A Warrior's Honor

Rhiannon tried to smile as she thought of her father’s old nurse, who had made it very clear that she expected Rhiannon to return either with a husband, or a betrothal, at the very least.

Instead, Rhiannon had made a mess of things. “How is Mamaeth? And Mother?” she asked, deciding to get away from this prickly subject.

“Well enough, but missing you,” her father replied. Suddenly he sniffed and looked up at the darkening clouds overhead, and she realized it did indeed smell much like rain. “Getting inside, us, or we’ll be drenched.”

Griffydd nodded, then began issuing commands to their men while the baron took Rhiannon’s arm to escort her inside. Dylan handed his reins to a groom before sauntering toward the kitchen. He always claimed to admire the arms of the women who kneaded bread and Griffydd always retorted that he simply liked all his appetites satisfied simultaneously.

“I’m going to have to put a leash on that fellow,” the baron muttered sardonically.

Despite his good-humored acceptance of Dylan’s foibles, Rhiannon guessed he would not find hers so laughable. She tried to stay calm, and the thought that Lord Cynvelin was far away was very comforting.

She tried not to notice that she didn’t feel quite the same way about Bryce Frechette although she should, and more so, given what had happened in the courtyard.

The baron smiled at his daughter. “We have all been missing you. Craig Fawr seemed half-empty without you. I think even Mamaeth was reconsidering the notion of having you wed and away by the time we left to fetch you back again.”

“I assure you, Father, I am in no hurry to be married,” Rhiannon answered truthfully.

When her father paused and looked at her with a serious expression, she feared she had betrayed too much.

Fortunately, at that precipitous moment, a puffing and beaming Lord Melevoir appeared at the entrance to his hall.

“Always a delight, Baron!” the older man cried as the baron and Rhiannon hurried toward him. “Forgive my tardiness. It’s this cursed damp. It gets into my bones and makes them ache like the very devil.”

“Then please go back to your place at the hearth, my lord,” the baron said.

“If you will join me,” their host replied.

“Indeed, my bones are not so young anymore, either,” the baron admitted ruefully as they followed Lord Melevoir to some oak chairs that were near the large hearth. A small yet comfortable blaze warmed the air.

As they sat on the age-darkened furniture, they could hear the rain begin to pelt against the stone walls. Lord Melevoir smiled and said, “I am glad you didn’t get caught on the road in such weather.”

“What is rain to a Welshman, my lord?” Baron DeLanyea asked cheerfully. “Nevertheless, I am happy to stay and enjoy your hospitality a day or two.”

When her father looked at her, Rhiannon forced a smile onto her face. She had known that her father’s visit would be more than a night; still, that meant more chances for him to hear about Lord Cynvelin’s kiss. For a moment she considered broaching the subject herself, to put it in the proper light, but before she could, her father spoke.

“Who won the prizes?” he asked their host.

“Bryce Frechette took the largest purse,” Lord Melevoir replied. “He has the truest aim with a lance I ever beheld.”

“Frechette?” the baron asked, giving Lord Melevoir a surprised look. “The Earl of Westborough’s son?”

“The same. I confess I had my doubts about allowing him to participate, but I tell you, Emryss, I’ve never seen a more improved young man,” Lord Melevoir replied.

Rhiannon tried not to betray any overt interest in the lancer, especially after what had happened between them. Indeed, he could well be a fine warrior. That didn’t mean he was a gentleman.

Unexpectedly her father fastened his shrewd gaze on Rhiannon. “What did you think of him?” he asked coolly.

She struggled to keep her expression bland as she shrugged her shoulders. “Lord Melevoir wouldn’t let us watch the competitions.”

“Of course not!” the nobleman declared. “It is not fitting for young ladies to see such things.”

“Frechette acquitted himself well, eh?” her father noted, facing the older man again. “A pity, then, his family lost their estate and titles. We can always use a fine knight.”

“His family lost their estate and titles?” Rhiannon asked innocently.

“His father spent too freely—a warning to us all and I should have used him for an example before I let you go to the fair last spring.” The baron’s expression was severe, but the hint of laughter in his voice betrayed him.

“I had to have new dresses,” Rhiannon reminded him sweetly. “Mamaeth said so.”

“If you were to catch a husband, she said. Did you?”

Lord Melevoir started to laugh, or rather, wheeze with merriment as he looked from one to the other, his eyes twinkling mischievously.

“I told you, Father, I am in no hurry to wed.”

“Then not wanting to be in your shoes when we get home, me, when Mamaeth hears that all this visiting and spending of money has not brought you a husband,” he answered gravely.

Lord Melevoir took a great, deep, recuperative breath. “She was greatly admired, Baron. Greutly admired.”

“Ah, her father’s daughter, then,” the baron said smugly, and he winked his good eye at her.

“One young man seemed particularly smitten. A countryman of yours, too. Indeed, the infatuation seemed quite mutual.”

Rhiannon squirmed uncomfortably as her father regarded her steadily and with no hint of a smile. “Indeed? Who might this Welshman be?”

Rhiannon looked down at her hands, knotting them in her lap.

“Ah, now she will be coy,” Lord Melevoir replied and Rhiannon heartlessly wished he would fall into a swoon or fit. Anything to make him be quiet.

“There was nothing—” she began desperately.

“Nothing?” Lord Melevoir declared indignantly. “Nothing to be kissed in my courtyard?”

Rhiannon wanted to shrink until she was invisible.

“This man kissed you out in the open of the courtyard for all to see?” the baron asked, his tone making Rhiannon cringe.

“Father, I—”

“Now, now, Baron, I fear you are showing your age! A young man does impetuous things when he has been struck by Cupid’s dart. Don’t be cross with your pretty daughter. She made it very plain that she felt he had acted improperly.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

“Oh, tut, now, man! Lord Cynvelin—”

“Who?”

The single word was softly spoken, but never had Rhiannon heard such cold menace in her father’s voice.