“I will kill you!”
Letter to Reader
Title Page
Books by Margaret Moore
About the Author
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Copyright
“I will kill you!”
Still half-asleep and completely naked, Dylan rolled over and stared at the enraged Lord Perronet at the door of his bedchamber.
The man’s face was as red as a cherry and—most surprising of all—he was fumbling for the sword at his side.
Now wide-awake, Dylan reached for his own weapon, which should have been beside his bed. He halted in stunned shock as his hand encountered an unexpected mound.
That moved.
“Uncle?” Genevieve Perronet said as she sat up, holding the coverings over herself.
It was obvious that beneath those coverings she was as naked as he.
“I’m going to kill you for what you’ve done!”
Lord Perronet roared, finally succeeding in drawing his sword.
Dylan leapt from the bed, searching frantically for his weapon.
What had he done with it last night?
What had he done last night, period!
Dear Reader,
Entertainment. Escape. Fantasy. These three words describe the heart of Harlequin Historical novels. If you want compelling, emotional stories by some of the best writers in the field, look no further.
After recently publishing her first mainstream historical romance for Avon Books, award-winning author Margaret Moore returns this month with a terrific “opposites attract” story, The Welshman’s Bride. Part of Margaret’s ongoing WARRIOR SERIES, this is the tale of a roguish Welsh nobleman who must many a shy chatelaine after the two are caught in a compromising situation. Don’t miss the humor and passion as they learn to appreciate their differences and fall in love!
Hunter of My Heart is a fresh and exciting Regency by talented newcomer Janet Kendall featuring two Scottish nobles who are bribed into marrying to protect their past secrets. And be sure to look for Laurie Grant’s final DEVLIN BROTHERS book, Maggie and the Maverick, about two wounded souls who share friendship and love under Texas skies.
Rounding out the month is The Unlikely Wife by Cassandra Austin, an author known for her stories of emotion and drama. Here, the flirty Rebecca Huntington is truly an unlikely wife—until officer and gentleman Clark Forester shows her what the love of a good man can do!
Whatever your tastes in reading, you’ll be sure to find a romantic journey back to the past between the covers of a Harlequin Historical® novel.
Sincerely,
Tracy Farrell
Senior Editor
Please address questions and book requests to:
Harlequin Reader Service
U.S. 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont L2A 5X3
THE WELSHMAN’S BRIDE
Margaret Moore
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
Books by Margaret Moore
Harlequin Historicals
* A Warrior’s Heart #118
China Blossom #149
* A Warrior’s Quest #175
† The Viking #200
* A Warrior’s Way #224
Vows #248
† The Saxon #268
* The Welshman’s Way #295
* The Norman’s Heart #311
* The Baron’s Quest #328
‡ The Wastrel #344
‡ The Dark Duke #364
‡ The Rogue’s Return #376
Δ The Knights of Christmas #387
* A Warrior’s Bride #395
* A Warrior’s Honor #420
* A Warrior’s Passion #440
* The Welshman’s Bride #459
Harlequin Books
Mistletoe Marriages
“Christmas in the Valley”
* Warrior Series
† The Viking Series
Δ In-line Christmas Collection
‡ Most Unsuitable...
MARGARET MOORE
Award-winning author Margaret Moore began her career at the age of eight, when she and a friend concocted stories featuring a lovely damsel and a handsome, misunderstood thief nicknamed “The Red Sheik.”
Unknowingly pursuing her destiny, Margaret graduated with distinction from the University of Toronto with a Bachelor of Arts degree. She has been a Leading Wren in the Royal Canadian Naval Reserve, an award-winning public speaker, a member of an archery team, and a student of fencing and ballroom dancing. She has also worked for every major department store chain in Canada.
Margaret sold her first historical romance, A WARRIOR’ S HEART, to Harlequin Historicals in 1991. She has recently completed her eighteenth novel for Harlequin. Margaret lives in Toronto with her husband, two children and two cats.
With thanks to “the Fam,” for their witty repartée
and help with the housework.
Chapter One
“Don’t be daft!” Dylan DeLanyea exclaimed with a roguish grin as he regarded his unsmiling cousin.
His head cradled in his hands, his feet crossed at the ankles, Dylan lay upon the large bed in the chamber made over to his use while he visited his uncle at the castle of Craig Fawr. “Not serious, me, and she knows it. You could have saved yourself some trouble and stayed in the hall with your wife.”
“How can you be so sure what she thinks?” Griffydd demanded, his arms folded over his broad, muscular chest. “If I did not know you well, I would think you were wooing Genevieve Perronet with marriage in mind.”
Dylan shook his head, his eyes twinkling merrily. “Everybody knows I’m not ready to be married, and I’m too young, besides.”
“Not ready, maybe—but you’re older than I am,” the newly wedded Griffydd reminded him.
“Just because you’ve got yourself a wife doesn’t mean everybody thinks of marriage. I was only enjoying the young lady’s company.”
“Lady Genevieve Perronet is already betrothed.”
“There, then!” Dylan cried triumphantly, shifting to a sitting position. “She can’t think I’m serious.”
“People have broken their betrothals before this, and I hear you’ve been doing a little more than talking to her,” Griffydd said, looking at Dylan with grim intensity.
Dylan flushed. “A few chaste kisses hardly count as trying to break a betrothal,” he replied, wondering if one of the nosy castle servants had seen him with her and gossiped.
“For you, perhaps. It could be Genevieve Perronet thinks differently. She has led a very sheltered life with Lady Katherine.”
“And now she’s free for a short while. I don’t see anything wrong with amusing her.”
“Tell that to her intended. Lord Kirkheathe might take a different view.”
“Well, as I am an honorable knight, I would never come between a man and his future wife,” Dylan said with genuine conviction.
“And you are being honorable, aren’t you?”
“God’s wounds, what’s that supposed to mean?”
“You aren’t trying to seduce her?”
“I’ve considered it.”
“Dylan!”
“But only considered,” he assured Griffydd jovially. “She’s a well-bred, betrothed lady for whom I have the greatest respect, for one thing. And for another, there’s her uncle. Norman to the bones, that one, all gloom and ambition. I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of him.”
“I’m glad you’ve realized that. Her uncle does not strike me as a forgiving man, should his plans for her be thwarted.”
“They won’t be, although I must say it is a waste to marry one so young to one so old. Kirkheathe must be—what? Sixty?”
“Forty.”
Dylan stretched, his movements lithe as a panther. “Making too much of this you are, Griffydd.”
“Making too little of her feelings you are,” Griffydd retorted. “A woman’s heart is not something to be toyed with.”
“We’re both enjoying the game, that’s all,” Dy-lan insisted. “And if she’s a little sad when she leaves here, I see nothing so wrong in that. I will be sad to see her go, too.”
“So you like her, then?”
“Of course. What is there not to be liked? She’s young, she’s pretty, she laughs when I make a joke.” Dylan leaned conspiratorially closer. “She’s as shapely a woman as ever I’ve seen, and her kisses—chaste though they were—were very pleasant.”
“You are beyond redemption,” Griffydd growled.
“Nonsense! I’ve done nothing that requires redemption.”
“Did you tell her about your children?”
Dylan frowned. “There was no occasion to mention them. We are having a little harmless fun before she marries that ancient knight, is all.”
“You are absolutely certain she understands that is how you feel?”
Dylan could not quite meet Griffydd’s steadfast gaze. “I said so, didn’t I? I’ve given her no reason to think otherwise.”
“I hope you’re right. I wouldn’t want anything to spoil these celebrations. This is Trystan’s time. He’s worked hard for his knighthood, and I don’t want the festivities disrupted because you can’t keep it in your breeches.”
Dylan scowled. “Anwyl, listen to you! I told you, I haven’t done any harm. And speaking of Trystan, should you not be seeing if your little brother has recovered from his vigil and his knighting? It’s long past noon, and he was still asleep the last time I looked. I hope he’ll be well enough to attend tonight’s feast.”
Griffydd nodded as he rose from the stool. “You will be at the feast?”
“Where else?”
Griffydd raised an eyebrow.
“Maybe I do have a notion to go see Bertha at the village tavern, for old times’ sake.”
Griffydd shook his head. “You’re hopeless,” he muttered as he strode through the door.
“Only joking, me!” Dylan called out as the door banged.
For a moment, an uncharacteristically serious expression appeared on his darkly handsome face, then, being Dylan, the expression disappeared, replaced by a merry grin.
He rose from the bed and started to whistle as he went to see if pretty Lady Genevieve would keep their rendezvous in his aunt’s garden.
Genevieve pulled her fur-lined cloak more tightly around herself as she waited. She shivered despite the warm lining, for it was a chilly morning in early March. Occasional remnants of snow dotted the stone path and beds, and the bare stalks of the climbing roses rubbed against the garden wall.
She wondered if she should have come here at all. Perhaps she should have stayed in her chamber, where her uncle believed her to be.
She should have been engaged in her prayers, instead of sitting in a barren garden awaiting a young man.
A very handsome, charming young man.
The first time she had set eyes on Dylan DeLanyea, he had been standing in the courtyard among a group of other knights. They, warriors all, had turned to look at her uncle’s cortege.
Her gaze had been drawn to the dark-eyed, good-looking man whose black hair brushed his shoulders. He stood with his arms casually folded, his weight on one long, lean leg.
At once she had been reminded of Lady Katherine’s cautions regarding evil young men who only had one thing in mind when it came to women. The one thing was, Genevieve had to assume from Lady Katherine’s tone, something a young lady should not want.
This dangerous goal had remained a mystery until that night when the older girls also fostered to Lady Katherine had taken it upon themselves to enlighten the younger ones. Certain portions of that fascinating discussion had immediately returned to Genevieve as she tried to look away from the handsome stranger with his devilish grin and merry eyes. She had not been able to manage it until her uncle barked at his men to dismount. Half-afraid and half-hopeful, she had wondered if the young man would approach her. He did not, but later she had discovered that he was Dylan DeLanyea, the nephew of Baron DeLanyea, lord of Craig Fawr.
What would her uncle say if he discovered her now, in this secluded garden, waiting for Dylan?
She could not even imagine the extent of his ire. They were guests of the DeLanyeas, breaking their journey north at the baron’s castle and, incidentally, attending the knighting of the baron’s youngest son. Nevertheless, she was sure her uncle would not hesitate to condemn her in front of them all if he thought her guilty of shameful behavior.
As for what Lady Katherine would say, that was easier to guess, for she had lived the past eight years under Lady Katherine’s roof, being instructed in the skills, duties and manners of a chatelaine.
Lady Katherine would say that Dylan DeLanyea, for all his smiles and kind looks, was not to be trusted.
Genevieve didn’t believe that. Dylan was noble and chivalrous, and completely trustworthy.
To be sure, he had kissed her, even though he knew she was betrothed. Three times. Once on the cheek, and twice on the lips.
Her heartbeat quickened. During the somewhat tedious business of the knighting of Trystan DeLanyea, Dylan’s cousin and foster brother, she had realized that Dylan was looking at her—often. And smiling. He continued to do so during the subsequent feast.
And then came the dancing. She had thought she would swoon when Dylan approached her and asked her to stand beside him in the dance. When he had taken her hand, she had scarce been able to breathe.
Fortunately, thanks to Lady Katherine’s teaching, she was able to dance the steps, even though she found it exceedingly difficult to concentrate.
Afterward, Dylan DeLanyea had escorted her back to her uncle. Then he had returned and beseeched her to dance again.
That time, when the dance was over, he did not take her back to her uncle, who was engaged in deep conversation with the baron and his eldest son, Griffydd. Instead, he led her to a more private part of the hall—still in full view of everyone, of course, so there could be no charge of impropriety.
She was, after all, betrothed—albeit to a man old enough to be her father.
Her face flushed as she thought of what had happened next. Somehow, and she wasn’t sure just how, she found herself farther back in the shadows. Nor could she recall what they had been speaking of, for all at once, Dylan DeLanyea had suddenly leaned forward and kissed her.
She was not cold now, as she remembered the sensation of his warm, soft lips first brushing her cheek, then touching her mouth.
“There is a rose blooming here, after all.”
She started when she heard Dylan’s musical Welsh voice.
She stood as he came through the gate, closing it softly behind him before he faced her, smiling.
His untamed hair moved gently in the chilly breeze. He did not look cold, although he wore no cloak. He was clad in an open-necked shirt beneath a leather tunic girded by a thick sword belt. The tunic brushed his muscular thighs, which were encased in breeches. Fur wrappings covered his shins and boots.
Plain clothing indeed, and yet he looked absolutely splendid. She did not think a prince could look fine
r, especially when he regarded her with that intimate smile and those shining eyes.
“I was afraid you would not come,” he said as he approached her.
Genevieve looked at the frosty ground. “I should not, perhaps, have done so.”
“I would have been very sad.”
She risked a glance at him. “Truly?”
“Most truly. Come, sit here beside me.”
He sat on the stone bench she had recently vacated. Her heart throbbing so that she was sure he must be able to hear it, she hesitated a moment, then joined him, sitting as far away as possible.
Although she had been unable to resist the lure of being alone with him in the garden, she was a lady, and there were certain proprieties to be observed.
But not by him, apparently, for he boldly reached out and took her gloved hand in his.
She knew she should not allow such familiarity, but the words of protest would not come.
“Baron DeLanyea tells me you are to leave tomorrow,” he said softly.
She nodded.
He sighed. “I will be very sorry when you go.”
Emboldened by his manner and his words, she looked at him. “So will I.”
He smiled wistfully. “You are to be married within the month?”
“Yes, within the month,” she replied, not troubling to hide her dismay at her impending fate. “To an old man.”
“That is often the way of it,” Dylan replied gravely. “An old man and a young wife.”
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