The Welshman's Bride Read online

  “Ah, here they are!” the baron cried softly.

  Again Dylan looked at the entrance to the hall—and then gasped with delight.

  Genevieve wore a gown of white silk whose long cuffs, lined with gold samite, reached nearly to the floor. Over this was a tunic, also of gold. Her girdle of gold and silver embroidery encircled her slender waist, crossed in back and was knotted again in front, so that it fell low on her hips.

  Her hand on her stern uncle’s arm, she slowly approached the group waiting on the dais, and as she did, her low-slung girdle seemed to highlight the graceful sensuality of her walk.

  Surprisingly aroused, especially given the crowd surrounding him, Dylan swallowed hard and forced himself to look at her face. On her head was a stiffened band with matching embroidery held in place by a white silken scarf that passed from one side of the crown under her chin to the other.

  Without the cluster of golden curls that usually surrounded her face, she looked older, and more womanly.

  His heart beat faster.

  Then she came near enough for him to get a good look at her expression.

  Rarely had he ever seen anyone, including Griffydd, appear so grimly resolute. She looked more like a condemned prisoner being led to the block than a woman who had connived to bring about her own marriage.

  If she did not want to be married to him, why was she there?

  Confused, and with his pride wounded—for never had he imagined his bride would have such a look on her face—he glanced at Lady Roanna He knew she had spoken with Genevieve. Perhaps Genevieve had given his foster mother some inkling...?

  Lady Roanna smiled tranquilly, as if this were nothing more than a joyous occasion and she glad to be there.

  Surely she would not look so calm if she thought there was trouble in the offing.

  Next, Dylan glanced at the baron, who had a somewhat troubled frown on his face, and his sons likewise.

  Dylan grew aware of the puzzled murmurs of the assembly, and the various expressions of the guests, who generally seemed to be regarding him with a certain questioning gravity, and Genevieve with...pity?

  Anwyl, this was her doing. Her fault. The result of her scheming and trickery. He would have no one think this was being forced on her!

  Or him, either, his pride reminded him.

  So Dylan left the dais and approached his beautiful, scheming bride. When he reached her, he yanked her into his arms, and boldly and passionately kissed her.

  Dylan’s unexpected kiss quite took Genevieve’s breath away—and threatened to strip her of what dignity she retained in front of all these people.

  Try as she might to feel nothing, or perhaps only anger, the moment his lips were on hers, her blood began to throb wildly, and her knees felt strangely weak.

  Finally he stopped kissing her, although he still held her in a grip of iron. His lips trailed across her cheek toward her ear while she tried to catch her breath.

  “This was more your doing than mine, my lady, so smile,” he whispered harshly, “or by God, I’ll walk away and leave you here.”

  Passionate kiss or no passionate kiss, she knew he meant it. He would do it. He would see her humiliated yet again, and he would probably have the gall to say she had only herself to blame.

  But she was not the one responsible for their current plight. She had refused to marry him until her uncle made his threat.

  If Dylan deserted her here, after all that had passed, she would surely be sent to that convent.

  Therefore, she managed to put a smile on her face and did not flinch when he possessively took hold of her hand and led her toward the baron.

  The older man stepped toward them and she felt the force of his piercing, one-eyed gaze as he looked at them.

  “Is this what you want, Lady Genevieve?” he asked quietly, so that only she and Dylan could hear.

  “Yes,” she whispered, resigned to her fate. She did not look at Dylan who was, appropriately enough, attired all in black.

  “Dylan?”

  “Of course.”

  Despite their assertions, a worried took passed over the baron’s face and he glanced at his wife, who nodded. He sighed and stepped back.

  “Father,” he said, summoning the priest.

  The priest, a bland, beatific smile on his round face, bustled forward.

  “Do you have a ring, my son?” he asked kindly of Dylan.

  Genevieve’s bridegroom nodded and from his belt produced a thick gold band. The priest took it and made the sign of the cross over it. Then he returned it to Dylan.

  “Put it on her finger,” he prompted.

  Genevieve held out her trembling hand. Dylan took it in his warm, callused one and placed the ring on her finger.

  As he slipped it into place, the priest intoned, “In the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, may God bless this union. May you be fruitful and multiply. May no man seek to come between you. I now pronounce that you are husband and wife in the eyes of God and all here.”

  The hall erupted with applause and joyful cries of good wishes.

  Genevieve steeled herself for another kiss from her new husband.

  Which did not come, for he turned away, demanding congratulations from all and sundry, not the whit upset, it seemed, that his bride was less than overjoyed.

  That Genevieve believed he was not upset was a compliment to Dylan’s facility for appearing cheerful when he was not in that particular humor. In truth, he was far from pleased with the situation; however, he would have died before he would have revealed that to anyone in Craig Fawr.

  Therefore, as the celebrations of the unexpected nuptials progressed, Dylan made merry. He entertained those around him with jokes, songs and stories, and gave his bride such attention as he thought he should, so that no one suspected this marriage was not to his liking.

  As for what Genevieve was thinking and feeling, he told himself that was not important at present When they were alone, when he was with her, when it was time to claim his right as her husband, then he would care.

  At last the moment arrived for the bride to retire. With suitable jokes and husbandly leers, Dylan sent her off with the women.

  Apparently it was necessary for several maidservants to accompany Genevieve to the bedchamber. She didn’t think so; however, she said nothing, expecting them to leave her at the threshold.

  They did not. Instead, they followed her inside the large room in the tower, bustling about, talking, laughing and distracting Genevieve from her surroundings.

  She tried to tell them to go, but her request only seemed to inspire them to give her meaningful and lewd glances, and engender more giggles and whispered words in their native tongue.

  Finally, Genevieve decided to ignore them and to scrutinize her bedchamber.

  There was a table holding a basin and ewer, a candle stand filled with lighted beeswax candles, another small table bearing a carafe of wine and two silver goblets, and the bed.

  The very big bed, with luxurious satin coverings. Turning away from this extravagant piece of furniture, Genevieve heard Dylan’s name mentioned yet again, followed by more riotous giggling. The faces of the youngest girls flushed brightly, even as their eyes sparkled with merriment.

  Then one of them started to search in Genevieve’s baggage. Before Genevieve could order her to stop, the girl triumphantly pulled out Genevieve’s finest shift, which had been intended for her wedding night.

  This was her wedding night.

  She snatched it away. Blushing and hating herself for doing so, she said sternly and as if they were hard of hearing, “While I hate to end your enjoyment, I do not require any further assistance. ”

  They looked at her with all the comprehension of a flock of sheep.

  “Go!” she commanded, pointing at the door.

  The women were obviously startled by her tone as much as her order, but Genevieve didn’t care. She wanted them—and their smiles and Welsh whispers and lewd laughter
-gone.

  The women exchanged wary glances and moved toward the door. After they had reluctantly gone out, Genevieve closed it forcefully behind them.

  If she had had a key, she would have been tempted to lock it.

  Unfortunately, she did not.

  Without the presence of the servants, which gave her some reason to act dignified, she felt all her trepidation and dismay returning. What she could expect from Dylan now, she did not know, nor did she particularly wish to find out.

  But how could she avoid him? He was her lawful husband. He had every right...

  Every right.

  Flushing hotly, she looked at the fine bed with its rich coverings as she considered the intimacy she was legally bound to share with him.

  She had already been intimate with him, in one way. Her body warmed as she recalled the sight of him naked as he faced her enraged uncle.

  That Dylan had a body of which no man would be ashamed was without question. Tall, tautmuscled, his shoulders were broad, his waist and hips narrow. A slender band of dark hair started near his waist and moved lower, where that hair was thick and curling, too.

  Everything about him was impressive.

  She suddenly wondered what he would make of her body.

  Not that it mattered, for she was as irrevocably his wife as he was her husband. And soon he would be here. They would be alone. He would take her to that bed and...

  She frowned studiously. She did not know what the full nature of the nuptial duties of a wife were. Unfortunately, no one had ever taken it upon themselves to tell her. All the information she had had come via whispers in the dark at Lady Katherine’s.

  She knew there must be blood—not a lot, but some—and also pain. His manhood must enter her...somewhere. She thought she knew where, although one or two of the girls had dissented from the general opinion by claiming it was the navel. The worldly Cecily had scoffed at that, yet they had clung to that notion so steadily, Genevieve was not ready to discount their opinion entirely.

  Taking a deep breath to calm her racing heart, she went to her chest. The contents had obviously been packed in haste when it was necessary to move her belongings from her former quarters to Dylan’s bedchamber, and that woman rooting through them had not helped. At last, however, she found her hairbrush.

  She sat on the stool and began to brush her hair, thinking this would calm her. It took even less time to disabuse her of this notion than it had taken to find the brush.

  Once the men below realized that the maidservants had been dismissed, how long would it be before Dylan came to her?

  With trembling fingers she removed her gown and linen shift to put on the silken one. Looking around the room again, she wondered if some wine would help calm her. She didn’t want her trepidation to be obvious.

  She poured out half a goblet, regarded it, then filled it nearly to the brim. Her hands shaking, she raised it to her lips and sipped.

  It was excellent wine.

  She drank deeply, emptying the goblet, and felt the tension ease from her body. Indeed, she even began to feel quite...pleasant.

  No wonder men drank to excess, if this floating sensation were the usual result

  She poured another goblet, pleased to note that her hands were not trembling. The carafe slipped a little as she set it down, but did not spill.

  She drained this goblet, too, although not so quickly as the first. Realizing in a drowsy sort of way that she was feeling rather too warm, she stumbled a little as she made her way to the candle stand.

  “Whoops!” she cried softly, giggling as she righted herself. “You are a married lady now, Genevieve, so we must have dignity.”

  She stared hard at the shimmering candles, which wavered most oddly.

  “Perhaps they are bewitched,” she proposed aloud. “No matter.”

  After several tries, she managed to blow out all save one of the candles, so that the room was nearly completely dark.

  She straightened. The whole room was wavering, or maybe it was just her, for it seemed there was something the matter with her legs.

  “I’m just tired,” she said thickly. “Very, very tired. And I don’t care where he is, or what he’s doing.”

  Holding her head high, she took a rather circuitous route to the bed, and then tried to climb into it.

  It was very high, that bed, but she finally succeeded, flopping down on it and promptly falling into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  Sometime later, Dylan threw himself in a chair beside Trystan. He reached out and grabbed Trystan’s drinking horn, taking a long pull of rich wine and momentarily ignoring the younger man’s peeved expression.

  He set it down and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Going to begrudge me a drink, are you? You look as sour as an old woman with bad teeth.”

  “Are you wanting to be drunk on your wedding night?” Trystan demanded.

  “What, drunk from that? Not likely, and I will be more than able to do what a husband should with a bride like that, boy.”

  “Don’t call me ‘boy.’”

  Dylan leaned back to regard the young knight. “Well, well, well, all grown-up, eh? Who was it used to go crying to his mam when I wouldn’t let him play with me?”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “So it was, so it was.”

  Dylan grinned, but there was warning in it, too. “So now you think you are old enough to criticize me, is that it?”

  Trystan didn’t answer; he simply stared straight ahead.

  “Listen, Sir Trystan DeLanyea, new-made knight, son of a Welsh bastard.”

  He ignored the flush of anger spreading on the young man’s cheeks. “I’m still older than you, and stronger, and a better fighter, so watch that tongue of yours or I’ll be forced to knock you down.”

  Trystan turned glaring eyes onto him. “I don’t doubt that you can beat me in a fight, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to admire everything else you do.”

  Dylan fought a surge of temper. “What’s this? A young pup dares to growl at a dog?”

  “A young pup who knows when something is honorable, and when it is not.”

  Dylan shoved back his chair and glared at Trystan. “What are you accusing me of? How have I been dishonorable?”

  Trystan got to his feet, and Dylan realized there was no fear in his eyes. “I know what is right, and what is wrong, and your marriage to Genevieve Perronet is wrong.”

  Dylan put his hand on his sword. “Who do you think you are to say such a thing to me?” he demanded, his words ringing out in the now-silent hall.

  Suddenly aware of the silence, Dylan glanced around to see the startled faces of his foster father’s friends, and to realize that the musicians had stopped in midtune.

  The baron hurried toward them. “What is the trouble here?”

  “Your little boy has the gall to tell me that he doesn’t approve of my marriage.”

  “I’m not a child!” Trystan retorted just as angrily.

  “Trystan!” the baron said sternly. “It is not for you to give approval or not. He did not have to seek it before, and he does not need it now.”

  He came forward and clapped a fatherly hand on his youngest son’s shoulder. “Think how you would have felt if Dylan had complained of your knighthood after it was done. The marriage is made and now is a time of celebration, so you will beg his pardon. Then I will have no more such talk.”

  Trystan shook off the baron’s hand and looked about to refuse, until he caught his father’s stern eye.

  He took a deep breath. “I apologize for saying such things on your wedding day,” he muttered, staring at the ground.

  It was obvious to Dylan that Trystan didn’t think he had done wrong, any more than Dylan would if he knocked Trystan to the ground right now, as he was very tempted to do.

  However, continuing this almost-sibling dispute would not sit well with the baron, whom Dylan greatly admired and loved like a father. Better to wait, and have it out wit
h Trystan another day, he thought, if Trystan was foolish enough to repeat his charge.

  Therefore, Dylan forced a magnanimous smile onto his face. “Since it is my wedding day, I am disposed to be forgiving.”

  A collective sigh of relief went through the hall, and the musicians again struck up a tune. The baron smiled, but the tension remained in his shoulders.

  “Besides,” the baron said in a jovial, if slightly strained, tone, “is it not time for the bridegroom to retire?”

  Suddenly Trystan’s opinion of his marriage seemed to matter very little. Instead, Dylan’s thoughts flew to the bridal chamber, where beautiful Genevieve awaited him.

  “You must all wish me good-night, then,” he cried to the assembly.

  Then he gave Trystan a sardonic glance. “Although I’m sure it will be very good whether you wish it or not.”

  With that, he sauntered toward the far door, laughingly accepting the good wishes, congratulations, cheers and offers of lewd advice from the baron’s guests.

  The baron turned to his youngest son with a condemning expression. “God’s wounds, Trystan!” he growled with displeasure. “What. were you thinking?”

  Trystan’s frown matched his father’s. “He doesn’t deserve her.”

  A look of comprehension grew in the baron’s eye, yet when he spoke, his voice was stern and unyielding. “She is Dylan’s wife, and there is nothing you can do to change that. You do not have to like it, but you must accept it. Do you understand me, my son?”

  “I understand you, Father.”

  Chapter Five

  Distinctly disgruntled, Dylan raised himself on his elbow to regard his sleeping wife.

  She looked pretty and innocent as she slumbered, with her soft blond curls framing her delicate face. Her dusky lashes fanned upon her cheeks, and her mouth was half parted as if an invitation to a kiss.

  However, her soft snores were clearly audible, and the odor of her breath enough to make him gag.

  He fell back on his bed, not worried that he would wake her. He had found the empty carafe last night after getting no response from her, and it didn’t take a brilliant scholar to realize she was drunk.