The Welshman's Way

When he made no sign of giving her the courtesy of an answer of some kind, Madeline bristled. “Sir, I do not know who you are, but I know full well that I do not deserve to be ignored in this manner. However, do not answer if it suits your purpose and I will assume I have surmised correctly.” She ran her gaze over the horse and the pack tied onto it. “And I believe you are going on a pilgrimage as part of your penance. Whatever it is you are doing, sir,” she went on with great formality, “I will require your assistance to return to my brother and his men, who I’m certain would have rescued me if you had not.”

Dafydd regarded this astounding woman standing before him. As he had raced to help her, a part of him had been impressed that she had the strength to fight and the will to curse her attacker. Then, when he had won his battle and had time to really look at her, he had been startled by two things. The first was her beauty; the second was that this beauty was encased in the vestments of a novice in a convent.

For a moment, he had feared she had been injured or was going to faint, for her complexion was unnaturally pale. When she did not, he credited her with more inner strength and ability to recover quickly than most noblewomen possessed, until it had become quite apparent that she was not only recovered—if her sharp tongue was any guide—but she was ungrateful, too. Apparently she accepted his rescue as a natural right, and not only that, he should be willing—nay, anxious—to take her back to her brother.

He had to be on his way, out of Norman territory and on to Wales. He had no wish to play nursemaid to some Norman noblewoman, especially not the haughty sister of Sir Roger de Montmorency, a man who was notoriously ruthless with Welsh rebels. Next to Morgan, he was the one man Dafydd knew he should avoid at all costs.

God’s holy rood, who would have guessed that he would find himself in such a predicament? There was no way under God’s heaven that he could go anywhere near Sir Roger de Montmorency. Nor could he leave her alone in the forest, tempting though it was. There were too many dangers for a lone woman.

His shoulder ached fiercely and he was dead tired. He never should have interfered. The poor young fool who lay unconscious on the ground back there surely only wanted some ransom money and wouldn’t have really hurt her. Nevertheless, he supposed he could take this woman somewhere...neutral. Sir Guy’s manor, perhaps. It would be risky, but certainly less dangerous than riding up to Sir Roger de Montmorency.

Lady Madeline began to tap her foot impatiently. “Will you please be so kind as to accompany me back to my brother’s party?” she repeated insistently, glaring at him with enormous blue eyes that betrayed every emotion like a signpost. “I am quite sure he has sent the rest of this rabble packing as easily as you dispatched that miscreant.”

Dafydd frowned, even though he agreed with her. The Welshmen would be long gone, although they were probably not very far away. They would be waiting for the young fool who had taken it into his head to try for ransom. A Norman lady would be worth a great ransom, and so the risk.

Yes, as an object for ransom, she was quite valuable. To him, too. Why, he could get enough silver to live as well as any nobleman. He turned away, in case his eyes were no more inscrutable than hers.

“Roger will pay you for your trouble, or at least see that you have a decent horse.”

Reward money was less risky than a ransom, he realized. Still, any contact at all with Normans was to be avoided. He decided to follow his original plan and see that the lady got to the nearby manor, then he would be on his way.

Without speaking, he grabbed Lady Madeline around the waist and hoisted her onto the beast she spoke of so scornfully.

No doubt she would not be so quick to insult it when she realized the only alternative was to walk. Dafydd mounted behind her and reached around to pick up the reins, his arms encircling her shapely body. He turned his horse in the direction from which he had come and nudged the horse into a walk. At that precise moment, he realized something else.

It had been much too long since he had had a woman. The whole time he had been in the monastery, he had not so much as seen one, let alone touched one.

He was certainly touching one now. Not just any one, either.

Lady Madeline de Montmorency was extremely lovely, with her rose-tinted cheeks, large cornflower blue eyes beneath shapely brown brows, a delicate nose and finely formed chin, the edge of which he could see if he leaned slightly forward. Her lips were lovely, too. He leaned forward again, enjoying the subtle contact that sent a rush of hot blood through his veins.

She even smelled good. Like fruit. What would happen if he tried to take a little taste....

This arrogant Norman creature would surely snap his head off if he so much as touched her cheek, but she was as beautiful as she was proud. Maybe the aftermath would be worth the kiss.

No, he should just ignore her, with her beautiful Norman face, her scornful Norman blue eyes, and her Norman lips.

He wondered about her clothing. She was attired as a nun, but she acted nothing like the nuns he had ever seen or met. Perhaps her clothing was some kind of disguise to ward off unwanted attention. Yes, a brother might think that way, especially if the sister was as lovely as this.

Lady Madeline de Montmorency. Her name seemed slightly familiar. Because of her more famous brother? No...the marriage the abbot was attending...was not de Montmorency one of the parties? Yes, that was it.

So, this woman was due to be married soon. Heaven help the man she wed! He would have a shrew on his hands.

A low rumble of thunder sounded in the sky. He glanced upward. It would soon be night, and the sooner he got Lady Madeline de Montmorency off his hands, the sooner he could be on his way.

* * *

“This is not the right way.” Madeline twisted in the saddle to look into the man’s inscrutable face. “We passed this way some time ago, my brother and I. I recognize that ruined building. You have made a mistake. My brother is the other way,” she said firmly.

The pilgrim frowned and shook his head.

Although she had no wish to return to her brother’s castle or obey his edict about her future, she had no idea where this pilgrim was taking her, if pilgrim he was. Perhaps she had exchanged one abductor for another, the garment only a sham, her mind clouded by the comeliness of the fellow. She could not believe that whoever or whatever this man was, he posed any direct danger, or he would have acted before this. Nevertheless, it could be that in revealing her identity, she had made an incredible blunder. As an object for ransom, she would be worth much. “I am right,” she insisted.

He shook his head again. Suddenly the strong arms around her that had made her feel protected moments before seemed to be a cage.

“Sirrah, I appreciate your willingness to assist me, but I must insist that we go the other way,” she said, trying not to sound as panic-stricken as she felt.

Cursing herself for a stupid fool, she tried to think of a way to escape and return to Roger. Whatever she did, it would have to be soon, before it was dark, when it would be impossible for her to find her own way. To think she had lived not many miles from here for so long, and this was the first time she had been on this road. If only Mother Bertrilde had not been so strict about staying within the walls of the convent.

When they rode beneath the first trees of what seemed a dark, nearly impenetrable wood, she heard the soft babble of a stream and immediately said, “I am thirsty. May we stop and refresh ourselves at that creek?”

The man nodded and pulled the horse to a halt. Trying to appear calm, Madeline slipped from the horse and headed for the stream. She took a drink of the cold, clear water and watched out of the corner of her eye as the man also dismounted and walked toward her.

“I...I will go into those bushes,” Madeline said, hoping she sounded not frightened but filled with maidenly modesty. She sidled toward the shrubs. When the man bent down to drink, she dashed for the horse as quietly as she could and clambered into the saddle. She kicked the beast, which leapt into motion.

At the sudden sound of his horse breaking into a gallop, Dafydd spun around. What was she doing? Where did she think she was going? He sprinted to the road, to see Lady Madeline and the roan disappear around a bend.

A host of colorful Welsh epithets came to his mind as he stood in the middle of the road now completely defenceless. She had everything he possessed, including his sword as well as the money he had taken from the abbot. Then, swiftly, apprehension replaced his anger. The horse belonged to the monastery. If anyone happened to see it and recognize it, they would know where it had come from, and not only that, they would discover the stolen coins in his pack.

Sir Roger would make certain somebody came looking for him. If they found him, Sir Roger would surely guess that the former guest of the good brothers was no simple soldier or religious pilgrim. He would be hanged for a rebel, as well as a thief.

Dafydd realized that he could forget the horse, the money and his sword and run away, or he could follow Lady Madeline and try to get them back before anyone recognized the beast. Perhaps if he hurried, they might be too preoccupied with their reunion to open the pack, and he could steal that back, too. He had to get his sword, at the very least. It had been in his family for generations.

With a grim face, Dafydd hitched up his heavy robe and marched down the road after Lady Madeline de Montmorency.

Chapter Three

Sweating profusely, anxious and angry, Dafydd once again cursed the impulse that had led him to interfere as he hurried along the trees that skirted the roadway, listening for the sounds of anyone approaching along the muddy track. Without his sword, he was helpless against the Normans, or any outlaws, for that matter. He did not really expect to be accosted by outlaws, however. They would not think one lone, empty-handed man worth the effort and he believed the ones that had attacked Sir Roger’s train would be far away by now, rifling the packs and deciding how to divide the profits.

The Normans were more worrisome. If they were uninjured, they would surely pursue their attackers, who would disappear as rapidly as dew on a hot summer’s day. If they found him instead, the Normans might not listen to his protests that he was not one of the outlaw band. He would be Welsh, and that would be enough to condemn him.

He smiled sardonically at the idea that he might be hanged for a crime he did not commit, rather than the ones he had.

The sun was nearly on the horizon, he realized as he finally reached the place where he had halted when he had heard the attack. He cut through the woods and reached the top of the hill. There he easily spotted Lady Madeline de Montmorency. She was alone, crouched in the mud, examining the ground. The untethered roan stood at the side of the road, the reins dangling. Although he did not move cautiously, she did not hear him approach, but continued to stare at the trampled and muddy road, the signs of the fight all too obvious, and at one spot in particular, stained red with blood. Her shoulders rose and fell with a ragged sigh, and a choked sob escaped her throat.

Lady Madeline did not seem so arrogant now. Indeed, it struck him that she had a mixture of pride and vulnerability such as he had never encountered before. Except, perhaps, within himself.

Dafydd ignored the small pang of pity and understanding in his heart and surveyed the area. At the same time, Lady Madeline realized she was not alone. She started up, staring at him with fear in her eyes, clutching something in her slender fingers. “What do you want?” she asked, wiping at her tear-dampened cheeks. Nevertheless, he could see the dread in her eyes.

That fear disturbed him far more than anything else that had happened. “Not hurting you, me,” he said slowly and reassuringly, trying to make his accent as much like a Norman’s as he possibly could.

“You spoke!”

He nodded his head.

“Then tell me who you are,” she demanded, her tears and dread forgotten, or submerged beneath an incredibly strong will and brave heart.

He did not reply, but pointed instead at her hand.