The Welshman's Bride. Margaret Moore
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the honor of my family!” Perronet cried. “Your family hasn’t had any honor in a hundred years!”
“Shut it, Perronet, or God help me, I’ll run you through!”
“Dylan! Uncle!”
“Do you think everyone’s forgotten about your lout of a father, you bastard?” Perronet snarled as they circled each other. “We all know the stories of his rapes and thievery and dishonor! A scoundrel from a line of scoundrels—and you are just the same!”
With a bellow like an angry bear, Dylan lifted his sword to strike.
“Please, don’t!” Genevieve shouted.
Dylan hesitated at her distressed plea, and in that moment, Perronet moved out of range of Dylan’s blow.
“What in the name of God is going on?” Baron DeLanyea demanded from the door.
The combatants ignored the baron and continued to circle each other warily.
“Baron DeLanyea!” Genevieve cried, relieved by his presence, for surely her uncle and the man she loved would not come to blows if the baron interceded.
The baron looked at her, the brow over his remaining eye rising with surprise, and she modestly pulled the bedclothes up to her chin.
She had been expecting some kind of confrontation between her uncle and Dylan. That was necessary—but she had never imagined that her uncle would try to kill him.
“I said,” the baron repeated in a voice as firm and cold as iron, “what is going on?”
“Your nephew has seduced my niece!” Perronet replied. “That rogue of a bastard has ruined her!”
The baron ran his gaze over Genevieve again, and this time, she thought she saw something other than surprise and dismay.
Disrespect?
She flushed hotly at that notion, but told herself there was no help for it. She had to break the betrothal with Lord Kirkheathe and sneaking into Dy-lan’s bed had seemed the easiest way.
Of course, it would not be without some damage to her reputation, but that would happen however she contrived to break the betrothal.
“Dylan, is this true?” the baron asked with amazing calm, given the circumstances.
“No! I have no idea how she came to be in my bed!”
“You do not know?”
“You lying bastard!” Perronet charged.
“Say that again, and I will kill you,” Dylan growled.
Wrapping herself in the bedclothes, for her folded clothes were on a chest on the other side of the room, Genevieve clambered from the bed. “Please, don’t fight. This can be settled—”
“Look there! What more evidence do you need?” Perronet demanded, pointing with his sword to the dried drops of blood Genevieve had squeezed from her pricked fingertip onto the bottom sheet.
“We will simply have to be married,” Genevieve said.
“What?” Dylan gasped, lowering his sword and staring at her, wide-eyed with...horror?
Her stomach knotted. “Yes. You love me. I love you. We...we spent the night together. We have to be married.”
He shook his head, his angry gaze boring into her. “Oh, no, we don’t.”
Now truly dismayed and fearful, she stammered, “You...you kissed me...and...”
“Quiet, Genevieve!” her uncle commanded as he marched toward the baron. “Your nephew, who is, I understand, also your foster son, has basely used and deceived my niece. What are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing—at the moment,” the baron replied just as calmly. “I suggest we let them get dressed and then we can discuss this...situation...in a more rational manner.
“Without swords,” he finished pointedly.
“She’s right. They’ll have to be married,” Perronet declared. “Lord Kirkheathe—”
The baron held up his hand, silencing him. “Please, Lord Perronet, let us take some time to calm ourselves. Then we can decide how best to proceed.”
Her uncle hesitated, then sheathed his sword while continuing to regard Dylan disdainfully. “Because you ask it of me. Baron, I will. But that whelp will make amends!”
With that, he reached out and grabbed Genevieve roughly by the arm.
“Come along, girl!” he growled, pulling her toward the door.
“My dress—”
“Leave it!” he snarled as he all but dragged her past the baron.
Dylan raised his sword again and took a step forward.
“Let them go,” the baron commanded. “Did you hear me, Dylan? Let them go!”
“He cannot treat her that way!”
“Get dressed.”
Dylan glanced down at his naked body. Without another word, he threw his sword on the bed and picked up his breeches, which were lying on the floor. He looked around for his tunic, noticing the unfamiliar clothing on the chest
Not unfamiliar, he corrected, for he recognized the gown Genevieve had worn last evening at the banquet, when he had done his best to avoid her.
He spotted his tunic stung over the chair and yanked it on.
“No matter what she’s done, he shouldn’t have been so rough with her,” he muttered before he stuck his head out of the garment.
“Her uncle has the right to treat her as he sees fit,” the baron replied, coming farther into the room. “What rights have you been enjoying?”
“Not that! I don’t know how she got in my bed.”
With a sinking heart, Dylan noted the skeptical quirk of the baron’s lips as he sat in the chair. He looked like a king about to dispense judgment.
He suddenly wished the baron’s wife were there. Lady Roanna’s serenity would be welcome at a time like this. Unfortunately, the baron’s ancient nurse was very ill; Lady Roanna had been tending to her when she was not involved in the preparations for the festivities surrounding Trystan’s knighting.
“He called me a bastard, that cur,” Dylan said defensively.
“You are a bastard,” the baron replied evenly.
“I know that!” Dylan replied. “But he had no right to impugn my honor.”
“He thinks he does, and the evidence is against you.”
“Don’t you think I would remember having a beauty like Genevieve Perronet in my arms?” Dy-lan protested, his arms akimbo. “I didn’t make love with her!”
“Sit down,” the baron ordered, pointing at the bed.
Dylan didn’t like the coldness of his uncle’s tone.
Nevertheless, he had been told to sit, and that was some cause for comfort. When he had been naughty as a child, he had been kept standing while he was chastised.
Of course, this situation was different from stealing apples or sneaking out of the castle at night, and he wasn’t ten years old anymore.
When he was seated, the baron said, “You can see how this looks, Dylan. She was naked in your bed.”
“I never touched her. At least, not last night.”
The baron reached up to scratch the scar that extended beneath his brown leather eye patch. “But before then? What were you up to with Genevieve Perronet?”
“Nothing—or nothing much. I certainly