A Warrior's Honor Read online

  “It is my curse, to speak without thinking.

  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

  “It is my curse, to speak without thinking.

  “Please, forgive me.”

  She gave him a smile that was both bitter and rueful. “If I had thought before speaking, too, and behaved as you yourself told me I should,” she said, “I would not be in this predicament.”

  He regarded her quizzically. “Predicament?”

  She nodded her head. “I fear Lord Cynvelin acted with undue haste.”

  “What are you saying?” he whispered, scarcely daring to believe what her words seemed to be indicating.

  “I am saying that there has been a mistake.”

  She looked so sorrowful and distressed, he wanted to comfort her. “If you do not wish to stay...”

  “I don’t.”

  “You should ask Lord Cynvelin to escort you.”

  “I have and he will not.... Would you help me?” she asked softly, a pleading look in her eyes.

  A trusting look. A look that made him feel an honorable man again.

  Dear Reader,

  Next month, Harlequin Historicals turns ten years old! But we have such a terrific lineup this month, we thought we’d start celebrating early. To begin, the ever-popular Margaret Moore returns with her fifteenth book, A Warrior’s Honor, the next Medieval in her WARRIOR SERIES. Dubbed a “master storyteller” by Affaire de Coeur, the versatile Moore brings us the sensational story of a knight who is tricked by a fellow nobleman into abducting a beautiful lady, but, guided by honor—and love—seeks to rescue her from the evil clutches of his former friend.

  And in a rescue of a different sort, a rancher turned fugitive inadvertently becomes a bodyguard to the very visible Duchess of Malvem in The Duchess and the Desperado, a dynamite Western by award-winning author Laurie Grant. A beautiful young woman on a quest for vengeance unwittingly falls in love with the man she thinks may have harmed her sister in The Shadowed Heart by Nina Beaumont.

  And don’t miss Susan Mallery’s latest historical, Wild West Wife, the final book in the MONTANA MAVERICKS: RETURN TO WHTTEHORN series. This is the story of the very first Kincaid, who kidnaps his enemy’s mail-order bride to get revenge but instead falls for his beautiful captive!

  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.

  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

  A WARRIOR’S HONOR

  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 Nonnan’s Heary #31 1

  * 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

  * Warrior Series

  † The Viking Series

  Δ In-line Christmas Collection

  ‡ Most Unsuitable...

  Harlequin Books

  Mistletoe Marriages

  “Christmas in the Valley”

  MARGARET MOORE

  confesses that her first “crush” was Errol Flynn. The second was “Mr. Spock.” She thinks that explains why her heroes tend to be either charming rogues or lean, inscrutable tough guys.

  Margaret lives in Scarborough, Ontario, with her husband, two children and two cats. She used to sew and read for reasons other than research.

  To Geoffrey Clayton, Ph.D,

  coauthor of

  “Starburst-Like Dust Extinction in the

  Small Magellanic Cloud”

  and

  “Ultraviolet Observations of the Hot R Coronae Borealis

  Type Star, V348 Sagittarii, During a Deep Minimum,”

  among others;

  and a friend who reads my books.

  Chapter One

  England, 1228

  Bryce Frechette leaned back against the stone wall, a small, indulgent smile on his face as he watched the boisterous company enjoying the festivities after Lord Melevoir’s tournament.

  Their host was a genial man who believed in fine food and wine, good sport and loud music. His hall, while not as large as Bryce’s father’s had been, evinced the Norman nobleman’s appreciation for the luxuries a wealthy life afforded. A blazing fire in the hearth dispelled the chill of the spring evening, and fine beeswax candles in a number of holders brightened the room, as did torches in sconces upon the walls.

  After an excellent and bountiful meal, the long trestle tables had been taken down and now leaned against the thick stone walls, with the benches in front for those not dancing. Well-fed hounds prowled among the rushes, looking for scraps and somehow managing to avoid getting in the way of the energetic dancers, who whirled past like so many colorful children’s tops in the center of the floor.

  Bryce reflected it was a wonder some didn’t fall and break their heads, especially the ones who were obviously drunk. As it was, the laughing and talking of the lords and ladies nearly drowned out the music of harp, tabor and drum.

  His gaze strayed again toward a lovely young woman with dark hair and bright eyes who danced gracefully, and whose joyously merry laugh had nothing to do with too much wine. Sometimes he could see her face clearly when she passed near him in her bright blue gown under an overtunic of indigo and gold brocade, and with her gold jewelry flashing in the light of the candles.

  The skin crinkled at the corners of her mirthful, shining green eyes beneath shapely dark brows. Wisps of black hair escaped her headdress and scarf to brush her smooth pink cheeks. He admired her straight and shapely nose, and her full, smiling ruby lips parted to reveal pearl-like teeth.

  He wondered who she was and what her name might be. She was without doubt the most attractive woman he had ever seen, and he envied whatever main danced with her, including their portly, elderly host.

  If he were titled still, Bryce thought, he would be dancing with her, too, looking into those expressive, vivacious eyes and, he had to admit, trying to get her into a shadowed corner to steal a kiss from those enticing lips.

  But he was not titled, he reminded himself with a bitter scowl. He was not the Earl of Westborough, although by rights he should be; he had no estate.

  And the beauty was probably a
spoiled, pampered young woman who would want nothing to do with the likes of him.

  He could not even afford an extra shirt. The only one he possessed had been torn in the tournament, so he had been forced to come to the feast wearing only his leather tunic. Acutely conscious of his less-than-well-dressed state, he nevertheless wanted to enjoy the banquet a little longer. It gave him a taste of the life he used to know, when his father was alive.

  Therefore, he told himself, it didn’t matter who she was or what her name might be, any more than it mattered that these noblemen and their ladies ignored him.

  As if to refute that rankling thought, a darkly handsome man with a silver goblet in his hand came to sit next to Bryce on the bench. Bryce knew he was a Welshman, and the black-haired beauty had been talking and laughing with him before joining in the dance with Lord Melevoir.

  “Seen happier faces on a tomb, I have;” the stranger remarked casually. “And you winning the purse, too! A pity it is ten silver pieces don’t make you happy. I’ll gladly take them from you if that would please you.”

  “You could try,” Bryce answered in a calm yet warning tone.

  “Ust, man, no need to sound so fierce.” The Welshman grinned, his eyes dancing with merriment. “You deserved to win. There aren’t many who can beat me, but glad I am to say that I do not bear a grudge. Look you, you were the finest with the lance on the field, and it would be a fool who would say otherwise. I am not a fool.”

  Bryce relaxed, pleased by the fellow’s manner as much as his words. It had been a long time since a nobleman had treated him as an equal. “Forgive my lack of courtesy, sir,” he said with an answering smile. “I would that every man I bested spoke with such generosity.” He bent his head in welcome. “I am Bryce Frechette.”

  “Generosity, is it?” the dark-haired man replied. “Good sense, I call it, and of course I know who you are.”

  Bryce mentally braced himself for the inevitable questions.

  Which did not come. “I am Lord Cynvelin ap Hywell of Caer Coch, the finest estate in Wales,” his companion announced jovially. He ran another appraising glance over the Norman. “I’ve made it my business to hire the best men for my company. I hope you will consider joining my retinue.”

  Bryce’s first impulse was to refuse. He was not born to be any man’s hireling.

  “Since we are gentlemen, we will not barter terms like merchants. If you agree, you shall have whatever you require in arms, clothing, food and lodging, and if, after a year or so, we are both well pleased with one another, I see no reason I should not reward you further.”

  Bryce knew he could always make a living fighting in tournaments. If worse came to worst, he could go to his sister and find a home in her castle.

  Yet he had been traveling and fighting for years, and no one else had ever offered him such a chance. As for going to his sister...he would feel like a beggar at their gate.

  Bryce’s pride gave way to practicality. His family had lost title and estate, and all the money he had was the ten coins in his purse. If he didn’t accept this nobleman’s offer, eventually he would be reduced to fighting in yet another tournament and hoping to win a prize, as if he were a trained bear fighting for his food.

  Besides, this fellow was not just friendly, but respectful, too. Both were rare reactions to him these days. And, he reasoned, how difficult could service in such a man’s retinue be? He could always leave it if he chose to, and his alternatives were few indeed.

  “My lord, I shall be delighted to accept,” he answered with another bow of his head.

  Lord Cynvelin clapped his hand on Bryce’s shoulder and smiled warmly. “Excellent, my friend!”

  Bryce took a deep breath. “You can rely on me, my lord,” he said, the words almost a challenge.

  Lord Cynvelin became serious. “If I thought it would be otherwise, I would not have made the offer. Many of us were foolish and headstrong youths. Besides, man, think what it will do for my glory when others hear that Bryce Frechette, champion of Lord Melevoir’s tournament, is in my company.”

  Bryce nodded, pleased and relieved and flattered all at once.

  “We leave for Wales after mass tomorrow. I trust you can be ready?”

  “Wales?”

  “Aye. Where else would a Welshman live?”

  Bryce nodded. “Of course.”

  “That is not a trouble to you, is it?”

  “No, my lord,” Bryce replied, stifling any reluctance to travel into the wilderness inhabited by the Celts.

  “Good.” Lord Cynvelin sighed and took a drink of his wine. “A fine feast, this. I have never seen so many pretty ladies in one place.”

  “Pretty, rich and titled ladies,” Bryce amended, giving his newfound friend a sardonic glance. “That puts them out of my reach.”

  Lord Cynvelin chuckled and looked at Bryce appraisingly. “You’re as good-looking a man as I’ve ever seen, except for myself, of course. I would find it difficult to believe you would have to sleep alone tonight.”

  Bryce’s smile had a tinge of bitterness. “Given my lack of title, none of these ladies would look at me twice.”

  The remarkably handsome Cynvelin laughed, a deep, rich bass laugh that caused several people to look their way questioningly, including the beautiful unknown.

  “Look you at all the women watching us,” Cynvelin said when he quieted. “What more proof do you need?”

  Bryce slid a surreptitious glance around the hall. “It’s you they’re watching, my lord.”

  “Well and why not?” Lord Cynvelin observed with another chuckle. “But you, too. I noticed when I was at the dancing. And you it was took the finest prize in the joust when you got your lance through the ring five times. I tell you, man, you have but to crook your finger and you could have your choice to share your bed tonight.”

  “I think I would do better to prepare for the journey tomorrow.”

  Lord Cynvelin smiled. “If you would rather. I can only admire such dedication to duty. As for me, I’m off to speak to the woman I’m going to marry, if she’ll have me. There she is, dancing with Lord Melevoir. Have you ever seen a more graceful, lovely creature than Rhiannon DeLanyea?”

  “She is very beautiful,” Bryce observed, watching the no-longer-unknown beauty step lightly to the music and deftly avoid their host’s awkward and large feet.

  “I warn you, Bryce Frechette, she belongs to me,” Cynvelin chided, his eyes full of laughter. “Besides, her father is half-Welsh, and a baron, and a very fierce fellow. The man who would win his daughter’s love will have to deal with him.”

  “I assure you, my lord, I have no interest in her beyond the admiration all men must accord her.”

  Cynvelin chuckled again. “You speak like a Norman nobleman right enough,” he said as he rose. He straightened his black tunic and adjusted the goldembossed belt at his waist. “Now then, I will go to her rescue. We shall meet at the stables in the morning, Frechette.”

  Bryce nodded his farewell, then watched Lord Cynvelin stroll across Lord Melevoir’s hall and approach the beauteous Rhiannon DeLanyea.

  Lady Rhiannon DeLanyea, Bryce silently corrected, who was his new overlord’s intended bride.

  Well, so be it, he thought as he once again leaned against the wall, smiling to himself. He had come to believe that no nobleman would ever offer friendship or treat him as an equal again. That he would forever be the dishonored, disgraced son of the Earl of Westborough.

  Now it seemed there was hope that this could change and he might yet gain tide on his own merits. If that, what else could he not hope for?

  After all, there would be other laughing, beautiful young noblewomen who would not be beyond the reach of a knighted Bryce Frechette.

  Rhiannon sat upon the nearest bench and tried to catch her breath. Lord Melevoir bowed his graying head and she reciprocated before the elderly nobleman tottered away, looking for somebody else with whom to dance.

  At least she had managed to stay on her f
eet, she reflected as she fanned herself with her hand. Lord Melevoir had been rather zealous in the round dance, and at one point, Rhiannon had feared she was going to be sent spinning into the musicians.

  “Some wine, please,” she panted when a maidservant appeared at her elbow.

  “Allow me, my lady,” a masculine voice said in Welsh, and slender, familiar fingers held out a goblet.

  She accepted the drink gratefully and looked up into the smiling face of Lord Cynvelin ap Hywell.

  “Lord Cynvelin!” she said happily. “How good of you! Thirsty, I am, and worn my feet to my anklebones, I think.”

  “There is not a more lovely, delightful dancer here, so all the men want to take a turn with you,” he answered, sitting beside her.

  Rhiannon smiled in response, then took another drink, nearly choking. “O‘r annwyl!” she spluttered as Cynvelin quickly moved to take the goblet from her. “If I am not careful, I will be reeling about like a sot. Lord Melevoir is a most excellent man and so is his wine. I am not used to such full-bodied drink.”

  “Whereas I am getting drunk only on your beauty,” Cynvelin replied in a low voice.

  Pleasantly flattered, Rhiannon blushed. “I thought you didn’t like me anymore. You might have rescued me sooner from the round dance instead of talking to that Saxon. Imagine coming to a feast without a shirt on!”