The Warlord’s Bride Page 2

  As the aroma from the warm bread and spiced wine filled her nostrils, Roslynn’s stomach growled loudly.

  She blushed with embarrassment, but the lord of Llanpowell laughed and handed her one of the goblets before pouring her some wine. “What did I tell you? Hungry you are, and no mistake. I could see that by the look of you, and a little more flesh on your bones might not be amiss.”

  “Perhaps now we could discuss the purpose of our visit,” Lord Alfred said through clenched teeth.

  The Welshman’s merry expression disappeared in an instant, replaced by cold disapproval. “You may have come from the Plantagenet king, my lord, and with no invitation I’m aware of, but it’s hospitality first in this household, business after.”

  Lord Alfred’s narrow face reddened before he finally, slowly, sat down across the fire from Roslynn and accepted a goblet of mulled wine.

  “There now, eat and talk after,” the Welshman said, his anger disappearing as swiftly as the steam from the carafe.

  The wine was surprisingly good and did indeed warm her. In spite of its taste and comforting effect, however, she was careful not to drink too much. She didn’t want anything clouding her ability to think.

  “Isn’t that better?” the Welshman said after the platters were nearly empty and Roslynn couldn’t eat another bite. “And now to business. So, Lord Alfred de Garleboine, what brings you and your lovely daughter to Llanpowell?”

  Roslynn nearly spit out her wine, although it was an innocent mistake. Lord Alfred was old enough to be her father.

  “Lady Roslynn is not my daughter,” Lord Alfred sternly replied. “She is—”

  “Your pretty wife then, is it?” the Welshman cried, grinning. “What a fortunate fellow you are!”

  Lord Alfred couldn’t look more appalled, while Roslynn felt the most unexpected urge to giggle, despite her circumstances. “No, she most certainly is not my wife. She is—”

  “Saints preserve us,” Lord Madoc cried as if torn between scandal and admiration, “you don’t mean to say she’s your lehman?”

  “No!” Roslynn gasped, breaking into the conversation. “I am not his mistress!”

  “Well, thanks be to heaven for that,” the Welshman said with genuine relief as Lord Alfred’s face went from red to purple, “or I’d be thinking you were lacking in taste.”

  “My lord,” Lord Alfred ground out, “Lady Roslynn is here at the behest of King John.”

  “He has women ambassadors now, does he?” the Welshman replied with amazement, not the least upset by Lord Alfred’s anger and addressing Roslynn instead of the Norman. “Interesting, I must say, and clever, too. I’ll gladly listen to anything a beautiful woman has to say.”

  “If you will allow me to explain, my lord,” Lord Alfred said, his hands gripping the stem of his goblet as if he were wringing a chicken’s neck, “Lady Roslynn de Werre has recently been widowed—”

  “Oh, there’s a pity,” Lord Madoc exclaimed, regarding her with sympathy as he patted her arm again. “So young, too.”

  “Widowed,” Lord Alfred forcefully continued, “and the king has—”

  The door to the hall banged open and a tall, clean-shaven young man with dark hair to his broad shoulders strode into the room.

  He was dressed like the other men in a plain leather tunic over a light shirt that laced at the neck, with woolen breeches tucked into scuffed leather boots. Unlike Lord Madoc, he wore a swordbelt, old and supple, and the hilt of the weapon in the sheath was of iron wrapped in leather strips darkened with age and wear.

  Also unlike Lord Madoc, he was unexpectedly, astonishingly handsome. Curling dark hair framed a face of sharp planes and strong angles. A wide forehead and brown brows overshadowed equally dark eyes that seemed to glow with inner light. His nose was straight and narrow above full, well-cut lips.

  As he returned her scrutiny, she began to tremble. Yet it was not from fear or lust, but from the sudden certainty that he could see her beating heart thudding with dread.

  She was just as surprised to realize, from the wrinkle that formed between those penetrating eyes, that he was not pleased that it was so.

  The lord of Llanpowell hoisted himself to his feet and hurried forward to meet the man, mercifully taking his disconcerting attention away from her. They conversed in rapid Welsh, the older man seemingly trying to placate the younger.

  Their stances similar, they could be relatives. Father and son, perhaps?

  She hadn’t been informed that the lord of Llanpowell had been married before, or had a son or other children, but then, she’d been told almost nothing about Madoc ap Gruffydd. All John had told her was that the Bear of Brecon was to be rewarded with a wife and rich dowry for helping to end her late husband’s rebellious schemes, and she was to be the bride.

  What if he was his son? A grown son made a second wife’s position much more precarious—if she were to marry the lord of Llanpowell.

  “We’re being rude,” the older man suddenly declared in Norman French, turning toward his guests. “Come and meet our visitors.”

  Lord Alfred was already on his feet, and Roslynn slowly joined him, sliding her hands into the long cuffs of her gown and gripping her forearms to still their trembling as they approached.

  “This is Lord Alfred de Garleboine come from King John,” the older man said, “and this is Lady Roslynn. Not his daughter or wife or anything else to him, apparently, and recently widowed, poor thing.”

  The young man planted his feet and crossed his arms as he regarded her warily.

  He didn’t mask his feelings, his thoughts or his reactions, as so many did. Because he didn’t have to? Because he had the power and confidence to reveal exactly what he thought and felt, to everyone?

  Power and confidence—yes, he fairly exuded those qualities. His manner made Lord Alfred seem a model of gentle courtesy, and his father hospitality personified.

  As quickly as the heat of desire had rushed over her at that first glance, it died. He wasn’t some untamed warrior prince to be admired and desired, but an arrogant, powerful man who might do her harm.

  She had vowed that she would never again allow a man to hurt her, whatever King John ordered.

  Her determination and pride roused, she raised her chin and met his suspicious scrutiny steadily. “I am Lady Roslynn de Werre.”

  “De Werre?” the younger man repeated, his eyes narrowing. “Like the traitor?”

  “Yes. I was Wimarc de Werre’s wife, and since the king is grateful for your father’s recent—”

  “My father?” the younger Welshman interrupted. “My father’s been dead these past three years.”

  Roslynn’s startled gaze flew from the younger man to the older one behind him and back again. “Isn’t your father Lord Madoc ap Gruffydd?”

  “No,” the young man replied. “I am the lord of Llanpowell.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  HE WAS MADOC AP GRUFFYDD? This young, strong, arrogant fellow was the man King John expected her to marry?

  She felt for the bench and sat heavily. She could reconcile herself to a marriage to an older man, especially a friendly and generous one. But marriage to an arrogant, virile warrior, who could prove to be as violent and cruel as her first husband? That she could never accept.

  “Uncle, what have you been doing?” the young Welshman asked of the man they’d assumed was Madoc ap Gruffydd.

  “Welcoming your guests, since you weren’t here yourself,” the older man replied without a hint of remorse. “Proper introductions must have slipped my mind, what with the surprise and the lady’s beauty.” He smiled at Roslynn. “I’m Lloyd ap Iolo, Madoc’s uncle. I’m in charge of Llanpowell when Madoc’s on patrol.”

  Lord Alfred glared at the man who’d welcomed them. “What sort of Welsh trickery is this?”

  The real Lord Madoc regarded Lord Alfred with undisguised scorn. “There was no trickery or deceit. My uncle is in command of Llanpowell when I’m absent, and I count on him to act as h
ost in my stead. If he says he forgot to introduce himself, that is the truth. No insult was intended.”

  “Aye, a mistake, that’s all, what with the unexpectedness of your arrival, you see,” the older man assured them.

  “Uncle, will you be so good as to pour the lady a drink?” the young lord of Llanpowell ordered. “She looks a little faint.”

  Roslynn was not weak or dizzy. If anything, she had never felt more alive—with furious indignation. Once again, a man had deceived her, and although the explanation seemed harmless and plausible, it nevertheless implied disrespect.

  Unfortunately, because she was a woman and a guest, and considering the reason she was here, she was in no position to voice her true feelings, so she silently accepted the goblet of wine Lloyd ap Iolo held out to her.

  The young man walked to the chair and sat upon it as if he were a king upon his throne. “I apologize for any distress this mistake may have caused you,” he said, not looking the least bit sorry. “Perhaps you’ll be so kind as to explain why you’ve come to Llanpowell, Lord Alfred.”

  “I’ve been trying to,” the Norman nobleman snarled.

  “I’m at your disposal, my lord,” Madoc ap Gruffydd replied with exaggerated politeness.

  Again she felt as if they were being treated with contempt, and her indignation increased.

  Lord Alfred clearly felt that way, too, but he answered with the civility of a man used to the hypocrisy of the court. “King John is grateful for your help defeating the rebellion planned by Wimarc de Werre.”

  Lord Alfred then paused, as if giving Lord Madoc time to appreciate the king’s magnanimity.

  “His gratitude I can do without,” Lord Madoc remarked instead. “What about the payment I was promised?” His glance flicked to Roslynn and his lips jerked up into a disdainful smile. “Are you about to tell me Lady Roslynn is my reward?”

  Roslynn flushed, but met his scornful gaze steadily. “As a matter of fact, my lord, I am.”

  She had the brief satisfaction of seeing the arrogant lord of Llanpowell look as stunned as she’d felt when she found out who he was.

  “Lady Roslynn and her dowry are indeed your reward,” Lord Alfred clarified.

  “Dowry? Did he say dowry?” Lloyd ap Iolo asked as his nephew stared at Roslynn like a man who’d been struck over the head with a heavy object.

  “Her dowry consists of eight hundred marks in silver and jewels, as well as many fine household goods,” Lord Alfred added.

  Madoc ap Gruffydd launched himself out of his chair as if he’d been set ablaze. “I was promised money for my aid, not a wife! I want no wife, especially one chosen by another man.”

  Hope surged through Roslynn. He was going to refuse! She would be spared another terrible marriage and the king couldn’t blame her.

  Lord Alfred rose, nearly apoplectic with ire. “How dare you reject—?”

  He took a deep breath and got his rage under control. “Think wisely, Welshman, before you reject what King John so generously offers. It is Lady Roslynn and her dowry, or nothing.”

  “Be reasonable, Madoc,” his uncle urged. “That’s a lot of money, that dowry, and it’s time you married again.”

  Again?

  “And although you’ve got one son already, more would be better.”

  He had a son?

  “I don’t marry at any man’s command, or to breed children,” Lord Madoc replied, “and I won’t have any woman forced to marry me, either.”

  As if a woman’s wishes could possibly matter to a man like him.

  “Lady Roslynn is not being forced,” Lord Alfred said, turning toward her. “Tell him, my lady. Tell him that you came here of your own free will and you’ll marry him of your own free will.”

  Roslynn would much rather have kept silent and let them argue, but since she had been appealed to, she answered truthfully. “I was not threatened or starved or tortured until I agreed to this proposal. However, it was do as the king bid, or stay at his court, and I was very keen to leave it.”

  “My lady!” Lord Alfred gasped, as if no one had ever wished to be away from the king and his court before.

  She ignored the Norman who had brought her here, treating her as little better than a box or barrel, and addressed the Welsh lord and his uncle. “I would have agreed to anything if it meant I could leave the court.

  “I am also still a young woman and I desire a home and children. I’m well aware that as a traitor’s widow, I will be no man’s first choice, so I acquiesced to the king’s command and hoped for the best.

  “But you should know, my lord, that this offer costs John nothing. The dowry is not even as much as I brought into my first marriage. All that money and property became my husband’s, and thus forfeit to the crown when he was convicted and executed for treason. John adds nothing of his own. The king sends me to you as he would a worn gown to a beggar.”

  Lord Alfred looked as if he might explode. “My lady! That’s not—”

  “It is the truth, my lord, and we both know it,” she firmly interrupted. She folded her hands in her lap, feigning a serenity she certainly didn’t feel. “I would have Lord Madoc know it, too.”

  As the Welsh nobleman studied her, she grew warm, and it was not from embarrassment. He was an attractive, handsome man, even if he had a hot temper, hair to his shoulders like a savage and dressed little better than one of his men-at-arms.

  In that, he was the opposite of Wimarc, who had worn the finest silks and expensive fabrics and kept his hair in the smooth Norman fashion. Wimarc never looked as if he’d just returned from riding hell-bent across the open moor.

  “I appreciate your honesty, my lady,” Lord Madoc said, his lips curving up a little, his tone somewhat conciliatory, “although you underestimate yourself. You are a far cry from a worn garment.”

  That little hint of a smile and his compliment could not touch her. His deep voice could not affect her. She would not be tempted by this man, no matter how he looked or spoke. She would fight the arousal that bloomed within her, the same weakness that had led her eagerly into an evil man’s arms. Nor would she respond to his flattery.

  “What will happen to the lady if we don’t marry?” Lord Madoc asked Lord Alfred.

  “We shall both return to court to inform John of your refusal,” the Norman tensely answered.

  “No, we will not, my lord.”

  Roslynn had foreseen this eventuality and had already decided what she must and would do, whether Lord Alfred approved or not. “You and my dowry may return, Lord Alfred, but I would rather give myself to the church than go back to the king’s court.”

  Lord Alfred stared at her as if this was the most outrageous proposal in the world. “But the king—”

  “Should have no cause to complain. I have done what he commanded. If Lord Madoc rejects me, the king cannot say I disobeyed. If you fear to return without me, tell John I fell into melancholy and only the promise of a life as a bride of Christ could revive my spirits. No doubt the return of my dowry will help to ease any other disappointment he may feel.”

  The lord of Llanpowell resumed his seat. “It appears the lady and I are in agreement, at least on this point. We will neither of us marry simply because King John wishes it.”

  Lord Alfred’s hands balled into fists at his sides. “May I remind you both it is never wise to antagonize a king?”

  “Perhaps it isn’t wise of John to antagonize me,” Lord Madoc retorted. “I doubt he can afford to lose the friendship of any man who has alliances in the Marches.

  “Fortunately, I have not yet refused the king’s gift. She’s a beautiful woman, after all. Bold, too, and while some men like their women placid, I don’t. I prefer a woman who speaks her mind, as this lady so obviously does. So I may yet accept her.”

  Surely he didn’t mean that! How could he be so adamantly opposed to the king’s offer one moment, then acquiesce the next—unless the thought of the dowry was too appealing to decline.

  �
�However, as I said, the lady must be willing.”

  Which she was not and never would be, no matter how handsome he was.

  He must be trying to put the responsibility—and the blame—for thwarting John’s plans back onto her.

  “This is ridiculous! She’s only a woman!” Lord Alfred protested. “She has no right to an opinion.”

  “In my hall she does,” Lord Madoc replied. “Well, my lady? What say you?”

  She would not be caught in his trap, so if he expected her to say yea or nay, he was mistaken. “We have only just arrived,” she said instead. “Must I give my answer now?”

  “No,” Lord Madoc said at once. “We should both take time to decide whether or not we’ll suit.”

  She already knew the answer to that, and unless she was mistaken, he did, too.

  “I should return to the king without delay,” Lord Alfred declared. “He is most anxious to have this settled.”

  “He’s had months to fulfill his bargain, so I think he can wait a few more days,” the lord of Llanpowell replied as he got to his feet. “You can blame the Welsh weather if you need a reason, my lord. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I should find my steward and tell him important guests have arrived. Uncle, please see to the accommodations for Lord Alfred and his men.”

  “Aye, nephew, gladly!” the older man said with a broad grin.

  “Bron,” Lord Madoc continued, “show Lady Roslynn to the bedchamber in the south tower. She’ll want to rest until the evening meal.”

  ALTHOUGH DISPLEASED by Madoc of Llanpowell’s arrogant dismissal and subsequent swift exit, Roslynn was glad to be alone. She needed solitude and quiet to consider all that had happened since arriving in this place.

  The upper chamber the maidservant took her to was surprisingly comfortable, if a little dusty. The furnishings—curtained bed, small wooden table, stool and washstand—were old, but well polished. The linen bed curtains, dyed a vibrant blue, hung from bronze rings. No ewer or linen were on the washstand, suggesting this room had not been used recently.