A Warrior's Passion
Margaret Moore
A Man of Power, Patience and Passion Power …When Griffydd DeLanyea departed his ship in Dunloch, he thought his stay would last no more than a fortnight. Unbeknownst to Griffydd, Diarmad MacMurdock, the man he had come to see, was not merely interested in a trade alliance… .n Patience … Griffydd always believed that good things came to those who waited, but the Welshman had never wanted anything as badly as he wanted Diarmad's daughter Seona… .Passion … Whether in battle or in love, Griffydd preferred to guard his feelings carefully. But the day would come when Seona would be his wife.
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u270b8d50-0725-594b-ae1b-dc2c8443bb47)
Excerpt (#u0a627fdd-ee93-5bed-9ef9-522035bc6335)
Dear Reader (#u91b4c9b7-7170-55e4-a1e8-3e3b6898c71f)
Title Page (#u00a18c21-c8ef-501d-9478-eea1c411279c)
About The Author (#u133a41fb-1875-529f-8b85-484aaceb76b9)
Chapter One (#u6ab4acf1-137c-5d9b-87f3-d6d613da5658)
Chapter Two (#u9529df69-b2f6-5c55-8eee-a88275f4604a)
Chapter Three (#ua04b87da-bb7f-5900-9392-e915dc1f3b18)
Chapter Four (#u162f455d-2687-55bf-ac83-445a2c3a83a2)
Chapter Five (#u70c4e0d5-7b24-5bd6-b6af-7cfc93e9957a)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
This one time, Seona’s heart commanded.
Just this one time to be with him. This one time to love him, fully and completely. This one time to grasp a life’s worth of happiness.
“Love me, Griffydd,” she pleaded fervently. “Love me now. Tonight.”
“We will be married,” he promised as he reached out for her.
She smiled at this honorable man who would not take what she was offering without some kind of promise between them.
“I will always be yours,” she replied softly, and truthfully, hoping it would be enough.
It had to be, for there was no more she could say.
“I love you with all my heart, wife-to-be,” he murmured, pressing feather-light kisses upon her forehead and cheeks. “I am yours forever.”
“Shh,” she hushed, afraid that if he called her “wife” again she would start to weep. “Later. We will speak of these things later.”
Even though she knew full well that there could be no later for them.
All they would ever have was this one time.
Dear Reader,
This holiday season, we’ve selected books that are sure to warm your heart—all with heroes who redefine the phrase “the gift of giving.” Since 1992, Margaret Moore has written seventeen full-length historicals for Harlequin and two short stories, and will soon publish her first historical for Avon Books, A Scoundrel’s Kiss. Look for it around Valentine’s Day. Critics have described her as “a master storyteller,” and “a genius of the genre.” In A Warrior’s Passion, the ninth book in her medieval WARRIOR SERIES, a young woman is forced into an unwanted betrothal before the man she truly loves—and whose child she carries—can claim her as his wife. Don’t miss this exciting story!
Linda Castle returns with the long-awaited sequel to Fearless Hearts, Territorial Bride, in which a cowgirl and an Eastern rogue must put their love to the test when she is thrown from a horse and seriously injured. The Shielded Heart by rising talent Sharon Schulze is the gripping tale of a warrior who learns to accept his special psychic gift as he teaches an enamel artisan about life and love.
Rounding out the month is Harrigan’s Bride by award-winning author Cheryl Reavis, who also writes contemporary romances for Silhouette. Here, Thomas Harrigan returns from the Civil War to marry the bedridden, abandoned daughter of his late godmother. It’s great!
Whatever your tastes in reading, you’ll be sure to find a romantic journey back to the past between the covers of a Harlequin Historical® novel.
Sincerely,
Tracy Farrell
Senior Editor
Please address questions and book requests to:
Harlequin Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
A Warrior’s Passion
Margaret Moore
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
MARGARET MOORE
confesses that her first “crush” was Errol Flynn. The second was “Mr. Spock.” She thinks that explains why her heroes tend to be either charming rogues or lean, inscrutable tough guys.
Margaret lives in Scarborough, Ontario, with her husband, two children and two cats. She used to sew and read for reasons other than research.
Chapter One (#ulink_20a12b29-56ba-52ae-87f0-9f722c7937e0)
Seona MacMurdoch sniffled and wiped her dripping nose with the back of her hand. Clutching her thin woolen shawl tighter around her shoulders, she raised her head, squinting in the drizzle, and looked up at the slate-gray sky.
No sign of sunlight and, inside the stone hall beside her, not a sound that would give any notion of why her father had summoned her.
Unfortunately, there was nothing to be done but wait until the chieftain called for her or sent one of his men to fetch her inside, provided he even remembered that, at one time this morning, he had wanted her.
Breathing in the scent of the wet earth beneath her leather-covered feet and the soaked thatch above her head, she wiped her damp face again and sighed with resignation. Then she leaned back against the wall, the movement setting the iron keys tied to the plain belt around her thin waist jangling. Her gaze roved over the wooden wall of her father’s fortress to the scraggy hills surrounding the bay, the thin, dark green of them obscured by the rain. From where she stood, she could look out the open gate of the fortress to the harbor, where the trading ships of her father’s fleet rocked in the bay.
Although these were heavier, larger vessels than longships, the sleek hulls and curved prows gave evidence of Diarmad MacMurdoch’s Norse heritage. He and his people were Gall-Gaidheal whose forebears were both Scots and Norsemen here on the northwest coast of Britain.
His other ships—his longships—were moored elsewhere, out of sight of the village and any traders who might come to visit Dunloch.
“Seona!”
She jumped at the sound of her father’s bellowing voice. It echoed off the stone walls of the hall as if he had called from inside a cave.
Before she could obey her father’s order, however, the warriors of Diarmad MacMurdoch’s council filled the entrance, then filed out past her.
This was to be a private meeting? She shivered and told herself it was from the damp chill of the air of late spring, not the fear that she had done something wrong.
Clad in their voluminous yellow shirts called leine chroich whose color showed their wealth and status, cloaked against the cold and wet by brats, long, woven pieces of cloth they tucked into wide leather belts so that they hung to their naked knees like skirts, their shins wrapped with cuarans of deerskin held in place by thongs, the warriors paid little heed to their chieftain’s daughter as they passed her.
It was not that they didn’t notice her, standing there holding her cloak closed over her loose woolen gown without so much as a bronze pin for adornment, or would not be aware that the chieftain was awaiting her entrance. By their aloof behavior, they only emulated Diarmad MacMurdoch. He often went weeks without speaking one word to Seona, or seeming to realize she still lived and breathed.
Not that Seona wanted any of her father’s warriors to pay her particular notice. Around the time she had come of an age to be married, she had decided she would prefer to be ignored by the lot of them.
Nor had she any wish to see the dread in their eyes should fierce Diarmad MacMurdoch take it into his head to forge a family tie with one of them. She would rather remain a useless spinster, as her father so often described her.
Did any one of them ever wonder how she felt about the prospect of becoming his wife? Did they believe her blind to the curl of their lips when they glanced at her? Did they think her blushing face and awkward manner born in her, rather than engendered by the knowledge that all men thought her ugly and graceless?
“Seona!” her father bellowed again.
She obediently entered the cavernous hall. There were no windows, and the only ventilation came from the covered door and a hole in the thatched roof. A peat fire smoldered in the central hearth, and its lingering smoke added to the obscurity.
Despite the lack of light, she knew where her father would be, so she advanced confidently, as a blind person does in a familiar room.
Wrapped in his black bear robe, the chieftain of Dunloch sat on a bench at the far end of the hall, his back against the wall. A neck band of silver glinted dully as he stared at her with stern disapproval, his dark eyes glaring beneath brows as black as the fur surrounding him. His beard and hair, now shot through with gray, had once been that dark, too. Nevertheless, he was a dangerous man yet, despite his age, as his enemies would aver, whether in combat or in trade.
“You wanted me, Father?” Seona asked as she took off her cloak and shook out what water she could.
“I never wanted a daughter,” her father growled.
Seona made no answer as she folded her wet garment over her arm. This announcement did not surprise her; indeed, she had heard the same sentiment expressed many times before.
Her father leaned forward with a grunt. “You are the scrawniest woman I have ever seen.”
Seona carefully laid her cloak on a nearby bench. “I know,” she answered evenly, wondering how long this preliminary criticism would last.
Many a time he chided her for her pale face, oddcolored hair, staring eyes, too-large mouth, too thin body and too full lips. He claimed that she took after her mother’s family, which had only ever produced one woman worth looking at, the one Diarmad had taken for wife.
“Lucky for you, I may have use for you yet.”
“What task would you set me?” Seona inquired, thinking he was going to speak to her regarding provisions for his ships or food for his men.
His scowl deepened as he leaned forward again and fixed his beady black eyes on her. “We’re going to have an important visitor. From Wales he is, the son of a very powerful, rich baron. He’s coming to conclude a trade agreement.”
Seona nodded, thinking she knew what her father wanted. “I will see that quarters are prepared for him and his men.”
“He brings no men.”
Seona’s eyes widened a little, and then she smiled. Her chores would be much easier if the man came without a band of warriors.
“I’ve sent one of my ships to bring him here, and his father sends him alone to show his trust in me.”
Seona fought hard to keep any skepticism from her face. Her father’s reputation was not one to generate much trust among his trading partners.
Not that Diarmad MacMurdoch ever broke his word or harmed any ally. No, he was trustworthy as far as that went. But no one who made a bargain with him ever felt they got quite a fair deal, and in that, they were absolutely right.
“Very well, Father,” Seona said, turning to leave. “I will insure that all is ready.”
“There is more!”
Seona turned back to face her stern parent again. “Yes, Father?”
“You are to see that he is kept…happy…while he is with us.”
Her eyes narrowed as she regarded her father with a shrewdness his allies would have recognized. It did not ease her suspicions that her father did not meet her gaze. “What is it you would have me do?”
As the silence stretched between them, her instinct became a certainty and anger began to build in her breast.
“What would you have me do?” she repeated.
When he still did not answer, she squared her slender shoulders. “You would pander your own daughter for the sake of trade? I suppose I should be surprised that you have never made such a proposal before. However, I am not so ugly or desperate for a man’s touch that I will act a whore!”
“Did I tell you to sleep with the man?” her father retorted. “What have I asked of you except to see that my guest is made welcome?”
“I will see that his quarters are prepared as befits a valued ally,” she said firmly. “I will see that we have good food and drink to serve him—but no other needs will I fulfil.”
Her father shrugged his shoulders, and the scowl on his face was suspiciously like a pout. “You are not getting any younger, Seona,” he remarked, “and you’ve never been a beauty. You could do a lot worse than Griffydd DeLanyea. His father’s a powerful man, part Norman, too. Maybe if you—”
“Went to his bed, he would marry me?” She made no effort to hide her disgusted skepticism. “Father, who is it always says no man will buy what he can taste for free?” She wrapped her arms about herself. “Besides, I am not for sale, like furs or gold.”
Diarmad MacMurdoch regarded his only daughter coldly. “What is every marriage but a bargain? This would be no different. I’ve fed you and clothed you all these years, letting you live like a leech on my skin. It is time someone else took you.”
“You will offer me up like damaged goods?”
“If I must.”
“I am your daughter!”
“So what of that? I have sons to succeed me and fight for me. What will you ever do? Even if you marry, you will need a dowry—and where is that to come from, eh, but my purse?”
“I did not ask to be born!”
“No, and I did not ask for you, either!”
“I will not shame myself—”
Her father suddenly rose up like a wrathful spirit. “Do not speak of shame to me, girl! Have I not lived in shame these twenty years, aye, since the day you were born? Shame to have a daughter first! Shame that she was a weak, skinny thing! Shame that she was ugly! Shame that no man would have her, no matter how much I offered!”
Every word was like the sting of the lash to Seona, even if she had heard it all before.
Except the last. That was something new, and devastating.
“How much?” she asked in a whisper as cold as the wind from the hills in winter.
Now it was his turn to look startled. “Eh?”
“How much were you willing to pay someone to marry me?”
Scowling, he wrapped his robe about him and shrugged one shoulder morosely. “It matters not.”
“It does to me. I would know my worth.”
“Five hundred pieces of silver.”
And still no man wanted her! Dismay washed over her—and yet she would not give in to it, or to her father, either, just because no man of any wealth or consequence would take the bribe, for only to such would her father extend the offer. Otherwise, he would keep her by his side to run his household.
So it did not matter that a man of his choosing would not take her, she thought as she lifted her too-pointed chin.
“You should be glad I am here,” she said, “and that you have me to run your household. Am I not cheaper to keep than another wife would be? She might demand some notice from you, or lacking that, material goods to keep her happy.”
She ran a scornful gaze over her father, the chieftain of his clan, the leader of his people, the trader all men respected. Then she slowly and deliberately untied the ring of keys from her belt and held them straight out. “I learned better than to ask you for anything long ago. Would you have these back?”
“No!” her father growled.
“Then I will do my duty—but no more, not for you or any man!”
“Daughter—!”
“Servant,” she interrupted. “Little more than slave.”
“A servant would do her master’s bidding without an argument! A slave would know her place. By God, I should have drowned you like the runt of the litter.”
She regarded him steadily. “Aye, Father, perhaps you should have, but it is too late for that now. And alas for you, I am not a servant.”
With that, Seona turned on her heel and marched out.
Holding to the curved prow to steady himself in the bow of Diarmad MacMurdoch’s vessel, Griffydd DeLanyea drew in a deep breath of the salty air and gazed at the craggy hills of this godforsaken country. While Wales had hills and mountains aplenty, it also contained trees and lush valleys. All he could see here in the north was rock touched with a bit of green. Perhaps when the ship drew closer, the land would not look so barren.
Thank the Lord he didn’t have to live in the place, though. All he had to do was reach an agreement with Diarmad MacMurdoch, whose ships sailed all around Britain, the Isle of Man and Ireland, as well as north to the land of the Norsemen and Danes, and south to the Normans and even the Moors.
Griffydd’s father’s sheep produced some of the finest wool in Wales, and a lot of it. The baron’s tenants had also discovered silver in the hills near their castle of Craig Fawr. These two commodities would bring the family much wealth, if they could get it to several markets. Baron DeLanyea knew almost nothing about the sea and ships; better, he had told his son, to strike a bargain with a man who did and pay for his expertise.
“Yet have a care, my son,” his father had cautioned, “for a tricky man is Diarmad MacMurdoch. He will rant and rave and try to wear you down with his dramatics. That is why I send you, Griffydd. You have the patience to wear him down, with silence.”
As the ship turned toward the shore, Griffydd smiled sardonically at the memory of his father’s final words. Patience? Oh, yes, that he had—as well as the ability to overlook emotional outbursts, which he considered childish indulgence.
Indeed, he had always thought any display of extreme emotion rather distasteful and weak, even as a child. Like his mother, he could hide his feelings:
Not like his cousin and foster brother, Dylan. Dylan’s every emotion flew across his face and shone out of his eyes. There was nothing secretive about him, and no solemnity, either. He seemed to fall in love with a different woman every day of the week and clearly thought this something to brag about. He had already fathered three bastards that they knew of, and Dylan’s purse was perpetually empty supporting them and their mothers.
Being Welsh, of course, there was no shame to him or the women or the children—and yet no glory, either.
In Griffydd’s eyes, Dylan’s boisterous behavior was nothing more than rank foolishness and vanity. To be sure, Griffydd was no virgin, but he made no declarations of passionate, everlasting love to any woman. Why would he, when he never felt anything except the pleasure of physical union? No emotion had ever affected him the way the bards claimed love should. That such love existed he knew—his own parents were proof of that—but he mercifully had never felt the uncontrollable desire, the fierce longing that made all else unimportant, or the despair if the woman did not reciprocate.
The captain of the ship barked an order. Suddenly the crew jumped into motion.
They all had the look of the worst of Vikings about them, with long, tangled hair, thick, filthy beards and clothes that smelled as if their wearers had been living in them uninterrupted for the past ten years.
As the men lowered the square sail and prepared to out oars, the ship rounded a rocky point, exposing a sheltered bay. On one side of the bay on the top of a bluff stood a round stone tower that had obviously fallen into disrepair.
Inside the bay, several midsized vessels used for transport and trade sat at anchor. He could not see one longship, the low, dragon-prowed Norse warships all of Britain feared.
The captain pointed at the cluster of buildings now visible beyond the wharf at the edge of the bay. “Dunloch,” he called to Griffydd, who acknowledged his verification with a nod.
At the man’s next command, the oars slid out into the water. At his signal, the men began to pull in unison and, more surprisingly, sing.
At least Griffydd supposed that’s what they were supposed to be doing, for they started chanting rhythmically.
The reason became clear: it was to keep the men rowing in unison, the oars dipping and rising in time to the song.
As Griffydd hummed the tune, which was not difficult to learn, his shrewd, gray-eyed gaze swept over the village, noting the number of stone buildings, the wooden wall of the fortress on a slight rise beyond, the activity on the right side of the bay that bespoke both the building and repair of sailing vessels, the fish drying on the beach, and the women and children working and playing there. Smaller vessels were beside a wooden pier stretching out into the water, or drawn up on the rocky shore.
Dunloch seemed a very prosperous place, and Griffydd would remember that when Diarmad complained of the harsh winter, as he surely would.
The captain came to stand beside Griffydd. “You sing well,” he remarked, speaking the language that was common among men on the coast of Britain, a traders’ amalgamation of Gaelic, Norse and Celtic. “Must be the Welsh in you.”
“Perhaps.”
The man heaved a tremendous sigh. “A poor village, I’m afraid,” he said mournfully, gazing out over the water toward Dunloch. “It was a very harsh winter.”
Stifling a wry smile, Griffydd nodded his head, giving the man a sidelong glance. “Harsh in Wales, too, it was.”
“Oh, aye?”
Griffydd nodded. “There seems to be no lack of fish on the shore.”
The captain cleared his throat and ran a brown, brawny hand through his thick red beard. “That’s the way of it here. Good fish one day, no fish for ten.”
“A pity is that.”
“Aye,” the captain agreed.
“Tell me, are the chieftain’s sons in the village?”
A wary and yet relieved look came to the captain’s eyes. “No.”
Griffydd was glad to hear it, and he could understand the man’s response. Diarmad had six strapping, obstreperous sons who were known to treat everyone with arrogant contempt. They commanded their own small fleets, quartered out of six villages within a day’s sail of Dunloch. A wise plan to give them each their own village, Baron DeLanyea thought it, otherwise whelps like that would be at each other’s throats constantly.
A cry went up from a watchman on a rock near the shore, which was answered by the captain. Another call sounded in the village, and now Griffydd could make out more clearly the people on the shore.
And they would be able to see him. With that in mind, he made his way to his chest in the stern to don his mail, hauberk, finest cloak, best brooch and valuable sword.
As he did so, Griffydd DeLanyea felt no sense of foreboding, or fear that he would not be successful in his quest for a good rate for the transportation of his father’s goods. He truly believed that he would conclude this business and be safely home in no more than a fortnight.
Such is the folly of young men.
Chapter Two (#ulink_a1759cbd-2d2f-5664-89b7-a0c779bf3c28)
As the ship slowly drifted into its place beside the wharf, the left-hand side closest to shore, Griffydd scrutinized the men assembled there.
The stocky one in the center wearing the fur robe would be Diarmad. Not only was he in the position of leadership, there could be no mistaking the man, to go by his father’s description.
The collective expressions of the men clustered around him indicated something less than joy at Griffydd’s arrival.
This did not surprise the young Welshman. Alliances, whether political or mercantile, were not something to be taken lightly. The political affected trade, and trade affected politics, so no transaction of the magnitude of the agreement Griffydd was going to attempt to negotiate could be a simple business.
Men in the bow and stern leaped from the ship to the wharf, carrying ropes to tie the vessel in place.
As Griffydd jumped nimbly to the land, Diarmad MacMurdoch stepped forward with open arms to embrace him and give him the kiss of greeting.
“Welcome!” the chieftain of Dunloch cried heartily. “Welcome to Dunloch! My hall is yours!”
As Diarmad drew back, Griffydd managed not to wrinkle his nose at the man’s powerful stench. Instead, he acknowledged the greeting and gravely said, “I thank you for your kind words, Diarmad. My father, Baron DeLanyea, sends his greetings and some gifts from Craig Fawr.”
The old man’s eyes gleamed with pleasure and, Griffydd thought, greed. “I thank him! He is well, I trust?”
“Very.”
“Glad to hear it! A fine man—a fine fighter! The Baron DeLanyea was on the Crusade!” the chieftain declared, apparently for the benefit of the men around him. “Nearly killed, he was, but the heathens couldn’t do it, although they took his eye. Isn’t that right, young DeLanyea?”
“Yes,” Griffydd acknowledged, his body slowly adjusting to the solid, unswaying land.
“And your mother? She is well?”
Griffydd nodded. “Yes.”
“Good, good!” Diarmad cried, throwing his arm about Griffydd like an overly friendly bear, which was, Griffydd realized, what was familiar about his smell. “To the hall then, for some ale.”
Griffydd had no choice but to agree, for Diarmad’s beastlike grip did not loosen. The chieftain led his guest along a wide street through the village to the fortress.
The Welshman felt the eyes of the villagers on him, but he paid that no mind. Instead, he concentrated on what he saw—the smithy, with more than one man busily at work, the well-built houses of stone and thatch, barns, storehouses, wooden outbuildings and even the muck heaps, which could easily tell a man how many horses were kept. Dogs ran barking around them, the largest obviously Diarmad’s hound, for a word from the chieftain brought the brute impressively to heel.
“Fine mail you’ve got there, DeLanyea,” Diarmad noted in a conversational tone. “That sword’s a marvel, too. Must have been a prosperous year.”
“The mail and sword were gifts from my father’s friends when I was knighted,” Griffydd explained truthfully. “The cloak and brooch, as well.”
“Generous friends you’ve got.”
“And powerful at court, some of them.”
Diarmad gave him a sidelong glance but said nothing.
Griffydd sighed rather melodramatically. “As you know, the king has raised our taxes again, and of course, the winter was harsh.”
There was a nearly imperceptible pause before Diarmad responded. “Oh, aye?”
“I heard it was bad here, too,” Griffydd continued evenly.
“So it was, so it was!” Diarmad muttered.
By now, they had reached the tall, wooden wall of the fortress. As they went through the gate, Griffydd took note of the stables, the longhouses, the well—but everything inside the fortress palled beside the enormous stone hall in the center. Although the hall was smaller than his father’s, it was impressive nonetheless, larger and longer than any building of the Gall-Gaidheal Griffydd had ever seen before.
Diarmad strode toward the building and proudly gestured for Griffydd to enter. “Well, here we are! Not so fine as your father’s hall, I know, but fine enough for a poor man like me.”
If Diarmad’s poor, I’m a girl, Griffydd thought sarcastically as one of Diarmad’s men, a dark-haired, sullen fellow, hurried forward to hold open the door.
Griffydd strode into the building, and suddenly felt as if he were in a cavern. There were no windows, and the sod-and-thatch roof gave the air an earthy smell. Smoke drifted toward a single hole above, with much of it lingering in the room lit by oil lamps and rushlights stuck in sconces in the wall. The lamps burned whale oil, if Griffydd’s nose was any guide. A roaring fire blazed in the central hearth, providing more illumination, as well as welcome warmth after the chill of the air. Benches and tables ringed the hearth, drinking horns and trenchers already in place.
A sudden movement to Griffydd’s right caught his eye and he swiftly turned to see a young woman rising from a stool in the corner. She wore a pale brown, rough woolen gown of simple cut. It fell loosely from a curved, unembellished neckline to the floor, although a plain belt hung about her hips and made the full dress blouse. Long, red-gold hair of luxuriant thickness reached to her waist.
Then, with one long-fingered hand, she slowly brushed her amazing hair away from her elfin face and looked at him, her dark eyes large, and their expression one he had never seen before—half defiant pride, half yearning vulnerability.
And totally compelling. As she was.
In that moment, it was as if the breath had left his lungs and his heart had ceased to beat. Then his heart came to vibrant life, thudding with a rapid drumbeat that surely had to be audible.
The woman did not speak or move, but regarded him steadily, her lips parted as if she would speak.
He waited, not breathing, for her to utter a single word.
Then Diarmad shoved his unwelcome way past Griffydd and broke the spell. “Seona!” he barked.
The young woman stepped forward and rose up on her toes to press a light kiss of greeting upon Griffydd’s cheek, the sensation like the touch of a feather tip. She smelled of grass and sea air, a perfume of natural purity that pleased him far more than the costliest unguent from the farthest land in the East.
He had been kissed before, of course, but this gentle caress seemed to make his blood burn beyond anything even the most experienced and passionate of lovers had ever made him feel.
“This is Seona,” Diarmad announced beside him. “Seona, this is Sir Griffydd DeLanyea of Craig Fawr.”
As Griffydd bowed to her, a powerful surge of longing flowed through him and a wild thought sprang into his mind. Had Diarmad set her to wait here because she was to be Griffydd’s servant—and whatever else he wanted—while he was in this village?
Such things had happened before when Griffydd had traveled on his father’s business. Always he had refused the “hospitality,” recognizing it for a tactic intended to distract him.
This time, however…this time, he decided without hesitation, he would accept.
“I am happy to meet you, Seona,” he said, and with a gentleness that surprised even himself.
Then Griffydd DeLanyea did something even more unusual.
He smiled.
“Seona is my daughter,” Diarmad declared with a proud and happy grin.
Diarmad’s daughter? Griffydd’s eyes widened with disbelief. This delicate woman with the bewitching eyes and hair such as he had. never seen or imagined was the offspring of loud, brawny Diarmad MacMurdoch? He could more easily believe she was a faerie changeling.
Then he realized that wily old Diarmad was watching him closely, and Griffydd’s smile dissipated like mist in the valley when the sun rose.
Of course, Griffydd thought with more anger than he had felt in many a day. A canny devil like Diarmad would use any ploy in negotiations, including setting his lovely, intriguing daughter to bewitch a man.
He had to be bewitched. No woman had ever made him feel as she had, and on first sight, too.
He had heard that these Gall-Gaidheals were only partly Christian and the other part pagan still.
A shiver ran through Griffydd as he turned away, suddenly aware that his task here might be more difficult than he had assumed, and Diarmad far more clever than he had anticipated.
Seona stared after Griffydd DeLanyea as he strode toward the bench at the end of the hall to take his seat beside her father.
She had thought to find the Welsh nobleman a short, squat, dark man, for weren’t the Welsh all short and dark? Instead, she beheld a tall, gray-eyed warrior with doe-brown, shoulder-length hair that brushed broad, muscular shoulders. The complexion of his angular face was sun browned and his cheeks were ruddy from the sea breeze. His nose was remarkably straight, his jaw strong like the rest of him. He was well dressed in gleaming mail, black hauberk and a black cloak that swirled about his long legs when he moved.
Those things she had noted when he had first entered the hall and they had been surprising enough.
Then he had looked at her with his grave, gray eyes. What she had seen there had made her heart beat like the rapid movement of a bird’s wings and filled her with a strange thrill such as she had never felt before.
What had she seen there? Approval, certainly, and that was rare enough. Admiration, she thought. Perhaps even desire.
In all her life, no man had ever really looked at her as if he thought her worthy of his interest beyond asking for food or drink.
As their guest drew off his cloak and took his seat to her father’s right, the place of honor for a respected guest, she instantly recalled the sensation of the stubble of his cheek against her mouth, the sea-spray scent of his skin—and the yearning that had blossomed within her.
Most surprising of all, perhaps, was her sudden realization that if her father made his outrageous request of her again, here and now, she would eagerly agree.
Indeed, she more than half suspected if her father proposed a marriage with the Welshman, she would accept him on the spot.
Unfortunately, whatever expression had been in Griffydd DeLanyea’s eyes, it had died when he found out who she was.
Why?
Perhaps he kept his smiles for serving maids, who would be more procurable and appropriate bed companions than the daughter of his host.
Maybe he was playing a game. Perhaps her own astonishing desire had been too evident. He was a handsome man. He must be used to women’s admiration. It was not so incredible that he might think to toy with her, encouraging or dismissing her as whim or strategy suggested.
Her jaw clenched as she told herself that if Griffydd DeLanyea had been truly canny, like her father, he would not have altered a whit when he found out who she was. He would have done his utmost to win her to his side, and so take advantage of her loneliness and anger at her father…
He could not know about that, of course. He was no mind reader, to reach into the recesses of her heart and understand her feelings, no matter how he looked at her with those iron-gray eyes.
Which meant she must and would subdue this wild excitement coursing through her, this sudden burning desire for a man she had only just met.
Yet she could not prevent herself from imagining what might have happened between them if she had not been Diarmad’s daughter, but a maidservant.
Her body throbbed as her imagination envisioned—indeed, almost physically felt—being in his strong arms, his powerful hands and fingers caressing her body as he kissed her passionately.
The men of her father’s council began to take their places, interrupting her ridiculous flight of fancy. As her father introduced them to Griffydd DeLanyea one by one, the Welshman completely ignored her.
No matter. She was used to that, was she not?
“Seona!” her father barked, making her jump.
Griffydd DeLanyea had said her name softly, in a way she had never heard before. Gently. Like a caress.
She grabbed the carafe of wine on the table nearby and hurried forward as other women entered with food and ale for those who preferred that beverage. Around her, her father’s men spoke in low mutters and cast wary glances at their guest.
Not all of them welcomed an alliance with the Welsh, she knew. Some, like her father’s oldest comrade, Eodan, would not question his plans. Others, like the religious Iosag, would look for signs from God as to whom they should choose as allies.
Then there were those such as Naoghas, a sullen, dark-haired fellow Seona had never liked, who would rather ally themselves with the Scots. Naoghas and his friends traced their forebears to the royal house of the Scots—or so they claimed—regardless of any influx of northern blood. They favored only compacts with Scots, and no one else.
As for her father, Seona knew he would unite himself to whoever offered the most profit.
She reached the head table and her fingers trembled as she began to pour the wine into the Welshman’s drinking horn. She bit her lip, trying to gain control of herself, fearful that her father would denounce her clumsiness if she spilled, any of the costly beverage and even more fearful of meeting their guest’s steadfast, unnerving gaze.
“So, I hear that your sister has wed,” her father said to DeLanyea.
Seona couldn’t help listening as their guest responded in his deep, musical voice. “Aye, a year past.”
“To the brother-in-law of Baron Etienne DeGuerre, too,” her father noted. “A fine alliance for your family.”
Seona moved on to her father’s drinking horn.
“There is that, but it was a love match, too.”
“Oh, aye!” her father answered with a sarcastic chuckle. “A love match that joins your family to one of the most powerful men in England!”
Startled by her father’s blunt insolence, Seona jostled the carafe. Some of the wine spilled onto the table. Blushing with embarrassment, she quickly set down the container and wiped the spill with the hem of her skirt.
When she finished, she raised her eyes to see her father glowering at her while Griffydd DeLanyea’s face betrayed absolutely nothing as he raised his drinking horn and drank the strong wine.
Then he set down the vessel and matter-of-factly said, “If Rhiannon was not in love with him, the marriage would not have taken place, even if Frechette were the heir to the throne.”
“Oh, come now, man!” Diarmad protested as Seona hurried away. “Your father would—”
“Never use his child to further his own ambitions,” their guest replied, still in that same prosaic tone, although he directed a pointed glance at Seona, then his host. “Unlike many men.”
Seona flushed with humiliation and her hands clutched the handle of the carafe until her knuckles went white.
She knew what Griffydd DeLanyea was implying and she wanted nothing more than to repeat the same assertions she had made to her father: she would not be used as chattel for his bartering.
Yet while she could find the strength to speak her mind to her father when they were alone, here in the hall, before his men and their guest, she dare not.
Instead, she subdued her embarrassment and shame as best she could, and silently continued to do her duty.
Because there was nothing else to be done.
Griffydd tried not to notice Seona MacMurdoch’s blushing face. It was more important that Diarmad realize Griffydd was aware the man might be trying to use his daughter as bait.
Therefore, Griffydd commanded himself, he would continue to ignore her, as he had been attempting to do since he had been told who she was. He had a responsibility to his father, and that he would fulfil, despite distracting young women.
All this talk of marriage hinted at one of Diarmad’s plans. No doubt he had discovered that Griffydd was not married, or even betrothed. The cunning Gall-Gaidheal was probably hoping to seal any bargain between himself and the DeLanyeas with a wedding.
He would soon realize Griffydd was not easily trapped by feminine lures, no matter how tempting.
With such thoughts in his mind, he was glad he had been unable to see Seona’s limb when she raised her skirt to wipe the tiny slop of wine. Nor had he paid any heed to the way the tip of her tongue touched her lip as she poured his wine. He would take no notice of her coy reluctance to look at him. He would not be drawn in by her alluring tricks, although his blood fired at the sight of her.
Forcing himself to concentrate on his host, Griffydd regarded Diarmad with a pointed look intended to let the chieftain know he felt insulted by his remarks but had magnanimously decided to overlook the insinuations, and for that, Diarmad should be grateful.
“Love and marriage are not something I care to discuss,” he said evenly.
“So we won’t!” Diarmad agreed with a chortle and an answering expression that told Griffydd his underlying meaning had been comprehended.
The chieftain turned his attention to the thick venison stew, redolent of leeks, set before him, swiping at the gravy with a hunk of flat barley bread.
What had prompted his host to scoff at the reason for his sister’s marriage? Griffydd pondered as he, too, sampled the excellent stew.
Perhaps Diarmad was trying to discover how quickly his guest angered.
In which case, he should have learned that Griffydd DeLanyea’s ire was slow to arouse. Very slow, because that anger, once produced, burned long and bright, like the sun high above the desert.
As for other emotions that might be aroused, Griffydd mused, he would regulate them. He was in command of himself. He was not like Dylan, with his lovers and his children and his tempestuous, childish outbursts.
He would concentrate on the task at hand and forget enchanting young women with hair he would like to bury his hands in.
While ostensibly enjoying a drink of the wine, Griffydd’s gaze swept around the crowded room filled with burly, bearded men.
How much did they know of their chieftain’s schemes?
Griffydd could well believe that Diarmad would tell no one exactly what he planned: he was the kind of man to enjoy keeping the power of such secrets to himself. He couldn’t be betrayed that way, either.
What of Seona, whose very name fascinated him?
Undoubtedly it would be better to think of her as a canny conspirator, at least for now. That way, he could control his wayward emotions regarding her.
He must control them.
“1 confess my father was surprised that you seemed so amenable to a trade agreement,” he remarked, determined to speak of other things. “He feared you would not wish to be associated with any save your own people.”
“My own people?” Diarmad asked.
“The Gall-Gaidheal.”
“Why would I set a limit on who I trade with, or whose goods I carry for profit?” Diarmad replied lightly.
“Especially when there is already to be an alliance between your family and the chieftain of Clan Ruari,” Griffydd replied, naming a powerful group of Gall-Gaidheal. “I understand your eldest son is betrothed to his daughter.”
“You seem to know much of my business, young DeLanyea,” his host replied, eyeing Griffydd over his drinking horn.
“I also know that chieftain claims the throne of the king of the Scots.”
“Show me a man, whether Scots or Gall-Gaidheal, who doesn’t think he has a claim on the Scottish throne,” Diarmad answered with another grin.
“I have never heard that said of you,” Griffydd noted. Although your daughter has the dignity of a queen.
Diarmad threw back his head and laughed. “No, I do not make any such claim. My father’s father was a Norse jarl and Haakon, the king of Norway, has dominion over me.”
“Nevertheless, your son’s marriage is not a love match, I take it, and it ties to you an important clan.”
Again Diarmad laughed. “No, it is no love match. Nor is it a threat to you. His bride’s father spends too much time thinking about the throne of the Scots instead of trade, but that’s all he does—think. Set your mind at rest, DeLanyea, and tell your father that my sons and I, and all our allies, will steer away from your coast once we come to an agreement.”
“He will be glad to hear it.”
“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.
Chapter Three (#ulink_724658ee-ff6a-51aa-aa12-22fdb4752e21)
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 lady.”
“You are Diarmad MacMurdoch’s daughter, are you not?” he queried, strolling away as if to familiarize himself with his new quarters.
With his attention elsewhere, she relaxed a little more.
“Oh, yes,” she replied, a hint of bitterness creeping into her voice. “Although he would rather I was not. However, he is not a lord, so I am not a lady. Still, I thank you for the compliment.”
When he did not respond, she said, “I would have expected a man of your rank to have quite a large party with him.”
“I hope you are not implying I would need their protection? Or do you fear I might be lonely?”
“Oh, no,” she hastened to assure him. “You are too valuable to be at risk, at least physically.” She paused as he examined an unlit oil lamp hanging from a beam. “And I think you are used to being alone.”
He chuckled so softly she could barely hear him.
“Indeed, I often find my own company the most satisfactory,” he replied, glancing at her briefly. “How is it you could perceive that, I wonder?”
“Because you came here alone,” she replied.
“And perhaps because we share that trait?” he proposed, turning to regard her, his expression still betraying almost nothing.
“Perhaps.”
“So, Seona, do you live in a vast, empty building?”
She shook her head. “I live in a very small building.”
He raised one eyebrow quizzically. “It must make for close quarters.”
Now it was she who chuckled softly. “I live by myself in my own house at the edge of the village close to the broch.”
“Broch?”
“The ruined tower, my lord.”
“Sir,” he said. “I am Sir Griffydd DeLanyea. I will not be a lord until my father dies and I am made baron.”
“Sir Griffydd,” she conceded softly, and with a nod of her head.
“Griffydd.”
She stared at him a moment, befuddled.
“Griffydd,” he repeated. “You may use my name, if you would like.”
“Griffydd,” she amended.
He shifted his weight a little and cocked his head as he continued to regard her. “If I am not at risk physically, I wonder how else I might be in jeopardy?”
She shrugged her slender shoulders, then gave him a shrewd look. “I believe from what you said in the hall, you already know.” She hesitated, suddenly unsure what else she should say.
But she was determined to say something in her own defense.
“If my father implies that I am in any way a part of this trading pact,” she averred, “he does so without my knowledge.”
Griffydd’s eyes widened slightly. “Without your knowledge?”
“Yes,” she answered with a nod.
“You have the Sight, then?”
She gave him a puzzled look. “No.”
“Are you a witch?”
“Certainly not! I am a Christian, like you.”
“I am relieved to hear it, and yet confused, too.”
Seona didn’t know what to make of him. “I have spoken clearly enough.”
“But what explanation have you?” he asked meditatively.
“Have I for what?” she demanded, her frustration with his enigmatic pronouncements growing.
“You would warn me against something of which you claim to be ignorant.”
She flushed hotly. “Surely you can guess what I meant,” she said. “I do not want to be a part of any offers my father might make.”
“I prefer not to make assumptions, of any kind,” he replied, coming closer.
In a moment, he was near enough for her to reach out and touch and she found that, despite her annoyance, her mouth had suddenly turned as dry as a salted herring.
“So, you do not approve of your father using you?”
She nodded wordlessly.
“Is this a general principle by which you live, or is it that you do not approve of me?”
“It has nothing to do with you.”
He raised a quizzical eyebrow. “I wonder if I should be pleased by that response, or not?”
“I do not seek to insult you, or flatter you, either,” she replied firmly. “I want you to understand that, regardless of anything my father might say, I do not consider my duties to extend beyond the honorable bounds of hospitality.”
“I see,” the Welshman murmured, gazing at her with the merest hint of a smile on his face. “I suppose what you are saying means that you do not intend to stay the night with me?”
“No!”
“I would have sent you away anyway,” he replied solemnly. “Being a nobleman has certain responsibilities, too, especially when one is a guest. I would never assume that I would be welcomed into the bed of my host’s daughter—although I must confess I have never been so tempted to forget the bounds of courtesy.”
She swallowed hard, very aware that he was gazing at her face, and that she was no beauty. His words might be only empty flattery, and yet at his softly spoken compliment, heat poured through every limb.
She also knew she was smiling like a ninny, knew she must look besotted, but she couldn’t help it. No man’s words had ever meant so much to her—and surely the sincere approval she saw in his eyes could not be a trick.
He gently took hold of her shoulders and drew her close, bending lower. “Your scruples do you credit, Seona. Beautiful, beautiful Seona.”
The moment his lips touched hers, she seemed to melt like wax in a molten flame. She could no more have turned away from his kiss than she could have willed the planets to stop their circling of the earth.
One of his hands brushed through her hair as the other stroked her back. Willingly, eagerly, she leaned toward him and returned his passionate kiss. His cloak opened and she splayed her hands on his broad chest, feeling it rise and lower beneath her outstretched palms.
With growing urgency, his mouth moved over hers and when his tongue pressed against her sealed lips, she answered his silent request, parting them to let his tongue slide into her warm and waiting mouth.
A low moan escaped her as he clasped her to him as if he would meld them together like beings made of clay.
Then, suddenly, he stopped.
Gasping, uncertain, she looked at him questioningly, her lips still tingling from his kiss.
Griffydd drew a ragged breath and pushed her away, astonished at the desire surging through him. He had never felt like this. Never! Something had to be wrong with him—or with her.
“Have you bewitched me?” he demanded. “Have you put some kind of spell upon me?”
“What…what do you mean?” she asked in a whisper.
“As tempting as the thought of sharing my bed with you may be, I am an honorable man, and I will not be seduced by my host’s daughter.”
“I am not seducing you!”
His hands curled into angry fists at his side and he fought to control his raging temper. Diarmad must have ordered her to escort him here as part of a dastardly scheme to force a wedding between them and therefore an alliance between his father and the Gall-Gaidheal. “Where is the jealous suitor? Or will it be your irate father who is supposed to burst in and accuse me of dishonoring you?”
She stared at him in disbelief at his accusations and the sudden change in his manner.
“For a woman who claims she does not agree with her father’s strategy, you seemed very eager to give yourself to me,” he continued, wrapping the cloak about himself again. “Or perhaps that kiss was only to whet my appetite?
“Unfortunately for you, his plan will not succeed. Although sleeping with you would be a serious breach of courtesy, to the Welsh making love before marriage is not enough to extort a betrothal.”
“No! No—you kissed me!” she protested, dismayed by his suspicion.
“Why did you linger here at this hour of the night? And such enthusiasm to voice your honorable honesty!” he replied sarcastically. “Very clever and very crafty, Seona. Perhaps you think I am feebleminded not to see exactly what kind of trap this is? My father warned me about Diarmad MacMurdoch. It is to be regretted that he didn’t give me similar warnings about you.”
“Because there were no warnings to be given!” she retorted, angered by his implications. “I meant what I said. I wanted you to know that I have no hand in any of my father’s scheming.”
“No?” Griffydd demanded, his cold, skeptical gaze wounding her more than a dagger might have done. “Then what plan of your own were you hatching?”
“None!” she cried, glaring at him and hating him for not believing her. “This is to be the thanks I get for trying to be honest with you?”
She thought of the look in his eyes when he called her beautiful and marveled at her gullibility. “I should have realized you were not to be trusted—”
“I am not to be trusted? If there is duplicity here, look to yourself!”
“I am not the one spouting lies!” she replied, turning on her heel to leave.
He grabbed her arm to halt her progress and came to stand before her.
“I am an honest man, but that does not mean I am a fool. Now tell me what lies I have told,” Griffydd commanded with more angry animosity than even his own parents would have suspected he possessed.
But angry he was, and hurt and upset. He had been tricked by a lovely woman, a woman he still desired so much that, despite her deceit, it was all he could do not to carry her to his bed.
He must be going mad, driven slowly insane by Diarmad MacMurdoch and his desirable daughter, who stood defiantly before him, proud as a queen, bold as an Amazon.
“Take your hands from me!” she ordered scornfully.
He obeyed at once. “What lies have I told?” he demanded again.
Her lip curled and passionate anger burned in her large eyes, although her tone was coolly sarcastic. “Since I am so tempting, sir, I had best leave you to your rest. Sleep well.”
With that, she marched haughtily out the door.
After she had gone, Griffydd stood motionless for a long time before he raked his trembling hand through his hair.
Even now, he half expected a gang of Gall-Gaidheal led by a belligerent Diarmad to charge into his quarters and demand that he wed Seona or die.
He had been trapped like the most naive dupe in Britain.
Then he stared at his quivering fingers as if they belonged to somebody else. Indeed, he almost felt they must.
His was the steady hand. He never trembled, not with fear or longing or excitement.
Dylan did. And Dylan was the lover, never without a woman. Not him.
Yet Griffydd knew he had acted as impulsively as Dylan ever had. At the time, he had given no thought to the ramifications of kissing Seona MacMurdoch.
He had acted with his heart, not his head.
Which was wrong. And weak. And foolish. Most of all, foolish.
Her presence in his quarters had to be part of a strategy, and her apparent sincerity only a trick.
Despite Seona’s denials, she must have been a willing participant in the plan. After all, no one had shoved her through the door or asked her to stay.
Griffydd slowly drew his sword from its scabbard. With deliberate movements he twisted it to and fro until his hand grew steady again.
Until he was master of himself again.
Disgusted with his own gullibility, Griffydd told himself he would think only of the trade pact. He would ignore Seona MacMurdoch, with her fascinating face, spirited manner and huge brown eyes.
She had deceived him once, and he would not let that happen again.
Seona came to a halt on top of the rise overlooking the harbor of Dunloch near the ruined broch. The cold air blew through her loose dress and whipped her hair about her face. It howled through the gaps in the stones of the ancient tower like the keening of mourning women before heading toward the fortress and village below. In the village, a few flickering lights occasionally shone out into the darkness of the night. The sound of drunken singing rose from her father’s hall, telling her that her father was in a jovial mood, obviously anticipating a considerable profit from his pact with the Welshman’s family.
Wrapping her arms about herself for warmth, her gaze moved to the boundless ocean, its shimmering water lit by the pale moon.
If only she could sail away from here, or run away to some place where she could be free—of her duties, of her father, of his constant disapproval, of his plans and schemes.
But where could she go, a lone woman with no friends and no money? Her brothers would send her home, too afraid of losing command of their villages if they offended their father to shelter her. No other chieftain would want to risk his wrath, either, because Diarmad MacMurdoch commanded a large fleet. He had the ships, the men and the arms, as well as the money for more, if he chose to punish them.
Nor could she count on sanctuary in a holy place. The priests had endured many attacks over the years from the Norsemen and were all too grateful for Diarmad MacMurdoch’s protection. They would certainly tell him where she was, if nothing else, and then her father would come for her. She could envision him dragging her out of a chapel, the priests helpless to stop him.
Now she had made things even worse.
She had been a fool, a simpleton so moved by her attraction to a handsome stranger that she had been totally humiliated while trying to do good.
Yet whose fault was that, really? If she were in his place, what would she make of such a visit and her willing kiss?
She should be glad he had been angry, otherwise who could say what more she might have done?
At least all that had resulted was anger on both sides, and grave suspicion on his.
She smiled sardonically. Considering her father’s ability to get the best of men with whom he bargained, Griffydd DeLanyea should be thankful that she had roused his distrust. Surely now he would be twice as wary…
She gasped and her hand flew to her lips. What if he told her father what had happened in his quarters to rouse that mistrust?
Her father didn’t like her as it was. Surely he would consider anything that interfered with his trade negotiations unforgivable.
This time, she might finally incur such wrath that the consequences would be more than having to listen to him berate her.
Maybe he would take away her little house. It had been very difficult to persuade him to let her live in solitude so that she did not have to endure gossip and speculation.
Perhaps he would send her to a convent. He had threatened to do so countless times; this might finally drive him to do it.
Seona shivered as she made her decision.
Somehow, she would have to insure that Griffydd DeLanyea did not tell her father what had happened in the guest quarters tonight. No matter how much more humiliating it would be to have to speak with the Welshman again, she simply could not risk the alternatives.
Chapter Four (#ulink_2e9c16c5-242d-5013-b8f1-2360fe42f380)
As the light of early morning struggled through the low clouds, Griffydd groggily trudged through the spruce trees toward the stream near his quarters. Clad in breeches, plain tunic and boots, his cloak slung over his shoulder, he could hear the water babbling like the sly laughter of sprites making sport of him.
He frowned darkly. He had lain awake for a long time last night deciding how best to proceed with the negotiations, even as he had tried not to contemplate Seona. Or the kiss they had shared. Or the softness in her eyes as she had looked at him, and the way that tender, yearning expression had seemed to touch his soul.
Diarmad MacMurdoch was a despicable old villain, setting his daughter as a trap and, Griffydd knew, only a fool would continue to be a victim of her allure.
He paused a moment and drew in a breath of the piney air. The clouds looked to be moving off and the air was bracingly cool for spring. In the near distance, the stream gurgled on.
He sighed deeply and rotated his aching neck. Almost groaning aloud, he hoped a wash in the cold water would help clear his befuddled head.
He came out of the trees and immediately halted at the sight that met his eyes.
There, beside the stream a short distance away, a shaft of sunlight illuminated Diarmad’s daughter as she cradled an infant in her arms.
In a plain gown as green as the trees around him, Seona regarded the babe she held with downcast eyes. Her thick, magnificent hair was drawn away from her face to fall in two twisted coils down her back, glowing in the early morning sunlight like a halo. He had never seen anything quite so breathtaking, except perhaps his first glimpse of Seona MacMurdoch’s half eager, half questioning eyes.
She looked like a Madonna with child, and the sight brought such a longing to Griffydd that it seemed a lump the size of the Stone of Scone had suddenly lodged in his throat.
It took him another moment to realize she and the baby were not alone. Another young woman squatted a short distance away, washing a garment in the fast-moving and no doubt chilly stream. She was, he saw at once, what other men would call beautiful, with a fine profile and long slender neck emphasized by her dark hair braided about her head. As she worked briskly, it was evident her body was shapely, too.
A little boy played beside her with a stick in the water, and the woman paused to admonish him, a petulant frown on her face. Beautiful, perhaps, but it was the patient smile on Seona’s visage as she called the lad to her side that appealed to him more.
Suddenly the toddler slipped on the rocky bank and fell into the stream. The other woman emitted a shriek as the swift current caught his body, carrying him away from her.
Seona, still holding the infant, scrambled to her feet while Griffydd threw off his cloak and charged into the rushing water. When the little boy’s head disappeared beneath the surface, the other woman screamed hysterically.
Concentrating on the child, Griffydd judged where the current would send its victim and hurried there, scanning the cold, rushing water as he had been taught to do when catching fish if he were forced to fend for himself.
There!
The child’s head popped up, and at once Griffydd reached down and scooped the boy out of the frigid stream. The boy choked and sputtered as he clung to Griffydd.
“I’ve got you. You’re safe,” Griffydd muttered in Welsh, too shocked himself by the sudden and unexpected need to rush to the rescue to remember that the little fellow wouldn’t understand a word he said. He walked carefully toward the bank, lest there be more loose stones underfoot.
The boy stared up at Griffydd with wide, terrified eyes, his lips blue as his breathing returned to normal. Griffydd rubbed the child’s arms with his free hand, trying to warm him as best he could.
The other young woman pushed past Seona and ran to them, grabbing the boy from Griffydd’s grasp as a jumble of grateful Gaelic tumbled from her lips.
Trying not to remember the last time he had spoken to Seona, Griffydd gathered up his cloak as she hurried closer.
He coughed and discovered he had no stone in his throat, after all. “Tell her to wrap the child in this.”
Smiling with obvious relief, Seona nodded and spoke to the woman, who took the cloak and did as he ordered.
“Thank you!” Seona said fervently, turning back to him as she gently rocked the whimpering infant in her arms.
“It was nothing.”
The boy stopped shivering and stuck a finger in his quivering mouth before regarding his savior pensively, one damp arm tight about the woman’s neck.
“Fionn and his mother don’t think so,” Seona observed, nodding at them. She spoke a few rapid words of Gaelic, and Griffydd recognized his name. Obviously, introductions were being made.
“These are both her children?” Griffydd inquired.
“Yes. She is Lisid, and they are hers.”
Lisid continued to smile at him, brushing a stray lock of dark hair from her pretty face with a gesture that was surprisingly coy, given that her child had almost drowned only moments ago.
“This is Fionn,” Seona said, nodding at the boy. She smiled down at the infant she held. “And this little angel is his sister, Beitiris.”
Seona glanced up at Griffydd, then away, as a lovely blush crept over her smooth cheeks, like the pink that tinted the clouds he used to watch out the window of his bedchamber when he would waken with the dawn.
He did not know what to make of her bashful demeanor here beside the stream. Changeling, indeed, to be so seemingly modest one moment, a spirited maiden the next and a brazen temptress after that, he thought with a twinge of bitterness.
“I will leave you to your ablutions,” he said abruptly, turning to go.
“No, please, wait a moment!” Seona cried when he had gone a few paces.
He stopped and glanced over his shoulder. He was not the only one taken aback by her sudden outcry, for Lisid’s expression was one of surprise, too.
“I…I wish to speak with you, Sir Griffydd,” Seona stammered. Then she ran her gaze over him and frowned. “Unless you are too cold and wet. Perhaps later…”
His lips twitched in what Seona thought was supposed to be a smile. “I have been trained to endure the cold, and a Welshman doesn’t mind the wet. If you have something you wish to say to me, I would rather hear it now—when I have a witness.”
Blushing at his implication, Seona asked Lisid to excuse her. With a somewhat reluctant look, Lisid set Fionn down on the ground, then took Beitiris, leaving Seona free to follow after Griffydd.
As he waited for her, his visage impassive, standing as motionless as one of the rocks of the hills around her, clad only in an unlaced, short-sleeved tunic belted over breeches yet apparently oblivious to the chill of the morning, Seona hugged herself for warmth, and comfort, too. This was not going to be easy, despite his rescue of Fionn.
“What is it?” he asked when she reached him, as if she were a servant offering something for which he had no need.
She swiftly checked to see that Lisid was in sight yet out of hearing. “I have to speak to you of what happened last night.”
Still his expression did not alter. “What of it?”
“Were you intending to tell my father?”
Griffydd raised one eyebrow quizzically.
“Please don’t.”
She saw a flash of emotion in his gray eyes, but what it was exactly, she could not be sure.
“Then you continue to assert that you stayed of your own accord?” he asked evenly. “Perhaps I should compliment you on your boldness—but I would rather not.” He looked past her to Lisid. “What a pity she is there. If she were not, you could attempt to seduce me again.”
Flushing even more—although whether with shame or at the notion of being in his arms again, she didn’t want to consider—Seona forced herself not to say anything in hasty anger. “Please, Sir Griffydd—”
“Griffydd. After that kiss, I think we have no need of titles.”
Although his words made her burn with shame, she wished he would shout at her or at least appear angry instead of just standing there as calmly as if they were discussing the price of wool.
She drew herself up, deciding she would not demean herself further by seeming to beg. “I would appreciate it if you did not speak of last night to my father. Otherwise, I will rue it greatly.”
Griffydd DeLanyea’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
“It was by his order that you escorted me to my quarters,” he reminded her.
“It was most certainly not by his order that I voiced my unwillingness to be used.”
“Are you telling me that he will punish you for that?” he charged, his voice low, yet firm and commanding. The voice of a lord. A king.
“For trying to warn you, of course.”
“How?”
“Does it matter?”
He. eyed her speculatively, “No doubt if I reveal my own lack of proper behavior, he will be mollified. Indeed, he should be quite pleased to know his plan was so effective.”
“No!” she cried sharply, angry tears welling in her eyes.
Again his expression altered ever so slightly and she thought she saw a glimmer of genuine concern on his handsome face. “I would not allow him to hurt you.”
She gazed at him with undisguised surprise. “You would not allow him?”
“No, I would not,” he said with such conviction she could believe that a stranger she barely knew would protect her from her father’s wrath.
Before she could respond, they heard a commotion in the trees near them along the path leading from the fortress to the stream.
“DeLanyea!”
Her father came charging out of the pine trees like a hunted boar, his men trailing behind him, and a grin split his broad face as his shrewd gaze darted between an apparently impassive Griffydd DeLanyea and a flushed Seona.
“Well met!” he shouted happily, addressing the Welshman.
“When you were not in your quarters, I thought you might be here,” he said as he came to a halt. “And Seona, too.”
He glanced somewhat sternly at Lisid and her children, as if wondering what the devil they were doing there.
Naoghas, Lisid’s husband, seemed far from pleased to note their presence, too.
Even at this distance, Seona could see Lisid’s petulant frown as she tossed her lovely head before hurrying away, leading a reluctant Fionn by the hand.
“I was helping Lisid with her children,” Seona explained, “and Sir Griffydd came to wash.
“It was a good thing,” she went on, looking at Naoghas as much as her father, “for Fionn fell in the stream and might have drowned if Sir Griffydd had not rescued him.”
“Is this so?” Diarmad cried. “Then it is well you were here. You have my thanks, DeLanyea.”
“And mine,” Naoghas said, albeit with less than good grace. “I am Lisid’s husband,” he added with a slightly belligerent tone, for Naoghas was a fiercely jealous man.
Seona wondered what Sir Griffydd made of him. Unfortunately, she could get no clue at all to that, or anything else the man might be thinking as he bowed his head in greeting.
“Our guest still has not yet had a chance to perform his ablutions,” Seona said, anxious to get away from her slyly grinning father and his men, as well as the confusing, infuriating, compelling Griffydd DeLanyea.
“Oh?” Diarmad responded, as if it were inconceivable that a man would want to wash.
“Perhaps we should leave him to do so in peace.”
“I would appreciate that,” the Welshman said evenly.
“I was thinking we should hunt this morning, while the weather is so fine,” her father remarked. “Plenty of time to talk of trade later.”
“If you wish,” DeLanyea replied.
“Good, good!”
“Unfortunately, I had not thought to bring my hunting weapons.”
“We will give you spears and one of our finest horses,” Diarmad offered.
Griffydd DeLanyea laid a hand on his breast and bowed. “I am honored by your generosity.”
Diarmad cleared his throat loudly. “I, um, am pleased to let you have the loan of them.”
Seona started to walk away, vaguely attempting to think of ways to occupy her time while the men were hunting. She hoped Griffydd DeLanyea would say nothing to her father about last night. She prayed she could trust him to keep silent.
Thankfully, the fleeting expression of concern she had seen on his face before her father had arrived made her think her hopes were not unfounded.
In the meantime, she could help Lisid with the dying of cloth, or Maeve with baking bread, or assist in the drying of the day’s catch—
“Seona!” her father barked.
She halted abruptly and turned to face her suddenly irate parent. “I have not given you permission to go.”
Blushing again, she wondered what he was doing, beyond humiliating her by treating her like a child.
“If you will excuse me, Father, Sir Griffydd,” she said, trying to be as inscrutable as the Welshman as she dipped her head in a bow, “I have many things to do.”
“Go to my hall and wait for me,” her father ordered, waving her away as if she were one of his dogs.
Or perhaps not even as important as that.
Griffydd didn’t watch Seona leave. Instead, he kept his attention on his host and Lisid’s husband.
He had to keep his wits about him. He had to remember that he was here to conclude a trade agreement between his father and MacMurdoch, not to interfere in the man’s family.
It should not matter a whit to him how Diarmad treated Seona. He should not have implied he would come between her and her father, even if the man did speak to her as if she were his servant, or a slave.
Perhaps this was all part of the plan. Maybe they were trying to make him feel sympathy for her. Despite her protestations, it might even be that the only reason she had spoken to him this morning was because she had failed in her objective to seduce him in order to force a marriage, and she didn’t want her father to know that.
Clearly, he dare not let down his guard against her, despite the proud, pleading look on her face when she asked him to keep silent, or the equally proud resentment that flashed in her eyes when her father sent her away so rudely.
“Well, a fine day for stag hunting it is, and no mistake,” Diarmad declared. “I’ll leave you now to wash, and we shall meet in my hall to break the fast.”
Griffydd bowed in acknowledgment while Diarmad strode away, followed by his silent warriors, including Naoghas, who gave Griffydd a hostile glance before he disappeared through the trees.
Although Griffydd had saved the man’s son, he was a foreigner, a Welshman with Norman blood in this land of Gall-Gaidheal and Scot. That could be cause for animosity.
No warrior of any discernment would doubt that. Griffydd DeLanyea was well-trained and a good fighter, so jealousy was always a possibility.
Or perhaps it was another type of jealousy that raised Naoghas’s animosity.
The vision of Seona in a passionate embrace with the dark-haired, stocky, morose Naoghas sent a cascade of emotions pouring through Griffydd, none of them good. Jealousy, anger, hatred—things he had not felt so strongly in his life.
Then he remembered the beauteous Lisid, and her grateful smiles.
He rubbed his forehead with frustrated dismay. Of course, the man was jealous of his wife—yet he had thought of Seona first. He must be going mad!
Griffydd turned on his heel and in one long stride reached the stream. He yanked off his tunic and threw it to the ground, then knelt on the bank and splashed his face with the frigid water.
It did nothing to cool the fires burning within him.
He sat back on his haunches and stared unseeing across the stream at the rocky hill on the other side, willing himself to regain his self-control. To put Seona MacMurdoch out of his mind.
It was a good thing Dylan wasn’t here, he reflected sourly. His foster brother always claimed Griffydd had a stone where his heart ought to be, and surely the only reason women went with him was because they surmised he was rock hard elsewhere, too.
Griffydd, of course, never rose to the bait of Dylan’s teasing, nor did he reveal how much his foster brother’s words disturbed him. He had a heart, he knew—did he not love his parents, who were the finest people in England? Did he not love his home, his country, his siblings—aye, and Dylan, too? It was just not his way to proclaim his feelings to any and all who would listen.
Nor did he get his women pregnant.
Dylan thought that odd, until one of Griffydd’s lovers confided that Griffydd always withdrew. He found it incredulous that Griffydd would rob himself of that great delight. After all, what did it matter if the woman got with child? No shame to a Welshwoman or the child, and none to him, if he did his duty and provided for them.
Dylan would never understand. Love was not a game or sport to Griffydd. A woman’s heart was not some kind of toy, and a child simply another possession. A woman’s love and the birth of a child brought with them duty and responsibility, as well as happiness.
Griffydd shook his damp hair like a dog, as if he could rid his mind of his troubles like droplets of water.
Vowing to keep his mind only on matters of business, and not on confusing, disturbing women, or their families and their friends, Griffydd drew on his tunic and marched grimly back to his quarters.
Chapter Five (#ulink_087e6f0e-fde5-59d1-8eb2-0c05069c9d77)
Aghast, Seona stared at her father incredulously as she faced him in the empty hall.
“Don’t look at me like I asked you to cut off a finger,” her father growled.
“I will not take them!” she muttered through clenched teeth, glancing at the pile of clothing on the table beside him. “I did what you asked of me last night, but I will not go to Griffydd DeLanyea’s quarters again! It would not be seemly.”
“You will if I order you to!” her father commanded.
She took a deep breath and tried to restore some measure of calm. It was no good shouting at her father. He simply shouted back, and louder. The last thing she wanted was for anybody outside to hear what her father was proposing.
“Girl, you will do as I say!” Diarmad ordered angrily, bringing his fist down on the table so hard it rattled. “They are my gifts and you have to show him how to don them properly.”
“Surely a man of his age can dress himself without my help,” she retorted.
“Not the brat! What if he does it wrong and it falls off? We don’t want him shamed!”
“Oh, no, we cannot be having that!” she replied, her face flushed with righteous indignation. “Shame me by treating me as goods to be bartered, shove me at him like a breed sow, but don’t let him make a mistake with his clothes!”
Her father suddenly reached out and grabbed her arm roughly. “Listen to me, Seona!” he hissed. “You’ll do as I say, or by God, you’ll regret it!”
“What will you do?” she cried passionately, trying to wrest her arm from his tight grasp. “Hit me?”
Her father’s brows lowered ominously, but she was too upset to care.
“Is that what you did to my mother before she ran away?”
“She ran off with another man, as you well know,” he growled. “She left you here with me, so you had better do what I say, or I’ll have you put in a convent to rot.”
“Maybe I would prefer to rot there than exist here!”
“Very well! That can be arranged—but until then, you will do as I command, and I want you to help that grim-faced Welshman don the brat.” With his free hand, Diarmad gathered up the clothing. “Come!”
He marched toward the door, pulling her with him.
“Wait!” she protested. “I’ll do what you ask, but don’t drag me through the village like a dog.”
He halted and gave her a narrow-eyed glare as he let go and handed her the clothing. “It is time you saw sense.”
As she went to the door, his next words sounded like a curse.
“At least we know he’s not going to make improper advances. He cannot even bring himself to look at you.”
Griffydd briskly rubbed his legs with a piece of rough linen, warming them. God’s wounds, that water had been cold!
Since his unforeseen dash into the stream, a cool wind had arisen, blowing in across the harbor. As a result, this vast longhouse was scarcely much warmer than outside, especially when one was naked.
It had seemed to take forever to get a fire lit in the hearth, and his shivering had not helped.
He thought of all the times Sir Urien Fitzroy, said to be the finest trainer of fighting men in England and an old friend of his father’s, had insisted they continue their arms practice in the chilling rain or even snow. When Dylan had grumbled that Fitzroy was trying to kill them slowly, he had reminded them that battles were not always fought in fine weather, and that sometimes a man had to fend for himself if he got separated from his army, which meant traveling cold and wet and hungry.
While Griffydd could appreciate the reasoning, he had hated every minute of Fitzroy’s lessons of endurance.
As Griffydd reached for his breeches, he reflected that today he had done something better than fend for himself after losing his companions: he had saved a child’s life.
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