A Warrior's Kiss

by Margaret Moore

  “Rosamunde!”

  “I know when you are lying, Father, so please do not bother to try it again.” Sighing, she sat on the bed and stared at the stone wall opposite. “I hope you are right. I hope you have done no harm.”

  “I think—”

  She rose abruptly. “I don’t care a whit what you think. It is what the baron thinks, and the baron’s wife, and his son that I care about. Now I am going to go see if I need mend any breaches.”

  “Send in a servant, will you? I need—”

  She didn’t hear him finish, for she closed the door firmly. Glancing about to make sure no maid was watching, she locked the door.

  When she went below, she saw that she was right to be so cautious, for one of the snooping maidservants was at the bottom of the steps.

  “My father will sleep for the rest of the day and should not be disturbed. I will check on him later and send for you if he requires assistance.”

  The maidservant looked as if she understood, although Rosamunde suspected she didn’t speak French very well. Nevertheless, as long as she understood Sir Edward was to be left alone, that was enough.

  Rosamunde smiled to herself as she proceeded to the chapel. Let her father be a little hungry and very thirsty for the rest of the day, and then maybe he would learn to watch the amount he drank.

  Her smile grew when she saw Trystan striding toward her across the courtyard.

  How wonderful he looked this morning, tall and strong and young! Although he was dressed in a plain dark tunic and breeches, he looked as fine as any noble of the court. Even better, he lacked the arrogance that spoiled most men who could compare for looks or status.

  She swiftly studied his face, wondering what he thought of her father’s behavior.

  He looked…different. Stern. Unyielding.

  That was not a good sign.

  When he reached her, she did not have to try very hard to look upset. “I am so sorry for my father’s state last evening,” she began softly.

  “And I am equally sorry for my father’s actions,” he replied as he bowed. “Perhaps we could talk about last night after the mass?”

  “If you wish.”

  “I think we should.”

  As Rosamunde placed her hand on his arm, she felt her trepitation grow until it was as if her stomach were filled with rocks. Where had her devoted suitor gone?

  Had her father’s drunken behavior altered things so much? If it had, she would add this to the list of all the things for which she held him accountable, and he would pay. By God, how she would make him pay!

  She scarcely listened to the mass as the priest proceeded. The greater part of her attention was focused on Trystan, standing so straight beside her. He looked more like his father now than she had ever noticed before, yet without that exuberance that seemed so much a part of the baron. Trystan seemed grim, and older somehow, as if something had aged him in the space of a night.

  Suddenly, she felt frightened. What if he no longer wanted her? What would she do? She had to marry. She had waited long enough as it was for a man who had money and power, a man who wouldn’t pry too closely into her family’s finances, a man who didn’t make her flesh crawl at the thought of his intimate caress.

  Now she had found him and won him. If Trystan wanted to break their betrothal—yes, their betrothal. He had asked for her hand in marriage, and she had accepted. An honorable man would be bound by that promise and, she realized with a sigh of relief, the DeLanyeas were said to hold their honor very dear.

  Nevertheless, it could be that Trystan was having second thoughts. Therefore, her father must agree to the basic terms of the marriage agreement as soon as possible. Today.

  When the mass was finally over, she allowed Trystan to escort her to the hall.

  “My father is not his best this morning,” she began when they sat, “but I think he will soon recover. I did not see your father at mass.”

  Trystan shook his head. “He was not there, or my mother, who stayed in their bedchamber to nurse him. He rarely drinks overmuch.”

  Rosamunde demurely lowered her head as she struggled to think of what to reply. She could hardly say the same of her father, for any man who had witnessed how he had enjoyed the ale of Craig Fawr would know otherwise.

  “I’m sorry my father didn’t take better care,” Trystan said softly, and tenderly. “I am sure he would have if he had known how upset you would be.”

  Now she knew how to proceed, and her heart-beat quickened as she picked up the napkin and dabbed at the corners of her dry eyes. Naturally a man like Trystan DeLanyea would want to be his lady’s protector. He would want to see himself as saving her from her ogre of a father.

  In that, he would not be so far wrong.

  But it was not the time to think of her father. It was time to protect her own interests.

  “He can be a beast,” she whispered with a pathetic catch in her voice. “Oh, Trystan, I fear I am too upset to be with all these people. May we not go somewhere else? Somewhere private?”

  Trystan nodded and rose, holding out his hand. As he led her to the solar, she surreptitiously looked about at the other few guests who still remained at Craig Fawr. She didn’t know them well, for they were mostly Welshmen with Norman blood, or Normans with Welsh blood like the DeLanyeas. There was little chance their gossip would spread very far, and certainly not to London.

  Trystan escorted her to one of the sturdy chairs and waited while she sat. Then he said, “My lady, truly, there is no need for you to be so troubled by your father’s behavior. It is I who should be troubled, for my father never should have taken Sir Edward to the alewife’s.”

  She rose and put a long, white finger against his sensual lips. The unexpected sensation of his warm breath and firm mouth both startled and thrilled her. “I do not blame the baron. He did not know my father could not be trusted to act properly in such a place. I deeply regret that I did not stop him from going.”

  Trystan moved away and flushed, and she was pleased that her touch affected him so. “He suggested the visit for my sake.”

  “Your sake?” she asked, a furrow appearing between her delicately arched brows.

  “I wanted to be alone with you.”

  A look of sudden understanding came to her smooth and flawless face. “To ask for my hand?”

  “Yes.” His gaze seemed to intensify. “If you wish to make a different answer now, I shall understand.”

  She put her face in her hands and started to weep. Years ago she had learned that tears could be an effective weapon on either parent, and she was glad to have that skill today.

  “You do not want me anymore!” she wailed piteously. “Oh, what shall I do? Who will help me now?”

  Trystan hurriedly knelt at her feet. “My lady!”

  “I was so happy to think I was finally going to be safe! That you loved me and would take me away from that brute. That I could be free of the fear.”

  “Why do you fear your father?”

  Her shoulders still shaking and her face still hidden by her hands, she said, “He beats me when he is drunk.”

  In truth, he was as helpless as a babe when he was drunk, but Trystan didn’t know that.

  Trystan slowly rose and when he spoke, she could scarcely believe it was the same man talking, so hard and cold did his voice sound. “Did he strike you last night?”

  “Yes,” she said softly as she wiped her face with the edge of her sleeve. “I have bruises on my arms.”

  That was a lie, of course, but surely he would not demand to see the marks.

  Trystan looked down at her lowered head and heard the catch of breath as she tried to stop crying.

  He had asked this woman to be his wife, and she had accepted. Honor demanded that he abide by that acceptance, no matter how much he wished it could be otherwise. Knowing how her father treated her, he certainly could not abandon her.

  “You will be safe from him from this day forward, my lady. I will never all
ow him, or any man, to lay a hand upon you. And you will be my wife.”

  It was a promise and a vow, and if it also felt like a death sentence, he had only himself to blame for being so filled with ambition and the need for an advantageous marriage, he had ignored his heart.

  “Oh, Trystan!” she cried, standing and throwing her arms about him in a way that seemed almost passionate. “Thank you!”

  He could not bring himself to return her embrace.

  “Your chivalrous response makes me love you more. Indeed, I think my father should be well enough this afternoon for you to speak to him of our marriage.” She tilted her head and smiled at him, a smile that no longer moved him. “I am going to be very bold and demand a kiss from my husband-to-be.”

  He obediently complied.

  “I shall see how my father is. I cannot abide any long delay before the marriage agreement is made. Farewell for now, Trystan,” she said with another pleased smile as she left him. “I will tell you when you may speak with my father.”

  “Farewell,” he replied as she swept from the room.

  Then he sat on the table, his shoulders slumped, and ran his hand through his hair.

  He was caught in a trap of his own making. He had asked, and Rosamunde had answered in good faith. To break that betrothal, even though he had yet to seek her father’s permission, would be an act of dishonor.

  It was not Rosamunde’s fault that he had not listened better to his heart. Last night, looking down into Mair’s familiar face, noticing the vitality he always felt in her presence before it gave way to the overwhelming passion she roused within him, he knew that he belonged with her, and she with him.

  Before, all he had heeded was his ambition to make a finer marriage than his brother and cousin.

  Yet what of children? He had always longed to be a father. Mair could not have more children.

  When he chained himself to Rosamunde, he would have to take comfort from the hope that she could.

  And if it proved otherwise, perhaps it was a just punishment for his foolish determination to be more famous than his brothers and father.

  That afternoon, Baron DeLanyea tried to look pleasantly surprised as Sir Edward, Lady Rosamunde and Trystan approached while he sat in the hall resting his aching leg and scratching Mott’s head.

  Sir Edward looked as sick as a man who had imbibed too much braggot ought to look. Although her cheeks seemed slightly flushed, his daughter had that blank, lifeless expression she always did.

  But Trystan’s visage, which was decidedly grim, brought a genuine smile to his face. Perhaps Sir Edward had refused to give the young couple permission to wed. If that were the case, the baron reflected happily, he might get truly drunk in celebration.

  Then Sir Edward’s lips turned upward in what was obviously supposed to be a look of genial bonhomie, and Baron DeLanyea felt his heart sink.

  “Good afternoon, Sir Edward, Lady Rosamunde,” he said in as friendly a tone as he could muster.

  “A good afternoon it is, if you concur with my agreement to let your son marry my daughter, and we can come to terms,” the Norman replied amiably.

  The baron wondered what the devil was going on. After all that Trystan had said before, he should look as if he had just been awarded the crown of Wales. Instead, he looked like a man condemned as a traitor.

  He realized Sir Edward was regarding him expectantly.

  “Ah, indeed!” he declared, forcing himself to sound delighted. “I cannot say I am surprised. What young nobleman would not want to marry your beautiful and graceful daughter? Shall we go to my solar and discuss this happy news?”

  “Very well,” Sir Edward agreed.

  The baron looked at his son. “Will you join us?”

  “Yes.”

  The baron then smiled at Lady Rosamunde, who reminded him rather uncomfortably of a cat who had just swallowed a mouse. “I am sure Lady Rosamunde has no wish to be bothered with the monetary aspects of matrimony. I shall have Gwen fetch my wife, and you two can discuss the details of the wedding feast, wherever it shall be.”

  “Oh, I would be so pleased to be married here, in Trystan’s home,” Lady Rosamunde quickly replied. “I fear our chapel at home would be much too small.”

  The baron had negotiated with too many traders not to comprehend what her response really indicated.

  She, or her father, or both of them together, didn’t want to incur the expense of a wedding feast.

  God’s wounds, what he wouldn’t give to turn back time and never invite Sir Edward and his daughter to Craig Fawr!

  “We shall be delighted to have the wedding here,” the baron finally answered with a courteous bow. “My wife especially will be pleased.”

  At least that was true enough, the baron reflected. “And I’m sure she will be eager to hear all you have to say on the subject, my dear,” he said. “Now, if you will excuse us, we men should get to the business of marriage.”

  If the baron was any judge of character, and he was—rather unfortunately, he thought, in this particular instance—she was not happy to be consigned to the petty details of the ceremony and the feast.

  He frankly didn’t care. He wanted to try to discover what his confusing son was thinking, and the only way he was going to get even an inkling of that would be to get him away from his future bride.

  “Gwen,” he called out to the maidservant who had entered with an armload of fresh rushes for the floor, “take Lady Rosamunde to my wife, who I believe is in the cellar checking on the quantity of flour. Then bring three goblets and a carafe of wine to my solar.”

  As he led the others to his private room, the baron hoped his youngest son would provide some explanation for his less-than-delighted demeanor when he had apparently achieved his cherished desire.

  Somehow, though, he didn’t think that likely.

  Chapter Ten

  The next morning, Lady Rosamunde smiled as she strolled through the rose garden of Craig Fawr. Only a few blooms remained, and the frost had touched those that did. The dry branches scratched the stone walls, and the ground was hard beneath them.

  Over the wall, the sun shone dimly through the gray clouds that seemed to promise rain at any moment. The air was chill, yet not so very cool in the sheltered garden. A few birds warbled their songs, the sound high and bright above the usual noises of a busy castle.

  In truth, however, Lady Rosamunde paid little heed to her surroundings, for she was congratulating herself on the success of her plan.

  Yesterday, the baron had agreed to pay nearly four hundred pieces of gold for her bride price, as was the Welsh custom.

  Even better, a large portion of that money would come directly to her, not her father, for so he had agreed when she had told him of her plan. Her dowry was a small amount of land outside London, and household goods that had been her mother’s. Those had cost her father nothing. As for the land, it was not much, and that nearly useless, as the bridegroom would discover soon enough. Naturally she would feign ignorance and cast the blame onto her father who she hoped she need never see again after she was married.

  Why should she? she mused with a scowl clouding her lovely face as she pulled her fur-lined cloak more tightly about herself. What had he ever done for her, save these negotiations?

  As he described the discussion to her later, he had been obviously surprised by the ease of the negotiations, until she suggested—to his even greater surprise—that for the baron, his son’s happiness was of the utmost importance, not making the best bargain.

  Her smile disappeared when she recalled how dumbfounded he had been at that notion.

  He, and his notions, didn’t matter anymore, she reminded herself, because the agreement had been written and signed. She had won her prize.

  “My lady?”

  Startled by the deep and unfamiliar male voice, she whirled around to see the captain of the guard standing near the entrance to the garden, his helmet and gauntlet gloves held loose in his large, power
ful hands that could probably snap her in two like a twig. His long, barbarous hair ruffled in the slight breeze, and his furrowed brows added to his savage look.

  Her heartbeat quickened as he approached, his chain mail jingling ever so slightly from his athletic stride.

  She raised her chin haughtily, a thrill of pleasure running through her when she saw that the muscular fellow was wary of her. “Who are you and what do you want?”

  “Ivor I am, my lady, and captain of the guard of Craig Fawr,” he said, his Welsh accent much stronger than Trystan’s. His voice was deeper and rougher than Trystan’s, too, and strangely rather pleasing.

  She realized he was impertinently, if secretively, studying her body and a new, exciting, unfamiliar warmth spread through her.

  “Well, Ivor, what do you want?” she asked, her tone slightly more genial.

  “I thought you should know something about Trystan.”

  “Sir Trystan.”

  He nodded. “Sir Trystan, then. The man you’re going to marry.”

  “Yes, I am, and I have no interest in gossip.”

  “I have told no one else what I saw.”

  Her stomach did a strange little flip at his grave assertion.

  “Come,” she said, leading him as far from the entrance as possible, so that no one could see or hear them.

  No one could see or hear them. It was an exhilarating realization.

  She turned to face the soldier, noting the breadth of his shoulders and the strong, clean line of his jaw. “So tell me, Captain of the Guard of Craig Fawr, what did you see?”

  “Sir Trystan leaving a woman’s house in the village.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “In the small hours of the morning. At dawn.”

  “When was this?”

  “Yesterday.”

  The day Trystan was so grim and unlike himself.

  She turned away, trying to think what this might mean. Trystan had apparently spent the night in the village. He was a young and vital young man, and she had given him no outlet for his passion. No doubt he had spent the night with a whore, seeking release.