The Welshman's Bride

He waited for Lord Perronet to enter the room, then followed him, closing the door behind him.

“Please, sit,” he offered, gesturing at the baron’s chair behind the large wooden table.

“I prefer to stand.”

Dylan shrugged, then he himself took the baron’s chair. At that, Lord Perronet looked even more irate, but Dylan didn’t much care. If the man insisted upon standing, so that now he looked like a humble penitent brought before the lord of the manor, he had only himself to blame.

Like his niece.

“You’ve dishonored her, so you’ve got to marry her,” Lord Perronet declared without further preamble.

“I did not, so I do not,” Dylan replied. “I don’t know what she told you, but I didn’t even know she was in my bed until you came barging into my chamber this morning. If there’s dishonor here, you cannot lay it at my feet.”

“It’s not your feet that ruined her,” Lord Perronet growled. “She was in your bed with blood on the sheets, man! That’s evidence enough for what you did.”

“That is evidence that somebody bled for some reason. Otherwise, it is my word against hers.”

“The word of my niece against that of a—”

“Bastard?” Dylan regarded him steadily. “I must say, my lord, I’m surprised you would insist I marry her, given your low opinion of my family.”

“You gave me no choice.” The nobleman’s brows lowered. “Perhaps that was your plan—to get her dowry as well as entry into my family.”

“If I did dishonor her, as you claim, those would be the furthest things from my mind. I don’t need her dowry, and I certainly don’t want to be related to you in any way.”

The nobleman’s frown deepened. “Then why did you do it? To destroy my allegiance with Kirkheathe?”

“I don’t give a fisherman’s fart for your allegiances,” Dylan retorted. “That’s a Norman for you, thinking only of power and gain.”

“You young—”

“Welshman,” Dylan interrupted.

If the man insulted him again, he was quite likely to lose what remained of his control over his temper, and that would be a mistake.

“Or rather,” Dylan continued, “happily more Welsh than Norman. Tell me, my lord, what does the lady say? Does she claim that I made love to her under promise of marriage?”

Lord Perronet didn’t hesitate a moment. “Yes.”

The bile rose in Dylan’s throat. Genevieve had lied as blatantly as any charlatan, making him bear the blame.

“She is but a weak-willed girl easily led astray by a honey-tongued young man.”

Dylan thought of Genevieve’s eyes before his passionate kiss.

She was no weak-willed girl; she was a woman, with a woman’s passion.

And a very adult capacity to lie without detection.

He rose and faced Lord Perronet. “Whatever I may or may not have done, I will not be blackmailed into marriage.”

For the first time, it finally seemed to penetrate Lord Perronet’s brain that Dylan could not be compelled to marry Genevieve under these, or perhaps any, circumstances.

“I hope you realize you’ve destroyed her chances,” he snarled. “There’ll be nothing for her but a convent—a secluded one.”

“That is not my concern.”

“No, it isn’t, is it?” Perronet demanded. “Just like your father, aren’t you? Don’t think about consequences—just so long as you get what you want! Greedy to the bone!”

“If you were wise, you would cut out your tongue before you spoke of my father again,” Dy-lan said quietly as he came out from behind the table.

Lord Perronet’s eyes filled with panic, and he took a step back.

“I am not the greedy one here, my lord,” Dylan continued in that same softly menacing tone. “What will you forfeit if the betrothal between your niece and Kirkheathe is broken? Money? Power? Influence? All three? Was there ever any thought of her happiness when you made that betrothal?”

Lord Perronet stepped back again as Dylan approached him like a lion stalking its prey. “Perhaps if you had thought of her, she would not have been driven to impugn my honor to avoid marrying against her will.”

“I...she...”

“You would sacrifice her happiness for your greed,” he accused.

“You...you impertinent—!” Lord Perronet spluttered.

“Watch your tongue, my lord! Or should I say, Uncle?”

The man’s eyes widened.

“Why look so surprised? Isn’t that what you came here demanding, that I should marry your niece? Anwyl, maybe I should. She wanted me, after all, so there is that to consider. And you are a rich, powerful man.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Lord Perronet gasped.

“You seem to think I am capable of anything. Why not honorable marriage? Tell me, my lord, what might her dowry be?”

“It is—it doesn’t matter what it is! You will never see it!”

“This may be an appropriate time to point out that my own family is not insignificant,” Dylan said. “While I agree my father and grandfather were despicable monsters, my uncle and his sons are considered among the finest nobles in all of England. Baron DeLanyea is easily a match for you in powerful friends, as well as wealth. So you see, my haughty Norman, perhaps marriage to me is not to be considered a fate only slightly better than life in a secluded convent.

“Now, I ask you again, what is the lady’s dowry?”

Baron DeLanyea glanced at the entrance to the tower containing his solar, then back to the bread and ale before him as he broke the fast.

“God’s wounds, nerve-racking this is, and no mistake,” he muttered to his sons, who sat on either side of him.

“If he doesn’t part the man’s head from his body, it will be a miracle,” Griffydd observed.

“Then someone should go and make sure he doesn’t,” Trystan said, looking pointedly at his father.

“He won’t attack the man,” the baron said, although not without the merest hint of doubt in his voice. “He wouldn’t be that stupid.”