Seona knew he would unite himself to whoever offered the most profit.

She reached the head table and her fingers trembled as she began to pour the wine into the Welshman’s drinking horn. She bit her lip, trying to gain control of herself, fearful that her father would denounce her clumsiness if she spilled, any of the costly beverage and even more fearful of meeting their guest’s steadfast, unnerving gaze.

“So, I hear that your sister has wed,” her father said to DeLanyea.

Seona couldn’t help listening as their guest responded in his deep, musical voice. “Aye, a year past.”

“To the brother-in-law of Baron Etienne DeGuerre, too,” her father noted. “A fine alliance for your family.”

Seona moved on to her father’s drinking horn.

“There is that, but it was a love match, too.”

“Oh, aye!” her father answered with a sarcastic chuckle. “A love match that joins your family to one of the most powerful men in England!”

Startled by her father’s blunt insolence, Seona jostled the carafe. Some of the wine spilled onto the table. Blushing with embarrassment, she quickly set down the container and wiped the spill with the hem of her skirt.

When she finished, she raised her eyes to see her father glowering at her while Griffydd DeLanyea’s face betrayed absolutely nothing as he raised his drinking horn and drank the strong wine.

Then he set down the vessel and matter-of-factly said, “If Rhiannon was not in love with him, the marriage would not have taken place, even if Frechette were the heir to the throne.”

“Oh, come now, man!” Diarmad protested as Seona hurried away. “Your father would—”

“Never use his child to further his own ambitions,” their guest replied, still in that same prosaic tone, although he directed a pointed glance at Seona, then his host. “Unlike many men.”

Seona flushed with humiliation and her hands clutched the handle of the carafe until her knuckles went white.

She knew what Griffydd DeLanyea was implying and she wanted nothing more than to repeat the same assertions she had made to her father: she would not be used as chattel for his bartering.

Yet while she could find the strength to speak her mind to her father when they were alone, here in the hall, before his men and their guest, she dare not.

Instead, she subdued her embarrassment and shame as best she could, and silently continued to do her duty.

Because there was nothing else to be done.

Griffydd tried not to notice Seona MacMurdoch’s blushing face. It was more important that Diarmad realize Griffydd was aware the man might be trying to use his daughter as bait.

Therefore, Griffydd commanded himself, he would continue to ignore her, as he had been attempting to do since he had been told who she was. He had a responsibility to his father, and that he would fulfil, despite distracting young women.

All this talk of marriage hinted at one of Diarmad’s plans. No doubt he had discovered that Griffydd was not married, or even betrothed. The cunning Gall-Gaidheal was probably hoping to seal any bargain between himself and the DeLanyeas with a wedding.

He would soon realize Griffydd was not easily trapped by feminine lures, no matter how tempting.

With such thoughts in his mind, he was glad he had been unable to see Seona’s limb when she raised her skirt to wipe the tiny slop of wine. Nor had he paid any heed to the way the tip of her tongue touched her lip as she poured his wine. He would take no notice of her coy reluctance to look at him. He would not be drawn in by her alluring tricks, although his blood fired at the sight of her.

Forcing himself to concentrate on his host, Griffydd regarded Diarmad with a pointed look intended to let the chieftain know he felt insulted by his remarks but had magnanimously decided to overlook the insinuations, and for that, Diarmad should be grateful.

“Love and marriage are not something I care to discuss,” he said evenly.

“So we won’t!” Diarmad agreed with a chortle and an answering expression that told Griffydd his underlying meaning had been comprehended.

The chieftain turned his attention to the thick venison stew, redolent of leeks, set before him, swiping at the gravy with a hunk of flat barley bread.

What had prompted his host to scoff at the reason for his sister’s marriage? Griffydd pondered as he, too, sampled the excellent stew.

Perhaps Diarmad was trying to discover how quickly his guest angered.

In which case, he should have learned that Griffydd DeLanyea’s ire was slow to arouse. Very slow, because that anger, once produced, burned long and bright, like the sun high above the desert.

As for other emotions that might be aroused, Griffydd mused, he would regulate them. He was in command of himself. He was not like Dylan, with his lovers and his children and his tempestuous, childish outbursts.

He would concentrate on the task at hand and forget enchanting young women with hair he would like to bury his hands in.

While ostensibly enjoying a drink of the wine, Griffydd’s gaze swept around the crowded room filled with burly, bearded men.

How much did they know of their chieftain’s schemes?

Griffydd could well believe that Diarmad would tell no one exactly what he planned: he was the kind of man to enjoy keeping the power of such secrets to himself. He couldn’t be betrayed that way, either.

What of Seona, whose very name fascinated him?

Undoubtedly it would be better to think of her as a canny conspirator, at least for now. That way, he could control his wayward emotions regarding her.

He must control them.

“1 confess my father was surprised that you seemed so amenable to a trade agreement,” he remarked, determined to speak of other things. “He feared you would not wish to be associated with any save your own people.”

“My own people?” Diarmad asked.

“The Gall-Gaidheal.”

“Why would I set a limit on who I trade with, or whose goods I carry for profit?” Diarmad replied lightly.

“Especially when there is already to be an alliance between your family and the chieftain of Clan Ruari,” Griffydd replied, naming a powerful group of Gall-Gaidheal. “I understand your eldest son is betrothed to his daughter.”

“You seem to know much of my business, young DeLanyea,” his host replied, eyeing Griffydd over his drinking horn.

“I also know that chieftain claims the throne of the king of the Scots.”

“Show me a man, whether Scots or Gall-Gaidheal, who doesn’t think he has a claim on the Scottish throne,” Diarmad answered with another grin.

“I have never heard that said of you,” Griffydd noted. Although your daughter has the dignity of a queen.

Diarmad threw back his head and laughed. “No, I do not make any such claim. My father’s father was a Norse jarl and Haakon, the king of Norway, has dominion over me.”

“Nevertheless, your son’s marriage is not a love match, I take it, and it ties to you an important clan.”

Again Diarmad laughed. “No, it is no love match. Nor is it a threat to you. His bride’s father spends too much time thinking about the throne of the Scots instead of trade, but that’s all he does—think. Set your mind at rest, DeLanyea, and tell your father that my sons and I, and all our allies, will steer away from your coast once we come to an agreement.”

“He will be glad to hear it.”

“As to the marriage itself, Corcadail could do a good deal worse, and not much better.” Diarmad fixed his beady eyes on Griffydd as a sturdy wench set down a haunch of venison before them. “The same could be said of the man who weds my daughter.”

“I am sure she will make a fine wife,” Griffydd replied flatly. Then, because he could not help himself, he said, “I am rather surprised she is not already wed.”

“I have been waiting for the right man,” Diarmad answered. “How is it you have not married? You look of an age to have a wife and children long since. I already had Seona and two sons by the time I was about your age.”

Griffydd shrugged his shoulders and raised his voice to be heard over Diarmad’s warriors who, having refreshed themselves with food and drink, were growing loud in their conversations. “I see no need for haste in such matters.”

“And I suppose you already have some sons. I have heard it said you Welsh don’t care if your bairns come before a wedding or not.”

Griffydd regarded his host steadily. “In that you are quite right. However, as yet, I have no children.”

“No daughters, either?”

Griffydd hid his surprise at the man’s choice of words. “No children at all.”

“A careful sort you are, then, and wise, too.”

Griffydd thought of the drain on Dylan’s purse his children caused, and nodded.

“Seona will have fine dowry, although not as much as she’s worth. And of course, she’s a virgin.”

Griffydd busied himself cutting the meat and said nothing, reminding himself that he had not wanted to speak of love and marriage.

Obviously his mind was not particularly astute tonight. He should have talked of other matters, like shipbuilding and the Lowlanders’ new design, rather than marriage.

Still he supposed it was inevitable that Diarmad would mention Seona sooner or later, if he wanted a marriage alliance. Griffydd would have preferred later, and he couldn’t help wondering if he had betrayed too much when he had first laid eyes on her.

“But enough of this talking!” Diarmad cried, garnering the attention of all in the hall as he rose and lifted his drinking horn. “To an alliance between the Gall-Gaidheal of Dunloch and the Welsh of Craig Fawr!”

The rest of the men got to their feet, including Griffydd, and drank.

Diarmad threw himself back into his chair, while Griffydd remained standing and addressed his host. “If you will excuse me, Diarmad, I believe I should retire. It has been a long journey, and tomorrow we have much to discuss.”

Diarmad nodded. “As you wish.” He snapped his fingers and called, “Seona! Show our guest to his quarters!”

Despite his amazement that Diarmad would call his own daughter in such a contemptuous fashion, Griffydd tried to keep any surprise from his face. He was also shocked that she would be given the task of escorting a male visitor to his sleeping quarters.

For her part, Seona did not move. She regarded her father with a blank expression, as if she had not really heard his command. Nevertheless, Griffydd thought he saw a gleam in her eye that indicated otherwise.

He pondered his next move, whether to ask for another escort, or have her light his way. Quickly and surreptitiously he scanned the hall.

Everyone had stopped eating and drinking to look at him, some with obvious scorn, some with undisguised curiosity. Interestingly, none of their attention was on Seona.

This was another test, he thought.

“I am pleased you recognize that I am a man of honor who can be trusted to treat your daughter with the respect she deserves,” he said to Diarmad, bowing slightly.

Then he turned his unruffled gaze onto Seona, thinking the next decision was hers.

Seona said nothing. She merely took hold of a nearby rush torch and stuck it into fire, lighting it before going to the door to wait for him.

Griffydd bowed to his host and followed her outside.