The Welshman's Bride

by Margaret Moore

  Dylan swiftly dismounted and before she had moved, was beside her, ready to help her down.

  She did not refuse his offer. She placed her hands on his broad shoulders, he put his on her waist, and then she slipped slowly to the ground.

  Her body still close to his, he made no move to remove his hands. Neither did she as she looked up into his darkly handsome face.

  For a moment, she thought he was going to kiss her—until she realized he was looking at her as a doctor would a patient.

  He reached up and brushed back a stray curl from her forehead. “Feeling better?”

  He sounded as dispassionate as a doctor examining a patient, too. “A little.”

  “Good. Have you had anything to eat today?”

  “No,” she confessed, reminding herself that they were, in fact and despite their marriage, little more than strangers.

  “I thought not. I’ve brought some food from Craig Fawr. The baron’s new cook is quite a marvel with bread.”

  He went to the mule tied to his horse, which held his baggage, and started to rummage in a large leather bag. “First, you need something to sit on, or the damp will ruin that gown.”

  Genevieve glanced down self-consciously. She had worn one of her finer dresses, for she wanted to make a good impression. On her husband’s people.

  Not on him, particularly.

  “Here you are,” he cried triumphantly, pulling out a cloak.

  “Shouldn’t you be wearing that?” she asked dubiously, for although the sun was shining, it was cool in the valley and a chill breeze ruffled the bare branches of the trees as well as his long hair.

  “I’m not cold,” he replied matter-of-factly. “Used to the weather here.” He gave her a sidelong glance as he spread the dark wool garment on the grass near the stream. “Never traveled far from Wales, me.”

  “You have never been to London?”

  His back to her, he busily adjusted the cloak. “No.”

  “Oh.”

  She envisioned Dylan in that city, among the king’s men. A man so obviously a warrior would be welcome there.

  “Here you are, my lady,” he said, straightening. “Sit down, and I’ll fetch some bread and wine.”

  As he returned to the mule, he gave her a wry smile. “In your case, I think water might be better. I’ve got a cup here somewhere.”

  He began to rummage again, his head disappearing into the bag.

  “I should sit on your cloak?”

  “You won’t hurt that,” he replied, his voice muffled. “Made of good Welsh wool, that is.”

  “Very well.”

  Gingerly, because she didn’t want to damage the garment despite his words, she obeyed.

  “Aha!” he cried triumphantly.

  Grinning, he held up a loaf and a cup, pulling his head from the bag as a conjurer would pull a coin from behind her ear. He looked so pleased, and his hair was so disheveled, she had to smile.

  He came closer, his eyes sparkling with merriment as he put the loaf beside her. “Ah, better is that, to see you smile. I trust your head does not ache so badly, and your stomach is settling? I suppose you are dying of thirst?”

  She nodded. “How did you know?”

  “Been in your state myself more than once,” he replied with a chuckle as, swinging the cup, he walked toward the stream.

  He had a very interesting walk, she decided. Athletic and virile, yet graceful, too, as if his knees were not made of bone and sinew, but something softer.

  He squatted on the bank and leaned forward to fill the cup.

  And then she realized his feet were sliding on the wet grass, toward the water.

  “Dylan!” she cried, jumping up.

  He heard her warning, dropped the cup and tried to stand.

  Too late.

  With a bellow like an enraged bull, he lost his balance and fell into the stream.

  She ran forward, envisioning his death by drowning as he flailed in the water. Then she saw that he was only trying to maintain his balance in the rocky stream, his efforts accompanied by what she suspected were Welsh profanities.

  “Here,” she said, holding out her hand. “Let me help you.”

  His clothing soaking, his hair sodden, he gave her a sullen look as he continued to teeter, waving his arms like some kind of strange bird attempting to fly.

  “Take my hand!”

  Cautiously, he did so, his long fingers wrapping around hers. She pulled—and then felt her own feet sliding out from under her. “No! Stop!”

  In the next instant, she, too, was in the frigid stream. Fortunately, she was not completely immersed, for he pulled her close and held her up. Nevertheless, her feet and legs and the bottom of her gown were in the incredibly cold water.

  He looked at her, a different sort of smile on his handsome face, and she became very aware of the sensation of his strong arms around her.

  And that she must look like an imbecile, as well as completely undignified. Then, to add to her embarrassment, her teeth started to chatter.

  “We had better dry off,” he said softly, “and get you warm. How will it look if you fall ill after only one day in my care?”

  Too cold to speak, she could only nod, until he picked her up. “Don’t!” she cried as he took a tentative step forward. “Put me down!”

  “I won’t drop you, my lady,” he assured her—just as a rock beneath his foot shifted. He held her out like some kind of offering to the gods for a brief moment, and then they both fell into the rushing water.

  Spluttering, Genevieve struggled to her feet, her wet gown and cloak a sodden, spoiled mass of heavy fabric, her cap and veil bedraggled.

  “I told you to put me down!” she cried angrily, regarding her equally wet, sodden companion.

  “I was only trying to be chivalrous,” he replied, likewise staggering to his feet. “I didn’t want you to get completely wet.”

  “Well, my lord, obviously you failed!”

  His lips twitched as if he was trying not to laugh. “I suppose one could say that.”

  With a disdainful sniff that came out sounding more like a snivel, she grabbed her skirt and started to make her way to the bank.

  “Careful!” he cautioned behind her.

  She gave him a scornful look over her shoulder as she neared the bank. “I suggest you follow your own advice.”

  “I will try,” he replied gravely.

  On her hands and knees, she started to crawl out of the stream. Finally reaching his cloak, she sat, shivering, and stared at her completely ruined, grass-stained gown.

  She looked up when Dylan sat beside her. He lifted the ends of his cloak and wrapped them about her as a mother would tuck in an infant at night. “I will build a fire.”

  “Please do.”

  “In the meantime, you must take off those wet clothes.”

  “Where?”

  “Where what?” he asked as he rose.

  “Where can I take them off?”

  “Anywhere. There’s no one nearby.”

  She stared at him in disbelief. “In the open? I will certainly get a chill that way.”

  He gave her a wry grin. “I think modesty a very attractive quality in a woman.”

  It suddenly struck her that he didn’t even have goose bumps, while she felt chilled to the marrow of her bones. “And I think vanity is a deplorable attribute in a man.”

  He apparently lost the inclination to consider her state at all funny.

  “Have you another cloak?” he asked.

  “Yes, my winter one. It is in the large chest.”

  He nodded and went to the mule behind her horse. She couldn’t see what he was doing, but she could imagine him foraging through her belongings with no care at all for the careful packing of the maidservants.

  “I hope you’re not making a mess of everything,” she complained quietly, but loud enough for him to hear.

  “Would you rather wait?”

  Since she had never felt so cold
in her life, she didn’t make any answer.

  He pulled forth her fur-lined cloak, the same one she had worn in the garden. If he recalled the last time he had seen it—the time he had made her believe that he loved her—he made no sign. Instead, he went to the bare, low-lying branches of an oak and threw the top of the cloak over it, so that the rest of the garment hung down like a drapery. “There, my lady. You may have your modesty behind that.”

  Holding his cloak, which smelled of horse and leather and him, she got to her feet. “Did you see the dark green gown? The one with the gold embroidery? I would wear that And a shift and stockings, of course. And I will require my brush.”

  His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Anything else, my lady? Perhaps some mulled wine and a pheasant stew?”

  She lifted her chin as she turned to walk toward the oak tree. “While I would appreciate both, I shall settle for the dry clothing and my brush.”

  Dylan scowled as he went back to the chest to find what she requested. She was addressing him as if he were nothing more than her servant. Anwyl, he was her husband, and freezing to boot. She seemed to have forgotten that he had fallen into the stream first, and been in the cold water longer. Nor did she give him thanks for indulging her request for a private place to change when he would have been better employed building a fire.

  And she had his one and only cloak, which was surely now soaking wet, when he might want it to warm himself after he had gotten into dry clothes. Did any grateful thought of that enter her pretty Norman head? Apparently not.

  Muttering an oath, he found the dress. It was a very fine dress, considering they were traveling and she needed something warm. This green gown was thin and more appropriate for a feast in a warm hall than riding in the chill of a spring afternoon. He lifted out another one or two, and finally found something more suitable, a heavy dark brown wool dress, plain and unembellished. He discovered a shift and then some appropriately thick stockings. He also retrieved a pair of boots from his own baggage, for all her footwear seemed decidedly flimsy.

  He turned around—and muttered another oath, for he caught a brief glimpse of her bare leg. Her long, slender bare leg, the sight of which arousingly reminded him that he had not yet made love with his wife.

  He shivered—from the cold, of course—and strode toward the makeshift drapery.

  “Here are some dry clothes,” he announced, reaching around the cloak, the bundle in his outstretched hand.

  She made no move to take the clothing. “I cannot wear that! And where did those horrible boots come from? Someone must have put them in my baggage by mistake.”

  “It was the warmest dress I could find, and the boots belong to me. You need something more than flimsy slippers.”

  “They’ll fall right off my feet. I need the green dress—and I do not see my brush!”

  “That gown is too fine and too thin. You’ll get sick.”

  “I want the green one!” she repeated petulantly.

  Truly frustrated, he threw the bundle of clothing on the ground, grabbed the cloak and yanked it from the branch.

  “What are you doing?” she shrieked.

  She was not naked, or rather, not completely, for she was wrapped in his damp cloak.

  “I will tell you what I am not doing,” he said as he tried to ignore the sight of her bare shoulders and angry face. “I am not fetching you another gown as if I were your serving wench. I have chosen something warm and serviceable, and that is what you will wear. You will put on my boots without another word of complaint. If you want your hairbrush, you can get it yourself. Now I am going to get into my own dry clothes and then we will be on our way.”

  She flushed, still defiant. “You were going to build a fire.”

  “I’ve changed my mind. We will finish our journey instead.” With that, he spun on his heel and marched to the mule carrying his baggage.

  Then he started to strip off his wet clothes, not caring if Genevieve watched or not.

  She did not. Instead, she put on her dry shift, stockings and his large boots before she froze to death. She picked up the ugly brown dress, uttered a small sigh of resignation and pulled it on.

  Dylan had been too angry for her to risk further displeasure. After all, she was totally at her husband’s mercy in the wilds of Wales.

  Finished, she put on her warm fur-lined cloak and picked up his damp one, finally looking at him.

  He was dressed in different clothing, although the new tunic and breeches were also black. At the moment, he was bent over, tugging on his boots, and his still-wet hair curled about his red face.

  Comfortably warm now, she approached him warily. He straightened and regarded her with a gaze as cold as the waters of the stream.

  “I see you have some sense, after all,” he said.

  She held out his cloak and he snatched it from her, throwing it over the back of his horse.

  “Where is the bread?” she asked, trying to act as if nothing untoward had happened.

  “Anwyl!” he muttered angrily, moving away from her and surveying the area where the cloak had been spread. “Didn’t you take it?”

  “No.”

  “There it is.”

  He went a few paces and picked up the loaf, now dotted with dirt. He started to brush it off.

  “We cannot eat that.”

  “I can. If you would rather not, then don’t.”

  “I would rather not.”

  “Then don’t.”

  “I won’t!” she declared as he bit into the bread and ripped off a great chunk with his teeth.

  She walked toward the stream.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded, his mouth still full of bread.

  “Finding your cup.”

  “Don’t fall.”

  “I’ll try not to,” she said through clenched teeth, keeping well back from the slippery bank. “I cannot see it.”

  “Probably far downstream by now. I’ll ask my shepherds who take care of this portion of my land to keep an eye out for it.”

  She turned to him. “This is your land?”

  “From the first fork in the road from Craig Fawr we have been on my land.”

  “Oh.”

  He was already finished the bread and, brushing the crumbs from his hands, he strolled toward her. “I am a baron, you see.”

  “So I was told.”

  His brow furrowed ominously. “Who told you that?”

  “The serving women at Craig Fawr.”

  “What else did they tell you?”

  “Nothing. Since I can’t understand Welsh, I have no idea what else they said. However, I gather I am to be delighted you are my husband.”

  He grinned. “Naturally.”

  When he looked like that, she found it hard to meet his gaze. “Dylan, I...” She took a deep breath. “I am sorry this happened.”

  “I’ve slipped and fallen before this.”

  She raised her eyes and this time, found the strength not to look away. “No, I meant the marriage.”

  His grin disappeared, replaced by a grim frown. “It is not how I thought such a thing would happen,” he said in a voice just as grim as his expression. “But what is done, is done. I am willing to make the best of it, if you are.”

  She nodded.

  He smiled again, with something like his usual bonhomie. After all, there could be worse brides than Genevieve Perronet, even if she was evincing more stubbornness than he would have suspected. “Good. Now let us mount and go on to Beaufort. It is not far now.”

  She looked down at her dress, that petulant frown on her face again. He thought she mumbled something.

  “What is it?”

  She made a mournful face. “I still want to wear my green gown.”

  Before he could say anything, she rushed on. “I want to make a good impression when I get to your home. I look like a peasant in this...this sack.”

  “Why didn’t you say so when I first brought it to you?”

  Her hands
behind her back, she looked at the ground and shrugged her slender shoulder. Even that motion was surprisingly graceful, and attractive.

  “We can stop when we’re nearly there and you can put the green gown on,” he said. “Will that suit you?”

  She raised her eyes and nodded, just once, reminding him rather uncomfortably of her uncle. Fortunately, she was much prettier.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  Her large blue eyes widened with surprise. “Why, better.”

  “Nothing like time and a dunk in a stream to clear a head suffering from a surfeit of wine,” he declared as he walked toward her horse.

  Genevieve thought she had already had enough surprises this day; however, when they reached the top of a low hill and saw the castle beside the wide river in the valley below, she had another.

  She had not expected Dylan’s castle to be so large and imposing. Moreover, an obviously prosperous village stood near the castle, the houses spreading along the three roads leading to the castle like leaves on the branches of a tree. The surrounding hillsides, some parts covered with trees, others open, were dotted with sheep. In the fields, peasants were at work, already sowing grain.

  “That is Beaufort,” he declared proudly, if unnecessarily, speaking for the first time since they had left the bridge.

  He was not looking at her. He looked at the sight before him, and there was a smile of both pride and pleasure on his face—and a rather unexpected shrewdness, as if he were taking stock of the activity.

  She had not really considered him the master of an estate, and yet, as she looked at him now, she realized that was precisely what he looked like: the master of all he surveyed.

  “It is most impressive, my lord,” she said softly, and truthfully.

  He turned to her with a pleased, infectious grin. “It is, isn’t it?” Then he sighed. “Not as impressive as it could be, but give me time.”

  She had not thought him an ambitious man, either.

  “When we get to that little wood near the village, you can put on your green dress and impress everybody.”

  She nodded, pleased that he had remembered.

  “Ah! Now they have seen us,” he announced cheerfully as he raised his hand in greeting.