The Welshman's Bride

by Margaret Moore

  She followed his gaze and realized that there did seem to be some bustle behind the merlons on the castle walls.

  Dylan nudged his horse to a walk, and she followed suit. Together they made their way along the well-kept road, until he pulled his mount to a stop just inside the wood, which was very small. It was also very sparse since the trees were not in leaf.

  “I...I cannot change my clothing here.”

  He looked around. “This is the last place before any of my people’s lodgings. I think you look lovely as you are, but if you want to put on the other dress, it will have to be here.”

  She flushed at his compliment, but it could not subvert the anxiety that had taken hold of her at the thought of her arrival at Beaufort as the unexpected, unknown wife of the lord. “I shall put on the dress.”

  Dylan dismounted and came to help her but she had already gotten off the mare by herself.

  “I hope it is not too wrinkled,” she said, biting her lip as she went toward the mule.

  “I am no lady’s maid to be packing gowns.”

  He spoke as if her uneasiness were only a childish indulgence.

  With swift, annoyed motions, she tried to undo the knot in the rope holding the baggage to the mule.

  “There is no need for that,” Dylan said behind her.

  He stepped in front of her and, in a few deft movements, had the lid open, for the chest was bound to the mule not by the rope encircling it but by bindings tied through the leather handles at the sides. “And here is the green gown right on the top.”

  He pulled it out, and she noted with relief that it wasn’t any more wrinkled than it would have been if packed away by an expert.

  “I would suggest behind that bush, my lady.”

  She glanced over her shoulder where he had gestured with his head and saw a thick holly bush. “Very well.”

  He held out the gown, but when she went to take it, he didn’t let go right away. “It takes more than a gown to make a lady.”

  “But a fine gown helps,” she retorted as she marched toward the holly bush.

  She wanted everyone in Beaufort to know she came from a fine and wealthy family. She had not spend eight long years with Lady Katherine learning to be the chatelaine of a castle only to look like a poor pilgrim when she first entered her husband’s home.

  She wanted everyone to respect her, too.

  She knew her looks were against her in that regard, with her blond curls, blue eyes and rosy complexion. For a long time at Lady Katherine’s, all the other girls had treated her as a sort of pet, and at first that had been more than acceptable, for it meant they indulged and spoiled her. Even the strict and stern Lady Katherine seemed to loosen some of her rules for Genevieve.

  Yet as she had grown into womanhood, it had dawned on her that to be spoiled and petted was to be treated as a sort of perpetual child, incapable of adult decisions.

  Perhaps, she reflected as she made her way behind the sharply pointed, dark green leaves, she had even believed that a little herself, or she might have found the strength to protest her betrothal instead of resorting to the method she had chosen.

  She removed the detested brown dress and threw it over the bush. It crossed her mind to leave it there as she drew on the lovely green gown, but that would not be practical.

  She adjusted the bodice of her gown, and stretched, trying to tie the laces. They were not within easy reach, and as she twisted and turned like an eel in a sack, she suddenly heard a series of yells and shrill shrieks.

  Childish yells and girlish shrieks, she realized even as she shoved her way through the thorny holly—to see Dylan wrestling with two ragged urchins apparently intent on pummeling him into submission, while a little girl about five years old jumped up and down, and clapped her hands with glee.

  “Stop! Stop this!” Genevieve cried.

  Other young ladies left to the tender care of Lady Katherine would have recognized the tone Genevieve unconsciously mimicked, and likewise halted.

  The boys, who looked about ten and eight years old, and a disheveled Dylan, straightened. Her lordly husband had a sheepish grin on his face, and his eyes twinkled with unsuppressed merriment.

  Both dark-haired boys would have been good-looking if they had been clean, Genevieve thought as they regarded her gravely, their gazes uncomfortably suspicious and intense. The little girl, whose hair was a rather shockingly bright red, stuck a finger in her mouth and stared at her with undisguised curiosity.

  “What is going on here?” she demanded, wondering how these ragamuffins could have the gall to behave in this bizarre manner unless they were not quite right in the head.

  Dylan laid a hand on the older, brown-eyed boy’s shoulder. “This is Trefor.”

  He put his other hand on the gray-eyed lad’s head. “this is Arthur.”

  He smiled at the girl. “And that little darling is Gwethalyn.”

  He looked at Genevieve. “These are my children.”

  Chapter Seven

  Dylan’s hand gripped Trefor’s shoulder so hard, his son twisted away.

  It was not that Dylan was ashamed of his children—not at all—but he had hoped to tell Genevieve about them in his own way.

  Indeed, he had meant to do it on the journey to Beaufort, but she had not been feeling well. Then they had fallen into the stream and she had been annoyed—hardly the frame of mind he wanted this highborn Norman lady to be in when he told her that he was credited with three children born out of wedlock, by three different women.

  Then he had thought to do so when they neared the castle. Unfortunately, he had not expected the children to be lying in wait to meet him, especially this late in the day.

  This late in the day. He looked at Trefor, and away from Genevieve’s startled face. “How is it your mother lets you run about the woods with the sun setting, eh? And Arthur and Gwethalyn’s mothers, too. Do none of them have a care what could have happened if I was late or had decided to stay an extra day at Craig Fawr? You would have been benighted in the woods!”

  “Mothers?” Genevieve asked weakly, with a slight emphasis on the plural.

  Dylan bit back a curse. He should have spoken Welsh.

  “Who is she?” Gwethalyn demanded in lisping Welsh, not for a moment taking her steadfast gaze from Genevieve, or at least Genevieve’s clothes.

  “This is Lady Genevieve,” he replied, this time in their native tongue, glancing at his wife.

  He noted that Genevieve was apparently so stunned, she had not realized her bodice was still undone, the neckline gaping. “My bride.”

  “What?” the boys cried simultaneously, and in obvious disbelief.

  “I will tell you all about it when we get home.”

  “Mothers—more than one?” Genevieve repeated with more assertion.

  “I will explain.”

  “I should think so.”

  He almost scowled at her, but at nearly the same moment, she realized that her shift was showing. She grabbed the neck of her bodice and pulled it up, a bright blush stealing over her smooth cheeks.

  “I require some assistance, my lord,” she said haughtily. “I cannot reach the laces.”

  Dylan glanced at his sons and saw that they were regarding her with a mixture of shock, dismay and curiosity.

  Why not? With her blond hair, expensive gown and the additional fascination of being their father’s bride, why should they not stare?

  “Is she a princess?” Gwethalyn asked in an awestruck whisper.

  “No, a Norman,” Dylan replied as he went toward Genevieve. He stepped behind her. “You boys may ride my horse, if you like.”

  As he assisted her, he had to force himself to keep his mind on her laces, not the expanse of naked neck and back before him that seemed to cry out for his kiss or caress.

  The boys stopped staring and ran toward his stallion. Trefor got there first, his legs being longer. He had a struggle to get onto the beast’s back, however. Arthur, competitive from the cradle
, kept tugging on his leg.

  “Trefor, help him up behind you,” Dylan ordered. “You may be in the front halfway, then he shall have a turn—and don’t make that face at me, or I’ll speak to your mother.”

  Sulking, Trefor reached down his hand and pulled Arthur into place.

  Genevieve marched to her horse and got on it without waiting for his assistance, so he scooped up the little Gwethalyn and grinned at her.

  “You may ride the mule,” he said, putting her atop the beast, “and if you look in that little bag there, you will find something from Lady Roanna for you.”

  Gwethalyn’s smile was like sunshine after rain. Genevieve had a lovely smile, too, but, reflected Dylan, it might be some time before he saw that again, if her manner was any indication.

  “We can go in a moment,” he said, hurrying to the holly bush.

  He gathered up Genevieve’s brown dress and her cloak. “I think you are forgetting something, my lady.”

  “Not as much as you have, apparently.”

  He strode toward her horse and, without warning, threw the garments at her. She caught them deftly, something that didn’t help his mood, although he would have been equally annoyed had they landed on the ground.

  Then he went to the head of her horse and grabbed the bridle.

  “Lead the way, Trefor,” he commanded, trying not to sound angry, for he was not annoyed with them. “Arthur, keep an eye on Gwethalyn.”

  He switched to Norman French. “I didn’t forget my children.”

  “Just to tell me about them,” Genevieve pointed out as she tried to keep the garments from falling to the ground. She managed to lay the gown over her knees.

  She was not at all happy to have yet another reminder—and such a reminder!—of how little she knew of her husband.

  “What’s the matter? Don’t you like children?”

  “Yes, of course I do,” she snapped as she tried to get the cloak over her shoulders.

  “Good. I want us to have a lot of them.”

  She flushed hotly as she attempted, with suddenly clumsy fingers, to tie her cloak around her neck.

  Then she thought of a reason he might not have mentioned the mothers of these children and wished she could call back her words. “Did their mothers... die?”

  His harsh bark of a laugh startled her. “No. They are all in fine health.”

  He gave her a searching glance over his shoulder, then faced forward again. “I have never been married before. Trefor’s mother is Angharad, a seamstress in the village. Arthur’s mother is Mair, who makes ale, and Gwethalyn’s mam is Llannulid. She recently married my steward.”

  “Then these children are all...?”

  “Bastards?” he proposed with a hint of bitterness, again glancing at her over his shoulder. “Aye, like their father.”

  “Then I should think you, of all men, might have some reasons to avoid producing them.”

  He halted and faced her. “There is something you had better understand at once, my lady. In Wales, it is no sin to love a woman, and if a child is a result, no shame to mother or children, whether in wedlock or no, as long as the man doesn’t abandon his responsibility toward them.”

  “Obviously your notion of responsibility does not include lawful marriage.”

  He turned back and started walking again, without answering.

  She hated being ignored, as if she was not worthy of answer, yet in this instance, she took his haughty silence as evidence that he appreciated that while his behavior may not be shameful to him, or his women, or his children, she thought very differently. “Perhaps it is your intention to increase the population of your estate singlehandedly.”

  He wheeled around and in two strides was beside her. “The children are taught your tongue, but so far they have been spared Norman arrogance, so I would watch what comes from that pretty mouth of yours. They will find out soon enough what the Normans think of bastards, as I did, but I would spare them that knowledge as long as I can.”

  Her gaze faltered. In truth, she had not thought of the children at all.

  And in one sense he was right. It was not the children’s fault their father was what he was, and that their mothers cared so little for their honor, or their own happiness. Surely they had been saddened when he left each of them for another.

  What would they think of her, his wife?

  “I am glad you see the error of your ways,” he muttered, clearly interpreting her silence as contrition before he resumed leading her horse toward their destination.

  “But do you see the error of yours?” she whispered, thinking not just of his bastard children, but of their mothers, who must have been heartbroken when their liaison with Dylan was at an end.

  Their arrival in the village was cause for much boisterous shouting and greeting, both on the part of the villagers, and Dylan and his children. As for the village itself, it seemed prosperous enough, although laid out in a most random fashion, with no central green or other meeting area.

  Perhaps the courtyard of the castle served this function, she reasoned.

  Her dismay grew as they approached the hulking gray stone edifice that dominated the village and the river below it.

  From the surrounding hill, all seemed neat and efficient; upon closer viewing, this proved to be an illusion.

  As they entered, followed by a crowd of villagers and what looked like soldiers who had deserted their sentry posts, she surveyed the buildings, comparing them to her uncle’s castle, and others she had seen. It appeared that Beaufort castle was at its best viewed from a distance.

  The main buildings of Beaufort were excellent, in and of themselves—well—built of stone, large and strong. Additions had been made, however, of wattle-and-daub, and these seemed to be in immediate need of repair and maintenance. The area outside the stable was muddy and messy, the roof covering the well decrepit, and a haphazard pile of wood was on the ground outside what she assumed was the kitchen, exposed to the elements.

  More startling, perhaps, was the sudden appearance of what might have been every servant and hireling in the place. Did they not have duties to perform?

  Dylan, however, seemed to find nothing wrong with this impromptu celebration; indeed, he called out jovial responses and looked happier than she had seen him since...since before their wedding.

  Genevieve also watched the gathering crowd, and would never have admitted, even to herself, that her gaze sought out women who looked of an age to be the mothers of Dylan’s children.

  Nearly at the stables, Dylan tossed her mare’s rein to a waiting stable boy as his sons slid from the back of his horse. It was clear they were enjoying immensely all the attention they were receiving.

  Genevieve waited expectantly for Dylan to assist her.

  He lifted Gwethalyn from the mule instead. She immediately ran to a pretty young woman with raven hair and dark brown eyes, a woman who hugged her close and smiled at Dylan.

  That must be the girl’s mother with the outlandish, unpronounceable name, Genevieve decided.

  She wondered if the boys would also go to their respective mothers, but before she could see where they went, Dylan came to stand beside her mare.

  “Shall I assist you, my lady?” he asked politely.

  She nodded regally and allowed him to do so. Surrounded by the curious crowd, she found it easier to ignore the sensation of his hands on her waist, especially since she was determined to act with all the dignity she could muster.

  Dylan smiled at her, but she saw the searching look in his eyes before he took her hand and turned to address the people.

  She had no idea what he said, except for her name, but it was easy to guess by the startled looks on their faces. He had announced he had brought home a wife.

  She tried to betray nothing. To look composed. To act as if she married immoral, dark-haired, seductive Welshmen every day.

  Then, after what seemed an age, the crowd started to applaud and stamp their feet, shouting out “D
y-lan! Dy-lan!”

  Grinning, he gave her a sidelong glance and his grip tightened around her hand.

  “Smile,” he admonished in a whisper. “You look like you’re at a wake.”

  “You’re hurting me,” she chastised quietly through clenched teeth as she nevertheless obeyed.

  His grip relaxed slightly as he turned to her, and now she could not read the expression in his dark brown eyes.

  “Welcome to Beaufort, my lady.”

  Dylan had not expected Genevieve to be utterly delighted when she arrived at Beaufort. The highly unusual circumstances surrounding their marriage would ensure that, if nothing else.

  However, did she have to look as if she would rather be anywhere else in the entire world? Or as if their reception, so pleasing to him, was cause for contempt?

  He reminded himself that she did not have the reason he did to be so happy with his people’s boisterous welcome; nevertheless, she had no cause to be so obviously displeased, either.

  As he led her toward his hall, he surveyed his castle. To be sure, there could be some improvements, but it was a fine place, well made and nearly impregnable.

  Of course, she had had a great shock when Trefor, Arthur and Gwethalyn had appeared and she had learned who they were—but then so had he, when he had awoken to find her in his bed and her irate uncle about to attack him.

  Or perhaps this haughty Norman was used to being the center of attention, and begrudged him his welcome for that reason alone.

  Well, she would simply have to get used to that. After all, if there was anyone who deserved to be in a bad humor, it was the man who had been tricked into marriage, not the woman who had tricked him.

  And for a woman who had claimed she wanted to make a good first impression, she seemed abysmally ignorant of how to achieve that goal.

  They entered his hall. Around the central hearth, the bare tables were set for the evening meal, placed with no particular regard for order. Some linen beyond the usual well-worn napkins might have been nice, but he could not fault his servants. They had had little warning, save from the escort sent on ahead, that he was bringing home a bride.