A Warrior's Honor. Margaret Moore
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my lady,” he answered with wideeyed—and quite false—innocence.
“Is there some trouble here?” a familiar deep voice said in Norman French.
Her whole body warmed as Bryce Frechette came to stand beside her, as if he had materialized out of thin air.
As before, he was simply attired in leather jerkin and breeches, his sword belt slung low on his narrow hips. Despite his lack of mail or other armor, he seemed far more imposing than the chain-mailed brawny fellow, perhaps because of his regal bearing and the sense of self-confidence that seemed as much a part of him as his deep brown eyes or sensuous mouth.
What on earth was she doing, thinking about his mouth? She was supposed to be quite properly indignant.
He looked at the man, then her, his expression inscrutable. “Is anything wrong?”
Rhiannon lifted her chin slightly. “He said something rude to me.”
“Is that so?” Bryce asked before walking toward the soldier. His tone had been calm and noncommittal, but she saw the tension in his shoulders and guessed that he was angry. “Did you say something rude to the lady?”
The man gave him a blank look and answered in Welsh.
“He says he doesn’t understand you,” Rhiannon explained.
Bryce glanced at her over his shoulder. “But you understood him, did you not, my lady?”
“Unfortunately, I did.”
In the next moment, Bryce had the man pinned against the wall, his hands on the man’s shoulders. “Apologize to the lady,” he muttered between clenched teeth. “You understand that, don’t you?”
The man looked at Rhiannon with fear in his eyes. “I don’t understand him!” he cried in Welsh. “What did I do?”
Rhiannon ran forward and grabbed Bryce’s arm, his muscles hard beneath her fingers. “He doesn’t understand you! Let him go.”
Bryce didn’t move. “Then you tell him he should apologize to you, or by God, he will be sorry.”
Rhiannon quickly told the man what the Norman had said, and just as quickly the Welsh soldier stammered out an apology.
Bryce let go and the man slumped to the ground. The rest of the men gathered round him, a few casting wary glances at the Norman.
“As grateful as I am for your championship of my honor, I fear you’ve made some enemies,” Rhiannon said when Bryce turned to face her. She tried to keep an icy demeanor, even though she felt as hot as if she were in the deserts of the east, and if the trickle of perspiration made her feel as if the ice was melting, that had to be because of her physical activity moments before.
He didn’t look at all concerned. “I should thank you, my lady, for the opportunity to show my soonto-be companions-in-arms that I am not to be trifled with,” he remarked grimly. “Otherwise, I might have been forced to create a situation myself.”
Her eyes widened. “Do you often have to create situations, sir? Or is it more usual for you to wait until a lady is insulted, and then you rush to her defense to prove your manliness?”
“I never thought my manliness was in question,” he replied.
Her cheeks grew warm with a blush as he continued to regard her. “Your effort to make him apologize seemed rather extreme,” she noted.
“I know.”
She knew she should leave, yet courtesy decreed she say more. “You were most effective,” she admitted. “You have my thanks, Frechette.”
He bowed stiffly. “It was my honor.”
She glanced around and noted that the soldiers had moved off, away from them, and that no one else was near. “Frechette?” she began, her tone conspiratorial.
His gaze likewise grew serious. “Yes, my lady?”
“You...you will not tell anyone about last night, in the courtyard?”
His expression personified frigid offense. “Did you think I would?”
She was dismayed to think she had insulted him, yet she had to be certain he would continue to be silent. “As you said, and rightly, I do not know you.”
She thought he looked a little surprised, but she could not be sure.
“Then know that I will keep what happened a secret between us,” he replied, “and I trust you will not disparage me to Lord Cynvelin.”
“No!” she cried, startled. “We will just pretend it never happened.”
He nodded, but there was a look in his eyes that made her flush again. She knew he would not forget, and neither would she.
She would not forget the passion he had aroused within her, or his harsh condemnation of her apparent hypocrisy. She would always remember the bitter remorse beneath his ostensible anger when he spoke of his sister. She would never forget him, no matter how much she thought she should.
Then, out of the corner of her eye, she caught a most unwelcome sight.
Lord Cynvelin was striding toward them, concern on every feature. “My lady! What’s amiss?”
Rhiannon had no choice but to acknowledge the speaker, so she turned away from Bryce, who immediately moved toward his horse.
She also noticed that Lord Melevoir and the other guests were making a more leisurely progress toward the hall, and they were watching.
Very aware that many people could hear them, Rhiannon spoke in Welsh when her countryman drew near. “All is well in hand, my lord,” she replied lightly.
“I am glad to hear it, and I am very glad to see you. I knew you would not let me leave without bidding me farewell.” He took her hand and kissed the back of it. “I thought to see you last night, but you had disappeared.”
“I decided to retire.”
“I missed you,” he said softly.
She swallowed hard. “Yes, well, the hall was hot and I was tired.”
He glanced up at the sky, and she did likewise. “We intend to make an early start and break our fast upon the road,” he told her. “The weather threatens to change.”
He was quite right. Gray clouds were moving in from the west. She also noted with relief that his manner was as open and friendly and distant as it had been when she had first met him, with none of that sense of hidden meaning of moments ago.
They looked at each other and she, happy that he was leaving, smiled. “A good journey to you, my lord.”
“Is that all you have to say to me, my beautiful Rhiannon?” he whispered, regarding her with the significant look in his dark eyes that had been there last night. He moved closer as if unaware that they were in the full view of so many people. Including Bryce Frechette.
She felt helpless. She knew she should try to correct whatever false impression she might have given him—but here, where everyone could see?
“All for now,” she prevaricated, not meeting his gaze.
“Until I see you again?”
“If you wish.”
“If you only knew what I wish!” he murmured.
She blushed even more, feeling that this situation was unbearably awkward.
Then she began to get angry. Could he not see her reluctance? Did he not realize how embarrassing this was?
“Farewell, my lord,” she said, a hint of challenging defiance in her voice as she began to turn away.
Without warning, Lord Cynvelin suddenly pulled her into his embrace and pressed a hot, fierce kiss upon her