by Hale Deborah
Border Bride
Deborah Hale
Harlequin (2014)
* * *
Rating: ****
Tags: Barb, Historical Romance, Love Story, Regency Romance, Romance, Wales, Warrior
For Thirteen Years He'd Been A Wanderer...
Now Con ap Ifan had returned, a tested warrior and a talented bard. But Enid of Glyneira remained unimpressed. No stolen kisses or honeyed promises that faded with the dawn could tempt her to abandon hearth, home and betrothed - not even for the father of her cherished firstborn son!
Con wanted Enid more than words could tell. But could he dally with her, now a widow with children, forever? For though she'd always been his heart's melody, his soul's rhythm, he knew the siren song of the wider world might break their passion's bond!
“Will gold and glory warm your bed at night?
“Will they tend you when you’re ill, or weep for you when you die?”
Dumbstruck, Con struggled into his breeches, trying to think of something, anything he could say that might convince Enid to have him on his own terms.
For once it was her turn to have the final word.
“I think the world of you. I’d sooner have you for my husband than any lord or prince. If you thought half as highly of yourself as I think of you, you’d have nothing to prove to anyone.”
Without giving him a chance to reply, she closed the door of the wash house, plunging it once again into stifling darkness.
“I have nothing to prove.” Con tried to believe it, but the words rang false in his ears and the empty place inside him gaped wider than it ever had before….
Acclaim for Deborah Hale’s recent titles
THE WEDDING WAGER
“…this delightful, well-paced historical will leave readers smiling and satisfied.”
—Library Journal
THE ELUSIVE BRIDE
“…an absolute pleasure!”
—The Romance Reader Web site
THE BONNY BRIDE
“…high adventure!”
—Romantic Times
A GENTLEMAN OF SUBSTANCE
“This exceptional Regency-era romance includes all the best aspects of that genre….Deborah Hale has outdone herself…”
—Romantic Times
#620 BADLANDS LAW
Ruth Langan
#621 A PERILOUS ATTRACTION
Patricia Frances Rowell
#622 MARRIED BY MIDNIGHT
Judith Stacy
DEBORAH HALE
BORDER BRIDE
Available from Harlequin Historicals and
DEBORAH HALE
My Lord Protector #452
A Gentleman of Substance #488
The Bonny Bride #503
The Elusive Bride #539
The Wedding Wager #563
Whitefeather’s Woman #581
Carpetbagger’s Wife #595
The Love Match #599
“Cupid Goes to Gretna”
Border Bride #619
For my eldest son, Robert, the best birthday present I ever received, who more than deserves a dedication after eight books. Thanks for your patience, sweetheart!
Special thanks to Heidi Hamburg, who knew just what kind of woman Con ap Ifan needed.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter One
Have a care, now! a small voice whispered in Conwy ap Ifan’s thoughts as he picked his way through the quiet, greening countryside of the ever-shifting border between England and Wales. Watch your back. Stay on guard.
He was a carefree, impulsive fellow by nature. It had taken him many years of mercenary service in the Holy Land and elsewhere to cultivate a sense of caution.
Con had the scars to prove it.
Perhaps he ought to heed that vigilant little voice, now. These borderlands, which Norman folk called The Welsh Marches, were far less serene than they might appear to the casual traveller on a fine spring day.
“Tush!” Con muttered to himself as he scrambled from stone to stone, fording a swift-flowing stream. Between planting and shearing, even Welshmen were too busy to make war at this time of year. And who’d take notice of a lone wanderer on foot, anyhow? Especially one with a bard’s harp slung over his shoulder?
Once again Con congratulated himself on adopting such a clever disguise for this mission to his native land. In Wales, a bard could roam the country at will, with the door of every maenol open to him—always assured a seat of honor by the hearth, a good belly-filling meal, and a warm woolen brychan to roll himself in at bedtime.
When a bard plucked his harp and sang the heroic ballads that were his country’s lifeblood, folk dropped their guard to listen. After the last notes died away, oft as not they’d tip another cup of ale or hard cider and grow talkative. Then Conwy ap Ifan, envoy and spy for Empress Maud, Lady of the English, would listen and weave another thread into his tapestry of intelligence about the Marches.
Not a spy! Con’s sense of honor bridled. At least not in the usual sense of that word. He meant no harm to his countrymen, and never would he put the interests of a Norman monarch above those of a Welsh prince. However, if the ambitions of the border chiefs should harmonize with those of the Empress, it would make sweet music for all.
Sweetest for Con himself.
As he ambled along a well-trodden forest path, inhaling the rich, pungent scent of new life, Con recalled his Christmas audience with the Empress, and her special commission for him.
“My Lord DeCourtenay says you gave a good account of yourself when his forces recaptured Brantham Keep from Fulke DeBoissard. Thanks to the arrow you put through his elbow, that’s one traitor who will never again hoist his sword against me. It takes a cool head and a true aim to turn your bow on a man who holds a knife to the throat of your dearest friend.”
For all her imperial bearing, the lady had returned Con’s admiring smile. Perhaps she’d been flattered that her arresting beauty still had the power to stir an attractive man some years her junior. Con had never been one to hide his appreciation of a pretty woman.
“Such a decisive fellow could be a great asset to me on the Marches just now, sir. Particularly if he has an agreeable humor and a persuasive Welsh tongue in his head.”
Con had acknowledged the compliment and expressed his interest in hearing more.
The Empress chose her words with care. “During these past years, while my cousin and I have contended for the throne, many Welsh border lords have seized the chance to take back lands conquered during the time of my sire and grandsire. It would be only fitting if my loyal southern Marches remained free of strife, while those manors which hold for Stephen of Blois suffered for their treachery.”
“Fitting indeed, your Grace,” Con agreed.
As a Welshman, he had no sworn fealty to either the Empress or King Stephen, but his natural sympathy lay with Maud. For as long as he could recall, Con had always sided with the underdog in any fight.
The Empress swept a lingering look from the toes of Con’s soft leather boots to the tangle of dark curls atop his head. She appeared to approve what she saw. “A man who could tame some border lords on my
behalf while inflaming others would be well rewarded for his labors.”
With a raised brow and a curious half smile, Con inquired what form that reward might take.
“I would be prepared to honor such an enterprising fellow with a knighthood.” Maud’s shrewd dark gaze probed his. “Then I would equip him with suitable men and arms to return to the Holy Land. It would buy me favor with His Holiness the Pope as well as my husband’s kinsman, the Prince of Edessa.”
Con had struggled to keep his face impassive, even while his heels yearned to break into a jig. By heaven, this woman could calculate a man’s price to the groat. In a stroke she’d offered him the two greatest boons he had ever desired from life—advancement and adventure.
On this bright, green April day fairly bursting with promise, Con journeyed north, basking in the satisfaction of having fulfilled half his royal commission already. The more difficult half, to be sure, since it was a far easier task rousing Welshmen to war than persuading them to keep the peace.
During the long, dark months of winter, Con had made his way from cantrev to cantrev in the guise of a wandering bard. At each maenol he’d engaged in secret talks with the local border chief, counselling peace and consolidation of territory. Hinting at Angevine favor when Maud or her son, Henry, finally wrested the English throne from her cousin Stephen.
To a man, the chiefs of Deheubarth had heeded him.
Now with Empress Maud’s promised reward beckoning, Con had come to Powys on the latter half of his errand, to stir up trouble for the Marcher lords of Salop. He judged himself at least another full day’s journey away from Hen Coed, the stronghold of powerful border chieftain Macsen ap Gryffith.
When Con emerged from the eaves of the forest, he spied a thin plume of smoke rising from beyond the crest of the next hill. It must come from a dwelling of some kind. A dwelling where he could expect to receive warm hospitality on a cool spring night, along with the latest news from the surrounding country. All for the price of a song and a tale.
And if his usual luck held, he might find a comely lass among the household on whom he could exercise his ivory smile and extravagant flattery. Somehow, that prospect did not hold its usual appeal for Con.
Since coming to Wales, he’d found his appetite for feminine company unaccountably dulled. Could it be his age? Though often mistaken for a good bit younger, he was a trifle past thirty.
Or was his fleeting interest in the women he met always tempered by bittersweet memories of one woman? Long-slumbering recollections roused since Con’s boon companion, Rowan DeCourtenay, had found the one lady for whom he’d been destined.
Heading toward the smoke, Con shook his head and chuckled to himself. Queer that he should still burn for the one lass of whom he’d never made a conquest, when others he’d bedded had long since faded from his memory.
“Mother,” sang nine-year-old Myfanwy as she skipped into the washhouse at Glyneira, “Idwal said to tell you there’s a traveller come. Shall I fetch my harp and keep him company till supper? Or should I offer him water first?”
Enid looked up from her task of cleansing wool in the great iron cauldron. With the back of her hand, she nudged several fine tendrils of dark hair off her brow. They’d escaped her long braid, teased into curls by steam and sweat.
Traveller? Could Lord Macsen have come so soon?
Why did her belly suddenly feel full of wet wool at the thought of her chosen suitor arriving earlier than she’d expected him? Perhaps because Glyneira wasn’t yet fit to receive such exalted company, she decided. For a dozen good sensible reasons, Enid wanted to wed the border chief. She couldn’t afford to make an unfavorable impression.
“Of course you must offer him water straightaway, my pet. A big girl like you should know that by now.” Enid couldn’t help but smile at the child who looked so little like herself. Both Myfanwy and young Davy took after their late father, who’d had Mercian blood. “If our guest accepts, then we’ll know he means to stay the night at least.”
The ceremonial offer of water to wash a traveller’s tired feet was a tradition as old as the Welsh hills. If a guest refused, it meant he would not bide the night under his host’s roof. If he accepted, then the hospitality of the house would be his for as long as he chose to stay. Enid cherished the comforting familiarity of such traditions.
Myfanwy bobbed her golden head, eager as eager. “If the stranger says he’ll take water, can I wash his feet?”
“Not this time.” If Macsen had come to Glyneira, Enid wanted to make certain he was properly received—with her best ewer and basin, herb-sweetened water neither too hot nor too cold, and her softest cloths for drying. “I’ll see to it as soon as I tidy myself up. You can entertain him with your harping and singing, in the meantime. Go along now. Our guest will be pleased to hear you, I’ve no doubt, for you have a sweeter song than a linnet.”
As the child raced off, her mother called after her, “Tell Auntie Gaynor I need her to come finish a job for me.”
The wool only wanted one more rinse. Enid knew she could trust her sister-in-law not to handle the fleece over-much and risk felting it.
Hiking up her skirts, she dashed the short distance from the wash shed to the back entrance of the house, startling an old goose that ruffled up its feathers and hissed at her.
“Keep a civil tongue, or I might pluck and roast you for our guest’s supper,” Enid warned the testy fowl.
The goose waddled off with its bill in the air.
The lady of the house managed to reach her own small chamber without being harassed further. After pulling off her coarse-woven work tunic, she rummaged in the chest at the foot of her bed, looking for an overgarment better suited to welcoming such an important guest.
A flash of green caught her eye. From the very bottom of the trunk Enid lifted a fine woolen kirtle, trimmed at the neck and wrists with close-stitched embroidery. Her breath caught in her throat as she held the garment in her hands.
During the years since she’d come to Glyneira, she had found one excuse after another to avoid wearing it, until she’d almost forgotten it existed. She had worn this fine garment on her wedding day, though it had been fashioned to impress a much grander bridegroom than Howell ap Rhodri.
It reminded Enid of all she’d risked once upon a time. And all she’d lost in the risking.
“Oh, don’t be fanciful,” she scolded herself as she slipped the garment over her head. “A kirtle’s a kirtle and this is the best you own.”
As she covered her hair with a fresh veil, a small boy barrelled into the chamber. A stubby-legged puppy scrambled through the rushes at the child’s heels.
“Myfanwy said to tell you the man wants water.” Blurting out his message, Master Davy looked ready to bolt out of the room as fast as he’d bolted in—until he caught a good look at his mother.
“What’re you dressed so grand for, Mam?” Davy scooped up the puppy, who wriggled in his arms. “You look as fair as the queen of springtime. All you need is a crown of flowers in your hair like Myfanwy makes for hers.”
“Queen of springtime, is it?” Enid blushed as she remembered a young fellow who’d once fashioned a garland of spring blossoms for her hair and offered equally extravagant praise to her looks. That fellow had danced all over her heart, then danced away…never to return.
“I mind you’ll make a bard yet, Davy-lad.” Enid ruffled her son’s honey-brown hair, determined not to let thoughts of Con ap Ifan spoil this moment. “But you make it sound as though your poor mother goes around like a slattern most of the time. Away with you now before that dog messes on the floor again.”
As the boy ran off laughing, Enid noticed how tall he’d sprouted through the winter. It was a wonder he could still wriggle into his tunic, it had grown so tight. She’d have to look through her other trunk to see if there were any clothes Bryn had outgrown that might now fit Davy.
Thinking of her older son made Enid remember their guest. Of the many boons she stood to
gain from wedding Lord Macsen, she most craved the chance to reunite her family. It’d been such a long time since Howell had sent the boy away for fosterage. She’d rather hoped Macsen might bring her son along on this visit.
A wistful pang gave way to questioning. It wasn’t like Macsen ap Gryffith to travel alone, without a small but skilled escort of armed men. Did the border chief have reason to call on Glyneira in secret? Or could something be wrong?
From out of the chest Enid snatched a handsome basin and ewer of beaten copper along with linen drying cloths, all too fine for any but Glyneira’s most honored guests. Making her way to the kitchen to fetch hot water, she schooled her steps to a brisk but decorous pace appropriate for a lady of the maenol. Her thoughts fluttered though, like doves in a cote when a fox prowled the ground below.
What if Macsen had changed his mind about the betrothal he’d hinted at when Howell lay dying? What if he’d never meant it in the first place—only wanted to calm her fears for the future? She’d managed well enough, had even come to enjoy being mistress of Glyneira in her own right instead of always deferring to a husband.
But the past winter had been an uncommonly quiet one. Such tranquility could not last on the borders. When strife erupted again, as surely it would, Enid wanted her children tucked up in the comparative safety of Hen Coed, buffered by a stout palisade with a canny warrior lord for a step-father.
Almost without her noticing it, the rhythm of her footsteps quickened.
The nimble music of Myfanwy’s harp greeted Enid as she entered the hall. For an instant the mellow glow of maternal pride radiated through her. Then she heard a second instrument join her daughter’s, lower in pitch and more assured in touch. Myfanwy began to sing in her high, pure treble, while a masculine voice chimed in a pleasing harmony.
The voice had a most agreeable timbre in the mellow middle register, unlike the ominous resonant rumble of Macsen ap Gryffith’s.
Enid crossed the cavernous hall with a halting gait, like a sleepwalker drawn by the Fair Folk. Something deep within her quivered to life at the sound of that all-but-forgotten voice. Or perhaps it shivered with foreboding.
