The Welshman's Bride Page 3

  Nevertheless, he had been told to sit, and that was some cause for comfort. When he had been naughty as a child, he had been kept standing while he was chastised.

  Of course, this situation was different from stealing apples or sneaking out of the castle at night, and he wasn’t ten years old anymore.

  When he was seated, the baron said, “You can see how this looks, Dylan. She was naked in your bed.”

  “I never touched her. At least, not last night.”

  The baron reached up to scratch the scar that extended beneath his brown leather eye patch. “But before then? What were you up to with Genevieve Perronet?”

  “Nothing—or nothing much. I certainly never said I wanted her to break her betrothal, and God knows I never invited her to my bed. You have to believe that, Uncle. I’ve never seduced a woman with a promise of marriage.”

  “Good thing, or you would have been married at fourteen.”

  The baron’s remark, although grimly said, made Dylan relax a little more. “I honestly have no idea how she came to be in my bed, naked or otherwise.”

  “That is what I find most surprising of all. Is it possible you could have brought her here without remembering? Were you drunk last night?”

  “I had some wine and ale, and I was very tired. But I’m certain I would have remembered making love.”

  Indeed, as he recalled the perfect pale flesh of Genevieve’s shoulders and the pretty tumble of her blond hair, he knew he would have remembered. “She must have come into my bed after I was asleep.”

  “I suppose that might be possible,” the baron replied with a dubious expression. “How do you explain the blood on the sheets?”

  “I don’t. I can’t—because I don’t know how it came to be there. Maybe I’ve got a cut someplace and it bled.”

  “That’s possible. Did you look?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Lord Perronet will no doubt want to see such a cut, if it exists.”

  Dylan regarded the baron steadily. “There was no need for him to try to kill me, or to manhandle Genevieve that way.”

  “Put yourself in his place, Dylan. He manages to get her betrothed to one of the most powerful men in the north of England, and then he finds her in your bed.”

  “I didn’t—”

  The baron nodded patiently. “I believe you. But he may not. He hardly knows you.”

  “He seems to know of me, or at least my family,” Dylan replied dourly.

  “Your grandfather was well-known, and your father had a certain...”

  “Infamy,” Dylan provided.

  “Yes. So you see, he knows no good of your family. When he saw her in that bed, the poor fellow must have nearly died of shock. God’s wounds, I almost did myself when I got here.”

  “How did he come to find us together?” Dylan asked suspiciously. “Who told him Genevieve was with me?”

  “I don’t think anybody did. It was rather obvious last night that she could hardly keep her eyes off you.”

  “I gave her no encouragement last night. I didn’t dance with her, or even say a word.”

  “Perhaps not, but if a man finds a girl missing, and that girl is clearly attracted to a personable young man, his thoughts might tend to certain conclusions.”

  Dylan sighed heavily as he ran his hand through his thick hair. “That’s why I tried to ignore her last night.”

  “Regrettably, your actions did not have the effect you intended.”

  The baron leaned toward him. “What happened between you before last night, Dylan? It’s clear she thought if the betrothal was broken, you would wed her. Did you give her cause to think you wanted to marry her if she was free?”

  Dylan smote his forehead. “God’s holy heart, that’s why she did it—to break the betrothal!”

  “Obviously. Did you tell her that?”

  “Anwyl, no! I said I would be sorry to see her leave or some such thing.”

  “What else?”

  “Nothing else!”

  “What else did you do?”

  “I...there may have been some kissing,” he muttered, looking at his feet.

  “Kissing?”

  “Passionate kissing,” he confessed.

  “Just kissing?”

  “A little more.”

  “What ‘little more’?”

  Frustrated, Dylan raised his eyes and regarded the baron resolutely. “You’re a man. You can guess. But I never made love to her, or even got close to it.”

  “Dylan,” the baron began not unkindly, “do you never stop to think? Lady Genevieve has been with Lady Katherine DuMonde the past eight years. I doubt she’s even talked to many men that whole time. Now she’s traveling to be married to a man she’s never seen, and who she knows is not young. They stop here, and who does she meet but you?

  “I won’t be telling you anything you don’t already know when I say you’re as handsome a young man as she’s ever likely to meet, and—” he grinned for an instant “—you’ve got a merry devilry that reminds me of myself at your age, so I know how attractive that quality can be.

  “I do not doubt that you’ve grievously underestimated the effect you had on her,” he continued, serious again. “She thought you liked her more than you intended, and saw a way to get out of a marriage she didn’t want.”

  “I suppose I should have listened to Griffydd,” Dylan muttered.

  “What does Griffydd have to do with this?”

  Dylan shrugged. “He tried to warn me, but I...”

  “Yes, you should have paid attention,” the baron replied. “But that is past. The question before us now is, what can we say to assuage her uncle?”

  “I won’t be forced to marry her just to save her honor, which she compromised,” Dylan warned.

  “You know I am not a proponent of forced marriages, for any reason,” the baron replied. “We must think of a way to let the marriage to Lord Kirkheathe proceed as planned.”

  As the baron regarded the silent young man he had known from his birth, his brow furrowed with concern. “You do want the marriage to Kirkheathe to proceed?”

  Dylan shrugged again. “Naturally. But after all the racket Lord Perronet made, her reputation may already be too seriously ruined. Kirkheathe might spurn her.”

  “That is true.” The baron sighed.

  “Unless I can convince Lord Perronet that I did not make love to his niece and so there is no reason she cannot marry Kirkheathe.”

  “You will convince him?”

  Feeling a certain amount of guilt over what he had done with Genevieve, he nodded. “I will try.”

  “So there is no reason at all she cannot marry Kirkheathe?”

  Dylan rose and faced his foster father. “If there is, it is only in her own mind.”

  “Or heart, perhaps.”

  “Perhaps,” he agreed after a short silence.

  “Well, then,” the baron said, rising. “I suggest you waste no time. The longer Lord Perronet is on the rampage, the worse the damage to Lady Genevieve’s reputation will be.”

  Dylan nodded and turned to go.

  Before he could leave, the baron reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder. “She seems a sweet girl, if misguided. Do not fault her too much for her foolishness.”

  Dylan smiled his irrepressible smile. “Because she claims to be in love with me, I will be chivalry itself when I talk to her.”

  Then a scowl replaced the smile as he strode from the room.

  “As for her uncle, I can make no such promises.”

  Having hastily dressed in a gown of what she considered a most appropriate black, Genevieve sat staring at her hands folded on her lap. Her uncle was going to be here at any moment, and she was doing her best to compose herself.

  It was not easy. Indeed, if someone were to offer her a means of being spirited out of Craig Fawr to the farthest reaches of Europe, she would consider herself the most fortunate of beings.

  Sadly, no such miraculous event was in th
e offing.

  And yet it was not shame and sorrow that filled her heart at the moment. It was a fierce and righteous anger, because she had been tricked by a clever rogue bent only on his own amusement

  She never should have trusted Dylan DeLanyea’s kisses and his smiles and his sorrowful words. She should have remembered Lady Katherine’s admonitions that most young men were scheming, lustful rascals best avoided.

  To think she had believed that he loved her! That his passionate kisses meant that he cared. Instead, as she had discovered to her horror and her shame, he had only been toying with her and amusing himself at her expense.

  She should have been a dutiful niece and gladly gone to her marriage instead of climbing into a bed beside a naked and softly snoring Welshman who had promised her... nothing.

  And she never should have cut her own finger to make it look as if she had bled. That was something one of the other girls at Lady Katherine’s claimed would happen the first time she lay with a man. That girl had lost her virginity some time before to a soldier in her father’s employ.

  How she had looked down on Cecily Debarry after she had heard that, Genevieve thought, disgusted with herself as she remembered. That was how people would think of her now, as a sinful, immoral creature—and it was Dylan DeLanyea’s fault!

  “Are you dressed?” her uncle demanded from the other side of the door.

  “Yes,” she answered, rising and steeling herself for his anger. She would try to tell him the truth—that she was a virgin still—and her reasons for the deception, but she had little hope that he would listen.

  What hope she had was squelched the moment her uncle marched into the chamber. He was still so angry, his hawklike face seemed filled with fury and his brown eyes fairly snapped with wrath as he slammed the heavy door shut.

  Explanations would be useless. How could she save herself from his ire?

  Quickly she knelt before him in an attitude of humble contrition, her anger masked, her head lowered, pressing her palms together as if she were praying—and she was, silently begging God to help her from this morass she had created.

  “Uncle, I beg your forgiveness for my shameful conduct,” she murmured contritely. “I am very sorry.”

  “So you should be.”

  Noting that he didn’t sound quite so angry, she risked a glance up at him, and thought she saw a crack in the veneer of wrath.

  “I was weak and foolish.”

  Because I thought he loved me.

  “All women are weak and foolish,” her uncle growled. “It is their nature.”

  “I regret that I have sinned so grievously.”

  And trusted him.

  “You could not help it, I suppose,” he said, slightly mollified. “Like Eve when she was tempted by a snake.”

  She tentatively raised her eyes to regard him.

  “I suppose the betrothal to Lord Kirkheathe must be broken?” she asked with very real remorse.

  She had never met the man, did not know him—but could marriage to him make her feel any worse?

  “He very specifically wanted a virgin,” her uncle muttered as he strolled to the window and stared out, unseeing.

  Genevieve swallowed hard. That did not make the man sound any more attractive; still, what alternatives existed?

  “You will have to marry DeLanyea.”

  She stared at him. “After what he did?”

  Her uncle turned to face her. “We have little choice.”

  “Lord Kirkheathe lives far away. Rumors may not reach him, so he need not know—”

  Her uncle’s fierce scowl silenced her. “I will know, and I gave the man my word that you were a virgin. Besides, Kirkheathe hears everything one way or another. Since you are no longer pure, honor demands that I break the contract, just as honor demands that DeLanyea marry you after what he has done.”

  “But I do not want to marry him now!”

  “You wanted him enough last night to dishonor yourself,” he noted, glaring at her.

  “I... I was overwhelmed by him. I made a mistake. I should not have done it.”

  “Girl, get it through your head. Your reputation is irrevocably destroyed—unless he marries you.”

  She got to her feet.

  “Uncle,” she said resolutely, “I am a virgin still. It was a ruse to break the betrothal. I crept into his bed last night when he was already asleep.”

  Her uncle’s eyes narrowed. “Did that bastard tell you to say that?”

  “No! It is the truth. I thought he loved me and would want to marry me if I were free. Clearly, I made a serious error,” she finished bitterly.

  “Yes, you did,” her uncle concurred grimly. “Whatever stupid thing you thought, this is not some childish prank, easily mended. Easily forgiven.”

  It was unfortunately obvious that he did not believe her explanation.

  “There is only one way out of this with even a hint of honor. You must and shall marry Dylan DeLanyea, and now I will ensure that is what comes to pass.”

  He started for the door.

  “I would rather die!”

  He halted, then wheeled slowly on his heel to regard her dispassionately, as if she were a stranger to him. “There is a window. Jump.”

  Appalled at his cold remark, she could only stare at him.

  “I thought you would not,” he muttered as he left her.

  After he closed the door, she heard the sound of a key in the lock.

  Smking down on the chair, she put her head in her hands.

  And cursed herself for a fool.

  Chapter Three

  “My lord!” Dylan cried as he nearly collided with Lord Perronet on the steps leading to Genevieve’s chamber.

  “DeLanyea,” the nobleman snarled, glaring at him.

  Dylan tried to remain calm, or at least as calm as he had been since his abrupt waking this morning. He would rather have talked to Genevieve first, but he might as well get the worst over with, he told himself. “I would speak with you, my lord.”

  “Yes, you will,” the man replied. “But not here.”

  Dylan fought to keep the scowl off his face. Of course he would not discuss this business on the stairs. “My uncle’s solar would, perhaps, be best.”

  “Show me the way.”

  Without a word, Dylan turned on his heel. He led the man down the stairs and through the hall, ignoring his uncle and cousins as they sat breaking the fast, to a tower recently built abutting the hall. The lower levels were used as offices by the steward and the bailiff. The baron’s solar was on the second level, and a fine new bedchamber for the baron and his wife comprised the third.

  He waited for Lord Perronet to enter the room, then followed him, closing the door behind him.

  “Please, sit,” he offered, gesturing at the baron’s chair behind the large wooden table.

  “I prefer to stand.”

  Dylan shrugged, then he himself took the baron’s chair. At that, Lord Perronet looked even more irate, but Dylan didn’t much care. If the man insisted upon standing, so that now he looked like a humble penitent brought before the lord of the manor, he had only himself to blame.

  Like his niece.

  “You’ve dishonored her, so you’ve got to marry her,” Lord Perronet declared without further preamble.

  “I did not, so I do not,” Dylan replied. “I don’t know what she told you, but I didn’t even know she was in my bed until you came barging into my chamber this morning. If there’s dishonor here, you cannot lay it at my feet.”

  “It’s not your feet that ruined her,” Lord Perronet growled. “She was in your bed with blood on the sheets, man! That’s evidence enough for what you did.”

  “That is evidence that somebody bled for some reason. Otherwise, it is my word against hers.”

  “The word of my niece against that of a—”

  “Bastard?” Dylan regarded him steadily. “I must say, my lord, I’m surprised you would insist I marry her, given your low opinion o
f my family.”

  “You gave me no choice.” The nobleman’s brows lowered. “Perhaps that was your plan—to get her dowry as well as entry into my family.”

  “If I did dishonor her, as you claim, those would be the furthest things from my mind. I don’t need her dowry, and I certainly don’t want to be related to you in any way.”

  The nobleman’s frown deepened. “Then why did you do it? To destroy my allegiance with Kirkheathe?”

  “I don’t give a fisherman’s fart for your allegiances,” Dylan retorted. “That’s a Norman for you, thinking only of power and gain.”

  “You young—”

  “Welshman,” Dylan interrupted.

  If the man insulted him again, he was quite likely to lose what remained of his control over his temper, and that would be a mistake.

  “Or rather,” Dylan continued, “happily more Welsh than Norman. Tell me, my lord, what does the lady say? Does she claim that I made love to her under promise of marriage?”

  Lord Perronet didn’t hesitate a moment. “Yes.”

  The bile rose in Dylan’s throat. Genevieve had lied as blatantly as any charlatan, making him bear the blame.

  “She is but a weak-willed girl easily led astray by a honey-tongued young man.”

  Dylan thought of Genevieve’s eyes before his passionate kiss.

  She was no weak-willed girl; she was a woman, with a woman’s passion.

  And a very adult capacity to lie without detection.

  He rose and faced Lord Perronet. “Whatever I may or may not have done, I will not be blackmailed into marriage.”

  For the first time, it finally seemed to penetrate Lord Perronet’s brain that Dylan could not be compelled to marry Genevieve under these, or perhaps any, circumstances.

  “I hope you realize you’ve destroyed her chances,” he snarled. “There’ll be nothing for her but a convent—a secluded one.”

  “That is not my concern.”

  “No, it isn’t, is it?” Perronet demanded. “Just like your father, aren’t you? Don’t think about consequences—just so long as you get what you want! Greedy to the bone!”

  “If you were wise, you would cut out your tongue before you spoke of my father again,” Dy-lan said quietly as he came out from behind the table.