A Warrior's Honor Read online

She did not look away. She did not flinch beneath his angry gaze. Instead, her gaze held his firmly. “I hold my honor dear, too,” she declared. “I am not Cynvelin’s lover. I will never be his lover.”

  “What are you saying?” he asked, truly puzzled, scarcely daring to believe what her words seemed to be indicating, yet hoping he was right.

  “I am saying that there has been a mistake. Lord Cynvelin acted with undue haste.”

  “If you do not wish to stay—”

  “I don’t.”

  “You should ask Lord Cynvelin to escort you.”

  “I have and he will not.”

  A part of Bryce could easily understand why a man in love with Lady Rhiannon DeLanyea would not want to do anything that took her away from him.

  “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. “Are you certain you do not want to stay?” he whispered, taking a step closer.

  “You have to take me back right away.”

  Her order, for so it sounded, cooled his ardor and destroyed his hopeful fancy. “Or what?”

  She flushed and blinked as if uncomprehending.

  “Or what, my lady?” he persisted. “You won’t kiss me again? You won’t let me touch you? You won’t entice me?”

  “I...I didn’t mean to entice you,” she stammered, not meeting his harsh gaze.

  “Let me guess. You must return to your father before the wedding or some such nonsense, and you must convince someone to take you, in whatever way you can, is that it?”

  “No! I do need your help,” she said, regarding him with her big green eyes.

  “Oh, please, my lady! You have played Delilah for me twice, for reasons I cannot comprehend; and I have been twice fooled. Will this not content you? Or must you involve me in more games? Will you now tell me this willingness to abase yourself by kissing me is a part of the custom, too?”

  “No, you don’t understand—”

  “As you say, I don’t understand,” he growled harshly. “Nor do I care to.”

  He marched to the door and put his hand on the latch.

  “I didn’t know you were going to kiss me!” she cried.

  He faced her again, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “Oh—and you did not kiss me back that first time? Sweet Savior, lady, you are a marvel of innocence! I suppose now you would tell me you knew nothing of this ridiculous abduction nonsense?”

  “Of course I know the custom but—”

  “But now you must return to your family,” he repeated mockingly. “I see. Of course. And if that requires a kiss or two or more, you will do it. You Welsh are the most immoral people I’ve ever met!”

  “Immoral?” she retorted. “I am not the immoral one!”

  “No need to sound so mightily affettded, Lady Rhiannon,” he replied sardonically. “This chamber was for both you and Lord Cynvelin. He said so himself.”

  “Then he said too much!”

  “More hypocrisy will now be added to the mixture? You will share your bed with a man before marriage, but heaven forbid it should be spoken of!”

  She glared at him, her hands on her hips. “I have never shared my bed with any man!”

  “I don’t care if you’ve shared your bed with the entire garrison,” he replied just as hotly. “Just as I don’t care for your stupid customs.” He made a scornful bow. “I wish you joy in your marriage, my lady. Good day.”

  “Yes, go,” she ordered, pointing as arrogantly as any noblewoman he had ever met. She ran a contemptuous gaze over him. “When you next see your master, tell him he had better take me back to my father.”

  “Tell him yourself!”

  “I will!”

  “Of course you will,” he muttered sarcastically before making a swift obeisance. He spun on his heel and went out, slamming the door behind him.

  Chapter Seven

  As enraged and upset as she had ever been in her life, Rhiannon picked up the bundle of bedding and threw it with all her might It hit the back of the door with a dull thud, then landed on the ground, the bundle falling apart into linen and a blanket.

  Tears of anger and frustration stung her eyes, but she wiped them away angrily. How dare he speak to her that way! She was no Delilah, any more than he was Samson with that hair of his!

  Nevertheless, she would be thrilled to see a temple tumble down around Bryce Frechette’s stubborn, stupid ears! And if a falling column would rid her of Lord Cynvelin ap Hywell as well, she would be a happy woman!

  Panting, she tried to calm herself. Such extremes of emotion weren’t going to help her; that was Dylan’s way, and many a time she had criticized him for it.

  Slowly she drew a deep breath, then she began to pick up the fallen linen, tossing it onto the bed.

  Despite her resolve to calm herself, she couldn’t stop being upset with Bryce Frechette. How dare he imply that she would share her bed with Cynvelin ap Hywell, that she probably already had! How dare he call the Welsh immoral, the Norman lout!

  How dare he claim she had kissed him because of some coy desire to play games?

  She looked down at the blanket she clutched. She ran her hand over the rough wool, remembering the feel of Frechette’s leather tunic beneath her hands.

  Why had she kissed him?

  Because he kissed her, of course, and she had returned his kiss because...because...

  She threw the blanket onto the bed, too. She didn’t know why. She had no answer, except that as she learned more about him, her attraction for him became more natural, and harder to condemn.

  What did it matter why she had kissed him? Right now her main task was to convince Cynvelin ap Hywell that he could never win her love, regardless of her behavior at Lord Melevoir’s or the customs of their people.

  She marched to the door, then halted. She was distraught, she was tired, she was muddy—hardly the best of states to be in when she had to be both firm and diplomatic. If she spoke to Lord Cynvelin now, she might wind up in tears, and that would be too humiliating.

  Besides, it was growing too late to travel anywhere, for it was already getting dark.

  Therefore, she decided, she would keep to this room tonight, and in the morning, when she was rested and cleaner, she would find Lord Cynvelin and tell him that she was sorry, but she simply could not stay.

  While the servants hurried to finish putting up the tables for the evening meal, Cynvelin, seated in a chair like a king upon his throne, gave Ermin a pointed look and held out his hand expectantly. The Welshman placed the heavy iron key to the keep in his master’s hand.

  Before he could move back, Cynvelin struck Ermin across the cheek with it. “Next time, don’t be so slow!” the nobleman said harshly, and loud enough for all to hear. “When I want something, I want it at once, do you understand, you oaf?”

  Holding his cut cheek, Ermin nodded.

  “Good. Tell one of those fools who passes for a groom that I want my horse saddled after the evening meal. Find Madoc and Twedwr and have them get ready to go with me then, too. Now get out of my sight, you stupid peasant!”

  Ermin bowed and hurried to the door. As he went out, Bryce Frechette entered.

  Cynvelin immediately stopped scowling at his departing countryman and smiled. “Ah, Bryce! Here you are,” he called out merrily.

  The Norman did not look happy, Cynvelin noted. No doubt Rhiannon had been as haughty and proud as all the rest of her family, hardly conduct to win a Norman’s regard. He had counted on that when he had asked Frechette to take her. “Is something amiss?”

  “Besides the lack of linen and food, my lord?” Bryce replied sarcastically.

  “I told you, you are free to correct any faults with Annedd Bach however you see fit.”

  Bryce’s only response was a brief bow.

  “Where have you been?”

  “Doing as you ordered, my lord. I went to try to find some linen for the keep bedchamber.”r />
  “Ah!” Cynvelin leaned back in his oak chair. “With no success, I assume from your frustrated face?”

  “No. What linen I could find was not suitable for the lady.”

  “Or me,” Lord Cynvelin added.

  Bryce nodded abruptly. “Or you, my lord.”

  “Well, no matter. I have more among my baggage. A bundle of straw in the stable was good enough for last night, but it will not do for in the keep with my lady.”

  “There is bedding, my lord,” Frechette replied flatly.

  “Indeed? I confess I am truly impressed that you managed to communicate your wishes to the slothful servants in this godforsaken place.”

  Bryce colored. “That I had less success at, my lord, but there is bedding, nonetheless.”

  “Good.”

  Bryce gave Cynvelin a sidelong glance, his lips pursed as if in thought before he spoke. “Lady Rhiannon says she doesn’t want to stay here. She wants to go back to her father.”

  Cynvelin fought to keep an annoyed expression from his face. “When did she say this? When you brought her here?”

  “Yes, my lord. And when I took her the bedding.”

  Cynvelin leaned forward and gazed at him intently. “You took her the bedding?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Bryce replied stoically. “I regret I couldn’t make the servant understand me, so I took my bedding myself.”

  “And your bedding, was it?”

  “I could find nothing else suitable.”

  “No doubt the lady was pleased by your sacrifice. ”

  Bryce’s expression changed, and in a way that Cynvelin was glad to see.

  “I didn’t tell her it was mine.”

  “You look as if she was not happy to see you.”

  “I believe she will be happy never to see me again,” Bryce replied.

  Cynvelin noted the irritation in his tone. “And you? I gather my love was somewhat rude, a characteristic I can lay at her arrogant father’s feet, but one I’m sure will be amended with time.”

  “I will gladly do what I must in her service, since she is to be your wife, my lord.”

  Cynvelin smiled and relaxed. “No doubt she will be happy not to see Annedd Bach again, at any rate. This place is barely more than a hovel.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Bryce agreed stonily.

  “A pity you sacrificed your bedding, although I appreciate it. It need only be for this night, since we will go to Caer Coch in the morning.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Sometime later, when Bryce had finished patrolling the wall walk and making certain all the guards were awake and not dozing, he stood in the courtyard and looked up at the keep.

  He had not encountered Cynvelin on his rounds and had no doubt of his overlord’s whereabouts.

  He reminded himself that his goal was to win back what he had lost, not gain a black-haired temptress.

  Even if she had the eyes of an angel.

  Nor would he sleep in the hall tonight. He could easily guess the comments and jokes that the men would bandy about as they settled down to sleep.

  He might not understand the language, but the tone would be familiar, and more than he could stand.

  The next morning, Rhiannon rose from the feather bed, determined to find Lord Cynvelin and convince him that she had no wish to remain in his company. Despite his apparent regard, she would make him understand that he could not court her in this fashion.

  And she had to get away from the confusing Bryce Frechette, whose merest touch seemed to send the blood throbbing through her body, addling her wits and making her act like a moonstruck simpleton.

  His kisses had made her forget who she was and where she was, her only awareness being of him and her desire for him, yet he would not help her.

  Clad in her shift and shivering in the morning’s chill, she looked at her gown, laid out to dry on the back of the chair. On the table stood the remains of her light meal that the sullen Ula had brought, together with an empty goblet of wine.

  Unfortunately, her dress was obviously still very wet and stained with mud. She would hardly look like the lady she was in such clothing and, by heavens, she needed to remember she was a lady.

  Her gaze then went to the chest, and curious, she threw open the lid.

  It was filled with women’s garments, and fine ones, at that. She pulled out the top one.

  It was a lovely gown of rich crimson brocade, heavily embroidered in gold and silver about the curved neck and the cuffs of the long sleeves.

  She would have been delighted with it, under other circumstances. She looked deeper into the chest, and discovered a linen shift and some slippers of soft leather. There was also a brush for her hair, and some scarves.

  She could not fault Lord Cynvelin for his taste or, she realized when she put the garments on, his ability to guess her measure. The gown was a little tight but otherwise fit surprisingly well. She would leave her head uncovered.

  Now feeling as if she were attired for battle in more appropriate armor, Rhiannon opened the door and hurried to the hall.

  When she entered the large room, the first thing she noticed was Bryce Frechette sitting at the high table, wearing nothing but his leather jerkin and breeches despite the cool air. Beside him was Lord Cynvelin, who was in black, as usual.

  Suddenly her mind leapt to a comparison between the two men, one so bitter and remorseful, the other so apparently carefree and careless.

  And the way they kissed, Bryce Frechette with gentle longing, Cynvelin ap Hywell possessive and selfish.

  She shook her head and told herself to think only of getting away from both of them.

  She came farther into the room and realized that the soldiers gathered there for the morning meal seemed to be divided into two camps. One group was well dressed and arrogant, sitting at the tables nearest Lord Cynvelin. The others, in an assortment of illkept clothing and morose, sat below the salt or at tables at the back of the hall.

  She didn’t see Ula or any of the other servants.

  Cynvelin shoved back his chair and got to his feet when he saw her. “Ah, Lady Rhiannon!” he cried happily. “How delightful that you are joining us!”

  “I must speak with you, my lord,” she said as she fought not to look at Frechette. “Alone.”

  “We have only just begun to eat, my lady,” Cynvelin replied. “Perhaps afterward we can be alone.”

  “I would rather talk now.”

  Bryce rose at once. It was obvious he had no wish to linger any more than she wished him to be present. “If you will excuse me, my lord, I have many duties—”

  “Which can wait,” Cynvelin interrupted. “I must insist that you join us for the meal, just as I must insist, my love, that our discussion wait until later.”

  Rhiannon’s teeth clenched at his endearment.

  “If the lady wishes to speak with you alone—” Bryce began.

  “My lord, I think you must agree—” she said simultaneously.

  “Now stop complaining, the pair of you. Lady Rhiannon, surely you are not going to suggest that I send my loyal Frechette from the hall,” Cynvelin protested. “He did a good day’s work for me yesterday, for which I shall be forever grateful. As for you, Frechette, I will not have you sup upon a crust of bread in the stable or some such thing because you are so determined to win a knighthood that you work yourself to death.”

  Rhiannon glanced at the Norman sharply. Perhaps he was not just a rather unwilling participant doing as he was told. Perhaps he was eager to follow Cynvelin’s orders, if a knighthood was to be his prize.

  She would ignore his physical presence, difficult though that may be, and she would put all memory of his passionate kiss from her mind.

  “Please sit, both of you.” Cynvelin’s words were more of a command than a request. “Lady Rhiannon, I would have you on my right, and Bryce beside you. You shall be the rose between thorns.”

  Trying not to scowl, Rhiannon reluctantly obeyed while Cynvelin smiled
complacently at his joke. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Frechette slump into the chair beside her. He looked no more pleased than she was.

  She felt trapped, as if the men were the walls of a cell and she their prisoner. She almost wished she had stayed in the keep.

  “Isn’t this fine?” the nobleman remarked. “My bride-to-be beside me, and my new knight beside her.”

  Both Rhiannon and Bryce turned to regard Cynvelin with stunned expressions. He smiled warmly. “Well, if all goes as I hope,” he added. His hand covered Rhiannon’s. “Especially the first.”

  She slipped her hand into her lap. “So, you are knighting Frechette,” she said quietly in Welsh.

  “If he deserves it,” Cynvelin replied, giving her a searching look that she didn’t like. “I like to have loyal, trustworthy people around me.”

  “By that you mean people who will do as they are told, whatever it may be?” she asked, watching the cowed servants, noting the difference between them and the arrogant men of Cynvelin’s personal guard. “If so, then knight Frechette, by all means.”

  The maidservants, including Ula, brought bread, meat and wine to the table. The girl never looked up, not at her, or Frechette or Lord Cynvelin. Indeed, she trembled as she set down the platter of bread, as if she were afraid.

  “You sound as if you dislike the man,” Cynvelin noted.

  Rhiannon flushed hotly, telling herself she did dislike him. If she was tempted by him, it was only lust and nothing more, and she would soon have control over whatever wayward sensations it sent to plague her. “I did not come to speak of Frechette.”

  Cynvelin turned to her with another smile. “I am happy to hear that. What did you wish to speak of?”

  “Returning to my father.”

  She saw his eyes narrow slightly, but went on nonetheless. “Truly, my lord,” she said firmly, “if you have any regard for me, or my reputation, you will agree.”

  Cynvelin sighed softly. “My lady, you are indeed breaking my heart! Is my presence so odious to you that you cannot bear it even a little while?”

  Rhiannon regarded him steadily, glad that she could speak without Bryce Frechette understanding her. “Did you tell Frechette that we were lovers?”