The Welshman's Bride

by Margaret Moore

  “They’ll sit where they like.”

  “No,” she insisted quietly, and yet with unexpected decisiveness. “That is the right way, and I will have it done right in my hall.”

  “My hall.”

  A frown crossed her features. “Our hall.”

  He scanned the gathering. “Where is Father Paulus?”

  “He seems to have...left us.”

  His eyes narrowed.

  “It was not my doing,” she whispered defensively. “No one has been able to find him—and all his possessions are gone from his quarters. I told you he was not a proper priest”

  “Maybe he sensed he was not welcome here,” Dylan growled in response.

  Nevertheless, he could well believe that her instincts regarding the priest—or whatever he was—were correct. After all, he had never sought a confirmation, but accepted Father Paulus’s history as the man told it to him.

  But Genevieve turned away before he could reply and proceeded to tell the baron—me baron!—where he ought to sit, and then his cousins.

  Fortunately, the baron looked more amused than annoyed at her presumption, Griffydd looked the way he always did, which was to say with all the expression of a stone, but Trystan, who had maneuvered his way to the place beside her with a subtlety that would have done credit to Dylan himself, looked at Dylan’s wife in a way that sent a javelin of jealousy straight into his heart and all thoughts of fraudulent holy men into the ether.

  If Trystan had not been his cousin, and no matter how tired Dylan was, he would have challenged him to a fight for daring to look at his wife like that.

  Instead, he said nothing and allowed the meal to proceed as it normally would after his uncle made a brief blessing in Father Paulus’s stead. He talked and joked, joined in the usual banter with his uncle, chastised the glum-faced Griffydd as he always did, addressed his wife when necessary—and was acutely aware of everything she, and Trystan, did.

  For Genevieve’s part, she seemed far more concerned with the serving of the food than the few things Trystan had to say. As for Trystan, he scarce said ten words.

  Dylan wished he had spent more time in the young man’s company on those occasions when he had returned to Craig Fawr. He recalled that Trystan had always been a rather reticent person, yet never so quiet as this. Perhaps he had merely grown more like the quiet Griffydd as he had aged.

  Or perhaps he found it difficult to speak to a beautiful woman, especially if his feelings went beyond the familial.

  Then, as a dish of apples was set before him by a very subdued Cait, Genevieve rose and addressed him, and the rest of the high table. “If you will excuse me, my lords, I shall see to your accommodation.”

  “Oh, the hall will do for us, my lady,” the baron said. “And it is far too early for you to rob us of your presence.”

  “I begin to understand where my husband learned to be so charming,” Genevieve replied with a smile. “However, I would feel remiss in my responsibilities if I allowed that, so I must beg you to allow me to find you suitable quarters.”

  “She takes her duties very seriously,” Dylan added.

  “Then far be it from me to make her feel remiss,” the baron answered. “Perhaps you will join us again when you are finished, my lady.”

  She gave a barely perceptible shake of her head. “I fear I am very tired, as you must be, so I shall retire. Cait will show you to your quarters when you are ready to sleep. Good night, Baron DeLanyea. Good night, Sir Griffydd, Sir Trystan.”

  She looked at Dylan. “Good night, my lord.”

  “Good night for now, Genevieve,” her husband replied.

  Some time later, Genevieve sank onto the bed in her chamber and heaved a sigh of both relief and exhaustion as she pulled off her cap and scarf. She had managed to get a large chamber prepared for the baron and his sons, including furnishings and linens, all with only Cait’s help, so that there was little disruption of the service in the hall. Although pleased with their efforts, she was now more tired than she had ever been in her life.

  She was so tired, she didn’t even feel like taking off her gown. Then she reasoned that perhaps she shouldn’t. She wanted to make certain Dylan understood why she had been angry, and it would be better if she were fully clothed. Otherwise, he would probably kiss her, and caress her—and then she would forget everything but the delight of being in his loving arms.

  Still, there could be no harm if she removed her shoes and put her aching feet up on the bed. She did so, shifting back so that she leaned against the substantial headboard.

  Prepared for recriminations, Dylan found Genevieve sleeping thus when he arrived a short time later, after Cait had taken the baron, Griffydd and Trystan to a chamber in the west tower.

  She looked so sweet and peaceful, all the creases in her brow erased, her bowlike mouth slack, her lashes fanning on her cheek, that all his rancor Hed, to be replaced with tenderness.

  Surely it was her teacher’s fault that she was so particular and got so upset over every little thing. Give her time, he told himself, and she would soon find out that she could forgo some of the incredibly high and rather ludicrous expectations and standards she set for herself.

  He pulled off his boots, then his tunic, flinching when he did so, for he had pulled a muscle trying to grab a recalcitrant sheep that had run the wrong way.

  Better yet, he thought with a smile, she should have children, and then she would mellow.

  Genevieve shifted beneath the coverlet and sighed as she awoke to the sound of hushed voices.

  “Dylan?” she asked sleepily, sitting up and looking around in the still-dark room.

  “Aye, it’s me,” her husband said from the vicinity of the door.

  She peered at him in the gloom and realized he was talking to a woman, barely visible on the other side of the door. Cait, she thought. “What is it? Is something wrong?”

  “No. I asked Cait to fetch me at first light, for I intend to return to Craig Fawr with the baron, to help with his gathering.”

  “You are going away?”

  “Just for today, unless the weather turns bad. My uncle has a lot of sheep to get down from the hills. ”

  “Has he not tenants enough for such work?”

  Dylan said something softly to Cait before turning back and closing the door. He approached the bed. “We do it because it helps us get to know our tenants and the shepherds, and they get to know us. That is how loyalty is made.”

  “I had not thought of that.”

  “I don’t enjoy tramping about the hills looking for sheep, you know. I would rather stay here with you.”

  “I suppose you must go?”

  “Aye. I would have said something of this last night, but you were already asleep when I got here.”

  “Oh.” Her brow wrinkled as she glanced down at herself. “I slept in my clothes?”

  “You make that sound as if it was the same as committing murder,” he observed. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

  Something was sticking into her hip. She shifted and pulled out her scarlet cap, now crushed. “I liked this cap,” she said mournfully.

  “I didn’t see it,” Dylan admitted, “or I would have moved it.”

  “You might have wakened me so I could remove my dress,” she said. “The wrinkles may never come out.”

  “You looked so peaceful, I didn’t have the heart.”

  She glanced up at him, then away when she encountered his smiling face and sincere eyes. She remembered she had been angry with him for not mentioning the possibility of his uncle’s visit; this morning, that didn’t seem quite so important. “I must have been sleeping soundly.”

  He sat beside her on the bed. “We both must be sound sleepers. Let us hope an assassin never decides to sneak into our bedchamber. We wouldn’t have a hope.”

  “Are you expecting an assassination attempt?”

  “No! Anwyl, I have done my best to make sure I have no enemies.” He regarded her mischievou
sly. “I think the only enemy I might have is Lady Katherine DuMonde, for teaching you to be so particular.”

  “She trained us to be good chatelaines,” Genevieve replied, again demonstrating that she was not above pouting. “I should think you would be pleased to have some order brought to Beaufort.”

  “Oh, I am—as long as it does not impede my pleasure.”

  “Dylan, you must know that the organization of—”

  “Shh!” he said, putting his finger over her lips to silence her. “I know that things were in a mess, and you are straightening them out. I know my uncle and cousins probably had a better night’s sleep in the west tower than they might have had in the hall. But I also know that doing things in what is supposedly the proper way is not important enough to me that we should be cross with each other over it.”

  “But—”

  He looked like a contrite little boy. “But you would rather be cross with me?”

  “No, of course not.”

  His smile was like the first sight of green grass after a long, cold winter. “Then we shall hear no more of Lady Katherine and the proper way. We do not stand much on ceremony and propriety here, and you will be happier if you remember mat”

  He leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the forehead. “Now I had better go, or my uncle will be out and on the road before I have had a bite to ”

  “When will you be back?”

  “I will try to come tonight, for the moon should be full. If it rains or looks cloudy, though, I’ll have to stay at Craig Fawr, although—” his lips turned up into his devilishly seductive smile “—I think it would be worth risking my neck to get back to you tonight.”

  She shook her head solemnly. “I do not. I have no wish to be a widow so young.”

  He laughed softly. “Well, then you may have to endure my absence tonight.”

  “I will try.” A thought came to her mind, and she flushed guiltily, looking away.

  “What is it?”

  “It is an unworthy thought. I won’t say it aloud. Indeed, I know I am wrong to think it....”

  “What?” he demanded, his tone suddenly so commanding, she could not ignore his order.

  “Am I the only woman who will have to endure your absence?”

  He rose abruptly. “I am not married to anyone else, am I?”

  She raised her eyes and spoke with very real and deep contrition. “Forgive me, Dylan. It was something Mair said, that’s all. Well, that, and all those other women.”

  “What did Mair say?”

  “She made no accusations,” Genevieve hastened to reply. “It was just something about Cait. I’m sorry,” she repeated.

  “You should be.” Then his expression softened. “Although, to be fair, if I were not married and Cait were willing, that might be a different story. But I am married, so now it doesn’t matter a whit if Cait is willing or not, for I am not.”

  He grinned ruefully. “And there will be no woman warming my bed at Craig Fawr or anywhere else except here.”

  His expression suddenly grew more serious. “I trust you will have no lover when I am gone?”

  “Dylan DeLanyea!” she cried, aghast, “I would die before I would dishonor myself, or you!”

  “This from a woman who crawled into my bed,” he noted gravely.

  She scrambled to her feet and glared at him. “That was different. I wanted to marry you.”

  “Then I can forgive your outrageous behavior, as you forgive my little errors,” he said, dancing backward, his eyes twinkling merrily. “And you know, Genevieve, that I must absolutely trust you, or I wouldn’t be able to tease you about taking a lover.”

  Her mouth fell open. “Oh.”

  “Oh, indeed,” he said, his eyes darkening as he glided toward her with that animal grace only he possessed.

  “When you look like that, I have to do this,” he murmured as he pulled her into his arms for a passionate kiss.

  It was so difficult to remain angry with him!

  Nevertheless, she pulled away a little and chided him. “Little errors? I do not call neglecting to tell me that your relatives are coming a little error.”

  “They’ve slept in plenty of worse places than my hall, I can assure you. As long as they are warm and dry, that’s all that matters.”

  She sighed softly as his lips brushed her cheek. “I know you care nothing for propriety, my lord, but I thought you wanted to have something to eat before you left with the baron.”

  He cursed softly as he gently pushed her away. “Propriety is one thing, punctuality is another—and the baron greatly esteems that quality. So, much as I would far rather linger here with you, my temptress, I had better be on my way.”

  He kissed her once more, swiftly, then hurried to the door. “I will try to return tonight, Genevieve, for now that I am an old married man, I find the prospect of sleeping in a barracks full of soldiers decidedly distasteful.”

  Unfortunately, the weather changed that afternoon. Clouds rolled in from the north, bringing with them not only a blast of frigid air, but drenching rain as well. The storm came up so suddenly that several of the men, Dylan among them, were caught out on the hills. They hurried to complete their task, but finally had to stop. The sheep were all running to the places of shelter that could be found on the hills, and not even the barking, running, nipping sheepdogs could persuade them to move anywhere else.

  Even more unfortunately, when Dylan woke the next day, the weather showed no signs of any improvement.

  Therefore, he went to his uncle’s hall in no very good humor. The baron, Griffydd and several of his tenants and shepherds, with their dogs, were already gathered there by the time he arrived. The dogs eyed him, then went back to foraging beneath the tables. By the looks of things, he had missed breaking the fast and he would have to forage for scraps on the table like the dogs under them.

  “It is a good thing I set men to gather the day we went to Beaufort,” the baron observed as he grabbed the heel of a loaf from a nearby table and joined them. “The men got a good start without us.”

  “Still, it will not be good if this rain keeps up,” Griffydd replied. “The lambs will be drowned minutes after they’re born in wet like this.”

  “Seen worse, me,” one of the old shepherds offered after a throat-clearing spit into the hearth. “A day or two at most, this, and then it’ll clear.”

  “Since I have never known Elwyn to be wrong, I think we can all take heart,” the baron declared. “Now, where is—ah, Dylan!” he cried, catching sight of his nephew. “Getting lazy now that you are a married man, is it?”

  “Nobody came to fetch me,” he replied, tossing the last bite of the bread to one of the dogs.

  “And he is not used to sleeping alone, either,” Griffydd said gravely. “All that space to himself must be confusing.”

  Dylan ignored that comment. “I think I am not the only one late rising. I do not see Trystan among you.”

  Dylan was surprised to note the baron’s sudden frown.

  “No, he is not,” the older man replied.

  “Taking after his fine cousin, perhaps, and with a woman somewhere, is he?” Dylan proposed, breaking the unexpected tension. “He is handsome enough, although I must say I think he lacks charm. Too like his older brother to really attract the women.”

  The tenants and shepherds chuckled and exchanged amused looks. This was an old jest of long standing between the two young men.

  “Since it looks to rain the rest of today, at least,” the baron said to the men in the hall, “I give you leave to return to your homes. You will be summoned when we can begin again.”

  The men nodded and began to leave, until only the baron, Dylan and Griffydd remained.

  “So, where has Trystan got to?” Dylan asked.

  “He’s gone to visit Hu Morgan,” the baron replied.

  Morgan had been fostered in the baron’s household years ago. A fine knight, he had married a Norman noblewoman and was now the fathe
r of three sons and two daughters.

  “I am surprised you could spare him at this time of year.”

  “He wanted to go, and I saw no reason to withhold my permission.”

  That sounded reasonable enough, yet Dylan knew the baron too well to be completely sanguine about this explanation. The baron had let Trystan go at this busy time of the season—or sent him away—because he thought it best for Trystan to be gone.

  Again, suspicion and jealousy entered Dylan’s heart, and he struggled not to betray his feelings—not in front of the baron, who was like his father. Not before Griffydd, whose own high moral standard would take offense at the merest hint of dishonor in himself, or his family.

  He would remember that Trystan had been raised by the most honorable man Dylan knew. If the young man’s feelings were cause for concern, Dylan reminded himself, he could take comfort in the fact that Trystan was far away. By the time he returned, he would surely have tamed any wayward feelings for his cousin’s wife, or found another young woman to pine for.

  “So then, where can a man get a bite to eat?” Dylan asked jovially.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the way to the kitchen,” the baron demanded incredulously. “You, who used to distract my maidservants until we had to ban you from there?”

  “The banishment is lifted, I hope.”

  “Since you are married, aye, it is.”

  “Good, because I am starving. Excuse me, my lords,” he said, turning from them.

  “You would do better not to be late for meals,” Griffydd said.

  Dylan waved his hand in airy dismissal as he strolled toward the kitchen.

  Genevieve sighed as she stood in the door of the hall and stared at the driving rain. If this kept up, it was certain Dylan would not return tonight, and if it continued into the next day, she would not see him then, either.

  Suddenly, and to her dismay, a tall, female figure, swathed in a cloak and carrying a bundle, appeared at the inner gates. She said a few brief words to the guards in a voice that confirmed Genevieve’s suspicions.