A Warrior's Passion. Margaret Moore
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“As to the marriage itself, Corcadail could do a good deal worse, and not much better.” Diarmad fixed his beady eyes on Griffydd as a sturdy wench set down a haunch of venison before them. “The same could be said of the man who weds my daughter.”
“I am sure she will make a fine wife,” Griffydd replied flatly. Then, because he could not help himself, he said, “I am rather surprised she is not already wed.”
“I have been waiting for the right man,” Diarmad answered. “How is it you have not married? You look of an age to have a wife and children long since. I already had Seona and two sons by the time I was about your age.”
Griffydd shrugged his shoulders and raised his voice to be heard over Diarmad’s warriors who, having refreshed themselves with food and drink, were growing loud in their conversations. “I see no need for haste in such matters.”
“And I suppose you already have some sons. I have heard it said you Welsh don’t care if your bairns come before a wedding or not.”
Griffydd regarded his host steadily. “In that you are quite right. However, as yet, I have no children.”
“No daughters, either?”
Griffydd hid his surprise at the man’s choice of words. “No children at all.”
“A careful sort you are, then, and wise, too.”
Griffydd thought of the drain on Dylan’s purse his children caused, and nodded.
“Seona will have fine dowry, although not as much as she’s worth. And of course, she’s a virgin.”
Griffydd busied himself cutting the meat and said nothing, reminding himself that he had not wanted to speak of love and marriage.
Obviously his mind was not particularly astute tonight. He should have talked of other matters, like shipbuilding and the Lowlanders’ new design, rather than marriage.
Still he supposed it was inevitable that Diarmad would mention Seona sooner or later, if he wanted a marriage alliance. Griffydd would have preferred later, and he couldn’t help wondering if he had betrayed too much when he had first laid eyes on her.
“But enough of this talking!” Diarmad cried, garnering the attention of all in the hall as he rose and lifted his drinking horn. “To an alliance between the Gall-Gaidheal of Dunloch and the Welsh of Craig Fawr!”
The rest of the men got to their feet, including Griffydd, and drank.
Diarmad threw himself back into his chair, while Griffydd remained standing and addressed his host. “If you will excuse me, Diarmad, I believe I should retire. It has been a long journey, and tomorrow we have much to discuss.”
Diarmad nodded. “As you wish.” He snapped his fingers and called, “Seona! Show our guest to his quarters!”
Despite his amazement that Diarmad would call his own daughter in such a contemptuous fashion, Griffydd tried to keep any surprise from his face. He was also shocked that she would be given the task of escorting a male visitor to his sleeping quarters.
For her part, Seona did not move. She regarded her father with a blank expression, as if she had not really heard his command. Nevertheless, Griffydd thought he saw a gleam in her eye that indicated otherwise.
He pondered his next move, whether to ask for another escort, or have her light his way. Quickly and surreptitiously he scanned the hall.
Everyone had stopped eating and drinking to look at him, some with obvious scorn, some with undisguised curiosity. Interestingly, none of their attention was on Seona.
This was another test, he thought.
“I am pleased you recognize that I am a man of honor who can be trusted to treat your daughter with the respect she deserves,” he said to Diarmad, bowing slightly.
Then he turned his unruffled gaze onto Seona, thinking the next decision was hers.
Seona said nothing. She merely took hold of a nearby rush torch and stuck it into fire, lighting it before going to the door to wait for him.
Griffydd bowed to his host and followed her outside.
Reluctantly Seona led the way to the longhouse where Diarmad MacMurdoch’s guests were customarily housed. It was outside the walls of the fortress, beside the pine wood that bordered a stream that flowed down from the hills toward the sea.
Holding the flickering torch, she tried to concentrate on the rough ground, and not to be so conscious of Griffydd DeLanyea’s proximity as they walked together in the pool of light. Nevertheless, she felt as if they were the only two people for miles around.
The rhythmic pounding of the waves upon the nearby shore filled her ears and would have been soothing at any other time. Now it seemed the echo of her own throbbing heartbeat.
Then she realized there was another sound. Griffydd DeLanyea, wrapped in his dark cloak like a spirit of the night, awesome and compelling and frightening all at once, was singing an iorram, a rowing song of her father’s men. The low, soft pulses of the cadences were familiar and yet different sung in his fine deep timbre. There was a melancholy to his voice, an inward sadness that seemed to tug at an answering loneliness deep within her.
But how could he, obviously a rich and respected son of a nobleman, understand the loneliness that was her daily lot?
Then he stopped singing and the sudden quiet moved her to speak. “You sing well.”
His steps hesitated a moment, as if he had not been aware of what he was doing. “Thank you.”
“I have heard that all the Welsh are fine singers.”
“Many are,” he concurred bluntly.
There seemed little willingness on his part to continue the conversation. She had no wish to force him to speak if he would rather not, so they continued in silence until they reached the longhouse.
She pulled back the heavy woolen covering and slipped inside. As he followed, she put the rushlight in a sconce in the wall, illuminating the furnishings of the longhouse: the trestle table, the benches and stools, the beds against the wall and Griffydd De-Lanyea’s baggage in the corner.
She turned and faced her father’s honored guest.
She was not tall enough to see eye-to-eye with him; instead, the first thing to meet her gaze was his full, sensual lips, which were not smiling. She forced herself to look at his dully shining chain mail, the gray metallic glitter reminiscent of its owner’s eyes.
“This seems rather a large edifice for one man to inhabit, even temporarily,” he observed.
“Yes, well,” she stammered, “most of my father’s guests bring some men with them.”
“An entourage?”
She flicked a glance at his enigmatic face. “Yes.”
He wrapped his arms about his body in a way that seemed almost…protective.
Could he be feeling as she did? Could he sense the current of tension that ran between them, the strange excitement?
That notion sent a thrill through her, and she found it easier to draw breath and to look at his face.
“I am very tired. If you will excuse me, my lady,” he said, bowing his head.
She was curiously reluctant to make a hasty retreat, so she decided to correct his mistake.
“You are wrong, sir,” she said softly.
“What’s that?” he asked, clearly taken aback.
“I am not a