The Warlord’s Bride Read online

  Perhaps it was kept only for guests, and the lord had a finer chamber in another part of the castle.

  She strolled toward the narrow window and looked outside. She could see only the inner wall—hardly an inspiring view.

  On the other hand, perhaps she had seen all she needed to of this castle and estate, since she probably wouldn’t be staying here much longer.

  Although she didn’t want to anger the king by a direct refusal, she would if she must. She would rather face John’s wrath than marry a hot-tempered, possibly violent man who would make her miserable. She had lived that life once; she wouldn’t again.

  She heard the sound of heavy boots coming quickly up the stairs and turned toward the door just as Lord Alfred barged inside.

  “By the saints, my lady,” he declared as he strode uninvited into the chamber, “to think I ever felt sorry for you!”

  He came to a halt, arms akimbo, glaring at her. “Who do you think you are?”

  “I am Lady Roslynn de Werre, the daughter of Lady Eloise and Lord James de Briston,” she answered, not afraid of Lord Alfred or his anger. He had very little real power over her here, so far from the king.

  Her calm response didn’t ease Lord Alfred’s aggravation. “What sort of tricks are you playing at, my lady? You made nary a squeak in protest the whole way here!”

  “I play no tricks. As I said, I’m not averse to the marriage—only to returning to court if Lord Madoc doesn’t want me. You know the sort of men John has about him. Is it any wonder I’m loath to return?”

  Lord Alfred didn’t answer directly, no doubt because he did know the sort of men John had about him. “You should have told the king of your feelings.”

  As if John would care. But she didn’t say that. Instead, she said, “As he should have told me more about Madoc ap Gruffydd.”

  “So you could find excuses not to do as the king wills?”

  “To know what manner of man I was expected to marry. He appears to be a hot-tempered savage who finds it amusing to make us look like fools. I especially should have been told he already had a son, as any sons I would bear him wouldn’t inherit his estate, but only a portion of it.”

  “Any children I have will inherit equally, except for the title,” the savage himself declared from the doorway.

  Both Roslynn and Lord Alfred wheeled around to see Lord Madoc standing on the threshold, his arms crossed.

  God help her, how much had he heard?

  “That’s a decision I made before I had any children at all and I’ll stand by it, should I be blessed to have more,” he continued as he sauntered into the chamber. He raised an inquisitive black brow. “Might I ask what you’re doing in the lady’s chamber, my lord?”

  Lord Alfred drew himself up to his full height. “As the king’s representative, I have every right to speak to her in private.”

  “Not in my castle you don’t.”

  The Norman couldn’t look more offended if he’d been struck across the face. “I’m an honorable man!”

  “So you say, but words are cheap.”

  “Then hear me,” Roslynn declared, her own anger rising. “Whatever my late husband was, I’m an honorable woman and there is nothing unseemly between Lord Alfred and me!”

  “So I should hope.”

  “Lord Madoc,” she snapped, “if you have only come here to insult us—”

  “I came here to speak with you, my lady, preferably without the king’s lackey present.”

  “My lord!” Lord Alfred huffed, his hand going to the hilt of his sword, “I am the king’s representative and so responsible for Lady Roslynn. Unless and until you are wed, you may not be alone with her.”

  The Welshman’s brows lowered menacingly. “Do you think I’ll force myself upon her?”

  Fighting the fear his words engendered, the visions and memories they roused, Roslynn began to back away, reaching for the dagger she had tucked into her belt. It was small, but lethally sharp, and she would use it if she had to. Never again would she let a man use her as he would. Never.

  “She is under the king’s protection!” Lord Alfred exclaimed, likewise reaching for his blade.

  “Who, I gather, forces himself on women all the time, even the wives and daughters of his own courtiers,” the Welshman replied. “And why should I not risk it, if you would have us wed? The lady would surely not refuse me if I did.”

  God help her! He might be even worse than Wimarc.

  Lord Alfred drew his sword and moved in front of her. “You touch her at your peril, Welshman. She is in my care, and I will protect her honor with my life.”

  For one breathtaking moment, she feared they would come to blows, until the lord of Llanpowell slowly let out his breath and shook himself, not unlike a great shaggy bear, as his anger seemed to dissipate. “Your defense of the lady does you credit, Lord Alfred. You can put up your sword, for her virtue is quite safe with me. I’ve never forced myself upon a woman and I never will.

  “Unfortunately, I find it almost impossible to tell if a Norman’s honorable or not. Now I’m sure you are.”

  Roslynn shoved Lord Alfred aside. “Was this some sort of trial, you Welsh oaf, to determine Lord Alfred’s honor—or mine?” she demanded, her whole body quivering with rage. “Perhaps you hoped to find me in Lord Alfred’s arms, the better to reject me and seek a different reward from the king? How unfortunate for you that your plan was doomed to fail, for I value my honor as much as any man.” She pointed at the door. “Get out!”

  He raised a brow, but otherwise didn’t move.

  “Get out!” she forcefully repeated, and when he still didn’t move, she pulled the dagger from her belt.

  In two strides the lord of Llanpowell crossed the floor and grabbed her forearm. He looked like an enraged god, angrier than she’d ever seen any man, even Wimarc when he was captured. Terrified, she cried out and twisted away, protecting her head with her other arm as she anticipated the hard blow, the curses and the kicks that would come.

  Instead, she heard his voice, quiet yet strained, firm but steady, as he let go of her. “I’m not going to strike you, my lady, although you drew a blade and I have every right to defend myself, even from a woman.”

  Although she had never met him before, he sounded sincere and she choked back her fear. “I drew my knife because I will never again allow a man to take me against my will.”

  Lord Madoc’s eyes flared with surprise, then what had to be pity, as if she were a poor, pathetic thing.

  “I wasn’t raped by a stranger,” she hurried to explain. “It was no thief or outlaw who outraged me. It was my husband. Our bed was only for his pleasure, never mine.”

  Lord Alfred flushed. “If he was your husband, it was his right to—”

  “Leave us, my lord,” Lord Madoc ordered. “I will speak to this lady alone and I will not touch her.”

  Roslynn saw the truth of his promise in those deep brown eyes that seemed to reveal every flicker of emotion. This might also be her one and only chance to secure her freedom. Therefore, she would take it, and if she was wrong to trust those eyes, she still had her dagger.

  Lord Alfred wasn’t willing to acquiesce. “It is most—”

  “My lord, please,” Roslynn insisted.

  Lord Alfred sheathed his sword. “Very well, I shall go, but know you this, my lord. I will not be kept waiting like a dog on a leash. In two days, I return to court with Lady Roslynn, or without her. However, if this marriage does not take place, rest assured that I shall not be held responsible!”

  CHAPTER THREE

  AFTER LORD ALFRED had left the room, Lord Madoc turned to Roslynn and studied her as if he’d never seen a woman before. “You were ready to kill me if I tried to force you, weren’t you?”

  She saw no reason to dissemble. “I was. I meant what I said.”

  “I meant what I said, too. I’ve never taken a woman against her will, and never shall. I never hit women or beat my servants. Those are the acts of a bru
te and a coward.”

  Words could be meaningless and as insubstantial as air. How could a man of his temperament not strike out in anger?

  He walked past her to the window, where he stared at the wall and spoke without facing her. “Your marriage to Wimarc—were you forced into that?”

  “No, my lord,” she said, although it both shamed and pained her to admit it. “I thought he loved me, only to discover I was nothing more to Wimarc than a dowry and a woman to abuse whenever he felt the need. Worse, he was a traitor and although I was innocent, I could have faced a traitor’s death, too, if not for intercession of friends. Kings are suspicious men, and my fate could easily have been otherwise.”

  “So the king let you live to use you as his tool, his gift.”

  What could she say to that? It was the truth.

  The Welshman turned at last, resting his narrow hips on the sill and crossing his powerful arms. “I’ve heard about your husband. Quite the smooth otter he was, and handsome and clever. Older and wiser heads than yours were turned by him. And love can make a fool of anyone.”

  “I don’t believe now that I did truly love him. I was flattered by his attention and swayed by his outward appearance.”

  God have mercy, what had compelled her to make that confession, and to a stranger, too, especially one she was supposed to marry?

  “So you were deceived and married a traitor and now the king thinks to use you,” Lord Madoc mused aloud. “Yet you have family and friends. Surely the convent is not your only alternative if we don’t marry.”

  “I’ve disgraced my parents, and I have imposed upon my friends long enough, so if I don’t marry you, it will be the church for me.”

  “Then you will never be able to have children.”

  “Since I’m not a simpleton, I’m well aware of that.”

  He walked around her and she felt his gaze upon her, but didn’t move. Let him stare all he liked. She had been the object of men’s scrutiny before, especially at court.

  “I think you’re no more keen to enter the church than I am to make enemies,” he said at last. “Despite what I said to Lord Alfred, I would prefer not to have John for an enemy. Even so, as I said before, I won’t marry an unwilling woman.”

  He halted behind her and when he spoke again, his voice was low and soft, like a lover’s, or as she’d always imagined a lover’s should be. “But you need not lock yourself away in a convent, my lady. Excuses could be found to explain why we won’t marry. An illness perhaps, or I could claim I’ve gotten betrothed since I made my bargain with John. Or that our grandparents were too closely related. Meanwhile, you’re welcome to remain my guest for as long as you like, and whether we marry or not.”

  Whether they marry? He was actually considering agreeing to the king’s proposal?

  She turned to face him and tried to gauge his true feelings. Did he want her, or only the dowry? Was he hoping to use her, as Wimarc had? As a bedmate, or political pawn, or both? What did he really want?

  What she saw in his eyes was not greed or lust or ambition, but a speculation that matched her own, as if he was just as curious to know what she wanted.

  As their gazes met and held, however, she saw and felt something more.

  Desire.

  Yes, he was a man to tempt her, but what then? Madoc ap Gruffydd was no boy, no green lad playing at love. He was no courtier, used to smooth banter and games of seduction.

  Madoc of Llanpowell was something else altogether—more elemental, more primitive. More virile and more arousing than any man—any man—she’d ever met.

  As that realization struck her, so did another—that he was, therefore, even more dangerous to her than Wimarc. Wanting him, she might weaken and make another terrible mistake that would result in misery.

  She wet her suddenly dry lips. “I thought you were offended by the proposal.”

  To her even greater surprise, his mouth curved up in a genuine smile that made him look like a juvenile version of his uncle, and just as harmless. “I was angry because John didn’t send what he promised. Aye, and shocked at what he did send, too, but I’m beginning to think I was too hasty in my temper.”

  This was not what she wanted to hear. Not now, not ever.

  Not from him.

  If he saw her dismay, he wasn’t upset by it. “There’s no need to decide about this marriage today,” he said genially, holding out his arm. “I don’t mind making Lord Alfred wait. Do you?”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to tell this man that her decision was already made and she would never be his wife, until caution warned her to say nothing. However Lord Madoc behaved now, he was a stranger to her and he could still be planning to put the blame on her if they didn’t wed. It would be much better for her, her friends and her family if Madoc ap Gruffydd thwarted the king’s will.

  So she lightly placed her hand on his muscular arm and ignored the little thrill of desire that seemed to snake its way from that touch to her heart. “Not at all, my lord,” she said. “Whatever you decide, I’m delighted by the prospect of a sojourn in Wales.”

  His eyes narrowed, but she simply smiled that bland, meaningless smile she had used so effectively at court.

  ACUTELY AWARE OF the beautiful woman seated on his right in the torch-lit hall, Madoc tried to eat as if he had not a care in the world. Unfortunately, he did, not the least of which was hoping that his desire for Lady Roslynn wasn’t completely obvious.

  He had felt it the moment he’d first laid eyes on her, and even after he’d learned why she and the Norman nobleman had come to Llanpowell, although that should have stemmed his passion immediately and permanently. To his chagrin, it had only seemed to make his lust grow stronger. How else to explain his request to be alone with her, and the almost overwhelming urge to take her in his arms when she spoke of her brute of a husband?

  Yet he had been around beautiful women before. He had made love to more than one. What was it, then, about Lady Roslynn that seemed to cast such a spell over him?

  Her beauty, to be sure. Her bold spirit, as he’d said. But there was something else, a challenge in her shining eyes that made him think being chosen by her would be no little accomplishment.

  Unfortunately, if he agreed to marry her, it would also mean accepting a permanent bond with a woman he didn’t know, and a stronger alliance with the Plantagenet king.

  He set down his silver wine goblet, careful not to so much as brush his arm against Lady Roslynn’s. He didn’t want to imbibe too much, lest he say more than he should—about her, about himself, or what he really thought of King John.

  Uncle Lloyd obviously had no such concerns as he finished yet another cup of braggot. Interestingly, and although he’d likely rue it tomorrow, Lord Alfred was keeping up with him, goblet for goblet.

  If his hall wasn’t the biggest or the most luxurious, at least he need not be ashamed of the food and drink his larder and buttery provided, Madoc reflected.

  His cook, Hywel, had learned his trade in the kitchen of the Earl of Pembroke himself and was well versed not just in ordinary fare, but cream soups and cheese tarts, baked apples, pastries, salmon, trout and even swans, curlews and blackbirds, although the latter were too expensive to be served at Llanpowell. Farmers and fishermen came to Llanpowell with their best, freshest produce, and what wasn’t roasted, Hywel turned into savory stews, pottages and soups. His bread was the best to be had in Wales and his sweets and custards as fine as anything in England.

  Even though these visitors had come upon them unexpectedly, Hywel had risen to the occasion and admirably so, with six courses, including a beef stew, roasted mutton, pike with a green sauce made with vinegar and parsley, chicken stuffed with eggs and onions and ending with pears served in a wine syrup, as well as his speciality, baked apples, spiced with his own secret recipe.

  Lloyd caught Madoc’s eye and raised his goblet in salute. “Quite a beauty John sent you, nephew,” he crowed in Welsh. “Like the first flowers of spring sh
e is!”

  Madoc didn’t need reminding that Lady Roslynn was a beauty, with her pale smooth skin, bright blue eyes and lips as red as holly berries, or that she was young. Her manners were impeccable, and she ate and drank with the delicate daintiness one would expect from a highborn lady.

  Her dress was likewise demure and modest. Her gown was of deep blue wool with a square-necked bodice, without trim or other embellishment. Even so, there was no disguising her shapely figure.

  The tooled-leather belt that sat on her slender hips had accentuated the graceful sensuality of her walk. Most of her hair was covered by a white veil, but that seemed meant to tease him with the hint of thick chestnut-brown hair beneath.

  What man in this hall wouldn’t envy him the chance for such a bride? What man here wouldn’t want her for his own?

  Ivor, his friend and his steward, no doubt.

  He glanced at Ivor, seated nearby. Simply attired in a long, belted woolen tunic, the steward was as watchful as always. Nothing escaped his shrewd hazel eyes, and while his crippled left leg made it impossible for him to hope for military glory, his cleverness and loyalty had made him indispensable at Llanpowell.

  Yet Ivor had been the first to speak against helping the Plantagenet king round up traitors who were planning a rebellion, until Madoc, seeing little risk for greater gain, had overruled him.

  Madoc had been right, for he’d not lost a single man in the effort. And then John had sent him not silver as promised, but a bride, although her dowry was considerable.

  What kind of woman was Lady Roslynn de Werre? How would she run his household and raise their children? What would she be like in his bed? He’d already had one weeping bride; he didn’t want another.

  “I hear you paid Lady Roslynn a little private visit before the evening meal,” Uncle Lloyd remarked in Welsh, his eyes twinkling with a mischievous grin. “Having a little chat, were you?”