The Warlord's Bride

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.

CHAPTER FIVE

BLUSHING WITH embarrassment, hot with indignation, Roslynn stumbled backward, almost tripping on her skirts. She immediately gathered them in her hands and walked swiftly away, the need to maintain some dignity the only thing preventing her from breaking into a run.

Did Madoc ap Gruffydd think that she would be so overwhelmed by lust at the sight of his magnificent body that she would fall into his arms, begging to be his bride? Or had seduction been his aim, whether or not they wed? Had all his previous talk of honor been a lie after all?

Had she been deceived again?

“My lady!”