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The Warlord's Bride
Margaret Moore
Lady Roslynn knows not what to expect of her future husband, the infamous "Bear of Brecon."Offered in marriage to the powerful Welsh lord by the king, Roslynn fears the worst. She has no right to hope for a love match, but in her heart the lady dreams of a home and family of her very own….One look at Lord Madoc of Llanpowell makes her blood run hot. The rugged warrior proves a passionate lover and attentive husband–but too soon turns cold and aloof. And when secrets from Madoc's past threaten to take him away from his bride, Roslynn knows their future together is at stake. Can she uncover the truth beneath her warlord's armor and lay siege to his heart?
“Don’t be afraid, Roslynn,”
he whispered, his voice husky, his Welsh accent stronger. “I told you I could be patient and gentle. See, very patient, me.”
He angled closer to her, and although she felt his arousal, he made no effort to hold her any tighter, his excitement held in check by his undoubtedly powerful will. Nevertheless, she could sense his desire lurking like an animal only temporarily tamed.
As her fears kept her passion caged.
Until now. Until she had married this man who could set her free and release her from the chains of her past.
Holding him tight, she relaxed against him, her passion burning hotter as she parted her lips and pushed her tongue into Madoc’s warm, wet mouth.
Praise for USA TODAY bestselling author
Margaret Moore
“Fans of historicals will be unable to put Ms. Moore’s story down. The story is fresh, fun, fast-paced, engaging, and passionate, with an added touch of adventure.”
—The Romance Readers Connection on The Notorious Knight
“Filled with fast-paced dialogue and historical details that add depth and authenticity to the story. Readers will be well entertained.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on My Lord’s Desire
“Readers continue to ask for ‘Moore.’ Her latest book is a sparkling, dynamic tale of two lonely hearts who find each other despite their pasts and the evil forces surrounding them.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on Hers To Desire
“Colorful and compelling details of life in the Middle Ages abound.”
—Publishers Weekly on Hers To Command
“A lively adventure with enough tension and romance to keep me turning pages.”
—National bestselling author Roberta Gellis on Hers To Command
“This captivating adventure of 13th-century Scotland kept me enthralled from beginning to end. It’s a keeper!”
—Romance Junkies on Bride of Lochbarr
“Margaret Moore is a master storyteller who has the uncanny ability to develop new twists on old themes.”
—Affaire de Coeur
MARGARET MOORE
The Warlord’s Bride
For those who share my affection for men
with broadswords, with my thanks.
The Warlord’s Bride
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER ONE
Wales, 1205
LORD ALFRED DE GARLEBOINE drew his dappled palfrey to a halt and peered through the water dripping from his coif. More rain fell from the pine trees beside the road and roused their heavy scent, while the verge was a mess of mud and running water. The drizzle rendered the sky a leaden gray and the rest of the landscape all mucky brown and dull green, the few exposed rocks like hunched little men trying to keep dry.
“God be praised, Llanpowell at last,” the middle-aged nobleman muttered as his mount refooted, its hooves churning up mud and pebbles.
From under the sodden hood of her cloak lined with fox fur, the young lady riding beside him followed his gaze to what was most definitely a castle and not just another stony outcropping in the south of Wales.
“My lord!”
At the alarmed cry, Lord Alfred and Lady Roslynn de Werre looked back to see a heavy wooden cart stuck in a rut and tilting precariously. The toothless carter leaned to one side, whipping the pair of draft horses and exhorting them to move. The horses snorted and pulled against the harness, but the wheel only sank deeper into the mud.
“Don’t just sit there like a lump of dung,” Lord Alfred ordered. “Get off and make those stupid beasts move!” He pointed at six of the soldiers in the escort. “Stay with the wagon until it’s at the castle. The rest of us will continue.”
He shifted forward, then turned his steely, gray-eyed gaze onto Lady Roslynn. “Do you have any objection to leaving the wagon and going on to the castle, my lady?”
“You are in command here,” she said with a beatific smile quite at odds with her internal turmoil. In truth, she would rather sit in a downpour than reach Llanpowell. “Are six men really necessary to guard the wagon when we’re so close to a nobleman’s castle, and in such inclement weather?”
“I’ll not take any chances,” Lord Alfred replied before raising his hand and shouting for the rest of the cortege to move on.
Lady Roslynn suppressed a sigh. She didn’t know why King John’s courtier had even bothered to ask her opinion. No doubt she shouldn’t have bothered to answer.
The cortege continued on its way, the silence broken only by the falling rain, the jingle of accoutrements and soldiers’ chain mail, and the slap of hooves on the muddy road, every step bringing them closer to the castle of the lord of Llanpowell. Like the rocks, it seemed to be a natural feature of the landscape, exposed by time and the weather, not an edifice built by men.
This entire land was a rough contrast to Roslynn’s familiar Lincolnshire, where the flat fens stretched out for miles and the sky seemed endless. Here, there were hills and valleys, unexpected streams and wet bracken, scree and rocks. It was wild and untamed, strange and breathtaking, despite the presence of the colossal fortress looming ahead.
Roslynn tried to stifle her dread as they neared the massive, bossed gates of thick oak. Whatever happened here, at least she was away from the king’s court, and the accommodations should be better than those they’d had along the way.
A voice called out from the top of the barbican, speaking Norman French, albeit with a noticeable Welsh accent. “Who are you and what do you want at Llanpowell?”
“I am Lord Alfred de Garleboine, on the king’s business,” the nobleman shouted back.
“The king’s business?” the man on the wall walk repeated. “Which one?”
“Is the man a simpleton?” Lord Alfred muttered. He raised his voice. “John, by the grace of God, king of England, lord of Ireland, duke of Normandy and Aquitaine, count of Anjou.”
“Oh, the Plantagenet usurper who killed his nephew.”
Although the man on the wall had said only what many believed was true, this didn’t bode well for a pleasant reception.
Three others, likewise bareheaded and wearing tunics, not chain mail, joined the man on the wall.
“What does John want?” one of them called out.
“I will discuss that with your overlord,” Lord Alfred replied.
“Maybe you’ve come to attack,” the first man called back.
Lord Alfred shifted impatiently in his ornately gilded saddle. “Do we look like a band of brigands?”
“Can’t be too sure these days,” the first man replied, apparently quite unconcerned by the nobleman’s growing impatience. “Seen some well-dressed Norman thieves in our time, we Welsh have.”
“Open these gates or the king shall hear of this, as well as your master!”
It seemed that while the sentries were content to make sport of Norman visitors and their king, the lord of Llanpowell was not likely to be amused by their insolence, for the massive gates slowly began to open.
What did that say about the lord of Llanpowell? That he ruled by fear and harsh punishment? Or was he simply not to be trifled with, but respected and obeyed?
Whatever Madoc ap Gruffydd was like, there was no turning back or running away now.
“About bloody time. Insolent savages,” Lord Alfred growled as he flicked his gauntleted hand and gestured for their party to enter the castle.
Inside the outer wall was a large area, grassy and perhaps fifty yards long. Beyond the outer ward was the inner curtain wall, taller than the first, with another gate and a less elaborate gatehouse.
The inner gates were open, and a large wooden cart pulled by two thick-chested oxen rumbled toward them, followed by a group of twenty men, all wearing sword belts, with bows in their hands and quivers at their hips. They wore only leather tunics, breeches and boots, however, not chain mail or helmets. Their hair was almost uniformly dark brown or black, and most sported thick beards.
Despite their attire, they must be part of the garrison, for they briskly formed two rows lining the road leading through the studded gate to the inner ward.
Lord Alfred’s jaw clenched. “The king shall hear of this insult, as well.”
“I believe it’s a guard of honor, my lord,” Roslynn quietly offered. “See how they’re arranged and how still they stand?”
Lord Alfred’s only response to her observation was a noncommittal grunt.
Nevertheless, she was sure she was right, for the men remained where they were, staring stoically ahead, as the cortege continued into the courtyard.
Here the buildings were of several sizes and materials. Some were made of stone, with slate roofs. Others, like the stables, were half-timbered and wattle-and-daub, and some looked like little more than wooden lean-tos attached to any available wall. At least the yard was cobblestoned, so while there were several large and growing puddles, it was not a sea of mud.
Unfortunately, there were also several armed soldiers around the perimeter, standing beneath the eaves of buildings and watching them warily.
Before they could dismount, or a groom or stable boy arrived to take the horses, the door to the largest of the stone buildings flew open as if caught by a strong wind. A rotund, gray-haired fellow clad in a dusky green tunic, plain breeches and scuffed boots, with a dark brown woolen cloak thrown about his shoulders, came hurrying down the steps. Like the others, his hair was long and his beard full. Unlike the others, he wore only a simple belt, with no obvious weapon at his side, and a smile lit his round face. He also carried a huge mug in his hands, despite the continuing rain.
“Welcome, my lord, my lady!” he called out in Welsh-tinged French, ignoring the puddles as he splashed his way toward them. “Welcome to Llanpowell! Welcome to my home. An honor it is to have you here!”
It felt as if a stone had settled into Roslynn’s stomach as she realized this must be Madoc ap Gruffydd, the lord of Llanpowell.
She had—foolishly, it now seemed—assumed the Bear of Brecon would be a younger man. She’d also assumed he was called the Bear because of his fierceness in battle, not for wild gray hair that fell to his shoulders, his bushy beard or the size of his belly.
Or perhaps that name had been given to him in his youth.
