A Warrior's Honor. Margaret Moore
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he stopped and stepped away, giving her a triumphant smile. She glanced swiftly at Bryce Frechette. What must he be thinking?
His expression was enigmatic, yet that seemed a condemnation, nonetheless.
“My lord,” she said sternly, keeping her voice low by great effort. She had no desire to make more of a spectacle than they already had. “Perhaps it would be better if you were to wait for my father to issue you an invitation to Craig Fawr before visiting there.”
“I...I beg your pardon?” he said, obviously as surprised by her words and tone as she had been by his kiss.
“I believe you heard me. Do not come to Craig Fawr until my father invites you. Good day, my lord.”
She turned on her heel and walked toward the hall.
From his place beside his horse as he waited to mount, Bryce watched Lady Rhiannon leave Lord Cynvelin and enter the hall.
They must be as good as formally betrothed for the Welshman to kiss her in such a way and in so public a place, he thought, even if last night, with him, she had not acted as if she belonged to another man.
What kind of woman was Rhiannon DeLanyea?
Perhaps she was the type of woman whose affections changed almost every hour. Her passion had certainly seemed sincere when he had kissed her.
Or perhaps she was the kind he had originally accused her of being, a woman who enjoyed men’s attention—many men, and many kinds of attention, including the most intimate?
If so, Lord Cynvelin was more to be pitied than envied.
The Welshman bowed to the people who were still gathered in the courtyard. “Alas, she is sorry to see me leave!” he announced mournfully.
Bryce supposed that would explain her abrupt departure as well as anything else.
After his remark, Lord Cynvelin was rewarded with sympathetic looks from the women, and knowing chuckles from the men as he turned toward Bryce.
“Excellent morning, Frechette, is it not?” the nobleman demanded cheerfully as he strolled toward Bryce and his men. “A good day for a journey, eh?”
“Yes, my lord.”
For a moment, Bryce contemplated telling the nobleman about the lady’s behavior.
Then he checked himself. He had only just met Lord Cynvelin, and the lady, too. Even if Bryce was trying to warn him, it could be that Lord Cynvelin would condemn the messenger without heeding the message. Besides, how would he explain what he had been doing in the shadowed corner of the courtyard with her?
And if Lady Rhiannon was a minx, Bryce told himself, she would surely take up with another man before they were five miles down the road, and Lord Cynvelin would find out the truth on his own.
When Lord Cynvelin reached Bryce, the nobleman gave him a curious look. “What happened here before I came?”
“Nothing of consequence, my lord. Your lady felt insulted by one of your men and I insured the fellow apologized.”
Lord Cynvelin ran a scrutinizing gaze over his men, who all wore full chain mail beneath their black tunics. Bryce had also noted that their weapons were very fine, and their accoutrements the best. It seemed his new overlord spared no expense on his troops, even if some of them were lacking the proper respect due their lord’s bride. “Which of them upset her?”
“I’m certain he will not do so again, my lord,” Bryce answered, somewhat surprised. The man made it sound as if he were a child, expected to tell tales on another.
He thought he saw a flash of disapproval in the Welshman’s eyes, but must have been mistaken, for Lord Cynvelin laughed. “If you chastised him, I’m satisfied.”
“The lady needed little help.”
“She has her father’s pride, no doubt.”
Surprised by the slightly hostile tone in the man’s voice, Bryce gave him a curious sidelong glance. “It was my pleasure to defend her honor.”
“Rhiannon was grateful, of course.”
“I gather you have reached an understanding with the lady,” Bryce remarked, leaving aside all talk of gratitude as Cynvelin checked his saddle before mounting.
“Obviously.”
“I offer you my congratulations, my lord.”
“Thank you.” Cynvelin surveyed his men and baggage carts. “Well, then, we are all ready to leave. Come, let us away,” he ordered, moving his horse to the front of the cortege.
Yes, let us away, Bryce seconded inwardly, telling himself he was pleased to be taking his leave of confusing, flirtatious beauties who lured men into the shadows when they were as good as betrothed to another.
Bryce glanced back at the guest apartments, expecting to see the teasing Lady Rhiannon watching her beloved depart, a handkerchief poised to catch her sorrowful tears.
If she was there, he did not see her.
That afternoon, Rhiannon rushed toward the merry company of knights and soldiers who rode into Lord Melevoir’s courtyard.
For the moment, her joy at her father’s arrival took precedence over any dread she might be feeling about certain events becoming known to him. Although she no longer feared her encounter with Bryce Frechette would become common knowledge, she could not entertain any similar hope that Lord Cynvelin’s kiss would be forgotten by those who had witnessed it, or that they would have realized she was not a willing participant.
Certain looks and whispers had already passed between some of the other ladies since the incident, which made her certain that what had happened this morning was the talk of the castle.
She told herself not to worry. Her father would understand. Her anxiety would have been much worse if there was a chance he might hear about her impulsive response to Bryce Frechette.
There were only twenty men in her father’s party, but it seemed like more as their Welsh banter echoed off the stone walls surrounding the courtyard. Then her father caught sight of her and waved.
She was so proud to be Baron DeLanyea’s daughter! How commending he looked, sitting upon his horse with all the majesty of a king, even though his clothing and accoutrements were plain and without ornamentation. He could be fierce, she knew. She had heard the stories of his battles.
But he had always been the doting father to her. She chewed her lip and hoped he would continue to be so, despite what he heard. Then she smiled and returned his gesture.
She looked beyond him, her smile growing as she saw that her foster brother, the roguishly handsome Dylan, was behaving in typical fashion. He was paying more attention to the female servants than anything else.
In contrast to Dylan, her elder brother, the grave, gray-eyed Griffydd, was not bantering or gawking at women. Instead, he surveyed his surroundings with deliberate care. She knew that should she ask him later, he would be able to tell her the exact number of men-at-arms at the gate and on the wall walks, the number of buildings within the castle walls and probably even the count of the windows in each.
Her younger brother, Trystan, who resembled her so much they could have been taken for twins save for the difference in their ages, was not among the company. He had been fostered to Sir Urien Fitzroy to complete his training.
The baron dismounted and she ran happily into his warm embrace. He kept his arms about her as he drew back to look at her with his remaining eye. The other had been destroyed in the Holy Land long ago when he had joined King Richard on crusade.
“So, daughter, did you enjoy yourself?” he asked.
“Lord Melevoir is an excellent man and a fine host,” she answered