A Warrior's Kiss

by Margaret Moore

  “For making love with you. For putting you in this untenable position. For making it possible for men like Sir Cecil and his friends to talk to you in that disgusting way.”

  Her brown eyes softened with tender sympathy. “I’m not, Trystan. I wasn’t sorry for making love with you when I did it, and I’m not sorry now.”

  She gently took his face between her palms, smiling at him lovingly. “Listen to me, Trystan, and listen well. I am glad for what we did. I am happy beyond words to be having another child. I don’t expect you to be my great protector. I have managed by myself for long before this, and can continue to do so.”

  With a ragged, weary sigh, he turned his head to press a kiss on her palm.

  She snatched her hands away as if his lips were on fire. “And as for Sir Cecil—he’s a fool, and that is not your fault.”

  She gave him one of her mischievous, sidelong glances. “Besides, I know another young man who used to insult me all the time, although not like that.”

  “I’m sorry for all the harsh and hasty things I’ve ever said to you, Mair. I have been a pigheaded fool, just like Sir Cecil.”

  Something flickered deep in her eyes. “Oh, no, Trystan, you were never like him. I wouldn’t have—” She hesitated. “I wouldn’t have let you touch me if you were.”

  “How charming,” Lady Rosamunde declared from the gate of the garden.

  She came inside, a cool smile on her lovely face, the breeze fluttering her veil, her hips swaying. “I’ve been searching for the bridegroom and here he is, and not alone. Really, Trystan, if you want to have your little assignations with this wench you will have to be more subtle.”

  “We weren’t having any assignation,” Mair retorted, running a scornful gaze over Rosamunde.

  “I daresay you don’t even know what that means.”

  “I can guess.”

  “Trystan, tell this woman to go back to her ale.”

  Regarding Rosamunde steadily, Trystan addressed Mair evenly. “Please go now, Mair, and leave me with my beautiful bride.”

  Mair glanced from him to the triumphant Norman woman. “Gladly.”

  “Then be gone,” Rosamunde suggested.

  Mair gave her a scornful look before she spoke to Trystan, who finally looked at her. “God be with you, Trystan.”

  “God be with you, Mair, and may happiness come to you.”

  She nodded, her lips smiling and her eyes grim, before she left Rosamunde the victor on the field.

  “I mean what I say, Trystan,” Rosamunde declared, strolling closer to the man she commanded. “If you must sport with whores, I would rather you didn’t do so in so obvious a fashion.”

  Trystan stayed silent as he watched Mair leave. Then he looked at his Norman bride and quietly inquired, “Rosamunde, do you value your life?”

  She gave him an incredulous look. “What?”

  He approached her slowly, like a large cat drawing near an unsuspecting prey. As she saw the look in his eyes, Rosamunde paled.

  “If you value your life, you will never again call Mair a whore, or any other disparaging name. You will never insult either her, or the child she bears me—or God help me, you will be sorry.”

  “You…you savage! How dare you threaten me—and for that—” Wisely, she hesitated. “That woman.”

  He smiled slowly. “Apparently you did not think it amiss to threaten me and my family, so why should I not threaten you?”

  Rosamunde started to back away. “What…what would you do?” she whispered, arrogance replaced by awe and dread.

  “I do not think you should be anxious to find out.”

  She made no reply before she turned and fled.

  Leaving Trystan alone with his thoughts. And his regrets.

  Fighting the exhaustion that came from maintaining an outwardly cheerful attitude so at odds with her inner turmoil, Mair walked through the courtyard toward the stable. She would get her horse ready for the journey home by herself, glad that all the grooms and stable hands were in the hall waiting for the evening meal.

  Breathing in the scent of straw and horse and leather, she went to the stall where her horse stood munching on some oats. Cooing softly, she ran her hand over his firm hindquarters, which quivered at her touch. He turned his head to regard her.

  “Even you have taken to looking at me like I’m a bit mad, is it?” she whispered with a weary chuckle. “Maybe I am. Mad for love. Me!” she finished incredulously.

  Her horse went back to his oats.

  Deciding she could wait a bit before fetching the harness since she couldn’t be sure when Arthur would come, and most definitely sure she would not venture into the hall to find out, she leaned wearily against a post. She closed her eyes and tried to will away the tears that threatened to come.

  “Mair?”

  With a choking gasp, she whirled around to see Dylan staring at her with frank curiosity.

  “Dylan!” she cried, the word almost a croak. She cleared her throat. “Anwyl, it’s dusty in here! Did you bring Arthur?” she asked, looking past him. “Where is he?”

  “He and Trefor are still helping Genevieve unpack my baggage.”

  “And being more hindrance than help to her, I’m sure.”

  “She enjoys their company.”

  “And they like poking about your things.”

  He crossed the floor toward her. “Mair, are you having Trystan’s child?”

  “I think I am going to have to stand on the battlements and make an announcement or I shall be pestered with questions all the time.”

  “Are you?”

  She decided there was no point to prevaricating. “Yes, I am. In the late spring, or thereabouts.”

  “How does he feel about it?”

  “How should he feel?”

  “That’s not what I’m asking.”

  “How did you feel when I told you I was having your baby?”

  “You know how I felt. I was thrilled.”

  “You were not about to be married to somebody else.”

  “I hope he’s being honorable about it.”

  “He’s Trystan, so of course he is.”

  Dylan’s dark-eyed scrutiny grew even more intense. “Thank God for that.”

  “Yes, thank God for that,” she agreed. “Now, if that is all you want to ask me—”

  “What do you think of Rosamunde?”

  “What does it matter what I think?”

  “Surely you don’t want Trystan to marry her?”

  “It’s not for me to say.”

  “He’s supposed to be marrying you.”

  “You’ve been talking to Angharad again, haven’t you?”

  Dylan took her hands in his and gazed into her eyes as if he could transfix her with a look, as indeed Dylan could when he stared like that. “I want you to answer me honestly, Mair. Do you love him?”

  “If I bear his child, I must have loved him, mustn’t I?”

  Dylan frowned with frustration. “Mair, please be serious. I think he loves you as much as a man can love a woman.”

  “Oh, and you are a seer, too, like Angharad?”

  “I am a man in love myself, so I know what to look for. Now I need to know if you love him.”

  “Don’t tell me you are jealous?” She tried to laugh scornfully and instead produced something that sounded horrible. “No, I’m not.”

  “Are you jealous of Lady Rosamunde?”

  “No.”

  “Not of her for herself, I mean. Because Trystan is going to marry her.”

  “If he wants her, he can have her.”

  “I don’t think he does want her. Not anymore. Not after being with you.”

  Mair looked away, then sniffed derisively and raised her brave brown eyes to look at him. “Anwyl, Dylan, you know I’m not that wonderful a lover, and I’m certainly not so vain as to believe that after making love with me, Trystan is unable to feel desire for any other woman.”

  Dylan regarded her gravely. “Vani
ty has nothing to do with it. I think he loves you very much.”

  This time, Mair couldn’t meet his steadfast gaze. She took a deep breath before she spoke. “Then he should get over it. My leaving here should help.”

  “Leaving? Where are you going?”

  “I’ll sell the brewery and move to Bridgeford Wells, to be near Arthur while he trains.”

  “But your home is here.”

  “My ale will sell wherever I am, I think.”

  “Arthur might do better if you are not nearby.”

  She gave him a look that told him she could not be dissuaded. “He will do well wherever I am. I have made up my mind, Dylan. I am going to Bridgeford Wells.”

  “To get away from Trystan.”

  “Because I want to be nearer Arthur.”

  “Are you trying to convince me that you do not love Trystan—or yourself? If so, I think you are failing on both counts. The truth now, Mair. I have to know. Do you love him?”

  “He should marry Lady Rosamunde. He deserves a wife who can bring him what he wants.”

  “What is it that he wants?”

  “He wants no more than he deserves, to be a great and respected lord. He can be, if he marries well.”

  “But to marry only for ambition, and to one like that, will soon make him miserable. I know enough of Trystan to know that, even if he does not. I think you must not love him, either, if you would allow him to suffer in such a way.”

  “Dylan, shut your mouth and go away!” she cried, hurrying away from him and his questions and his eyes and his words to the far corner of the stable, which was deep in shadow.

  Dylan followed after, a sympathetic, yet equally determined, look on his face. “You do love him. I knew it!”

  She spun on her heel to face him. “It doesn’t matter what I feel,” she said vehemently. “It is what Trystan wants that is important.”

  She drew in a ragged sigh. “It will be enough that he cared for me once, at least a little, and that I have his child. Now say no more of Trystan to me, Dylan. Please, if you have any mercy in you, say no more of him!”

  She put her head in her hands and, despite her pride and her resolution, started to weep with all the fierce passion of her nature.

  Dylan gently took her in his arms. “Hush, Mair, hush,” he crooned as he held her comfortingly. “It shall be as you wish. I will say no more about it.”

  That is what he said.

  But Mair could not see the look in his eyes as he said it.

  “I tell you, Angharad, something must be done!” Dylan declared as he smashed his fist on the table in her house.

  He had brought their son home, and lingered to complain while Trefor went to the brook to fetch some water.

  “The baron—?”

  “Says we must not interfere, even now, but that’s not right!”

  “Why do you say that?” Angharad asked as she glanced up from her spinning.

  “Because they love each other so much!”

  “If that were true, Trystan wouldn’t be marrying Lady Rosamunde, would he?” Angharad inquired as she stopped spinning. “And Mair would not be going away.”

  “I don’t think he knows how Mair feels about him, and Mair will do what she thinks right, no matter how it hurts her. Anwyl, she should have been a warrior, her, for a more resolute face I never saw on any man.”

  “You seem very certain of their feelings for one another,” Angharad noted as she put away her spindle.

  “I am!”

  “How can you be? Did they confide in you?”

  Mindful of Mair’s dismay, Dylan kept her words to himself. “It is enough that I am sure. She cares for Trystan more than she ever has for any other man, including me.”

  “I know how difficult an admission that must be for you to make, so I am sure you don’t do so lightly.”

  “I don’t!” he confirmed as he looked at the mother of his firstborn, a fine woman he still respected.

  And, truth be told, feared a little because of her gift.

  “Besides,” he continued, “I would think you would agree with me. You’ve always said he would wed Mair, not some Norman woman.”

  Angharad straightened to regard her former lover steadily, and seriously. “Are you truly worried that Trystan is making a grievous mistake?”

  “Yes!”

  “Why would he marry if he didn’t love?”

  “Because he asked Rosamunde before he knew his own heart, or what she was! Because she’s threatened repercussions if he doesn’t! Because he’s a fool!”

  Dylan ran a hand through his shoulder-length hair. “My father thinks there is something amiss with Trystan, too, yet he insists we mustn’t say a word to him of our misgivings. Indeed, he and Lady Roanna would have us welcome Rosamunde with open arms. She’d try to seduce me if I got my arms around her, that one!”

  “You are a vain creature, Dylan DeLanyea.”

  “You’ve not seen her at a feast, or you would know I am being honest, not vain.”

  Angharad smiled. Then her dark eyes, that sometimes looked like the inky depths of a lake in moonlight, grew serious. “There is a way to prevent the marriage, if you are absolutely certain Trystan really doesn’t want this woman for his wife.”

  “You’ve got the Sight. Aren’t you sure he’s asked the wrong one?”

  “I only know that he’s going to be happily wed and have fine, healthy sons and one daughter. I cannot call the visions to come, you know, Dylan. They come as they will.”

  Then she smiled. “But I have had one that I do not doubt to be true, and if you are willing to do what must be done, no man will wonder if Trystan doesn’t marry Lady Rosamunde, and there will be no question of reprisals.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Trystan awoke the moment he felt the hand over his mouth. Struggling to sit up, he opened his eyes to find a man bending over him like the Angel of Death come to take him away, an effect aided by the shadows cast by the flickering torch he held.

  After he realized it was only Dylan, he gave a smothered roar of anger and swatted at his cousin.

  “Be quiet, boy!” Dylan ordered in Welsh as two other hands clamped down on his shoulders, “and then I’ll take my hand away.”

  Trystan glared at Griffydd, who held him. Then he scanned the faces of the other men who surrounded his bed.

  He was shocked to see his father standing at the foot, and Sir Cecil and his Norman friends crowded behind him. Although it was very dark, no one else carried any kind of light.

  Nevertheless, it seemed as if every male wedding guest was there, with the exception of Sir Edward. They all looked as if they, too, had recently been roused from sleep, and there was a curious air of excited suspense about them, as well.

  “Are you going to be quiet?”

  Trystan nodded, and Dylan slowly removed his hand.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Trystan demanded, albeit quietly and also in Welsh. “Are we under attack?”

  “No. Get dressed and come with us,” Griffydd ordered.

  Trystan ignored his brother as he looked to his father. “Da, what’s happening? Why are all these men here?”

  “Do as Dylan says, my son,” the baron replied grimly.

  Taken aback by his father’s resigned attitude as much as by the nocturnal intrusion and very aware that he was naked as he got out of the bed, Trystan did as he was told.

  As he pulled on his breeches, he glanced anxiously at his father again. “Is somebody hurt?”

  He was surprised by the sorrowful look that came to his father’s resolute face. “Not yet,” the baron replied quietly.

  His response made Trystan more puzzled than ever. His father had never approved of vigilante activity, and Trystan could think of no crime recently committed that would require it anyway.

  When Trystan was dressed, Dylan signaled his cousin to join him at the door. “Quiet now, for what we are about to do requires absolute silence.”

  He switched to
French, and his tone changed, too, to one of festive merriment. “Come along, gentlemen.”

  The Normans exchanged amused glances and likewise did as they were bid. It took a few moments before Trystan realized Dylan was leading the way toward the tower housing Lady Rosamunde’s bedchamber.

  “What is this all about?” Trystan demanded quietly in Welsh of his cousin.

  “Have you never heard of the groom’s traditional visit to the bridal chamber the night before the wedding?”

  “No, because there is no such tradition, as you well know,” Trystan retorted.

  “There should be, I’m thinking.”

  “I’m not sure I should give my countenance to this barbaric Welsh custom,” they heard Sir Cecil mutter behind them. “Really, to visit my cousin in her bedchamber—”

  Dylan laughed softly. “I told you, in Wales, the male wedding guests try to get a glimpse of the bride’s body,” he said in French. “It used to be with an eye to approving of her. Not anymore, of course, for the Welsh are much more civilized, thanks to the Normans.”

  Although those behind could not, Trystan saw the sarcastic mockery on Dylan’s face.

  “Naturally, we don’t ask her to take off her clothes anymore,” Dylan continued. “Now we just try to sneak a glimpse of her legs.”

  “Why are you telling such monstrous lies?” Trystan demanded in Welsh, looking over his shoulder for his father, who surely should put a stop to this.

  “Shh, we’re nearly there. You don’t want to wake her, do you?”

  “He’s not being very generous, this cousin of mine,” Dylan complained to the Normans, switching again to their language. “He doesn’t want anybody else to see her lovely limbs, the miser.”

  The men behind chuckled and exchanged amused whispers, until they were nearly at the bedchamber door.

  “Gentlemen, please,” Dylan cautioned them in a conspiratorial whisper. “We must be quiet, or the surprise will be spoiled.”

  Trystan came to a halt, his hands on his hips. He had had quite enough of this mystery. “Dylan, I don’t know what this is about, or what you think you’re doing—”

  Somebody behind him encircled him with one powerful arm and clapped a strong, callused hand over his mouth.