The Welshman's Bride

Afterward, Dylan DeLanyea had escorted her back to her uncle. Then he had returned and beseeched her to dance again.

That time, when the dance was over, he did not take her back to her uncle, who was engaged in deep conversation with the baron and his eldest son, Griffydd. Instead, he led her to a more private part of the hall—still in full view of everyone, of course, so there could be no charge of impropriety.

She was, after all, betrothed—albeit to a man old enough to be her father.

Her face flushed as she thought of what had happened next. Somehow, and she wasn’t sure just how, she found herself farther back in the shadows. Nor could she recall what they had been speaking of, for all at once, Dylan DeLanyea had suddenly leaned forward and kissed her.

She was not cold now, as she remembered the sensation of his warm, soft lips first brushing her cheek, then touching her mouth.

“There is a rose blooming here, after all.”

She started when she heard Dylan’s musical Welsh voice.

She stood as he came through the gate, closing it softly behind him before he faced her, smiling.

His untamed hair moved gently in the chilly breeze. He did not look cold, although he wore no cloak. He was clad in an open-necked shirt beneath a leather tunic girded by a thick sword belt. The tunic brushed his muscular thighs, which were encased in breeches. Fur wrappings covered his shins and boots.

Plain clothing indeed, and yet he looked absolutely splendid. She did not think a prince could look finer, especially when he regarded her with that intimate smile and those shining eyes.

“I was afraid you would not come,” he said as he approached her.

Genevieve looked at the frosty ground. “I should not, perhaps, have done so.”

“I would have been very sad.”

She risked a glance at him. “Truly?”

“Most truly. Come, sit here beside me.”

He sat on the stone bench she had recently vacated. Her heart throbbing so that she was sure he must be able to hear it, she hesitated a moment, then joined him, sitting as far away as possible.

Although she had been unable to resist the lure of being alone with him in the garden, she was a lady, and there were certain proprieties to be observed.

But not by him, apparently, for he boldly reached out and took her gloved hand in his.

She knew she should not allow such familiarity, but the words of protest would not come.

“Baron DeLanyea tells me you are to leave tomorrow,” he said softly.

She nodded.

He sighed. “I will be very sorry when you go.”

Emboldened by his manner and his words, she looked at him. “So will I.”

He smiled wistfully. “You are to be married within the month?”

“Yes, within the month,” she replied, not troubling to hide her dismay at her impending fate. “To an old man.”

“That is often the way of it,” Dylan replied gravely. “An old man and a young wife.”

“Why must it be so? It doesn’t seem right.”

She saw that her forceful words startled him. “I know such a match is not unusual, and I know my marriage to Lord Kirkheathe pleases my uncle, who is my guardian now, yet I wish I were not betrothed.”

When Dylan answered, he sounded as sad as she felt, and his hand squeezed hers. “But you are.”

“I wish I could stay.”

“I wish you could, too,” he replied softly, reaching up to caress her cheek.

“Is there nothing to be done?”

“I fear there is not, my lady. We must say our farewells. Let us do so here, where we can be alone.”

Her eyes welled with tears. “I do not want to say farewell.”

“Then do not,” he whispered, bending his head to kiss her.

For a fleeting instant, it crossed Genevieve’s mind that she should not allow such a liberty.

Yet she could not stop him, or herself. She wrapped her arms around him and leaned against him as she lost herself in the wonderful sensations his lips engendered.

Dylan shifted closer, moving his hands into the warmth of her cloak to hold her in his arms. He caressed her slim back as his kiss deepened.

Engulfed in the pleasure of their embrace, he let himself drift on a sea of delightful perceptions. The perfect softness of her lips. The slight arch in her back. The brush of the fur lining on the backs of his hands.

Her lips parted ever so slightly, and he needed no more invitation to push his tongue gently between them. As he did so, he moved his hand to cup the malleable flesh of her breast.

As her tongue boldly intertwined with his, she made a sound in the back of her throat, half moan, half whimper.

The small noise broke the spell, and reminded him who she was, as well as what she was.

Despite her responses, she was Lady Genevieve Perronet, the betrothed of Lord Kirkheathe, niece of stern Lord Pomphrey Perronet, and on her way to be married.

With more reluctance than he cared to acknowledge even to himself, Dylan pulled away and tried to smile as he looked at her. The corona of blond curls that clustered around her heart-shaped face was a little disheveled. Her cheeks glowed, and her bold, blue-eyed gaze seemed to transfix him and render him speechless.

As well as fill him with a burning desire.

He did not want to talk, let alone say a farewell.

He pulled her onto his lap. No tender, tentative kiss this time, but a passionate taking of her mouth. She responded with equal fervor, clutching him as if she never wanted to let go. With increasing need, he stroked and caressed her, drawing forth small moans and sighs that spurred him on, as the shifting movement of her body increased his arousal.

Usually, he preferred to take his time and linger over every delightful step on the path. Here, now, with this young woman who looked so innocent yet who kissed with such wanton abandon, he simply could not wait.

Still kissing her, he fumbled with the ties of her cloak, determined to undo it Finally, with a low growl of both want and frustration, he tore the strings and shoved it from her shoulders. He did the same at the back of her bodice, until it was loose enough for his hands to travel inside to the warm, satiny flesh.

She gasped when he touched her, then arched, another moan breaking from her slender throat.