A Warrior's Kiss

by Margaret Moore

  “Of course it is. Your marriage means an alliance of my family with another, so it must concern me.”

  Trystan could not argue with this; however, he had no wish to share his plans with anybody yet, Dylan most of all. “Perhaps I am. Would you object?”

  “Is there a reason I should?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What does your father say?”

  “He hasn’t spoken against it.”

  “I see.” Dylan strolled over to the merlon and leaned back against it. “Then neither shall I.”

  “How wonderful to have your permission,” Trystan replied sarcastically.

  “You should be glad I don’t disapprove.”

  “Who could find fault with Lady Rosamunde? You seemed to find her pleasant enough to speak to.”

  “Jealous?”

  “Not of you.”

  “I am glad to hear you say that. Otherwise, I would have to kill you for the insult to my honor that would imply. When are you going to ask her?”

  Trystan answered slowly and distinctly. “In my own good time.”

  “Is Mair quite well?”

  His question startled Trystan and he felt a sharp stab like a dagger point in his flesh at the notion that she might be ill. “What makes you ask that?”

  Dylan shrugged. “She looked a little pale and more worried than I like.”

  “I think she’s concerned about Arthur,” Trystan offered in explanation, telling himself that had to be all.

  He had never known Mair to be seriously ill. Indeed, he couldn’t even imagine that.

  Why, if anything happened to her, he would be…and Arthur…

  He was getting carried away. Mair hadn’t been ill the last time he had seen her. “You should be thinking about what you’re going to say to Arthur. He asked me—”

  “Ah, yes, my inquisitive son and his questions to come. She told me what you said to him,” Dylan said gravely. “I thank you for suggesting he come to us with his questions.”

  “How could I do otherwise? I didn’t have the answer.”

  “Mair says I should tell him that I didn’t love her enough to ask for her hand and even if I had, she didn’t love me enough to accept.”

  “Truly?” Too late Trystan realized he had blurted out a response. “I am surprised she would admit that to anybody,” he continued, trying to sound nonchalant.

  “You know our Mair is an honest woman.”

  “She is not my Mair!”

  “A slip of the tongue, boy.”

  “Don’t call me ‘boy’!”

  “I’ll try to remember.” Dylan grinned slyly. “I visited with Angharad this afternoon.”

  “So that’s what made you think of Mair and me? Is she still standing by her ridiculous prediction that we are going to marry?”

  “Actually, she never mentioned Mair at all.”

  “Good!”

  “Anwyl, you are in a foul mood! I am going to leave you until you are more pleasant.”

  “I never asked you to join me in the first place.”

  “Either here or in the hall, eh?” Dylan shoved himself from the wall. “The lady didn’t seem to mind.”

  “What did you expect her to do?”

  “Exactly what she did,” Dylan replied as he headed for the stairs leading below to the courtyard.

  “Angharad didn’t speak of Mair,” he called back in a teasing tone Trystan was all too familiar with, “but she told me she has dreamed about your children.”

  “What of children?” Trystan demanded, taking a step after him.

  Then he halted and told himself to pay no heed to what was probably a jest.

  “They will all be healthy, and have dark hair.” Dylan started to disappear down the stairs. “And freckles!”

  Trystan’s first urge was to run after his cousin and shove him down the stone steps.

  Instead, he only scowled deeper before slowly heading in the same direction.

  Angharad’s predictions were all lies. To be sure, a few came to pass, but why not? He could make predictions, too. The winter would be colder than the autumn. This year, hunting would be good, because the spring had been mild. Because the spring had been mild, the sheeps’ coats of wool were not as thick, so his father would not make so much money from the sale of it, and they would not have as much French wine this winter.

  As Trystan approached the hall, he heard a noise and halted abruptly, wondering what it was. Then he slowly walked back to the shadowed alley between the hall and the kitchen.

  “Ivor?” he demanded of the tall, dark-haired man and a woman standing close together in the darkness.

  The captain of the guard swiftly turned. “Yes, sir?”

  Trystan saw Mair behind him and a rage such as he had never known engulfed him. “If you want to rut, do it when you are not supposed to be on duty!”

  “I’m off duty, sir,” Ivor protested.

  Strangely, Mair remained silent. No doubt because she had been caught behaving no better than a whore in an alley, he thought.

  “Then take your woman to your quarters. The courtyard of my father’s castle is not a brothel!”

  With that, he turned and marched away.

  “I am not a whore!” Mair called out. She felt as if a bolt of lightning had struck her, energizing her from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. “I am a woman, not a cold, lifeless statue! I am good enough to be the mother of your cousin’s child!”

  Trystan hesitated for a moment, then continued on his way.

  “Mair, come—”

  Mair ignored Ivor’s plea.

  “Come back here and face me, you gnaf! You faced me before, remember? Remember?”

  “What the devil are you doing?” Ivor growled as he hurried after her and pulled her to a halt. “And him the son of the baron?”

  At first, Mair looked at Ivor as if she didn’t know who he was. Then she tossed her head and straightened her shoulders defiantly. “That gnaf treated me like a whore.”

  “He’s right, you know.”

  “What are you saying?” Mair demanded, her voice as stern as any warrior whose honor has been called into question.

  “We should be in my quarters, or your house and—”

  “You are not upset that he has so little respect for me?”

  “He is the baron’s son—”

  “So he can insult me with impunity?” Mair’s eyes narrowed. “Or is it that you think your lover is a whore?”

  Ivor took hold of her shoulders. “Mair, please! You know—”

  She twisted away from him and faced him angrily. “I know you wouldn’t speak up for me when a man insulted me, and that is all I need to know. It is over between us, Ivor.”

  “Mair!”

  “Good night!”

  She strode through the courtyard, out the gate and toward her house, cursing Trystan, Ivor and men in general all the way. She was not a whore, and no man could make her believe otherwise.

  When Trystan reached the hall, he was still angry, and especially too angry to speak to Lady Rosamunde of marriage. Besides, as he noted almost at once, she was no longer there.

  God’s wounds, he had been a fool to let Dylan upset him so much! But he was not a fool to chastise Ivor and Mair for behaving as they were in the courtyard. Why, anybody could discover them there. At least on the wall walk, one need only fear the sentry—

  The memory of Mair’s passion came to him. How freely she gave herself! How fully and fervently—not as if a kiss were a great honor she was bestowing on an unworthy supplicant.

  What in the name of the saints was wrong with him? He had been equally wrong to make love with Mair in that place. Or any place.

  He pushed all thoughts of Mair and her lover aside as he put a smile on his face and sat beside his mother.

  She did not need to know of the captain of the guard’s impropriety.

  “Lady Rosamunde has retired?” he asked Lady Roanna.

  “Yes. Naturally
she wanted to ensure that her father was feeling better before she went to bed.” His mother’s gaze grew more searching. “You left rather abruptly.”

  “I hope she wasn’t upset. I…I needed some air.”

  “Oh, are you not feeling well?”

  For an instant, Trystan was tempted to say he was not. Indeed, he seemed to be bedeviled by feelings he could not control. “I am perfectly healthy.”

  “Lady Rosamunde didn’t seem upset,” his mother assured him.

  “Good.” Trystan decided now was as good a time as any to tell his mother of his hopes. “I am going to ask her to be my wife.”

  His mother barely batted an eye, but then she was not given to emotional display. “You love her?”

  “Of course, if she is to be my wife.”

  “And she loves you?”

  “I think so. I believe so. Yes.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you approve? Will my father? You must, and so must he, for she comes from a fine family, rich and powerful, and she is sweet and beautiful, too.”

  “If you love this woman, and she loves you, that is all that matters to us.”

  Trystan knew he should be happy. He was happy. Of course, he would be happier when Lady Rosamunde agreed.

  “You have not asked her yet?”

  “I shall tomorrow.”

  “It might be better to wait until her father is recovered.”

  “I understand it is not a serious illness, and one he has had before.”

  “That is good, but still, Trystan, I think your father would prefer that you wait. We would do well to avoid anything that may cause trouble later.”

  “How could a minor illness cause trouble later?”

  “No alliance between a baron’s son and a Norman knight’s daughter is going to pass without remark at court, and elsewhere. If Sir Edward gives his approval and agrees to terms, then later hears criticism of his agreement, he could claim he was ill and we took advantage of his weakness.”

  His father had always claimed his mother was the wiser of the couple; Trystan had more proof now, if he had ever doubted it. “I understand.”

  Lady Roanna rose with her usual fluid grace. “I had best drag your father away before they all start singing, or he will be exhausted come the morning.” She smiled. “I cannot seem to convince him he is not twenty anymore.”

  Her gaze softened as she regarded Trystan. “Sleep well, my son, and I hope you will be happy with your choice.”

  He returned her smile. He had crossed a fence telling his mother of his hope; he would not look back.

  And she would tell his father, sparing him—

  What? He was not ashamed of his choice in any way. His father would probably make a joke, that’s all, or say something to destroy the gravity of his decision, and he didn’t want that.

  “Any better, Father?” Rosamunde asked as she regarded Sir Edward, who lay in the large wooden bed in the pleasant tower chamber the one-eyed baron had given over to his use while at Craig Fawr.

  Besides being furnished with a fine bed adorned with many soft coverings, there was a delicately carved chair. Two fine candles lit the room, casting their bronze glow on her father’s red cheeks.

  Despite her apparently solicitous question, Rosamunde knew there was nothing wrong with her father that more courage and a little abstinence from ale wouldn’t cure.

  “I am a little better. Did he ask you?”

  Rosamunde turned away to pour her father a draft of the foul-tasting medicine she had prepared for his particular malady. It didn’t cure his headache and stomach quickly, but it would eventually. “Not yet. Soon. His cousin interrupted at a most inopportune time.”

  “That would be the young baron?”

  “Yes.” She sighed, thinking it a pity Genevieve Perronet had already captured the handsome young baron before she had a chance. Dylan DeLanyea had the better title and already possessed an estate.

  Nevertheless, his many dalliances were legendary, and she wanted a husband who would be so enamored of her, he would do as she willed, at least at first. After a time, of course, a man’s ardor would fade, but by then, Rosamunde vowed, she would control the family purse.

  Recalling Trystan’s petulant departure, she made a little frown. To be sure, his reaction had obviously been caused by his cousin’s arrival. Still, Rosamunde had not lingered in the hall after Trystan had marched out. She would not have her future husband think she would wait upon his moods or humors.

  He must be influenced by hers.

  “You will be better in the morning, Father,” she said as she handed him the draught.

  “How can I know?” he grumbled before he swiftly downed the bad-tasting mixture.

  Her cool, steadfast gaze did not alter. “You will be better in the morning, and ready to receive Trystan DeLanyea’s request for my hand in marriage. You will tell him you must think upon it a time.”

  “What is there to think about if it is as you say with these Welshmen? If he will pay to wed you, why delay? Maybe that will only give him time to reconsider.”

  “Because we must not seem too eager, or they might get suspicious,” Rosamunde explained as if to a child. Then her lips turned up in a confident little smile. “Trust me, Father. He will not reconsider.”

  Chapter Seven

  The next morning, Trystan waited in the small stone chapel of Craig Fawr for mass to begin. The building smelled of stale incense, and the early morning light brought no warmth to its cool interior. As he shifted his feet as much to try to warm himself as to ease his impatience, Trystan could easily imagine that the catacombs of Rome were much like this.

  At least he wasn’t here for a burial.

  As he continued to wait, he wondered if Lady Rosamunde would come, or if her father’s illness would necessitate her remaining with him.

  In spite of his mother’s assurances, he hoped she was not angry with him after last night.

  Then he watched with relief as the lovely lady entered the chapel for mass with her father.

  As always, she looked placidly beautiful. But there was something…

  She was dressed in a splendid gown of scarlet brocade trimmed with ermine that was nearly the same hue as Mair’s silk gown. Unfortunately, that color seemed to make Rosamunde’s pale complexion look as she lacked a drop of blood in her body, whereas brilliant red apparently suited Mair’s darker hair and brown eyes to perfection. Or perhaps it was merely that such a bold color seemed more akin to her personality.

  A personality that was frustating and annoying and altogether too rude.

  He flushed when Lady Rosamunde looked at him, half fearing she could read his thoughts. He relaxed when she smiled at him. If she were annoyed by his sudden departure last night, she would not look at him thus.

  Nevertheless, he thought he would do well not to repeat such childish behavior, no matter what Dylan or anybody else did, just as he must stop thinking about Mair.

  He forced his attention to Sir Edward. The older man still did not look completely recovered, yet surely if he were well enough to attend mass, he was well enough to deal with a request for his daughter’s hand.

  Provided Lady Rosamunde accepted him first, of course.

  But she must. All last night, Trystan had told himself this and tried to think of anything she might conceivably hold against him.

  He was not a lord or a baron—yet. If he worked hard and pleased the king or one of the powerful nobles at court, however, such a reward was attainable, especially given the reputation of his family.

  He was not as rich a husband as a woman of her caliber could hope for, but again, he was young. There was time for him to earn a fortune of his own.

  He could think of no criticism she had made of him personally, either to his face, or to anybody else. To be sure, he was not as unremittingly merry as Dylan—but that was good. Nor was he so grim as Griffydd, whose laughter was so rare, it elicited comment if he so much as chuckled.

  Despit
e these comforting ruminations, Trystan was not so arrogant that he didn’t suppose there was something worthy of criticism about him, and so he had spent the night in an agony of worry.

  And an agony of lust.

  But not for Lady Rosamunde.

  For Mair. He kept thinking about being in her arms again, surrendering himself to the unbridled passion she inspired, as well as her unrestrained response. God’s wounds, how she loved—as boldly and freely as she talked, as completely as she smiled, as wonderfully as she laughed.

  He wished he had never seen her with Ivor. He wished he could stop thinking of her in that man’s arms, in a position so similar to their experience on the wall walk.

  Yet over and over he told himself it could only be lust he felt for the earthy Mair, and nothing more than righteous indignation that Ivor, as the captain of the guard, had not behaved with more circumspection.

  Nor should Mair have shouted out in the courtyard as she had—what would people think?

  Suddenly, the priest entered in a small cloud of incense. Trystan started and looked about guiltily.

  At nearly the same time, his father limped into the spare stone chapel, escorting his mother. Trystan tried not to look surprised, but his father rarely came to mass. He had returned from the Crusade with little respect for supposedly holy men. Perhaps he had come to the chapel today because of their guests.

  Trystan glanced at his father and encountered a look that told him his mother had revealed what he hoped.

  So what was that expression he saw there? Dismay? Disappointment?

  He would never understand his father. Had he not suffered and struggled his whole life so that his family would be successful? What could be more indicative of success than the marriage of his youngest son to the beautiful daughter of Sir Edward D’Heureux?

  Trystan decided he wouldn’t bother trying to comprehend his father’s reaction. He would keep his gaze on the woman he hoped to marry.

  How beautiful Lady Rosamunde was as she kneeled near the altar! The early morning light filtered through the windows fell on her pale, perfect face.

  She looked like a statue. A beautiful, motionless statue devoid of vitality. A thing to be admired from afar, not passionately embraced with ardent desire.