The Welshman's Way. Margaret Moore
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scanned the tumbledown building composed of cob and thatch. A few parts of the roof were leaking, but otherwise it was quite dry. It smelled of hay and animals still, and he saw that the large room was divided into two by a partition.
He led the horse farther inside, surreptitiously making certain that the pack on the back of the saddle had not been disturbed.
She stood at the door, looking out at the steadily falling rain. “I must find my brother,” she announced again. “As soon as the rain ceases.”
He glanced at her, a little regretful that the vulnerable woman had disappeared, to be replaced once again by an arrogant noblewoman. She drew off her wimple. A cascade of long, thick, curling hair fell down her slender back nearly to her waist. God’s blessed blood, he had never seen hair like that. What would it feel like, what would it look like spread about her naked body?
Without the cloth bound around her face, her beauty was even more apparent. Her cheeks looked smooth and soft, her eyes clear and bright with intelligence, her lips inviting. It was no wonder Sir Roger would try to hide such beauty in the drab robes of a holy order.
Beautiful she was, yet there was something about her mouth suggestive of a strong, stubborn will. She had the proud carriage and demeanor that belonged to the conquering Normans, too. She had probably had her way in everything all her easy life. She would make some Norman a fine wife and together they would make a lot of little Norman children to control the land.
Dafydd brushed the horse with quick vigorous strokes. She might just as well be a nun for all he would ever have to do with her or her kind.
“I think the rain is getting worse,” she said accusingly, as if he were responsible for the weather. “We may have to stay the night.”
He pulled off his wet dalmatica and spread it out to dry. He had slept in worse places, and in worse weather, too. At least they had a roof over their heads.
He untied his pack and set it at his feet. Reaching inside, he pulled out a flint with which to build a fire. There were the remains of a round hearth in the other part of the building. He gathered some of the straw and a few pieces of wood that lay in the corner, all of which was extremely dry and caught easily. He grabbed his bundle and found the pieces of bread he had hidden in his bed during the last few days before he left the monastery.
She turned and looked at him as he bit into one of the small, round, stale loaves. The only noise disturbing the silence was the sound of the rain. It was late now, and the darkness outside had as much to do with the setting sun as it did with the clouds. Soon it would be too dark to travel, especially over wet roads.
As she stood there illuminated by the flickering flames of the fire, he became very aware that he was half-naked and alone with her.
She came toward him, eyeing him warily. Clearly she was no longer certain what kind of man he was, whether pilgrim or soldier or outlaw or peasant. Suspicious, yes, but not afraid, and he was pleased, although he knew it should not matter.
Still, she was, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen and he enjoyed the play of the light on her face and the intimacy of the moment.
She sat on the dirt floor opposite him. He handed her a piece of the bread and saw with some amusement that she was not pleased to be offered stale bread. Surprisingly, however, she said nothing, but started to eat, averting her eyes demurely as if he were a suitor and she a coy maiden being wooed.
That thought amused him greatly. He could not imagine a Norman wooing a woman, or certainly not properly, with eloquent words, or a love song, perhaps, and kisses begged in the dark shadows of a summer’s night. It was a pity, in a way, because he thought this woman might deserve such a wooing.
He had never actually wooed a woman himself. His life had been one of battles and skirmishes and hiding in the woods, his times with women frenzied moments of passion with a willing wench who thought it the height of excitement to make love with a rebel. He could barely remember most of them.
He noticed Lady Madeline was shivering and wondered if he should suggest she remove her damp clothes. An interesting idea, that.
“I have to find my brother,” she repeated defiantly, fortunately calling his thoughts away from contemplation of her as a woman to the necessity of helping her.
“Not on my horse,” he said.
Even her pout had a certain loveliness about it. “I assure you, whoever you are, that you will be suitably recompensed for that beast and your trouble. My brother is very wealthy. And very powerful.”
“Your betrothed is wealthy and powerful, too, no doubt.”
“Yes.”
Despite the lift of her shapely chin, he thought she was not quite sure about that. Interesting. Unimportant, but interesting.
He held out another crust of bread and Madeline gingerly lifted it from his fingers, then sat down as far away from the fellow as possible while remaining as close as she could to the heat of the flames. To her chagrin, the nearly naked man grinned at her. A devilish grin it was, too, and she wondered how she could ever have surmised that he had taken holy orders.
She looked away, determined not to look at his face anymore, or that horrible scar on his shoulder, or wonder how anyone could survive to bear such a mark. She wished he would put his robe back on.
She forced herself to think about what to do next. She had no idea how to proceed in this particular, strange and foreign situation. For the past ten years, every moment of her life had followed an established pattern and been lived among the same people whose habits, likes and dislikes were as well-known to her as her own. Then, there had been the news of her impending marriage, Roger’s arrival and her abrupt departure from the convent, the attack, her rescue and now here she sat, afraid to be so close to this muscular stranger who was not Norman, yet more afraid to leave this fellow’s presence and go out into the rain and the unknown.
But should she, perhaps, be so ready to believe his reassurances about Roger? The outlaws had outnumbered them, after all. Perhaps Roger was lying wounded somewhere, bleeding and in pain.... Just because she had not been able to convince him to at least postpone the wedding until she had met her future husband did not mean that she had ceased to care for her one and only living relative.
Indeed, if Roger was not hurt, why had he not come to find her? Surely he would be searching for her, if he was able to. Even if he cared for her only as an instrument to fulfill his plans. Or especially if he considered her in such a light.
She suppressed a sorrowful sigh at the notion that time and training could make her brother so coldhearted. Why, this man sitting across from her, this total stranger, was showing more concern for her than Roger had.
Who was he? Where had he come from? Why had he helped her? Some things about him she could guess with some certainty. She knew he was Welsh, despite his attempts to mask his accent, for there had been Welsh servants at the convent, which was rather close to the borderlands.
He must have been trained as a soldier, for he wielded his sword with considerable skill. He might be a rebel, or someone who saw the chance for ransom, but he did not try to bind her, or curtail her movements in any way. If she wanted to, she could run away at any moment.
She could ask him, of course, but he would probably answer with that disquieting stare, or even worse, that grin.
He caught her looking at him and pointed to a pile of straw in the corner. “Go to sleep.”
“Where?” she asked cautiously. Thus far he had proven trustworthy, but she was a woman and he was a man. A young and vital man.
He gestured again at the pile of straw. “There.”
“No.” She shook her head decisively. After all, they were alone here, and he was half-naked.
“Not touching you, me” he said, obviously and quite honestly insulted by her reluctance.
“There might