A Warrior's Honor. Margaret Moore
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if I am lacking in scruples, I am not the only one. So how dare you, my lovely hypocrite? How dare you act as you have, and then upbraid me?”
He looked at her so intently it was as if his gaze rooted her to the ground. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t make an answer to his charges, or utter one word to excuse her own behavior.
He came even closer, so that his body was within a hairbreadth of hers, and when he spoke again, his voice was a low, husky growl. “How dare you stand there in the shadows looking as desirable as any woman I have ever seen, yet if I were to so much as touch you, you would probably call out for the guard and denounce me for a disgraceful villain?”
She swallowed hard, unable to take her eyes from his face. “I wouldn’t,” she said softly.
His expression seemed to change. “You would not do that, my lady?” he whispered, shifting closer. “You would not call out the guard and condemn me for acting on my desire?”
He reached out and gently ran his hand up her arm, his touch sending thrilling tremors of excitement through her.
“I am glad to hear it, for you are the most tempting woman I have ever seen.”
He put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her into his warm embrace.
She knew she should pull away, and yet the moment his mouth touched hers, kissing him did not seem wrong, or immoral, or disgraceful. It felt absolutely, perfectly right.
She had been kissed before, by shy boys who pecked her cheek or lips. Never like this, with power and passion and a desire that seemed to call forth an equally strong reaction from deep within her.
Never had a man’s tongue pressed urgently to enter her mouth.
That did not seem wrong, either, but absolutely, perfectly right, and so she opened her lips to him.
His arms tightened about her. Slowly, languorously, she began to caress the smooth leather of his tunic. As his mouth continued to work its seductive magic, his tense muscles relaxed beneath her fingers.
He gently pushed her back so that she was against the wall. Then his knee thrust between her legs, and her body began to throb with an unfamiliar, primitive anticipation.
Suddenly the door to the hall opened and light spilled into the courtyard. A raucous voice called out a good-night.
At the boisterous interruption, Lady Rhiannon DeLanyea gasped, then a horrified expression passed over her face before she pushed Bryce away from her, lifted her skirts and fled.
Chapter Two
Bryce Frechette muttered an oath as he watched Lady Rhiannon run away. What had just happened here?
What more might have happened if that door had not opened?
Then another curse sprang to his lips as he just as suddenly recalled that Lord Cynvelin ap Hywell wanted to marry her.
God’s wounds, he was a fool. If she told him of their confrontation...
Was he never going to learn to curb his impulses? What did it matter that she was a beautiful, intriguing woman who spoke to him frankly, as an equal. Why hadn’t he left her after he had explained what he was doing at the baggage carts?
He had already caused no end of trouble and shame because he followed his desires first and thought afterward. Had he learned nothing in all the years since he had left home?
Bryce. slumped against the wall. It would serve him right if he had lost the opportunity Lord Cynvelin had kindly offered, and he would have only himself to blame.
No, not only himself. Not this time. She was just as culpable as he for what had occurred in the shadows. Lady Rhiannon had not uttered so much as a murmur of protest when he had taken her in his arms. Indeed, she had responded as fervently to his kiss as any man could ever hope.
Surely she would say nothing to Lord Cynvelin, not unless she was willing to lie.
Which she might very well do.
Scowling, Bryce pushed off from the wall. If questioned, he would not lie, he decided. He would tell Lord Cynvelin exactly what has passed, and let the Welshman believe what he would.
The next morning, Rhiannon scanned the gathering in the chapel. She easily spotted Lord Cynvelin, dressed for traveling in a short black tunic, brown breeches and with a black cloak of light wool thrown over his broad shoulders. He stood beside Lady Valmont, so close that their shoulders touched, and he seemed to be whispering in the lady’s ear almost constantly.
Good. He might not notice her, then, and hopefully she could get to the hall to break the fast without having to speak to him. After last night, she thought avoiding him would save her any awkward moments or explanations.
She had even considered avoiding the rest of Lord Melevoir’s guests, too. Then she had decided she couldn’t stay hidden in her chamber like a terrified mouse. She had to know if she had been seen in the arms of Bryce Frechette, or if he had told anyone that she had acted little better than a wanton bawd last night.
That kind of gossip was too scandalous not to fly about the castle like a feather in a stiff breeze, and this morning, she could sympathize with Bryce’s denunciation of hearsay.
Fortunately, no one seemed to be taking any speciai notice of her. Nobody stared or darted pointed glances her way. Everyone who caught her eye gave her a friendly smile, not a smirk of derision.
She sighed with relief.
Nevertheless, she was glad the Norman was not at mass. She didn’t know what she would do if she had to speak to him.
Perhaps he, too, regretted what had happened between them. After all, he had not treated her as befitted her station.
Just as she had not behaved as befitted her station, or she would have gone on her way the moment she had realized he was not a thief rifling through a baggage cart.
It had to be because he was not what she had expected that she had lingered. He was not a wastrel, for he had behaved with all due decorum at the feast, even holding himself rather aloof from the other celebrants. He was not a bully and a hothead...or rather, not until he was provoked, perhaps.
She had obviously provoked him—but then, he had not been right to criticize her behavior. That was for her parents.
As for what her father would make of her behavior in the courtyard last night, letting herself be guided into the shadows, out of sight of the guards, alone with a young, virile, misunderstood, exciting man....
She shuddered—and she was not thinking of her father’s reaction.
One of Lord Melevoir’s guests, who was standing beside her, gave her a quizzical look that reminded her she was in company. Besides, she chided herself, she shouldn’t be having such thoughts, not in a chapel. Not of a dispossessed nobleman, who had kissed her with such fervent passion.
She could only hope that Bryce Frechette never saw fit to brag of his easy conquest.
And she would never, ever, allow herself to be put in such a confusing, overwhelming situation again.
The mass ended at last, and she quickly went outside into the chill of a spring morning. She walked briskly toward the hall, her only concern getting inside before Lord Cynvelin saw her.
Outside the stable she passed Lord Cynvelin’s black horse, saddled and waiting. His men and his baggage carts were all ready to leave, too, apparently, for several of his guards loitered nearby, some leaning against the stable walls.
“Wonder if she’s a moaner or a screamer?” a rough Welsh voice muttered just loudly enough for her to hear.
Rhiannon halted and slowly swiveled on her heel to look at the lout who dared to make such a rude remark in her hearing. She thought