A Warrior's Honor

“I am honored to think you know my name, Lady Rhiannon,” he replied sarcastically, and with a mockery of a bow.

He was pleased to see her surprise that he knew her name, too, and some of the haughtiness fled her face. He reached out and grabbed her hand, bending low as if he would kiss the back of it.

She snatched it away. “Obviously I know more than just your name,” she said.

“Perhaps you do not know as much as you think you do, my lady,” he said quietly, stepping closer.

He noted that she didn’t move away and remembered how she had behaved in the hall, especially when she was with Lord Cynvelin. Perhaps she was not nearly as virtuous as she seemed. “Would you care to learn more?”

“I might. But this is hardly the time or place for such a conversation,” she finished firmly.

Her forthright answer took him aback, but he recovered quickly. “That is a great pity,” he replied, his deep voice seductively low. “I would like to know more about you.”

Rhiannon cleared her throat. She had been complimented and flattered much these past few days, but no other man’s words seemed to stir her as his did. “Yes, well, another time,” she prevaricated.

“Why in so much of a hurry, my lady? Are you going to meet someone?” he said, advancing toward her.

“No!” She retreated into a shadowed alcove, then raised her chin in defiance of his insolence.

He cocked his head to one side and ran an admiring gaze from the top of her silk scarf to the hem of her gown.

“Please don’t look at me in that impertinent manner, sir!” she said, her whole body warming as he continued to regard her steadily.

“Sir? I see I am rising in your estimation. Let me assure you, my lady, I do not mean to be rude. Far from it.” He took another step closer and smiled.

Not as Lord Cynvelin smiled, as if it were nothing more than a habit. She suddenly felt such a smile from this man was a rare thing, and very much to be prized.

She wished she could see his face better, but it was too dark here in the shadows.

She suddenly realized he had backed her nearly into a corner, and they were quite shielded from the view of the men on the wall walk above.

“From the way you were acting in the hall,” he continued in a husky whisper, “I thought you enjoyed being the object of men’s admiration.”

“Some men’s perhaps,” she answered, crossing her arms over her chest defensively, feeling far too vulnerable. “However, I have no wish to be noticed by a man who would abandon his family and leave his sister in such a perilous situation. Indeed, I was surprised to learn that Lord Cynvelin would want such a person in his company.”

He froze, staring at her. Then his brows lowered ominously and she remembered the sense of controlled power that had seemed to emanate from him. “That is what you think of me?”

“Yes,” she retorted.

He stepped back. “You surprise me, my lady. I thought you had more intelligence than to believe rumors and gossip.”

“So what I have heard is not true? You did not quarrel with your father and leave in a huff like a spoiled child? You did not stay away, even when your father lay dying? Are you telling me that contrary to everything I have heard, you returned to help your sister, who was left impoverished and had to become a servant in her own castle?”

“Have you not heard more?” he charged. “That I am a rogue and wastrel? That my sister cast me out? That her husband, the mighty Baron DeGuerre, detests me? That I lie and cheat and steal?” He came close again. “That I have sold my soul to the devil?”

She gasped, her eyes wide, until he chuckled scornfully.

“Have you so little sense that you will believe everything you hear?” he said.

“How dare you!” she cried, shocked by his criticism. “You dishonorable—”

“No, my lady, how dare you?” he demanded quietly, his voice as cold as ice. “You know me not, yet you dare to chastise me for my past actions. You do not know why my father and I quarreled, or why I left as I did. You do not know why I stayed away, or how I felt when I learned what had happened.” His voice dropped. “You do not know how I have suffered, knowing that I was not with Gabriella when she needed me most.”

Rhiannon flushed with guilt when she heard the remorse in his voice. She had been wrong to judge him so quickly, she thought contritely, yet before she could speak, he was suddenly directly in front of her, his face no more than a hand span from hers.

“Who are you to stand in judgment of me?” he demanded. “I could believe, from the way you danced and smiled and laughed with more than one man in Lord Melevoir’s hall, that if I am lacking in scruples, I am not the only one. So how dare you, my lovely hypocrite? How dare you act as you have, and then upbraid me?”

He looked at her so intently it was as if his gaze rooted her to the ground. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t make an answer to his charges, or utter one word to excuse her own behavior.

He came even closer, so that his body was within a hairbreadth of hers, and when he spoke again, his voice was a low, husky growl. “How dare you stand there in the shadows looking as desirable as any woman I have ever seen, yet if I were to so much as touch you, you would probably call out for the guard and denounce me for a disgraceful villain?”

She swallowed hard, unable to take her eyes from his face. “I wouldn’t,” she said softly.

His expression seemed to change. “You would not do that, my lady?” he whispered, shifting closer. “You would not call out the guard and condemn me for acting on my desire?”

He reached out and gently ran his hand up her arm, his touch sending thrilling tremors of excitement through her.

“I am glad to hear it, for you are the most tempting woman I have ever seen.”

He put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her into his warm embrace.

She knew she should pull away, and yet the moment his mouth touched hers, kissing him did not seem wrong, or immoral, or disgraceful. It felt absolutely, perfectly right.

She had been kissed before, by shy boys who pecked her cheek or lips. Never like this, with power and passion and a desire that seemed to call forth an equally strong reaction from deep within her.

Never had a man’s tongue pressed urgently to enter her mouth.

That did not seem wrong, either, but absolutely, perfectly right, and so she opened her lips to him.

His arms tightened about her. Slowly, languorously, she began to caress the smooth leather of his tunic. As his mouth continued to work its seductive magic, his tense muscles relaxed beneath her fingers.

He gently pushed her back so that she was against the wall. Then his knee thrust between her legs, and her body began to throb with an unfamiliar, primitive anticipation.

Suddenly the door to the hall opened and light spilled into the courtyard. A raucous voice called out a good-night.

At the boisterous interruption, Lady Rhiannon DeLanyea gasped, then a horrified expression passed over her face before she pushed Bryce away from her, lifted her skirts and fled.

Chapter Two

Bryce Frechette muttered an oath as he watched Lady Rhiannon run away. What had just happened here?

What more might have happened if that door had not opened?

Then another curse sprang to his lips as he just as suddenly recalled that Lord Cynvelin ap Hywell wanted to marry her.

God’s wounds, he was a fool. If she told him of their confrontation...

Was he never going to learn to curb his impulses? What did it matter that she was a beautiful, intriguing woman who spoke to him frankly, as an equal. Why hadn’t he left her after he had explained what he was doing at the baggage carts?

He had already caused no end of trouble and shame because he followed his desires first and thought afterward. Had he learned nothing in all the years since he had left home?

Bryce. slumped against the wall. It would serve him right if he had lost the opportunity Lord Cynvelin had kindly offered, and he would have only himself to blame.

No, not only himself. Not this time. She was just as culpable as he for what had occurred in the shadows. Lady Rhiannon had not uttered so much as a murmur of protest when he had taken her in his arms. Indeed, she had responded as fervently to his kiss as any man could ever hope.

Surely she would say nothing to Lord Cynvelin, not unless she was willing to lie.

Which she might very well do.

Scowling, Bryce pushed off from the wall. If questioned, he would not lie, he decided. He would tell Lord Cynvelin exactly what has passed, and let the Welshman believe what he would.

The next morning, Rhiannon scanned the gathering in the chapel. She easily spotted Lord Cynvelin, dressed for traveling in a short black tunic, brown breeches and with a black cloak of light wool thrown over his broad shoulders. He stood beside Lady Valmont, so close that their shoulders touched, and he seemed to be whispering in the lady’s ear almost constantly.

Good. He might not notice her, then, and hopefully she could get to the hall to break the fast without having to speak to him. After last night, she thought avoiding him would save her any awkward moments or explanations.

She had even considered avoiding the rest of Lord Melevoir’s guests, too. Then she had decided she couldn’t stay hidden in her chamber like a terrified mouse. She had to know if she had been seen in the arms of Bryce Frechette, or if he had told anyone that she had acted little better than a wanton bawd last night.

That kind of gossip was too scandalous not to fly about the castle like a feather in a stiff breeze, and this morning, she could sympathize with Bryce’s denunciation of hearsay.

Fortunately, no one seemed to be taking any speciai notice of her. Nobody stared or darted pointed glances her way. Everyone who caught her eye gave her a friendly smile, not a smirk of derision.

She sighed with relief.

Nevertheless, she was glad the Norman was not at mass. She didn’t know what she would do if she had to speak to him.

Perhaps he, too, regretted what had happened between them. After all, he had not treated her as befitted her station.

Just as she had not behaved as befitted her station, or she would have gone on her way the moment she had realized he was not a thief rifling through a baggage cart.

It had to be because he was not what she had expected that she had lingered. He was not a wastrel, for he had behaved with all due decorum at the feast, even holding himself rather aloof from the other celebrants. He was not a bully and a hothead...or rather, not until he was provoked, perhaps.

She had obviously provoked him—but then, he had not been right to criticize her behavior. That was for her parents.

As for what her father would make of her behavior in the courtyard last night, letting herself be guided into the shadows, out of sight of the guards, alone with a young, virile, misunderstood, exciting man....

She shuddered—and she was not thinking of her father’s reaction.

One of Lord Melevoir’s guests, who was standing beside her, gave her a quizzical look that reminded her she was in company. Besides, she chided herself, she shouldn’t be having such thoughts, not in a chapel. Not of a dispossessed nobleman, who had kissed her with such fervent passion.

She could only hope that Bryce Frechette never saw fit to brag of his easy conquest.

And she would never, ever, allow herself to be put in such a confusing, overwhelming situation again.

The mass ended at last, and she quickly went outside into the chill of a spring morning. She walked briskly toward the hall, her only concern getting inside before Lord Cynvelin saw her.

Outside the stable she passed Lord Cynvelin’s black horse, saddled and waiting. His men and his baggage carts were all ready to leave, too, apparently, for several of his guards loitered nearby, some leaning against the stable walls.

“Wonder if she’s a moaner or a screamer?” a rough Welsh voice muttered just loudly enough for her to hear.

Rhiannon halted and slowly swiveled on her heel to look at the lout who dared to make such a rude remark in her hearing. She thought it was the brawny fellow who ran a bold gaze over her, for he grinned when she looked at him.

“What did you say?” she demanded in Welsh, putting her hands on her hips.

“Nothing, my lady,” he answered with wideeyed—and quite false—innocence.

“Is there some trouble here?” a familiar deep voice said in Norman French.

Her whole body warmed as Bryce Frechette came to stand beside her, as if he had materialized out of thin air.

As before, he was simply attired in leather jerkin and breeches, his sword belt slung low on his narrow hips. Despite his lack of mail or other armor, he seemed far more imposing than the chain-mailed brawny fellow, perhaps because of his regal bearing and the sense of self-confidence that seemed as much a part of him as his deep brown eyes or sensuous mouth.

What on earth was she doing, thinking about his mouth? She was supposed to be quite properly indignant.

He looked at the man, then her, his expression inscrutable. “Is anything wrong?”

Rhiannon lifted her chin slightly. “He said something rude to me.”

“Is that so?” Bryce asked before walking toward the soldier. His tone had been calm and noncommittal, but she saw the tension in his shoulders and guessed that he was angry. “Did you say something rude to the lady?”

The man gave him a blank look and answered in Welsh.

“He says he doesn’t understand you,” Rhiannon explained.

Bryce glanced at her over his shoulder. “But you understood him, did you not, my lady?”

“Unfortunately, I did.”

In the next moment, Bryce had the man pinned against the wall, his hands on the man’s shoulders. “Apologize to the lady,” he muttered between clenched teeth. “You understand that, don’t you?”

The man looked at Rhiannon with fear in his eyes. “I don’t understand him!” he cried in Welsh. “What did I do?”

Rhiannon ran forward and grabbed Bryce’s arm, his muscles hard beneath her fingers. “He doesn’t understand you! Let him go.”

Bryce didn’t move. “Then you tell him he should apologize to you, or by God, he will be sorry.”

Rhiannon quickly told the man what the Norman had said, and just as quickly the Welsh soldier stammered out an apology.

Bryce let go and the man slumped to the ground. The rest of the men gathered round him, a few casting wary glances at the Norman.

“As grateful as I am for your championship of my honor, I fear you’ve made some enemies,” Rhiannon said when Bryce turned to face her. She tried to keep an icy demeanor, even though she felt as hot as if she were in the deserts of the east, and if the trickle of perspiration made her feel as if the ice was melting, that had to be because of her physical activity moments before.

He didn’t look at all concerned. “I should thank you, my lady, for the opportunity to show my soonto-be companions-in-arms that I am not to be trifled with,” he remarked grimly. “Otherwise, I might have been forced to create a situation myself.”

Her eyes widened. “Do you often have to create situations, sir? Or is it more usual for you to wait until a lady is insulted, and then you rush to her defense to prove your manliness?”

“I never thought my manliness was in question,” he replied.

Her cheeks grew warm with a blush as he continued to regard her. “Your effort to make him apologize seemed rather extreme,” she noted.

“I know.”

She knew she should leave, yet courtesy decreed she say more. “You were most effective,” she admitted. “You have my thanks, Frechette.”

He bowed stiffly. “It was my honor.”

She glanced around and noted that the soldiers had moved off, away from them, and that no one else was near. “Frechette?” she began, her tone conspiratorial.

His gaze likewise grew serious. “Yes, my lady?”

“You...you will not tell anyone about last night, in the courtyard?”

His expression personified frigid offense. “Did you think I would?”

She was dismayed to think she had insulted him, yet she had to be certain he would continue to be silent. “As you said, and rightly, I do not know you.”

She thought he looked a little surprised, but she could not be sure.

“Then know that I will keep what happened a secret between us,” he replied, “and I trust you will not disparage me to Lord Cynvelin.”

“No!” she cried, startled. “We will just pretend it never happened.”

He nodded, but there was a look in his eyes that made her flush again. She knew he would not forget, and neither would she.

She would not forget the passion he had aroused within her, or his harsh condemnation of her apparent hypocrisy. She would always remember the bitter remorse beneath his ostensible anger when he spoke of his sister. She would never forget him, no matter how much she thought she should.

Then, out of the corner of her eye, she caught a most unwelcome sight.

Lord Cynvelin was striding toward them, concern on every feature. “My lady! What’s amiss?”

Rhiannon had no choice but to acknowledge the speaker, so she turned away from Bryce, who immediately moved toward his horse.

She also noticed that Lord Melevoir and the other guests were making a more leisurely progress toward the hall, and they were watching.

Very aware that many people could hear them, Rhiannon spoke in Welsh when her countryman drew near. “All is well in hand, my lord,” she replied lightly.

“I am glad to hear it, and I am very glad to see you. I knew you would not let me leave without bidding me farewell.” He took her hand and kissed the back of it. “I thought to see you last night, but you had disappeared.”

“I decided to retire.”

“I missed you,” he said softly.

She swallowed hard. “Yes, well, the hall was hot and I was tired.”

He glanced up at the sky, and she did likewise. “We intend to make an early start and break our fast upon the road,” he told her. “The weather threatens to change.”

He was quite right. Gray clouds were moving in from the west. She also noted with relief that his manner was as open and friendly and distant as it had been when she had first met him, with none of that sense of hidden meaning of moments ago.

They looked at each other and she, happy that he was leaving, smiled. “A good journey to you, my lord.”

“Is that all you have to say to me, my beautiful Rhiannon?” he whispered, regarding her with the significant look in his dark eyes that had been there last night. He moved closer as if unaware that they were in the full view of so many people. Including Bryce Frechette.

She felt helpless. She knew she should try to correct whatever false impression she might have given him—but here, where everyone could see?

“All for now,” she prevaricated, not meeting his gaze.

“Until I see you again?”

“If you wish.”

“If you only knew what I wish!” he murmured.

She blushed even more, feeling that this situation was unbearably awkward.

Then she began to get angry. Could he not see her reluctance? Did he not realize how embarrassing this was?

“Farewell, my lord,” she said, a hint of challenging defiance in her voice as she began to turn away.

Without warning, Lord Cynvelin suddenly pulled her into his embrace and pressed a hot, fierce kiss upon her mouth.

She was too stunned to move.

Then he stopped and stepped away, giving her a triumphant smile. She glanced swiftly at Bryce Frechette. What must he be thinking?

His expression was enigmatic, yet that seemed a condemnation, nonetheless.

“My lord,” she said sternly, keeping her voice low by great effort. She had no desire to make more of a spectacle than they already had. “Perhaps it would be better if you were to wait for my father to issue you an invitation to Craig Fawr before visiting there.”

“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.