“Don’t be afraid, Roslynn,”

he whispered, his voice husky, his Welsh accent stronger. “I told you I could be patient and gentle. See, very patient, me.”

He angled closer to her, and although she felt his arousal, he made no effort to hold her any tighter, his excitement held in check by his undoubtedly powerful will. Nevertheless, she could sense his desire lurking like an animal only temporarily tamed.

As her fears kept her passion caged.

Until now. Until she had married this man who could set her free and release her from the chains of her past.

Holding him tight, she relaxed against him, her passion burning hotter as she parted her lips and pushed her tongue into Madoc’s warm, wet mouth.

MILLS & BOON

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Praise for USA TODAY bestselling author
Margaret Moore

“Fans of historicals will be unable to put Ms. Moore’s story down. The story is fresh, fun, fast-paced, engaging, and passionate, with an added touch of adventure.”

—The Romance Readers Connection on The Notorious Knight

“Filled with fast-paced dialogue and historical details that add depth and authenticity to the story. Readers will be well entertained.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on My Lord’s Desire

“Readers continue to ask for ‘Moore.’ Her latest book is a sparkling, dynamic tale of two lonely hearts who find each other despite their pasts and the evil forces surrounding them.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on Hers To Desire

“Colorful and compelling details of life in the Middle Ages abound.”

—Publishers Weekly on Hers To Command

“A lively adventure with enough tension and romance to keep me turning pages.”

—National bestselling author Roberta Gellis on Hers To Command

“This captivating adventure of 13th-century Scotland kept me enthralled from beginning to end. It’s a keeper!”

—Romance Junkies on Bride of Lochbarr

“Margaret Moore is a master storyteller who has the uncanny ability to develop new twists on old themes.”

—Affaire de Coeur

MARGARET MOORE
The Warlord’s Bride

For those who share my affection for men

with broadswords, with my thanks.

The Warlord’s Bride

CONTENTS

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

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER ONE

Wales, 1205

LORD ALFRED DE GARLEBOINE drew his dappled palfrey to a halt and peered through the water dripping from his coif. More rain fell from the pine trees beside the road and roused their heavy scent, while the verge was a mess of mud and running water. The drizzle rendered the sky a leaden gray and the rest of the landscape all mucky brown and dull green, the few exposed rocks like hunched little men trying to keep dry.

“God be praised, Llanpowell at last,” the middle-aged nobleman muttered as his mount refooted, its hooves churning up mud and pebbles.

From under the sodden hood of her cloak lined with fox fur, the young lady riding beside him followed his gaze to what was most definitely a castle and not just another stony outcropping in the south of Wales.

“My lord!”

At the alarmed cry, Lord Alfred and Lady Roslynn de Werre looked back to see a heavy wooden cart stuck in a rut and tilting precariously. The toothless carter leaned to one side, whipping the pair of draft horses and exhorting them to move. The horses snorted and pulled against the harness, but the wheel only sank deeper into the mud.

“Don’t just sit there like a lump of dung,” Lord Alfred ordered. “Get off and make those stupid beasts move!” He pointed at six of the soldiers in the escort. “Stay with the wagon until it’s at the castle. The rest of us will continue.”

He shifted forward, then turned his steely, gray-eyed gaze onto Lady Roslynn. “Do you have any objection to leaving the wagon and going on to the castle, my lady?”

“You are in command here,” she said with a beatific smile quite at odds with her internal turmoil. In truth, she would rather sit in a downpour than reach Llanpowell. “Are six men really necessary to guard the wagon when we’re so close to a nobleman’s castle, and in such inclement weather?”

“I’ll not take any chances,” Lord Alfred replied before raising his hand and shouting for the rest of the cortege to move on.

Lady Roslynn suppressed a sigh. She didn’t know why King John’s courtier had even bothered to ask her opinion. No doubt she shouldn’t have bothered to answer.

The cortege continued on its way, the silence broken only by the falling rain, the jingle of accoutrements and soldiers’ chain mail, and the slap of hooves on the muddy road, every step bringing them closer to the castle of the lord of Llanpowell. Like the rocks, it seemed to be a natural feature of the landscape, exposed by time and the weather, not an edifice built by men.

This entire land was a rough contrast to Roslynn’s familiar Lincolnshire, where the flat fens stretched out for miles and the sky seemed endless. Here, there were hills and valleys, unexpected streams and wet bracken, scree and rocks. It was wild and untamed, strange and breathtaking, despite the presence of the colossal fortress looming ahead.

Roslynn tried to stifle her dread as they neared the massive, bossed gates of thick oak. Whatever happened here, at least she was away from the king’s court, and the accommodations should be better than those they’d had along the way.

A voice called out from the top of the barbican, speaking Norman French, albeit with a noticeable Welsh accent. “Who are you and what do you want at Llanpowell?”

“I am Lord Alfred de Garleboine, on the king’s business,” the nobleman shouted back.

“The king’s business?” the man on the wall walk repeated. “Which one?”

“Is the man a simpleton?” Lord Alfred muttered. He raised his voice. “John, by the grace of God, king of England, lord of Ireland, duke of Normandy and Aquitaine, count of Anjou.”

“Oh, the Plantagenet usurper who killed his nephew.”

Although the man on the wall had said only what many believed was true, this didn’t bode well for a pleasant reception.

Three others, likewise bareheaded and wearing tunics, not chain mail, joined the man on the wall.

“What does John want?” one of them called out.

“I will discuss that with your overlord,” Lord Alfred replied.

“Maybe you’ve come to attack,” the first man called back.

Lord Alfred shifted impatiently in his ornately gilded saddle. “Do we look like a band of brigands?”

“Can’t be too sure these days,” the first man replied, apparently quite unconcerned by the nobleman’s growing impatience. “Seen some well-dressed Norman thieves in our time, we Welsh have.”

“Open these gates or the king shall hear of this, as well as your master!”

It seemed that while the sentries were content to make sport of Norman visitors and their king, the lord of Llanpowell was not likely to be amused by their insolence, for the massive gates slowly began to open.

What did that say about the lord of Llanpowell? That he ruled by fear and harsh punishment? Or was he simply not to be trifled with, but respected and obeyed?

Whatever Madoc ap Gruffydd was like, there was no turning back or running away now.

“About bloody time. Insolent savages,” Lord Alfred growled as he flicked his gauntleted hand and gestured for their party to enter the castle.

Inside the outer wall was a large area, grassy and perhaps fifty yards long. Beyond the outer ward was the inner curtain wall, taller than the first, with another gate and a less elaborate gatehouse.

The inner gates were open, and a large wooden cart pulled by two thick-chested oxen rumbled toward them, followed by a group of twenty men, all wearing sword belts, with bows in their hands and quivers at their hips. They wore only leather tunics, breeches and boots, however, not chain mail or helmets. Their hair was almost uniformly dark brown or black, and most sported thick beards.

Despite their attire, they must be part of the garrison, for they briskly formed two rows lining the road leading through the studded gate to the inner ward.

Lord Alfred’s jaw clenched. “The king shall hear of this insult, as well.”

“I believe it’s a guard of honor, my lord,” Roslynn quietly offered. “See how they’re arranged and how still they stand?”

Lord Alfred’s only response to her observation was a noncommittal grunt.

Nevertheless, she was sure she was right, for the men remained where they were, staring stoically ahead, as the cortege continued into the courtyard.

Here the buildings were of several sizes and materials. Some were made of stone, with slate roofs. Others, like the stables, were half-timbered and wattle-and-daub, and some looked like little more than wooden lean-tos attached to any available wall. At least the yard was cobblestoned, so while there were several large and growing puddles, it was not a sea of mud.

Unfortunately, there were also several armed soldiers around the perimeter, standing beneath the eaves of buildings and watching them warily.

Before they could dismount, or a groom or stable boy arrived to take the horses, the door to the largest of the stone buildings flew open as if caught by a strong wind. A rotund, gray-haired fellow clad in a dusky green tunic, plain breeches and scuffed boots, with a dark brown woolen cloak thrown about his shoulders, came hurrying down the steps. Like the others, his hair was long and his beard full. Unlike the others, he wore only a simple belt, with no obvious weapon at his side, and a smile lit his round face. He also carried a huge mug in his hands, despite the continuing rain.

“Welcome, my lord, my lady!” he called out in Welsh-tinged French, ignoring the puddles as he splashed his way toward them. “Welcome to Llanpowell! Welcome to my home. An honor it is to have you here!”

It felt as if a stone had settled into Roslynn’s stomach as she realized this must be Madoc ap Gruffydd, the lord of Llanpowell.

She had—foolishly, it now seemed—assumed the Bear of Brecon would be a younger man. She’d also assumed he was called the Bear because of his fierceness in battle, not for wild gray hair that fell to his shoulders, his bushy beard or the size of his belly.

Or perhaps that name had been given to him in his youth.

The Welshman called out a few orders in his native tongue, and immediately grooms and boys appeared from the stables to take hold of their horses.

Apparently the lord of Llanpowell’s servants were as well trained as his soldiers, in spite of his jovial appearance and friendly manner.

“Come inside and get dry!” the Welshman cried as he waved his hand toward the large stone building that must be the hall, paying no heed to the drink that spilled from his mug.

Roslynn sincerely hoped Madoc ap Gruffydd wasn’t a drunkard.

His expression grim, Lord Alfred swung down from his saddle and came to help her dismount. Once on the ground, she took a deep breath and shook out the full gored skirt of her gown of perse, while Lord Alfred stiffly held out his arm to lead her into the hall behind their host.

The soldiers in the yard remained where they were, watchful and suspicious.

The hall was rather small, and close, and old, the beams dark with age and smoke. Unlike more recently built halls, it had a central hearth and the roof was held up not by pillars of stone, but wood, some plain, some carved with vines and leaves and faces of animals. Rushes covered the floor, and three large hunting dogs, as shaggy as their master, lumbered to their feet, sniffing at the Normans as they passed. Several servants waited by the walls, watching like the soldiers in the yard, as their host led them toward the hearth and the benches and single wooden chair arranged around it.

After seeing the castle’s fortifications, Roslynn had assumed that the living quarters of Llanpowell would be more modern and comfortable. It was disappointing to discover they were not, but at least they would be dry.

And no matter how primitive the accommodations, this was still better than being at King John’s court, where she had to fend off the advances of the king and every other lascivious courtier who believed, given her recent history, that she should be grateful for his attention.

“Sit you down by the fire, my lady,” their host said as he threw off his cloak, goblet still in hand. He didn’t seem to notice or care that his cloak fell to the rush-covered floor before a servant had time to grab it.

“Bron, what are you about, girl?” he demanded of another maidservant standing by the wall, who looked about eighteen years old. “Take her ladyship’s cloak.”

The young woman darted forward and waited while Roslynn removed the rain-soaked garment. The servant, just as quickly, hurried to hang it on a peg on the wall before returning to her post.

It was warmer near the fire, and Roslynn was well dressed in a thick woolen gown and heavy boots, but she shivered nonetheless and wrapped her arms about herself as she took a seat on the bench.

Smiling expansively, the Welshman settled his bulk in the chair and grinned at Lord Alfred, who stood so stiffly, one might conclude he was incapable of bending at the waist.

“No doubt you’re wondering what has brought us here,” he began just as stiffly.

“Aye, I do, but sit down, man!” the Welsh nobleman commanded with a deep chuckle. “Drink and food before business. Can’t think of important matters when my belly rumbles. Bron, some mulled wine for our guests, and barley bread and the soft cheese, not the hard. No braggot. Not yet, anyway.”

As the young woman disappeared into what was likely the corridor to the kitchen, the Welshman turned to Roslynn with a wink. “Braggot’s Welsh mead, my lady, and strong, so we best stay with the wine for now.”

She managed to return his smile. Madoc ap Gruffydd was neither young nor handsome, but that was surely all to the good. Had she not learned how deceptive youth and a comely face and form could be? Besides, a man of his age could well be past greed and ambition, happy to live out his days in quiet contentment on his estate. That could explain why Madoc ap Gruffydd was so cheerful and welcoming: he had no reason not to be.

“So, my lord, how does the king fare these days?” he inquired as he tossed his now-empty goblet at another of the servants, who caught it so deftly, she assumed this happened often. “Still happy with his little French wife?”

“King John is quite well and, yes, happily wed. We have every hope an heir to the throne will soon be forthcoming,” Lord Alfred coldly replied. “Now, if you will permit me to introduce myself, my lord. I am Lord Alfred de Garleboine and this is—”

“Lord Alfred de Garleboine? There’s a mouthful. Can’t say I’ve heard of you, but then, I don’t pay much attention to the English court and the mischief they get up to.” The Welshman patted Roslynn’s hand. “Much more pleasant to tell stories round the fire and sing songs of brave deeds, eh, my lady?”

“A nobleman must pay heed to what transpires at court if he is to assist the king and protect his family,” she replied, not impressed by his apparently lackadaisical attitude, especially in such times, and with such a king upon the throne.

“Oh, I know enough, I know enough. Not quite at the end of the world, us,” Lord Madoc replied, before raising his voice to shout for Bron. She immediately reappeared in the doorway, a distinctly harried expression on her pretty face. “Where’s the food, girl? And the drink? Our guests are starving! Fine thing if they can’t get a bite to eat after riding in the wet!”

The maidservant said something in rapid Welsh, then disappeared again.

“It’s not that we don’t have plenty in the larder, my lady,” the lord of Llanpowell explained as if it was a matter of grave concern. “It’s just you caught us between meals while we wait for the patrols to come back. Had a bit of bother with them over the mountain.”

As Roslynn smiled to show him she wasn’t disturbed by the delay, she wondered what he meant by “bit of bother” and who “them over the mountain” might be. Enemies, clearly, but how many and how powerful? She’d been told almost nothing about the lord of Llanpowell and even less about any potential enemies he might have.

“My lord,” Lord Alfred began again, his exasperation obvious. “We have come—”

“Ah, here’s the food now!” the Welshman interrupted as the serving girl arrived carrying a large tray bearing three unexpectedly fine silver goblets, a carafe of steaming wine, whose spicy scent filled the air and a beechwood platter covered with a napkin. One of the other male servants hurried forward with a small bench, which he put in front of Madoc ap Gruffydd. After Bron set the tray on it, the Welshman whisked off the napkin to reveal two sliced loaves of fresh, brown bread and several slices of thick cheese, as well as honey cakes.

As the aroma from the warm bread and spiced wine filled her nostrils, Roslynn’s stomach growled loudly.

She blushed with embarrassment, but the lord of Llanpowell laughed and handed her one of the goblets before pouring her some wine. “What did I tell you? Hungry you are, and no mistake. I could see that by the look of you, and a little more flesh on your bones might not be amiss.”

“Perhaps now we could discuss the purpose of our visit,” Lord Alfred said through clenched teeth.

The Welshman’s merry expression disappeared in an instant, replaced by cold disapproval. “You may have come from the Plantagenet king, my lord, and with no invitation I’m aware of, but it’s hospitality first in this household, business after.”

Lord Alfred’s narrow face reddened before he finally, slowly, sat down across the fire from Roslynn and accepted a goblet of mulled wine.

“There now, eat and talk after,” the Welshman said, his anger disappearing as swiftly as the steam from the carafe.

The wine was surprisingly good and did indeed warm her. In spite of its taste and comforting effect, however, she was careful not to drink too much. She didn’t want anything clouding her ability to think.

“Isn’t that better?” the Welshman said after the platters were nearly empty and Roslynn couldn’t eat another bite. “And now to business. So, Lord Alfred de Garleboine, what brings you and your lovely daughter to Llanpowell?”

Roslynn nearly spit out her wine, although it was an innocent mistake. Lord Alfred was old enough to be her father.

“Lady Roslynn is not my daughter,” Lord Alfred sternly replied. “She is—”

“Your pretty wife then, is it?” the Welshman cried, grinning. “What a fortunate fellow you are!”

Lord Alfred couldn’t look more appalled, while Roslynn felt the most unexpected urge to giggle, despite her circumstances. “No, she most certainly is not my wife. She is—”

“Saints preserve us,” Lord Madoc cried as if torn between scandal and admiration, “you don’t mean to say she’s your lehman?”

“No!” Roslynn gasped, breaking into the conversation. “I am not his mistress!”

“Well, thanks be to heaven for that,” the Welshman said with genuine relief as Lord Alfred’s face went from red to purple, “or I’d be thinking you were lacking in taste.”

“My lord,” Lord Alfred ground out, “Lady Roslynn is here at the behest of King John.”

“He has women ambassadors now, does he?” the Welshman replied with amazement, not the least upset by Lord Alfred’s anger and addressing Roslynn instead of the Norman. “Interesting, I must say, and clever, too. I’ll gladly listen to anything a beautiful woman has to say.”

“If you will allow me to explain, my lord,” Lord Alfred said, his hands gripping the stem of his goblet as if he were wringing a chicken’s neck, “Lady Roslynn de Werre has recently been widowed—”

“Oh, there’s a pity,” Lord Madoc exclaimed, regarding her with sympathy as he patted her arm again. “So young, too.”

“Widowed,” Lord Alfred forcefully continued, “and the king has—”

The door to the hall banged open and a tall, clean-shaven young man with dark hair to his broad shoulders strode into the room.

He was dressed like the other men in a plain leather tunic over a light shirt that laced at the neck, with woolen breeches tucked into scuffed leather boots. Unlike Lord Madoc, he wore a swordbelt, old and supple, and the hilt of the weapon in the sheath was of iron wrapped in leather strips darkened with age and wear.

Also unlike Lord Madoc, he was unexpectedly, astonishingly handsome. Curling dark hair framed a face of sharp planes and strong angles. A wide forehead and brown brows overshadowed equally dark eyes that seemed to glow with inner light. His nose was straight and narrow above full, well-cut lips.

As he returned her scrutiny, she began to tremble. Yet it was not from fear or lust, but from the sudden certainty that he could see her beating heart thudding with dread.

She was just as surprised to realize, from the wrinkle that formed between those penetrating eyes, that he was not pleased that it was so.

The lord of Llanpowell hoisted himself to his feet and hurried forward to meet the man, mercifully taking his disconcerting attention away from her. They conversed in rapid Welsh, the older man seemingly trying to placate the younger.

Their stances similar, they could be relatives. Father and son, perhaps?

She hadn’t been informed that the lord of Llanpowell had been married before, or had a son or other children, but then, she’d been told almost nothing about Madoc ap Gruffydd. All John had told her was that the Bear of Brecon was to be rewarded with a wife and rich dowry for helping to end her late husband’s rebellious schemes, and she was to be the bride.

What if he was his son? A grown son made a second wife’s position much more precarious—if she were to marry the lord of Llanpowell.

“We’re being rude,” the older man suddenly declared in Norman French, turning toward his guests. “Come and meet our visitors.”

Lord Alfred was already on his feet, and Roslynn slowly joined him, sliding her hands into the long cuffs of her gown and gripping her forearms to still their trembling as they approached.

“This is Lord Alfred de Garleboine come from King John,” the older man said, “and this is Lady Roslynn. Not his daughter or wife or anything else to him, apparently, and recently widowed, poor thing.”

The young man planted his feet and crossed his arms as he regarded her warily.

He didn’t mask his feelings, his thoughts or his reactions, as so many did. Because he didn’t have to? Because he had the power and confidence to reveal exactly what he thought and felt, to everyone?

Power and confidence—yes, he fairly exuded those qualities. His manner made Lord Alfred seem a model of gentle courtesy, and his father hospitality personified.

As quickly as the heat of desire had rushed over her at that first glance, it died. He wasn’t some untamed warrior prince to be admired and desired, but an arrogant, powerful man who might do her harm.

She had vowed that she would never again allow a man to hurt her, whatever King John ordered.

Her determination and pride roused, she raised her chin and met his suspicious scrutiny steadily. “I am Lady Roslynn de Werre.”

“De Werre?” the younger man repeated, his eyes narrowing. “Like the traitor?”

“Yes. I was Wimarc de Werre’s wife, and since the king is grateful for your father’s recent—”

“My father?” the younger Welshman interrupted. “My father’s been dead these past three years.”

Roslynn’s startled gaze flew from the younger man to the older one behind him and back again. “Isn’t your father Lord Madoc ap Gruffydd?”

“No,” the young man replied. “I am the lord of Llanpowell.”

CHAPTER TWO

HE WAS MADOC AP GRUFFYDD? This young, strong, arrogant fellow was the man King John expected her to marry?

She felt for the bench and sat heavily. She could reconcile herself to a marriage to an older man, especially a friendly and generous one. But marriage to an arrogant, virile warrior, who could prove to be as violent and cruel as her first husband? That she could never accept.

“Uncle, what have you been doing?” the young Welshman asked of the man they’d assumed was Madoc ap Gruffydd.

“Welcoming your guests, since you weren’t here yourself,” the older man replied without a hint of remorse. “Proper introductions must have slipped my mind, what with the surprise and the lady’s beauty.” He smiled at Roslynn. “I’m Lloyd ap Iolo, Madoc’s uncle. I’m in charge of Llanpowell when Madoc’s on patrol.”

Lord Alfred glared at the man who’d welcomed them. “What sort of Welsh trickery is this?”

The real Lord Madoc regarded Lord Alfred with undisguised scorn. “There was no trickery or deceit. My uncle is in command of Llanpowell when I’m absent, and I count on him to act as host in my stead. If he says he forgot to introduce himself, that is the truth. No insult was intended.”

“Aye, a mistake, that’s all, what with the unexpectedness of your arrival, you see,” the older man assured them.

“Uncle, will you be so good as to pour the lady a drink?” the young lord of Llanpowell ordered. “She looks a little faint.”

Roslynn was not weak or dizzy. If anything, she had never felt more alive—with furious indignation. Once again, a man had deceived her, and although the explanation seemed harmless and plausible, it nevertheless implied disrespect.

Unfortunately, because she was a woman and a guest, and considering the reason she was here, she was in no position to voice her true feelings, so she silently accepted the goblet of wine Lloyd ap Iolo held out to her.

The young man walked to the chair and sat upon it as if he were a king upon his throne. “I apologize for any distress this mistake may have caused you,” he said, not looking the least bit sorry. “Perhaps you’ll be so kind as to explain why you’ve come to Llanpowell, Lord Alfred.”

“I’ve been trying to,” the Norman nobleman snarled.

“I’m at your disposal, my lord,” Madoc ap Gruffydd replied with exaggerated politeness.

Again she felt as if they were being treated with contempt, and her indignation increased.

Lord Alfred clearly felt that way, too, but he answered with the civility of a man used to the hypocrisy of the court. “King John is grateful for your help defeating the rebellion planned by Wimarc de Werre.”

Lord Alfred then paused, as if giving Lord Madoc time to appreciate the king’s magnanimity.

“His gratitude I can do without,” Lord Madoc remarked instead. “What about the payment I was promised?” His glance flicked to Roslynn and his lips jerked up into a disdainful smile. “Are you about to tell me Lady Roslynn is my reward?”

Roslynn flushed, but met his scornful gaze steadily. “As a matter of fact, my lord, I am.”

She had the brief satisfaction of seeing the arrogant lord of Llanpowell look as stunned as she’d felt when she found out who he was.

“Lady Roslynn and her dowry are indeed your reward,” Lord Alfred clarified.

“Dowry? Did he say dowry?” Lloyd ap Iolo asked as his nephew stared at Roslynn like a man who’d been struck over the head with a heavy object.

“Her dowry consists of eight hundred marks in silver and jewels, as well as many fine household goods,” Lord Alfred added.

Madoc ap Gruffydd launched himself out of his chair as if he’d been set ablaze. “I was promised money for my aid, not a wife! I want no wife, especially one chosen by another man.”

Hope surged through Roslynn. He was going to refuse! She would be spared another terrible marriage and the king couldn’t blame her.

Lord Alfred rose, nearly apoplectic with ire. “How dare you reject—?”

He took a deep breath and got his rage under control. “Think wisely, Welshman, before you reject what King John so generously offers. It is Lady Roslynn and her dowry, or nothing.”

“Be reasonable, Madoc,” his uncle urged. “That’s a lot of money, that dowry, and it’s time you married again.”

Again?

“And although you’ve got one son already, more would be better.”

He had a son?

“I don’t marry at any man’s command, or to breed children,” Lord Madoc replied, “and I won’t have any woman forced to marry me, either.”

As if a woman’s wishes could possibly matter to a man like him.

“Lady Roslynn is not being forced,” Lord Alfred said, turning toward her. “Tell him, my lady. Tell him that you came here of your own free will and you’ll marry him of your own free will.”

Roslynn would much rather have kept silent and let them argue, but since she had been appealed to, she answered truthfully. “I was not threatened or starved or tortured until I agreed to this proposal. However, it was do as the king bid, or stay at his court, and I was very keen to leave it.”

“My lady!” Lord Alfred gasped, as if no one had ever wished to be away from the king and his court before.

She ignored the Norman who had brought her here, treating her as little better than a box or barrel, and addressed the Welsh lord and his uncle. “I would have agreed to anything if it meant I could leave the court.

“I am also still a young woman and I desire a home and children. I’m well aware that as a traitor’s widow, I will be no man’s first choice, so I acquiesced to the king’s command and hoped for the best.

“But you should know, my lord, that this offer costs John nothing. The dowry is not even as much as I brought into my first marriage. All that money and property became my husband’s, and thus forfeit to the crown when he was convicted and executed for treason. John adds nothing of his own. The king sends me to you as he would a worn gown to a beggar.”

Lord Alfred looked as if he might explode. “My lady! That’s not—”

“It is the truth, my lord, and we both know it,” she firmly interrupted. She folded her hands in her lap, feigning a serenity she certainly didn’t feel. “I would have Lord Madoc know it, too.”

As the Welsh nobleman studied her, she grew warm, and it was not from embarrassment. He was an attractive, handsome man, even if he had a hot temper, hair to his shoulders like a savage and dressed little better than one of his men-at-arms.

In that, he was the opposite of Wimarc, who had worn the finest silks and expensive fabrics and kept his hair in the smooth Norman fashion. Wimarc never looked as if he’d just returned from riding hell-bent across the open moor.

“I appreciate your honesty, my lady,” Lord Madoc said, his lips curving up a little, his tone somewhat conciliatory, “although you underestimate yourself. You are a far cry from a worn garment.”

That little hint of a smile and his compliment could not touch her. His deep voice could not affect her. She would not be tempted by this man, no matter how he looked or spoke. She would fight the arousal that bloomed within her, the same weakness that had led her eagerly into an evil man’s arms. Nor would she respond to his flattery.

“What will happen to the lady if we don’t marry?” Lord Madoc asked Lord Alfred.

“We shall both return to court to inform John of your refusal,” the Norman tensely answered.

“No, we will not, my lord.”

Roslynn had foreseen this eventuality and had already decided what she must and would do, whether Lord Alfred approved or not. “You and my dowry may return, Lord Alfred, but I would rather give myself to the church than go back to the king’s court.”

Lord Alfred stared at her as if this was the most outrageous proposal in the world. “But the king—”

“Should have no cause to complain. I have done what he commanded. If Lord Madoc rejects me, the king cannot say I disobeyed. If you fear to return without me, tell John I fell into melancholy and only the promise of a life as a bride of Christ could revive my spirits. No doubt the return of my dowry will help to ease any other disappointment he may feel.”

The lord of Llanpowell resumed his seat. “It appears the lady and I are in agreement, at least on this point. We will neither of us marry simply because King John wishes it.”

Lord Alfred’s hands balled into fists at his sides. “May I remind you both it is never wise to antagonize a king?”

“Perhaps it isn’t wise of John to antagonize me,” Lord Madoc retorted. “I doubt he can afford to lose the friendship of any man who has alliances in the Marches.

“Fortunately, I have not yet refused the king’s gift. She’s a beautiful woman, after all. Bold, too, and while some men like their women placid, I don’t. I prefer a woman who speaks her mind, as this lady so obviously does. So I may yet accept her.”

Surely he didn’t mean that! How could he be so adamantly opposed to the king’s offer one moment, then acquiesce the next—unless the thought of the dowry was too appealing to decline.

“However, as I said, the lady must be willing.”

Which she was not and never would be, no matter how handsome he was.

He must be trying to put the responsibility—and the blame—for thwarting John’s plans back onto her.

“This is ridiculous! She’s only a woman!” Lord Alfred protested. “She has no right to an opinion.”

“In my hall she does,” Lord Madoc replied. “Well, my lady? What say you?”

She would not be caught in his trap, so if he expected her to say yea or nay, he was mistaken. “We have only just arrived,” she said instead. “Must I give my answer now?”

“No,” Lord Madoc said at once. “We should both take time to decide whether or not we’ll suit.”

She already knew the answer to that, and unless she was mistaken, he did, too.

“I should return to the king without delay,” Lord Alfred declared. “He is most anxious to have this settled.”

“He’s had months to fulfill his bargain, so I think he can wait a few more days,” the lord of Llanpowell replied as he got to his feet. “You can blame the Welsh weather if you need a reason, my lord. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I should find my steward and tell him important guests have arrived. Uncle, please see to the accommodations for Lord Alfred and his men.”

“Aye, nephew, gladly!” the older man said with a broad grin.

“Bron,” Lord Madoc continued, “show Lady Roslynn to the bedchamber in the south tower. She’ll want to rest until the evening meal.”

ALTHOUGH DISPLEASED by Madoc of Llanpowell’s arrogant dismissal and subsequent swift exit, Roslynn was glad to be alone. She needed solitude and quiet to consider all that had happened since arriving in this place.

The upper chamber the maidservant took her to was surprisingly comfortable, if a little dusty. The furnishings—curtained bed, small wooden table, stool and washstand—were old, but well polished. The linen bed curtains, dyed a vibrant blue, hung from bronze rings. No ewer or linen were on the washstand, suggesting this room had not been used recently.

Perhaps it was kept only for guests, and the lord had a finer chamber in another part of the castle.

She strolled toward the narrow window and looked outside. She could see only the inner wall—hardly an inspiring view.

On the other hand, perhaps she had seen all she needed to of this castle and estate, since she probably wouldn’t be staying here much longer.

Although she didn’t want to anger the king by a direct refusal, she would if she must. She would rather face John’s wrath than marry a hot-tempered, possibly violent man who would make her miserable. She had lived that life once; she wouldn’t again.

She heard the sound of heavy boots coming quickly up the stairs and turned toward the door just as Lord Alfred barged inside.

“By the saints, my lady,” he declared as he strode uninvited into the chamber, “to think I ever felt sorry for you!”

He came to a halt, arms akimbo, glaring at her. “Who do you think you are?”

“I am Lady Roslynn de Werre, the daughter of Lady Eloise and Lord James de Briston,” she answered, not afraid of Lord Alfred or his anger. He had very little real power over her here, so far from the king.

Her calm response didn’t ease Lord Alfred’s aggravation. “What sort of tricks are you playing at, my lady? You made nary a squeak in protest the whole way here!”

“I play no tricks. As I said, I’m not averse to the marriage—only to returning to court if Lord Madoc doesn’t want me. You know the sort of men John has about him. Is it any wonder I’m loath to return?”

Lord Alfred didn’t answer directly, no doubt because he did know the sort of men John had about him. “You should have told the king of your feelings.”

As if John would care. But she didn’t say that. Instead, she said, “As he should have told me more about Madoc ap Gruffydd.”

“So you could find excuses not to do as the king wills?”

“To know what manner of man I was expected to marry. He appears to be a hot-tempered savage who finds it amusing to make us look like fools. I especially should have been told he already had a son, as any sons I would bear him wouldn’t inherit his estate, but only a portion of it.”

“Any children I have will inherit equally, except for the title,” the savage himself declared from the doorway.

Both Roslynn and Lord Alfred wheeled around to see Lord Madoc standing on the threshold, his arms crossed.

God help her, how much had he heard?

“That’s a decision I made before I had any children at all and I’ll stand by it, should I be blessed to have more,” he continued as he sauntered into the chamber. He raised an inquisitive black brow. “Might I ask what you’re doing in the lady’s chamber, my lord?”

Lord Alfred drew himself up to his full height. “As the king’s representative, I have every right to speak to her in private.”

“Not in my castle you don’t.”

The Norman couldn’t look more offended if he’d been struck across the face. “I’m an honorable man!”

“So you say, but words are cheap.”

“Then hear me,” Roslynn declared, her own anger rising. “Whatever my late husband was, I’m an honorable woman and there is nothing unseemly between Lord Alfred and me!”

“So I should hope.”

“Lord Madoc,” she snapped, “if you have only come here to insult us—”

“I came here to speak with you, my lady, preferably without the king’s lackey present.”

“My lord!” Lord Alfred huffed, his hand going to the hilt of his sword, “I am the king’s representative and so responsible for Lady Roslynn. Unless and until you are wed, you may not be alone with her.”

The Welshman’s brows lowered menacingly. “Do you think I’ll force myself upon her?”

Fighting the fear his words engendered, the visions and memories they roused, Roslynn began to back away, reaching for the dagger she had tucked into her belt. It was small, but lethally sharp, and she would use it if she had to. Never again would she let a man use her as he would. Never.

“She is under the king’s protection!” Lord Alfred exclaimed, likewise reaching for his blade.

“Who, I gather, forces himself on women all the time, even the wives and daughters of his own courtiers,” the Welshman replied. “And why should I not risk it, if you would have us wed? The lady would surely not refuse me if I did.”

God help her! He might be even worse than Wimarc.

Lord Alfred drew his sword and moved in front of her. “You touch her at your peril, Welshman. She is in my care, and I will protect her honor with my life.”

For one breathtaking moment, she feared they would come to blows, until the lord of Llanpowell slowly let out his breath and shook himself, not unlike a great shaggy bear, as his anger seemed to dissipate. “Your defense of the lady does you credit, Lord Alfred. You can put up your sword, for her virtue is quite safe with me. I’ve never forced myself upon a woman and I never will.

“Unfortunately, I find it almost impossible to tell if a Norman’s honorable or not. Now I’m sure you are.”

Roslynn shoved Lord Alfred aside. “Was this some sort of trial, you Welsh oaf, to determine Lord Alfred’s honor—or mine?” she demanded, her whole body quivering with rage. “Perhaps you hoped to find me in Lord Alfred’s arms, the better to reject me and seek a different reward from the king? How unfortunate for you that your plan was doomed to fail, for I value my honor as much as any man.” She pointed at the door. “Get out!”

He raised a brow, but otherwise didn’t move.

“Get out!” she forcefully repeated, and when he still didn’t move, she pulled the dagger from her belt.

In two strides the lord of Llanpowell crossed the floor and grabbed her forearm. He looked like an enraged god, angrier than she’d ever seen any man, even Wimarc when he was captured. Terrified, she cried out and twisted away, protecting her head with her other arm as she anticipated the hard blow, the curses and the kicks that would come.

Instead, she heard his voice, quiet yet strained, firm but steady, as he let go of her. “I’m not going to strike you, my lady, although you drew a blade and I have every right to defend myself, even from a woman.”

Although she had never met him before, he sounded sincere and she choked back her fear. “I drew my knife because I will never again allow a man to take me against my will.”

Lord Madoc’s eyes flared with surprise, then what had to be pity, as if she were a poor, pathetic thing.

“I wasn’t raped by a stranger,” she hurried to explain. “It was no thief or outlaw who outraged me. It was my husband. Our bed was only for his pleasure, never mine.”

Lord Alfred flushed. “If he was your husband, it was his right to—”

“Leave us, my lord,” Lord Madoc ordered. “I will speak to this lady alone and I will not touch her.”

Roslynn saw the truth of his promise in those deep brown eyes that seemed to reveal every flicker of emotion. This might also be her one and only chance to secure her freedom. Therefore, she would take it, and if she was wrong to trust those eyes, she still had her dagger.

Lord Alfred wasn’t willing to acquiesce. “It is most—”

“My lord, please,” Roslynn insisted.

Lord Alfred sheathed his sword. “Very well, I shall go, but know you this, my lord. I will not be kept waiting like a dog on a leash. In two days, I return to court with Lady Roslynn, or without her. However, if this marriage does not take place, rest assured that I shall not be held responsible!”

CHAPTER THREE

AFTER LORD ALFRED had left the room, Lord Madoc turned to Roslynn and studied her as if he’d never seen a woman before. “You were ready to kill me if I tried to force you, weren’t you?”

She saw no reason to dissemble. “I was. I meant what I said.”

“I meant what I said, too. I’ve never taken a woman against her will, and never shall. I never hit women or beat my servants. Those are the acts of a brute and a coward.”

Words could be meaningless and as insubstantial as air. How could a man of his temperament not strike out in anger?

He walked past her to the window, where he stared at the wall and spoke without facing her. “Your marriage to Wimarc—were you forced into that?”

“No, my lord,” she said, although it both shamed and pained her to admit it. “I thought he loved me, only to discover I was nothing more to Wimarc than a dowry and a woman to abuse whenever he felt the need. Worse, he was a traitor and although I was innocent, I could have faced a traitor’s death, too, if not for intercession of friends. Kings are suspicious men, and my fate could easily have been otherwise.”

“So the king let you live to use you as his tool, his gift.”

What could she say to that? It was the truth.

The Welshman turned at last, resting his narrow hips on the sill and crossing his powerful arms. “I’ve heard about your husband. Quite the smooth otter he was, and handsome and clever. Older and wiser heads than yours were turned by him. And love can make a fool of anyone.”

“I don’t believe now that I did truly love him. I was flattered by his attention and swayed by his outward appearance.”

God have mercy, what had compelled her to make that confession, and to a stranger, too, especially one she was supposed to marry?

“So you were deceived and married a traitor and now the king thinks to use you,” Lord Madoc mused aloud. “Yet you have family and friends. Surely the convent is not your only alternative if we don’t marry.”

“I’ve disgraced my parents, and I have imposed upon my friends long enough, so if I don’t marry you, it will be the church for me.”

“Then you will never be able to have children.”

“Since I’m not a simpleton, I’m well aware of that.”

He walked around her and she felt his gaze upon her, but didn’t move. Let him stare all he liked. She had been the object of men’s scrutiny before, especially at court.

“I think you’re no more keen to enter the church than I am to make enemies,” he said at last. “Despite what I said to Lord Alfred, I would prefer not to have John for an enemy. Even so, as I said before, I won’t marry an unwilling woman.”

He halted behind her and when he spoke again, his voice was low and soft, like a lover’s, or as she’d always imagined a lover’s should be. “But you need not lock yourself away in a convent, my lady. Excuses could be found to explain why we won’t marry. An illness perhaps, or I could claim I’ve gotten betrothed since I made my bargain with John. Or that our grandparents were too closely related. Meanwhile, you’re welcome to remain my guest for as long as you like, and whether we marry or not.”

Whether they marry? He was actually considering agreeing to the king’s proposal?

She turned to face him and tried to gauge his true feelings. Did he want her, or only the dowry? Was he hoping to use her, as Wimarc had? As a bedmate, or political pawn, or both? What did he really want?

What she saw in his eyes was not greed or lust or ambition, but a speculation that matched her own, as if he was just as curious to know what she wanted.

As their gazes met and held, however, she saw and felt something more.

Desire.

Yes, he was a man to tempt her, but what then? Madoc ap Gruffydd was no boy, no green lad playing at love. He was no courtier, used to smooth banter and games of seduction.

Madoc of Llanpowell was something else altogether—more elemental, more primitive. More virile and more arousing than any man—any man—she’d ever met.

As that realization struck her, so did another—that he was, therefore, even more dangerous to her than Wimarc. Wanting him, she might weaken and make another terrible mistake that would result in misery.

She wet her suddenly dry lips. “I thought you were offended by the proposal.”

To her even greater surprise, his mouth curved up in a genuine smile that made him look like a juvenile version of his uncle, and just as harmless. “I was angry because John didn’t send what he promised. Aye, and shocked at what he did send, too, but I’m beginning to think I was too hasty in my temper.”

This was not what she wanted to hear. Not now, not ever.

Not from him.

If he saw her dismay, he wasn’t upset by it. “There’s no need to decide about this marriage today,” he said genially, holding out his arm. “I don’t mind making Lord Alfred wait. Do you?”

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell this man that her decision was already made and she would never be his wife, until caution warned her to say nothing. However Lord Madoc behaved now, he was a stranger to her and he could still be planning to put the blame on her if they didn’t wed. It would be much better for her, her friends and her family if Madoc ap Gruffydd thwarted the king’s will.

So she lightly placed her hand on his muscular arm and ignored the little thrill of desire that seemed to snake its way from that touch to her heart. “Not at all, my lord,” she said. “Whatever you decide, I’m delighted by the prospect of a sojourn in Wales.”

His eyes narrowed, but she simply smiled that bland, meaningless smile she had used so effectively at court.

ACUTELY AWARE OF the beautiful woman seated on his right in the torch-lit hall, Madoc tried to eat as if he had not a care in the world. Unfortunately, he did, not the least of which was hoping that his desire for Lady Roslynn wasn’t completely obvious.

He had felt it the moment he’d first laid eyes on her, and even after he’d learned why she and the Norman nobleman had come to Llanpowell, although that should have stemmed his passion immediately and permanently. To his chagrin, it had only seemed to make his lust grow stronger. How else to explain his request to be alone with her, and the almost overwhelming urge to take her in his arms when she spoke of her brute of a husband?

Yet he had been around beautiful women before. He had made love to more than one. What was it, then, about Lady Roslynn that seemed to cast such a spell over him?

Her beauty, to be sure. Her bold spirit, as he’d said. But there was something else, a challenge in her shining eyes that made him think being chosen by her would be no little accomplishment.

Unfortunately, if he agreed to marry her, it would also mean accepting a permanent bond with a woman he didn’t know, and a stronger alliance with the Plantagenet king.

He set down his silver wine goblet, careful not to so much as brush his arm against Lady Roslynn’s. He didn’t want to imbibe too much, lest he say more than he should—about her, about himself, or what he really thought of King John.

Uncle Lloyd obviously had no such concerns as he finished yet another cup of braggot. Interestingly, and although he’d likely rue it tomorrow, Lord Alfred was keeping up with him, goblet for goblet.

If his hall wasn’t the biggest or the most luxurious, at least he need not be ashamed of the food and drink his larder and buttery provided, Madoc reflected.

His cook, Hywel, had learned his trade in the kitchen of the Earl of Pembroke himself and was well versed not just in ordinary fare, but cream soups and cheese tarts, baked apples, pastries, salmon, trout and even swans, curlews and blackbirds, although the latter were too expensive to be served at Llanpowell. Farmers and fishermen came to Llanpowell with their best, freshest produce, and what wasn’t roasted, Hywel turned into savory stews, pottages and soups. His bread was the best to be had in Wales and his sweets and custards as fine as anything in England.

Even though these visitors had come upon them unexpectedly, Hywel had risen to the occasion and admirably so, with six courses, including a beef stew, roasted mutton, pike with a green sauce made with vinegar and parsley, chicken stuffed with eggs and onions and ending with pears served in a wine syrup, as well as his speciality, baked apples, spiced with his own secret recipe.

Lloyd caught Madoc’s eye and raised his goblet in salute. “Quite a beauty John sent you, nephew,” he crowed in Welsh. “Like the first flowers of spring she is!”

Madoc didn’t need reminding that Lady Roslynn was a beauty, with her pale smooth skin, bright blue eyes and lips as red as holly berries, or that she was young. Her manners were impeccable, and she ate and drank with the delicate daintiness one would expect from a highborn lady.

Her dress was likewise demure and modest. Her gown was of deep blue wool with a square-necked bodice, without trim or other embellishment. Even so, there was no disguising her shapely figure.

The tooled-leather belt that sat on her slender hips had accentuated the graceful sensuality of her walk. Most of her hair was covered by a white veil, but that seemed meant to tease him with the hint of thick chestnut-brown hair beneath.

What man in this hall wouldn’t envy him the chance for such a bride? What man here wouldn’t want her for his own?

Ivor, his friend and his steward, no doubt.

He glanced at Ivor, seated nearby. Simply attired in a long, belted woolen tunic, the steward was as watchful as always. Nothing escaped his shrewd hazel eyes, and while his crippled left leg made it impossible for him to hope for military glory, his cleverness and loyalty had made him indispensable at Llanpowell.

Yet Ivor had been the first to speak against helping the Plantagenet king round up traitors who were planning a rebellion, until Madoc, seeing little risk for greater gain, had overruled him.

Madoc had been right, for he’d not lost a single man in the effort. And then John had sent him not silver as promised, but a bride, although her dowry was considerable.

What kind of woman was Lady Roslynn de Werre? How would she run his household and raise their children? What would she be like in his bed? He’d already had one weeping bride; he didn’t want another.

“I hear you paid Lady Roslynn a little private visit before the evening meal,” Uncle Lloyd remarked in Welsh, his eyes twinkling with a mischievous grin. “Having a little chat, were you?”

Madoc forced himself to smile and tried not to notice that Lady Roslynn was listening, even if she couldn’t understand the language. “As a matter of fact, we were,” he replied. “Don’t you think I should get to know her first if we’re to marry? And she should get to know me?”

Uncle Lloyd frowned. “What, you just talked?”

“She’s an honorable woman and I’m an honorable man, so what else?”

“What’s to talk about?” Uncle Lloyd replied. “She’s a lovely woman and you’re the best catch in the country. And it’s time you married again, nephew. You can’t live like a monk forever. It’s not natural.”

Madoc reached for the heel of a loaf of barley bread in the basket in front of him. “I’m not celibate and you know it.”

“As good as,” Uncle Lloyd charged. “How long has it been? And you in the prime of life, too! Why, if I was your age and had your looks—”

“Yes, Uncle,” Madoc said, hoping to cut the conversation short. Even if the lady didn’t know their language, several of the household nearby, including Ivor seated at the Norman’s left, did. Most of them were snickering, or trying not to.

Except the slender, thoughtful Ivor. He looked as grim as death, no doubt because he was considering what this marriage would mean politically, as well as financially.

“Your uncle seems to be a very amusing fellow,” Lady Roslynn noted in the ensuing moment of silence. “It’s a pity I can’t understand what he’s saying.”

Uncle Lloyd’s eyes fairly danced with glee. “Will you tell her, Madoc, or shall I?”

“He says you’re very beautiful and I’m a lucky man,” Madoc replied.

Uncle Lloyd laughed and patted Lady Roslynn’s arm. “Isn’t that the truth! I hope you aren’t upset by my nephew’s temper. He’s a passionate fellow, is Madoc.”

Lady Roslynn’s eyes were as enigmatic as eyes could be. “Yes, so I’ve noticed.”

Uncle Lloyd’s bushy gray brows furrowed with a frown. “Nothing to worry about there, my lady. Madoc flares up quick as lightning and cools down just as fast. Not one to hold a grudge, either—well, not often, anyway, and not without good cause.”

Madoc shot his uncle a warning look. Lloyd was venturing into dangerous territory.

“He’s a fine bowman, too,” his uncle said, wisely changing the subject. “He can hit the bull’s-eye from a hundred feet easy as you please.”

“You, a nobleman, use a bow?” Lord Alfred asked with disdain.

Madoc didn’t care what the Norman thought of him, so he answered without rancor. “I do. Whatever the Normans think, it’s a valuable weapon. Puts the enemy at a disadvantage when they’re still far away. A good volley, and they’ll run before you’ve struck a single blow.”

“Hardly chivalrous,” Lord Alfred sniffed.

“So says a man who wears sixty pounds of armor,” Uncle Lloyd noted. “Tell that to your foot soldiers.”

Madoc realized he’d reduced the heel of bread to a heap of crumbs. “The Welsh have their ways, and the Normans theirs,” he said as he brushed the crumbs off the table and the ever-hungry hounds licked them up. “Time will tell which is effective, so perhaps we should discuss something other than warfare.”

“You’re right,” Uncle Lloyd magnanimously agreed. “Three to one John’s overthrown before he has an heir.”

“I don’t think politics is a fitting subject, either,” Madoc said quickly, and trying not to show his exasperation in front of the Normans. He loved his uncle like a second father, but there were times Lloyd could test the patience of a saint—and he was no saint.

“Speaking of heirs, I had hoped to meet your son this evening,” the lady remarked.

God help him, it would have been better to talk about John—or anything else. But he was trapped now. “Owain is fostered elsewhere, my lady,” he truthfully and succinctly replied.

Mercifully, the servants arrived to remove the last of the fruit and the linens and take down the table before he had to say more. Nevertheless, he took steps to avoid having to talk about Owain, or the boy’s mother. “Nobody knows or tells the history of Wales better than my uncle, my lady. Perhaps you’d care to hear some of his tales?”

Uncle Lloyd smiled proudly as he made way for the servants taking down the trestle table. “Aye, my lady, there are plenty of exciting tales. Battles galore and clever tricks and love—oh, sweet Jesu, the lords of Llanpowell have always been known for love.”

“Is that so?” Lady Roslynn replied, sliding Madoc a vaguely quizzical look. “I should like to hear all about Lord Madoc’s family.”

Did she really, or was she saying that only because it was expected? And why the devil was he blushing?

He saw no need to linger. After all, he’d heard these stories a thousand times before, so once the tables were taken apart and removed, benches set in a circle around the hearth and seats resumed, he left his guests to speak to Ivor. Meanwhile, Lloyd launched into the story of how Madoc’s ancestors had fought off the Romans, and then any Northmen who dared to venture this far inland.

As he joined Ivor, who was nearly hidden behind a pillar, he noted that Lady Roslynn appeared genuinely interested and even Lord Alfred relaxed, although perhaps that was merely the effect of the braggot.

After exchanging a few words in greeting, Madoc drew Ivor farther back behind the pillar. “You checked the dowry?” he asked quietly.

“Aye, it’s as much as you said,” he replied. “Eight hundred marks’ worth of goods and silver, including some of the finest jewels I’ve ever seen.”

Ivor tilted his head to study his friend in the flickering light of the flambeaux. “You’re not thinking of agreeing to this marriage, are you, Madoc?”

It was on the tip of Madoc’s tongue to say no. He didn’t want to marry a woman he’d never seen before, and especially one sent by John. But then he remembered the fire in Lady Roslynn’s eyes, her shapely figure, those full red lips and her vibrant boldness as she confronted him and the Norman who’d brought her.

He also thought of the life Lady Roslynn must have endured in John’s court. He’d heard enough of the king and his courtiers to guess that it hadn’t been easy for a proud and beautiful woman like her.

So instead, he slowly and cautiously replied, “When all is said and done, I may not have much choice in this. John and his favorites like William de Braose are powerful men who can crush us if they choose.”

“But she’s a traitor’s widow!”

“She wasn’t the traitor,” Madoc replied, “and you’re always telling me we need money to get the castle repaired and buy feed for the winter, and there’s that fellow in the south with those good bows, and we could use more armor, too. With a selfish weakling like John on the throne, war’s more likely than not.”

“Not to mention she’s beautiful,” Ivor said flatly, as if he were taking a tally of fleeces.

Madoc saw no need to acknowledge the obvious. “Did you find out anything more about her from Lord Alfred’s soldiers?”

“Apparently she’s a quiet, gracious lady, and was no trouble at all on the journey. But she helped to get her husband captured, Madoc. She arranged some kind of trap for him.”

“From what we know of Wimarc de Werre,” Madoc replied, “and what she herself told me about him, I can’t blame her. The man was a beast, Ivor, as well as a traitor to his king.”

“It sounds as if you’re halfway to agreeing to marry her.”

“It means I’m not ready to say no. There’s the dowry, and the fate of the lady to consider, too.”

Ivor’s sparse brown brows drew together over his straight, slender nose. “Why should her future be our concern?”

“Because she’s a woman and we’re honorable men. If I don’t accept her, she says she’s not going back to the king. She’d rather go to a convent.”

“Then let her go to a convent, if that’s what she prefers.”

“I don’t think it is,” Madoc replied, “or she would have done that instead of coming here with Lord Alfred.”

“So if it’s marriage she wants, let her marry—but why should it be you?”

“Because Lord Alfred says that’s the only way I’ll get the money I was promised,” Madoc answered, trying to focus on what he could do with the dowry rather than envisioning Lady Roslynn in his bed and in his arms.

Ivor regarded his friend with sympathy and a bit of remorse, too. “Look you, Madoc, we all know you were heartbroken when Gwendolyn died, but there are plenty of honorable Welshwomen who’d be happy to marry you. And I know I’ve told you more than once we’re not well off, but we can get by without this dowry.”

Once again Ivor proved that, like everyone at Llanpowell, he believed Madoc’s marriage to Gwendolyn had been one of love and happiness, in spite of how it had come about. Nobody knew what had happened between the bride and groom on their wedding night, and the other nights afterward. Nor was he about to tell him.

“Our lives would be easier and safer with the money, though,” Madoc pointed out. “That’s why I went to John’s aid in the first place. You were right to warn me, Ivor. You said there’d be a catch somewhere. But it’s too late now. It’s marry the woman John has sent and get the dowry, or let her go and the money with her.”

“Then no more alliance with John, either,” Ivor said, and it was clear he considered this a good thing.

“Aye, but what will happen to Llanpowell?”

Ivor sighed and shook his head. “Glad I am it’s not me making such decisions,” he admitted. “When do you have to give Lord Alfred your answer?”

“He’ll stay two days, then he’s going back to court.”

“Not much time, is it?”

“No. Rest assured, Ivor, I’ll think carefully on the matter before I decide.”

Madoc gave his friend a wry smile, although he was feeling anything but amused. “Now I had best go back before Uncle Lloyd drinks himself under the bench and Lord Alfred with him.”

AFTER A RESTLESS NIGHT and a mass presided over by an elderly Welsh priest, Roslynn sat in the hall of Llanpowell, breaking the fast. Lord Madoc, who’d been as plainly dressed as before in a leather tunic, linen shirt, wool breeches and boots, with his swordbelt around his narrow waist, had already eaten and departed. He’d said very little as he consumed his bread, cheese and ale. She’d said even less and asked no questions, determined not to encourage him in the slightest. That also meant she had no idea where he’d gone, or why.

Lord Alfred had been seated at Lord Madoc’s right. He hadn’t touched a morsel and could barely hold up his head, having had too much of that Welsh mead, no doubt.

Sitting beside her, Lord Madoc’s uncle seemed as merry and in favor of the marriage as he’d been the day before.

“I warned you about the braggot, didn’t I?” he said as he clapped the slightly green-faced Lord Alfred on the shoulder. “Normans haven’t the stomach for it. Got to be brought up to it, you see. Now me, I can drink a bucket and be—”

Lord Alfred bolted from the table, clutching his stomach as he ran.

“Blessed Saint Dafydd, no capacity for braggot at all,” Lloyd sighed with a sorrowful shake of his head.

“Any man who drinks a bucket of anything might be sick in the morning,” Roslynn observed, feeling duty-bound to stand up for her countryman, even if she didn’t like him and he had treated this journey as an extremely onerous duty.

“That’s true enough, my lady, true enough,” Lloyd replied. “You look a little peaked yourself. I hope you’re not coming down with something.”

“I am rarely ill.”

“Well, there’s a mercy.”

The older Welshman’s heartfelt response made Roslynn wonder if Lord Madoc’s first wife had been somewhat delicate. Or perhaps he simply didn’t want his nephew to lose another spouse.

“Madoc’s healthy as a young ram,” Lloyd continued. “Strong, too. And virile. His son was born just over nine months after he married Gwendolyn. Such a pity she died so young and so soon after marriage.”

Not sure what to say to that, if anything, Roslynn concentrated on finishing her bread and peas porridge, and wondering how she could avoid the lord of Llanpowell for the rest of the day. Perhaps she should remain in the hall, although the sun was shining and the sky was cloudless.

Maybe she should stay in the upper chamber. She could always do a little sewing, perhaps finish the piece of embroidered trim she was making for her blue—

A cry came from the battlements.

Had Lord Madoc returned already? Her heartbeat quickened, then raced even more as several of the soldiers not already on duty grabbed their weapons and rushed out of the hall.

CHAPTER FOUR

“WHAT IS IT?” Roslynn demanded of Lord Madoc’s uncle as she started to stand. “Is the castle under attack?”

“No, no,” Lloyd hastened to assure her, patting her arm. “Them over the mountain have been after the sheep on the north slope, that’s all.

“There’s no need for you to worry, my lady,” he continued as she slowly resumed her seat. “They’ll have gone back to their own land by now. Madoc and his men will make certain of it, though, and see how many sheep were taken, and ensure that the shepherd and the rest of the flock are safe. And come tomorrow, the thieves will find themselves lacking an equal number of sheep.”

“Won’t Lord Madoc try to catch them and get his own sheep back?” she asked incredulously.

“No.”

“But why not? Especially if he knows who’s taking his sheep.”

“It’s a sort of feud, my lady,” Lloyd explained.

A sort of feud? “Is this a Welsh custom of some kind?”

He colored and ran a hand over his beard. “I’d better let Madoc tell you about it,” he said, before resuming his usual jovial expression. “It’s nothing to get upset about, my lady. Just accept that every now and then, a few sheep will go missing, and Madoc or his men will go to collect the same number from Trefor’s flock.”

“I should think a feud of any kind is a serious business,” Roslynn replied. “Who is this Trefor?”

Lloyd looked as if he wished he were anywhere else. “It’s Madoc’s brother taking his sheep. Trefor has fewer men and the lesser estate, though, you see, so Madoc doesn’t think it’s fair to set the law on him.”

In that, Lord Madoc was quite a contrast to the king. John would stop at nothing to get his brothers’ lands and titles.

“But never mind about Trefor now,” Lloyd said. “Come to the kitchen, my lady, and have a pastry. Hywel’s a dab hand with them.”

Since there was nothing else for her to do, Roslynn dutifully rose to go with him, although pastries were the last thing on her mind.

MADOC SILENTLY cursed as he galloped along the rutted road leading up the northern slope of the highest hill of his estate. Of course Trefor would choose this time to harass him. No doubt he wanted to embarrass his brother in front of his Norman guests. Perhaps Trefor had learned the purpose of their visit and considered that even more reason to trouble him.

Madoc spotted a man running along the ridge—Trefor himself, Madoc realized with a surge of anger.

He immediately turned his horse to follow, but once at the top of the hill, he discovered a mist covering the slope just beyond the ridge, like a white curtain.

Cursing aloud this time, Madoc slipped from his saddle. His black gelding snorted and stamped, as anxious to give chase as his master. Unfortunately, from here it would be too dangerous to ride at a gallop, or even a canter. There could be hidden holes and loose scree that could cause a horse to slip or fall.

“Steady, Cigfran, steady,” he murmured, running a hand over the horse’s strong neck as his men caught up to them.

“Should we go after him, Madoc?” Ioan asked when he and the others reached the top of the ridge and dismounted.

“No.”

Trying to give chase on foot would be just as risky as on horseback. Besides, although he and most of his men had lived all of their lives on these hills and could run like deer, Trefor was just as familiar with the land and as fleet of foot.

Madoc’s curt answer brought at least one groan of frustration from his men. Ioan, no doubt, for he was young and anxious to fight because he was good at it. Or maybe Hugh the Beak, who had the biggest nose in Llanpowell and was an expert with both sword and bow.

“I said no,” Madoc repeated. “He’s gone to ground like a fox. We’ll never catch him.”

“Madoc!”

Taking hold of Cigfran’s reins, Madoc followed the call of his name, his disgruntled men behind him. He soon found Emlyn, the oldest and best of his shepherds. The gray-bearded man held a lamb in his arms as if it were a child, and at his feet lay a larger white shape splashed with violent red.

A ewe dead and a lamb left to starve, or be the prey of fox, wolf, eagle or hawk.

It was a cruel thing to do, and something new for Trefor.

“A fox?” he asked the shepherd, although he already knew the answer. A fox would have killed the lamb, too.

“Men for certain,” Emlyn replied.

“Only the one ewe dead?”

“No,” Emlyn replied. “Five more—and the big black ram is missing.”

Madoc called Trefor an earthy Welsh epithet as he looked across the brow of the rise to the higher land, where Pontyrmwr, Trefor’s small estate, lay. He’d been counting on that ram to build his flock. Trefor would recognize the value of it, too. No wonder he’d taken it, the vindictive, disgraceful lout.

Maybe he’d gotten more vicious and aggressive because he’d heard of Lady Roslynn’s dowry and assumed Madoc meant to have it, although that was still no excuse.

“Not a broken branch, not a hoof-or footprint,” Emlyn noted. “Like magic it is, how they come and go, invisible as demons.”

“Aye, like demons, but no magic,” Madoc said. “Trefor knows these hills as well as we do.”

Emlyn sighed as the lamb in his arms continued to pleat plaintively. “Aye, that he does. I never thought he’d use that knowledge against us, though.”

“He’s not the man he was,” Madoc muttered. Indeed, once he’d thought his older brother the epitome of a noble warrior—handsome, brave, skilled with weapons, irresistible to women but too honorable to take advantage of it. He’d trotted after Trefor like an admiring puppy and tried to imitate his brother in every way.

Until his brother’s wedding day, when Trefor had disgraced not just himself, but his family, and nearly destroyed an alliance that had held for three generations.

Madoc turned to the man who’d met his patrol yesterday to tell him the Normans had come. “Dafydd, take ten men and get me six sheep in kind from Trefor’s flock and try to find the black ram. No killing any of his animals, though. My quarrel is with my brother, not his livestock or his people who depend on him.”

Dafydd nodded, then fingered the hilt of his sword. “What if them with the ram put up a fight?”

“No killing, not even for the ram.”

Madoc saw his men’s displeasure and ignored it, as he always did. His brother was still his brother, and he wouldn’t be the cause of Trefor’s death, for hanging was the punishment for theft. He wouldn’t attack Pontyrmwr unless Trefor attacked Llanpowell. He wouldn’t sacrifice other lives because of this feud with his bitter, resentful brother.

“You three,” he said to the men standing nearest him, “help Emlyn with the carcasses. You’ll see to the lamb, Emlyn?”

“Aye, Madoc. I’ve got a ewe lost one.”

Madoc knew Emlyn would skin the dead lamb and put the pelt over the living one, then put it to suck at the ewe’s teat. If all went well, the ewe would accept the living lamb as her own.

Content that he had done all that was necessary, Madoc gestured to the rest of the men to follow him back to their horses. There was no reason to linger here, and he had guests at home.

Not that he was in any particular hurry to meet with them again.

LLOYD WAS AT Madoc’s heels the moment he dismounted in the courtyard. “Was it Trefor and his men?”

“Aye.”

Uncle Lloyd’s face turned red and his dark eyes glowered. “I’m so ashamed of that boy, I could spit!”

“We’ll get our recompense,” Madoc assured him, dismissing the stable boy and leading Cigfran to the stable. “He’s taken the black ram, though.”

Lloyd cursed as he followed Madoc inside the dimmer, hay-scented stable. “He always had a good eye for an animal.”

So he had, Madoc reflected, whether for horses, hounds, sheep or women.

What would Trefor make of Lady Roslynn? Would he take her to wife if she were offered to him, even by John? Or would he say no woman, not even a beautiful one with a large dowry, was worth that alliance?

As for her spirited nature, Trefor had always preferred more placid women, like Gwendolyn.

Uncle Lloyd upended a bucket and settled himself upon it. Madoc put his saddle and blanket on the stand outside the stall, then began to rub Cigfran down with a handful of straw.

The motions helped to calm him, and the familiar scent of horse and leather reminded him that if he had much to regret, he also had much to be thankful for. No matter what Trefor said or did, he had Llanpowell—and justly so. Whatever Trefor thought, he hadn’t stolen it from his brother. Trefor had lost Llanpowell and his title by his own selfish, dishonorable behavior.

“I trust you’ve been entertaining our guests in my absence,” Madoc said to his uncharacteristically silent uncle, who sat twisting a piece of straw around his thick fingers.

“Aye, I have.” Lloyd cleared his throat and tossed aside the straw. “I had to tell Lady Roslynn a bit about your troubles with Trefor.”

That was unfortunate. Although he should have expected that some explanation of that morning’s alarm might be necessary, he would rather the Normans didn’t know about his conflict with his brother. John liked to pit Welsh noble against Welsh noble, the better to keep their attention on each other and away from whatever he was up to. “What did you tell her?”

“Just that you’ve a quarrel with your brother and it’s nothing for her to worry about.”

“Aye, it’s not.” Especially if she was leaving. And thank God Lloyd hadn’t said more. “Where are the Normans now? In the hall?”

“Last time I saw Lord Alfred, he was lying on his cot, moaning, poor man.” Uncle Lloyd sighed with completely bogus sympathy. “Like all the Normans, the man can’t handle even a bit of braggot.”

Lloyd’s false gravity gave way to a bright-eyed grin. “He’s got to be feeling better by now, though. I’d be feeling better with a pretty woman to nurse me. Lady Roslynn’s tended to him with great kindness, Madoc, although he’s only got himself to blame for his state.”

“You shouldn’t have offered him the braggot,” Madoc said as he filled the manger with fresh hay.

“Not his mother, am I? And I did warn him, the day they arrived, before you came charging into the hall like the wrath of God.”

“If I looked like the wrath of God, it was because Dafydd told me an armed party of Normans had come. I thought Llanpowell was being attacked.” Madoc straightened his tunic and adjusted his swordbelt before giving his uncle his formal smile. “Well? I look amiable enough now, don’t I?”

Uncle Lloyd wrinkled his nose. “You look fine, but you smell of the stables. It’s a fine, sunny day and the river’s nearby. Why not go for a swim?”

A surreptitious sniff proved his uncle wasn’t exactly wrong, and while it was not shameful for a man to smell like a horse, he didn’t want Lord Alfred to go back to the king and his courtiers and tell them the Welsh smelled bad.

“All right,” he agreed, “if you’ll bring me some linen, I’ll be down by the alders. Quickly, mind. I can’t loll about like a lad with nothing to do.”

“Right you are, Madoc!” Lloyd cried, already halfway to the stable doors. “You head off and I’ll be there quick as a fox.”

SITTING ON A STOOL behind the wooden screen painted with a hunting scene and beside the cot of the snoring Lord Alfred, Roslynn heard a commotion in the yard and guessed Lord Madoc and his men had returned.

If they had, she wasn’t sure what she should do. Stay here with Lord Alfred, or go to greet him? Then what? Ask him about the feud? Try to find out how it had started and why, as if she cared?

Or use it to her advantage?

She could question Lord Madoc’s reluctance to go after the thief, implying he was a coward. A man as obviously proud as he would surely take offense at that. Or she could suggest the Welsh must be childish, indulging in such petty games.

As tempting as that was, she might rouse his temper too much. If she did follow such a course, she would have to ensure that she wasn’t alone with him, which shouldn’t be difficult.

Before she could decide what she would do, she heard the sound of brisk footsteps approaching.

Whoever it was, she would be calm and aloof. She would be polite but distant. She would—

It wasn’t Lord Madoc who came to stand at the foot of the cot. To her disappointment—a response she should not feel, she told herself—it was his uncle.

“Poor man can’t hold his drink, can he?” he whispered loudly, regarding Lord Alfred as he might a sick child.

“He should be fine by this evening,” she quietly replied. “I don’t think you should offer him any more braggot.”

“I won’t,” he agreed. “Look you, my lady, Madoc’s come back and he wants to see you. Since it’s such a fine day, he’ll wait for you down by the river, in a little grove of alders. Very pretty spot for a conversation, if you’ll join him.”

Roslynn wanted to get out of the stuffy confines of the hall and there was no real need for her to stay by Lord Alfred’s side; nevertheless, she hesitated. It might not be considered a wise or honorable thing to leave the castle without Lord Alfred to escort her. On the other hand, her host might consider it an insult if she refused his invitation, especially since they would be with his uncle, and so not alone. “Very well.”

“Excellent!” Lloyd cried.

As she rose to join him, he reached around to grab a square of linen on the table beside the bed. She’d been bathing Lord Alfred’s face when he was awake and complaining of evil Welsh brews. This large square, however, was dry.

Lloyd used it to wipe his brow, then tucked it into his belt. “I was in a rush to find you, and I sweat like a horse.”

Accepting his explanation, she took his arm and together they left the hall, passing the servants replacing the flambeaux in iron holders on the walls. Roslynn felt their watchful eyes and wondered if there would ever be a time when she would no longer be the subject of gossip and speculation.

Outside, the weather was still fine, with a breeze redolent of fresh grass and warm summer days to come. Despite their curiosity, the servants at their chores and soldiers on guard duty went about their duties efficiently, although without the haste of colder days.

The yard itself was tidy, with nothing out of place, and the buildings were all in good repair.

As they were nearing the gate, the steward came hurrying around the side of one of the smaller buildings, probably a storehouse, as fast as his limp would permit. “Well now!” he cried. “Where are you two off to? And without Lord Alfred?”

“Lord Alfred’s sleeping and Madoc sent me to fetch Lady Roslynn,” Lloyd answered. “Wants to have a little chat with her down by the river on this lovely day.”

“Then I won’t keep you,” Ivor replied, giving them a smile that didn’t impress Roslynn. It was too much like Wimarc’s—more a barring of the teeth than an expression of pleasure. “One thing you’d better learn if you’re to live in Llanpowell, my lady—if Madoc gives an order, he expects it to be obeyed, and quickly, too.”

“Or what?” she asked.

“If you’re a soldier, night duty and short rations,” Ivor answered. “If you’re his friend, his eyes alone can make you feel you’ve sinned. If you’re his wife…”

His smile widened as he shrugged. “I don’t know. Gwendolyn never disobeyed, did she, Lloyd? A very sweet, quiet wife she was for Madoc—quite different from you, my lady.”

Had Lord Madoc not said he liked spirited women? What, then, did the steward mean by this? Was he trying to insult her, or intimidate her or make her afraid of his master?

Whatever he was trying to do, she wouldn’t let him see that he was affecting her in any way.

Instead, she gave him a smile as condescending as his own. “Poor man, to lose such a model of a wife. But surely you don’t begrudge Lord Madoc another chance for happiness in marriage, especially since it means a powerful alliance and wealth, too?”

She caught a flash of annoyance in the steward’s eyes, although it was quickly replaced with another patronizing smile. “Indeed, my lady, some would consider your arrival most fortunate.”

But not this man.

Yet perhaps she shouldn’t be surprised. He was Welsh, and she was not, and his animosity could be based on no more than that.

Deciding to give him the benefit of the doubt, she said with cool politeness, “Since I don’t wish to upset your master in any way, we had best be on our way.”

“WHATEVER IVOR SAYS, never you fear about going against Madoc, my lady,” Lloyd assured her, trotting to keep up with her brisk pace as they went out the gate. “My nephew’s a bit stubborn and gruff sometimes, but he’d never hurt a woman. Never hurts anybody, except in self-defense or a tournament and then, God grant you, he’s something to see.”

Lloyd’s words might have assuaged her fears, was she not well aware that pain could also be inflicted with a look or a word or a gesture. It didn’t have to be slaps or blows.

“No need to worry about how Madoc will treat you, my lady,” Lloyd persisted. “A soft heart for the women, him. And don’t be troubling yourself about Ivor. He’s got a grudge against Normans, you see, not just you in particular.”

So, it was as she’d suspected, and she was glad she hadn’t sounded as offended as she’d felt.

“Ivor can be like an old mother hen, too, the way he fusses. But he wants Madoc to be happy, as do we all, so if Madoc wants you, Ivor’ll come round in time and so will everyone else who thinks it’s a mistake.”

She wondered if she should give Lord Madoc’s uncle an indication of the unlikely possibility of a marriage, at least enough to warn him that the union he seemed so keen to promote was by no means certain.

“Unless I’m losing my capabilities, I’m sure Madoc does want you,” Lloyd continued so enthusiastically, it suddenly seemed a shame to ruin his expectations. “Ever since Gwendolyn died, he’s had women chasing him and men trying to marry him off to their daughters or sisters, but he’s never had that gleam in his eyes he gets when he looks at you, my lady.”

This was surely empty flattery. She hadn’t noticed any special gleam in Lord Madoc’s eyes when he looked at her.

Haven’t you? a small, hopeful voice whispered. Haven’t you felt his desire calling to your own?

No, she had not. She must not. To listen to the urges of her body was folly.

Lloyd led her along a path that skirted the village at the south end of the castle, sparing her the necessity of walking through the market square, where more people would no doubt stop and stare at her. Whether he had done so on purpose or not, she wasn’t sure, but she was grateful nonetheless.

The narrow river ran between banks of mossy red stones. A small, crooked wharf had been built close to the village and low-drafted boats were tied there or pulled up on the bank close by. Across the river was a forest of willow, ash and oak, pine and alders, so close together it was as if the trees were competing to see which one could reach the river first.

Farther downstream she could hear the happy shouts of children at play and the occasional sharp reprimand of a mother. The language was Welsh, the tone universal.

“Ah, like heaven itself, isn’t it?” Lloyd said with a sigh as they walked around a curve of the bank, so they were out of sight of the village, if not the high outer walls of the castle.

He pointed at the grove of leafy alders ahead. “I told you it was a pretty spot.”

“It is indeed,” she agreed, admiring the rugged beauty of the trees, rocks and river, with the rise of the mountain behind.

Then they entered the grove, and Roslynn’s jaw dropped. A man was rising from the river—a completely naked man. His back to them, he stretched his long, powerful arms over his head as if he was worshipping the sun. Water glistened on his muscular torso, while his black, waving hair spread over his broad, powerful shoulders as he shook himself, like a great bear.

The Bear of Brecon.

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