Dylan muttered something in Welsh that caused Morgan and the baron to smile, although the older man tried to look serious.
Fitzroy gave Bryce a sidelong glance, then said, “Sometimes we Normans have to stick together. Dylan, tell us what you said that was so amusing.”
“He said Normans are fast to fight and slow in everything else,” Morgan replied, winking at Fitzroy and Bryce.
“Normans are quick to take offense, and cautious when we should be,” Fitzroy retorted.
“Now, now, boys!” the baron said placatingly, his words obviously intended to apply to all of them. “Leave Frechette to manage affairs of the heart in his own way. It is enough he will go north with us.”
Bryce stared in wide-eyed wonderment at this apparent endorsement as the baron swept out of the room, followed by Morgan and Fitzroy. Dylan sauntered to the door, paused on the threshold and turned back to run a scrutinizing gaze over Bryce before he grinned. “Flies going to get in your mouth, Frechette,” he said before continuing on his way.
The voices of the holy brothers raised in worship began to waft through the monastery, their chants like a soothing balm.
Except that Rhiannon could not be soothed. She paced the floor of her small cell in the guest quarters of the monastery impatiently, twisting the sleeve of her gown and chewing her lip. She knew her father had summoned Bryce Frechette to meet with him. She knew what her father was going to ask.
Unfortunately, she had been too unsure of what Bryce might answer to be a party to their meeting.
After what she had involved him in, a refusal would be a not-unexpected response. Her inappropriate behavior had caused Cynvelin to believe he could abduct her without serious repercussions, and because of that, Bryce Frechette had been party to an act that had now caused him great shame.
She knew how keenly that would disturb him, for he was an honorable man. She could believe he might refuse everything her father offered and leave.
Nor had he asked to see her since they had come to the monastery. Considering what she and Bryce had been through, he should know she would be happy to see him. Indeed, she would be more than happy.
Because she loved him.
After her rescue, when she had gone with her father to the monastery, it had occurred to her that perhaps her feelings for Bryce owed more to her situation and hope for his help than any deep emotion.
It had not taken much time to dispel that notion.
At first, at Lord Melevoir’s, he had intrigued her with his combination of reticence and revelation.
Her admiration had grown as she saw what a good leader he was, justly respected by his men.
If they could forget Cynvelin and his evil scheme...if Bryce would come to her and give her cause to hope...if he would consider her for his wife...
The knock at her door made her jump and she hurried to open it, her heart seeming to beat in her throat.
Her father—not Bryce—stood on the threshold, a somewhat wary expression on his face.
“Is he coming?” she asked eagerly.
“What would you do if he refused?”
For the briefest of moments, she felt a pain so acute she thought she must be dying. Then she caught a certain look in her father’s eye that replaced the pain with an almost equal thrill.
“He said he would” she cried excitedly, embracing him. “Thank you! Thank you for asking him! You will not be disappointed!” she said, gazing earnestly at her father’s face. “I assure you, he is a fine, trustworthy man!”
“He seems to be.”
“He is among the best of men,” Rhiannon declared.
Her father raised his eyebrow slightly. “Very sure of that you sound.”
“I am. You will reward him, won’t you?”
Her father smiled ruefully. “If he will take anything from me at all.”
“He must! He deserves it.”
“He is a proud man, Rhiannon, and sometimes proud men are not willing to be given things. Ask Fitzroy and Morgan if you doubt me.”
“Bryce has earned any reward we could give him.”
“I am thinking that there is only one reward that man wants,” her father murmured.
“Then he must have it. Will you give it to him?”
Emryss DeLanyea did not reply, because he did not know what he would do if Bryce Frechette asked for the reward the baron suspected he wanted above all others. “You haven’t asked to speak with him,” he noted.
“No,” she admitted. “I would not be so brazen.”
“You think he should come to you first?”
“Don’t you?”
“After what happened, it would take a bold, impatient man to demand to see a woman he helped abduct. An honorable man might be less assured of his welcome, and so wait for a summons.”
Rhiannon stared at her father. “You think I should send for him?”
“I fear Bryce Frechette is so honorable and so unsure of his own worth, he won’t do anything unless you first make certain he understands how you feel, if I am any judge of men.”
Rhiannon looked at her father with somewhat amazed awareness.
“I should point out that if you prefer to wait some time yet, it will make for an awkward journey for the both of you.”
“What should I do?”
Her father regarded her steadily. “Do you love this man?”
Although the bluntness of his question took her aback, she had no hesitation in answering. “Yes!”
“You think he loves you?”
“I...I don’t know,” she confessed. Then she lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders. “I hope he does.”
“You want him for your husband?”
“More than anything!” She eyed her father. “You would give your permission for us to marry if he asked, wouldn’t you, Father?”
“I shouldn’t admit it, but I would probably give you permission to marry a hunchbacked troll if that would make you happy. Fortunately, Bryce Frechette is not a hunchbacked troll.”
Rhiannon busked him heartily on the cheek. “You are the best of fathers!”
“Well, my darling daughter,” the baron said, smiling at her, “I think first you should find out if Bryce Frechette wants you for his wife.”
“I will!” she cried, hurrying past her father. “At once!”
“Rhiannon! You should not—” he began, trying to tell her she should not be rushing off to Bryce Frechette. He was to wait for her summons.
But he was too late to stop his impetuous, spirited daughter.
By the time he got to the door, his daughter’s skirt was already disappearing around the corner. He sighed softly. “What will your mother say?” he muttered wryly. “That you are your father’s daughter, right enough.”
Then he remembered his daughter’s face when she spoke of Bryce Frechette, and smiled.
“Bryce?” Rhiannon whispered as she pulled back the tent flap and cautiously entered.
A hand reached out and tugged her farther inside. “Rhiannon!” Bryce said softly, grimacing at the pain in his broken arm the effort afforded him and fighting the urge to embrace her. “What are you doing here?”
She cocked her head to look up at him, blushing in a way that charmed him completely.
“Would you rather I went away?” she asked hesitantly. “I thought you might want to see me, but if you would rather not...”
“Of course I want to see you...if you want to see me, after what I did.”
Her beautiful, luminous eyes widened. “You saved my honor and my life.”
He stepped back, holding his arm, suddenly hopeful and yet still unsure. “My lady, as pleased as I am to see you—”
“Are you? Are you pleased?”
He had to smile. “Very much. Very, very much, my lady.”
“Why?” she asked bluntly.
He swallowed hard, his longing and his doubt making it difficult for him to speak. “Because I was afraid you would never want to see me again, once yo
u were safe.”
“But I am safe because of you. Naturally I would want to see you, and thank you.”
“Ah. To thank me,” he said softly, turning away.
His manner emboldened her, and indeed, her delight made her mischievous. “My father said you are coming north with us. Is that so that you can collect your reward?”
“Perhaps,” he muttered.
“Do you not think you deserve a reward?”
He faced her again, and she saw how serious he was. “No, I don’t. I only corrected my mistake. One of many,” he finished bitterly.
She could not help reaching out to stroke his stubbled cheek, rough beneath her fingertips. “If you leave us at Craig Fawr, where will you go?”
His strong hand covered hers. “I do not know, my lady. Maybe to my sister and her husband. Or north, Or back to Europe.”
As he caressed her hand and held it to his cheek, as he looked at her with his intense, searching gaze, as she remembered so well his kiss that other time, it seemed as if everything—her heart, her breathing, the seasons—stopped.
“Please forgive me,” he whispered. “I would have done better to listen to my own heart, not Cynvelin’s fine words, for then I would have refused to have anything to do with a man who said he was marrying you.”
She was sorry she had been so flippant. “Bryce, you saved me. But I did not come here to thank you, or see that you get a reward. I came...”
She hesitated, suddenly shy to put her feelings into words in the face of his intense gaze. But this was not the time to dissemble. “I came because I wanted to tell you how I feel about you. I admire you. I respect you.” Her voice dropped to an intimate whisper. “I love you.”
He stared at her. “What?”
“I love you,” she repeated.
She turned her head and pressed a kiss to the rough palm of his hand, in gratitude and trust. She heard him suck in his breath and felt him move closer.
When he bent down and kissed her, tentatively and with gentleness, she did not withdraw. Indeed, overwhelmed with gratification that he had not left her to her fate at Cynvelin’s hands, she responded with thankfulness and with joy.
And with fervent, passionate desire.
Bryce’s embrace tightened, and it was as if his body kindled heat and hunger and longing within Rhiannon’s.
When his tongue flicked against her lips, she instinctively opened her mouth. New sensations flooded through her as his tongue touched hers. She felt his fingers in her hair, stroking her, and pressed her hands against his muscular back.
He stopped all too soon. “You love me?”
“Yes. Do you—?”
He had his arm around her before she could finish. “I love you with all my heart, Rhiannon,” he whispered huskily, his lips on her cheek.
She had never felt so happy in her whole life and embraced him, until his pained gasp reminded her of his arm. She shifted slightly. “I’m sorry.”
He laughed softly. “I don’t care if you break it again.” He looked into her eyes. “I think I loved you from that first night in Lord Melevoir’s castle, when you thought I was a thief. You were so foolishly fearless.”
“And you were so rude! But I deserved it. I wish someone had told me sooner how my behavior looked to others.”
“That was nothing compared to what I did.”
“What? What did you do? You were tricked by an evil man. So were we all. You came back to save me, when you could have ridden away. So let us forget that, and Cynvelin, too.” She gazed up at him half shy, half bold. “Do you want to marry me?”
“Of course I do!” He grew suddenly grave. “But I have nothing—”
“You will have a title and an estate.”
He frowned and moved away. “Annedd Bach. Even though your father offered it to me, I thought...” He hesitated, searching for the words. “I would refuse it because of what happened there.”
Rhiannon went to him and ran her hand up his arm. “It is not the buildings that are evil. It was Cynvelin. I would be pleased to be the lady of Annedd Bach, if you are the lord.”
Bryce could ask for nothing more. Nevertheless, after all that had passed, he felt duty-bound to say, “Are you certain, Rhiannon? Could you be happy there?”
“Have you now grown circumspect, sir?” she asked, a playful smile on her lips that gave him even better confirmation of her feelings. “Of course I could be happy there with you.”
Slowly, inwardly cursing his injury, for he wanted nothing more than to hug her tightly, he put his arm about her and drew her close again. Her arms went around his waist and she lifted her face, looking at him with love glowing in her vibrant green eyes.
He kissed her with all the pent-up passion he had been trying to subdue for so long. Joyfully he felt her relax in his arms, the sensation nearly as wonderful as the growing tension within his body. Her hands crept up his back to grab his shoulders, even as his unbandaged hand lowered to caress her buttocks. He couldn’t help pressing her closer to him, to let her feel the arousal her kisses caused.
Her lips left his mouth, and he was bereft until he felt her breath warm against chest.
He swallowed hard and told himself it was a good thing she had stopped, so that he could regain his rapidly diminishing control. “We should cease before we go too far. We should wait for our wedding night.”
“That is a Norman talking,” she whispered. She pulled away to look up at him with a seductive smile, then moved her hand to boldly caress him. “We are not in England now, you see. You are in Wales, and here we have a custom.”
“Another custom?” he replied as well as he could, for her continued movements were nearly driving him mad.
“Caru yn y gwely.”
He had heard that before. “I would never dishonor you,” he said, shocked by her implication.
She looked equally surprised. “How did you hear of it?”
“Cynvelin told me to say to your father that you and he—”
She cursed softly in Welsh. “He would.” She gave him a disarming smile. “There is no dishonor in it if the woman agrees. Courting on the bed it is, and no shame to the Welsh.”
Bryce sighed with both relief and returning desire.
Rhiannon whispered, “Do you want to court me on the bed?”
For an answer, he sat on the cot and reached out to pull her down beside him. “Is this what you mean?” he asked softly, kissing her lightly.
She shook her head. “No. This is sitting on the bed.” She put her hands on his shoulders and slowly pushed him down. “This is the beginning,” she said gravely before kissing him feather-lightly on the chin, then each cheek.
“So far, it’s very interesting,” he whispered huskily, then his eyes widened and he nearly choked when she maneuvered her body over his. “What...what are you doing?”
“Courting you,” she replied, a mischievous twinkle in her merry eyes. She glanced at the side of the cot. “I hope this doesn’t tip.”
“Courting?” he asked, his voice slightly strained. “It seems rather more than that.”
“Would you like me to stop?”
“No...yes...shouldn’t I be doing the courting?”
“Oh, but I am a bold creature with no shame, remember?” Her hands began to caress his chest, then moved lower, as if on a treasure hunt.
“I hope you can forget I ever implied such a thing,” he said, trying to maintain some semblance of control, wondering where this was leading and yet afraid to say too much in case she stopped. “If this were anyone but you, I might think this was another trick.” He gave her a sidelong look, even as his own hand began to make some tentative explorations of their own. “It isn’t, is it?”
“I assure you, Bryce Frechette, this is a very time-honored custom.”
He drew in his breath sharply.
She stopped and looked at him. “Am I hurting you?”
“Yes. But only my arm. What would your father say if he knew you were here with m
e?”
“He is more Welsh than Norman.” Rhiannon shifted herself, so that she was sitting on his thighs, the sensation nearly driving him mad with need. “It is not marrying on the bed. Courting, is all. If you change your mind—”
He put his finger lightly over her lips. “There is a Frechette custom, my lady,” he whispered.
“What is that?”
“Once we fall in love, we are in love forever.”
“That is a DeLanyea custom, too.” she replied softly.
“I love you,” he said, and sighed as she insinuated her hand inside his tunic and stroked his rising and falling chest. “By heaven, yes,” he murmured.
She smiled slowly. “A pity about your arm. You will have to stay lying down, I think.”
“For what?”
“Are all Normans as daft as you?” she asked playfully. She proceeded to undo his breeches.
He gasped. Then she raised herself slightly, pulling her skirt and shift upward. “I have died and gone to heaven.”
“No, Wales,” she whispered, as she pushed his tunic up before pressing kisses to his chest.
He brushed his lips across hers. She sighed as he reached up and tried to undo the laces at the back of her gown with one hand.
With a sly and astonishingly seductive smile, she undid them herself, then slowly slipped her bodice lower.
When she bent over him, placing one hand on either side of his shoulders, his tongue flicked her nipples, one, then the other, the new sensation leaving her breathless as she arched against him.
“Gracious heavens, I want you,” he whispered thickly.
Delighting in his love, she moved so that she felt his hardness beneath her throbbing body. “Then have me.”
He was achingly aware of his own need, yet he would not hurry this.
He would make this for her gratification, to wipe away whatever stain Cynvelin had put upon her pleasure.
Or so he tried to do.
But she was too marvelous, too arousing in all she did, for him to maintain his self-control. And knowing that she wanted him—that was the greatest thing of all.
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