The Welshman's Bride. Margaret Moore
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Dylan is not like them.”
“My uncle called him a bastard.”
“He is. His mother was a servant girl at Beaufort.”
Genevieve frowned, confused. “Yet he has inherited that estate?”
“Yes.” Lady Roanna made a wry little smile. “The Welsh are not as concerned with legitimacy, and it is a good thing, too, or my husband would not be lord of Craig Fawr. He is a bastard, too.”
“Oh, my lady, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“There is no need to apologize. I just thought you might hold Dylan’s birth against him.”
“No, that is not what I hold against him,” she replied.
She mustered her pride. “I was most unhappily misled, my lady. I thought he loved me.”
“Why?”
Genevieve was not quite prepared for the blunt question, but if Lady Roanna wanted to know, she would tell her. “He was very kind and pleasant, and flattering. No man has ever looked at me as he did. And then he kissed me, more than once, with great passion. And when he said farewell...”
Her words trailed off into an awkward silence, for if she said more, she would perhaps reveal too much of her own wounded feelings, and that her pride would not allow.
“I understand he never told you that he loved you and wanted to marry you.”
“No, my lady. But his embraces were...they gave me some cause to think he cared for me.”
“Dylan is a passionate man,” Lady Roanna observed. “He sometimes acts without much thought.”
“Did he agree to marry me because my uncle forced him?” Genevieve demanded suspiciously.
Lady Roanna smiled. “If I did not know Dylan better, my dear,” she admitted, “I might think that But I do know him. No one could force him to do such a thing.”
“Then why did he change his mind and say he would marry me?”
“I honestly don’t know,” Lady Roanna replied. “But he does seem very determined to do it.” She leaned forward, her gaze searching Genevieve’s face. “What I must know is, do you want to be his wife? If you do not, tell me. Neither my husband nor I believe in forced marriages.”
A strange look crossed Lady Roanna’s face. “For very good reasons. So, if you would rather not marry Dylan, just say so and it will not be.”
“My uncle threatens to send me away to a remote convent if I do not,” Genevieve replied warily.
“We would convince him otherwise.”
Despite Lady Roanna’s calm conviction, Genevieve found it difficult to believe they would be able to change her stubborn uncle’s mind.
So now it was up to her to decide: marry Dylan DeLanyea, who only hours ago had made it very clear that he did not want her for his wife.
Or be sent to a convent, forever unmarried and childless.
Chapter Four
Somewhere in the dim recesses of Dylan’s mind, he had always known he would marry one day. He had, however, envisioned doing so under distinctly different circumstances.
Whenever he had taken a moment to contemplate his future spouse, for example, he had pictured a spirited Welsh woman of voluptuous build who would understand about his children and the women who had borne them.
He had certainly never imagined himself married to a pale, blond girl-woman of Norman blood, especially one who had tricked her way into his bed, he reflected as he stood in the hall with his relatives, along with the baron’s assembled guests and the castle servants.
They were all awaiting the arrival of his bride and the blessing of a priest hastily summoned.
He had also naturally assumed he would be passionately in love with his bride, a passion beyond anything he had ever felt for the many and various women who had already shared his affection and his bed.
Genevieve Perronet was attractive, of course, and she had been arousing—but he did not love her. Anwyl, he hardly knew her.
And therein, of course, lay the biggest problem. Angry and frustrated, he had proposed a marriage with scarcely a thought of the bride-to-be, his primary motive being to annoy her haughty, pompous uncle.
At least Genevieve would be pleased, he consoled himself, his natural optimism reasserting itself. She would be grateful that he was marrying her and saving her damaged honor.
And she had said she loved him.
A grateful, loving wife with a dowry of five hundred gold coins was not something to be dismissed out of hand. As for his children, he would simply have to explain to her that the Welsh were not so hypocritical when it came to illegitimate children. In Welsh eyes, a child was a child, whether born in wedlock or not.
If he and Genevieve had a son, that firstborn son would inherit Beaufort according to Norman law. Trefor, his eldest son out of wedlock, would be given his own land out of that estate, as would his other bastard son, Arthur, equal to that of any subsequent issue.
Genevieve would simply have to accept that.
The baron, standing beside him, shifted, drawing Dylan’s attention from his own musings. Glancing around the hall, Dylan realized the guests and servants were exchanging wary glances.
“Brides are often late,” the baron muttered. “Wanting to look their best, is all. You know how women are.”
Dylan nodded. Yes, he knew women, and so he would be patient. “Will Lady Roanna be here for the blessing?”
“Old Mamaeth is very bad but—” the baron started to explain when suddenly there was a commotion at the entrance to the hall.
Dylan found himself holding his breath, then, when he saw the reason for the disturbance, letting it out slowly.
It was Lady Roanna and the baron’s old nurse, who was being carried in, seated on a chair borne by two brawny servants as if she were an Oriental potentate.
“Not missing this,” the elderly woman chirped cheerfully. “It’s about time that young devil settled down and got married and quit sowing his seed all over Wales.”
Dylan tried to smile. He was happy Mamaeth had made the effort to see him wed, of course, and happier yet to see Lady Roanna, who was like a mother to him.
But Mamaeth had a tongue that wagged, especially when she was in a celebratory mood, and no sense of propriety at all.
Which she proceeded to demonstrate.
“Where’s the bride?” she demanded querulously. “Not changed her mind, I hope, after all the uproar! Nearly stopped my heart, that.”
The people in the hall smiled, but the smiles were a little strained.
“It is a good thing she is taking her time,” Dy-lan replied with a merriment he didn’t quite feel. “Otherwise you would have been late.”
“Humph!” was all the answer Mamaeth could think to make to that before she subsided into an uncharacteristic silence, and for that, Dylan was grateful.
“Ah, here they are!” the baron cried softly.
Again Dylan looked at the entrance to the hall—and then gasped with delight.
Genevieve wore a gown of white silk whose long cuffs, lined with gold samite, reached nearly to the floor. Over this was a tunic, also of gold. Her girdle of gold and silver embroidery encircled her slender waist, crossed in back and was knotted again in front, so that it fell low on her hips.
Her hand on her stern uncle’s