The Warlord's Bride. Margaret Moore
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walked around her and she felt his gaze upon her, but didn’t move. Let him stare all he liked. She had been the object of men’s scrutiny before, especially at court.
“I think you’re no more keen to enter the church than I am to make enemies,” he said at last. “Despite what I said to Lord Alfred, I would prefer not to have John for an enemy. Even so, as I said before, I won’t marry an unwilling woman.”
He halted behind her and when he spoke again, his voice was low and soft, like a lover’s, or as she’d always imagined a lover’s should be. “But you need not lock yourself away in a convent, my lady. Excuses could be found to explain why we won’t marry. An illness perhaps, or I could claim I’ve gotten betrothed since I made my bargain with John. Or that our grandparents were too closely related. Meanwhile, you’re welcome to remain my guest for as long as you like, and whether we marry or not.”
Whether they marry? He was actually considering agreeing to the king’s proposal?
She turned to face him and tried to gauge his true feelings. Did he want her, or only the dowry? Was he hoping to use her, as Wimarc had? As a bedmate, or political pawn, or both? What did he really want?
What she saw in his eyes was not greed or lust or ambition, but a speculation that matched her own, as if he was just as curious to know what she wanted.
As their gazes met and held, however, she saw and felt something more.
Desire.
Yes, he was a man to tempt her, but what then? Madoc ap Gruffydd was no boy, no green lad playing at love. He was no courtier, used to smooth banter and games of seduction.
Madoc of Llanpowell was something else altogether—more elemental, more primitive. More virile and more arousing than any man—any man—she’d ever met.
As that realization struck her, so did another—that he was, therefore, even more dangerous to her than Wimarc. Wanting him, she might weaken and make another terrible mistake that would result in misery.
She wet her suddenly dry lips. “I thought you were offended by the proposal.”
To her even greater surprise, his mouth curved up in a genuine smile that made him look like a juvenile version of his uncle, and just as harmless. “I was angry because John didn’t send what he promised. Aye, and shocked at what he did send, too, but I’m beginning to think I was too hasty in my temper.”
This was not what she wanted to hear. Not now, not ever.
Not from him.
If he saw her dismay, he wasn’t upset by it. “There’s no need to decide about this marriage today,” he said genially, holding out his arm. “I don’t mind making Lord Alfred wait. Do you?”
It was on the tip of her tongue to tell this man that her decision was already made and she would never be his wife, until caution warned her to say nothing. However Lord Madoc behaved now, he was a stranger to her and he could still be planning to put the blame on her if they didn’t wed. It would be much better for her, her friends and her family if Madoc ap Gruffydd thwarted the king’s will.
So she lightly placed her hand on his muscular arm and ignored the little thrill of desire that seemed to snake its way from that touch to her heart. “Not at all, my lord,” she said. “Whatever you decide, I’m delighted by the prospect of a sojourn in Wales.”
His eyes narrowed, but she simply smiled that bland, meaningless smile she had used so effectively at court.
ACUTELY AWARE OF the beautiful woman seated on his right in the torch-lit hall, Madoc tried to eat as if he had not a care in the world. Unfortunately, he did, not the least of which was hoping that his desire for Lady Roslynn wasn’t completely obvious.
He had felt it the moment he’d first laid eyes on her, and even after he’d learned why she and the Norman nobleman had come to Llanpowell, although that should have stemmed his passion immediately and permanently. To his chagrin, it had only seemed to make his lust grow stronger. How else to explain his request to be alone with her, and the almost overwhelming urge to take her in his arms when she spoke of her brute of a husband?
Yet he had been around beautiful women before. He had made love to more than one. What was it, then, about Lady Roslynn that seemed to cast such a spell over him?
Her beauty, to be sure. Her bold spirit, as he’d said. But there was something else, a challenge in her shining eyes that made him think being chosen by her would be no little accomplishment.
Unfortunately, if he agreed to marry her, it would also mean accepting a permanent bond with a woman he didn’t know, and a stronger alliance with the Plantagenet king.
He set down his silver wine goblet, careful not to so much as brush his arm against Lady Roslynn’s. He didn’t want to imbibe too much, lest he say more than he should—about her, about himself, or what he really thought of King John.
Uncle Lloyd obviously had no such concerns as he finished yet another cup of braggot. Interestingly, and although he’d likely rue it tomorrow, Lord Alfred was keeping up with him, goblet for goblet.
If his hall wasn’t the biggest or the most luxurious, at least he need not be ashamed of the food and drink his larder and buttery provided, Madoc reflected.
His cook, Hywel, had learned his trade in the kitchen of the Earl of Pembroke himself and was well versed not just in ordinary fare, but cream soups and cheese tarts, baked apples, pastries, salmon, trout and even swans, curlews and blackbirds, although the latter were too expensive to be served at Llanpowell. Farmers and fishermen came to Llanpowell with their best, freshest produce, and what wasn’t roasted, Hywel turned into savory stews, pottages and soups. His bread was the best to be had in Wales and his sweets and custards as fine as anything in England.
Even though these visitors had come upon them unexpectedly, Hywel had risen to the occasion and admirably so, with six courses, including a beef stew, roasted mutton, pike with a green sauce made with vinegar and parsley, chicken stuffed with eggs and onions and ending with pears served in a wine syrup, as well as his speciality, baked apples, spiced with his own secret recipe.
Lloyd caught Madoc’s eye and raised his goblet in salute. “Quite a beauty John sent you, nephew,” he crowed in Welsh. “Like the first flowers of spring she is!”
Madoc didn’t need reminding that Lady Roslynn was a beauty, with her pale smooth skin, bright blue eyes and lips as red as holly berries, or that she was young. Her manners were impeccable, and she ate and drank with the delicate daintiness one would expect from a highborn lady.
Her dress was likewise demure and modest. Her gown was of deep blue wool with a square-necked bodice, without trim or other embellishment. Even so, there was no disguising her shapely figure.
The tooled-leather belt that sat on her slender hips had accentuated the graceful sensuality of her walk. Most of her hair was covered by a white veil, but that seemed meant to tease him with the hint of thick chestnut-brown hair beneath.
What man in this hall wouldn’t envy him the chance for such a bride? What man here wouldn’t want her for his own?
Ivor, his friend and his steward, no doubt.
He glanced at Ivor, seated nearby. Simply attired in a long, belted woolen tunic, the steward was as watchful as always. Nothing escaped his shrewd hazel eyes, and while his crippled left leg made it impossible for him to hope for military glory, his cleverness and loyalty had made him indispensable at Llanpowell.
Yet Ivor had been the first to speak against helping the Plantagenet king round up traitors who were planning a rebellion, until Madoc, seeing little risk for greater gain, had overruled him.
Madoc had been right, for he’d not lost a single man in the effort. And then John had sent him not silver as promised, but a bride, although her dowry was considerable.
What kind of woman was Lady Roslynn de Werre? How would she run his household and raise their