A Warrior's Kiss

by Margaret Moore

In truth, he had never felt less like acting in an impetuous, ungentlemanly manner.

  That was surely all Mair’s fault, too. If he had not been with Mair today, he could ask beautiful Lady Rosamunde to be his wife.

  But before he did that, for her sake and his, he would find a way to purge his mind and his body of his unholy, distracting lust for Mair.

  Chapter Four

  “Well, what did he say?” Sir Edward D’Heureux demanded as he watched his daughter brush her long, golden hair later that day. “Did he propose marriage?”

  “Not yet,” she replied calmly. “But he will.”

  “How can you be so sure?” her frustrated parent asked as he started to pace.

  “I let him kiss me.”

  Her father came to an abrupt halt. “You what?”

  Rosamunde made a smug and satisfied smile as she glanced at him in her mirror. “No need to stare so, Father. I let him kiss me. A very chaste kiss it was, too, but enough to render him speechless. So you need have no fear. Sir Trystan DeLanyea will ask for my hand before we have to leave this god-forsaken wasteland.”

  “God’s wounds, I wish I could be so sure!”

  Her expression hardened. “I see no need for haste in this matter. It costs us nothing to enjoy the baron’s hospitality, just as we have been living off the hospitality of others since you gambled away the last of my mother’s money.”

  She smiled sweetly as she went back to brushing her hair with brisk, aggressive strokes. “And you should bless your luck, such as it is, that I learned about this Welsh custom of paying a bride-price, or amober, or however you pronounce it in their ludicrous tongue. I am surely worth a great sum.

  “So rest assured, Father, Trystan DeLanyea will marry me and pay well for the privilege. For my dowry, all you need do is give up a few acres of land near London that you never visit anyway. That, and sell your only daughter.”

  “Rosamunde, I—”

  “I do not need to hear your expressions of remorse and regret yet again, Father.” She twisted on her stool to regard him steadily. “I understand my duty, and I shall do it. What do his parents think of the match?”

  “I…I don’t know,” her father mumbled, his head bowed.

  Her full and rosy lips twisted with disdain. “In all my life, I ask you to do one simple thing for me—to discover if the DeLanyeas look on my marriage to their son with favor—and you cannot even manage that.”

  “It’s not my fault,” Sir Edward whined. “His father smiles and talks and never really says anything, no matter how I hint. And that wife of his! She’s a veritable clam!”

  His manner changed to one of eager hopefulness. “They have not spoken against it, or made mention of any other prospects. What could they possibly find objectionable about you, my sweet daughter? And Trystan seems to be a good man, Rosamunde. I am sure he will make you happy.”

  Rosamunde ignored her father’s empty compliment. “He will worship the ground I tread, and so he will do whatever I ask of him. That is the important thing,” she muttered as she turned away from her father, who would have sold her one way or another, whether he was rich or poor.

  He was a greedy glutton who had pursued his own pleasures all his life, without one thought to his wife or his daughter until the day he ran out of money and realized the most valuable thing he possessed was the flesh of his flesh.

  But Rosamunde was no fool. Her beautiful mother had been, praying and hoping for her husband’s return whenever he was off gambling and sporting with his worthless cronies and selfish whores. Her mother had been too stupid and blind to see that love was a self-inflicted, weakening folly, a romantic notion dreamed up by troubadors as a means to make their living.

  She would not fall into that trap. She would marry the man her mind told her would be the least likely to gamble, or to sport with other women, or to ignore his wife, even if that meant marrying a man she did not love, who did not stir her in any way except as a means to an end.

  Nevertheless, she would bear him children, sons to protect her in her old age, and daughters to marry to other powerful men. She would create a dynasty.

  She would never again feel helpless and at the mercy of a man’s selfish desires.

  As for her desires… The memory of the captain of the guard invaded her thoughts momentarily.

  Just as quickly she banished him. She was surely stronger than any physical craving.

  She must be.

  “Are you sure about this?” her father asked softly. “He is part Welsh, after all—”

  Rosamunde jumped to her feet and glared at him. “How dare you question my choice?” she demanded angrily.

  “But Lord Kirkheathe is a pure Norman—”

  Her expression grew so fierce, it is doubtful many people would have recognized her at that moment.

  “Didn’t you understand me? The Welsh pay for their brides, and if you want a penny of my marriage portion, you will keep that stupid mouth of yours shut except to eat and drink and do what I say!”

  “Forgive me, Rosamunde,” he whispered.

  “Late for that now, isn’t it, Father?” she said scornfully as she regarded him as she might a bug she was about to squash. “You never asked my mother’s pardon. Indeed, you never even thought of her before she died.”

  “I—”

  “Leave me, Father. I have to make myself look my best for Trystan DeLanyea, for I must and shall make him marry me.”

  “Good night, Arthur,” Ivor said as the boy headed toward the ladder leading to the loft where he slept.

  Her back to them both as she put away the last of the stew, Mair listened to her son’s mumbled response and subdued a weary sigh.

  It had been all too obvious during the meal that Arthur did not like or approve of Ivor, who was doing his boisterous best to be genial and entertaining.

  “I enjoyed that stew, Mair,” Ivor observed. “And naturally your ale is always the best. They’re going to be needing more up at the castle soon, I should think. After all the feasting, surely they’ve used just about all you sent before. You’ll be a rich woman one day, Mair, especially if they have more guests like Edward D’Heureux. For a Norman, he’s got quite a taste for ale.”

  “Edward D’Heureux. That would be the beautiful Lady Rosamunde’s father?”

  “Aye, and a Norman to the bone, save his taste for ale. I think if he ever smiled, his face would break.”

  Mair grinned at the captain, who sat at the table as if he belonged there, while she gathered up the dirty spoons. In the soft glow of the lamp, he was nearly as handsome as Trystan. He was certainly well-muscled, and didn’t lack for passion.

  But did he belong at the head of her table? Did any man? Or was she better off as she had always been, alone and independent?

  “Lady Rosamunde smiles, I suppose,” she remarked.

  “Oh, indeed, at Trystan especially, and he smiles back like a besotted ninny. I’m surprised they haven’t announced a betrothal yet, although I could see that Sir Edward might not favor anybody with Welsh blood.”

  Mair plunged the spoons in a bucket of water and swiftly rinsed them off.

  “We’ve had our laughs at Sir Edward’s expense, though, the lads and I. Dafydd came up with some right choice names for him and said them in his hearing.”

  “In Welsh, of course,” Mair noted, glad the subject was no longer Trystan and Lady Rosamunde as she put the spoons away.

  “He must be some angry having to go to Griffydd with that wool.”

  “Who?”

  “Trystan. Leaving in the morning, he is, with ten men of the guard.” Ivor’s voice lowered and she heard him stand. “Not me, though.”

  “I wonder why he’s going. He doesn’t usually—”

  She jumped as Ivor put his arms around her waist. “Anwyl, Mair, you started like a deer hearing beaters in the bush. What’s got into you?” Ivor murmured as he nuzzled the nape of her neck.

  She knew he didn’t mean anything specific, yet she b
lushed nonetheless. “You startled me, that’s all.”

  “I’ve waited all night to be able to hold you.”

  “Let me finish tidying up,” she muttered, gently pushing aside his hands.

  Ivor chuckled softly as he moved away. “Never seen you so anxious to clean, me.”

  “Yes, well, there’s no need for hurrying for anything else, is there? Or do you have to be back early tonight?” she asked, busying herself with banking the hearth fire for the night.

  “I don’t have to be back to the barracks till dawn.”

  Mair gulped. Maybe she should tell him about Trystan.

  What about Trystan? That they had coupled like a pair of wild animals, twice?

  Why make trouble? She wasn’t going to go near Trystan again, unless she couldn’t help it.

  No, no, she could help it. She would help it. She must help it, because he had his ambitious plans that did not include her.

  So what was it about Trystan DeLanyea that still made his approval seem like the Holy Grail to her?

  “I think the baron’s sent him away to cool his head a bit,” Ivor remarked behind her. “He hides it well, but I’m thinking he has no great affection for Sir Edward, or his daughter.”

  Mair fought to subdue any pleasure that thought brought her. “And Lady Roanna? What does she think?”

  “Who can say about that?”

  “Aye. Do you think Trystan’s ardor for Lady Rosamunde will cool in a few days?”

  “I don’t care about his ardor, Mair. It’s yours I’m thinking about. Come to bed.”

  Smiling, she glanced back over her shoulder—and then nearly set herself alight when she realized Ivor was in her bed under her coverings and naked, to judge by the pile of discarded clothing on the floor beside it.

  He smiled seductively. “Enough of that, Mair,” he said. “It’s been too long. Blow out the lamp and come to bed.”

  As she slowly approached the bed, her hands balled into fists. “Is that an order, captain of the guard?”

  “If you would like it to be.”

  “I do not take orders in my own house, or anywhere.”

  He looked startled. “I’m sorry, Mair. I’m anxious, is all, and I meant—”

  “Yes, you and your desires. I understand. What I need or what I want is of no consequence, is it?”

  He sat up, his brow furrowing. “Mair, I want to be with you. Why are you so angry?”

  “Do you want to marry me?”

  He looked as if she had just threatened to cut off his manhood.

  “Marry?” he finally managed to say. “I have never promised marriage.”

  “No, nor even mentioned it. Good thing, too, because I don’t want to marry you, either.”

  He made the mistake of leaning back, pillowing his head in his hands and smiling.

  Mair briskly picked up his breeches and threw them at him. “Get dressed and get out, Ivor.”

  “What?” he cried, sitting up again and barely managing to catch his tunic as it flew over his head. “What’s the matter?”

  She tossed his shirt at him. “Nothing. I want to be alone tonight, is all, and since we are neither of us interested in marriage, we neither of us owe the other anything, including explanations. So please get dressed and go away.”

  He jumped from the bed as she laid hold of his boot and grabbed her arm to stop her from throwing it. “Mair, I never said anything about marriage. Did you think I had?”

  Ignoring his naked body, gazing into his anxious, confused face, she let the boot fall to the floor with a thud. “No.”

  “I never said I loved you—and you’ve never said you loved me, either.”

  “I know.”

  He studied her face. “Do you love me? Is that what’s wrong?”

  “No, I don’t love you.”

  “Thank God!” he sighed. Then he grimaced. “I’m sorry, Mair.”

  He had done nothing so terribly wrong; the trouble was with her. “No, I’m sorry, Ivor. I still like you, but not tonight. All right?”

  “As you say, we don’t owe any explanations to each other,” he said as he tugged on his breeches. “I’d rather stay, Mair, because I like you and I like being with you, but if you ask me to go, then I’ll respect your wishes.”

  His softly-spoken words touched her.

  Ivor was a good man. He did respect her, certainly far more than Trystan ever would or could. He didn’t say one thing, and do another. He never made her feel ashamed for her feelings and desires.

  Nevertheless, she knew she could not make love with Ivor tonight.

  Two nights later, the baron lay staring at the ceiling of his bedchamber, his equally wide-awake wife beside him. “I don’t understand him, though he is my son. One minute he’s looking like he’s about to propose marriage to her, the next he’s telling me he’s going to Griffydd’s.”

  “Trystan’s a young man old enough to be entitled to his secrets. He must have a good reason for going.”

  The baron sighed and scratched his empty eye socket. “I wish I had your calm, my love. All this mystery is too disturbing. Why do you think he went?”

  “I would like to believe it could be as simple as wanting to ensure that the wool shipment arrives safely.”

  “But you don’t.”

  “Unfortunately, no. I suspect our son wanted to take some time to be sure before he makes an important decision.”

  “And that would be to ask for Lady Rosamunde’s hand.”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe he’s having doubts, then,” the baron proposed hopefully.

  “It could be. Yet it is also in Trystan’s nature to make decisions cautiously.”

  “Aye, he’s never impetuous, that boy.”

  “Man, Emryss. Trystan is a man, and I am relieved he doesn’t act hastily. We both know that can lead to trouble.”

  Her husband grinned ruefully. “Abducting you was the smartest thing I ever did.”

  She briefly returned his smile. “Nevertheless, I am glad Trystan is more sensible.”

  “If only he had taken Sir Edward with him! That Norman has been pestering me with questions ever since Trystan rode out the gate about where he was going, and why, and the price of wool, and how much Diarmad takes for a fee.”

  “Perhaps he is curious about the wool trade.”

  “I hope that’s it, but truly, Roanna, I can’t stand the man. He’s like Mott on the scent. I swear I’m going to tell him to take himself and his questions to the devil.”

  “Trystan will be home soon,” she reminded him. “Keep the conversation to simple pleasantries. It isn’t necessary to give Sir Edward any direct answers.”

  “Easy enough for you to say,” Emryss muttered. “You can always claim to have business in the kitchen or the storerooms, or the laundry. I have to entertain the fellow.”

  “That does not mean you have to discuss anything specific.”

  “But he keeps asking such nosy questions!”

  Roanna turned on her side and regarded her husband lovingly. “You survived after Richard left you behind at Acre, wounded and near death. Can you not survive Sir Edward D’Heureux?”

  Her husband scowled, then chuckled softly. “I suppose I can—although I am beginning to think a Saracen warrior an easier opponent.”

  “Do you think he approves of Trystan as a potential suitor to his daughter?”

  “Yes, I do, and that’s what troubles me most. A Norman like that should be horrified at the prospect of intermingling his family’s blood with any taint of Welsh.”

  “Perhaps he is more enlightened than you give him credit for.”

  The baron sniffed derisively. “Enlightened? Him? I would sooner believe the king has two heads.” He shook his own. “No, there is something amiss with Sir Edward.”

  “And his daughter? What do you think of her now?”

  “What do you think of her, my beloved interrogator? I’ve noticed you’ve spent more time with her these past two days than you
had to. Surely your opinion should count for more than mine.”

  “I am certain she wants to marry Trystan.”

  Her husband cursed softly. “I was afraid you would say that.”

  “Unfortunately, I do not know why she wants to.”

  “Because Trystan is a fine young man with wonderful parents,” he supplied in answer. “What more need we know?”

  “I would know exactly why Rosamunde has selected Trystan. If we discover that, perhaps we could prevent a marriage with little harm or bad feelings on either side. The good thing is, Trystan has apparently not spoken of marriage to anybody, not even the lady.”

  “You sound certain that she has decided upon him, as if he has no say in the matter. He’s our son, Roanna, not some fish to be bought at a market.”

  “Of course I agree. Nevertheless, I still think we must be very careful with what we say to Trystan and Rosamunde and her father. Indeed, I would say as little as possible to Sir Edward,” she cautioned him. “It could be that Trystan does have reservations, and all our fears will come to naught.”

  “If he does decide he wants to marry her, what should we do?”

  “Welcome her into our family, of course. Perhaps once she knows she is loved and cherished…”

  “You think that is her trouble? I thought it was greed.”

  “What is greed but a desire to have some worth, in money if nothing else?”

  “Once again, my love, my own, I bow to your wisdom.”

  “Emryss, I don’t want my son to marry a woman who doesn’t love him, but if he does, I shall have to hope she will someday.”

  “Since you married out of necessity and came to love your husband, who am I to disagree?”

  His wife laughed softly as she nestled against him. “You know very well I was in love with you from the time you first took off your helmet and looked up at me.”

  Then she sighed mournfully. “Unfortunately, I fear Lady Rosamunde does not feel the same when she looks at Trystan.”

  Three days later, Trystan rode slowly through the forest on the path that bordered the river as he returned from his brother’s castle that lay to the north of Craig Fawr.

  If his father thought his sudden desire to go with the wool shipment to Griffydd’s unusual, he had said nothing.