A Warrior's Kiss

by Margaret Moore

  As for Lady Rosamunde, Trystan had told her only that he did not welcome being away from her, but would look forward to his return when, he had pledged inwardly, he would be better able to ask for her hand in marriage with a clear mind and willing heart.

  Visiting his brother and his family was a welcome change. Seona, Griffydd’s wife, was pleasant and thankfully nearly totally recovered from the difficult birth of the twins two years ago. That had almost killed her, and Trystan knew that his wife’s death would have nearly killed the strong, reticent Griffydd, too. Now, both seemed more than content to live simply and happily, enjoying their children.

  Trystan was more certain than ever that such a quiet life was not for him. He didn’t condemn those who were content with what they had; he simply wanted more.

  His reverie was interrupted by a sudden cry.

  As he abruptly pulled his horse to a halt, a body fell to the ground from one of the tall oaks a few feet in front of him.

  Trystan was off his horse in an instant. He ran to the boy, recognizing Arthur almost at once and noting that he had mercifully fallen in a pile of damp leaves and earth instead of the hard dirt of the path. “Are you hurt?”

  Brushing himself off and frowning disgruntedly, Arthur got to his feet. “No. I slipped.”

  Trystan smiled. Dylan couldn’t come up with such a scowl in twenty years. “Climbing trees, eh? Nothing broken, I take it.”

  Arthur gave him a sidelong glance. “You’ve been away.”

  It sounded more like an accusation than Trystan would have liked, but he answered genially. “I’ve been to see Griffydd and Seona. Are you alone, or is Trefor hereabouts, too? Will he come dropping out of the sky like a ripe apple?”

  “Trefor is with our father.”

  “Ah.”

  Trystan was sure he recognized the cause of Arthur’s obvious discontent, besides a few bruises and the embarrassment of slipping from his perch. To Dylan’s credit, he didn’t seem to play favorites, but it might not look that way to Arthur.

  “I’ve got some sweetmeats in my pack that Seona made. They’re really for Lady Roanna, but I don’t think she’d mind if you had one,” he offered.

  The boy shrugged. “I don’t mind.”

  “Good.” Trystan went back to his horse and led it off the path, where he tied it to a bush. Then he procured the sweetmeats and went back to Arthur, who had plunked himself down near the path.

  Trystan sat beside him and held out the treat. Arthur took it without a word and started to nibble.

  “She’s a good cook, isn’t she?” he asked after a moment.

  Arthur nodded. “But not as good as my mam,” he mumbled with his mouth full.

  Trystan kept a serious expression on his face, for this was a blatant falsehood. Mair was a terrible cook. However, he could admire Arhtur’s loyalty.

  It seemed Arthur was well aware that Trystan knew he wasn’t being exactly truthful, because he blushed. Then he scowled. “That Ivor tells her she’s a good cook all the time.”

  “You sound as if you don’t like the captain of the baron’s guards.”

  “I’d like him better if he slept in the barracks.”

  Trystan struggled to keep his countenance matter-of-fact and changed the subject. “How long is Trefor to stay with Dylan this time?”

  “A whole fortnight.”

  “A whole fortnight, eh? When are you to visit him again?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What does your mother say?”

  Arthur shrugged.

  “Your father does love you, you know,” Trystan said quietly, and sincerely.

  “That’s what Mam says.”

  “Don’t you believe her?”

  Arthur cast a very shrewd and disconcertingly searching glance at his companion. “Then why don’t we live with him all the time? Why didn’t he marry my mother?”

  Trystan wished he had not ventured an opinion at all. “Those questions are for your mother and father to answer, not me.”

  “You’re his foster brother. Don’t you know?”

  “Have you asked your mother?”

  Before Arthur could reply, somebody else did.

  Chapter Five

  “Has he asked his mother what?”

  Trystan scrambled to his feet to face Mair, who had appeared like some sort of spirit on the path. She wore her usual plain garments that nevertheless could not disguise her shapely figure. Today her simple woolen gown was a dark blue like the sky at dusk. The white fabric of her chemise peeked out at the neck, hiding the cleavage of her breasts. Her thick, curling brown hair was drawn back in a braid and a few tendrils escaped to brush her cheeks and forehead.

  He had never really noticed the perfect heart shape of her upper lip, or the way she tilted her head back ever so slightly when she was surprised.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked. As he spoke, he realized she carried a large, white square of linen over her arm.

  Her gaze was slightly hostile as she regarded the knight. “Not that it’s any of your business, Sir Trystan, but I am going to bathe. I came to find Arthur first,” she continued, her tone becoming more genial as she turned to look at her son, “to tell him his father has come to see him.”

  Arthur jumped to his feet. “He has?”

  “Yes,” Mair said, her eyes sparkling with happiness as she smiled at the delighted Arthur.

  Trystan didn’t think he’d ever seen her smile that way at anybody else, certainly not him. Nor even Dylan.

  He also had the distinct impression he was being deliberately ignored. He should simply turn and walk away, he told himself.

  But he did not.

  “He has been to see me already to ask if you can go home with him tomorrow,” she said to her son. “He thinks you should stay a little more than a fortnight.”

  “More than a fortnight?” Arthur repeated with happy wonder, a happiness that Trystan couldn’t help sharing, given their conversation moments ago.

  “That is what he said,” Mair confirmed as, still ignoring Trystan, she came toward her son and put her arm around his shoulder.

  “Oh, can I?” Arthur cried.

  “Of course. Your things are already packed. We are to dine in the great hall tonight, and you will stay the night there and leave with your father in the morning. Now off with you, because he’s anxious to see you, too.”

  Arthur needed no further urging. In an instant, he had disappeared from view and only the sound of his young feet pounding along the path told them he ever had been there.

  Mair watched him go, then seemed to recall that Trystan was nearby. He almost wished she hadn’t as she ran her impertinent gaze over him. “I see you have returned to Craig Fawr, too.”

  “Obviously,” he replied. “And Dylan here, as well. My parents will be pleased.”

  She smiled slyly. “Not so much as Lady Rosamunde to see you, perhaps. I hear she has been mooning about like a dazed calf during your absence.”

  “Who told you that? Ivor?”

  Her smug smile dissipated. “It is common gossip.” She turned toward the river. “Good day.”

  “You’re not really going to bathe here by yourself?”

  She paused, glancing back at him with that mischievous, elfin grin lighting her features. “Do you want to join me?”

  He frowned darkly. “That is not what I meant. It is not safe for you to do that alone, and besides, the water must be freezing.”

  “I like to bathe in the cold water. And I do not need a guard, so again, sir, I give you good day.”

  With an insolent toss of her chestnut braid, she started forward, pushing through some low bushes that grew close to the riverbank.

  “Mair, although this wood is generally safe, a lone woman may be too tempting for any brigands passing through,” he said as he hurried after her.

  Especially a lone woman who looks as pretty as you, he added inwardly.

  Then he chided himself for the observation, and beg
an to wonder if five days had really been long enough to get over his foolish lust for her.

  By the time he reached her, she had already undone her thick braid, so that her bountiful hair fell around her shoulders and breasts. His breath caught at the sight of it and he had a sudden, strong desire to bury his hands in it.

  He reminded himself of Lady Rosamunde’s blond hair, hair that was always covered by a cap and a scarf of such fine and costly fabric, a man could fear he would inadvertently tear it if he touched it.

  “Mair,” he said as firmly as he could, “we have to talk.”

  “I have already told you I have no intention of telling anyone about what we did, so there is nothing more to talk about between us, I don’t think.”

  “It’s Arthur.”

  Her expression grew defiant. “What of my son?”

  “He wanted to know why you don’t live with Dylan and why Dylan didn’t marry you.”

  Her steadfast gaze faltered. “What did you reply?” she asked softly, and with obvious uncertainty.

  Trystan felt as if one of the stones from the castle wall had suddenly dropped on his head. He had never in his life imagined that Mair worried about anything, or had a single doubt in her lively head. “That he should ask that question of you and Dylan,” he finally replied. “I thought you should be prepared.”

  She sighed. “I shall have to pray for divine guidance when he does, I fear,” she said as if to herself.

  Then she raised her eyes to regard Trystan with her usual bold, steadfast gaze. “I thank you for the warning. Now if you will excuse me, the time grows short. Unlike some people who can do what they like when they like, I have much to do.”

  “Let him ask Dylan his questions,” he suggested gently.

  Mair frowned and a flash of defiance brightened her brown eyes flecked with gold. “I will not. He is my son, and I owe it to him to try to explain that not everyone who makes love gets married, and that you don’t need to be married to make a baby.”

  Suddenly, another stone seemed to fall on his head. God’s wounds, it could be that he had given Mair a child, too!

  His child. And Mair’s child.

  How could he not have considered this possibility before?

  He knew how—he had been too busy condemning himself for his lust and dreaming about marrying Rosamunde.

  Anwyl, he should be horrified, not thinking of this eventuality with such…delight. And pride.

  God save him, he was already imagining how the infant would look.

  “Had you not better hurry on to the castle?” Mair asked. “Lady Rosamunde will likely be patroling the wall walk waiting for you.” Her expression altered to one of concern. “What is it? Are you ill?”

  “No, no,” he said, brushing his hair from his forehead as if that could help him think. “I just…I have to go.”

  “So go then.”

  “I will.”

  With that, he turned and made his way back through the bushes, pausing to steady himself against a tree as another realization assailed him, one that did destroy the happiness that the idea of fathering Mair’s child produced.

  As he had told Mair before, he had plans. Ambitious plans. Plans that would finally make him important in his own right, and for those to be fulfilled, he needed to marry a woman like Lady Rosamunde.

  No, no, he wanted to marry Lady Rosamunde, who also had beauty to recommend her.

  Surely she would not look with favor on a bridegroom who had sired a child even as he was courting her.

  Wheeling around, he marched back to the riverbank—to discover that a naked Mair was only waist-deep in the frigid water.

  Equally surprised, she turned around, making no move at all to cover herself.

  Despite their lovemaking, he had never seen her naked body and although he could not see all of her, he saw enough to render him immobile.

  Her unbound hair brushed her magnificent breasts, their nipples puckered with the cold. Her skin was flawless, her form like that of a goddess. Her lips were half open as if in desire, her eyes wide and without that shrewd expression that made him think she found him amusing, as she might a child.

  He swallowed hard as she continued to face him without a hint of modesty. “What do you want now?” she demanded.

  He felt as if he were in some kind of daze. “I…I cannot speak to you like that.”

  “Then go away and we will speak later tonight in the hall, if we must.”

  “No!” He couldn’t do that. He couldn’t talk to Mair when Lady Rosamunde would be nearby. “It has to be now.”

  “You may be a knight and destined to be a lord one day, Sir Trystan DeLanyea,” Mair replied with a disgruntled frown, “but you do not, and never will, have command over me.”

  With that, she turned away and dived into the deeper part of the river, the motion revealing her pale buttocks and long, slim legs.

  Trystan sat heavily on the bank, then buried his head in his folded arms. He had to make her understand that he could not acknowledge any child she bore eight or nine months hence as his.

  Yet to deny his own child…

  He had to do it. It was too important that he achieve his goal. Besides, if he did acknowledge the child, and Lady Rosamunde refused to marry him because of that, might he not come to hate the child who had thwarted his success? Better to deny the child to prevent that, for its own sake.

  And how could he even be sure any child of Mair’s was his? It was no secret that she gave her favors freely. Hadn’t Arthur’s disparaging remarks proved that Ivor came to Mair’s bed?

  He did not begrudge Ivor that. No, he did not, especially now, when he could always put the credit—no, the blame—onto the captain of the guard’s shoulders.

  He heard water splashing and glanced up to see Mair dash from the river and grab the linen square. She was as fleet of foot as a deer, yet not so fast that he didn’t see more of her perfect body before, panting and blue-lipped, she wrapped herself in the linen.

  “You really must think what you have to say important,” she noted as her teeth started to chatter.

  He rose. “I told you the river would be freezing.”

  “And I told you I like it that way,” she retorted as she began to rub herself. “Now, what do you want to say?”

  “If you find you are with child soon, I will never claim it.”

  Mair let the linen fall to the ground and began to dress with swift, brisk movements.

  “I am going to ask Lady Rosamunde to marry me,” he continued, “and I won’t have anything interfere with that. As you said, we are both responsible for our mistake. Besides, any child you bear after this could be Ivor’s, too, or some other man’s, for all I know.”

  Mair reached down to retrieve the damp linen. When she straightened, her face was inscrutable as she regarded him. “If I am with child, would you have me leave Craig Fawr to spare your bride the knowledge that you lusted after another?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you pay to make it so?” she asked with shocking coolness.

  He stared at her, dumbfounded. He had never, ever, thought Mair the least bit greedy.

  “Would you be willing to pay money for me to take what could be your child far away,” Mair went on inexorably, “so that the Norman lady you want to marry doesn’t discover you were loving another woman while you were courting her?”

  “Mair,” he began, upset at the dishonorable connotation of her words—a connotation he could not, in all conscience, deny. What was she saying but the truth? Nevertheless, he had his plans to consider. “If you would be willing—”

  Before he could say more, she strode up to him and slapped him hard across the face. “If I am ashamed of anything,” she said between clenched teeth, “it is that I didn’t do that the moment I met you on the wall walk. I am ashamed that I let a man who would rather pay money than acknowledge his own child near me.”

  She took a step closer, until she was nose to nose with him. “Know you th
is, Sir Trystan DeLanyea, if I am with child and that child proves to be the very image of you, I would rather die than admit I let you touch me.”

  She stepped back, an expression of utter scorn on her face. “So rest assured, Lady Rosamunde need never know your secret. And may you be happy with the wife you deserve!” she snapped as she marched past him.

  “Time for young warriors to be abed, I am thinking,” Dylan DeLanyea said to Arthur in the crowded great hall of Craig Fawr that night. The younger baron’s dark eyes were as merry as his smile as he deftly prevented the boy from protesting. “We have an early start in the morning, my son, so no use looking at me like that. Kiss your mam good night and farewell, and off you go.”

  Mair leaned her cheek toward the boy, who pecked her as a chicken might a piece of grain. “Be a good boy for your father and Lady Genevieve, Arthur, and do as they ask. Then hurry home. I miss your noise when you’re not here.”

  Arthur flushed, and she knew he found even this slight hint of maternal love rather much to bear when they were in company. “I will. Good night, Mam.”

  “Good night, Arthur.”

  Mair kept her gaze on her son’s back as he made his way through the hall toward the tower stairs leading to Dylan’s room. There he would spend the night, and in the morning, he would be gone for two long weeks.

  Mair meant what she said. She missed Arthur’s noise, which he and she both knew meant his company. She had a hearty dislike of being alone.

  And she would much rather ignore the sight of Trystan and Lady Rosamunde seated together at the high table and whispering like lovers. Trystan looked nearly as handsome as dark-haired Dylan in his black tunic trimmed with gold, while the lady looked as lovely as a vision, with a green gown of some kind of fabric that shimmered in the torch light. Her many jewels shone, too, and her beauty seemed as ethereal as an angel’s. Tonight, even her smile looked luminous.

  Perhaps Trystan had already asked her to be his bride and she had accepted.

  Mair hoped they both got warts.

  “He’s growing to be a fine lad, isn’t he?” Dylan declared proudly.