If they were not, the baron would never have allowed him to ride off with her. No one had followed them, either.
Perhaps, he thought sourly, the baron wasn’t so sorry to be rid of his spoiled, flirtatious daughter.
Bryce nudged his horse into a walk. Despite Lady Rhiannon’s continued silence, he had some difficulty restoring his equanimity. This whole scheme seemed such a ludicrous business.
And she was still far too tempting.
He glanced at the back of Lady Rhiannon’s neck, visible between her thick braids. The skin looked smooth and soft, and very, very kissable.
Only if he wanted to get himself slapped, or worse.
Then she shivered, just as she had that night in the courtyard when he had touched her. He realized her gown, muddy and damp, was clinging to her body, and her cloak was missing. She must have lost it when she had dramatically, and foolishly, jumped from her horse.
He frowned. Maybe that was customary, too.
Nevertheless, she really was shivering. His first instinct was to hold her tighter, only for the added warmth, of course, yet he could easily guess how that gesture would be received.
He halted his horse.
“What...what are you doing?” she demanded, albeit in a less hostile manner as he dismounted. Staring at him, she crossed her arms over her chest.
“You are cold,” he said.
Her eyes widened as he stripped off his new tunic, so that he wore only his breeches and boots.
“No. No, I’m not,” she stammered, looking away. She seemed suddenly, and surprisingly, modest, far different from the temptress who had lured him into the shadows.
Which was she, and which would he prefer?
His gaze strayed to her lower leg, exposed because her skirts were riding up as she sat astride. He just as quickly looked away, because it did not and must not matter to him what she was like. She was to be Lord Cynvelin’s bride, and that was all he needed to know about her.
“Your lips are blue and you’re shivering. Here,” he said, handing up the woolen garment. “Wrap that about you.”
“It will get dirty.”
“Take it!” he commanded, hurriedly mounting again behind her before she could say anything more.
She did as he ordered, and he adjusted the garment about her slender shoulders, trying not to touch her, or to remember the kiss they had shared.
“Thank you,” she said grudgingly.
“You’re most welcome, my lady.”
He clucked his tongue and his horse began walking again.
Forcing himself to concentrate on the way back to Annedd Bach, Bryce anxiously scanned the undergrowth, more than half convinced they had gone the wrong way. When they had ridden yet more distance with no sign of a stream, he cursed softly.
“What’s the matter?” Rhiannon asked. “Are you cold? Do you want your tunic back—or have you seen the error of your ways? Will you return me to my father?”
“No, I am not cold. No, I do not want my tunic back. And no, I cannot take you back. I have my orders.”
“Then what is the matter?” She twisted to look back at him, her dark brows furrowed, her eyes puzzled, her lips half parted.
She quickly faced forward again. “I want to go home,” she mumbled.
“Believe me, my lady,” he growled, “nothing would make me happier.”
This was a monstrous lie. Nothing would make him happier than to capture her lips with his own and press her enticing body against his.
“Unfortunately, I fear I have lost the way.”
With an incredulous expression, Rhiannon turned to look at him. “You are lost?”
“Hardly surprising,” he replied defensively. “I am completely unfamiliar with this territory. I have never been this way before. All the trees look the same, and the underbrush, too.”
“Then turn around and go back. I have no desire to be benighted in the woods.”
“Nor do I, my lady.” He glanced upward, where the sun shone feebly through the leaves and clouds. Perhaps he should have gone down that first path a little way back. “I am sure we are headed in the right direction. We should get to Annedd Bach soon enough.”
“Little house?”
“Is that what Annedd Bach means?”
“Yes.”
He frowned at her contemptuous tone. “Have no fear, my lady. It is a castle.”
“Oh.”
“You are an honored guest.”
She made a dismissive sniff. No doubt she was disappointed they were not going to Lord Cynvelin’s stronghold.
Bryce suddenly heard the babble of rushing water and in another moment, to his great relief, he caught sight of a stream. “I know where we are now,” he announced.
“What a clever fellow!”
He ignored her sarcastic response. She was wet and probably tired, so he would excuse her rudeness, especially when they reached the stream and he could see up its course. In the distance he could make out the wall of Annedd Bach.
He decided it would be wise to follow the course of the stream. “This is pretty country, when it’s not covered in mist,” he reflected.
“How kind of you to say so,” she said, turning her head to the side. “We Welsh wouldn’t know that unless you Normans told us, of course.”
Bryce scowled even as he regarded the smooth line of her jaw and the perfect shape of her nose. “You’re part Norman yourself, aren’t you, my lady?”
“Yes,” she answered reluctantly.
“You’re not ashamed of that, surely?” he asked, wondering if she was.
She straightened her shoulders and faced forward again. “No, of course not,” she replied brusquely. “I am proud to be a DeLanyea.”
“Judging by your fathers and brothers, you have every right to be,” he said truthfully.
“My father is the finest lord in all of Britain,” she declared.
When Bryce thought of the baron’s demeanor, he could certainly believe her father was one of the greatest warrior barons in Britain. “Tell me, my lady, how did he lose his eye?”
“Fighting the infidel in the Holy Land.”
“Ah!”
“King Richard and the others left him there. It took him many years to get home. Unlike some, his exile was not self-imposed and the result of a family squabble.”
Bryce stiffened at her condemnation. “Exile is still exile,” he remarked when he thought he could keep his tone civil.
She turned again to regard him with searching, green-eyed intensity. “You could have gone home. There was nothing to stop you.”
“Except pride.”
“What was that when your sister was left alone and unprotected, and in poverty, too?”
He had had his misdeeds cast up to him a hundred times and thought he was immune to condemnation, but without pausing to examine why, he wanted her to understand. “I went away because I argued with my father over money,” he explained. “My father spent too freely and when I realized there might be trouble, I tried to make him use more caution. He treated me like a child, telling me I shouldn’t worry. I got angry and told him what I thought of the path he was taking and what I thought of him for taking it. Then I left.”
“When he was dying, you did not come home,” she noted, her tone gentler. She looked at him in a new way, too, as if she were trying to understand.
“I never knew that he was ill, or I would have come at once.”
The sympathetic expression fled her face, to be replaced by the disapproval that was more usually there. “Because nobody knew where you had gone,” she said. “Surely it was your duty to—”
Just as suddenly, he was tired of her disapproval. Tired of trying to explain.
“My lady,” he growled, “when you have known what it is to feel you cannot return to your home because of hurtful words said in haste and frustration, then you may criticize me. When you have tried to earn money for your family without them knowing by fighting in tournaments wherever they may be,
then you may chastise me for keeping my whereabouts a secret. I am quite certain you have no comprehension of what it is to feel ashamed of anything you have done, even if you should, so perhaps it would be wise to keep your ignorant opinions to yourself.”
Rhiannon reached out and grabbed the reins, pulling his horse to a halt.
“What are you doing now?” Bryce demanded.
“Here,” she declared, pulling his tunic off her shoulders and tossing it onto the muddy ground. “Get dressed. I will not have people see me riding with a man who is half-naked. I would be too ashamed.”
He emitted a scoffing laugh. “You would rather have them see you covered in mud?” he asked sarcastically.
“Since the state of my gown is your fault, that will not shame me.”
He slipped from the horse, grabbed Lord Cynvelin’s garment and yanked it over his head. He glared at her, only to realize she was smiling and, he thought, trying not to laugh. “What amuses you so, my lady?” he demanded.
“Considering you apparently do not know your back from your front, I would not be calling the Welsh dolts, if I were you.”
He glanced down at the tunic and realized she was right. With another scowl, he tried to get his arms out to turn it, only to discover that it was not as easy as it should be.
“Here, let me help.” Rhiannon dismounted and took hold of the garment, tugging on it.
To Bryce’s dismay, he heard a tearing noise. “God’s wounds,” he muttered.
“If you would stop moving and put your arm down,” Rhiannon ordered. “There!”
She faced him boldly, this beautiful woman with the shining eyes and lovely face who had enticed him and tempted him and who he could not forget any more than he could ignore the overwhelming urge to kiss her. With fierce passion he pulled her into his arms and his mouth swooped down upon hers.
This time, though, there was no answering response. She stiffened, then struggled in his arms.
At once he let her go, to see her glaring at him. “You blackguard! I hope my father does kill you!”
Angry and ashamed at his own rash act, Bryce cursed himself for an impulsive fool. He had never kissed a woman against her will in his life; therefore, he reasoned defensively, his impetuous action had to be her fault for looking at him that way.
“And I hope you will make your husband happy,” he declared. “Tell me, do you honestly think you will be content with one man for the rest of your life?”
“The rest of my life is none of your business.”
“Thank God!”
She turned on her heel and marched toward his horse. Fearing that she would take it and desert him, he hurried after her and reached the beast before she did, grabbing hold of its bridle. When he looked back triumphantly, he was shocked to see that she was wiping away tears.
“My lady!” he cried remorsefully. No matter how she had regarded him, he knew, that was no excuse to act like an immoral beast.
She halted in front of him, defiant despite her damp cheeks. “I’m not crying,” she asserted.
She did not want to look weak, he conjectured sympathetically. Then his heart filled with admiration at her strength, and her pride.
“Your tunic is torn,” she noted scornfully. “Do I not recognize this garment? Is it not a cast-off of your master’s?”
It occurred to him that some women had too much pride and strength of character. “I am well aware of the origin of my current attire,” he replied coldly. “I gather my clothes were not fitting for a groomsman on such a delightful mission.”
Her mouth turned down in a disdainful frown.
“You could not be a groomsman.”
“No, of course not,” he replied sarcastically. “I am a dispossessed Norman who selfishly abandoned his family in a childish fit of pique, not worthy of anything except your contempt.” He held out his hand to assist her onto his horse. “Shall we, my lady?”
“As long as you leave me alone,” she grudgingly conceded.
They rode the rest of the way in silence. Soon they came to a path leading from the stream up onto the main road, and Bryce turned the horse to follow it.
“Is there no village here?” Rhiannon asked when they came to the road and they could see the gates of Annedd Bach.
“There are some houses near the entrance, but I would not say it was much of a village.”
“Oh. No wonder. Annedd Bach is not much of a castle.”
Bryce scowled all the rest of the way to the fortress. To be sure Annedd Bach was not much now, but he would do the best he could to improve it, just as he would obey Lord Cynvelin. Then he would be a nobleman again.
He noticed the knot of Cynvelin’s men loitering in the courtyard near the stables, talking among themselves. Then he spotted Cynvelin, who had obviously been waiting for them.
Bryce slipped off his horse and held out his hand again to assist Rhiannon. Without seeming to be aware of his existence, she placed her hand in his as she dismounted.
Bryce let go at once and did not look at her face. He never wanted to touch her or be close to her again. She was far too temptingly dangerous.
Chapter Six
“Ah, here is my beautiful Rhiannon!” Cynvelin declared, approaching them.
He made a sweeping bow.
“What has happened?” he cried, concern on every feature as he ran his gaze over her, then Bryce Frechette. “Did your horse fall and run away? I hope you are not injured, my lady?”
“No, I’m not hurt, and yes, my horse ran away, so I will need to borrow one of yours,” Rhiannon said firmly.
It was taking considerable effort for her to maintain some fortitude. In addition to the shock and anger at Cynvelin’s presumptuous plan, she had to cope with the disturbing, equally presumptuous Bryce Frechette. How dare he kiss her again?
How could she find it so difficult to repel his advances?
Was it written on her face that she was some kind of weak-willed creature who would welcome such treatment? If so, she would try all the harder to dispel any such erroneous notions. Just as she would subdue her surely immoral yearning to be in Bryce Frechette’s embrace.
Cynvelin’s brow furrowed with puzzlement. “Of course, my lady, if you wish. I shall be only too happy to give you a horse.”
“Not give,” she said. “I will see that it is returned.”
“Returned? No, it would be my gift.”
Rhiannon stifled the urge to retort that she didn’t want gifts of any kind from him. However, the knowledge that her previous indiscreet behavior at Lord Melevoir’s might be partly responsible for her predicament made her hold her tongue.
“I was beginning to fear for your safety,” Lord Cynvelin said.
“I got lost,” Bryce admitted. “I missed the first path.”
“Ah!” the Welshman exclaimed with a smile. “I should have thought of that. But you are here at last.”
Rhiannon was anxious to set things right as soon as possible, yet she was all too aware that Cynvelin’s soldiers and another motley group of men were present, as well as Bryce Frechette. This was uncomfortably like the last time she had been in a courtyard with Cynvelin, so she said, “May we not speak in private, my lord?”
“Of course!” He gestured toward the hall. “I wouldn’t want you to catch cold, my lady. I promised your father I would take good care of you, so please come into the hall. There is a fire in the hearth to warm you.”
He held out his arm to escort her. Seeing no help for it, she laid her hand upon his forearm.
“Bryce, would you be so good as to excuse us?” Cynvelin said as he placed his hot hand over Rhiannon’s. “There is some problem with the accommodation for Lady Rhiannon. See to it.”
“As you wish, my lord,” the Norman said before making his obeisance and striding toward the keep.
Watching him leave, Rhiannon had to fight to subdue the urge to insist that he stay, which was, of course, ridiculous. He was rude, impertinent, thoroughly disconcerting and he
had kissed her when he should not.
Nor did he ever defer to her...or speak down to her, as if she was a child.
She impatiently pulled her hand from Cynvelin’s arm and marched toward the hall.
“Women!” she heard Cynvelin mutter, and then a burst of sympathetic male laughter.
Rhiannon scowled, once again displeased by his behavior. She was a noblewoman, from a fine family and deserving of respect. She should not be made the butt of jokes, or kissed in public, or anywhere! No wonder Bryce Frechette had felt free to do so. In his eyes, she surely looked a brazen wench.
While her opinion of him, although not the best, was getting better, especially when she thought of what he had said about his family as they had shared his horse—until he had kissed her again.
She strode into the hall of Annedd Bach and looked around. It was a cold, barren room, with no tapestries to brighten the walls, no linens in evidence, and a small fire smoking in the central hearth. There were no servants anywhere, and no sign of food or drink.
Was this Lord Cynvelin’s idea of hospitality?
She went to one of the two chairs and flung herself into it. In another moment, Lord Cynvelin strolled into the hall, his hands behind his back and that stupid smile on his face. She barely looked at him when he sat in the chair next to her.
She took a deep breath and spoke bluntly. “Thank you for your welcome, Lord Cynvelin,” she announced. “Unfortunately, I fear there has been a terrible mistake.”
“Mistake, my lady?”
“Yes.” She took another deep breath, reluctant to apologize in view of what Lord Cynvelin had done, but she was determined to be just. “I must ask your forgiveness for misleading you. It was never my intention to have you believe I wish to marry you.”
“My lady, you quite break my heart!” he cried, obviously surprised. “I thought...rather, I had hoped—”
“Again, I apologize,” she said. “I should have been more circumspect. I enjoyed your company—”
“As I enjoyed yours,” Lord Cynvelin said in a low, seductive tone that only made her want to scowl, “so much that I have been longing to see you again. Desperate men do desperate things. I know your father has told you stories about me, but I will do my best to set right any misunderstanding you may have of me.”
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