A Warrior's Kiss

by Margaret Moore

  “Yes, you did,” she retorted, her pride pricked by his shamed attitude as she reached back and briskly tied the lacing of her bodice. “If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have, so don’t try to deny it.”

  He faced her and when he spoke, his tone was grimly determined. “I regret this, and I would rather we both forgot what just happened.”

  Although she told herself she should not be surprised, hot tears stung Mair’s eyes.

  But she would die a thousand deaths before she would show any hurt to him.

  “What?” she demanded. “What just happened? Nothing at all!”

  “I am glad you agree.”

  “Oh, I agree, all right. Dylan was something, and this was not,” she sneered.

  Then, before he could wound her more with his words, she marched past him and disappeared down the stairs.

  As Trystan remained on the wall walk, he sighed and ran his hand through his disheveled, shoulder-length hair. God’s wounds, what had come over him? How could he have been so lustful and so stupid?

  And with Mair, of all women!

  Mair, who always seemed to be laughing at him, as if everything he did was some kind of jest for her amusement and who apparently slept with any man who asked her.

  Who had borne his own cousin a son out of wedlock.

  God save him, he needed to marry the sweet, innocent Lady Rosamunde, who would surely react with just horror if she heard of his disgraceful, lustful behavior.

  He should have controlled himself better, but what man could have resisted Mair’s fiery kiss? What other mortal could have walked away when a voluptuous, passionate woman leaned into him with such unabashed desire?

  No man he knew, not even Griffydd.

  At least he felt remorse for his lascivious act, unlike Mair. If it had been any other woman, she would have fled the moment she realized her mistake after kissing him.

  But Mair had not, and so he had naturally given in to the temptation she offered.

  Yes, it was her fault for kissing him again, and for being the sort of woman who would wait for a man in such a place, for such a reason. Therefore, he would not berate himself. It had been all Mair’s fault.

  Nevertheless, it would still create a difficulty if Lady Rosamunde learned about tonight. He must ensure she did not, even if that meant speaking privately to Mair. Considering Mair’s anger, he suspected she might be as anxious as he to keep their assignation a secret.

  He would go to Mair tomorrow. He would not rush to her first thing, for if he left the castle too early, it might cause comment, and then he would have to make explanations.

  He didn’t want to have to lie.

  Mair’s pace quickened as she crossed the wide courtyard. She wanted nothing more than to get home, away from Trystan and the rest of the DeLanyeas, too.

  She must have been deranged to make love to him!

  And him—he had some gall, that one, trying to make her feel ashamed for what was only natural. She was proud to be the mother of Dylan’s son, and everybody knew how Trystan had mooned about over Dylan’s wife, Genevieve.

  A sardonic smile lifted the corners of her lips. It seemed Trystan was over that particular infatuation.

  “Mair!”

  A male shape appeared near the gate moving toward her, armed and wearing chain mail. Thick, dark hair brushed brawny shoulders, and the man stood a whole head taller than she.

  Ivor.

  “Where were you?” she demanded coolly, regarding his angular face in the moonlight. “Giving the watch the password for the night, I was,” he said apologetically as he reached out to take her hands. “Lovely you look in this dress, Mair.”

  She moved away. “Did you think I would wait forever?”

  “Mair,” he wheedled in his deep, velvety voice which was really the most attractive thing about him. “Duty it was, and nothing else. Only that would keep me away from you, that and your women’s… It’s finished, is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re not angry because I am a little late, surely? Other women might be, but not you. You are too good to be upset about such a little thing.”

  She sighed. She had done what she had done, and she would not blame another. “No, I am not angry with you,” she replied.

  “Glad I am to hear it,” Ivor said, dropping his voice to a whisper as she let him take her hand. He started to lead her toward the storerooms. “My barracks are too crowded with celebrating soldiers tonight.”

  She tugged her hand from his. “I’m tired, Ivor. I am going to go home to bed.”

  “I can come with you. My duties are finished for tonight. Your son is with Angharad, isn’t he?”

  “I said I was tired, Ivor. Good night.”

  Leaving her eager lover dumbfounded and standing alone in the moonlight, Mair continued on her way.

  The next morning, Baron Emryss DeLanyea gave a prodigious sigh as he limped onto the dais in the great hall of Craig Fawr to join his youngest son in breaking their fast. Other trestle tables had been set up for the feeding of the servants and guests, and a bevy of maidservants hastened to put out the first meal of the day.

  “God save me!” the baron said with a grunt as he sat heavily. “The wind must be from the east, my leg is aching so!”

  He turned toward Trystan and ran a scrutinizing gaze over him. “No sleep last night, is it? Was it too much wine, or a woman?”

  “Da!” Trystan chided quietly, glancing around at the guests.

  Fortunately, the pious Lady Rosamunde had not returned from the chapel, where Trystan had feasted his eyes on her. She had looked like an angel in her gown of pale blue, her bounteous blonde hair only partly hidden by the thinnest of white silk veils. He would have lingered and waited to escort her back to the hall, yet he dreaded appearing too like an eager puppy. As much as he desired her, he wanted to maintain some dignity.

  He also thought he would be better able to converse with her after he had spoken with Mair.

  “Very well,” Baron DeLanyea replied lightly. “Do not tell me. But I would rather it was a woman than wine. I have no patience for drunkards.”

  “Aye, I know,” his son replied, glancing at his father’s grinning face.

  Then he noticed the shrewd scrutiny lurking in the baron’s eye. Half-blind his father may be, but he always saw everything. And if he happened to miss something, his wife did not.

  Between his parents, it was almost impossible to keep a secret, Trystan thought, trying not to scowl.

  “A woman, then. Well, and you are a young man, so I suppose it is to be expected. Even Griffydd had his—”

  “Lovers,” Trystan finished impatiently. “And Dylan, of course, and as long as I treat the women well and as a chivalrous man should, no shame to them or me.”

  When he saw his father’s face, Trystan wished he had kept quiet.

  “Aye, that’s right. And whatever happens is between you and the woman.”

  This time, Trystan kept his mouth shut.

  “I only hope you are dallying with a Welshwoman and not a Norman one,” his father remarked quietly as he leaned forward to rip a piece of warm bread from the loaf in front of him.

  Mott, his father’s favorite hunting hound, and a huge black beast of a dog, sniffed and lumbered forward, obviously expecting some scraps to fall to him.

  “Gwen likes you,” the baron continued, nodding at the serving wench who was slightly younger than Trystan.

  Gwen was pretty, too, and her plump, rounded curves suited her. She was genial and kind, and a man could do worse. Trystan had, in fact, stolen a kiss or two from Gwen in the kitchen, but that was as far as that had gone. “Isn’t she going to marry Ianto?”

  “Oh, yes, I forgot.”

  “I didn’t, and I am not dallying with anybody.”

  “No?” His father almost made that sound a sin.

  “No!” Trystan frowned. “What’s wrong with Norman women? You married one.”

  His father’s response was a low chuc
kle. “Your mother is exceptional.”

  Trystan tried to look as if he had not heard this a thousand times. It was no secret his father loved his exceptional mother exceptionally well.

  His father grew serious. “Normans are a stern and ambitious lot, most of them,” he said, “and they hold their honor dear. It wouldn’t be wise to promise more to a Norman woman than you are willing to give.”

  Trystan grabbed the loaf and tore off a piece, then proceeded to rip it into little bits that fell on the floor to be gobbled up by Mott. “I have made no promises to any woman.”

  “A word of warning is all, my son,” his father said placatingly. “I would not care to have such trouble as Dylan’s wedding caused again.”

  No longer hungry, Trystan shoved back his chair and stood. “Neither do I. I assure you, Da, I will try to conduct myself with wisdom and honor, in all things.”

  The baron looked shocked. “Of course you will, Trystan. I never thought otherwise.”

  Trystan didn’t answer as he turned on his heel and strode away.

  The baron absently scratched Mott’s head. “Thinking I should have a little chat with his mother, me,” he muttered.

  His opinion did not alter as he watched his son halt near the door and flush with apparent pleasure as Lady Rosamunde D’Heureux and her father arrived to break the fast.

  Chapter Two

  Trystan knew he was blushing like a guilty little boy as he smiled at the lovely Lady Rosamunde, yet he couldn’t help it.

  Even though it was impossible, he felt as if he must bear some visible sign of his lewd, lustful behavior that would surely disgust this fine, devout young woman.

  “Good morning, Sir Trystan,” Lady Rosamunde said softly, demurely lowering her eyes—although not before he caught a hint of a pleased smile.

  A smile like that would surely never be given to him again if she learned what he had done.

  “Greetings, my lady, my lord,” he replied, also addressing Lady Rosamunde’s short, stout and unremittingly stern father.

  Like most Normans, Sir Edward D’Heureux wore his gray hair cut round his head and curled. This chilly morning he wore a long, dark robe trimmed with fur, and a very displeased expression.

  Trystan recalled the rather shocking amount of ale Sir Edward had consumed last night, as well as wine, and wondered if that perhaps accounted for his unpleasant mood. He hoped it was that, and nothing personal.

  He darted a surreptitious glance back at his own father, who had always worn his hair to his shoulders and dressed with simplicity. He was still seated on the dais eating, drinking ale, and watching his son and their guests like a hawk. Mercifully, his father was always gracious and charming to guests, so he need have no fear of embarrassment on that score.

  “Please, sit at the high table,” Trystan invited, determined to ignore his curious parent and wondering if he should cut his own hair, for like his brother and cousin, he emulated the baron in dress and hairstyle.

  Sir Edward nodded and marched toward the dais, but Lady Rosamunde laid her soft, gentle hand on Trystan’s arm and regarded him pleadingly. “Must we?” she murmured anxiously in her dulcet voice.

  “We can sit over there, my lady,” Trystan replied with a smile, nodding at another vacant table, and inwardly vastly pleased that she wanted to be as alone with him as a virtuous lady could.

  “Oh, thank you,” she said as he led the way.

  Lady Rosamunde even sat gracefully, moving her skirts aside with a singularly fluid gesture. Again, she looked at him, her blue eyes filled with concern. “I hope you do not take offense, sir, but I find your father rather…intimidating.”

  Trystan sat close beside her and inhaled the delicate scent of her perfume.

  Mair always smelled of honey and spices, the ingredients of mead and braggot, a special Welsh brew that was a combination of ale and mead.

  But he wouldn’t think of Mair now. “There is no need to apologize, my lady. Many people do, especially his enemies.”

  “I hope you do not count me among your family’s enemies!” Lady Rosamunde cried in distress, her cheeks flushing in a most becoming manner.

  “Certainly not,” Trystan hastened to assure her.

  Lady Rosamunde smiled.

  It was a very nice smile, even if there was no…

  No! There was nothing lacking in her smile. It was a wonderful smile, and this beautiful woman was smiling at him, and he would be glad, and he would stop thinking of Mair’s smile and the freckles scattered across her nose and the way her eyes crinkled with delight.

  And how they flashed with anger if she was annoyed. Or the mockery in them when she teased him. If only she had stayed annoyed last night!

  “I am very glad to hear that we are your friends,” Lady Rosamunde continued as Gwen set down bread and ale before her.

  The lady paid no attention at all to Gwen.

  “I hope this does not mean you are in any hurry to leave us,” Trystan said, nodding his thanks to Gwen, who cast a slightly disgruntled glance at Lady Rosamunde, which she did not see.

  “Oh, I am in no hurry at all,” Lady Rosamunde said.

  Glancing about and seeing that nobody was looking their way, not even his father, Trystan dared to reach beneath the table and take her soft, slender hand in his. “Again, I am glad.”

  With an expression of dismay and doubt, she looked at his hand holding hers.

  He was suddenly confused. If she didn’t want him to take her hand, why did she not pull it away? Yet if she welcomed this slight familiarity, why did her hand seem so limp and lifeless, and why did her face bear that expression?

  It was as if she were displeased, yet lacking the resolve to do anything about it.

  So he pulled it back, to spare her any discomfort.

  With a shy, even more dubious glance at him, she blushed again.

  He began to think himself a fool. She was a proper, modest maiden. He should not expect her to react boldly, or decisively.

  That was a point in her favor, surely.

  “The day looks to be fine. Would you care to ride out with me later?” he asked. “With a guard, too, of course,” he hastened to add, lest she think he was making an improper suggestion.

  “I would be delighted, Sir Trystan,” she replied softly.

  His heart filled with a sense of pleasant triumph. This woman was a great prize, the epitome of noble Norman womanhood, and there could be no doubt that she liked him, perhaps enough to accept his proposal of marriage.

  Wedding Lady Rosamunde would prove his worth to everybody who measured him against Griffydd and Dylan and his father.

  Therefore, he must and would win her, and he would make certain nothing prevented it.

  “Something was the matter,” Emryss DeLanyea said defensively, regarding his placid wife as she sat in the solar. “Looked like he hadn’t slept a wink, our Trystan, and touchy as a bear with a thorn in his paw.”

  “Perhaps he does not like to be interrogated like an errant child. He is a man now, Emryss, after all,” Lady Roanna replied with the small, loving smile she reserved for her husband alone as she continued to work on her tapestry.

  “He didn’t say that,” the baron replied as he started to pace, limping as he always did from the wound he had received years ago. “I am no seer to be reading his mind. If he didn’t want me to ask, he should have told me.”

  “And this from a man who lets nobody know when he’s troubled,” Lady Roanna noted matter-of-factly.

  The baron threw himself into his heavy chair, then grinned. “All right, then. He comes by his reticence honestly—but more from you than me.”

  “Wherever he gets it, he does keep his feelings to himself and always has. Still, I am troubled that he was so unwilling to say why he was tired if there was nothing wrong.”

  “I’m sure it’s a woman.”

  Roanna frowned. “Do you suppose he was doing something he should not with Lady Rosamunde? I noticed the way he was attending to h
er and dancing with her at the feast, and she was certainly enjoying it.”

  Emryss scratched beneath his eye patch. “I hope not,” he muttered.

  “Don’t you like her?”

  He shrugged, looking more like a sulking child than the lord of a castle. “Not particularly.”

  “She’s very beautiful.”

  “I suppose. I was hoping Trystan would have more sense than to be taken in by a pretty face.”

  “Not every man can be wise. Indeed, you were much older than Trystan is now when you met me, or you might have been swayed by beauty and married somebody else.”

  “All these years, my love, and you still cannot believe that you are beautiful.”

  “Only to you, my darling, and that is more than enough,” she replied with another little smile. She grew serious again. “You think he is being taken in by Lady Rosamunde? That she doesn’t really care for him?”

  Again, her husband shrugged. “I don’t know. She’s too…too demure. Too delicate. Too perfect. Something has to be wrong.”

  “Because she seems perfect, or because she has captured Trystan’s fancy?”

  “I suppose she seems perfect if you want a wife without a hint of life. By the saints, I’m always surprised to realize she’s actually breathing. There’s no spark, no vital fire in her at all.”

  “If Trystan was with her last night, maybe she hides her spark save for a handsome young man who has captured her heart.”

  “You’re assuming she has a heart to capture,” her husband muttered. “God’s wounds, Roanna, I hope to God he wasn’t with her. I don’t need to have another enraged nobleman complaining that a young man in my charge has deflowered his daughter and demanding that they marry.”

  “Emryss,” Roanna chided softly. “This is not Dylan we’re talking about, or Griffydd. This is Trystan. Do you truly believe he would make love with a Norman woman like Lady Rosamunde before marriage?”

  “So if he wasn’t with her,” the baron mused aloud, “maybe he was with somebody else.” A twinkle of amusement appeared in his eye. “Maybe Mair.”

  Roanna’s eyebrows rose. “You didn’t suggest that to him, I’m sure.”