The Welshman's Bride. Margaret Moore
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serious.”
“People have broken their betrothals before this, and I hear you’ve been doing a little more than talking to her,” Griffydd said, looking at Dylan with grim intensity.
Dylan flushed. “A few chaste kisses hardly count as trying to break a betrothal,” he replied, wondering if one of the nosy castle servants had seen him with her and gossiped.
“For you, perhaps. It could be Genevieve Perronet thinks differently. She has led a very sheltered life with Lady Katherine.”
“And now she’s free for a short while. I don’t see anything wrong with amusing her.”
“Tell that to her intended. Lord Kirkheathe might take a different view.”
“Well, as I am an honorable knight, I would never come between a man and his future wife,” Dylan said with genuine conviction.
“And you are being honorable, aren’t you?”
“God’s wounds, what’s that supposed to mean?”
“You aren’t trying to seduce her?”
“I’ve considered it.”
“Dylan!”
“But only considered,” he assured Griffydd jovially. “She’s a well-bred, betrothed lady for whom I have the greatest respect, for one thing. And for another, there’s her uncle. Norman to the bones, that one, all gloom and ambition. I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of him.”
“I’m glad you’ve realized that. Her uncle does not strike me as a forgiving man, should his plans for her be thwarted.”
“They won’t be, although I must say it is a waste to marry one so young to one so old. Kirkheathe must be—what? Sixty?”
“Forty.”
Dylan stretched, his movements lithe as a panther. “Making too much of this you are, Griffydd.”
“Making too little of her feelings you are,” Griffydd retorted. “A woman’s heart is not something to be toyed with.”
“We’re both enjoying the game, that’s all,” Dy-lan insisted. “And if she’s a little sad when she leaves here, I see nothing so wrong in that. I will be sad to see her go, too.”
“So you like her, then?”
“Of course. What is there not to be liked? She’s young, she’s pretty, she laughs when I make a joke.” Dylan leaned conspiratorially closer. “She’s as shapely a woman as ever I’ve seen, and her kisses—chaste though they were—were very pleasant.”
“You are beyond redemption,” Griffydd growled.
“Nonsense! I’ve done nothing that requires redemption.”
“Did you tell her about your children?”
Dylan frowned. “There was no occasion to mention them. We are having a little harmless fun before she marries that ancient knight, is all.”
“You are absolutely certain she understands that is how you feel?”
Dylan could not quite meet Griffydd’s steadfast gaze. “I said so, didn’t I? I’ve given her no reason to think otherwise.”
“I hope you’re right. I wouldn’t want anything to spoil these celebrations. This is Trystan’s time. He’s worked hard for his knighthood, and I don’t want the festivities disrupted because you can’t keep it in your breeches.”
Dylan scowled. “Anwyl, listen to you! I told you, I haven’t done any harm. And speaking of Trystan, should you not be seeing if your little brother has recovered from his vigil and his knighting? It’s long past noon, and he was still asleep the last time I looked. I hope he’ll be well enough to attend tonight’s feast.”
Griffydd nodded as he rose from the stool. “You will be at the feast?”
“Where else?”
Griffydd raised an eyebrow.
“Maybe I do have a notion to go see Bertha at the village tavern, for old times’ sake.”
Griffydd shook his head. “You’re hopeless,” he muttered as he strode through the door.
“Only joking, me!” Dylan called out as the door banged.
For a moment, an uncharacteristically serious expression appeared on his darkly handsome face, then, being Dylan, the expression disappeared, replaced by a merry grin.
He rose from the bed and started to whistle as he went to see if pretty Lady Genevieve would keep their rendezvous in his aunt’s garden.
Genevieve pulled her fur-lined cloak more tightly around herself as she waited. She shivered despite the warm lining, for it was a chilly morning in early March. Occasional remnants of snow dotted the stone path and beds, and the bare stalks of the climbing roses rubbed against the garden wall.
She wondered if she should have come here at all. Perhaps she should have stayed in her chamber, where her uncle believed her to be.
She should have been engaged in her prayers, instead of sitting in a barren garden awaiting a young man.
A very handsome, charming young man.
The first time she had set eyes on Dylan DeLanyea, he had been standing in the courtyard among a group of other knights. They, warriors all, had turned to look at her uncle’s cortege.
Her gaze had been drawn to the dark-eyed, good-looking man whose black hair brushed his shoulders. He stood with his arms casually folded, his weight on one long, lean leg.
At once she had been reminded of Lady Katherine’s cautions regarding evil young men who only had one thing in mind when it came to women. The one thing was, Genevieve had to assume from Lady Katherine’s tone, something a young lady should not want.
This dangerous goal had remained a mystery until that night when the older girls also fostered to Lady Katherine had taken it upon themselves to enlighten the younger ones. Certain portions of that fascinating discussion had immediately returned to Genevieve as she tried to look away from the handsome stranger with his devilish grin and merry eyes. She had not been able to manage it until her uncle barked at his men to dismount. Half-afraid and half-hopeful, she had wondered if the young man would approach her. He did not, but later she had discovered that he was Dylan DeLanyea, the nephew of Baron DeLanyea, lord of Craig Fawr.
What would her uncle say if he discovered her now, in this secluded garden, waiting for Dylan?
She could not even imagine the extent of his ire. They were guests of the DeLanyeas, breaking their journey north at the baron’s castle and, incidentally, attending the knighting of the baron’s youngest son. Nevertheless, she was sure her uncle would not hesitate to condemn her in front of them all if he thought her guilty of shameful behavior.
As for what Lady Katherine would say, that was easier to guess, for she had lived the past eight years under Lady Katherine’s roof, being instructed in the skills, duties and manners of a chatelaine.
Lady Katherine would say that Dylan DeLanyea, for all his smiles and kind looks, was not to be trusted.
Genevieve didn’t believe that. Dylan was noble and chivalrous, and completely trustworthy.
To be sure, he had kissed her, even though he knew she was betrothed. Three times. Once on the cheek, and twice on the lips.
Her heartbeat quickened. During the somewhat tedious business of the knighting of Trystan DeLanyea, Dylan’s cousin and foster brother, she had realized that Dylan was looking at her—often. And smiling. He continued to do so during the subsequent feast.
And then came the dancing. She had thought she would swoon when Dylan approached her and asked her to stand beside him in the dance. When he had taken her hand, she had scarce