A Warrior's Honor Page 11

  Lord Cynvelin looked shocked. “My lady!”

  “Did you?”

  Obviously guessing the source of that information, Cynvelin glanced at Bryce, who continued to eat without so much as a glance in their direction. The Norman’s revelation might cost him his knighthood, but Rhiannon didn’t care. He couldn’t purchase that with her honor.

  Cynvelin gave her a winsome smile. “My dearest lady, I might have said something about wanting to be your lover when I was in my cups and not thinking clearly. Perhaps I did. You must understand I was only voicing my greatest wish. Indeed,” he went on, his voice dropping to a husky whisper, “I could ask for nothing more than to be your lover, except to be your husband.”

  Rhiannon flushed beneath the Welshman’s steadfast, persuasive gaze.

  Suddenly feeling that he had stomached all he could, in more ways than one, Bryce set down the loaf in his hands and got to his feet.

  Lady Rhiannon claimed she didn’t want to be here, but she was certainly acting as if she were pleased by Lord Cynvelin’s attention.

  Indeed, she was behaving as coquettishly as she had at Lord Melevoir’s, blushing and averting her eyes as coyly as any modest maiden.

  And to think he, Bryce Frechette, apparently the biggest dunderhead in all of Britain, had nearly been swayed into believing that her request to return to her father was in earnest!

  Obviously Lady Rhiannon was one of those women who sought to inflame a lover’s passion by acting contrary. Yesterday she had struggled and protested and complained only to make her love that much more the prize. No doubt the pleading vulnerability he had seen in her lovely eyes before he had kissed her was only a woman’s wile, intended to make him do whatever she wanted.

  Indeed, she had probably kissed him because it amused her. No doubt she had been laughing at him and complimenting herself on her ability to win men’s love.

  Well, she couldn’t win his!

  He could never love such a trickster. She was using him for some game of her own, and he had been too blinded by desire to see it.

  He knew better now, and he would keep away from the lying, duplicitous, tempting woman.

  He made a brief obeisance to his overlord. “If you will excuse me, I had better see to my duties.”

  “The burden of command calls you forth, does it?” Lord Cynvelin asked lightly. “Well, I suppose I have kept you from it long enough. You do seem preoccupied.”

  Bryce had no intention of looking at Lady Rhiannon. He had no wish to be captured again in the spell of her luminous eyes.

  But he did. Their gazes met and held, until hers faltered.

  As it should, now that he knew what she was about.

  Bryce turned on his heel and left them, cursing himself for a blind, impetuous fool, and he felt as if the wine in his belly had turned to poison.

  As he marched toward the gatehouse, determined to see that the watch was in place, he thought of his sister, who had married a man who, by rights, she should have hated. Etienne DeGuerre had been given their family estate and forced Gabriella to choose between leaving, or remaining as a servant.

  When Bryce had finally returned, Gabriella had confessed that she had fallen in love with Baron DeGuerre and was happy to be his wife. At that time and ever since, Bryce had believed it was Gabriella’s soft heart and vulnerable circumstances that had contributed to her seemingly impossible conduct.

  Now he was not so sure. After all, he was not known to be softhearted or vulnerable.

  He could not be. He would not think about Rhiannon DeLanyea. He would focus all his energy on Annedd Bach and win himself a title.

  “I’m afraid Frechette’s manners have suffered for the time he has spent out of noble company,” Lord Cynvelin noted mournfully as Bryce strode from the hall. “Forgive his rudeness, my lady.”

  Rhiannon acknowledged the Welshman’s remarks with a nod, then reached for her wine and tried not to think of the censure she had seen in the Norman’s eyes.

  He had no right to look at her so! She was the aggrieved party here, not him, whatever he might think.

  Besides, he had kissed the woman he believed his overlord wanted, and yet he claimed to be an honorable man.

  But, chided the small voice of conscience, she had kissed him, too, and she was an honorable woman.

  Wasn’t she?

  “That gown suits you, my lady,” Lord Cynvelin said. “Although its loveliness is nothing compared to that of its wearer.”

  She gave him a feeble smile.

  “I like to see you look happy,” he said. “I would like to hear you laugh again, as you did at Lord Melevoir’s.”

  “Perhaps if I could find something amusing, I would,” she noted dryly.

  Cynvelin’s dark brows lowered, but he continued to smile. “I suppose I should be glad you don’t consider me a figure of fun.”

  “Oh, no, my lord, I do not.”

  “Good. I would do almost anything to make you happy,” he said softly. “Nothing would give me greater joy than to try to make you happy all the days of your life.”

  When she didn’t respond, he sighed deeply, then reached for an apple. He drew a dagger from his belt and proceeded to peel the fruit in a long, single coil, the fruit gliding lightly between his slender fingers.

  He handed the peeled apple to her. She hesitated, then took the offered fruit.

  Suddenly a loud crack of thunder boomed directly overhead. Rhiannon jumped, dropping the apple, and everyone else looked startled, too. Then they could hear the rain, a seemingly torrential downpour, strike the stone walls as if it were a cascade of pebbles.

  Bryce Frechette ran into the hall, shaking his head like a dog who had run through a stream. “It’s hail, my lord,” he announced. “You cannot ride out in this.”

  Cynvelin muttered an astonisbingly obscene curse. When he saw Rhiannon’s shocked face, he made a placating smile. “Forgive me, my lady. I did want to take you to Caer Coch today. It would be so much more comfortable for you.”

  “I want to leave, too, but not—”

  “I assure you, I am equally disappointed.”

  As the rain continued to pound on the roof, Rhiannon realized there would be no purpose pressing him to take her to her father immediately. No one could go anywhere in this weather. The roads were too primitive in this part of the country to venture forth in such a storm.

  Nevertheless, in one way she was glad of it, for her father would not be going anywhere, either.

  Surely he had gone back to the monastery, or the closest inn, and even if he had thought to return to Craig Fawr or continue to Caer Coch, he would not be able to until the weather cleared.

  She watched as Bryce Frechette spoke to a thin, dark-haired man, who seemed to relay his orders to the men who had been below the salt. “If you will pardon us, my lord,” the Norman said, addressing Lord Cynvelin, “I will go with the garrison to the barracks.”

  The motley assortment of men who comprised the garrison rose from their places. The other men, hardened, rather vicious-looking soldiers who had sat in the more favored place, therefore had to be Cynvelin’s personal guard.

  She would have realized that, of course, if she had not been so intent on her purpose.

  Maintaining a dignified expression, she told herself that she was a Welsh baron’s daughter, and so must be quite safe with a Welsh nobleman, no matter what manner of men comprised his guard.

  “By all means,” Lord Cynvelin agreed.

  The garrison filed out, Bryce Frechette leading the way. Out of the hall. Leaving her with Cynvelin and his men.

  “We shall have to entertain ourselves, somehow,” Lord Cynvelin said softly.

  Rhiannon flushed at his low tones, then bent to retrieve the apple. She looked around and saw a dog eating it.

  She was rather relieved.

  “It is a pity there is no minstrel,” Lord Cynvelin reflected after another thunderclap shook the hall. The drumming of the hail was replaced by the steady sound
of heavy rain. “Then we could dance.”

  Rhiannon could scarcely imagine dancing with him now. She certainly didn’t want to encourage any physical proximity. “I would be too tired.”

  “I could sing, if you would like.”

  He didn’t wait for any encouragement or suggestions for a particular tune.

  He simply started to sing.

  He had a marvelous voice, very rich and full of feeling, and his choice was a mournful lay of lost love. All the men ceased eating and talking to listen, and even the servants stopped moving.

  The music made her want to cry, for it was filled with loneliness and longing. She thought Bryce Frechette would appreciate it and that it was a pity he was not there to listen.

  Her gaze returned to Lord Cynvelin, who was watching her with obvious desire in his eyes. Surely no one could sing those words of hope with such passion unless they knew the emotion, she reflected.

  Perhaps Lord Cynvelin did love her. Perhaps he wanted her as much as the man in the song yearned for his lover. Maybe she was wrong to think so ill of him.

  She had been wrong about Frechette. He cared very much about his family, and she believed him when he said he had stayed away and sent no word of his whereabouts because he was trying to help them in secret.

  How difficult those days must have been for him! Being here, away from her family, she could appreciate his loneliness all the more, and even, when she thought of her regrettable behavior, the pride that had kept him away.

  Was he still ashamed and full of wounded pride? Was that why he was so desperate to regain a title?

  And he must want to earn it himself. His brother-in-law was a powerful baron. Surely, if Bryce’s sister requested it, the Baron DeGuerre would find a way to bestow a knighthood on Bryce.

  She could admire his determination to seek a title on his own merits.

  If she stayed here awhile, maybe she could learn if Bryce Frechette was truly worthy of such a reward, and she could convince Lord Cynvelin to knight him before she left. Then all this trouble would not have been completely for nought

  The song ended, the last, long, sad note echoing in the hall. Her mind full of thoughts of Bryce and his troubles, she smiled absently while the men of Cynvelin’s guard shouted loud approval and stamped their feet.

  Only Ula did not clap, Rhiannon noted, her smile disappearing as her puzzlement increased. The maidservant had listened politely; now she simply began serving more ale, her expression blank.

  “Well, my lady?” Lord Cynvelin said softly. “Would I have been able to sing my way home as a minstrel, as your father did, do you think?”

  “Yes, yes, I believe you could,” she stammered, still distracted by Ula’s manner.

  “You seem very quiet, my lady. I hope my singing has not put you to sleep,” he said softly.

  “Not at all. You have a very fine voice.”

  “I’m sure yours is as wonderful as the birds themselves, my lady. Perhaps you will grace me with a song yourself.”

  “Perhaps.”

  The soldier who had insulted her that day called out, “We’re going to our barracks, too, my lord.”

  Lord Cynvelin nodded his approval. “Don’t lose all your money, Madoc,” he remarked genially as his men began to file out, covering their heads with their arms before disappearing into the curtain of rain.

  Cynvelin turned to her. “They are going to gamble. I will be lucky if someone does not get hurt before the day is out.”

  “You allow gambling?”

  “Unlike some men, I see no harm in it,” he replied.

  “My father thinks it makes for bad feelings, as you yourself have just implied.”

  “The men need something to do, and since there are few women here for them to sport with, I think gambling is harmless enough, even if there are a few arguments.”

  Rhiannon turned away to hide her shock at his blunt remark about the lack of women. While that may be true, he should not have spoken so to a lady.

  Indeed, she was fast coming to the conclusion that Lord Cynvelin ap Hywell, for all his smiles, charm and flattery, was much less of a gentleman than...say, Bryce Frechette. At least with the Norman, she always had a sense of underlying respect, even when he was being completely impertinent.

  That made little sense; nevertheless, the respect was there, deep in his eyes.

  What lurked in Lord Cynvelin’s eyes? Desire, perhaps, but respect? She didn’t think so.

  “If you will excuse me, my lord, I would like to go back to the keep.”

  “Why? There is nothing there for you to do. I will have one of the servants fetch my chessboard, shall I, and we will have a game. You do play, do you not?”

  “Yes, but I am not very good. I have little patience for games of strategy.”

  “Well,” he said kindly, “if you tire of that, we shall find some other way to amuse ourselves.”

  She glanced at him sharply, but his expression was all innocence as he summoned Ula and told her what he wanted.

  The girl went out at once.

  Leaving Rhiannon alone with Lord Cynvelin.

  She rose and went to look out the door. The rain was like a waterfall, and looked to last for quite some time. Turning aside from the door, she began to pace beside the hearth as she waited for Ula to return.

  She would welcome the chess game, if only because her mind would be occupied with pieces on a board, not men in a hall.

  Agitation was a good sign, Cynvelin thought complacently as he watched Rhiannon pace. He was sure she was upset because she didn’t know quite what to think anymore, whether to believe his declarations of love and desire, or to believe her father’s condemnation.

  He had seen a panther once when he had traveled to France, kept in a cage only large enough for it to take a few steps and then turn around. Rhiannon DeLanyea reminded him very much of that animal, with her dark hair and fierce shining eyes as she paced in front of him.

  His smile broadened and his eyes gleamed hungrily. Kindness, flattery, the proclamation of an eternal passion—he knew many tricks and stratagems. It would take time, but eventually Baron DeLanyea’s daughter would be his.

  It suddenly struck him that her love might be a rare and blessed gift.

  Then he remembered who she was, and what her father had done to him. He, Cynvelin ap Hywell, had been shamed by that half-Norman bastard, sent away like a child, made to feel unworthy, all because he had sported with some peasant girl whose protests he had ignored.

  They were alone here. Would Rhiannon protest if he kissed her now? Would she cry out if he did more? What would she do if he pushed her back against the wall and thrust his knee between her legs while he pulled her skirt upward? Would she fight and scratch, as that girl had, or would she welcome his fierce embrace?

  Cynvelin took a deep, calming breath. Not here. Not yet. He was making progress, as her altered behavior amply proved. Too much haste would surely once again turn her into that complaining, determined harpy.

  Nevertheless, it took a mighty effort not to leap from his chair, capture her in his arms and crush her lips with his own, to take possession of her mouth and then her shapely body. He yearned to show her how powerful he was, in every way.

  Not now, he told himself. Not yet.

  He felt the key in the purse on his belt, satisfied that he had no need of it yet. Indeed, he might never need it.

  She was his captured creature in a cage of his making and his ultimate vengeance would come when she grew to love her keeper.

  Chapter Eight

  The monastery of St. David was a large one, and prosperous. Located on the main road leading north into Wales and containing a hospitalis, it was used by many on their travels, especially those who were ill or injured..

  A week after Rhiannon’s abduction, Baron DeLanyea paced before the hearth in the large chamber where the brothers took their meals, occasionally stopping to listen to the rain falling against the outer wall.

  The heavy rai
n that had started the day after Rhiannon had been taken from them still continued to fall, making the roads a muddy, slippery, dangerous morass. Every time it seemed to let up, it proved to be only a brief respite. Torrential rain began before they could even get their horses saddled.

  But the baron was also pleased by the weather, for it kept Cynvelin at Annedd Bach and away from his stronghold of Caer Coch.

  The baron glanced at his son sitting in the shadows on a bench at the side of the hearth. The chill of the monastic chamber was dispelled somewhat by the low fire, which cast feeble rays of light.

  Griffydd leaned against the wall, as still as if he were part of it.

  “I wonder how long this rain will last?” the baron mused. “I would hope until Dylan and the others can get here.”

  Griffydd’s voice came from the shadows. “Do you think they will be traveling in such weather?”

  The baron glanced at Griffydd. “Think you a storm would stop Dylan? He would say, ‘What is rain to a Welshman?’ and ride on.”

  “If he is with Morgan and Fitzroy, they might have steadier heads and make him wait for clearer weather.” As he spoke, nobody observing Griffydd DeLanyea would have an inkling that he had any feelings at all, let alone the extent of the anger and frustration contained within him. Or his smoldering hatred of Cynvelin ap Hywell.

  “Not Morgan. Hotheaded as Dylan, that one. As for Fitzroy, when he hears the reason Dylan has come, it would take more than foul weather to keep him at home.” The baron began to pace again. “Still, let us hope they arrive soon. Who can say when Cynvelin might take it into his head to go on to Caer Coch? That’s one of the most defendable castles in Wales.”

  “But you think we still must wait?”

  “Aye.”

  There was a moment of silence before Griffydd spoke again. “Easier it will be to rescue Rhiannon while they are on the road.”

  “Yes, but we must be sure to win any skirmish with them, and we need more men for that.”