A Warrior's Honor Page 7

  She glanced ahead at her father and watched as he made an unexpected gesture for Griffydd to ride forward, his bearing suddenly as alert as if an alarm had sounded.

  She looked at the trees around them. This was an ideal place for an ambush, she realized, and the lin- . gering mist seemed a gray, secretive cloak.

  Her father held up his hand to signal a halt—and at the same time, Rhiannon saw two men riding abreast out of the trees ahead of them. One of them called out a greeting in Welsh, and she relaxed, until she got a better look at them.

  What in the name of the saints was Bryce Frechette doing here, appearing like some spirit she had conjured with her ruminations? A scowl crossed her face when she recognized Cynvelin ap Hywell beside him.

  Both warriors were attired in black, and armed. Frechette stared straight ahead, inscrutable, while Cynvelin ap Hywell smiled broadly, and as if they should be happy to see him.

  What in the name of the saints was Lord Cynvelin doing here?

  Another glance at her father made it very clear that he was wondering the same thing, and that he was not at all pleased by these visitors, any more than she was.

  Then Lord Cynvelin caught sight of her and nodded a greeting. Her face flushed hotly and she pulled her hood around her face as if she would hide. It didn’t help that Dylan flashed a condemning look at her, implying that this meeting was somehow all her fault.

  She had not invited Lord Cynvelin to accost her on the road, any more than she had asked him to kiss her in public.

  She dearly wished Lord Cynvelin had taken himself to London, or Paris, or even Rome, and forgotten all about her!

  “Greetings, Baron!” Cynvelin cried jovially, halting his horse. “A good day to you.”

  “What do you want?” her father demanded harshly, also in Welsh.

  “O‘r annwyl, Baron DeLanyea, forgetting your manners, are you?” Cynvelin replied, apparently unconcerned. “Allow me to introduce my friend, Bryce Frechette.”

  “Take your knave,” Dylan retorted, “and get out of our way!”

  Rhiannon glanced at the impassive Norman, then quickly away. She was glad he couldn’t understand her foster brother’s rude command, and when she thought of the way Bryce Frechette had gone after the soldier who had insulted her, she thought Dylan should be glad of it, too.

  “Dear me, Baron!” Cynvelin chided. “Haven’t you learned to curb that fellow’s tongue?”

  Her father gave Dylan a warning look as the young man’s hand went to his sword hilt.

  As surprised as she was by Cynvelin’s words, Rhiannon silently urged Dylan to be patient. A fight was not necessary. This was all due to a misunderstanding that would soon be set right. Clearly Cynvelin continued to believe she harbored enough affection for him that she would be eager to see him, under any circumstances. She would simply have to make it plain that she was not.

  Even if that meant she wouldn’t see more of Bryce Frechette, either.

  “What do you want?” the baron repeated, his voice eerily calm.

  “Your daughter’s company.”

  “What?” Rhiannon gasped.

  She cursed herself for having so much as looked at Cynvelin ap Hywell. No matter what had passed between them at Lord Melevoir’s, there was nothing to warrant a belief that she would ride off into the countryside with him!

  “Doing things in the Welsh way, is all, which I should think you would respect,” Cynvelin said, his tone nearly as calm as her father’s had been. “I am not forgetting you kidnapped your own wife, Baron.”

  He was quite right about her parents, but there was far more to the story than that. And any abducting was done on the day of the wedding. Indeed, the ritual that had once been true abduction was now little more than a game, with willing participants.

  But she didn’t feel like playing.

  “Lord Cynvelin,” she began, determined to correct whatever false impression he harbored, “I’m afraid—”

  “There is nothing to be afraid of,” he interrupted, giving her one of his charming smiles.

  “I will kill you before I let you take Rhiannon,” her father announced, his voice still quite calm, but oh, so deadly cold!

  She edged her horse farther back. What was this talk of killing? Although her father clearly hated the younger man, surely there was no need for such language.

  “No, you will not,” Cynvelin replied with equal steadiness. “You are surrounded by my men, excellent archers the lot of them.” He jerked his head at his silent companion. “And I have the champion of Lord Melevoir’s tournament beside me. If you wish a fight, so be it, but then people might get hurt.”

  “I don’t want to go with you!” she objected.

  The Welshman smiled at her as if. to say he appreciated that she had to make some show of protest, however insincere.

  “Order your men to move off,” the baron commanded.

  “No. Not unless Rhiannon comes with me.”

  “That is impossible.”

  “Proper, I wanted this to be, Baron,” Cynvelin replied with a weary sigh, keeping his gaze on her father. “And I am telling you that an honorable courtship it will be.” He looked at Rhiannon. “I can see from your face, my lovely Rhiannon, that your father has been filling your head with lies about me since we were last together. I feared it would be so. This is the only way I can correct whatever false impressions—”

  “Are you calling my father a liar?” Griffydd charged, his stern voice ringing out.

  Rhiannon held her breath. Griffydd was much slower to anger than Dylan, but she had seen him when he did anger, and if Cynvelin didn’t retract his statement, he would regret it.

  Cynvelin obviously realized this, too, for she saw the glimmer of fear in his eyes. “I am only wanting to have the pleasure of your sister’s company. You pride yourself on being Welsh, Baron,” he continued, turning his eyes toward her father. “Is that only for show, to impress our so-impressionable countrymen? Perhaps it is, if you are not willing to abide by a time-honored custom. Nevertheless, I remind you these woods are full of my men.” He switched to the Norman’s language. “Bryce, please be so good as to assist my Lady Rhiannon.”

  Bryce nudged his horse toward the cortege, very aware of the hostile glares of the one-eyed baron and the two younger men beside him who had to be related to him, judging by their bearing as much as their looks.

  The baron’s eye patch hid only a part of the scar that mottled his face. Although clearly past the prime of youth, Emryss DeLanyea was yet too muscular and imposing to be completely discounted as a fighter. It was a good thing this confrontation was a ritual, not a prelude to a battle.

  Although Bryce would have liked to know what Lord Cynvelin and the obviously displeased baron had said to each other, the baron hadn’t drawn his sword or ordered his men to stop him. Therefore, Bryce reasoned with some relief, Cynvelin must have been telling the truth.

  Nevertheless, it was a good thing Cynvelin had warned him of the man’s dislike; otherwise, Bryce would have felt compelled to draw his sword, just for safety’s sake. The baron really did look as if he would gladly take the head off Lord Cynvelin, and him, too.

  Bryce had to ride around the cortege, for not a one of them gave quarter as he rode toward the lady. She regarded him with an anger that seemed to match her father’s. Rather extreme, perhaps, but given that Lord Cynvelin had warned him about her feigned reaction, too, he paid her no mind as he reached out to grab her mare’s bridle.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded.

  “I am escorting you to my lord’s castle,” he replied, ignoring her haughty visage to lead her forward through the men, who now moved out of the way.

  “Don’t touch my horse.”

  “I have my orders, my lady.”

  “Let go!”

  Bryce didn’t respond. Welsh custom or not, this whole sham abduction suddenly struck him as the height of idiocy and a colossal waste of time, effort and manpower.

  All he want
ed was to get back to Annedd Bach, where he should have been spending the day seeing to the books of account, or the tenants’ list, or even checking the stores, not riding about like some kind of merry brigand.

  As he passed through the cortege, the other men’s horses shifted nervously.

  “Father?” Lady Rhiannon asked when they were abreast of the baron.

  The man didn’t look at his daughter. He kept his gaze on Lord Cynvelin ap Hywell, who smiled at Bryce and nodded his head.

  Seeing that, Bryce obediently kicked his horse into a gallop and rode off down the road, taking Lady Rhiannon with him.

  Chapter Five

  “Have care, Baron!” Cynvelin warned, his voice strong, but with the undercurrent of a coward’s fear. “Attack me, and my men won’t hesitate to kill her, as I see you’ve already realized!”

  “Then we’ll kill you all, too!” Dylan snarled, pulling his sword from its scabbard in one fluid motion.

  “No!” Baron DeLanyea shouted, holding up his hand. “No,” he repeated in a lower tone, yet one full of command that no man ever dared to disobey. He looked sorrowfully at his foster son, then Griffydd. “No. He will have her killed.”

  They all turned toward Cynvelin, who smiled triumphantly. “I see you have learned some wisdom, Baron. Truly, there is no need to fight, or for anyone to be hurt or killed. Anyone,” he reiterated, the threat obvious. “I only ask a month, and if Rhiannon does not want to be my wife by then, I’ll send her home to you, unharmed and in no way dishonored. Now order your mabmaeth to put away his weapon.”

  The baron nodded, and Dylan obeyed.

  Cynvelin ignored everyone but the baron. “I understand that you have a grudge against me—”

  “With good cause, as you well know,” the baron interrupted.

  Cynvelin eyed him scornfully. “So you say. Be that as it may, your daughter seems to find my company most acceptable. Or at least she did, until you saw fit to repeat certain accusations. No doubt you painted me the most vile of men.”

  He waited for the baron or one of the other DeLanyeas to confirm that. Instead they gazed at him in stony silence, even Dylan.

  “That is unfortunate, but not an insurmountable obstacle. You see, Baron, I find your daughter very appealing, and nothing will give me greater pleasure than to have her for my wife.”

  “She will not want you,” the baron said coldly.

  “You think not? Well, perhaps you know best,” Cynvelin replied lightly. “Nevertheless, I ask a month of her company at Caer Coch with no interference from you. If I have that, and she refuses me, I shall return her as I said I would. If you try to take her from me before that time... well, it might go hard on someone, and I assure you, Baron DeLanyea, it would not be me.”

  “Would you threaten her?” Dylan cried heatedly.

  “Dylan!” the baron barked, glaring at his foster son. “Silence! Keep still!”

  “I am glad to see you still rule your underlings. Soon enough, I’m sure, they will chafe at your orders, like I did. Like any man of spirit would.”

  The baron’s mouth twisted into a grimace of a smile. “They are honorable men,” he said quietly. “They would never do the things you have done.”

  Cynvelin flushed. “Enough talk. I have Rhiannon, and I will keep her the month. I give you my word, Baron, that I will not harm her in that time, and if she does not wish to remain with me after that, I will send her home to you.” He smiled very slowly. “You had better hope I am more honorable than you believe, my lord. And you had better not try to get her back, in case I am far more dishonorable than you believe.”

  With that, Cynvelin ap Hywell wheeled his horse around. “Farewell, Baron,” he called jauntily. “Or should I call you ‘Father’?”

  Dylan emitted a harsh curse as Cynvelin rode off down the road. “You are going to let him go without a fight?” he demanded, gesturing at Cynvelin’s retreating figure. “We could take him!”

  “But Frechette and his men would still have Rhiannon,” the baron replied, his tone full of scorn as well as worry. “You heard him. We have no choice. As long as he holds Rhiannon, we must do what he says.”

  “Then why did you let Frechette take her?”

  “Would you rather have her lying dead, an arrow through her heart?” the baron retorted. “You heard what he said. He had his archers aiming at her.”

  “Surely he wouldn‘t—”

  “Yes, he would, if we had tried to stop them.” The baron took a deep breath to restore some measure of calm. “Dylan, take five men and ride for Hu Morgan, then go to Bridgeford Wells and tell Fitzroy what has happened. He will come, and Lord Gervais will also send some men with him. We shall return to the monastery at St. David. If we must wait, we will do so as close to Rhiannon as possible.”

  Dylan nodded eagerly. “Of course we are needing more men to attack Caer Coch. What of Trystan?”

  “No.” The baron gave his foster son a shrewd look. “One hothead is enough. Order the rest of the men to prepare to ride.”

  Dylan nodded and immediately began issuing orders, moving back through the line of soldiers.

  The baron signaled for his eldest son to come closer. “Go, you, and follow their path. When you know where they have taken her, meet me at the monastery.” His gaze faltered, and suddenly he wasn’t the proud, mighty Baron DeLanyea. He was a father worried about his daughter. “Make sure they do not see you.”

  “Take me back!” Rhiannon ordered fiercely, trying to pull her mare to a halt and panting because the jogging motion of the galloping horse made it hard for her to draw breath. “Take me back to my father! He’s a powerful man! You’ll regret it if you don’t! He has friends at court!”

  Frechette didn’t respond.

  “What kind of dolt are you? Are you deaf? Let me go!”

  Still they galloped.

  Believing she had little choice but to take action, Rhiannon slipped her feet from the stirrups. She didn’t want to jump; nevertheless, she did, rolling on the muddy verge of the road.

  She couldn’t draw breath or stand, so she started to crawl toward the underbrush. Her cloak caught on a branch, so she tore at the tie and left it behind.

  Then two booted feet appeared in front of her. She raised her eyes to behold Frechette looming over her. Instead of looking fierce or angry, though, he looked worried.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked with apparent sincere concern, reaching down and helping her to stand on wobbly legs.

  “I... don’t know,” she muttered sullenly. She was covered in mud, but at least she could breathe. She gave him a sidelong glance. “If I were, would you take me back?”

  His expression hardened. “I see you are not hurt,” he replied.

  “This was a mistake.”

  “Yes, it is a mistake to jump from a galloping horse, unless you want your neck broken,” he agreed. “I would rather you refrained from such feats while you are my responsibility.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have taken me away from my father.”

  He looked at her quizzically. “Is this not one of your customs?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then I would take your complaints to your countryman.”

  “You don’t—”

  “My lady,” he interrupted dispassionately, “I don’t know your ways, but what I am learning does not impress me. Indeed, I would say Welsh customs are for fools. However, I have no wish to insult you.”

  Rhiannon glared at him, then crossed her arms and regarded him defiantly. “You had better take me back at once, or it will be the worse for you.”

  “I regret my orders are otherwise.” He held out his hand toward her. “Come.”

  She didn’t move. “I tell you, Lord Cynvelin has made a mistake!”

  “I think so, too,” Bryce replied calmly.

  “Then will you not return me to my party?”

  “Gladly, if it were up to me. I would save Lord Cynvelin from such a marriage. Unfortunately, he wants you for h
is wife.”

  “Marriage—what is this talk of marriage?”

  He frowned darkly. “Betrothal. Courting. I know not what you might call it.”

  “Abduction is what I call it.”

  Her response made no impression upon him. “My lady, please get on your horse.”

  “If you do not take me back to my father and he has to fetch me, he might kill you,” she warned.

  “If he will kill me, I don’t think it would be wise to go near him, do you?” Bryce replied with an infuriating calm. He put a hand to his ear and said, “I hear no sound of pursuit.”

  Rhiannon realized he was quite right. “He must be trying to reason with Lord Cynvelin.”

  Bryce ignored her comment and glanced up at the sky. “We had best go before it starts to rain. Again,” he finished sarcastically, as if she were somehow to blame for the weather.

  Rhiannon wanted to scream with frustration, but what good would that do? Obviously he was not going to listen; she would have to speak with Cynvelin himself to clear up this misunderstanding. “I cannot.”

  His eyes narrowed.

  “My horse has run off,” she said, her tone one she might use with a dolt.

  Bryce shrugged his shoulders. “Then you will have to share mine.”

  “No.”

  “If you want to make this difficult,” he muttered.

  With that, he yanked her close, picked her up and slung her over his shoulder, knocking the wind out of her again. As she struggled, he marched stoically toward his waiting horse. “Don’t make such a commotion. Your efforts are wasted on me.”

  “There was no need to manhandle me!” Rhiannon cried as he set her on his horse.

  “I thought there was.”

  “You thought!” she muttered caustically.

  “Yes, I did,” he growled.

  She looked as if she were about to jump off, then, as he glared at her, she apparently thought better of it and fell into a sullen silence.

  Maybe she had finally realized there was no need to keep up her loud protestations for his benefit, Bryce thought irritably as he mounted behind her. By now he was sure such exclamations were completely fraudulent.