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

Reluctantly Seona led the way to the longhouse where Diarmad MacMurdoch’s guests were customarily housed. It was outside the walls of the fortress, beside the pine wood that bordered a stream that flowed down from the hills toward the sea.

Holding the flickering torch, she tried to concentrate on the rough ground, and not to be so conscious of Griffydd DeLanyea’s proximity as they walked together in the pool of light. Nevertheless, she felt as if they were the only two people for miles around.

The rhythmic pounding of the waves upon the nearby shore filled her ears and would have been soothing at any other time. Now it seemed the echo of her own throbbing heartbeat.

Then she realized there was another sound. Griffydd DeLanyea, wrapped in his dark cloak like a spirit of the night, awesome and compelling and frightening all at once, was singing an iorram, a rowing song of her father’s men. The low, soft pulses of the cadences were familiar and yet different sung in his fine deep timbre. There was a melancholy to his voice, an inward sadness that seemed to tug at an answering loneliness deep within her.

But how could he, obviously a rich and respected son of a nobleman, understand the loneliness that was her daily lot?

Then he stopped singing and the sudden quiet moved her to speak. “You sing well.”

His steps hesitated a moment, as if he had not been aware of what he was doing. “Thank you.”

“I have heard that all the Welsh are fine singers.”

“Many are,” he concurred bluntly.

There seemed little willingness on his part to continue the conversation. She had no wish to force him to speak if he would rather not, so they continued in silence until they reached the longhouse.

She pulled back the heavy woolen covering and slipped inside. As he followed, she put the rushlight in a sconce in the wall, illuminating the furnishings of the longhouse: the trestle table, the benches and stools, the beds against the wall and Griffydd De-Lanyea’s baggage in the corner.

She turned and faced her father’s honored guest.

She was not tall enough to see eye-to-eye with him; instead, the first thing to meet her gaze was his full, sensual lips, which were not smiling. She forced herself to look at his dully shining chain mail, the gray metallic glitter reminiscent of its owner’s eyes.

“This seems rather a large edifice for one man to inhabit, even temporarily,” he observed.

“Yes, well,” she stammered, “most of my father’s guests bring some men with them.”

“An entourage?”

She flicked a glance at his enigmatic face. “Yes.”

He wrapped his arms about his body in a way that seemed almost…protective.

Could he be feeling as she did? Could he sense the current of tension that ran between them, the strange excitement?

That notion sent a thrill through her, and she found it easier to draw breath and to look at his face.

“I am very tired. If you will excuse me, my lady,” he said, bowing his head.

She was curiously reluctant to make a hasty retreat, so she decided to correct his mistake.

“You are wrong, sir,” she said softly.

“What’s that?” he asked, clearly taken aback.

“I am not a lady.”

“You are Diarmad MacMurdoch’s daughter, are you not?” he queried, strolling away as if to familiarize himself with his new quarters.

With his attention elsewhere, she relaxed a little more.

“Oh, yes,” she replied, a hint of bitterness creeping into her voice. “Although he would rather I was not. However, he is not a lord, so I am not a lady. Still, I thank you for the compliment.”

When he did not respond, she said, “I would have expected a man of your rank to have quite a large party with him.”

“I hope you are not implying I would need their protection? Or do you fear I might be lonely?”

“Oh, no,” she hastened to assure him. “You are too valuable to be at risk, at least physically.” She paused as he examined an unlit oil lamp hanging from a beam. “And I think you are used to being alone.”

He chuckled so softly she could barely hear him.

“Indeed, I often find my own company the most satisfactory,” he replied, glancing at her briefly. “How is it you could perceive that, I wonder?”

“Because you came here alone,” she replied.

“And perhaps because we share that trait?” he proposed, turning to regard her, his expression still betraying almost nothing.

“Perhaps.”

“So, Seona, do you live in a vast, empty building?”

She shook her head. “I live in a very small building.”

He raised one eyebrow quizzically. “It must make for close quarters.”

Now it was she who chuckled softly. “I live by myself in my own house at the edge of the village close to the broch.”

“Broch?”

“The ruined tower, my lord.”

“Sir,” he said. “I am Sir Griffydd DeLanyea. I will not be a lord until my father dies and I am made baron.”

“Sir Griffydd,” she conceded softly, and with a nod of her head.

“Griffydd.”

She stared at him a moment, befuddled.

“Griffydd,” he repeated. “You may use my name, if you would like.”

“Griffydd,” she amended.

He shifted his weight a little and cocked his head as he continued to regard her. “If I am not at risk physically, I wonder how else I might be in jeopardy?”

She shrugged her slender shoulders, then gave him a shrewd look. “I believe from what you said in the hall, you already know.” She hesitated, suddenly unsure what else she should say.

But she was determined to say something in her own defense.

“If my father implies that I am in any way a part of this trading pact,” she averred, “he does so without my knowledge.”

Griffydd’s eyes widened slightly. “Without your knowledge?”

“Yes,” she answered with a nod.

“You have the Sight, then?”

She gave him a puzzled look. “No.”

“Are you a witch?”

“Certainly not! I am a Christian, like you.”

“I am relieved to hear it, and yet confused, too.”

Seona didn’t know what to make of him. “I have spoken clearly enough.”

“But what explanation have you?” he asked meditatively.

“Have I for what?” she demanded, her frustration with his enigmatic pronouncements growing.

“You would warn me against something of which you claim to be ignorant.”

She flushed hotly. “Surely you can guess what I meant,” she said. “I do not want to be a part of any offers my father might make.”

“I prefer not to make assumptions, of any kind,” he replied, coming closer.

In a moment, he was near enough for her to reach out and touch and she found that, despite her annoyance, her mouth had suddenly turned as dry as a salted herring.

“So, you do not approve of your father using you?”

She nodded wordlessly.

“Is this a general principle by which you live, or is it that you do not approve of me?”

“It has nothing to do with you.”

He raised a quizzical eyebrow. “I wonder if I should be pleased by that response, or not?”

“I do not seek to insult you, or flatter you, either,” she replied firmly. “I want you to understand that, regardless of anything my father might say, I do not consider my duties to extend beyond the honorable bounds of hospitality.”

“I see,” the Welshman murmured, gazing at her with the merest hint of a smile on his face. “I suppose what you are saying means that you do not intend to stay the night with me?”

“No!”

“I would have sent you away anyway,” he replied solemnly. “Being a nobleman has certain responsibilities, too, especially when one is a guest. I would never assume that I would be welcomed into the bed of my host’s daughter—although I must confess I have never been so tempted to forget the bounds of courtesy.”

She swallowed hard, very aware that he was gazing at her face, and that she was no beauty. His words might be only empty flattery, and yet at his softly spoken compliment, heat poured through every limb.

She also knew she was smiling like a ninny, knew she must look besotted, but she couldn’t help it. No man’s words had ever meant so much to her—and surely the sincere approval she saw in his eyes could not be a trick.

He gently took hold of her shoulders and drew her close, bending lower. “Your scruples do you credit, Seona. Beautiful, beautiful Seona.”

The moment his lips touched hers, she seemed to melt like wax in a molten flame. She could no more have turned away from his kiss than she could have willed the planets to stop their circling of the earth.

One of his hands brushed through her hair as the other stroked her back. Willingly, eagerly, she leaned toward him and returned his passionate kiss. His cloak opened and she splayed her hands on his broad chest, feeling it rise and lower beneath her outstretched palms.

With growing urgency, his mouth moved over hers and when his tongue pressed against her sealed lips, she answered his silent request, parting them to let his tongue slide into her warm and waiting mouth.

A low moan escaped her as he clasped her to him as if he would meld them together like beings made of clay.

Then, suddenly, he stopped.

Gasping, uncertain, she looked at him questioningly, her lips still tingling from his kiss.

Griffydd drew a ragged breath and pushed her away, astonished at the desire surging through him. He had never felt like this. Never! Something had to be wrong with him—or with her.

“Have you bewitched me?” he demanded. “Have you put some kind of spell upon me?”

“What…what do you mean?” she asked in a whisper.

“As tempting as the thought of sharing my bed with you may be, I am an honorable man, and I will not be seduced by my host’s daughter.”

“I am not seducing you!”

His hands curled into angry fists at his side and he fought to control his raging temper. Diarmad must have ordered her to escort him here as part of a dastardly scheme to force a wedding between them and therefore an alliance between his father and the Gall-Gaidheal. “Where is the jealous suitor? Or will it be your irate father who is supposed to burst in and accuse me of dishonoring you?”

She stared at him in disbelief at his accusations and the sudden change in his manner.

“For a woman who claims she does not agree with her father’s strategy, you seemed very eager to give yourself to me,” he continued, wrapping the cloak about himself again. “Or perhaps that kiss was only to whet my appetite?

“Unfortunately for you, his plan will not succeed. Although sleeping with you would be a serious breach of courtesy, to the Welsh making love before marriage is not enough to extort a betrothal.”

“No! No—you kissed me!” she protested, dismayed by his suspicion.

“Why did you linger here at this hour of the night? And such enthusiasm to voice your honorable honesty!” he replied sarcastically. “Very clever and very crafty, Seona. Perhaps you think I am feebleminded not to see exactly what kind of trap this is? My father warned me about Diarmad MacMurdoch. It is to be regretted that he didn’t give me similar warnings about you.”

“Because there were no warnings to be given!” she retorted, angered by his implications. “I meant what I said. I wanted you to know that I have no hand in any of my father’s scheming.”

“No?” Griffydd demanded, his cold, skeptical gaze wounding her more than a dagger might have done. “Then what plan of your own were you hatching?”

“None!” she cried, glaring at him and hating him for not believing her. “This is to be the thanks I get for trying to be honest with you?”

She thought of the look in his eyes when he called her beautiful and marveled at her gullibility. “I should have realized you were not to be trusted—”

“I am not to be trusted? If there is duplicity here, look to yourself!”

“I am not the one spouting lies!” she replied, turning on her heel to leave.

He grabbed her arm to halt her progress and came to stand before her.

“I am an honest man, but that does not mean I am a fool. Now tell me what lies I have told,” Griffydd commanded with more angry animosity than even his own parents would have suspected he possessed.

But angry he was, and hurt and upset. He had been tricked by a lovely woman, a woman he still desired so much that, despite her deceit, it was all he could do not to carry her to his bed.

He must be going mad, driven slowly insane by Diarmad MacMurdoch and his desirable daughter, who stood defiantly before him, proud as a queen, bold as an Amazon.

“Take your hands from me!” she ordered scornfully.

He obeyed at once. “What lies have I told?” he demanded again.

Her lip curled and passionate anger burned in her large eyes, although her tone was coolly sarcastic. “Since I am so tempting, sir, I had best leave you to your rest. Sleep well.”

With that, she marched haughtily out the door.

After she had gone, Griffydd stood motionless for a long time before he raked his trembling hand through his hair.

Even now, he half expected a gang of Gall-Gaidheal led by a belligerent Diarmad to charge into his quarters and demand that he wed Seona or die.

He had been trapped like the most naive dupe in Britain.

Then he stared at his quivering fingers as if they belonged to somebody else. Indeed, he almost felt they must.

His was the steady hand. He never trembled, not with fear or longing or excitement.

Dylan did. And Dylan was the lover, never without a woman. Not him.

Yet Griffydd knew he had acted as impulsively as Dylan ever had. At the time, he had given no thought to the ramifications of kissing Seona MacMurdoch.

He had acted with his heart, not his head.

Which was wrong. And weak. And foolish. Most of all, foolish.

Her presence in his quarters had to be part of a strategy, and her apparent sincerity only a trick.

Despite Seona’s denials, she must have been a willing participant in the plan. After all, no one had shoved her through the door or asked her to stay.

Griffydd slowly drew his sword from its scabbard. With deliberate movements he twisted it to and fro until his hand grew steady again.

Until he was master of himself again.

Disgusted with his own gullibility, Griffydd told himself he would think only of the trade pact. He would ignore Seona MacMurdoch, with her fascinating face, spirited manner and huge brown eyes.

She had deceived him once, and he would not let that happen again.

Seona came to a halt on top of the rise overlooking the harbor of Dunloch near the ruined broch. The cold air blew through her loose dress and whipped her hair about her face. It howled through the gaps in the stones of the ancient tower like the keening of mourning women before heading toward the fortress and village below. In the village, a few flickering lights occasionally shone out into the darkness of the night. The sound of drunken singing rose from her father’s hall, telling her that her father was in a jovial mood, obviously anticipating a considerable profit from his pact with the Welshman’s family.

Wrapping her arms about herself for warmth, her gaze moved to the boundless ocean, its shimmering water lit by the pale moon.

If only she could sail away from here, or run away to some place where she could be free—of her duties, of her father, of his constant disapproval, of his plans and schemes.

But where could she go, a lone woman with no friends and no money? Her brothers would send her home, too afraid of losing command of their villages if they offended their father to shelter her. No other chieftain would want to risk his wrath, either, because Diarmad MacMurdoch commanded a large fleet. He had the ships, the men and the arms, as well as the money for more, if he chose to punish them.

Nor could she count on sanctuary in a holy place. The priests had endured many attacks over the years from the Norsemen and were all too grateful for Diarmad MacMurdoch’s protection. They would certainly tell him where she was, if nothing else, and then her father would come for her. She could envision him dragging her out of a chapel, the priests helpless to stop him.

Now she had made things even worse.

She had been a fool, a simpleton so moved by her attraction to a handsome stranger that she had been totally humiliated while trying to do good.

Yet whose fault was that, really? If she were in his place, what would she make of such a visit and her willing kiss?

She should be glad he had been angry, otherwise who could say what more she might have done?

At least all that had resulted was anger on both sides, and grave suspicion on his.

She smiled sardonically. Considering her father’s ability to get the best of men with whom he bargained, Griffydd DeLanyea should be thankful that she had roused his distrust. Surely now he would be twice as wary…

She gasped and her hand flew to her lips. What if he told her father what had happened in his quarters to rouse that mistrust?

Her father didn’t like her as it was. Surely he would consider anything that interfered with his trade negotiations unforgivable.

This time, she might finally incur such wrath that the consequences would be more than having to listen to him berate her.

Maybe he would take away her little house. It had been very difficult to persuade him to let her live in solitude so that she did not have to endure gossip and speculation.

Perhaps he would send her to a convent. He had threatened to do so countless times; this might finally drive him to do it.

Seona shivered as she made her decision.

Somehow, she would have to insure that Griffydd DeLanyea did not tell her father what had happened in the guest quarters tonight. No matter how much more humiliating it would be to have to speak with the Welshman again, she simply could not risk the alternatives.