The Welshman's Bride Page 9

  Nor would he complain that the fire seemed particularly smoky. There had been much rain of late, and perhaps no dry wood could be found.

  He glanced at the one and only chair on the dais. Genevieve would have to make do with the end of a bench.

  A lovely smell of roasting meat and stew drifted to him from the kitchens, and he smiled contentedly. Genevieve might think the furnishings of his hall and the table settings lacking, but she could not fault his cook.

  He had no time to consider much else, for the crowd followed them inside the hall. The serving women hurried to their duties and his men went to the tables, ready for their meal.

  He caught the attention of one of the women and issued a brief order before escorting Genevieve to the table on the dais.

  Father Paulus shoved his way through the noisy gathering and folded his hands. The hall fell silent as he started to say the grace in Latin, which was sure to please the bride.

  Genevieve stared at slender, gray-haired Father Paulus as if she had never seen a priest before.

  “What is wrong now?” Dylan demanded in a whisper.

  “What is he saying?”

  “The grace before we eat.”

  “Is that Welsh?”

  “No. Latin.”

  She gave him a skeptical, sidelong glance. “That isn’t Latin. Or Greek. Or French. Or Italian, either.”

  “I suppose you speak all those, that you know it is not?” he asked just as skeptically.

  “Yes, I do.”

  He continued to regard Father Paulus steadily. “He has been a long time from Rome or Canterbury.”

  “If he was ever there at all.”

  “What are you implying?”

  “Nothing, my lord, except that if he claims that is Latin, he is wrong.”

  “You think he lies?”

  She shrugged her shoulders and at the same moment, the grace—or whatever it was—ended, and the whole cacophonous company took their places on the benches, ready to eat.

  “Father Paulus will be sitting beside me,” Dy-lan announced somewhat defensively, obviously expecting her to object. However, that was right and proper, provided this man really was a priest.

  Almost immediately, the priest was at his elbow.

  “Welcome home, my lord,” he said in the deepest voice Genevieve had ever heard and with a wary look at her. “Welcome to you, too, my lady.”

  She inclined her head in acknowledgment before she took her place on the end of the bench nearest the center of the large, scarred and unadorned table.

  The priest—alleged priest, she inwardly amended—took his seat on the bench on the other side of Dylan as the first dish arrived on the table.

  It was not bread. Or soup. It was a platter of roasted chicken.

  The bread should come first, and the wine should already have been poured.

  She glanced at Dylan, but he was deep in conversation with the priest and seemed to find nothing amiss with the serving of the meal, which continued in the same haphazard fashion. Courses arrived in no particular order, at any table, so that some things were cold by the time they reached the high table, which should always be served first.

  The linen napkins were gray and stained, and hers even had an unmended tear. Later, she wondered what had happened to the wine, for after the first goblet had finally been poured, no more arrived at their table.

  The meal was constantly interrupted as a bevy of men came to the table and spoke with Dylan. With pointed politeness, he introduced each one to her. Unfortunately, there were so many and their names were so odd, she could not remember them all.

  In fact, there was only one man whose name she was able to recall with any ease, Thomas-y-Tenau. That was because he was the steward and, therefore, the new husband of little Gwethalyn’s mother.

  As for what all these men had to say, Genevieve assumed it was estate business; however, she had no way of knowing, since they spoke Welsh.

  She supposed it could be worse. They could be women coming to pester him.

  Several times she noted the serving wenches smiling at Dylan, and she couldn’t help wondering if the three children she had met were all he had fathered. She looked for the two boys and their mothers, but didn’t see anything of Trefor or Arthur.

  She stopped searching the hall when Gwethalyn’s mother gave her a knowing, sympathetic look, which Genevieve did not deign to acknowledge.

  Genevieve concluded the meal was over when a considerable time had passed without the arrival of more food, which was, she had to admit, delicious.

  Genevieve regarded her husband as he listened intently to Thomas, who had come again to speak to him. One hand on his chin, Dylan nodded thoughtfully.

  Seen thus, it was easy to believe he was the commander of a castle.

  She cocked her head to one side, wondering which guise she preferred: the seductive stranger or the lord of a mighty fortress?

  Then she reminded herself such thoughts were a waste of time. Whatever guise he assumed, one thing remained unequivocal: he was her lawful husband, and he should not be ignoring her.

  She cleared her throat. Neither of the men so much as glanced at her.

  She coughed.

  Still they paid no attention.

  She coughed again, loudly.

  No response.

  Finally, she reached out and plucked at Dylan’s sleeve.

  Startled out of his discussion, he looked at her quizzically.

  “My lord, is there no more wine?” she asked.

  His lips curled up in a smile that seemed even more seductive than any she had yet seen him make.

  As for the expression in his eyes...she grew so warm, she had to look away.

  “You have had enough wine,” he said quietly. “I will not have you sleep too soon tonight.”

  She swallowed hard, then stood up. “If you will excuse me, my lord, I...I think...I think I will... retire.”

  “By all means.” Dylan gestured at one of the young serving women. “Cait will show you to our bedchamber..”

  Chapter Eight

  Finally alone, Genevieve looked around the untidy chamber that the young woman had shown her.

  The first thing to draw her attention was the large and imposing bed, with its messy coverings that looked as if they had not been touched since Dylan had last got out of it.

  She blushed as she recalled Dylan, naked, leaping from the bed at Craig Fawr.

  She forced her attention back to the furnishings, which included a bronze brazier, empty of coals; a candle stand with room for six candles, filled and lighted; a table for ewer and basin; a stool; and a large wooden chest. The single, tall, slender window was covered by a linen shutter. Pale moonlight illuminated the fabric.

  Her baggage and some that she recognized from the back of Dylan’s mule had been piled in a corner. She supposed she could have asked the woman to help her unpack it, but she hadn’t known if the servant spoke anything but Welsh. Rather than have to signal her wishes, and suddenly very desirous of being alone, Genevieve had gestured for the woman to go, then closed the door after her.

  Now it was time to prepare to get into that vast bed and...sleep.

  Genevieve found the silken shift intended for her wedding night with Lord Kirkheathe.

  Why not? This was her bridal night.

  With fingers that would tremble, she removed her green gown and linen shift, and put on the silken garment. Its smooth softness brushed her skin in a way no clothing ever had before.

  Or maybe it was anxiety that made her so aware of the feel of the fabric and the warm scent of the candle wax. She heard soft male voices below and paused a moment, trying to decipher the different timbres, seeking Dylan’s.

  Giving up, she searched in her baggage for the small vial of perfume, a parting gift from Lady Katherine. She almost wished she was back at Lady Katherine’s with the other girls.

  Almost.

  She found the vial and pulled out the stopper, releasing a pleasan
t odor of roses.

  Dylan had kissed her with unbridled desire in a rose garden.

  Her hands still trembling, she put on a little of the scent, then found her hairbrush. She brushed her hair until it was free of tangles. Then she blew out all the candles save one and climbed into the bed.

  If she had been waiting for Lord Kirkheathe, would she have been so nervous?

  Probably, she thought.

  Yet beneath her nervousness, she knew she was feeling something else, something that added to her tension.

  She was excited, exhilarated by the same emotions that had made her believe she was in love with Dylan DeLanyea and must marry him.

  So now she was married to him, and shortly he would come to this room. To this bed. And he would make her fully his wife.

  Unless he had decided to spend the night with somebody else.

  A shiver of fear combined with anger ran down her spine. Surely he wouldn’t—

  Her grip tightened as the door began to open.

  It seemed to take forever for Dylan to come into the room. He glanced at the bed, then closed the door softly behind him. He turned to regard her, his face half-hidden in shadows, his expression unreadable.

  Finally he strolled toward the remaining candle. His eyes remained shadowed, but a smile grew on his face, a smile that made her start to tremble with anticipation—and dread. He had had so many lovers, and she none. What if he found her lacking?

  At that thought, she felt tears come to her eyes and looked down at the coverings so he wouldn’t see them as she struggled to regain her self-control.

  “Cait told me you sent her away,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “Yes,” she answered quietly. “I didn’t require any help.”

  “She was afraid she had offended you.”

  “No,” she replied, glancing at him to find him regarding her steadily.

  “Sensitive is Cait, to be sure,” he replied with a slightly critical tone. “But you might have said something to her. She thinks you hate her.”

  “I didn’t think she would understand me.”

  “Most of the servants speak a little of the Normans’ tongue. She would have understood a ‘thank-you.’”

  “Oh,” Genevieve replied feebly.

  He sauntered toward the bed. “It will be easier when you learn some Welsh.”

  “You think I should learn their language?”

  He frowned with displeasure. “It’s my language, too, and you’re living in Wales now.”

  He was right, of course. That had simply never occurred to her.

  “Very well,” she said, looking away from his piercing dark eyes.

  He went to the washstand. “The best person to help you at the start would be Llannulid, I should think.”

  “Gwethalyn’s mother?”

  She was not at all delighted by the prospect of relying upon her husband’s former lover for anything.

  He pulled off his tunic, revealing his muscular back. “Yes.”

  She didn’t reply as he splashed cold water on his face. Besides, what was there to say? She could guess that he would not understand her feelings on this matter, given everything he had said before.

  He dried his face and looked at her. “There is no need to be jealous. Our liaison was over before Gwethalyn was born.”

  “That you are fickle is supposed to encourage me?”

  “No,” he replied with unlooked-for understanding. “I meant only to reassure you.”

  He approached the bed, his naked chest seeming to glow in the dim light.

  She held her breath as he sat beside her. He reached out and took her hand from the covers.

  Could he feel her trembling? she wondered as he gently pressed a kiss upon the back of it.

  He raised his eyes and regarded her gravely. “Genevieve, I will speak of these things tonight, and then I wish to be done with them. Believe me when I tell you no one could have forced me to marry you if I had been adamantly against it. My uncle would not have insisted, and your uncle’s threats would have been useless.

  “As for the women I have loved, that is in the past. I intend to be faithful to my wife, no matter how she came to be my wife. Do you understand?”

  She regarded him steadily. “I cannot understand how you can have loved so many women.”

  “I did love them, or so I thought at the time, and they felt something for me. As time passed, the feelings changed. Mellowed, or altered, whatever you wish to call it, so that the women and I both knew when it was time for an end.”

  “You don’t love me.”

  “That can change.”

  “I don’t love you, either.”

  A slight frown darkened his features. “I thought that was why you came to my bed.”

  “I believed you loved me then, and I...” Her whisper trailed off into a sorrowful sigh.

  His soft lips brushed her palm. “Do you think you can never love me, lovely Genevieve?”

  She pulled her hand away, the better to think. “I...I don’t know.”

  “I am not sure what I feel for you, either,” he said as his lips curled up in a devilish smile. “Shall we try to find out? Wife.”

  He leaned forward as he tugged the coverings from her loosened grasp. Then he kissed her with all the passion he had before, and more.

  As she felt the delicious sensation of his lips upon hers, thoughts of his other women slipped away. She yielded to the desire that had been growing within her ever since he had come into the room, and before, telling herself he had to care for her if he kissed her with such passion.

  His hands traveled up her arms to her shoulders, drawing her closer. Then she felt him untying the lace at the neck of her shift, so that it loosened.

  His tongue pushed into her mouth. She remembered this—and yet it was different, here in the night, in the bed.

  There was no reason to stop now, no need to feel embarrassed or ashamed.

  Except one.

  She pulled away shyly. “I don’t quite know what to do,” she whispered.

  Dylan smiled at his pretty wife, who had a face so innocent, and a response so seductive. Anwyl, he had never known a woman like her, or one that inflamed him so.

  “It is not difficult,” he replied with a throaty chuckle, moving and pulling her with him so that they were lying beside each other. “We shall go slowly, so that you can learn.”

  She nodded gravely, the corona of her curls around her face glowing like a halo.

  He brushed one back from her forehead with his finger.

  “I mean it, Genevieve,” he vowed softly. “As you are my wife, I will be faithful to you. So put away your fears, and know that I am happy it is so.”

  “You...you are?”

  “I have said it, haven’t I?”

  ‘Truly?’

  “Truly.”

  She threw her arm around him and kissed him so heartily, he wished he had said these things much sooner.

  The kiss grew heated and yearning.

  “I will do my best to be a good wife,” she vowed as his lips left hers, sliding to her earlobe.

  His answer was an incoherent mumble as he sucked the lobe into his mouth, then toyed with it with his tongue.

  She clutched him tightly, gasping. His hand stole into her shift and found her soft breast. His thumb teased her nipple before his mouth left her ear. Slowly, he eased her shift lower, until her breast was exposed to his eager lips and tongue.

  He could hear her panting now, the sound adding to his own arousal, and when she whispered his name with excitement, surprise and delight, he had never been so thrilled to hear it.

  With practiced proficiency, he pushed off his boots using one foot, then the other, as he continued to pleasure her with his lips and tongue and hands. Then he slipped off his breeches, so that he was naked.

  She was still separated from him by the barriers of the bedclothes and her shift. Quickly he rose from the bed. She stared at him with wide eyes as he ripped the co
verings from the bed.

  Her eyes desire-darkened, she tore the shift from her own body, revealing her glorious form to his hungry eyes.

  She was perfect, from the top of her blond head to her toes.

  He had known many women, and had liked them for their various attributes, yet if someone had asked him to describe the ideal woman, he would have described Genevieve almost exactly.

  She held out her arms for him, and he needed nothing more to urge him to join her in the bed.

  Again entwined in his arms, she eagerly welcomed his embrace. The sensation of his naked skin against hers was beyond anything she could have imagined. She had thought breasts had only one function; how delightful to discover otherwise.

  He began to stroke her lower down, his fingers seeming to know how best to set her heart beating and her blood throbbing.

  Wanting to please him as he was her, she caressed and stroked him in return, glorying in the feel of his hard muscles, the stubble on his chin, and his thick hair brushing his shoulders.

  She felt his knee move between her legs.

  It is there... she thought vaguely as she parted them.

  Raising himself on his elbows, he gently took her face between his palms and regarded her gravely, although his eyes burned with need and a hunger she also felt.

  “It may hurt,” he cautioned as his hands moved away.

  Then she felt him put the tip of his manhood against her.

  Staring down at her, he eased himself inside her. She gasped and squeezed her eyes shut at the sudden pain.

  Then he kissed her cheeks and stroked her as he began to rock, slowly. He spoke softly, uttering quiet words of endearment that made her wonder if he was part poet.

  “That is all that should hurt, and just this time,” he murmured, smiling and yet concerned for her, too.

  She nodded, trusting him. Wanting him, the want growing with every movement of his body.

  She began to respond with the same rhythm as the pain subsided.

  His breathing grew harsh and ragged, and a slick sweat coated both their bodies as the rhythm quickened.

  Then, with a low growl, he thrust hard into her, the sudden sensation sending her seemingly beyond her body, to a new and wondrous place that she had no words to describe.