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“I...I beg your pardon?” he said, obviously as surprised by her words and tone as she had been by his kiss.
“I believe you heard me. Do not come to Craig Fawr until my father invites you. Good day, my lord.”
She turned on her heel and walked toward the hall.
From his place beside his horse as he waited to mount, Bryce watched Lady Rhiannon leave Lord Cynvelin and enter the hall.
They must be as good as formally betrothed for the Welshman to kiss her in such a way and in so public a place, he thought, even if last night, with him, she had not acted as if she belonged to another man.
What kind of woman was Rhiannon DeLanyea?
Perhaps she was the type of woman whose affections changed almost every hour. Her passion had certainly seemed sincere when he had kissed her.
Or perhaps she was the kind he had originally accused her of being, a woman who enjoyed men’s attention—many men, and many kinds of attention, including the most intimate?
If so, Lord Cynvelin was more to be pitied than envied.
The Welshman bowed to the people who were still gathered in the courtyard. “Alas, she is sorry to see me leave!” he announced mournfully.
Bryce supposed that would explain her abrupt departure as well as anything else.
After his remark, Lord Cynvelin was rewarded with sympathetic looks from the women, and knowing chuckles from the men as he turned toward Bryce.
“Excellent morning, Frechette, is it not?” the nobleman demanded cheerfully as he strolled toward Bryce and his men. “A good day for a journey, eh?”
“Yes, my lord.”
For a moment, Bryce contemplated telling the nobleman about the lady’s behavior.
Then he checked himself. He had only just met Lord Cynvelin, and the lady, too. Even if Bryce was trying to warn him, it could be that Lord Cynvelin would condemn the messenger without heeding the message. Besides, how would he explain what he had been doing in the shadowed corner of the courtyard with her?
And if Lady Rhiannon was a minx, Bryce told himself, she would surely take up with another man before they were five miles down the road, and Lord Cynvelin would find out the truth on his own.
When Lord Cynvelin reached Bryce, the nobleman gave him a curious look. “What happened here before I came?”
“Nothing of consequence, my lord. Your lady felt insulted by one of your men and I insured the fellow apologized.”
Lord Cynvelin ran a scrutinizing gaze over his men, who all wore full chain mail beneath their black tunics. Bryce had also noted that their weapons were very fine, and their accoutrements the best. It seemed his new overlord spared no expense on his troops, even if some of them were lacking the proper respect due their lord’s bride. “Which of them upset her?”
“I’m certain he will not do so again, my lord,” Bryce answered, somewhat surprised. The man made it sound as if he were a child, expected to tell tales on another.
He thought he saw a flash of disapproval in the Welshman’s eyes, but must have been mistaken, for Lord Cynvelin laughed. “If you chastised him, I’m satisfied.”
“The lady needed little help.”
“She has her father’s pride, no doubt.”
Surprised by the slightly hostile tone in the man’s voice, Bryce gave him a curious sidelong glance. “It was my pleasure to defend her honor.”
“Rhiannon was grateful, of course.”
“I gather you have reached an understanding with the lady,” Bryce remarked, leaving aside all talk of gratitude as Cynvelin checked his saddle before mounting.
“Obviously.”
“I offer you my congratulations, my lord.”
“Thank you.” Cynvelin surveyed his men and baggage carts. “Well, then, we are all ready to leave. Come, let us away,” he ordered, moving his horse to the front of the cortege.
Yes, let us away, Bryce seconded inwardly, telling himself he was pleased to be taking his leave of confusing, flirtatious beauties who lured men into the shadows when they were as good as betrothed to another.
Bryce glanced back at the guest apartments, expecting to see the teasing Lady Rhiannon watching her beloved depart, a handkerchief poised to catch her sorrowful tears.
If she was there, he did not see her.
That afternoon, Rhiannon rushed toward the merry company of knights and soldiers who rode into Lord Melevoir’s courtyard.
For the moment, her joy at her father’s arrival took precedence over any dread she might be feeling about certain events becoming known to him. Although she no longer feared her encounter with Bryce Frechette would become common knowledge, she could not entertain any similar hope that Lord Cynvelin’s kiss would be forgotten by those who had witnessed it, or that they would have realized she was not a willing participant.
Certain looks and whispers had already passed between some of the other ladies since the incident, which made her certain that what had happened this morning was the talk of the castle.
She told herself not to worry. Her father would understand. Her anxiety would have been much worse if there was a chance he might hear about her impulsive response to Bryce Frechette.
There were only twenty men in her father’s party, but it seemed like more as their Welsh banter echoed off the stone walls surrounding the courtyard. Then her father caught sight of her and waved.
She was so proud to be Baron DeLanyea’s daughter! How commending he looked, sitting upon his horse with all the majesty of a king, even though his clothing and accoutrements were plain and without ornamentation. He could be fierce, she knew. She had heard the stories of his battles.
But he had always been the doting father to her. She chewed her lip and hoped he would continue to be so, despite what he heard. Then she smiled and returned his gesture.
She looked beyond him, her smile growing as she saw that her foster brother, the roguishly handsome Dylan, was behaving in typical fashion. He was paying more attention to the female servants than anything else.
In contrast to Dylan, her elder brother, the grave, gray-eyed Griffydd, was not bantering or gawking at women. Instead, he surveyed his surroundings with deliberate care. She knew that should she ask him later, he would be able to tell her the exact number of men-at-arms at the gate and on the wall walks, the number of buildings within the castle walls and probably even the count of the windows in each.
Her younger brother, Trystan, who resembled her so much they could have been taken for twins save for the difference in their ages, was not among the company. He had been fostered to Sir Urien Fitzroy to complete his training.
The baron dismounted and she ran happily into his warm embrace. He kept his arms about her as he drew back to look at her with his remaining eye. The other had been destroyed in the Holy Land long ago when he had joined King Richard on crusade.
“So, daughter, did you enjoy yourself?” he asked.
“Lord Melevoir is an excellent man and a fine host,” she answered honestly.
“I knew I should have offered to be your escort!” Dylan declared, easily slipping off his horse. “Who knows what I’ve missed—and for nothing, too.”
“You had other, more important duties,” Griffydd reminded him.
“Supervising a wall being repaired?” Dylan replied scornfully. “I hardly think—”
Her father laughed, the sound deep and rich. “No, you hardly think. Besides, Mamaeth said only Rhiannon and no brothers. I think she had great plans of this visit, didn’t she, my daughter?”
Rhiannon tried to smile as she thought of her father’s old nurse, who had made it very clear that she expected Rhiannon to return either with a husband, or a betrothal, at the very least.
Instead, Rhiannon had made a mess of things. “How is Mamaeth? And Mother?” she asked, deciding to get away from this prickly subject.
“Well enough, but missing you,” her father replied. Suddenly he sniffed and looked up at the darkening clouds overhead, and she realized it did indeed smell much like rain. “Getting inside, us, or we’ll be drenched.”
Griffydd nodded, then began issuing commands to their men while the baron took Rhiannon’s arm to escort her inside. Dylan handed his reins to a groom before sauntering toward the kitchen. He always claimed to admire the arms of the women who kneaded bread and Griffydd always retorted that he simply liked all his appetites satisfied simultaneously.
“I’m going to have to put a leash on that fellow,” the baron muttered sardonically.
Despite his good-humored acceptance of Dylan’s foibles, Rhiannon guessed he would not find hers so laughable. She tried to stay calm, and the thought that Lord Cynvelin was far away was very comforting.
She tried not to notice that she didn’t feel quite the same way about Bryce Frechette although she should, and more so, given what had happened in the courtyard.
The baron smiled at his daughter. “We have all been missing you. Craig Fawr seemed half-empty without you. I think even Mamaeth was reconsidering the notion of having you wed and away by the time we left to fetch you back again.”
“I assure you, Father, I am in no hurry to be married,” Rhiannon answered truthfully.
When her father paused and looked at her with a serious expression, she feared she had betrayed too much.
Fortunately, at that precipitous moment, a puffing and beaming Lord Melevoir appeared at the entrance to his hall.
“Always a delight, Baron!” the older man cried as the baron and Rhiannon hurried toward him. “Forgive my tardiness. It’s this cursed damp. It gets into my bones and makes them ache like the very devil.”
“Then please go back to your place at the hearth, my lord,” the baron said.
“If you will join me,” their host replied.
“Indeed, my bones are not so young anymore, either,” the baron admitted ruefully as they followed Lord Melevoir to some oak chairs that were near the large hearth. A small yet comfortable blaze warmed the air.
As they sat on the age-darkened furniture, they could hear the rain begin to pelt against the stone walls. Lord Melevoir smiled and said, “I am glad you didn’t get caught on the road in such weather.”
“What is rain to a Welshman, my lord?” Baron DeLanyea asked cheerfully. “Nevertheless, I am happy to stay and enjoy your hospitality a day or two.”
When her father looked at her, Rhiannon forced a smile onto her face. She had known that her father’s visit would be more than a night; still, that meant more chances for him to hear about Lord Cynvelin’s kiss. For a moment she considered broaching the subject herself, to put it in the proper light, but before she could, her father spoke.
“Who won the prizes?” he asked their host.
“Bryce Frechette took the largest purse,” Lord Melevoir replied. “He has the truest aim with a lance I ever beheld.”
“Frechette?” the baron asked, giving Lord Melevoir a surprised look. “The Earl of Westborough’s son?”
“The same. I confess I had my doubts about allowing him to participate, but I tell you, Emryss, I’ve never seen a more improved young man,” Lord Melevoir replied.
Rhiannon tried not to betray any overt interest in the lancer, especially after what had happened between them. Indeed, he could well be a fine warrior. That didn’t mean he was a gentleman.
Unexpectedly her father fastened his shrewd gaze on Rhiannon. “What did you think of him?” he asked coolly.
She struggled to keep her expression bland as she shrugged her shoulders. “Lord Melevoir wouldn’t let us watch the competitions.”
“Of course not!” the nobleman declared. “It is not fitting for young ladies to see such things.”
“Frechette acquitted himself well, eh?” her father noted, facing the older man again. “A pity, then, his family lost their estate and titles. We can always use a fine knight.”
“His family lost their estate and titles?” Rhiannon asked innocently.
“His father spent too freely—a warning to us all and I should have used him for an example before I let you go to the fair last spring.” The baron’s expression was severe, but the hint of laughter in his voice betrayed him.
“I had to have new dresses,” Rhiannon reminded him sweetly. “Mamaeth said so.”
“If you were to catch a husband, she said. Did you?”
Lord Melevoir started to laugh, or rather, wheeze with merriment as he looked from one to the other, his eyes twinkling mischievously.
“I told you, Father, I am in no hurry to wed.”
“Then not wanting to be in your shoes when we get home, me, when Mamaeth hears that all this visiting and spending of money has not brought you a husband,” he answered gravely.
Lord Melevoir took a great, deep, recuperative breath. “She was greatly admired, Baron. Greutly admired.”
“Ah, her father’s daughter, then,” the baron said smugly, and he winked his good eye at her.
“One young man seemed particularly smitten. A countryman of yours, too. Indeed, the infatuation seemed quite mutual.”
Rhiannon squirmed uncomfortably as her father regarded her steadily and with no hint of a smile. “Indeed? Who might this Welshman be?”
Rhiannon looked down at her hands, knotting them in her lap.
“Ah, now she will be coy,” Lord Melevoir replied and Rhiannon heartlessly wished he would fall into a swoon or fit. Anything to make him be quiet.
“There was nothing—” she began desperately.
“Nothing?” Lord Melevoir declared indignantly. “Nothing to be kissed in my courtyard?”
Rhiannon wanted to shrink until she was invisible.
“This man kissed you out in the open of the courtyard for all to see?” the baron asked, his tone making Rhiannon cringe.
“Father, I—”
“Now, now, Baron, I fear you are showing your age! A young man does impetuous things when he has been struck by Cupid’s dart. Don’t be cross with your pretty daughter. She made it very plain that she felt he had acted improperly.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
“Oh, tut, now, man! Lord Cynvelin—”
“Who?”
The single word was softly spoken, but never had Rhiannon heard such cold menace in her father’s voice.
