A Warrior's Kiss

by Margaret Moore

  “What’s Trystan doing in the brewery?” he demanded. “Mam, why are you wearing a blanket?”

  Looking slightly less confident than he had moments ago, Trystan took hold of Mair’s hand.

  “I am here to correct a terrible mistake. I am not going to marry Lady Rosamunde tomorrow,” he started to explain.

  “Oh,” Arthur said as he nodded knowingly. “You’ve come to get drunk, then.”

  “He did not,” Mair declared. “And where did you get such an idea?”

  Arthur flushed and rubbed his toe on the floor. “Some of the soldiers were talking one time, that’s all.”

  “Perhaps I will have to keep you out of the castle, if you’re going to eavesdrop and hear things you shouldn’t,” his mother warned.

  A sulky expression clouded Arthur’s face for an instant before he straightened his shoulders as defiantly as his mother might. “So why’d he come to the brewery, then?”

  “I think you must be forgetting who you’re talking to, Arthur,” Trystan said before Mair replied. “That’s no way to speak to your mother, and the woman I have just asked to be my wife.”

  Arthur’s mouth fell open.

  “I love her very much, Arthur.”

  “And I love Trystan,” Mair added, glancing up at him with a tenderness that belied the passion burning within her.

  “As her nearest male relative, I hope you will make no objections,” Trystan asked gravely.

  Arthur regarded him studiously, then shook his head. “Anybody’s better than that Ivor.”

  “Arthur!”

  “He speaks his mind like his mother,” Trystan said with a grin. “Or like his mother does most of the time,” he amended.

  “What happened to Lady Rosamunde?”

  “Sometimes even when a man is grown, he doesn’t know himself as well as he should,” Trystan said, going to the boy and crouching down to see eye-to-eye with him. “And sometimes he tries to deny his own feelings because of something he thinks he needs.”

  Arthur’s brow furrowed with confusion.

  Trystan tried again. “Because of foolish ambition, I convinced myself I wanted Lady Rosamunde, when I really loved your mother all along.”

  Arthur looked past Trystan to his mother. “What does my da say?”

  “Your da approves,” Trystan replied.

  Arthur nodded, then he grinned, and Mair seemed to breathe again. “Come, my son, let me take you back to the house.”

  “Let us,” Trystan corrected, rising. He took Arthur’s hand, then Mair’s.

  As they walked across the yard illuminated by the rushlight Mair carried, Arthur said, “Does this mean we have to live at Craig Fawr?”

  “Not if you don’t want to.”

  “When?”

  “When will we marry? As soon as possible, I am thinking.” He looked at Mair quizzically over her son’s head.

  “Aye, as soon as possible,” she confirmed.

  They reached the house. “To bed with you now, Arthur,” Mair ordered.

  Her son let go of their hands and went to the ladder to the loft as Trystan put his arm around Mair’s shoulder, delighting in the feel of her in his sheltering embrace.

  Arthur started to go up, then paused and looked back, a worried expression on his young face. “You will be married before the baby comes?”

  “Yes,” Trystan said.

  “Then the baby won’t be—”

  “No. He will be legitimate,” Mair replied quietly, hoping her son would not be upset at the difference in the legality of his birth compared to his half brother.

  Arthur shook his head sadly. “Poor thing,” he murmured mournfully as he disappeared into the shadows.

  Mair would have laughed aloud, had Trystan not stifled her merriment with a passionate kiss.

  “I have never been happier, Mair,” he sighed.

  “Nor I. But you had best go back to the castle.”

  “Why?” he murmured, pressing light kisses along her neck.

  “Because they will be wondering where you are.”

  “Dylan is so clever, he will surely guess.”

  “Arthur is awake.”

  “No, I’m not!” the boy called out.

  “Arthur, go you to sleep at once.” She gave Trystan a pointed look. “You see?”

  She ran her hands up his broad chest. “Much as I would like you to stay,” she whispered huskily.

  “I don’t want to go,” he muttered, returning her caresses.

  “Soon enough, I won’t be wanting to let you out of my sight, or my hands,” she said slyly, touching him intimately. “Anwyl, I will be attacking you any and every place beginning, I think, with the wall walk.”

  “Again? Is that a promise?”

  Her throaty laugh dissolved into a sigh. “A vow, sir knight, and one I assure you I am very determined to keep.”

  “Then I had better warn the sentries…”

  Early the next morning, after a night spent kissing and cuddling and nothing more because of their belief that Arthur might be awake, they sent Mair’s obviously tired, yet elated, son to tell his half brother and Angharad the news.

  It could not be denied that neither one of them particularly relished seeing her expression when she discovered her apparently faulty prediction was going to come true, after all.

  After they had eaten a small breakfast, Mair and Trystan walked arm-in-arm toward Craig Fawr. Those in the village around the castle who were already stirring looked at them curiously; however, Mair and Trystan were too engrossed in each other to pay much heed to anybody but themselves.

  Suddenly Trystan halted and tugged her backward in the shadows of an alley between two thatched cottages near the main road leading to the castle.

  “What are you doing?” she asked with a throaty chuckle.

  Taking her in his arms, he smiled down at her. “Not that, Mair,” he said with a low laugh and a lusty sigh, “tempting though it may be. I don’t want Rosamunde to see us.”

  He nodded at the castle gates, and sure enough, Sir Edward D’Heureux and his daughter were making a hasty exit. Sir Edward looked like a defeated peasant; Rosamunde held her haughty head high.

  Trystan and Mair remained in the shadows as the Normans, with their entourage, rode by.

  “I can forgive her for loving Ivor because it broke the marriage agreement,” Mair said, “but I cannot forgive her for accusing him of rape.”

  “No, nor I,” Trystan agreed.

  “A pity it is that Ivor must go. I don’t think he would have gone behind your back and loved her if she had not encouraged him.”

  “Again, I agree—but he did make a serious mistake, for she was already betrothed. He betrayed our trust. If my father permitted him to stay, others might take it as a sign of weakness, and that he cannot permit.”

  “How anybody could ever think you DeLanyeas weak is beyond me.”

  “If they knew how we acted when we are in love, they might even think we are fools.”

  “You are just men, that’s all,” she said sympathetically.

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  She nestled against him. “I’m not going to explain.” She tilted her head to give him a mischievous glance. “Ask Angharad.”

  “Oh, no!” Trystan cried in mock horror. “I’m not asking Angharad anything, and I hope she doesn’t tell me anything. I don’t want to know the future beyond what I can guess—that I shall be blissfully happy with my shrew of a wife.”

  “Shrew?” Mair cried, shoving him away.

  Trystan grinned. “Disrespectful?” He reached out and tugged her back as his voice lowered to a seductive murmur. “Bold? Determined? Independent? Wonderful?”

  Somebody cleared their throat very loudly, making them stop kissing and jump apart.

  “Anwyl, what kind of immoral behavior is this?” Dylan demanded sternly, his eyes dancing with merriment. “Have you no bed to go to?”

  “It’s morning,” Mair replied pertly. Her ey
es narrowed with amused suspicion. “What are you doing up and about so early?”

  “I wanted to bid farewell to the beauteous Lady Rosamunde, and to make quite sure she hadn’t run off with the silver. Then I got to wondering where Trystan had gone last night, so—”

  “You knew full well,” Trystan growled, his tone annoyed but he was unable to disguise the deep happiness that shone in his eyes.

  “I suspected,” Dylan corrected genially. “And not wrong, was I? You’d better get back to the castle, boy. Your da is waiting for you.”

  “How many times am I going to have to tell you to stop calling me ‘boy’?”

  “Maybe when you’re married.” Dylan’s lips turned up in a devilish grin. “Boy.”

  “That’s it!” Trystan cried as he moved Mair aside. He crouched and put up his fists, moving out of the alley toward his cousin. “Defend yourself, Dylan, while I show you how much of a man I am.”

  “Oh, don’t be a nit!” Dylan said. “Only teasing, me, and—”

  He barely avoided Trystan’s fist, then dropped into a defensive crouch himself. “Anwyl, you’re serious!”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I think you’re both acting like children,” Mair declared, her hands on her hips and an indulgent smile on her face.

  “And this is the thanks I get for getting you out of that Norman wench’s clutches?” Dylan demanded.

  “This is what you get for a lifetime of teasing.”

  “Mair teased you more.”

  “I’m not going to marry you.”

  By now, a few of the villagers had come to see what was happening. When they saw the two DeLanyeas facing each other like wrestlers, they exchanged amused glances.

  Until Trystan dived at Dylan, grabbing him around the legs and knocking him to the ground with a thud. Then the air filled with excited exclamations.

  “You…you…” Dylan snarled as he struggled out of Trystan’s grip.

  “Boy? Has a boy knocked you down?” Trystan jeered as he again tackled his cousin.

  “Da!” two young voices cried in unison.

  Mair glanced over her shoulder and saw Trefor and Arthur running toward the combatants.

  “It’s all right, my sons,” he said, panting, barely glancing at them as he kept his eye on his opponent. “A little fun we are having.”

  Trefor grinned. “You’ll win, Da!”

  “Thank you, my son.”

  “But why are they fighting? Is it because of you?” the more perceptive Arthur asked his mother as the men grabbed each other and fell to the ground, where they continued to wrestle and get muddier by the moment.

  “Not at all,” Mair replied as she tried to keep her eyes on the men who really were acting like children. She was tempted to get in between them and pull them apart.

  On the other hand, Trystan had endured much from Dylan in the past, so perhaps it was better to let them fight and get the bad feelings exorcised like evil spirits.

  “Your da has teased his brother for too long, and now look,” she said, casting a surreptitious look at Trefor, for Trystan was definitely getting the better of his cousin.

  As Dylan also realized, for he stopped trying to hit back, and cried, “I yield. God’s wounds, I yield before you break my nose!”

  “You are never going to call me ‘boy’ again, are you?” Trystan demanded triumphantly, his face filthy and his tunic torn.

  “Very well. I won’t call you ‘boy’ anymore,” Dylan muttered.

  Trystan climbed off his chest. “Good.”

  “I may start calling you worse,” Dylan muttered as he rose with a grunt.

  “You can’t call him a bastard,” Arthur noted gravely.

  Dylan stared at his youngest son a moment, then burst out laughing. “Anwyl, no, I can’t!”

  He strolled toward the boys. “And Trystan was right to be angry. I have teased too much and now must pay the price.”

  He glanced down at his soiled, disheveled clothes. “Genevieve will have my hide for the damage to my clothes, but it’s no more than I deserve. I’ll have to make it up to her somehow,” he said with a wink to Trystan and Mair.

  Another group of horsemen came from the castle, this time with Sir Cecil at the head. As he and his cortege approached and passed them, he gave them a scornful look.

  Trystan bowed with a flourish, followed quickly by Dylan.

  “Farewell, Sir Cecil!” Trystan called out. “Good-bye to all your charming friends, too.”

  “And good riddance,” Mair muttered beside him, causing everyone around to laugh with approval.

  “Now, come you both to the castle,” Dylan ordered as he straightened, “for the baron really is waiting for you.”

  Mair had been in the great hall of Craig Fawr too many times to count, yet never had she felt anything like the nervous tension she did as she entered this morning. In addition to the usual tenants and servants, the baron, his wife, Griffydd, his wife Seona, and Dylan’s wife, the lovely Genevieve, were watching them approach.

  Behind her and a very muddy Trystan came the equally muddy Dylan, one son on either side to escort him.

  She should have worn her red silk gown, Mair thought anxiously, for once worrying about her attire.

  Her blue wool gown was comfortable and neat and clean, but nothing like what a knight’s wife should wear.

  And she doubted she could ever act as a proper knight’s wife should, either.

  She felt Trystan squeeze her hand, and his reassuring grin comforted her. “Look you at my father,” he whispered.

  Mair did as he suggested and realized that Baron DeLanyea was trying very hard to look serious—unfortunately with little success.

  Mair relaxed when she saw the welcome on his face.

  Lady Roanna stood beside him, and as she smiled, Mair knew for certain everything was going to be well.

  She was going to marry the man she loved, and they would not object.

  She was so happy, her steps grew as light as if she were dancing.

  “Good morning, Mair, Trystan, Dylan,” the baron began, scrutinizing the group coming toward him.

  “What have you boys been up to?” he asked, and he did not mean Arthur and Trefor.

  “Your son picked a fight with me. That’s gratitude, I must say,” Dylan replied, not even trying to sound as if he were angry.

  “It looks as if you had the worst of it,” his wife noted, regarding him with some annoyance.

  “Ah, now, Genevieve, he was angrier than I, so what chance did I have?” her husband said placatingly, giving her so charming a smile, she had no recourse but to forgive him, as she always did.

  “And he won’t call my husband-to-be a ‘boy’ anymore,” Mair declared. She gave the baron a pert, mischievous smile. “And I don’t think you should, either, my lord. I can well vouch for his maturity—and his virility, too.”

  “Mair!” Trystan warned as he crimsoned.

  She carried on, irrepressible in her delight. “Baron, Angharad was right. I’m going to marry your son.” She sighed with mock resignation. “It will pain me to have to ask her pardon for refusing to believe her before, but I am willing to make that sacrifice.”

  “Da,” Trystan began in a reasonable tone.

  He fell silent as his father hurried forward to take hold of Mair’s shoulders and kiss her heartily on the cheek.

  “God’s wounds!” the baron cried happily, “a relief is this, and no mistake.”

  He looked to his son, and it would have been difficult to say whose smile was the more joyful. “Glad I am you came to your senses, my son! That Norman creature would have led you a dance.”

  “I will not argue that I have been too long realizing what I truly wanted.” Trystan reached out to take Mair’s hand. “What I needed.”

  His mother came forward in her own graceful way, and her shining eyes told Trystan that of all things he had done, this pleased her the most. “Welcome to our family, Mair. I know you will make my son happy
, and he, you.”

  The other DeLanyea women hurried to offer their best wishes, then the other tenants and servants until Mair and Trystan were quite out of breath voicing their thanks.

  “Roanna!” the baron called out above the commotion. “You had a wedding feast planned for today, did you not?”

  “Yes, my love,” she called back serenely from the other side of the large and noisy gathering.

  “I see no reason not to have it today, after all.”

  “Nor do I, my love, nor do I.”

  And so it was that Sir Trystan DeLanyea wed Mair the alewife, who had teased him unmercifully and loved him since childhood.

  And after their marriage, they loved so devotedly and so often that Arthur soon had four more half brothers, each one as notable a warrior as he came to be, and a sister who was famous not only for her beauty but, like her mother, for her vivacious, irrepressible spirit.

  As for Trystan, he achieved all that he had ever wanted and more. He became famous throughout all the land for his wisdom and honor, so much so that no king’s council was considered complete without him.

  Or some of his wife’s fine ale.

  ISBN: 978-1-4268-6158-1

  A WARRIOR’S KISS

  Copyright © 2000 by Margaret Wilkins

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

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