The Welshman's Bride

“Yes,” she answered, rising and steeling herself for his anger. She would try to tell him the truth—that she was a virgin still—and her reasons for the deception, but she had little hope that he would listen.

What hope she had was squelched the moment her uncle marched into the chamber. He was still so angry, his hawklike face seemed filled with fury and his brown eyes fairly snapped with wrath as he slammed the heavy door shut.

Explanations would be useless. How could she save herself from his ire?

Quickly she knelt before him in an attitude of humble contrition, her anger masked, her head lowered, pressing her palms together as if she were praying—and she was, silently begging God to help her from this morass she had created.

“Uncle, I beg your forgiveness for my shameful conduct,” she murmured contritely. “I am very sorry.”

“So you should be.”

Noting that he didn’t sound quite so angry, she risked a glance up at him, and thought she saw a crack in the veneer of wrath.

“I was weak and foolish.”

Because I thought he loved me.

“All women are weak and foolish,” her uncle growled. “It is their nature.”

“I regret that I have sinned so grievously.”

And trusted him.

“You could not help it, I suppose,” he said, slightly mollified. “Like Eve when she was tempted by a snake.”

She tentatively raised her eyes to regard him.

“I suppose the betrothal to Lord Kirkheathe must be broken?” she asked with very real remorse.

She had never met the man, did not know him—but could marriage to him make her feel any worse?

“He very specifically wanted a virgin,” her uncle muttered as he strolled to the window and stared out, unseeing.

Genevieve swallowed hard. That did not make the man sound any more attractive; still, what alternatives existed?

“You will have to marry DeLanyea.”

She stared at him. “After what he did?”

Her uncle turned to face her. “We have little choice.”

“Lord Kirkheathe lives far away. Rumors may not reach him, so he need not know—”

Her uncle’s fierce scowl silenced her. “I will know, and I gave the man my word that you were a virgin. Besides, Kirkheathe hears everything one way or another. Since you are no longer pure, honor demands that I break the contract, just as honor demands that DeLanyea marry you after what he has done.”

“But I do not want to marry him now!”

“You wanted him enough last night to dishonor yourself,” he noted, glaring at her.

“I... I was overwhelmed by him. I made a mistake. I should not have done it.”

“Girl, get it through your head. Your reputation is irrevocably destroyed—unless he marries you.”

She got to her feet.

“Uncle,” she said resolutely, “I am a virgin still. It was a ruse to break the betrothal. I crept into his bed last night when he was already asleep.”

Her uncle’s eyes narrowed. “Did that bastard tell you to say that?”

“No! It is the truth. I thought he loved me and would want to marry me if I were free. Clearly, I made a serious error,” she finished bitterly.

“Yes, you did,” her uncle concurred grimly. “Whatever stupid thing you thought, this is not some childish prank, easily mended. Easily forgiven.”

It was unfortunately obvious that he did not believe her explanation.

“There is only one way out of this with even a hint of honor. You must and shall marry Dylan DeLanyea, and now I will ensure that is what comes to pass.”

He started for the door.

“I would rather die!”

He halted, then wheeled slowly on his heel to regard her dispassionately, as if she were a stranger to him. “There is a window. Jump.”

Appalled at his cold remark, she could only stare at him.

“I thought you would not,” he muttered as he left her.

After he closed the door, she heard the sound of a key in the lock.

Smking down on the chair, she put her head in her hands.

And cursed herself for a fool.

Chapter Three

“My lord!” Dylan cried as he nearly collided with Lord Perronet on the steps leading to Genevieve’s chamber.

“DeLanyea,” the nobleman snarled, glaring at him.

Dylan tried to remain calm, or at least as calm as he had been since his abrupt waking this morning. He would rather have talked to Genevieve first, but he might as well get the worst over with, he told himself. “I would speak with you, my lord.”

“Yes, you will,” the man replied. “But not here.”

Dylan fought to keep the scowl off his face. Of course he would not discuss this business on the stairs. “My uncle’s solar would, perhaps, be best.”

“Show me the way.”

Without a word, Dylan turned on his heel. He led the man down the stairs and through the hall, ignoring his uncle and cousins as they sat breaking the fast, to a tower recently built abutting the hall. The lower levels were used as offices by the steward and the bailiff. The baron’s solar was on the second level, and a fine new bedchamber for the baron and his wife comprised the third.