A Warrior's Kiss Read online

  “Of course not. He probably would have hit me.” Emryss grinned ruefully. “But there’s a woman with a spark!”

  “Unfortunately, I don’t think he would ever consider marriage to any woman who is not titled,” Roanna observed.

  “I’ve been worried about his ambition,” Emryss acknowledged. “I know what too much of that can do to a man.”

  His wife nodded thoughtfully, likewise remembering Dylan’s father. “It is also difficult to be the youngest, I think.” She sighed softly. “If only Angharad had never said anything. They got along all right until she told them they were going to be married.”

  “They fought like cats and dogs!” Emryss protested.

  “But it was different. Childish spats.”

  “Maybe I should—”

  “Emryss! You cannot say one word!” Roanna warned. “None of our children like to be given advice without asking—and don’t tell me they don’t get that from you!”

  The baron frowned. “You’re right. As always. So I will not say anything. Will you?”

  “Emryss!”

  Her husband slapped his hands on the arms of his chair and rose abruptly. “God’s teeth, Roanna! I want to know if he’s serious about that Norman creature or not!”

  “Creature seems a little harsh.”

  “Woman. Female. Whatever. I don’t trust her. She simpers.”

  “To be honest, my love, I don’t like her much myself. Perhaps this will be merely a passing fancy.”

  “God’s holy heart, I hope so!”

  “Whatever is going on, we must try not to interfere. Trystan is a grown man and we shall have to trust him to do the right and honorable thing, with any woman.”

  Emryss went to his wife and pulled her into his arms. “I only want him to be happy, Roanna, as happy as we have been.”

  Roanna’s smile touched his heart, as it always did. “I know, my love, I know,” she murmured as she reached up to kiss him.

  If any of their children had happened to walk into the solar at that particular moment, they would have discovered that passion need never die, even after thirty years of marriage.

  “Arthur, don’t play with your food. Eat it, or I’ll give it to the pig,” Mair chided as she added some more wood to the fire in the hearth of the small house where they lived within the encircling walls of the brewery bequeathed to her by her father.

  Other buildings thus enclosed included the malt house, the brewery proper, the storehouse and the stable where she kept her horse and wagon. Her business was a prosperous one, because she was very good at her work. And because it was so prosperous, Mair was beholden to no one, and dependent on no man, and she liked it that way.

  Her gray-eyed boy frowned as he lifted his spoon and let it drop into the sodden mass of cooked oats.

  It was no secret to anybody that while her drink was superb, her food was something else.

  Mair sniffed at the pot holding the remains of the porridge. For herself, she preferred fruit first thing in the morning. A growing boy, she was sure, needed something that would stick to his ribs.

  “I didn’t burn it, did I?” she asked warily. It didn’t smell burned, but then, she wasn’t trying to eat it.

  “No, it’s fine,” Arthur muttered.

  “You don’t have to finish the rest of it,” Mair said. “If you like, you can have an apple from the bowl, but only one, mind. I’ll need the rest for a treat I’m making for supper—or that I’ll try to,” she finished with a self-deprecating smile.

  “Oh. Is that Ivor coming for dinner again?”

  “Perhaps that Ivor is,” she replied, “and if he does, don’t you be rude to him.”

  She felt a twinge of guilt, for she had been far more than rude to Ivor last night. The least she could do after her terrible mistake, she had decided, would be to offer him a meal, as well as welcome him to her bed. They had not been together for days.

  Maybe that was why she had found it so difficult to control her desire with Trystan.

  If she were an animal, perhaps, she reminded herself. Some priests tried to preach that women were the embodiment of sinful temptation from Eve onward, but she would not use that excuse, either. She had wanted Trystan DeLanyea last night, and she had had him.

  Now she had to live with that decision, hasty and stupid though it was. At least she and Ivor were not pledged to each other in any way, and for that she was very thankful.

  Really very thankful, she suddenly realized.

  “I won’t be rude,” Arthur mumbled. He started to tap his spoon against his bowl.

  Mair left the hearth and gave him a studious look. He was upset about something, or he would not be lingering here.

  “Did you have a good time with Trefor and Angharad?” she asked.

  Bang went Arthur’s spoon. “I hate Trefor!”

  Condemning herself for letting her own concerns blind her to her son’s distress, Mair wiped her hands on her skirt and sat opposite Arthur. “What happened? What did Trefor do?”

  “He said that I had better be nice to him, or he would tell our father not to make me a knight when I am grown.”

  Mair sighed. “He’s said things like that before, and didn’t your da tell you Trefor was wrong? Hasn’t he promised that you will be a knight, if you do all that you should?”

  Arthur gripped the spoon so tightly his knuckles went white. “Yes.”

  “Then you mustn’t let Trefor upset you. He does it to annoy you and make you angry. That makes him feel powerful. If you want him to stop, just laugh when he makes these foolish threats.”

  “I try, but he’s so…so…”

  “So Trefor?” Mair suggested with a sympathetic smile. “I know, my son. There are some people who can anger us without even trying.”

  Like Trystan.

  “I don’t like Ivor, either.”

  “Why not? Isn’t he nice to you?”

  Arthur shrugged, his action so like that of all the DeLanyea men that she would have smiled, if not for what had happened last night. “I don’t think you like him much, either,” her son observed.

  “Of course I do!”

  “Does he want to marry you?” Arthur demanded.

  Mair rose and went to stir the porridge again. Unfortunately, it was now of the consistency of hardened mud. “I don’t know.”

  “You can’t.”

  Suspecting Trefor hadn’t been the only one saying things last night, she cast a wary glance at Arthur over her shoulder as she lifted the porridge pot from the hook.

  Angharad really had to keep her mouth shut about her stupid prophecy that she would marry Trystan. “Why not? If I love him, why shouldn’t I?”

  “Because I don’t like him.”

  “Arthur, I don’t want to marry anybody,” she said truthfully. “I enjoy Ivor’s company, that’s all, and he enjoys mine. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “Am I going back to Angharad’s tonight?”

  “Not if you don’t want to.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Then you don’t have to.” She went to her son and ruffled his dark hair that was so like his father’s. “Arthur, you’re my darling, precious son, and nothing will ever change that. I promise.”

  Arthur blushed as he always did when she said such things and regarded her with a slightly condemning look that he sometimes made when he thought she was embarrassing him—and that was suddenly very familiar.

  Anwyl, how could she never have seen his resemblance to Trystan DeLanyea before?

  Hadn’t Trystan looked at her with that expression a hundred times, and as recently as last night?

  “Arthur,” she said, glad her voice didn’t betray her sudden surprise, “why don’t you go to the smithy and watch Ianto work awhile? Or would you rather help me in the brewery?”

  “Oh, the smithy, Mam!” Arthur cried as his face lit up with a grin—his father’s grin, which had none of Trystan’s dour reticence about it. “Ianto’s doing swords today!”<
br />
  Her son jumped up from the table and ran to the door.

  “Come back when the sun sets!” she called out after him, hoping that he heard and would not be late.

  She would prefer to have some company when Ivor came, until she was more herself.

  She bent down to pick up the pot to take the rest of the hardening porridge out to the pig before she got to her work.

  When she straightened, she saw Ivor standing on the threshold, a smile on his face. “Ivor! I didn’t expect to see you this morning.”

  “I came to apologize again for being late last night.”

  “I’m sorry I was so abrupt with you.”

  “Ah.” He went to her and wrapped his brawny arms around her waist, then kissed her neck.

  “Ivor! I am trying to work!”

  “And I am telling you how much I’ve missed you.”

  “Well, you missed me in your bed.”

  “Mair!”

  “I’m sorry, Ivor. Just tired I am.”

  “I thought perhaps you missed me, too.”

  She wouldn’t lie, so she merely shrugged and kept her gaze focused on the chain mail covering his broad chest. “Shouldn’t you be leading a patrol of the wood or the road?”

  “I am to escort Trystan and Lady Rosamunde riding in a bit, when the lady’s ready. I thought there would be enough time for a little visit with you.”

  “How much time?”

  He chuckled softly. “Not enough for that, I’m sorry to say.”

  Mair tried to look disappointed and hoped she succeeded. Ivor was a good man and had done nothing to merit her relief that he couldn’t stay. “He likes the lady, does he?”

  “Can’t take his eyes from her, him. Like a lovesick lad.” Ivor’s voice lowered to a whisper as he caressed her breast. “Or like me when I’m near you.”

  She gently removed his hand. “Should you not go back?”

  Ivor chuckled softly. “A man in love himself will understand if I dally.”

  “You had best be dutiful.” She put a smile on her face. “Can you sup with Arthur and me tonight?”

  “Nothing would make me happier.” He grinned, reminding her why she had taken him to her bed in the first place. “Well, one or two other things.” He let go of her and went toward the door with obvious reluctance. “And I promise I won’t be late.”

  “Don’t be,” she replied with more genuine good humor.

  She watched him leave. Yes, he was a good man, but she didn’t love him. She never would.

  Sighing, she glanced down at the pot of porridge. As she regarded the awful-looking mess, she made a rueful grin. Why was it she could make the best ale and mead in Wales, and yet failed with something as apparently simple as porridge?

  “One of the mysteries of life, I suppose,” she muttered as she bent to pick up the pot again.

  She heard a sound at the door and glanced up, wondering if Arthur had returned, or Ivor.

  Instead, a grave and grim Trystan stood in her doorway.

  Chapter Three

  The morning breeze had ruffled Trystan’s shoulder-length hair, and he was dressed in a fine, dark wool tunic belted about the waist which emphasized his muscular shoulders and chest. Silhouetted as he was in the sunlight, she couldn’t help noticing he had the best legs of all the DeLanyea men, including Dylan.

  Immediately she remembered the strength of him as the memory of his powerful, passionate embrace flashed into her mind.

  Nevertheless, her first instinct was to tell him to go away. She didn’t want to talk to him, any more than she wanted to recall what had happened between them last night.

  Lifting her chin defiantly, Mair tilted her head to regard Trystan coldly.

  “What do you want?” she demanded, pleased that she could sound so calm when her heart was beating like a minstrel’s tabor during a fast-paced dance.

  “May I come in?” Trystan asked, not moving from the threshold.

  “I hear you are taking Lady Rosamunde out riding this morning, whenever she can get herself ready. Surprised, me, she’s willing to leave the castle, or has the strength to stay on a horse. Looks like she needs a few good meals, her. All skin and bones and too pale by far.”

  “I did not come here to discuss Lady Rosamunde. May I come inside?” Trystan repeated with grave courtesy.

  “You came in right well last night, so I could hardly deny you entry to my house today, could I?”

  “Of course you could refuse,” he said with a scowl, “and as an honorable knight, I would respect your wishes.”

  “Come in, Sir Trystan, and welcome,” she replied sarcastically.

  As he sauntered into her house like a conquering warrior, she told herself to pay no heed to his reactions. He had always been a cold, prudish fellow, and that was not her fault. To be sure, they had made a mistake last night, but it was not the end of the world.

  He circled her table, then stopped, apparently fascinated by the ruined porridge.

  “I must say you surprise me,” she remarked, trying to draw his attention from her failure and commanding herself not to blush. Everybody knew she was no cook, so let him stare as if he had never seen ruined porridge before.

  He raised his serious eyes to regard her steadily.

  “I am surprised you would deign to come to my house.” She didn’t move away as he silently came closer. “Well, Sir Trystan, what do you want?”

  “I came to ask you…” He hesitated a moment, and she felt a moment’s pleasure at his discomfort. It served him right for his arrogant mien. “Have you told anyone about…?”

  “About last night?” she supplied when he fell awkwardly silent. “What do you think I would say?”

  He gave her an angry, frustrated look as if what they had done was all her fault. “Knowing you, it could be almost anything.”

  “Oh, so you think you know me?”

  “Of course.”

  Smiling, she leaned closer and said, “Maybe I told everybody I met that I had just made love with Trystan DeLanyea on the wall walk.”

  He crimsoned as he crossed his arms over his chest and glared at her. “You didn’t.”

  “How do you know? That would be the truth, wouldn’t it?” she noted as she strolled around the table, so that it stood between them.

  “Have you no shame?” he demanded. “Doesn’t what we did last night trouble you?”

  “Nothing much about me seemed to trouble you last night—at least not when we were in each other’s arms.”

  “As I said last night, it was a mistake.”

  “And I agreed. So why are you here now?”

  Trystan cleared his throat. “I have plans, Mair,” he said, looking at her with his stern, determined gray eyes. “Plans that do not include you.”

  A pain unlike anything Mair had ever felt before—a pain that was not physical, but seemingly pure feeling—welled up inside her. She beat it back, willed it away, told herself she had known this all along.

  “I am going to marry Lady Rosamunde D’Heureux, if she will do me the honor of accepting my hand.”

  “My plans do not include you, either,” Mair replied, telling herself she didn’t care about his plans, certainly not if he truly wanted to wed that Norman statue of a woman who looked about as pleasant to bed as a piece of marble. “That is why I have said nothing. To anybody.”

  Trystan sighed as if a great weight had been taken from his shoulders. “Mair,” he said in a softer voice as he approached her, “I’m sorry for what happened. I truly don’t know what came over me.”

  Mair didn’t move away from him. She couldn’t. All her energy was needed to keep her voice level and her hands from trembling.

  “I acted like a lustful, loathsome beast,” he continued sadly.

  “You acted like a man who was with a willing woman, that’s all. I…I’m sorry I compared you to Dylan.”

  His expression compelled her to go on in a breathless rush. “I am not ashamed of being his lover, and he was m
arvelous, but…”

  Trystan’s eyes suddenly seemed to lighten, as if from within. “But?”

  She couldn’t meet his gaze.

  He moved still closer, so that she could feel his breath hot on her cheek. “Have a care, Mair, or I will be getting conceited.”

  “I think you have plenty enough to be modest about,” she replied, trying to sound defiant or flippant, or anything but anxious for his kiss.

  “I know that there are those who compare me unfavorably to my brother and cousin and father.”

  As she stared into his familiar eyes, she suddenly saw a vulnerability there she had never suspected existed.

  How would it feel to have such older relations to be compared with? A father as famous as Emryss DeLanyea, who had lost an eye but survived the Crusade and all that came after? Or grim Griffydd, who all respected and trusted? Or even Dylan, who was the envy of men everywhere for his charm and looks?

  Was it any wonder Trystan wanted a wife like Lady Rosamunde, the very personification of Norman womanhood, the beauty of a powerful family?

  “You have much to be proud of, too,” she finally said.

  His mouth curved up in a slow, incredibly attractive smile. “I do?”

  “You know you do,” she snapped, moving so that the table was between them again. She needed a barrier if he was going to look at her like that.

  “Like what? I have a fine father and brother and cousin.”

  “You surely know your own merits without me having to tell you.” She swallowed hard as he started to come round the table. She was tempted to flee her own house, but he was between her and the door. “You have plans, Trystan, and I am not in them.”

  At last he came to a halt only a step from her.

  But he didn’t leave. Instead, he looked at her as if he had never really seen her before. “What about you, Mair? What plans do you have?”

  No one had ever asked her that in her life, and indeed, she hadn’t thought about such a question herself. “I…um…why, to see Arthur grow to be a fine young knight, and to make the best ale I can,” she stammered.

  Very gently he reached out and took her shoulders in his strong hands. “Is that all?” he asked softly as he pulled her into his arms, another emotion smoldering in his gray eyes. His breathing quickened, matching the rapid rhythm of her own.