CHAPTER SEVEN
AT THE WEDDING FEAST that followed, Lord Alfred sat to Madoc’s left at the high table on the dais. He was clearly pleased and, Roslynn had no doubt, secretly relieved that he could return to the king and report that John’s orders had been carried out.
Madoc’s uncle was on her right, and when he wasn’t eating or drinking, he was telling her what a fine fellow his nephew was.
Unfortunately, although the food was very good and well prepared, Roslynn’s appetite seemed to have deserted her—no doubt because she was still taken aback and not a little overwhelmed to be sitting in the hall of Llanpowell, the bride of a man she barely knew and within a short time of meeting him. Although she’d agreed to the marriage, she’d been shocked by his decision to have the ceremony so soon, yet when he’d allowed her more time, she’d realized there was no reason to wait. Her word had been given, and there was no one she wanted to invite to the wilds of Wales to see her married, even supposing they would come.
Madoc’s near silence didn’t help to ease her discomfort, although it did provide a welcome contrast to her first husband’s behavior on that other wedding day. Wimarc had moved among their guests with voluble good cheer, dispensing greetings and compliments as if he were a magnanimous monarch.
Their clothing was just as dissimilar. Wimarc had been as brightly attired as a peacock in silk and samite, while Madoc wore a tunic of plain black wool that was too tight across his broad shoulders and powerful chest, equally plain breeches and boots that looked out of place on a groom, even if they were polished.
Yet it wasn’t Lord Madoc’s taciturn presence or his simple clothing that was so unnerving. It was what she saw if she happened to look him directly in the eye. Something heated and primitive smoldered in those dark depths, something that made her want to reach for the sensation-dulling wine. And if they accidentally touched…
But she mustn’t consume too much wine. She wanted to have her wits about her when she and her husband…when they…
She swallowed the bit of roasted beef in her mouth and tried to keep her attention on the minstrel who was playing a jaunty tune. Unfortunately, he sang in Welsh, so she began to survey the rest of the people in the hall—the villagers thrilled to be at such an event, the richer among them acting as if they had expected nothing less than an invitation to the lord’s marriage; the soldiers, getting quietly drunk and loudly competitive, comparing their prowess with weapons, women, and apparently just about anything men could compare; the servants, moving swiftly and surely among them, exchanging pleasantries with the villagers, and a few of the younger maidservants flirting with the soldiers.
Not the shy Bron, though. She kept to herself and went about her duties quickly and quietly, albeit with a genial smile on her pretty face while she deftly avoided any attempt to caress her.
Roslynn knew exactly how Bron felt. She had spent many a meal at the king’s court avoiding unwanted attention, although it seemed Bron wasn’t upset by the men’s actions. It was as if she simply didn’t care enough about any of them to respond, whether with pleasure or a slap.
Roslynn spotted Ivor, the steward, as watchful as a dog on the scent from his place nearest the high table. She had caught a glimpse of the steward’s expression at the conclusion of the wedding ceremony and knew he still didn’t accept her, or want her for the lady of Llanpowell.
She didn’t have to like him, and he didn’t have to like her. She was the lady, he the steward; they merely had to cooperate.
It wasn’t his dislike of her that troubled her the most; it was his hypocrisy.
Wimarc had been a master of such deceit. Even at their wedding, when he’d behaved like a loving, happy groom, he’d been planning and scheming rebellion with most of the guests.
Madoc reached out and covered her hand with his. Startled, she recoiled as if she’d been pinched and he quickly withdrew it.
“I was wondering what brought that frown to my bride’s face,” he said, sounding faintly apologetic.
She regretted reacting so strongly; nevertheless, she answered honestly. “I fear your steward objects to our marriage.”
“Ivor the Purse Strings is suspicious by nature and he doesn’t trust foreigners, and he especially doesn’t trust John,” Madoc admitted with unexpected candor. “He has another reason for disliking Normans, though, peculiar to himself. He blames them for his lameness. When his mother was big with child, she was accosted by a group of Norman soldiers and fell. It brought on her labor and Ivor was born with a crippled leg. Whether it was the fault of the fall or early labor, no one could say, but he blames the Normans nonetheless. Still, he liked my mother well enough and she was a Norman.”
He frowned when he saw her surprise. “Nobody told you that, eh?”
She reached for her goblet, then pulled back her hand without touching it. “I was told very little about you, my lord, and even less about Llanpowell. It’s comforting to hear I won’t be the first Norman chatelaine here. I hope all your people will come to accept me, too.”
“If I didn’t think that possible, I wouldn’t have married you. As for Ivor, I rule here, not him, so this was my decision to make, not his. He’s as stubborn as me, though, especially when he thinks he’s right, so you may have to give him time. But I have no doubt he’ll come round eventually, just like those who opposed my father’s marriage.”
He inclined his head toward his uncle, who was still listening with rapt attention to the minstrel.
“Your uncle?” she whispered incredulously.
“He was the worst of them all, so they say,” Madoc quietly replied with a little smile that made her heart race. “He was proved wrong, and now he seems to think Norman women are the next things to angels on earth.”
“What’s that about women?” Lloyd asked as the minstrel concluded a very long ballad.
“I was telling her that you liked my mother very much.”
“So did everyone. A fine woman she was, but oh, the temper! Could flay the skin off your back with a look.” He sighed and shook his head. “How I miss her!” Then he grinned merrily. “But no sad faces now. Pleased she’d be tonight, I’m sure. Aye, this reminds me of your parents’ wedding, Madoc. What a time that was! I was drunk for a week, when I wasn’t chasing after the girls and catching a few of them, too! Not a one of them as pretty as you, my lady, Welsh beauties though they were.”
Although his eyes shone with laughter, Lloyd heaved another heavy and mournful sigh. “Ah, I was younger and faster then. I’d never catch a one of them now.”
“Unless they wanted you to,” Roslynn suggested, trying to join in the merriment. “I’m sure I’m not the only woman who finds you handsome still.”
“Go on with you! I know flattery when I hear it!” Lloyd cried, although he grinned with delight and beamed at Madoc. “There now, it’s a kindhearted girl you’ve married, nephew, making me feel as young as you!”
“Perhaps I ought to tell the maidservants to hide,” Madoc suggested.
“Go ahead,” Lloyd challenged. “If your lady wife is right, there’ll be one or two won’t take any heed.”
“Then we might be having another wedding soon, I suppose.”
“Perish the notion!” Lloyd cried. “I’m not like you! Why, I couldn’t stay faithful to one woman, nor the memory of one, either. Fine thing to do a woman, swear to be faithful when you know it’s impossible.”
Roslynn took a sip of wine. She was relieved to think Madoc wasn’t the sort of husband to take lovers, but dismayed by what Lloyd had said, too. If Madoc had loved his first wife so much he’d never had a lover since her death, how could she possibly take that woman’s place in his heart or in his life? Perhaps she shouldn’t even try….
Clapping began near the door to the hall and Roslynn looked up to see a gray-haired man in a forest-green tunic carrying a harp coming toward the dais.
“Ah, here’s Ianto!” Lloyd cried. “The best bard in Wales. I thought he’d never get here.”
Lloyd jumped to his feet. “Make way there for Ianto!”
When he reached the dais, the bard bowed to Madoc and then to her, smiling, while the servants hurried forward to clear away the last of the fruit tart and roasted chestnuts from the high table and bring the bard a stool.
Ianto didn’t begin to play once he was seated. Instead, he looked at Roslynn in a most disconcerting fashion and ran his fingers lightly over the strings as if they were his pet.
Curious about the delay, unsettled by the bard’s scrutiny, Roslynn leaned toward Madoc and whispered, “What’s he waiting for?”
“He’s considering which song best suits the bride.”
Roslynn didn’t find that a comforting thought, especially when it seemed such a time-consuming task.
At last the middle-aged man struck a chord and began to sing in Welsh. Most of the people in the hall started to smile and several put their hands over their mouths to smother laughter.
Madoc, however, sat as still as a stone, while the steward looked just as grim. Made even more uneasy by their reactions, Roslynn glanced at Lloyd—to see his lips twitching as if he, too, was trying not to laugh out loud.
Exactly what sort of song had the bard chosen?
“Might one inquire what that fellow is singing about?” Lord Alfred asked Madoc, obviously likewise puzzled and suspicious.
“It’s about a mermaid and the mortal man who loves her,” Madoc replied.
“She’s a slippery thing, you see,” Lloyd supplied, his eyes twinkling, “and he has a hard time keeping hold of her when—”
Madoc abruptly shoved back his chair. “Now the groom will sing to his bride,” he declared. “In her own language, so she’ll understand.”
Roslynn flushed and said nothing, but she was pleased he had risen to defend her dignity. A bawdy song about mermaids and their human lovers was hardly appropriate at the wedding of two nobles.
The bard handed Madoc his harp and her husband settled himself on the dais, then began to play. His song was sweeter, slower, about a lad who dreams of the perfect love but fears he’ll never find it. Every verse ended with the young man trying to hope, yet afraid it was pointless, until the song ended with a haunting wistfulness.
Afraid she was going to start to cry, which would be mortifying, Roslynn rose abruptly. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord, I wish to retire.”
Madoc returned the harp to the bard. “It’s early yet. Are you unwell?”
It was not his fault she was upset. He couldn’t have known the effect that song would have on her—indeed, she wouldn’t have guessed it herself. Yet now more than ever she wished she’d never met Wimarc. Never fallen under his spell, never begged to marry him. How much she would give to be an innocent bride with no past mistakes and foolish choices to stain this night!
Not sure what to say, what explanation she could offer that wouldn’t reduce her to tears, she said, “I merely wish to retire. Have I your permission?”
Several people began to snicker.
Frowning, Madoc slid a sternly rebuking glance at them before inclining his head. “Of course.”
Determined to be dignified, Roslynn held her head high as she started toward the stairs. Yet that only seemed to make the people more amused, and the farther she got from the dais, the louder their laughter grew.
Until a roar of approval rang through the hall.
Wondering what had caused that outburst, she glanced back, to see Madoc coming after her with purposeful strides and a most determined gleam in his dark eyes as if he planned to pick her up and carry her off and throw her down…
Not again! Never again!
On the verge of panic, not caring if any of the men saw her ankles or even her calves, Roslynn gathered up her skirts and ran as fast as she could for the stairs, narrowly avoiding a collision with a servant carrying away a tray of empty goblets.
“Out of the way!” Madoc called out close behind her, his warning followed by a tremendous crash.
Gaining the stairs, Roslynn didn’t look back. She clutched the handrail carved into the curving wall and dashed up the steps, seeking the sanctuary of the upper chamber.
Not again! Never again!
The words rang in her mind, her heart, her soul, as she ran into the room, dimly lit by a single beeswax candle on the dressing table, slammed the door closed and slid the bolt home. But the bolt was old, the latch, too—no real deterrent to a strong, determined man.
Her heart thundering in her chest, she backed away from the door and waited breathlessly for the kick, the crash, the curses, the slaps. Getting shoved onto the bed, her skirts pushed up—
Instead, there was a light rap of knuckles on the door, and Madoc’s voice, low and courteous. “My lady, may I come in?”
With shaking fingers she wiped the tears from her damp cheeks with the edge of her veil and reminded herself that he was not Wimarc. He was Madoc ap Gruffydd of Llanpowell, and her husband by her own choice.
He was not Wimarc. He had promised to be gentle.
Her hands still trembling, she drew back the bolt, then moved away as Madoc entered and closed the door behind him.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said with every appearance of remorse. “Everybody assumed you were anxious to be alone with me when you started to run. So did I. But that’s not why you ran, is it?”
There was no point denying that she’d been afraid, and still was, now that she was his and they were alone. “I shouldn’t have behaved like a terrified child, but after being married to Wimarc—”
“You thought I was coming after you to take my selfish pleasure,” he said, sparing her the necessity of putting her fear into words.
“Yes, I’m sorry. It was foolish of me.”
The candle spluttered, the dim light flickering over his angular features as he shook his head. “No need to apologize to me, my lady. I know the feeling, you see. When I was a boy, my horse reared and threw me into a bog. I thought I was going to be sucked under the mud and drown. By the time they got me out, I had mud in my mouth and up my nose. Ever since then, the very smell of wet leaves and mud can make my stomach knot with dread.”
He regarded her steadily. “You should never be afraid of me, Roslynn. I swear on my honor as lord of Llanpowell that even if I’m in a rage, I’ll never hurt you.”
She saw the truth of his words in his eyes and heard his sincerity.
“I believe you,” she whispered, meaning it.
He gave her a wry little smile that removed the last of her lingering fear. “I’ll admit it was flattering to think my bride wanted to be with me so much, she’d leave the feast early and run to the bedchamber. The bard’s probably already making up a song about the lovesick lord of Llanpowell and how he chased after his bride.”
Lovesick?
He came a little closer. “I hope you won’t feel the need to run from the hall every night. Otherwise my people might think you don’t like me.”
Roslynn wrapped her arms around herself as if she could cage her tumultuous emotions. “I won’t.”
His glance flicked to the curtained bed.
Feeling like both a fool and a coward, she hurried to the dressing table, sat and, with fumbling fingers, began to remove her veil.
He came up behind her without saying a word. She felt his hands brush the back of her neck and realized he was undoing the laces of her gown. Very slowly. Painstakingly slowly.
Unsure what to do, she bit her lip and clasped her hands in her lap as he continued, until he parted the back of her gown and ran his fingertips along her spine. She sat bolt upright then, for although she wore her shift of lawn, it was as if she were naked, and his touch sent little lightning bolts racing across her skin.
“Don’t be afraid, Roslynn,” he whispered, his voice husky, his Welsh accent stronger. “I told you I could be patient and gentle. See, very patient, me.”
He began to pull out the combs that held her hair in place, until it fell unbound about
her shoulders, almost to her waist.
“Your hair is as beautiful as the rest of you,” he murmured, “and as soft as your lips. I’m a fortunate man to have such a bride.”
“I hope you always think so, my lord…my husband.”
He reached down and pulled her to her feet, then drew her into his embrace. He kissed her gently at first, and tenderly, as she had always dreamed a lover would kiss, and she responded in kind, with grateful wonderment. Then with increasing ardor.
But Madoc was no hasty, selfish partner, no domineering male to take without regard for her feelings. He didn’t treat her as something to be used simply to sate his own needs. He kissed as if they had a month, a year, a lifetime, to make love.
Her every sense was aware of him—his flesh beneath her fingers, the scent of his woolen tunic and leather boots, the delicate stroke of his powerful hands that she yearned to feel upon her naked skin.
He caressed her back, her arms, before lightly cupping her breast, and when he brushed the pad of his thumb across her taut nipple, she nearly swooned with the pleasure of it. Her need increasing, she pressed her body more fervently against him, silently urging him to take her to his bed.
He angled closer to her and, although she felt his arousal, he made no effort to hold her any tighter, his excitement kept in check by his undoubtedly powerful will. Nevertheless, she could sense his desire lurking like an animal only temporarily tamed.
As her fears kept her passion caged.
Until now. Until she had married this man who could set her free and release her from the chains of her past.
Holding him tight, she relaxed against him, her passion burning hotter as she parted her lips and pushed her tongue into Madoc’s warm, wet mouth.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ONLY THE CERTAINTY that he must take care and not frighten his bride prevented Madoc from yanking the back of Roslynn’s gown open so that he could feel her warm, soft, naked flesh.
The Warlord’s Bride Page 8