The Welshman's Way

by Moore, Margaret

  “Let us hope this fits me better than that gown does you,” he growled, stepping away and once again running his gaze over her body.

  She felt warm again, and not from shame this time. “I regret I did not take measurements.” She surveyed him in retaliation, starting at his toes and proceding slowly to his face. “It should fit.” It was exciting, the way he looked at her. Not nearly so exciting as his kisses, though—but she should fight such thoughts. She had forgotten that she had placed herself at far greater risk by making love with him than by trading her clothes for these goods.

  “This is not the place to talk about it,” he snarled, turning to lead the way back to the horse.

  “This dress is cooler than my other clothes, which is important, since I cannot go about half-naked as you do.”

  “I couldn’t wear that robe while I was hunting.”

  “Of course not.”

  He pulled on the tunic. It did not fit very well, being rather too loose. She much preferred him half-naked, and blushed at her lustful observation. “How many rabbits did you catch?”

  “None.”

  “It would seem, then, that I am the better hunter.”

  He merely scowled in response.

  She sat down near the biggest bramble bush and broke the bread in half. She held out part to him. “I will confess I acted impulsively. Mother Bertrilde always said I should think first and act later, but that is not always easy to do.”

  He took the bread, then sat several paces away.

  “You must agree that it will be better for us to be in different clothing. Roger and his men will be looking for a woman in nun’s clothes, and they will think I am alone, perhaps. This way, we can pretend to be a couple.”

  He took another bite of the bread.

  “It will be easier when I sell the horse, too, if I am in peasant garb,” she said.

  “You?” He looked at her with a suspiciously puzzled expression.

  “Of course me. As you have just pointed out, you are a Welshman. The horse traders might think you stole that stallion.”

  He shifted uncomfortably, then said, “You don’t sound like a peasant. They might wonder what a highborn Norman woman is doing dressed in rags and trying to sell a horse.”

  “Oh, sir, ‘tis true, sir, aye,” she replied with a thick country accent and a twinkle in her eyes when she caught him off guard. “Not every woman in the convent was a highborn Norman noblewoman,” she explained in her usual voice.

  “Better it would be if I could keep the horse and sell you,” her companion muttered in Welsh, which he obviously did not think she understood.

  But she did, at least enough to get the gist of his comment, which stung her more than she cared to consider, just as his word last night had delighted her, when he had called her “beloved.”

  Still, this was not the time to allow her personal feelings to interfere. They needed to have a plan for the rest of their journey. “Shall we say you are my husband, if anyone sees us and asks?”

  “No!”

  She tried not to look disappointed at his swift, blunt rejoinder. “My brother, then. My strong, silent, bully of a brother. Yes, that could work.”

  “I have no intention of letting you try to sell that horse,” Dafydd growled.

  * * *

  The florid young farmer, whose straggling blond hair stuck out from his head like a shaft of thatch, scratched his stubbled chin and ran his appraising gaze over Madeline, then the stallion, then her again.

  Madeline tried not to squirm with discomfort as she stood in the small enclosure outside the village alehouse. Nearby, peasant women carrying baskets of produce, and farmers driving chickens, geese and the occasional sheep or cow, moved past, all clearly headed for the marketplace on the green of this middle-sized, prosperous town. An ancient wagon bearing bags of grain lumbered along the road, probably heading to the large mill on the river. As she waited for the young man to say something—anything!—she could hear the tradesmen calling to potential customers, and the cheerful banter of the haggling shoppers.

  Madeline shifted her weight to her other foot, and wondered if she should have waited for a different prospective buyer. However, his clothes looked clean and well mended, his body well fed and his purse full. She also thought he would have less experience at driving bargains than an older man.

  If only he would make up his mind and quit staring at her bosom as if he had never seen breasts before! Well, in a way, she had brought his impertinent scrutiny upon herself, for she had insisted upon doing the trading. Maybe it had been wrong to tuck her shift so low. Her breasts were rather shockingly displayed, but she had thought she might as well use every and any means to help her bargain. She had long ago realized that the prettiest nuns at the convent inevitably made the best bargains with the local merchants.

  What would he say if he knew who she truly was? As amusing as the notion was, she quickly forgot it to concentrate on the business at hand, which was to sell the horse.

  “How much did he say you was to get?” the young farmer asked.

  Acting her role, Madeline bit her lip worriedly and clutched the rope attached to the horse’s bridle a little tighter as she repeated the sum. Dafydd had told her what he thought the horse was worth, and she was currently suggesting twice that amount. That had not been his idea, but her own, and she wondered if she had erred.

  “God’s oath, girl, seems a bit much,” the farmer finally said. “I’ll give you half that, and that’s too much. Always had a weakness for a beauty,” he finished with a leer and a wink.

  Madeline gave him her most distressed expression. “Oh, sir, my brother has a terrible temper, that he does! He will beat me if I don’t get what he said!”

  “Then he ought to be a better judge of horseflesh,” the farmer retorted. “That beast ain’t worth near what you’re askin’, girl.”

  “What will I do?” Madeline pleaded, opening her eyes as wide as she could in what she hoped looked like stupidity and desperation.

  He eyed her speculatively. “Maybe we could strike a bargain.”

  “Oh?” She smiled hopefully. “What kind of bargain?”

  “Come here where it’s quieter,” he said, moving toward the alley between the alehouse and what she believed was a storehouse.

  “I don’t know...my brother said to wait here. Maybe if I knew you were going to give me what I want for the horse he wouldn’t be angry if I wasn’t right here....”

  The farmer puzzled over this for a few moments. “I can’t give you that much silver unless you... um...make it worth my while.”

  “How?” she asked innocently.

  He came close to her and whispered in her ear.

  Madeline swallowed hard. If Roger heard this man’s proposition, the poor fellow would be thrown into the nearest dungeon. On the other hand, Dafydd would probably scowl and tell her such remarks were nothing more than she deserved. As it was, she decided next time—if there was a next time—she would dress more modestly. For the present, she saw no help for it but to proceed as she had planned, so she smiled slyly at the farmer. “What will your wife say?”

  “I ain’t got a wife.”

  “Well...you are a good-looking fellow and I don’t want my brother to beat me....” She glanced over her shoulder at the door of the alehouse. “Perhaps if you give me the silver first...”

  The farmer quickly pulled out a fat purse of coins. She dropped the horse’s rope, snatched the purse and hurried to the door of the alehouse. “Oh, thank you!” she cried over her shoulder at the stunned would-be lover.

  “Hey!” he bellowed, grabbing hold of the rope. “Hey!”

  She paused in the door of the alehouse. “Yes?”

  The farmer, scowling, marched toward her. “We made a bargain—”

  A figure came to stand behind Madeline and the young farmer turned rather pale. “He has given me what you wanted for the horse,” Madeline said nervously, pushing herself back closer to Dafydd so that
her buttocks came into mind-numbing contact with his body and she inadvertently gave him a fine view of her cleavage, as well.

  He nodded wordlessly and glared at the fair-haired farmer. He had grudgingly agreed to Madeline’s plan because he grew tired of arguing with her and because it was a risk for a Welshman to try to sell such a magnificent horse. On the other hand, it might have been better if he had pretended to be a Norman. After nearly a year in the monastery, with plenty of opportunity to observe the Norman brothers, he could manage it, at least long enough to sell the horse.

  Madeline had told him to say nothing but to look very angry when she came to fetch him at the alehouse, so here he was, acting the angry, silent brother when he felt anything but brotherly. All in all, he suddenly realized, it was a good thing he wasn’t supposed to talk much. He could scarcely think with her in such tantalizing proximity.

  “He’s not married,” Madeline said to Dafydd sweetly, and the farmer suddenly looked less terrified.

  “Do you...do you live nearby?” the young fellow stammered hopefully.

  “No,” Dafydd growled. He grabbed Madeline’s arm and pulled her toward the main road.

  “Here, you!” the farmer protested. “You shouldn’t be so rough!”

  Dafydd turned and stared at the farmer, who gulped audibly, then scurried into the alehouse.

  Still clutching Madeline’s arm, Dafydd marched toward the crowded marketplace.

  “You can let go now,” she said quietly when they were out of sight of the alehouse. His hand dropped to his side. “I got twice what you said,” she continued triumphantly.

  “How?”

  She halted abruptly. “What do you mean by that?”

  “I meant,” he said grimly, facing her, “how did you manage to get twice as much?”

  “Clever bargaining,” she said slowly and deliberately.

  “You’ve never bargained in your life.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You said you’ve lived in a convent for the past ten years.”

  “The sisters have to eat, and make their clothing.”

  “So you were a clever trader for the convent?” he asked skeptically.

  “No. But I watched Sister Ursula.”

  “And she was a clever trader?”

  “Yes, she was. She learned from her father, who started out a penniless peasant and died exceedingly wealthy. Unlike some peasants, he had ambition.”

  Dafydd ignored her gibe and started to head toward the market again. “Pull up your shift. No doubt the sight of all your...wares...addled that fellow’s wits.”

  “What do you care? I got the money,” she said as she marched angrily beside him. “You’re not really my brother, you know.”

  “For which I thank God.” Anger was good, he told himself. If she was angry, then he could be angry. And if he was angry, then he wouldn’t feel anything else.

  “I will buy some food.”

  “And another dress.”

  “Very well.”

  “Not here. You have already attracted too much attention.”

  “I spoke to only a few.”

  He paused and ran his gaze over her body. She pulled her shift higher over her breasts. “Exactly,” he muttered. “Every man you passed noticed you.”

  “But we need another horse.”

  “We’ll get one at the next village.”

  “You’ve led us so far from the main road, Roger will not seek us here.”

  “I am taking every precaution,” Dafydd replied.

  “Then we can get food there, too?”

  Dafydd reached into his tunic and produced a loaf of fine bread.

  “Where did you get that?” Madeline demanded.

  “The alehouse.”

  “With no money?” she asked skeptically.

  This time, it was Dafydd who looked discomfited as his pace quickened.

  “So, the serving wench took a liking to you.”

  He shrugged.

  “She will certainly remember you at least as much as the farmer will remember me,” she noted dryly. “But of course, I am forgetting that you can do no wrong. It will be a relief to poor, stupid me when you leave me at Lord Trevelyan’s.”

  Dafydd halted abruptly, the blood draining from his face. “Who?”

  “Lord Trevelyan’s. Dafydd, what is it? What’s the matter?”

  “We will speak of this later,” he said. “When we are alone.”

  Chapter Nine

  Madeline followed Dafydd as he sauntered toward the bank of the river at the north end of the village. He seemed in no great hurry, and although she was extremely curious to know what had caused his unforeseen reaction to the mention of Lord Trevelyan’s name, she would not quicken her pace like the little boy struggling to keep up with his brother. As far as she was concerned, she was as equal to this Welshman as she could be to any man.

  Not that she considered him any common man. Even strolling, Dafydd’s erect bearing made him seem more noble than many of the noblemen she recalled from her childhood. He was so handsome, too, in his dark Welsh way, and strong and good. So completely tempting. Now, here, in the deepening dusk, it did not seem so wrong that she had made love with him.

  You only think so because you know you are not with child, she reminded herself. She had made that fortunate discovery this morning, while they had waited outside the village. The relief she felt had been even more overwhelming than when Dafydd had first come to her rescue, for if she had been with child, she would have been in a morass of her own making.

  A mossy stone bridge of great antiquity crossed the river, leading to a fork in the road. One way led north and west, toward Lord Trevelyan’s estate, the other north and east. With twilight rapidly falling, the air was cool and the scent of wildflowers drifted about them. Behind Dafydd she could see the slowly moving wheel of the mill. Birds sang in the trees and she could hear, far-off in the village, mothers calling errant children home.

  Madeline drew in a deep breath. She enjoyed not just the fragrance, but the freedom to do so. In the convent, they were supposed to ignore even such simple sensual delights as the scent of flowers or fruit.

  But she allowed herself only a moment’s pleasure, for there were other more important things to consider. “What is the matter? I realize Lord Trevelyan is a Norman, but surely you surmised any friends of mine would likely be Normans,” Madeline said as soon as they were alone and far from anyone’s hearing. “Naturally I do not expect you to ride into the central courtyard of the castle and proclaim your identity. And we did have an agreement.”

  He didn’t reply at once.

  “Well?” she asked, halting, determined to find out what his reasons could be for wanting to break his bargain.

  Dafydd pulled a branch from the nearest willow.

  “Nor do I think it would be such a sin to spend the night in the comfort of an inn.”

  “I will not spend the night with you in any inn.”

  He made it sound as if she were proposing sharing his bed! She also noticed that he chose the less significant thing to speak of first. “I am not suggesting we sleep together. I am simply tired of sleeping on the ground. What difference would a good night’s lodging make?”

  “You should have taken a feather bed from those peasants, too,” he suggested sardonically.

  “And run more risks?” she answered sarcastically.

  “People would ask too many questions if we lingered in the village,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact.

  “All right, so I will concede that we cannot stay in the village. Why won’t you go with me to the border of Lord Trevelyan’s demesne?”

  “I cannot go onto Lord Trevelyan’s lands,” Dafydd said in a tone of such condescending finality that she ground her teeth in frustration.

  “But why?”

  “I might have guessed you would argue,” he said with at least a matching frustration, for which she had no sympathy. If he would explain himself, then she might agr
ee, but if he was simply expecting her to accept this change of plan with no opinion, as Roger expected her to marry without asking her consent, he was very wrong.

  “I said I would take you someplace safe,” he said. “Lord Trevelyan’s estate will not be safe for me.”

  “Because you are a Welshman? I assure you, Dafydd, Lord Trevelyan is not such a narrow-minded man. Why, he married his own daughter to a Welshman. And he knighted him, too, and gave him land. So you see—”

  “I cannot go there.”

  “I will see that no harm comes to you.”

  “I do not need to be protected by a woman.”

  “You didn’t mind my `protection’ before, at Sir Guy’s manor.”

  He fell back into the sullen silence she was getting rather used to.

  “Very well,” she said at last, “do not take me. But how will I get there? I cannot go alone.”

  “I will take you back to the village and find you an escort.”

  Madeline turned away and went closer to the running waters of the river. “Someone like that farmer, perhaps? He will be anxious to help, although I will not reward him in the way he would most expect. Can you tell me what he meant, Dafydd, by this?” She repeated the farmer’s earthy proposition.

  She hadn’t quite been sure what reaction she expected from him, but she had expected something. Instead, he simply looked at her as if she were talking about the weather. Then he said, “I believe you know what he meant, my lady. You are no innocent.”

  “Not anymore,” she retorted.

  His face twisted into a scowl and he shrugged. “You and I both know the truth of what happened. I will take no blame.”

  “Take no credit, either.”

  “Indeed, I do not. I think I was a fool to even touch you. Tell me, my lady, did you make love with me to punish your brother? Or to prevent the marriage? Or did you think if I made love to you I must take you wherever you wish to go?”