To think that he, Dylan DeLanyea, had found his bride passed out on the nuptial bed on their wedding night. What sport his friends would make of this!
If they found out.
Whatever he had to do to disguise his wife’s state when she awoke, he would do, rather than be the brunt of any attempted humor.
With a sour expression, he rose and stretched, reflecting that no one would have imagined he would sleep fully clothed on his wedding night, either. He went to the ewer, poured some water and then splashed his face.
Feeling somewhat refreshed, he turned and leaned back against the table, pensively regarding Genevieve.
No matter how she felt, he told himself, they would leave for Beaufort today. He had responsibilities and duties there that could not wait for her to recover.
She sighed and shifted, reminding him of the shapely body beneath the coverings, the body he had noted last night as he had tucked the sheets around her. Her breasts were perfect, her waist trim, her hips slender and her buttocks delightfully rounded.
In fact, he had actually been tempted to take her while she slept—but he was not so selfish. He could wait a little to enjoy her. After all, they were married now.
Genevieve moaned, a sound that turned into a low groan. He half smiled, recognizing that sound. She was waking, and simultaneously discovering that drinking too much wine was not a wise thing.
She rolled onto her back, then shielded her eyes with her forearm.
“Good morning, Genevieve,” Dylan said, deciding he would spare her any recriminations—for the moment. She would be miserable enough, to judge by that groan.
“Dylan?”
“Yes.”
“I...I am ill.”
He went to the bed and regarded her with a sympathetic smile. “No, you are suffering from too much of the baron’s excellent wine.”
“No,” she whispered, trying to sit up. “I am not well. I am going...going to be...”
Quickly Dylan grabbed the basin, threw the water onto the floor, ran to the bed and held it under Genevieve’s chin. When she was finished, he set it down and fetched a cloth that he wet with cool water from the ewer. Then he gently wiped her very pale face.
She regarded him with extremely bloodshot eyes. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.
“Such a result is not unexpected after too much wine, either,” he remarked wryly.
She lay back on the pillow, looking so miserable, he had to pity her.
He picked up the basin. “I shall make a swift trip to the garderobe and be back quickly.”
Genevieve nodded feebly.
He completed his task speedily, and when he returned, he wondered if she had fallen back to sleep, for her eyes were closed. He moved quietly toward the door so he wouldn’t disturb her.
Perhaps they could wait and leave after the noon.
“Dylan?”
He turned around as she opened her bleary eyes. “Yes?”
“Send for a priest I am dying.”
“I don’t think so,” he replied calmly, stifling the urge to grin. She truly did look miserable—some small recompense for robbing him of his wedding night.
Thankfully there would be other nights to come.
“My head throbs, and my mouth is so dry,” she said weakly. “I fear it is the plague.”
“It is only a surfeit of wine, Genevieve,” he said kindly. “You will be well later on.”
She frowned. “I will?”
“Yes. And we must go home.”
“Home?” she asked stupidly, raising her hand to her brow.
“Beaufort. It is not very far, over an easy road.”
She slowly shook her head. “I cannot.”
“I will get you something to ease your head, and something to eat.”
“I could not eat.”
He smiled affectionately. “You must. And then I shall find the gentlest mare in the baron’s stable for you to ride.”
“Tomorrow,” she murmured, and yet with surprising resolve in her weak voice.
“No,” he replied, a similar resolve in his own. “I cannot be away from my estate for much longer. It is nearly time to gather the sheep for the lambing.”
“If you move me, I will surely perish.”
“Unfortunately, that is a risk I will have to take.”
Her head pounding as if being trampled by a herd of horses and her stomach upset, Genevieve opened her eyes to see Dylan striding out the door. He closed it behind him with a bang that made her wince.
Very slowly and carefully she raised herself to a sitting position. By the saints, she had not felt this ill in years, if ever, and while Dylan had seemed to have a certain sympathy, he most cruelly refused to stay at Craig Fawr.
Her gaze roved over the rumpled bedclothes.
She was in her shift. He had been dressed in his black tunic, breeches and boots. She had slept the sleep of the dead. And he had slept...here?
She could not be sure. She could remember nothing after the wine.
With cautious movements, dreading what she might see, she slowly lifted the top coverings and surveyed the sheet below.
No blood.
She moved her legs. No soreness or stiffness or anything else that would indicate he had loved her.
She carefully lifted her shift and surveyed the area around her navel. Nothing there, either.
She had feared he would have even if she had been insensible. If he had snot, perhaps he was not the dishonorable, lustful scoundrel she thought.
Or perhaps, she mused as she drowsily snuggled beneath the thick covers, he had imbibed too much wine, too.
Wakened again by a clattering sound and thinking Dylan must have returned, Genevieve opened one eye.
Instead of her husband, however, she saw three serving women. One carried a basin of steaming water, another fresh linen and the third seemed to have no reason beyond curiosity for being there.
Not wanting to give any cause for gossip, Genevieve kept her eyes half-closed as she watched them. Mercifully, they kept silent.
It occurred to her that when she went to Beaufort, the servants would not speak her language. How would they understand her orders and directions? She shut her eyes and stifled the urge to groan again.
“My lady?”
She squinted at the woman now bending over her who had spoken very passable French. Concern clouded her middle-aged features. “Yes?”
“The Baron DeLanyea has asked us to help you prepare for your journey.”
Genevieve sighed. If the baron thought they must leave, they had little choice.
“Some bread will be brought shortly, and cold water. Would you care to wash?”
Genevieve shifted and put her feet on the floor. Even that simple movement seemed to take too much of her vitality.
“He says you’re not feeling very well. Tired, no doubt.”
The serving woman glanced over her shoulder as the other women giggled. “And why not, with him the handsomest thing twixt here and London? And difficult to walk, is it?”
Genevieve gave them a disgruntled look.
“Meaning that as a compliment, my lady, for you and young Baron DeLanyea.”
Genevieve blinked. Young Baron DeLanyea?
“My husband is a baron?”
The woman chuckled. “Yes, although he doesn’t like to use the title. He says he doesn’t want to sound as old as his uncle.”
This news came as a welcome surprise, Genevieve thought as she slowly climbed out of the bed.
She realized her stomach felt a little better, but her mouth was still dry and her head still pounded.
Then she realized that the women were giving her rather an odd look. Perhaps she should not have revealed her ignorance of her husband’s title.
“We did not speak of titles when we were together,” she explained.
That made them smile again, and she felt some relief—although as she made her preparations to leave Craig Fawr, she could not help wondering what el
se she did not know about the man to whom she was married.
Glancing up at the cloudless sky, pleased that the day promised to be fair, Dylan sauntered toward the stables. He had given orders for his horse and one of the baron’s mares to be made ready for their journey.
His uncle had given him the loan of the horse without hesitation and had also offered an additional mule for Genevieve’s baggage. That was most welcome, given the size of the chest Dylan had seen in his bedchamber last night. His poor mule would have collapsed if it had had to carry both his belongings and those of his wife.
Who was not yet fully his wife.
Despite that frustrating thought, Dylan strode jauntily through the courtyard, very aware that every man present was watching him, from the lowliest groom to grim, gray-eyed Griffydd, who was only pretending to fuss with the saddle on his horse.
His guard of ten men were all assembled, ready to ride out. Judging by their disheveled appearance, Genevieve was not the only person in Craig Fawr to overimbibe the previous night.
With some relief, Dylan noted that Trystan was nowhere in sight, and he told himself it was only because he had enough to think about without worrying about Trystan’s youthful opinion on a matter of which he was ignorant.
“Broken cinch, is it?” Dylan inquired as he drew near Criffydd.
“I thought it might be,” Griffydd replied gravely.
Dylan smirked and Griffydd frowned.
“How is your wife?” Dylan asked.
Griffydd’s expression didn’t appear to change. “Better, she says.”
Dylan knew that for all his inscrutability, Griffydd loved his wife passionately and was very worried about her.
Griffydd abandoned all pretext of examining his saddle. “Are you still planning on leaving today?”
“Why not?”
“That’s why not,” he said, nodding toward the hall behind Dylan. “Is she ill?”
Dylan glanced over his shoulder to see Genevieve slowly exit the large building, her hand clutching her uncle’s arm. She looked a little green about the gills, but she was the most lovely ill-looking woman Dylan had ever seen.
He hoped the journey would not be too hard for her and that they could reach Beaufort before nightfall. Nevertheless, the thought of spending the night under the stars with her did have a certain appeal. He glanced up at the clear blue sky. To be sure, it was a little chilly, for it was only the beginning of March, but sleeping outside would not be unbearable if they huddled together.
Behind her came serving women bearing her baggage, and he was even more glad for the additional mule. That chest in the bedchamber had, it seemed, been only one of her pieces of baggage. The three women also carried two smaller wooden boxes and a large leather pouch.
He noted that Lord Perronet’s belt was weighed down by a purse whose jingling reached him even here.
Anwyl, it was a good thing Beaufort was close by, or they would be a target for every thief within fifty miles.
Despite that less than cheerful thought, he kept a smile on his face as he replied to his foster brother. “She’s just a little the worse for wine, that’s all. We made very merry last night.”
Griffydd didn’t reply, and Dylan thought he saw a flash of skepticism in the man’s face.
It was just as well they were not staying here any longer, he reflected as he went to meet Genevieve and her uncle.
“Good day, my lord,” Dylan said jovially as he halted in front of Lord Perronet. “Just coming to see if the horses and mules were ready.”
“Aren’t they?” Lord Perronet demanded, peering past him toward the stable.
“They are,” Griffydd called behind him.
Dylan looked over his shoulder and saw the stable door open. A groom and a stable boy led out the beasts, saddled and ready. All that remained was for Genevieve’s baggage to be loaded on the mule.
Dylan gave the order, then turned to regard his bride.
“I hope you are feeling a little more rested,” he said, mindful that they had an audience. Griffydd would not gossip, but he could not say the same of the servants.
A simple, quiet “Yes” was all the answer she made as she let go of her uncle’s arm. She seemed to waver a bit, and he moved to help her, but she drew back a little, as if she didn’t want him to touch her.
He tried not to let that trouble him.
But it did.
“Here is the dowry,” Lord Perronet said abruptly.
With an expression of distaste, he pulled the purse from his belt and held it out to Dylan.
Dylan made his most charming smile as he accepted the purse, and bowed. “I thank you, my lord.”
Lord Perronet nodded once.
“Take care of her, DeLanyea,” he said gruffly.
“I will, my lord.”
The Norman nodded once more, then turned to his niece. His expression seemed to soften for the briefest of moments. “Farewell, Genevieve. I wish you joy.”
That momentary look of compassion might have been nothing more than a facial tic, for Lord Perronet’s words sounded as if he expected them to have no joy at all for the rest of their lives.
“We shall be very joyful, my lord,” Dylan said. “Every day and—” he let his voice drop “—every night.”
That made Genevieve look at him, and while her visage expressed nothing so much as displeasure, he was satisfied with having made her look at him—and also by her uncle’s shocked face.
“You have no sense of decorum, do you?” Perronet demanded.
“Very little, I’m afraid,” Dylan replied lightly. “Now if you will excuse me, I will get the mule loaded, and then we can be on our way.”
Genevieve watched as Dylan didn’t direct the servants, but actually took some of her baggage and tied it to the mule himself.
As she did so, she tried to ignore the intense and inscrutable gaze of Griffydd DeLanyea, as well as the scrutiny of all the people in the courtyard.
She would be glad to leave this place, away from everyone who knew what she had done—unless word of her shame traveled to Dylan’s home before she did.
That was a most distracting thought as her uncle gave her a cool kiss on her cheek. “Take care, Genevieve.”
“Uncle, I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused you,” she whispered. “God bless you.”
He nodded brusquely, turned on his heel and strode away.
Leaving her alone with all these foreign strangers.
“So, going already, is it?” a male voice inquired from somewhere close by.
The baron strode toward the stable.
Although they were leaving, Genevieve felt comforted by his presence. Indeed, she suddenly realized she would be sorrier to leave Baron DeLanyea and his wife than her own uncle.
Even if the baron was currently regarding her with an expression she thought far too shrewd. If someone told her he knew exactly what had happened between herself and her husband last night and this morning, she would believe it.
“My lady wife sends her regrets that she cannot be here to bid you farewell, too, but my old nurse is very ill today.”
“I hope she will soon be better.”
The baron shook his head, a sorrowful smile on his scarred face. “Alas, she is very old. I doubt that she will live through the summer.”
That shrewd look returned. “You do not look so well yourself this morning.”
“I am...tired, my lord,” she lied.
She had already done enough of a scandalous nature while at Craig Fawr. She would not humiliate herself further by an admission of drunkenness.
“Ah, indeed?”
His grin made her smile in response, and his eye brightened.
Dylan approached and greeted the baron.
“Glad I am that all that...practice...has not gone to waste, boy,” the baron said. “Let the poor girl have some rest tonight, eh?”
“I’m not making any promises,” Dylan replied in a seductive voice and giving her a
look that made her already weak knees threaten to buckle. “Now I think we had best be on our way, Uncle. We will take our time riding to Beaufort.”
He even said the last in that seductive tone, as if he had plans for the journey that included... what they had not done last night.
Genevieve began to fear that her face would be beet-red as long as she lived. It was enough that her head still hurt as if demons were jabbing her from within, and her empty stomach felt as if it would never be normal again. Must she be so embarrassed, too?
“Come, then, Genevieve,” Dylan said, holding out his arm.
She placed her hand upon it and tried to ignore the hard muscles beneath her fingers as she regarded the baron and Griffydd, who came to stand beside his father. “Goodbye, and God bless you. Give my thanks to Lady Roanna.”
“Godspeed, my dear,” the baron said kindly.
“Godspeed,” Griffydd repeated in a grimmer tone.
“Anwyl, looking morbid, you!” Dylan chided, giving his cousin a disdainful look before he led Genevieve to her mount. “We’re only off for home.”
“Aye, I know,” Griffydd muttered.
Chapter Six
“Here will be a good place to rest and refresh ourselves,” Dylan remarked, twisting in his saddle to regard Genevieve.
Raising her drowsy head, for she had been more than half-asleep, she saw that they had come to a bridge built over a small, gurgling stream in a wooded valley. Looking up through the trees, she guessed it was midafternoon. She could hear the water splashing over rocks, rushing away to some unknown river.
Otherwise, it was very quiet.
“Where is the escort?” she asked, realizing they were alone.
“I sent them on ahead.”
“Perhaps it is not safe to stop.”
He chuckled softly. “Safe as it can ever be, my lady. They were more for show, anyway.”
He sounded so confident, she didn’t disagree and now that she was fully awake, she wanted very much to get off the horse. Although the mare’s gait was easy and smooth, the motion was not helping her stomach. Fortunately, and perhaps because of the fresh air, her head seemed much better.
The Welshman's Bride Page 6