The Welshman's Bride

by Margaret Moore

  Panting, Dylan pressed a soft kiss on her lips. She opened her eyes to watch him as he ever so slowly pulled away.

  He got up and retrieved the coverings, which had become a heap at the end of the bed. Throwing them over her, then getting beneath them, he raised himself on his elbow and smiled at her. “I wouldn’t want you to be getting another chill.”

  She snuggled against him.

  “Then you must keep me warm,” she murmured.

  “Gladly, wife, gladly.”

  She smiled happily, her head against his slowly rising and falling chest.

  She had not known it would be so wonderful, she mused with a contented sigh. If she had, she would not have cast so harsh a judgment on Cecily, or even Dylan’s other lovers. She could not blame them for wanting to be with her husband.

  Her husband. How wonderful that sounded. Now, she was glad she had gotten into his bed at Craig Fawr, although, she thought with a merry little grin, if she had known then what she knew now, she would have wakened him as soon as she joined him.

  She glanced up at his handsome face, and realized he had fallen asleep.

  She continued to study him. In his sleep, he looked younger, and almost innocent. So he might have looked to his first lover. What was her name? Angharad, Trefor’s mother.

  At least she assumed Angharad was his first. Perhaps there had been another, when he was even younger. That seemed difficult to believe...or perhaps not.

  Perhaps there had been others who had not given him a child.

  It didn’t matter, she told herself, for she believed what he said.

  She rested her hand on her stomach and thought instead of the children she would gladly give him.

  Raised on one elbow, Dylan watched Genevieve as she slept, her naked back to him, the rest of her hidden beneath the coverings. Her shoulder rose and fell with her deep, even breathing.

  He regarded the corona of her hair, darker in the dim light. It was so soft, like her skin. His gaze traveled from there to the slope of her shoulder, the curve of it reminding him of her other womanly curves.

  The early-morning light, diffused through the linen shutter, made this seem almost a pleasant dream.

  He sighed softly. This had come about in such an odd—nay, miraculous—fashion.

  Yes, miraculous seemed the better word. Without expectation, without planning, without anything except, perhaps, the guidance of God, he had found a wife he could cherish.

  A wife he could love.

  Pleased beyond measure at that thought, he let his finger slide ever so slowly along her bare arm toward her shoulder.

  She sat up abruptly, brushing at her arm, a look of panic on her face.

  “I’m sorry!” he cried, distressed by her unexpected reaction even as part of his mind registered the sight of her perfect breasts. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  She sighed and smiled slightly before pulling up the covers, just punishment for shocking her, he supposed.

  “You are not used to sleeping with someone, no doubt,” he said.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “You are?”

  “Of course. At Lady Katherine’s we all had to share.”

  An image, terribly immoral yet incredibly arousing, momentarily boggled Dylan’s mind.

  Genevieve drew up her knees and wrapped her arms around them. “Once, when I was sleeping, one of the girls put a beetle on my arm.”

  She made a face of extreme disgust. “By the time I woke up, it was nearly at my face. I screamed and screamed. Lady Katherine came running as if her house was afire.”

  “Was she angry?”

  Genevieve made a wry smile that utterly charmed him. “I told her I had a bad dream. And I did many times, after that. I used to dream giant beetles were chasing me. To eat me.”

  She shuddered, which told him he must and should put his arms around her, so he did. “That was cruel of that girl.”

  Genevieve shrugged. “Cecily was like that. She thought it very funny.”

  “Did she want you to get in trouble?”

  Even the way Genevieve cocked her head to look at him delighted him this morning.

  “I don’t think so,” she replied thoughtfully. “I don’t believe Cecily thought much beyond the immediate effect. She was not a very imaginative young lady.”

  “She doesn’t sound like my idea of a lady at all, frightening you like that.”

  Genevieve regarded him with some surprise, her brow furrowed. “I thought you would have been the kind of boy who often played tricks on people.”

  He shook his head gravely. “Not I, my lady. I was a perfect little angel.”

  Her expression was distinctly dubious, and he had to grin. “Well, I got into a little trouble—but only because I was such a brave, bold lad, you understand.”

  “Of course,” she agreed, her expression grave, but her eyes twinkling merrily. “I daresay you were so brave and bold you were never punished, and your father secretly rewarded you.”

  Suddenly, and without a word, he got out of the warm and cozy bed. She immediately recalled what little she had heard of his past and wished she could call back her reference to his father. “Forgive me! I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  He pulled on his breeches, and he sighed. “No, forgive me. I haven’t told you about my father, so how could you know?”

  “Lady Roanna told me a little.”

  “Did she? What, exactly?”

  “That your father and grandfather were selfish and cruel.”

  “They were that.”

  “Were they cruel to you?”

  He sat on the bed, giving her a somewhat strained and weary smile. “Thank the good Lord, they never got the chance. I never knew my father. He died before I was born.”

  She could think of no reply beyond leaning forward and kissing him gently.

  At least, she meant it to be that way, but as always, the moment her lips met his, her passion took command. And he responded in kind.

  In another moment, his breeches were again a rumpled heap on the floor beside the bed, and in the next, soft sounds of passionate desire filled the stone chamber.

  “Anwyl!”

  Genevieve opened her eyes to see Dylan yanking on his breeches, and slowly became aware of the oddest sound issuing from the hall below.

  She sighed, still languid from making love. “What is it?”

  “They’re drunk, the lot of them.”

  She sat up rather gingerly and glanced at the window. “What o’clock is it?”

  He rose and went to get his tunic. “Nearly noon, I should think. Have you ever heard such noise?”

  “They should be at their work,” she agreed.

  He picked up his tunic and gave her a surprised look. “Work? The day after I return with a bride?”

  “Yes, work. I thought that was why you were angry.”

  “It’s the singing. Terrible! An insult to a Welshman’s ears, like dogs howling at the moon.”

  “Oh.”

  “Will you join me for something to eat?”

  “Since no one has brought us anything here, I suppose I should.”

  “I told Cait no one was to disturb us this morning.”

  “Oh,” she answered, blushing, as she slowly got out of bed.

  It didn’t help that he simply stood and watched her.

  “Would you get me a shift?” she asked.

  “What’s wrong with the one you wore last night?” His lips turned up into a smile that was perilously close to a leer. “I like that one.”

  “It is too good for every day.”

  “But I like it,” he repeated in a low, seductive tone.

  “I fear every time you look at me, you will be unable to concentrate on your duties.”

  “You’ve learned something of me already,” he said with mock seriousness.

  “Please get me another shift,” she asked as she went to the washstand.

  “If you insist.”

  “I do. And m
y dark blue gown with scarlet trim, if you can find it.”

  She half expected him to tell her to wear that awful brown thing, but he didn’t Instead, she jumped when she felt his hands running up her arms.

  “I wish you didn’t have to get dressed at all,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her shoulder.

  She swallowed hard. “Yes, well, it would cause quite a stir in the hall if I went down naked.”

  He kissed her neck. “You could stay here. In bed.”

  She sighed and leaned back against him. “But then my duties would be neglected.”

  “There hasn’t been a chatelaine here since my grandmother died.”

  “There is now.”

  “No one would miss you.”

  She stiffened. “Would you have me stay cooped up in this room all day?”

  He turned her to face him, an apologetic look on his face. “Only joking, me. I meant no offense.” He smiled his charming smile. “I fear I am a selfish beast. I want to keep you all to myself.”

  It was hard to be angry at him when he looked at her that way. “As long as you were only teasing. I want to be a proper chatelaine, Dylan. That’s what I was taught to do.”

  He kissed her lightly on the forehead. “I’m sure you will be.”

  “Did you get my shift?”

  He smote himself on the forehead and reeled backward. “Anwyl, it slipped my mind! Right away, my lady.”

  “You’ll fall and hurt yourself!” she chided, trying not to laugh, which would surely only encourage his antics.

  “I am too nimble.”

  He started to do what might have been a jig, but he stumbled into the stool. He almost tripped over it, yet managed to right himself before she could help him.

  “See?” he said, panting. “Like a tumbler I am.”

  “I would not try to make my living at such arts, if I were you. Now I had better get my garments myself, and you can see to your howling dogs.”

  “Aye, they’ve got to be silenced,” he agreed, his tone serious and his eyes laughing. “Adieu for now, Genevieve.”

  “Adieu, oh nimble one.”

  Chapter Nine

  Dylan sauntered toward the men, or at least those who were still awake and singing. More than a few lay sleeping, their heads on the table, and some in puddles of spilled ale.

  Dylan shook his head at the waste, while those still conscious spotted him and mercifully fell silent.

  Thomas, whose skinny legs looked incapable of holding him upright at the best of times, rose unsteadily and peered at Dylan somewhat doubtfully. “My lord?”

  “Aye, who else? What was that you were moaning? A dirge?”

  Thomas frowned. “A ballad.”

  “Really? It didn’t sound like any ballad I’ve ever heard.”

  The men scowled as they glanced at each other.

  “It’s the one the baron made on his way home from the Crusade,” Thomas reported:

  “You make it sound like the poor man died in a thousand agonies. I would save your singing for when you are sober if you are going to sound so bad when you’re drunk.”

  “A celebration it was.” one of the men mumbled.

  “I know you were celebrating—but must my Norman wife have such an introduction to Welsh music?”

  “Ah!” The men sighed with sudden understanding.

  “Ah, indeed,” Dylan replied. “So no more singing until you can do it right, is it?”

  They all nodded.

  “Now then, Thomas, where is Llannulid?”

  “At home, I expect.”

  “Fetch her here. I would have her show Genevieve about the castle.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  As Thomas started toward the door, his staggering steps gave Dylan a moment’s pause.

  “Thomas, perhaps—”

  “No, no, my lord, it is only that the ground is slanted just by here,” Thomas explained thickly.

  It was no more slanted than the rest of the floor, but Dylan let the matter pass. “The rest of you, go to sleep. You’re no good to me like this. I trust the sentries are not drunk,”

  “Drunk, my lord?” a thickset fellow named Ifor answered dubiously. “No...not drunk”

  But not completely sober, either, Dylan thought without rancor. He could not be too angry. They had been celebrating his wedding, after all.

  So he strolled toward the kitchen. He was starving and the smell of fresh bread coming from there made his stomach growl like a baited bear.

  He entered the enormous room dominated by a large hearth used for roasting meat or cooking soups and stews in big iron pots. At one side were the ovens made of bricks and with iron doors.

  To his surprise, only one person was there working, and that was Elidan, who baked the bread and pastries. She was a broad woman of soft flesh, as if she were made of dough herself.

  “Where is everybody?” he asked, coming to the flour-covered table where Elidan was kneading a huge mound of dough.

  Some loaves were already cooling there, and he helped himself to one.

  “In bed yet,” she replied, scarcely glancing at him.

  “My wife will want something to eat.”

  Elidan nodded at the cooling loaves. “There’s them.”

  “She may want more than that.”

  “Then I’ll need help.”

  “Fetch it.”

  Elidan glanced up. “Now?”

  “I suppose I can rouse them.”

  Elidan nodded and went back to her kneading. “She’s a Norman,” she remarked as he went to the door, “so I don’t know what kind of bread she’ll like.”

  Dylan turned back as Elidan raised her substantial fist and punched down the bread. Although muffled by the quantity of dough, the blow nevertheless made an impressive thud.

  “Bread is bread,” Dylan answered with a shrug.

  Again Elidan’s fist rose and fell. “She probably only likes the finest flour, ground white as snow, I am thinking.”

  “This is excellent bread, Elidan. I’m sure it will be good enough for her.”

  “I hope she agrees with you, my lord.”

  “She will,” he assured her.

  As he went out in search of the kitchen boys and serving maids, he hoped he had not just told a lie.

  And he wondered if Elidan was always so rough with her dough.

  “So, repeat it to them again,” Genevieve instructed Llannulid later that day as they stood in the hall together, facing the female servants. “The bread and butter, then the wine, then the roast meats or stews, then the fruit. It is as simple as that”

  Llannulid nodded her understanding and spoke in Welsh. The servants gave one another subtle, sidelong glances.

  “Do they not understand?”

  “Yes, my lady, they understood,” Llannulid answered in her high, musical voice.

  All the women had lovely voices, Genevieve reflected. She had not heard one that grated on the ear. “Good. I shall expect this order of service at every meal. If there are more than the usual courses, I will instruct them as necessary.”

  Making what she thought of as a “Lady Katherine” smile—small and perhaps a little condescending, to show who was in charge—Genevieve faced the women again.

  After Llannulid finished speaking, Genevieve waved her hand to indicate that the servants were free to go. They moved off toward the kitchen, whispering among themselves. As they left, Genevieve noticed Gwethalyn sitting on a stool nearby, watching.

  The little girl had been following her and Llannulid about all day. That wouldn’t have been a problem, in and of itself; unfortunately, the child possessed the most unnerving stare Genevieve had ever encountered.

  No, that was not quite right. Gwethalyn had her father’s intensity. As disturbing as it was in him, it was distinctly upsetting in one so young.

  “I think perhaps we have done enough for today,” Genevieve said, suddenly very tired.

  She had spent the whole day exploring the castle and its store
rooms. Her husband was obviously a prosperous lord, yet it was as if the castle were being run by children. Goods and foodstuffs were piled anywhere and everywhere in the storerooms, with no order or reason. A thief could probably make off with half of it before anybody realized anything was missing.

  Llannulid nodded and called for her daughter.

  Gwethalyn hurried toward them and took hold of her mother’s hand, still staring at Genevieve.

  Llannulid looked from her daughter to Genevieve and an apologetic smile appeared on her face. “Forgive her, my lady. She stares because she thinks you are a princess and nothing I say can change her mind”

  “It’s all right,” Genevieve assured her, for that was an undeniably flattering mistake.

  She gave Llannulid a sidelong glance. “She reminds me very much of her father, except for her hair.”

  “Yes, she is very like him,” Llannulid replied evenly. “The hair is like my mother’s.”

  Genevieve wished she had kept her mouth shut and turned away—to see a tall, statuesque, dark-haired woman standing near the entrance. The stranger wore a simple homespun gown, with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, revealing rather muscular forearms. Her face was strong-featured, yet not unattractive. Or rather, it might have been attractive if she had looked less hostile.

  Amazon. The word popped into Genevieve’s head, and she recalled hearing about the women warriors. It was very easy to imagine this woman with sword or bow.

  The woman addressed Llannulid in Welsh, although her eyes never left Genevieve.

  Genevieve stepped forward and said, with not a little scorn for the woman’s impertinence, “Llannulid, who is this?”

  “I am Angharad,” the woman replied in very good French.

  Although she hadn’t moved, Genevieve felt as if she had stumbled. After Llannulid, she had not expected the mothers of Dylan’s other children to be so...imposing.

  What was Arthur’s mother like—another Boadicea, or like Llannulid?

  She told herself it didn’t matter, because she was Dylan’s wife. “Is there something you require?”

  With a smug smile on her face, Angharad shook her head. “No, my lady. Only wanting to see you, I was.”