A Warrior's Honor

“It is my curse, to speak without thinking. Letter to Reader Title Page About the Author Dedication Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Copyright

“It is my curse, to speak without thinking.

“Please, forgive me.”

She gave him a smile that was both bitter and rueful. “If I had thought before speaking, too, and behaved as you yourself told me I should,” she said, “I would not be in this predicament.”

He regarded her quizzically. “Predicament?”

She nodded her head. “I fear Lord Cynvelin acted with undue haste.”

“What are you saying?” he whispered, scarcely daring to believe what her words seemed to be indicating.

“I am saying that there has been a mistake.”

She looked so sorrowful and distressed, he wanted to comfort her. “If you do not wish to stay...”

“I don’t.”

“You should ask Lord Cynvelin to escort you.”

“I have and he will not.... Would you help me?” she asked softly, a pleading look in her eyes.

A trusting look. A look that made him feel an honorable man again.

Dear Reader,

Next month, Harlequin Historicals® turns ten years old! But we have such a terrific lineup this month, we thought we’d start celebrating early. To begin, the ever-popular Margaret Moore returns with her fifteenth book, A Warrior’s Honor, the next Medieval in her WARRIOR SERIES. Dubbed a “master storyteller” by Affaire de Coeur, the versatile Moore brings us the sensational story of a knight who is tricked by a fellow nobleman into abducting a beautiful lady, but, guided by honor—and love—seeks to rescue her from the evil clutches of his former friend.

And in a rescue of a different sort, a rancher turned fugitive inadvertently becomes a bodyguard to the very visible Duchess of Malvem in The Duchess and the Desperado, a dynamite Western by award-winning author Laurie Grant. A beautiful young woman on a quest for vengeance unwittingly falls in love with the man she thinks may have harmed her sister in The Shadowed Heart by Nina Beaumont.

And don’t miss Susan Mallery’s latest historical, Wild West Wife, the final book in the MONTANA MAVERICKS: RETURN TO WHTTEHORN series. This is the story of the very first Kincaid, who kidnaps his enemy’s mail-order bride to get revenge but instead falls for his beautiful captive!

Whatever your tastes in reading, you’ll be sure to find a romantic journey back to the past between the covers of a Harlequin Historical®.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Harlequin Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

A Warrior’s Honor

Margaret Moore

MARGARET MOORE

confesses that her first “crush” was Errol Flynn. The second was “Mr. Spock.” She thinks that explains why her heroes tend to be either charming rogues or lean, inscrutable tough guys.

Margaret lives in Scarborough, Ontario, with her husband, two children and two cats. She used to sew and read for reasons other than research.

To Geoffrey Clayton, Ph.D,

coauthor of

“Starburst-Like Dust Extinction in the

Small Magellanic Cloud”

and

“Ultraviolet Observations of the Hot R Coronae Borealis

Type Star, V348 Sagittarii, During a Deep Minimum,”

among others;

and a friend who reads my books.

Chapter One

England, 1228

Bryce Frechette leaned back against the stone wall, a small, indulgent smile on his face as he watched the boisterous company enjoying the festivities after Lord Melevoir’s tournament.

Their host was a genial man who believed in fine food and wine, good sport and loud music. His hall, while not as large as Bryce’s father’s had been, evinced the Norman nobleman’s appreciation for the luxuries a wealthy life afforded. A blazing fire in the hearth dispelled the chill of the spring evening, and fine beeswax candles in a number of holders brightened the room, as did torches in sconces upon the walls.

After an excellent and bountiful meal, the long trestle tables had been taken down and now leaned against the thick stone walls, with the benches in front for those not dancing. Well-fed hounds prowled among the rushes, looking for scraps and somehow managing to avoid getting in the way of the energetic dancers, who whirled past like so many colorful children’s tops in the center of the floor.

Bryce reflected it was a wonder some didn’t fall and break their heads, especially the ones who were obviously drunk. As it was, the laughing and talking of the lords and ladies nearly drowned out the music of harp, tabor and drum.

His gaze strayed again toward a lovely young woman with dark hair and bright eyes who danced gracefully, and whose joyously merry laugh had nothing to do with too much wine. Sometimes he could see her face clearly when she passed near him in her bright blue gown under an overtunic of indigo and gold brocade, and with her gold jewelry flashing in the light of the candles.

The skin crinkled at the corners of her mirthful, shining green eyes beneath shapely dark brows. Wisps of black hair escaped her headdress and scarf to brush her smooth pink cheeks. He admired her straight and shapely nose, and her full, smiling ruby lips parted to reveal pearl-like teeth.

He wondered who she was and what her name might be. She was without doubt the most attractive woman he had ever seen, and he envied whatever main danced with her, including their portly, elderly host.

If he were titled still, Bryce thought, he would be dancing with her, too, looking into those expressive, vivacious eyes and, he had to admit, trying to get her into a shadowed corner to steal a kiss from those enticing lips.

But he was not titled, he reminded himself with a bitter scowl. He was not the Earl of Westborough, although by rights he should be; he had no estate.

And the beauty was probably a spoiled, pampered young woman who would want nothing to do with the likes of him.

He could not even afford an extra shirt. The only one he possessed had been torn in the tournament, so he had been forced to come to the feast wearing only his leather tunic. Acutely conscious of his less-than-well-dressed state, he nevertheless wanted to enjoy the banquet a little longer. It gave him a taste of the life he used to know, when his father was alive.

Therefore, he told himself, it didn’t matter who she was or what her name might be, any more than it mattered that these noblemen and their ladies ignored him.

As if to refute that rankling thought, a darkly handsome man with a silver goblet in his hand came to sit next to Bryce on the bench. Bryce knew he was a Welshman, and the black-haired beauty had been talking and laughing with him before joining in the dance with Lord Melevoir.

“Seen happier faces on a tomb, I have;” the stranger remarked casually. “And you winning the purse, too! A pity it is ten silver pieces don’t make you happy. I’ll gladly take them from you if that would please you.”

“You could try,” Bryce answered in a calm yet warning tone.

“Ust, man, no need to sound so fierce.” The Welshman grinned, his eyes dancing with merriment. “You deserved to win. There aren’t many who can beat me, but glad I am to say that I do not bear a grudge. Look you, you were the finest with the lance on the field, and it would be a fool who would say otherwise. I am not a fool.”

Bryce relaxed, pleased by the fellow’s manner as much as his words. It had been a long time since a nobleman had treated him as an equal. “Forgive my lack of courtesy, sir,” he said with an answering smile. “I would that every man I bested spoke with such generosity.” He bent his head in welcome. “I am Bryce Frechette.”

“Generosity, is it?” the dark-haired man replied. “Good sense, I call it, and of course I know who you are.”

Bryce mentally braced himself for the inevitable questions.

Which did not come. “I am Lord Cynvelin ap Hywell of Caer Coch, the finest estate in Wales,” his companion announced jovially. He ran another appraising glance over the Norman. “I’ve made it my business to hire the best men for my company. I hope you will consider joining my retinue.”

Bryce’s first impulse was to refuse. He was not born to be any man’s hireling.

“Since we are gentlemen, we will not barter terms like merchants. If you agree, you shall have whatever you require in arms, clothing, food and lodging, and if, after a year or so, we are both well pleased with one another, I see no reason I should not reward you further.”

Bryce knew he could always make a living fighting in tournaments. If worse came to worst, he could go to his sister and find a home in her castle.

Yet he had been traveling and fighting for years, and no one else had ever offered him such a chance. As for going to his sister...he would feel like a beggar at their gate.

Bryce’s pride gave way to practicality. His family had lost title and estate, and all the money he had was the ten coins in his purse. If he didn’t accept this nobleman’s offer, eventually he would be reduced to fighting in yet another tournament and hoping to win a prize, as if he were a trained bear fighting for his food.

Besides, this fellow was not just friendly, but respectful, too. Both were rare reactions to him these days. And, he reasoned, how difficult could service in such a man’s retinue be? He could always leave it if he chose to, and his alternatives were few indeed.

“My lord, I shall be delighted to accept,” he answered with another bow of his head.

Lord Cynvelin clapped his hand on Bryce’s shoulder and smiled warmly. “Excellent, my friend!”

Bryce took a deep breath. “You can rely on me, my lord,” he said, the words almost a challenge.

Lord Cynvelin became serious. “If I thought it would be otherwise, I would not have made the offer. Many of us were foolish and headstrong youths. Besides, man, think what it will do for my glory when others hear that Bryce Frechette, champion of Lord Melevoir’s tournament, is in my company.”

Bryce nodded, pleased and relieved and flattered all at once.

“We leave for Wales after mass tomorrow. I trust you can be ready?”

“Wales?”

“Aye. Where else would a Welshman live?”

Bryce nodded. “Of course.”

“That is not a trouble to you, is it?”

“No, my lord,” Bryce replied, stifling any reluctance to travel into the wilderness inhabited by the Celts.

“Good.” Lord Cynvelin sighed and took a drink of his wine. “A fine feast, this. I have never seen so many pretty ladies in one place.”

“Pretty, rich and titled ladies,” Bryce amended, giving his newfound friend a sardonic glance. “That puts them out of my reach.”

Lord Cynvelin chuckled and looked at Bryce appraisingly. “You’re as good-looking a man as I’ve ever seen, except for myself, of course. I would find it difficult to believe you would have to sleep alone tonight.”

Bryce’s smile had a tinge of bitterness. “Given my lack of title, none of these ladies would look at me twice.”

The remarkably handsome Cynvelin laughed, a deep, rich bass laugh that caused several people to look their way questioningly, including the beautiful unknown.

“Look you at all the women watching us,” Cynvelin said when he quieted. “What more proof do you need?”

Bryce slid a surreptitious glance around the hall. “It’s you they’re watching, my lord.”

“Well and why not?” Lord Cynvelin observed with another chuckle. “But you, too. I noticed when I was at the dancing. And you it was took the finest prize in the joust when you got your lance through the ring five times. I tell you, man, you have but to crook your finger and you could have your choice to share your bed tonight.”

“I think I would do better to prepare for the journey tomorrow.”

Lord Cynvelin smiled. “If you would rather. I can only admire such dedication to duty. As for me, I’m off to speak to the woman I’m going to marry, if she’ll have me. There she is, dancing with Lord Melevoir. Have you ever seen a more graceful, lovely creature than Rhiannon DeLanyea?”

“She is very beautiful,” Bryce observed, watching the no-longer-unknown beauty step lightly to the music and deftly avoid their host’s awkward and large feet.

“I warn you, Bryce Frechette, she belongs to me,” Cynvelin chided, his eyes full of laughter. “Besides, her father is half-Welsh, and a baron, and a very fierce fellow. The man who would win his daughter’s love will have to deal with him.”

“I assure you, my lord, I have no interest in her beyond the admiration all men must accord her.”

Cynvelin chuckled again. “You speak like a Norman nobleman right enough,” he said as he rose. He straightened his black tunic and adjusted the goldembossed belt at his waist. “Now then, I will go to her rescue. We shall meet at the stables in the morning, Frechette.”

Bryce nodded his farewell, then watched Lord Cynvelin stroll across Lord Melevoir’s hall and approach the beauteous Rhiannon DeLanyea.

Lady Rhiannon DeLanyea, Bryce silently corrected, who was his new overlord’s intended bride.

Well, so be it, he thought as he once again leaned against the wall, smiling to himself. He had come to believe that no nobleman would ever offer friendship or treat him as an equal again. That he would forever be the dishonored, disgraced son of the Earl of Westborough.

Now it seemed there was hope that this could change and he might yet gain tide on his own merits. If that, what else could he not hope for?

After all, there would be other laughing, beautiful young noblewomen who would not be beyond the reach of a knighted Bryce Frechette.

Rhiannon sat upon the nearest bench and tried to catch her breath. Lord Melevoir bowed his graying head and she reciprocated before the elderly nobleman tottered away, looking for somebody else with whom to dance.

At least she had managed to stay on her feet, she reflected as she fanned herself with her hand. Lord Melevoir had been rather zealous in the round dance, and at one point, Rhiannon had feared she was going to be sent spinning into the musicians.

“Some wine, please,” she panted when a maidservant appeared at her elbow.

“Allow me, my lady,” a masculine voice said in Welsh, and slender, familiar fingers held out a goblet.

She accepted the drink gratefully and looked up into the smiling face of Lord Cynvelin ap Hywell.

“Lord Cynvelin!” she said happily. “How good of you! Thirsty, I am, and worn my feet to my anklebones, I think.”

“There is not a more lovely, delightful dancer here, so all the men want to take a turn with you,” he answered, sitting beside her.

Rhiannon smiled in response, then took another drink, nearly choking. “O‘r annwyl!” she spluttered as Cynvelin quickly moved to take the goblet from her. “If I am not careful, I will be reeling about like a sot. Lord Melevoir is a most excellent man and so is his wine. I am not used to such full-bodied drink.”

“Whereas I am getting drunk only on your beauty,” Cynvelin replied in a low voice.

Pleasantly flattered, Rhiannon blushed. “I thought you didn’t like me anymore. You might have rescued me sooner from the round dance instead of talking to that Saxon. Imagine coming to a feast without a shirt on!”

She nodded at the man seated across the hall. His brown hair fell to his broad shoulders, and he wore only a plain leather tunic laced up the front, open at the neck with no shirt beneath, so that his bare, muscular arms and chest were exposed. There was something almost savage or untamed about him, and the unnerving way his gaze darted about made her feel he was containing a vigorous energy that he could release at will.

“A Norman he is, my lady,” Lord Cynvelin revealed. “And don’t your father and brothers wear their hair in such a fashion? I have heard that they do.”

Rhiannon laughed gaily. “Indeed, you are right. They claim it makes their helmets sit better, although in the case of my brothers. I think it is only vanity. Perhaps it is so with that fellow.”

“Have you never heard of Bryce Frechette, the Earl of Westborough’s son?”

Rhiannon regarded Lord Cynvelin with genuine surprise. “Of course! Everyone knows about him, and how he argued with his father and left home, and never came back even when his father lay dying. I wonder what he’s doing here? I’m surprised he dares to show his face among noble folk.”

She glanced at the disgraced Norman again, to see him rise and saunter toward the opposite end of the hall. His walk had all the grace of a large cat, and once more she had that sense of a contained power waiting for release.

“And to think you had never heard of me until we met three days ago, whereas you know all about that fellow,” Lord Cynvelin said with a wounded air. “You are breaking my heart.”

She smiled at her countryman. “I am sorry to be breaking your heart, but I’m sure there are plenty of other ladies here who would like to help you mend it.”

“There is only one lady who can do that,” he replied with unmistakable significance.

“Oh, I think not, my lord,” she said with a laugh, suddenly rather uncomfortable. To be sure, she liked the Welsh nobleman and found his attention flattering, but there was a new, searching quality to his gaze she found disconcerting. “Lady Valmont would surely gladly give away her estate and count it well lost if she thought she could win your heart.”

“Perhaps if I am rejected by a better lady, I might have to console myself with a woman obviously inferior and take an estate as a consolation prize.” He leaned closer, so that his breath was hot on her cheeks and she could smell the wine on it, too. “But I would rather not. Besides, I think you overestimate my ability to attract a Norman lady. Lady Valmont has no use for Welshmen. Look you how she’s staring at Frechette.”

“Only because he is a dishonorable rogue, I’m sure,” she said soothingly. “Lady Valmont has made no secret of her fondness for scoundrels.”

“Are you saying, my lady, that I am a scoundrel?” he asked worriedly, placing his palm against his cheek in a gesture of dismay.

“Oh, most certainly not!”

Her companion gave her another smile. “Then I forgive Frechette his notoriety,” he said magnanimously. “I hope you will not question my judgment when I tell you I have asked him to join my retinue when I leave for Wales tomorrow.”

Rhiannon paid little attention to the first part of Lord Cynvelin’s announcement. “You are leaving tomorrow?”

“After mass.”

“My father comes tomorrow,” she reminded him. “I was hoping you would be able to meet him.”

Lord Cynvelin’s expression was all contrition and regret. “Alas, my lady, I cannot linger here, as much as I would like to. I have business that requires my immediate attention.”

“Oh.”

“Perhaps I might be permitted to visit you at Craig Fawr when my business is concluded,” he suggested.

She could think of no reason he should not, beyond a certain discomfort in his suddenly proprietary manner. “We shall be pleased to welcome you.”

“I shall count the hours until I see you again,” Lord Cynvelin whispered, gazing at her with eyes full of meaning.

She blushed again and looked away, taken aback by the possessive expression in his dark eyes. Did he want to meet her father because he wanted to ask for her hand?

She liked Lord Cynvelin. She admired him and she was pleased that he apparently admired her. She respected him. He was Welsh. For those reasons she had sought out his company during Lord Melevoir’s tournament and invited him to Craig Fawr.

But she had only known him three days. That was hardly enough time to know him well, and certainly not enough to fall in love or commit herself to marriage.

Her mother often cautioned her to be more circumspect, and right now Rhiannon wished she had heeded that advice. Obviously she had inadvertently given him cause to believe she cared more for him than she did.

“If you will excuse me, my lady,” he said, standing, to her undeniable relief, “I must speak with Lord Melevoir before I leave and thank him for his hospitality. Then I should retire to my quarters.”

“Yes, certainly, my lord,” she stammered, flushing even more as he lifted her hand and pressed a kiss upon it, looking at her with an expectant expression.

“Until later, my lady.”

He bowed low and strolled away, and for the first time since she had made his acquaintance, she was happy to see him go.

Until later? What had he meant?

She almost groaned aloud. Did he think she was willing to join him in his quarters?

What had she made him believe?

She watched him pause to speak with Lady Valmont, who gave her a speculative look. Did she wonder, too, at the nature of the relationship between Rhiannon and Lord Cynvelin?

Looking away, Rhiannon’s gaze encountered a group of Norman noblewomen whispering and smiling as they glanced at her.

What did all these people assume?

Suddenly the hall seemed too crowded and far too hot. She rose and hurried out into the cooler air of the courtyard. It was a huge open area, surrounded by the high inner walls. Beyond that lay another ward encircled by thicker outer walls, and the most imposing gatehouse Rhiannon had ever seen.

She slowed her pace to a more sedate walk, as befitted a gentlewoman.

Then she halted. His back to her, a man stood in the shadows near some carts outside the barracks where the visiting knights and their retinues were housed. He seemed to be rummaging among the goods on the back of one of the wagons, yet it was too late and too dark for any of the castle servants to be preparing for a journey.

“You, there! What are you doing?” she called out, moving closer, prepared to summon the guards if need be.

She realized the man had shoulder-length hair only a moment before Bryce Frechette turned to face her. “I am looking for my baggage, which isn’t in the barracks. I was told one of the servants put it here by mistake.”

As he spoke, Rhiannon saw that he did resemble a Saxon more than a Norman, with his hair to his broad shoulders, angular face and an aloof, slightly disgruntled expression.

He also stood in an interesting manner, as if he were in a relaxed battle stance. She knew only one other man who stood that way when not actually engaged in combat. Urien Fitzroy, a friend of her father’s, was credited with being the finest trainer of fighting men in England.

Bryce Frechette was a most imposing warrior, too, and yet, now that she was close to him, she did not find him frightening. She found him rather intriguing and wished she could see his face more clearly, particularly his shadowed eyes. “I’m sorry. I made a mistake.”

“Did you think I was trying to steal something?” he charged.

“Yes...no...” she began, then she straightened her shoulders defensively. “You must appreciate that your activity did look questionable.”

“Especially when I am not a nobleman?” he queried, his tone ostensibly polite, but with an undercurrent of hostility.

Why should he have cause to be angry at her? she wondered, her own ire rising when she recalled what she knew of him. “If you are no longer a nobleman, you have only yourself to blame, Bryce Frechette,” she retorted.