The Welshman's Bride

by Margaret Moore

  “Why must it be so? It doesn’t seem right.”

  She saw that her forceful words startled him. “I know such a match is not unusual, and I know my marriage to Lord Kirkheathe pleases my uncle, who is my guardian now, yet I wish I were not betrothed.”

  When Dylan answered, he sounded as sad as she felt, and his hand squeezed hers. “But you are.”

  “I wish I could stay.”

  “I wish you could, too,” he replied softly, reaching up to caress her cheek.

  “Is there nothing to be done?”

  “I fear there is not, my lady. We must say our farewells. Let us do so here, where we can be alone.”

  Her eyes welled with tears. “I do not want to say farewell.”

  “Then do not,” he whispered, bending his head to kiss her.

  For a fleeting instant, it crossed Genevieve’s mind that she should not allow such a liberty.

  Yet she could not stop him, or herself. She wrapped her arms around him and leaned against him as she lost herself in the wonderful sensations his lips engendered.

  Dylan shifted closer, moving his hands into the warmth of her cloak to hold her in his arms. He caressed her slim back as his kiss deepened.

  Engulfed in the pleasure of their embrace, he let himself drift on a sea of delightful perceptions. The perfect softness of her lips. The slight arch in her back. The brush of the fur lining on the backs of his hands.

  Her lips parted ever so slightly, and he needed no more invitation to push his tongue gently between them. As he did so, he moved his hand to cup the malleable flesh of her breast.

  As her tongue boldly intertwined with his, she made a sound in the back of her throat, half moan, half whimper.

  The small noise broke the spell, and reminded him who she was, as well as what she was.

  Despite her responses, she was Lady Genevieve Perronet, the betrothed of Lord Kirkheathe, niece of stern Lord Pomphrey Perronet, and on her way to be married.

  With more reluctance than he cared to acknowledge even to himself, Dylan pulled away and tried to smile as he looked at her. The corona of blond curls that clustered around her heart-shaped face was a little disheveled. Her cheeks glowed, and her bold, blue-eyed gaze seemed to transfix him and render him speechless.

  As well as fill him with a burning desire.

  He did not want to talk, let alone say a farewell.

  He pulled her onto his lap. No tender, tentative kiss this time, but a passionate taking of her mouth. She responded with equal fervor, clutching him as if she never wanted to let go. With increasing need, he stroked and caressed her, drawing forth small moans and sighs that spurred him on, as the shifting movement of her body increased his arousal.

  Usually, he preferred to take his time and linger over every delightful step on the path. Here, now, with this young woman who looked so innocent yet who kissed with such wanton abandon, he simply could not wait.

  Still kissing her, he fumbled with the ties of her cloak, determined to undo it Finally, with a low growl of both want and frustration, he tore the strings and shoved it from her shoulders. He did the same at the back of her bodice, until it was loose enough for his hands to travel inside to the warm, satiny flesh.

  She gasped when he touched her, then arched, another moan breaking from her slender throat.

  He kissed her there, too.

  “Dylan,” she whispered fervently, her breasts rising and falling rapidly. “I... I must go.”

  Even then, she cupped his face with her palms and pressed more kisses upon his cheek.

  “Stay,” he murmured, grinding his hips in response to the pressure of her buttocks.

  One hand left the confines of her bodice and went to her ankle. He began to slowly push her skirt higher, his hand running up her slim bare leg.

  He had to possess her.

  The bell that summoned the servants to the evening meal began to ring.

  Dylan went still as a stone when he realized what he had been about to do. With a betrothed lady. In his aunt’s rose garden.

  He had not even intended to kiss her. He had thought only to say a brief and suitably touching farewell in the garden before this evening’s feast.

  He had meant every word he said to Griffydd. His flirtation with Genevieve Perronet was just that: a flirtation. A bit of meaningless fun while they were at Craig Fawr.

  He simply had not been prepared for the startling intensity in her eyes as she had looked at him, or the extreme sadness in her voice as she spoke of leaving. Nor had he at all anticipated the fire of passion in her willing kiss.

  Anwyl, he, a man who had been intimate with a number of women and fathered children by some of them, had never guessed shy, demure Genevieve Perronet possessed the power to be so astonishingly arousing.

  Appalled by his lack of self-control, he gently pushed her off his lap and stood. “Forgive me, my lady.”

  Her hair more disheveled than ever, her lips swollen from his kisses, her cheeks red and her bodice loose about her body, she regarded him with obvious confusion.

  He tugged his tunic back into place, then strode to the gate. His hand on the latch, he paused and glanced back, to see that Genevieve had pulled her cloak around her shoulders.

  “Farewell,” he said softly, and then he opened the gate and left her.

  That evening at the feast, Genevieve anxiously searched for Dylan DeLanyea. She had to be subtle about it, for her uncle was sitting beside her. Although her hawklike relative seemed most interested in discussing matters of state with the other nobles around him, he was not ignoring her.

  The comfortable hall was filled with fine and titled men and their wives, both Norman and Welsh: the Baron DeGuerre, Sir Urien Fitzroy, Sir Hu Morgan, Sir Roger de Montmorency, to name but a few. Their host was quite well-known in his own right, and rather fearsome to look at, Genevieve thought, with his scarred face, one eye and limping gait.

  The women of Craig Fawr were friendly and seemed quite nice, except perhaps for Griffydd DeLanyea’s bride. Seona was with child again, and it seemed she was having a difficult time. Perhaps that was due to the fact that her second pregnancy came so hard upon her first, for her infant son was not yet a year old. Still, Genevieve envied her the children, and looked forward to the day she would be a mother.

  She also envied her hostess, who seemed to be everything that Lady Katherine said a chatelaine should be: kind, competent, pleasant. Everything at Craig Fawr was well-regulated and comfortable, too. Genevieve sighed and hoped that she would be so successful when it was her time to take on such duties.

  The center of most people’s attention tonight, however, was Trystan DeLanyea. Like all the DeLanyea men, he was comely. He shared Dylan’s dark, curling hair, worn to his shoulders in the manner of his father, brother and cousin, so that altogether, they reminded Genevieve of a band of savage Celts. Trystan also shared Dylan’s sensual lips, although he did not smile as much. He lacked his cousin’s snapping black eyes, possessing instead the grave, gray eyes of his older brother.

  So, Genevieve mused as she regarded him, he was young and handsome, but he did not fascinate her, not as Dylan did.

  She had been rather astonished to think that Dy-lan was not already married, but perhaps, she thought with a secret, satisfied smile, he had never met the right woman before.

  She wondered where he was. She knew he was still at Craig Fawr. She would have heard if he had ridden out, for he came with a troop of ten men, although his own castle, Beaufort, was not very far away.

  It had to be love she felt for him, she told herself. She seemed to melt whenever he looked at her with his passionate dark eyes, and when he kissed her... there were no words to describe what she felt then.

  And he must love her, too, to embrace her as he had in the garden.

  Of course, they had perhaps gone a little far, but that only proved that he returned her love. He had looked so sorry when he stopped and even more when he said farewell. If he did not come to the feast, she
didn’t doubt it was because he thought their situation hopeless, since she was betrothed to Lord Kirkheathe.

  “We will leave at first light,” her uncle said beside her, momentarily drawing her attention away from her silent search. “Be ready.”

  “Yes, Uncle.”

  “The journey to Lord Kirkheathe’s estates should take a sennight.”

  Genevieve nodded her head—then her heart seemed to stop, for Dylan was there, seated half-hidden by a pillar in the vast hall. No wonder she had not been able to see him before.

  Looking at Dylan, she knew she could never marry Lord Kirkheathe now. She started to raise her hand in greeting, then glanced at her uncle.

  Better, perhaps, if she made no sign.

  Despite her conviction, her uncle was an ambitious, unsympathetic man who would never understand her feelings—but something had to be done to prevent her arranged marriage.

  Again, her gaze strayed toward the dark-haired warrior. Even his smile was enough to make her heart race and her mind recall how his lips felt upon her own.

  Her breath caught in her throat as he looked her way, but he did not meet her gaze. Instead, he turned away, a slightly troubled frown on his handsome face.

  Because he was as upset as she was at the possibility of her marriage to another, Genevieve didn’t doubt. He must feel it too painful even to look at her.

  Yes, something had to be done to prevent her marriage to Lord Kirkheathe. Dylan, being an honorable man, would not seek to do so.

  She, therefore, must, she decided.

  She, therefore, would.

  Chapter Two

  “By God, I’ll kill you!”

  Still half-asleep and completely naked, Dylan rolled over and stared at the enraged Lord Perronet at the door of his bedchamber.

  The man’s face was as red as a cherry and—most surprising of all—he was fumbling for the sword at his side.

  Now wide-awake, Dylan reached for his own weapon, which should have been beside his bed. He halted in stunned shock as his hand encountered an unexpected mound.

  That moved.

  “Uncle?” Genevieve Perronet said as she sat up, holding the coverings over herself.

  It was obvious that beneath those coverings, she was as naked as he.

  “Anwyl!” he cried. “What—?”

  “Varlet! Churl! I’m going to kill you for what you’ve done!” Lord Perronet roared, finally succeeding in drawing his sword.

  Realizing the man seriously intended to attack him, Dylan leapt from the bed and frantically searched for his weapon.

  What had he done with it last night?

  What had he done last night, period!

  He spotted his sword belt slung over the chair in the comrner and lunged for it as Lord Perronet charged toward him.

  Genevieve screamed. Dylan grabbed his sheath and drew his sword, whirling around and jumping out of the way of Perronet’s blow without a moment to spare.

  “Stop! Uncle, please! Stop!” Genevieve cried.

  “Quiet, woman!” Perronet bellowed.

  Dylan crouched in a defensive stance, ignoring Genevieve and keeping his gaze firmly on his opponent. He could tell Lord Perronet had not wielded a sword in some time. Nevertheless, even an unskilled man could be dangerous with a heavy broadsword.

  “Dylan, my love, don’t hurt him!”

  Dylan glanced at Genevieve, then back to her enraged uncle. “Put up your sword, my lord, for I warn you, I will defend myself.”

  “You defiler of women! Base, despicable lout!” Perronet shouted. “I should have known! Your father was the same, and his father before him!”

  A muscle in Dylan’s jaw started to twitch. “Be careful what you say to me, old man. I don’t want to hurt you, but I’ll kill you if you insult me again.”

  “It is you who have insulted the honor of my family!” Perronet cried. “Your family hasn’t had any honor in a hundred years!”

  “Shut it, Perronet, or God help me, I’ll run you through!”

  “Dylan! Uncle!”

  “Do you think everyone’s forgotten about your lout of a father, you bastard?” Perronet snarled as they circled each other. “We all know the stories of his rapes and thievery and dishonor! A scoundrel from a line of scoundrels—and you are just the same!”

  With a bellow like an angry bear, Dylan lifted his sword to strike.

  “Please, don’t!” Genevieve shouted.

  Dylan hesitated at her distressed plea, and in that moment, Perronet moved out of range of Dylan’s blow.

  “What in the name of God is going on?” Baron DeLanyea demanded from the door.

  The combatants ignored the baron and continued to circle each other warily.

  “Baron DeLanyea!” Genevieve cried, relieved by his presence, for surely her uncle and the man she loved would not come to blows if the baron interceded.

  The baron looked at her, the brow over his remaining eye rising with surprise, and she modestly pulled the bedclothes up to her chin.

  She had been expecting some kind of confrontation between her uncle and Dylan. That was necessary—but she had never imagined that her uncle would try to kill him.

  “I said,” the baron repeated in a voice as firm and cold as iron, “what is going on?”

  “Your nephew has seduced my niece!” Perronet replied. “That rogue of a bastard has ruined her!”

  The baron ran his gaze over Genevieve again, and this time, she thought she saw something other than surprise and dismay.

  Disrespect?

  She flushed hotly at that notion, but told herself there was no help for it. She had to break the betrothal with Lord Kirkheathe and sneaking into Dy-lan’s bed had seemed the easiest way.

  Of course, it would not be without some damage to her reputation, but that would happen however she contrived to break the betrothal.

  “Dylan, is this true?” the baron asked with amazing calm, given the circumstances.

  “No! I have no idea how she came to be in my bed!”

  “You do not know?”

  “You lying bastard!” Perronet charged.

  “Say that again, and I will kill you,” Dylan growled.

  Wrapping herself in the bedclothes, for her folded clothes were on a chest on the other side of the room, Genevieve clambered from the bed. “Please, don’t fight. This can be settled—”

  “Look there! What more evidence do you need?” Perronet demanded, pointing with his sword to the dried drops of blood Genevieve had squeezed from her pricked fingertip onto the bottom sheet.

  “We will simply have to be married,” Genevieve said.

  “What?” Dylan gasped, lowering his sword and staring at her, wide-eyed with...horror?

  Her stomach knotted. “Yes. You love me. I love you. We...we spent the night together. We have to be married.”

  He shook his head, his angry gaze boring into her. “Oh, no, we don’t.”

  Now truly dismayed and fearful, she stammered, “You...you kissed me...and...”

  “Quiet, Genevieve!” her uncle commanded as he marched toward the baron. “Your nephew, who is, I understand, also your foster son, has basely used and deceived my niece. What are you going to do about it?”

  “Nothing—at the moment,” the baron replied just as calmly. “I suggest we let them get dressed and then we can discuss this...situation...in a more rational manner.

  “Without swords,” he finished pointedly.

  “She’s right. They’ll have to be married,” Perronet declared. “Lord Kirkheathe—”

  The baron held up his hand, silencing him. “Please, Lord Perronet, let us take some time to calm ourselves. Then we can decide how best to proceed.”

  Her uncle hesitated, then sheathed his sword while continuing to regard Dylan disdainfully. “Because you ask it of me. Baron, I will. But that whelp will make amends!”

  With that, he reached out and grabbed Genevieve roughly by the arm.

  “Come along, girl!” he growled, pulli
ng her toward the door.

  “My dress—”

  “Leave it!” he snarled as he all but dragged her past the baron.

  Dylan raised his sword again and took a step forward.

  “Let them go,” the baron commanded. “Did you hear me, Dylan? Let them go!”

  “He cannot treat her that way!”

  “Get dressed.”

  Dylan glanced down at his naked body. Without another word, he threw his sword on the bed and picked up his breeches, which were lying on the floor. He looked around for his tunic, noticing the unfamiliar clothing on the chest

  Not unfamiliar, he corrected, for he recognized the gown Genevieve had worn last evening at the banquet, when he had done his best to avoid her.

  He spotted his tunic stung over the chair and yanked it on.

  “No matter what she’s done, he shouldn’t have been so rough with her,” he muttered before he stuck his head out of the garment.

  “Her uncle has the right to treat her as he sees fit,” the baron replied, coming farther into the room. “What rights have you been enjoying?”

  “Not that! I don’t know how she got in my bed.”

  With a sinking heart, Dylan noted the skeptical quirk of the baron’s lips as he sat in the chair. He looked like a king about to dispense judgment.

  He suddenly wished the baron’s wife were there. Lady Roanna’s serenity would be welcome at a time like this. Unfortunately, the baron’s ancient nurse was very ill; Lady Roanna had been tending to her when she was not involved in the preparations for the festivities surrounding Trystan’s knighting.

  “He called me a bastard, that cur,” Dylan said defensively.

  “You are a bastard,” the baron replied evenly.

  “I know that!” Dylan replied. “But he had no right to impugn my honor.”

  “He thinks he does, and the evidence is against you.”

  “Don’t you think I would remember having a beauty like Genevieve Perronet in my arms?” Dy-lan protested, his arms akimbo. “I didn’t make love with her!”

  “Sit down,” the baron ordered, pointing at the bed.

  Dylan didn’t like the coldness of his uncle’s tone.