The Welshman's Bride

“That’s impossible, and you know it! Marry DeLanyea, or so help me, I’ll send you to the most remote convent I can find and leave you there to rot!”

As she looked at his angry visage, she knew he would do exactly that. She would be exiled to an existence little better than a living death, with no husband and no possibility of children.

“Lord Petronet?”

Genevieve started and looked at the door, where the baron’s wife stood.

Lady Roanna was tall and slim, dressed in a simple gown of fine red wool girdled with a belt of soft beige leather. Her hair was covered by a red cap and white scarf.

She regarded them placidly, her pale, patient face showing signs of weariness, yet her voice, while soft, was as commanding as the baron’s.

Genevieve quickly curtsied. As she did so, she glanced at her proud and pompous uncle. He looked as humble and contrite as an errant child.

“Lord Perronet, I have been informed of my nephew’s impending marriage and would like to speak to your niece alone, if I may. One woman to another, as it were.”

When she spoke, her voice and expression were such that Genevieve doubted anyone would deny whatever request she cared to make, even including the king.

And as if to prove Genevieve’s observation, her uncle nodded, meek as a lamb.

“Of course, my lady,” he said. He went to the door, then hesitated, glancing back at Genevieve. “The ceremony will be at noon.”

After he was gone, Lady Roanna glided into the room.

“May I sit?” she asked, and Genevieve couldn’t help but be relieved by the change in her tone. She sounded much more sympathetic.

“Of course, my lady,” Genevieve replied.

Lady Roanna took a chair and then gestured at the other. “Please.”

Genevieve did as she was bid.

Lady Roanna turned her vibrant green eyes onto Genevieve, eyes that seemed to demand truthfulness. “So, you are going to marry my nephew, not Lord Kirkheathe.”

“I have been told I must,” Genevieve replied, and not without a hint of bitterness.

“You do not sound pleased.”

Genevieve didn’t answer. She couldn’t, not with Lady Roanna’s steadfast gaze on her.

“I gather your uncle has good reason for demanding this change.”

“I was in your nephew’s bed.”

Lady Roanna’s expression altered ever so slightly and in a manner that made Genevieve flush. “Dylan denies seducing you.”

All Genevieve could do was stare at the floor and blush like a child caught in an outrageous lie.

“Did he seduce you?” Lady Roanna asked gently.

Compelled by the older woman’s sympathy, Genevieve raised her eyes and shook her head. “No, my lady. And so I told my uncle.”

Lady Roanna smiled a little. “I see. I gather this was a plan on your part to avoid marriage to Lord Kirkheathe?”

Genevieve felt her eyes welling with hot tears as she nodded. Suddenly, she felt silly and stupid and ashamed.

“Then I would say you have succeeded admirably. But tell me, were you not consulted about the betrothal to Lord Kirkheathe? Did you not agree?”

“No, my lady. That is,” Genevieve amended, “I did not openly disagree. I thought I had no other choice, until I met Dylan.” Her voice quivered. “I suppose you think I have behaved disgracefully.”

The older woman reached out and pressed her hand warmly. “I think you have acted like a desperate young woman who believes herself in love. However, I must say I am surprised you are not happier at the prospect of marrying my nephew, since you must have suspected this would be the ultimate result of your scheme. Perhaps you have heard things about his family that have upset you?”

Although they had not been uppermost in her mind, Genevieve remembered the epithets her uncle had hurled at Dylan and his hostile reaction. “I know my uncle thinks very poorly of his father and grandfather, but I do not know why.”

Lady Roanna sighed deeply. “Dylan’s father and grandfather were selfish, cruel, vindictive men who craved power. They did terrible things trying to attain it. Thankfully Dylan is not like them.”

“My uncle called him a bastard.”

“He is. His mother was a servant girl at Beaufort.”

Genevieve frowned, confused. “Yet he has inherited that estate?”

“Yes.” Lady Roanna made a wry little smile. “The Welsh are not as concerned with legitimacy, and it is a good thing, too, or my husband would not be lord of Craig Fawr. He is a bastard, too.”

“Oh, my lady, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“There is no need to apologize. I just thought you might hold Dylan’s birth against him.”

“No, that is not what I hold against him,” she replied.

She mustered her pride. “I was most unhappily misled, my lady. I thought he loved me.”

“Why?”

Genevieve was not quite prepared for the blunt question, but if Lady Roanna wanted to know, she would tell her. “He was very kind and pleasant, and flattering. No man has ever looked at me as he did. And then he kissed me, more than once, with great passion. And when he said farewell...”

Her words trailed off into an awkward silence, for if she said more, she would perhaps reveal too much of her own wounded feelings, and that her pride would not allow.

“I understand he never told you that he loved you and wanted to marry you.”

“No, my lady. But his embraces were...they gave me some cause to think he cared for me.”

“Dylan is a passionate man,” Lady Roanna observed. “He sometimes acts without much thought.”

“Did he agree to marry me because my uncle forced him?” Genevieve demanded suspiciously.

Lady Roanna smiled. “If I did not know Dylan better, my dear,” she admitted, “I might think that But I do know him. No one could force him to do such a thing.”

“Then why did he change his mind and say he would marry me?”