The Welshman's Bride

by Margaret Moore

  She looked back to the castle where she could easily see the sentries on the wall walk. “There is no danger here.”

  A strange expression crossed his face as he took a long step closer. “Where is Dylan?”

  “In the hall.”

  “Yet you are here alone, and unhappy.”

  She turned toward his waiting horse. “I am tired, that’s all. Come, let us walk back together. Your family will surely be pleased to see you.”

  She went to go past him, but he reached out and gently put his hand on her arm, causing her to halt. “What has Dylan done to make you so sad?”

  She lifted his hand from her arm and tried to regard him steadily. “Nothing. He has done nothing to make me downhearted or dissatisfied.”

  His gaze did not waver. “Someone has.”

  And then the expression in his eyes changed.

  “Sir Trystan—”

  “Trystan,” he said softly.

  “Sir Trystan, let us return to Craig Fawr.”

  “Will you not tell me what troubles you?”

  He seemed so sympathetic, this young man, and kind. “It is Angharad.”

  “Ah,” he said with a knowing sigh. “She told you something to upset you.”

  “I understand she has the Sight.”

  “Or so she wants everyone to believe.”

  “You do not think so.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the fate she claims to have seen for me is utterly ridiculous and absolutely impossible.”

  His skeptical words brought Genevieve more comfort than she had felt for many a day. “What fate is that?”

  “She told me I would marry Mair—Mair!” he repeated scornfully.

  For the first time in days, Genevieve smiled. “You make it sound as if Mair is the most ancient, ugly hag in Christendom.”

  “It would be better for everyone if she were. She is an immoral, saucy wench who does not know her place.”

  “Harsh words, indeed!” Genevieve replied, all the while knowing she had thought the same thing.

  Again that disquieting look passed over his face as he regarded her.

  “I think I am being rather selfish, keeping you to myself like this. Come, let us go back.”

  He nodded. “Allow me to escort you, my lady. Will you take my horse?”

  “It is not far. I shall walk.”

  “Very well.”

  She glanced at him uncertainly. Perhaps the emotion she thought she had seen in his eyes bad been her own imagination—like the love she thought she had seen in Dylan’s eyes a year ago.

  This time, she truly hoped it was only in her imagination, for she had enough troubles without adding to them.

  “Will you be returning to Sir Hu?” she asked as they walked toward the village.

  The young man shook his head. “No. I have come home to stay.”

  “Your parents will be pleased.”

  “Yes.”

  “They have missed you.”

  “I had my reasons for being away.”

  By now, they had drawn near the village, close enough for a few villagers to notice them. They hailed Trystan, and she knew word of his coming would reach Craig Fawr before them.

  “There will be a feast of fine things tonight, if I am not mistaken,” she noted as they continued through the village.

  “I daresay.”

  “Seona is much better.”

  “Good, is that. And my mother must be beside herself with pleasure doting on the babies.”

  “Yes, she is. But it is your father who seems the most delighted.”

  “I suppose that is because, at one time, he thought he would not be able to father children.”

  She gave him a surprised look. “He did?”

  “You’ve seen how he limps?”

  “Yes.”

  “There was another wound.” The young man smiled at her. “Obviously, it healed.”

  “I wish such problems could always be so simply cured,” she murmured wistfully as Trystan exchanged greetings with one of the smiths, whose teeth gleamed in his soot-blacked face.

  Then Dylan appeared, striding toward them, on his face a look that held no welcome. Instinctively, her grip tightened on Trystan’s arm.

  “Genevieve,” her husband began, “where the devil have—”

  “Greetings, Dylan,” Trystan said coldly, and as he did, he put his hand over Genevieve’s, almost possessively.

  She pulled away. “I went for a walk by the river, and—”

  “And happened to meet him,” Dylan finished. “What a delightful coincidence.”

  “Yes, it was, was it not?” she replied firmly, a slight frown puckering her brow. “You have not bid him welcome.”

  “Welcome, Trystan,” he said brusquely. “We must hurry back, Genevieve. I have called out the guard to look for you. They will nearly be in the saddle.”

  He turned on his heel and marched back toward the castle.

  With an apologetic glance at Trystan, Genevieve ran to catch up to her husband. Then she had to trot to match his long, swift strides.

  “What is wrong with you, that you were so rude?” she demanded quietly. “What kind of greeting was that for your cousin?”

  “If I am angry, blame yourself. How could you run off like that, without a word of where you intended to go?”

  “I didn’t know where I intended to go, except away from you!”

  He gave her a scathing glance before returning to stare straight ahead at the looming castle gate. “So you simply happened to meet him, then?”

  “What else?”

  She halted abruptly and grabbed his arm, pulling him to a stop, regardless of who might be watching them. “What else?”

  He shook off her hand. “I don’t know,” he growled as he began to walk again.

  “Do not walk away from me, Dylan! I would know what you meant!”

  He whirled around and gave her the most hostile glare she had ever seen him make. “For a woman who seems to regard her dignity so highly, you are apparently determined to make a spectacle of yourself.”

  Trystan came running toward them. “You should not speak to her that way!”

  “Stay out of this, boy!”

  “Of what would you accuse me?” Genevieve demanded.

  “I am a knight, by God,” Trystan declared, “and—”

  “And Dylan is right. We should not air our grievances in public,” Genevieve interrupted, suddenly aware that several of the villagers had come to hear the commotion.

  “This should be a happy occasion,” she finished. Then she marched past Dylan and into Craig Fawr, leaving the men to follow.

  As they did, they scowled and glared at each other like two dogs forced to share a single bone.

  Chapter Fourteen

  By the time they reached the great hall, Dylan and Trystan had managed to conceal their true feelings beneath an appearance of congeniality, as had Genevieve. All three silently and simultaneously concurred that to display anything less than joy would ruin the pleasure of Trystan’s return for the baron and his wife.

  But that did not mean that Dylan was not anxious to get his wife alone. Unfortunately, he had to linger what seemed an age before Genevieve left the hall.

  First, they had to wait through all the exclamations of surprise and delight at Trystan’s return, then his revelations regarding Sir Hu and his family, who were all well and thriving and, indeed, to hear Trystan go on and on, the most wonderful family in the kingdom.

  All through this endless talk, Genevieve sat and listened, scarcely bothering to so much as glance at her impatient husband.

  The only thing that kept Dylan from demanding that she leave with him at once was the thought that she might have realized the seriousness of her error in departing from the castle earlier and was proudly putting off apologizing for as long as she could.

  The moment they were alone, however, after she excused herself to change her gown bef
ore the evening meal, she disabused him of that notion.

  She whirled around and glared at him the instant he closed the door. “Don’t you ever do such a thing again!”

  “What, wait patiently for you to decide it is time to leave the hall?”

  “You know very well what I’m talking about,” she retorted. “Don’t you ever dare to speak to me in such a way as you did outside the gates.”

  “Tell me,” he demanded just as hotly, “is it the words, or the place that upset you so? Is it merely that I spoke in public, and not the subject that concerns you, my high and mighty lady?”

  “Your foolish, groundless suspicions are not worth discussing.”

  He strode toward her, halting so that his hostile face was inches from hers. “That is something I might expect a guilty person to say.”

  “Since we are speaking of infidelity, I shall have to bow to your superior knowledge of how a guilty party would act, my lord.”

  “I have never been unfaithful to you, Genevieve.”

  “No? Cait seems to find you fascinating.”

  “So what of that? So do a lot of women—that doesn’t mean I sleep with them.”

  “I suppose I should be grateful that you manage to restrain yourself.”

  “Aye, you should.”

  “So, I am to be glad that you honor the vow you made, and that you do not leave your wife for another woman’s bed, although apparently there are hundreds who would welcome you.”

  She pointed imperiously at the door. “Go, then, to another, if you would rather,” she commanded.

  His eyes narrowed. “Leaving you free to take another man into yours? Or should I say, boy?”

  “You are a disgusting, disgraceful, lecherous villain to say that! My uncle was right! It has only taken me this long to see it!”

  “I am a man, and I know what I see.”

  “What is that? That I spoke for a little while with your cousin, who was kind and treated me with respect?”

  “Oh, yes, respect,” Dylan snarled. “Whatever you do, you must have respect.”

  “Yes, I do and so do you—but at least I try to earn it. I do not neglect my duties because it is more important to be liked.”

  “It is good for you that you feel that way, since I can think of no one at Beaufort who likes you,” he retorted.

  Her face flushed. “I would rather have respect. I would not rely on charm and pleasing ways to lead my people.”

  “I will use what method I think best.”

  “Method? You would call lax leadership and jokes and charm a method? It is not. It is fear.”

  “What did you say?” he asked very, very softly, staring at her.

  She faced him boldly. “You heard me well enough. You are afraid of them all, from Skinny Thomas and the commander of your guard to the lowliest kitchen boy or scullery maid.”

  “That is a lie.”

  “You are afraid they will think you are like your father and his father before him, and so you will do nearly anything to ensure that they think of you with affection—not respect, not loyalty, but affection.”

  “That’s ludicrous.”

  “Is sit?”

  “Yes!”

  He came toward her slowly, like a cat creeping up upon an oblivious bird. “No doubt young Trystan respects you.”

  “I hope he does.”

  “Has he declared his love for you yet?”

  “He doesn’t love me.”

  “No?”

  The pink flush spread upon her cheeks. “He has said nothing to me about how he feels.”

  “He will. What will you tell him? That I lack respect for you? That you think I have been unfaithful to you? That you are sorry you married me?”

  “If he does say any such thing, I will tell him I intend to honor the vow I made.”

  “Oh, so you are honorable and I am not?”

  “I cannot say anymore what you are.”

  “Anwyl, I am your husband!”

  “And I am your barren wife.”

  Before he could respond, she spoke with a grim and terrible resolution. “Perhaps it is time we admit our mistake, Dylan. We married in haste, without knowing enough of each other. I will write again to my uncle the bishop. Surely he will be able to find some ecclesiastical reason to annul our marriage.”

  It sounded as if she had been scheming to end their marriage for weeks. “If that is what you want,” he said slowly.

  “I think it would be best.”

  She was so calm, as if she were giving orders about a meal or some linen or a new gown, while he felt as if the floor beneath his feet had started to crumble away.

  Now he knew all too well how Griffydd had felt when he thought his beloved wife was dying—as if he would rather die himself than live without her love.

  But in the face of Genevieve’s dispassion, reveal his anguished dismay he would not.

  “Very well. Do what you must.”

  “Under the circumstances, I will ask the baron if I may stay here until it is done. You can send me my things when you return to Beaufort.”

  “If you wish.”

  “I do.”

  He nodded once, then turned on his heel and marched from the room.

  Genevieve stood motionless for a long time, until she heard someone calling Dylan’s name in the courtyard below. She went to the window and saw her husband gallop out of the gate as Griffydd stood in the courtyard and shouted for him to stop.

  She leaned against the window frame and told herself this had to be.

  He deserved a legitimate heir and she could not give him one.

  Seated in his solar with Rhys, his steward, Emryss DeLanyea looked up when he realized someone stood on the threshold. If he was surprised to see Genevieve there and with such a countenance, he kept it from his scarred face as he rose from behind the large table.

  “So, there is plenty for a feast tonight, then,” he said in a tone of finality Rhys recognized for the dismissal it was.

  “Aye, my lord,” the rotund steward said, getting up from the chair opposite the baron.

  He turned to go and bowed to Genevieve. “My lady.”

  She acknowledged his greeting and entered the room as he left it. “I hope I am not disturbing you, my lord.”

  “No. Please, sit.”

  She did, in the chair recently vacated by the steward. “I hardly know where to begin.”

  “You could start by telling me where Dylan has gone, and in such haste.”

  “He went home to Beaufort.”

  “Is something wrong there?”

  “No.” She swallowed hard. “I have come to ask if I may stay with you awhile.”

  “Of course. But why?”

  “I am going to write to my uncle the bishop, in London. I want him to find a way to end my marriage.”

  The baron stared at her. “Is it as bad as that between you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Genevieve, since I allowed this marriage to take place, I feel somewhat responsible.”

  “There is no need.”

  “Will you tell me what happened? I have known Dylan all his life. Perhaps I can help.”

  “I do not think that is possible.”

  “Allow me to try.”

  He seemed so upset and so concerned, and she was so alone here, she decided there could be no harm in giving some excuse before rumor and gossip did it for her. “He is too lax.”

  “You know the why of that, I think.”

  “That doesn’t make it right.”

  “It doesn’t make it wrong, either.”

  The baron leaned forward. “Genevieve, I do not mean this to be a criticism, but I do not think you fully appreciate the legacy he has to struggle against. His father and grandfather were the most hated and despised overlords in Wales, and with good reason. Can you not try to understand that he wishes to be different from them?”

  “But must he be so—?”

  “Yes, he must, or he would not be Dylan.”r />
  Frowning and wondering if she had been wrong to think the baron could be impartial, she continued. “I do not wish to sound petty, but I have worked so hard to make a pleasant home for him, yet he has never given me one word of thanks.”

  “You are right. You sound petty—but before you march from here in high dudgeon—”

  Having half risen from the chair, she sat back down.

  “—let me say it is only natural to hope for some measure of gratitude. He can be a thoughtless fellow, yet I’m sure he does appreciate your efforts, if he has never given voice to that. A word from me, and he would see his error.”

  She clasped her hands together. Perhaps, when all was said and done, the only reason she could give him was the truth. “I have left the most important for last. I am not a fit wife for him.”

  Baron DeLanyea fell back against his chair with surprise. “Not fit for him? Who dares to say such a ludicrous thing?”

  “I cannot give him a child.”

  “Ah!” The baron rubbed the scar beneath his eye patch. “You sound very sure of that.”

  “It has been a year.”

  “I’m sure my wife would agree that it sometimes takes longer.”

  “We have been...diligent.”

  “I can believe that.”

  “I have not had a wound, my lord, so there is nothing to be healed.”

  “If you know that much, you know I can sympathize with your dilemma.”

  He spoke so kindly, she regretted her previous words. “Yes, my lord, but there is more.”

  “More?”

  “Angharad said I was barren.”

  He frowned gravely. “Ah. Angharad. You believe her?”

  “So far, she has been proved right.”

  “What did Dylan say about it?”

  “He said not to believe her, but I know he does.” She studied the baron’s face. “Do you?”

  “It doesn’t matter whether I believe it or not. What matters is that you both do. Did he just learn of Angharad’s prediction today?”

  “No. We have quarreled and argued many times of late, about many things. Today was but the end of a long road we have been traveling. And now we have come to the end.”

  “I see.”

  The baron rose, sensing that she had no wish to discuss these matters further. “I had best go tell my wife that you are going to stay.”