PASSION FOR HER PROTECTOR
Facing marriage to a man she loathes, virtuous Thomasina is forced to choose family duty over her own happiness—until a high-stakes tournament ends in her abduction! Trapped with her fearless captor, the legendary Wolf of Wales, she soon finds herself irresistibly drawn to the man beneath the armor.
Though Rheged captured Tamsin in the name of revenge, he can’t ignore his instinct to protect her. Although to love her could bring the wrath of his enemies down upon them….
Rheged took hold of her shoulders and regarded her sternly.
“There is doing a thing because honor demands it and there is being honorable to the point of madness. I tell you, it’s madness to marry Blane.”
“Do you truly want me to marry Sir Algar, Rheged? Would that make you happy?”
“God, no!” he said through clenched teeth. “I would rather—”
“What?” she pressed, his manner and the look in his eyes making her heart race and her breathing quicken. “What would you rather?”
“What I want does not matter, except that I would see you safe. You won’t be safe with Blane.”
“I would be safe with Sir Algar, though,” she replied, “and cherished, no doubt, as well as given whatever material goods my heart desires.”
“Yes,” he snapped.
“That would be enough, do you think? And I should be content to be the substitute for the woman he loved and lost?”
“No!” he said, his voice husky with need as he tugged her into his embrace and captured her lips with his own.
* * *
Castle of the Wolf
Harlequin® Historical #1194—July 2014
Praise for USA TODAY bestselling author
Margaret Moore
“Moore taps into the culture and mores of Scotland to create a colorful Highland love story.”
—RT Book Reviews on Highland Heiress
“The talented Moore has penned another exciting Regency.”
—RT Book Reviews on Highland Rogue, London Miss
“Colorful and compelling details of life in the Middle Ages abound.”
—Publishers Weekly on Hers to Command
“A lively adventure with enough tension and romance to keep me turning pages.”
—International bestselling author Roberta Gellis on Hers to Command
“The story is fresh, fun, fast-paced, engaging and passionate, with an added touch of adventure.”
—The Romance Readers Connection on The Notorious Knight
“Readers continue to ask for ‘Moore.’ Her latest book is a sparkling, dynamic tale of two lonely hearts who find each other despite their pasts and the evil forces surrounding them.”
—RT Book Reviews on Hers to Desire
Margaret
Moore
Castle of the Wolf
Available from Harlequin® Historical and
MARGARET MOORE
**The Wastrel #344
**The Dark Duke #364
**The Rogue’s Return #376
The Knights of Christmas #387
“The Twelfth Day of Christmas”
*A Warrior’s Bride #395
*A Warrior’s Honor #420
*A Warrior’s Passion #440
*The Welshman’s Bride #459
*A Warrior’s Kiss #504
The Duke’s Desire #528
*The Overlord’s Bride #559
*A Warrior’s Lady #623
In the King’s Service #675
Comfort and Joy #727
A Lover’s Kiss #908
The Viscount’s Kiss #957
Highland Rogue, London Miss #1006
Highland Heiress #1038
Castle of the Wolf #1194
*Warrior Series
**Most Unsuitable…
Other works include
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Lord of Dunkeathe
The Unwilling Bride
Hers to Command
Hers to Desire
My Lord’s Desire
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Knave’s Honor
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With thanks to Nalini Akolekar, everyone at Spencerhill and my writing buddies for their advice and support, and to my family for all the love and laughter.
MARGARET MOORE
Award-winning author Margaret Moore actually began her career at the age of eight, when she and a friend concocted stories featuring a lovely, spirited damsel and a handsome, misunderstood thief. Years later and unknowingly pursuing her destiny, Margaret graduated with distinction from the University of Toronto with a bachelor of arts degree in English literature.
Margaret began writing while a stay-at-home mom and sold her first historical romance to Harlequin® Historical in 1991. Since then she’s written over forty historical romance novels and novellas for Harlequin® and Avon Books, as well as a young adult historical romance for HarperCollins Children’s Books. Her books have been published in France, Italy, Germany, Great Britain, Australia, Belgium, Switzerland, Brazil, Korea, Japan, Sweden, the Netherlands, Russia, Poland and India.
Margaret currently lives in Toronto with her husband and two cats. She also has a cottage on the north shore of Lake Erie in an area that first became home to her great-great-grandfather.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter One
England, 1214
The flickering light of the torches and beeswax candles in the great hall of Castle DeLac threw huge, moving shadows on the tapestries depicting hunts and battles hanging on the walls. A fire blazed in the long central hearth, warming the chill of the September evening. On either side of the hearth, knights and their ladies sat at the tables closest to the dais where Lord DeLac, his daughter and the most important guests dined on a sumptuous repast. Hounds wandered among the tables, snatching at the bits of food that fell into the rushes covering the flagstone floor, while a weak-chinned minstrel, dressed in blue, warbled a ballad about a knight on a quest to save his lost love.
Sir Rheged of Cwm Bron didn’t care about the feast, or the ballad, or the other guests. Let the nobles spend the rest of the evening amusing themselves with banter and drink, dancing and music. He would rather be well rested for the tournament on the morrow.
As he rose from his place, straightened his black tunic and started for the door leading to the courtyard, he ran another measuring gaze over the knights who would compete with him in the melee, a contest more like a true battle than a tilt in the lists. Some of them, like the excited young fellow dressed in bright green velvet, or the old knight already dozing over his wine, could be dismissed outright, being either too young to have much experience or too old to move swiftly. Othe
rs had clearly come more to enjoy the feasting and entertainment than to win the prize.
Rheged glanced again at the prize resting on the high table, a golden box embossed with jewels. That was what had brought him here, as well as ransoms for arms and horses from those he defeated in the melee. Since he was a veteran of many a real battle, a melee was more familiar to him and, he thought, a better test of true skill.
While he strode down the side of the hall, whispers of the other knights and nobles followed him like the wake after a ship at sea.
“Isn’t that the Wolf of Wales?” one drunken Norman nobleman slurred.
“By God, it is!” another muttered.
A woman’s voice rose above the minstrel’s music. “Why doesn’t he cut his hair? He looks like a savage.”
“My dear, he’s Welsh,” another nobleman drawled in equally disdainful reply. “They’re all savages.”
There had been a time those whispers and insults would have infuriated Rheged. Now it didn’t matter what they thought of him, as long as he triumphed on the field. And if his long hair made them think he would fight with all the fierce determination of a savage, all the better.
Taking a deep breath of the fresher air, Rheged stepped into the courtyard and looked up at the cloudless sky. The full moon lit the yard as bright as day, yet there was a hint of rain on the wind. It would be a light rain, though. Likely not enough to postpone the melee.
A door opened in a long, low building to his left that was attached to the hall, sending a shaft of golden light onto the cobblestones. The noise of clattering wooden bowls, chopping and the querulous demands and orders of a harried cook told him it was the kitchen.
A slender, shapely woman in a dark gown and lighter over-tunic, carrying a large basket, slipped out of the kitchen into the courtyard. As she nudged the door shut with her hip, he recognized Lady Thomasina, his host’s niece, dressed in nunlike garments, her long, dark braid swishing down her back like a living thing. When he was introduced to her upon his arrival, he’d been impressed by the bright intelligence gleaming in her brown eyes. Later it became clear that she ran the well-regulated household, and not Lord DeLac’s beautiful daughter, Mavis, although that should have been her responsibility.
Rheged watched as Lady Thomasina crossed the yard to the wicket gate, the smaller door inside the huge double gate. Despite her relatively plain attire, Lady Thomasina had a dignity and a graceful carriage that no garment, however costly and well made, could enhance.
She spoke a few quiet words to the guards, who opened the wicket. Then he heard voices that sent his mind racing back to his childhood—the grateful words of the poor and hungry who would receive the remains of the feast.
“Thank you, my lady!”
“Bless you, my lady!”
“God save you, my lady.”
“There is plenty for all,” she replied. “Come closer, Bob, and take something for your mother, too.”
There would be no bruises or black eyes from scrambling for the scraps, or bellies left empty here, tonight.
Once upon a time, he had been among the beggars waiting at a lord’s gate with starving bellies and desperate hope, anxious to get even the smallest bit of bread or meat. The person doling out the remains—always a servant, never a lady—had usually dumped the food on the ground like so much refuse and looked at those eagerly awaiting as if they were worth even less.
Leaning back against the wall, his eyes closed, he tried to shove the memories of those days of hunger and need, loneliness and desperation into the back of his mind. Those days were long ago. He was a knight now, with an estate of his own. It wasn’t a rich one yet, but in time, with effort—
“Sir Rheged?”
He opened his eyes to find Lady Thomasina standing in front of him, her empty basket over her arm, her brown eyes regarding him with grave concern. “Are you ill?”
He straightened. “I am never ill. I merely sought a breath of fresh air.”
She frowned, her eyebrows drawing together, her full lips turning down at the corners. “You found the hall too smoky or stuffy?”
“No more than most.”
“Nevertheless I shall see that more of the shutters in the hall are open.” She turned as if she intended to do that at once, and by herself.
“I wouldn’t bother. It’s going to rain soon,” he said as she started to hurry away.
She turned back. “Rain? The sky is clear.”
“I can smell it on the breeze—not a heavy rain,” he hastened to assure her. “Likely just a shower during the night, so not enough to delay the melee.”
“I hope not.”
“I’m fairly certain.” He gave her a little smile. “I grew up where it rains much of the time, Lady Thomasina.”
“Tamsin,” she said quickly, then just as swiftly added, “That’s easier to say than Thomasina.”
“Tamsin,” he quietly repeated.
She moved the basket in front of her. “I’ve heard you called the Wolf of Wales,” she said, repeating the nickname given to him after his first tournament triumphs. “Are you so ferocious?”
“Not as much as I was in my youth.”
“You’re hardly an old man!”
“Older than some here.”
“Surely that gives you the benefit of experience, as well as reputation.”
“Experience, aye, and a reputation has its purpose, although it’s not for fame I fight. Unlike your uncle, I’m not a wealthy man.”
The moment he mentioned his poverty, he regretted it. She didn’t need to know about that, nor did he want her to think the less of him because of it.
“You fight for money.” To his relief, she didn’t sound appalled or disgusted. She sounded...matter-of-fact. Practical. Accepting.
“I fight to earn more, to keep what I have.”
She nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “Life gives us all battles to fight and we all try to win as best we can. I wish I could fight some of mine with sword or mace.”
“I don’t doubt you’d be a worthy foe. The clever ones are always hardest to beat.”
“You flatter me, my lord,” she replied, and not in the usual manner of coy young ladies.
She said it warily, with suspicion, as if she doubted his sincerity or perhaps wasn’t used to receiving compliments.
Thinking it might indeed be the latter, he made a sweeping gesture encompassing the inner courtyard. “It takes intelligence to run a household the size of Lord DeLac’s, and there’s no doubt in my mind that falls to you. You do it well, my lady. I’ve never experienced such comfortable accommodations or fine food.”
“My uncle is known for the excellence of his feasts.”
“Because of you, I’m sure.”
He saw the hint of a shy smile. Charmed and encouraged, he went on. “You have grace and beauty, too. That is a rare combination, my lady.” He ventured closer. “I think you are a rare woman.”
She stepped back and to his dismay, that suspicious wariness returned. “Are you trying to seduce me, sir, with empty words of praise?”
“I meant what I said.”
“And now I suppose you will tell me that Mavis is lacking compared to me.”
“She looks lovely, I grant you,” he replied, “yet I do find her lacking. She seems almost a shadow compared to you. I doubt she concerns herself with anything more than what gown she’ll wear or who she’ll dance with at the feast.”
The lady bristled. “Mavis is not such a ninny and you earn only my enmity if you criticize her.”
Clearly Tamsin loved her cousin dear and he hurried to mend his mistake. “I admit I have little knowledge of her, and no doubt she’s a fine young woman, but vitality and passion shine in your bright eyes, my lady, and you cannot deny that you take responsibility for the running of the household of DeLac.”
His words didn’t have the effect he desired, which was to make her linger.
“Thank you for your compliments, sir knight,” she said, startin
g toward the kitchen once more. “If you’ll excuse me, I do have many responsibilities, so I give you good night.”
“Sleep well, my lady,” he murmured in his low, deep voice as she hurried away.
* * *
It was all Tamsin could do not to break into a run as she left the unexpectedly grateful and flattering Wolf of Wales.
To think of such a man saying such things to her—plain, dutiful, responsible Tamsin! He was by far the most intriguing man she’d ever met, and not just because he was handsome, although he was the sort of man to make a woman look twice in spite of his stern visage. His eyebrows were like black lines above watchful dark eyes, and the planes of his cheeks and line of his jaw were as sharp as a sword blade. He dressed plainly in black, with no jewelry or other adornment.
He needed no adornment to draw attention to his powerful warrior’s body, and as for those watchful and intense dark eyes, he obviously saw things others did not, like the way she worked—something no other guest had ever mentioned.
But she was no fool, just as she was no beauty, no matter what he said, and it would surely be wrong to let him know how much his words had affected her.
As she entered the kitchen to return her empty basket, Armond, the burly, aproned cook, red-faced after the efforts of overseeing the feast, looked about to have an attack of apoplexy. The shoulders of the exhausted scullery maids slumped from the effort of scrubbing the numerous pots and roasting pans and forks. Middle-aged Vila, who had been at Castle DeLac since her youth, wiped down the long table still snowed with flour that stood in the middle of the chamber. Baldur, the bottler, was excitedly urging Meg and Becky, two of the younger maidservants, to hurry as they headed to the door leading to the hall with more wine.
She followed the maidservants back to the even noisier hall. She swiftly surveyed the chamber and then the high table, where her uncle was comfortably settled with a goblet of wine in his hand. Mavis, attired as befit a wealthy lord’s daughter in a gown of scarlet with embroidered trim of delicate blue and yellow flowers, sat with downcast eyes beside him, looking every inch the demure maiden. Later, though, when they were alone, she would have plenty to say about the guests. She could be surprisingly insightful and was very clever in her way, something Sir Rheged, like most men, failed to appreciate. The other nobles at the high table—lords of importance in the south and London—appeared to be well sated with food and drink. Old Lord Russford at the far end was already dozing in his chair.
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