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, a
nd 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.
A Warrior's Honor Page 2
