The Warlord's Bride. Margaret Moore
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and property became my husband’s, and thus forfeit to the crown when he was convicted and executed for treason. John adds nothing of his own. The king sends me to you as he would a worn gown to a beggar.”
Lord Alfred looked as if he might explode. “My lady! That’s not—”
“It is the truth, my lord, and we both know it,” she firmly interrupted. She folded her hands in her lap, feigning a serenity she certainly didn’t feel. “I would have Lord Madoc know it, too.”
As the Welsh nobleman studied her, she grew warm, and it was not from embarrassment. He was an attractive, handsome man, even if he had a hot temper, hair to his shoulders like a savage and dressed little better than one of his men-at-arms.
In that, he was the opposite of Wimarc, who had worn the finest silks and expensive fabrics and kept his hair in the smooth Norman fashion. Wimarc never looked as if he’d just returned from riding hell-bent across the open moor.
“I appreciate your honesty, my lady,” Lord Madoc said, his lips curving up a little, his tone somewhat conciliatory, “although you underestimate yourself. You are a far cry from a worn garment.”
That little hint of a smile and his compliment could not touch her. His deep voice could not affect her. She would not be tempted by this man, no matter how he looked or spoke. She would fight the arousal that bloomed within her, the same weakness that had led her eagerly into an evil man’s arms. Nor would she respond to his flattery.
“What will happen to the lady if we don’t marry?” Lord Madoc asked Lord Alfred.
“We shall both return to court to inform John of your refusal,” the Norman tensely answered.
“No, we will not, my lord.”
Roslynn had foreseen this eventuality and had already decided what she must and would do, whether Lord Alfred approved or not. “You and my dowry may return, Lord Alfred, but I would rather give myself to the church than go back to the king’s court.”
Lord Alfred stared at her as if this was the most outrageous proposal in the world. “But the king—”
“Should have no cause to complain. I have done what he commanded. If Lord Madoc rejects me, the king cannot say I disobeyed. If you fear to return without me, tell John I fell into melancholy and only the promise of a life as a bride of Christ could revive my spirits. No doubt the return of my dowry will help to ease any other disappointment he may feel.”
The lord of Llanpowell resumed his seat. “It appears the lady and I are in agreement, at least on this point. We will neither of us marry simply because King John wishes it.”
Lord Alfred’s hands balled into fists at his sides. “May I remind you both it is never wise to antagonize a king?”
“Perhaps it isn’t wise of John to antagonize me,” Lord Madoc retorted. “I doubt he can afford to lose the friendship of any man who has alliances in the Marches.
“Fortunately, I have not yet refused the king’s gift. She’s a beautiful woman, after all. Bold, too, and while some men like their women placid, I don’t. I prefer a woman who speaks her mind, as this lady so obviously does. So I may yet accept her.”
Surely he didn’t mean that! How could he be so adamantly opposed to the king’s offer one moment, then acquiesce the next—unless the thought of the dowry was too appealing to decline.
“However, as I said, the lady must be willing.”
Which she was not and never would be, no matter how handsome he was.
He must be trying to put the responsibility—and the blame—for thwarting John’s plans back onto her.
“This is ridiculous! She’s only a woman!” Lord Alfred protested. “She has no right to an opinion.”
“In my hall she does,” Lord Madoc replied. “Well, my lady? What say you?”
She would not be caught in his trap, so if he expected her to say yea or nay, he was mistaken. “We have only just arrived,” she said instead. “Must I give my answer now?”
“No,” Lord Madoc said at once. “We should both take time to decide whether or not we’ll suit.”
She already knew the answer to that, and unless she was mistaken, he did, too.
“I should return to the king without delay,” Lord Alfred declared. “He is most anxious to have this settled.”
“He’s had months to fulfill his bargain, so I think he can wait a few more days,” the lord of Llanpowell replied as he got to his feet. “You can blame the Welsh weather if you need a reason, my lord. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I should find my steward and tell him important guests have arrived. Uncle, please see to the accommodations for Lord Alfred and his men.”
“Aye, nephew, gladly!” the older man said with a broad grin.
“Bron,” Lord Madoc continued, “show Lady Roslynn to the bedchamber in the south tower. She’ll want to rest until the evening meal.”
ALTHOUGH DISPLEASED by Madoc of Llanpowell’s arrogant dismissal and subsequent swift exit, Roslynn was glad to be alone. She needed solitude and quiet to consider all that had happened since arriving in this place.
The upper chamber the maidservant took her to was surprisingly comfortable, if a little dusty. The furnishings—curtained bed, small wooden table, stool and washstand—were old, but well polished. The linen bed curtains, dyed a vibrant blue, hung from bronze rings. No ewer or linen were on the washstand, suggesting this room had not been used recently.
Perhaps it was kept only for guests, and the lord had a finer chamber in another part of the castle.
She strolled toward the narrow window and looked outside. She could see only the inner wall—hardly an inspiring view.
On the other hand, perhaps she had seen all she needed to of this castle and estate, since she probably wouldn’t be staying here much longer.
Although she didn’t want to anger the king by a direct refusal, she would if she must. She would rather face John’s wrath than marry a hot-tempered, possibly violent man who would make her miserable. She had lived that life once; she wouldn’t again.
She heard the sound of heavy boots coming quickly up the stairs and turned toward the door just as Lord Alfred barged inside.
“By the saints, my lady,” he declared as he strode uninvited into the chamber, “to think I ever felt sorry for you!”
He came to a halt, arms akimbo, glaring at her. “Who do you think you are?”
“I am Lady Roslynn de Werre, the daughter of Lady Eloise and Lord James de Briston,” she answered, not afraid of Lord Alfred or his anger. He had very little real power over her here, so far from the king.
Her calm response didn’t ease Lord Alfred’s aggravation. “What sort of tricks are you playing at, my lady? You made nary a squeak in protest the whole way here!”
“I play no tricks. As I said, I’m not averse to the marriage—only to returning to court if Lord Madoc doesn’t want me. You know the sort of men John has about him. Is it any wonder I’m loath to return?”
Lord Alfred didn’t answer directly, no doubt because he did know the sort of men John had about him. “You should have told the king of your feelings.”
As if John would care. But she didn’t say that. Instead, she said, “As he should have told me more about Madoc ap Gruffydd.”
“So you could find excuses not to do as the king wills?”
“To know what manner of man I was expected to marry. He appears to be a hot-tempered savage who finds it amusing to make us look like fools. I especially should have been told he already had a son, as any sons I would bear him wouldn’t inherit his estate, but only