The Welshman's Way

Beautiful she was, yet there was something about her mouth suggestive of a strong, stubborn will. She had the proud carriage and demeanor that belonged to the conquering Normans, too. She had probably had her way in everything all her easy life. She would make some Norman a fine wife and together they would make a lot of little Norman children to control the land.

Dafydd brushed the horse with quick vigorous strokes. She might just as well be a nun for all he would ever have to do with her or her kind.

“I think the rain is getting worse,” she said accusingly, as if he were responsible for the weather. “We may have to stay the night.”

He pulled off his wet dalmatica and spread it out to dry. He had slept in worse places, and in worse weather, too. At least they had a roof over their heads.

He untied his pack and set it at his feet. Reaching inside, he pulled out a flint with which to build a fire. There were the remains of a round hearth in the other part of the building. He gathered some of the straw and a few pieces of wood that lay in the corner, all of which was extremely dry and caught easily. He grabbed his bundle and found the pieces of bread he had hidden in his bed during the last few days before he left the monastery.

She turned and looked at him as he bit into one of the small, round, stale loaves. The only noise disturbing the silence was the sound of the rain. It was late now, and the darkness outside had as much to do with the setting sun as it did with the clouds. Soon it would be too dark to travel, especially over wet roads.

As she stood there illuminated by the flickering flames of the fire, he became very aware that he was half-naked and alone with her.

She came toward him, eyeing him warily. Clearly she was no longer certain what kind of man he was, whether pilgrim or soldier or outlaw or peasant. Suspicious, yes, but not afraid, and he was pleased, although he knew it should not matter.

Still, she was, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen and he enjoyed the play of the light on her face and the intimacy of the moment.

She sat on the dirt floor opposite him. He handed her a piece of the bread and saw with some amusement that she was not pleased to be offered stale bread. Surprisingly, however, she said nothing, but started to eat, averting her eyes demurely as if he were a suitor and she a coy maiden being wooed.

That thought amused him greatly. He could not imagine a Norman wooing a woman, or certainly not properly, with eloquent words, or a love song, perhaps, and kisses begged in the dark shadows of a summer’s night. It was a pity, in a way, because he thought this woman might deserve such a wooing.

He had never actually wooed a woman himself. His life had been one of battles and skirmishes and hiding in the woods, his times with women frenzied moments of passion with a willing wench who thought it the height of excitement to make love with a rebel. He could barely remember most of them.

He noticed Lady Madeline was shivering and wondered if he should suggest she remove her damp clothes. An interesting idea, that.

“I have to find my brother,” she repeated defiantly, fortunately calling his thoughts away from contemplation of her as a woman to the necessity of helping her.

“Not on my horse,” he said.

Even her pout had a certain loveliness about it. “I assure you, whoever you are, that you will be suitably recompensed for that beast and your trouble. My brother is very wealthy. And very powerful.”

“Your betrothed is wealthy and powerful, too, no doubt.”

“Yes.”

Despite the lift of her shapely chin, he thought she was not quite sure about that. Interesting. Unimportant, but interesting.

He held out another crust of bread and Madeline gingerly lifted it from his fingers, then sat down as far away from the fellow as possible while remaining as close as she could to the heat of the flames. To her chagrin, the nearly naked man grinned at her. A devilish grin it was, too, and she wondered how she could ever have surmised that he had taken holy orders.

She looked away, determined not to look at his face anymore, or that horrible scar on his shoulder, or wonder how anyone could survive to bear such a mark. She wished he would put his robe back on.

She forced herself to think about what to do next. She had no idea how to proceed in this particular, strange and foreign situation. For the past ten years, every moment of her life had followed an established pattern and been lived among the same people whose habits, likes and dislikes were as well-known to her as her own. Then, there had been the news of her impending marriage, Roger’s arrival and her abrupt departure from the convent, the attack, her rescue and now here she sat, afraid to be so close to this muscular stranger who was not Norman, yet more afraid to leave this fellow’s presence and go out into the rain and the unknown.

But should she, perhaps, be so ready to believe his reassurances about Roger? The outlaws had outnumbered them, after all. Perhaps Roger was lying wounded somewhere, bleeding and in pain.... Just because she had not been able to convince him to at least postpone the wedding until she had met her future husband did not mean that she had ceased to care for her one and only living relative.

Indeed, if Roger was not hurt, why had he not come to find her? Surely he would be searching for her, if he was able to. Even if he cared for her only as an instrument to fulfill his plans. Or especially if he considered her in such a light.

She suppressed a sorrowful sigh at the notion that time and training could make her brother so coldhearted. Why, this man sitting across from her, this total stranger, was showing more concern for her than Roger had.

Who was he? Where had he come from? Why had he helped her? Some things about him she could guess with some certainty. She knew he was Welsh, despite his attempts to mask his accent, for there had been Welsh servants at the convent, which was rather close to the borderlands.

He must have been trained as a soldier, for he wielded his sword with considerable skill. He might be a rebel, or someone who saw the chance for ransom, but he did not try to bind her, or curtail her movements in any way. If she wanted to, she could run away at any moment.

She could ask him, of course, but he would probably answer with that disquieting stare, or even worse, that grin.

He caught her looking at him and pointed to a pile of straw in the corner. “Go to sleep.”

“Where?” she asked cautiously. Thus far he had proven trustworthy, but she was a woman and he was a man. A young and vital man.

He gestured again at the pile of straw. “There.”

“No.” She shook her head decisively. After all, they were alone here, and he was half-naked.

“Not touching you, me” he said, obviously and quite honestly insulted by her reluctance.

“There might be...rats,” she confessed with a very real shudder. All her life she had had a horror of the small furry creatures, and she was absolutely certain this shell of a building was a rat’s idea of paradise. Where there was one rat, there would be hundreds. And she thought it a very good excuse.

He started to laugh, a deep, rolling sound that was surprisingly pleasant to hear. With appropriate catlike grace, he rose quickly, grabbed his sword and swung it through the straw. “No rats.”

He crouched back down beside the fire, laying the sword beside him. She saw him wince as he did so. “Does it hurt, your shoulder?” she asked without thinking.

“Not now.” He gazed at her intently, and for a long moment, she simply gazed back, trying to read his dark eyes and quite determined that he could not outstare her. The only person whose scrutiny she had never been able to bear was Mother Bertrilde, and he did not frighten her as much as the Mother Superior in an angry mood.

And yet she was the first to look away, because she suddenly realized, as the heat of shame replaced the pleasant warmth, that she was actually enjoying his scrutiny in the most unseemly fashion.

“Where are you from?” she asked innocently, although she already knew the answer.

“Cornwall.”

“Ah.” His lie disappointed her. Did he think she was a fool? His dark hair and complexion gave his country away, as well as his accent. “Have you been a soldier?”

He nodded, and she hoped that this was not a lie, too.

“You are a fine fighter. Perhaps you could serve my brother. He is always seeking good soldiers.”

The man’s face darkened into a scowl and she suspected he would not answer any more of her questions. Rather than let him ignore her, she went over to the straw and lay down.

“Sleep now,” he said, settling against the wall of the building, stretching his feet out until they were nearly in the fire.

She rolled onto her side, so that her back was to him. As if she could sleep in this situation, with a man who lied to her and fought like a demon and sat there unabashedly half-naked and unashamed.

For once she was grateful that Mother Bertrilde was so strict. She had spent many a night on a vigil and had long ago learned how to rest without falling into a true sleep. If the man came anywhere near her, she would be fully awake instantly and on her guard.

* * *

Every part of Sir Roger de Montmorency’s body seemed to ache, his head in particular. Where in the name of the Blessed Virgin was he? A candle flickered on a plain bedside table that held a plain clay cup from which a medicinal smell emanated. The rest of the room was shadowed. The walls nearest him were almost painfully white and very smooth. A large crucifix hung over the bed. He could hear singing. Low, deep—men’s voices, sonorous and comforting. Chants.

It was night, and he was in a monastery.

What had happened? There had been a skirmish, with outlaws. Madeline had screamed....

“Madeline!” he cried, sitting up abruptly. The pain that shot through his temple made him flop back onto the coarse pillow.

Sir Albert Lacourt bent over him, and his anxious face looked to be floating in a mist.

“Where...?” Roger whispered.

“You are safe at the monastery of St. Christopher, Roger. You were wounded.”

“St. Christopher? Then we are nearly back at the convent! Where is Madeline?”

“We...we do not know. Everything has been done to locate her, Roger,” Albert said quickly.

“I must find Madeline.” Roger tried to get up, but he felt as weak as a newborn kitten.

Albert glanced over his shoulder at someone standing in the shadows, then bent over him again. “You have lost much blood. Father Gabriel says you must not try to get up.”

“Who in the name of the saints is Father Gabriel to order me!” Roger exclaimed weakly. Once more he struggled to sit up.

Instantly there was a pair of very gentle but very forceful hands pushing him back. “My lord, I must insist. Or you may die.”

Roger glared at the man holding him down. His gray eyes were kind but held a certain firmness of purpose that Roger had seen before, when he had been practising his sword skills and his teacher had been adamant that he keep practising. Still, this fellow had more of the scholar than the soldier about him, although he was surprisingly strong for a priest, or else, Roger thought, I am even weaker than I thought. “I have to find my sister. The wedding’s in a fortnight and we are still far from my castle.”

“Please, my lord, do not exert yourself!” Albert said. “We have Bredon out with the dogs.”

Roger felt some slight relief. Bredon was the finest huntsman in England. He was in charge of Roger’s hounds, which were also the finest in England. If anybody could find Madeline, it would be Bredon.

Albert cleared his throat and looked again at the anxious priest. “Unfortunately, it has been raining since near evening and we cannot search as we would like.”

“You must have faith, my son,” the priest said softly.

Roger de Montmorency’s lip curled skeptically in his dark, handsome face. He had faith in only three things: God, his sword and his ability to wield it. Unfortunately, God seemed to have turned his face from him, and from Madeline, too. As for his sword, he would soon have his strength back, and then he would wield it. By God, if anyone had touched her, he would ply it with no mercy. “Find her, and I want those outlaws. Alive.”

“Capturing those rogues may be difficult. Other Welshmen will surely give them sanctuary,” Albert replied. Roger’s glower was all the answer Albert got, and all he needed. “Very well, my lord. We will search for them, too.”

Father Gabriel cleared his throat deferentially. “My lord, please recall that there may be other factors at work here. If these men are simply outlaws, as you believe, try to understand that there are other lords, less wise than yourself, perhaps, who are harsh with their tenants and so create—”

“If men break the law, they must be punished.”

“Be that as it may, a little mercy—”

“They will get precisely what they deserve, Father. No more, no less.” Roger looked at Albert and tried to focus on his friend. “I don’t think they were rebels.”

Albert shook his head. “Nor I, my lord.”

“What of ransom?”

“We have heard nothing.”

“I pray Chilcott does not hear of this. Or Baron DeGuerre.”

“Should your concern not be for your sister’s safe return?” Father Gabriel asked softly.

Roger saw the rebuke in the man’s eyes. “Of course I am worried about her, man! Leave me now!”

The tone of command was unmistakable, and Father Gabriel wisely did not linger.

“Surely there will be no need to inform your sister’s betrothed,” Albert said placatingly. “At least we have not found her body. It may be that she managed to escape and is now—”

“Lost in the forest? Small comfort there, Albert! I will lead the search for her myself.” Roger threw off the bedclothes, set his feet on the ground and stood up.

Then Sir Roger de Montmorency fell back onto the bed in a dead faint, his face so pale that Albert ran down the corridor shouting for Father Gabriel.

Chapter Four

Madeline inched her way forward, hardly daring to take a breath, although the rise and fall of the Welshman’s broad, naked chest gave her assurance that he still slept. When she had first awakened and realized he was sleeping and that the rain had ceased, she had been tempted to run away, until she realized she had no idea where she was. She might find herself lost in the woods, the very same woods that harbored the outlaws who had attacked their party yesterday. Therefore, she had decided upon a different course of action.

Ever so carefully, she pulled the sword away from the Welshman’s loosened grip. There! She had it! She lifted it cautiously, amazed at the weight and the beauty of the design, and wary of its sharpened edge. Then, taking a deep breath, she placed it against the Welshman’s collarbone.

He opened his eyes—and was instantly awake. “What are you doing?” he demanded, his accent strong in his surprise. He shifted ever so slightly.

“I want you to answer my questions. I want to know who you are.” She shoved the tip forward a little to show that she expected answers, not grins.

“David,” he replied. “My name is David.”

“Very well, David, if that is truly your name and I do not fully believe it is, what are you doing dressed in a priest’s robe?”

“I told you, a pilgrimage I am making.”

“To where?”

“Canterbury.”

“Why then are you not heading south?”

“I...visit family first.”

“And you are from Cornwall?”

“Yes.”

“You are lying to me, David.”

He didn’t reply.

“We had Welsh girls serving us in the convent. I recognize the accent. What else have you lied about? That you mean me no harm?”

“That is the truth. I will not hurt you.”

Whatever else he said, she believed this. She saw the truth of it in his eyes and heard the sincerity in his voice, utilizing the several subtle skills developed in the convent, where some tried to gain superiority by claiming extraordinary piety or to gain favor with the Mother Superior. Madeline had learned to detect hypocrisy and deceit. She saw none of that when he said he would not harm her.

Even more importantly, there was something else in his eyes when he looked at her. Not fear, because she held a sword at his throat, but a kind of grudging respect, all the more rewarding because she suspected he did not give that easily, not to a Norman, and not to a woman, probably, either. “Shall I tell you what I think, David?” she asked, her tone lighter than before although still serious. “I think you are a soldier of some kind, or you were. You are no longer, because of that wound to your shoulder, or else you are traveling in disguise. I also realize that you do not like Normans. So, you are a Welshman who can fight who doesn’t like Normans. Are you, by any chance, a rebel?”

“If I am,” he said with a mocking smile, “do you think me stupid enough to admit it?”

She rose, her hands still wrapped around the grip of the sword. He rubbed his throat, watching her. “I am telling you what I suspect to prove a point. I do not care who you really are, or what you may have done. I have no interest in the truth about you beyond its pertinence to my safety.” That was not strictly true, but there was no point in letting him know that she was curious about him. “Nothing about you matters to me, as long as you assist me.”

“I said I would, but I will not take you to your brother. He hates the Welsh.”

Madeline did not respond to his blunt observation, because she didn’t know what to say. Unfortunately, she could no longer be sure of anything about her brother. He seemed to have changed very much in the past ten years, and it could be that this fellow understood Roger better than she.

“And I would not be keen to have my brother see me with a lone Welshman for my escort, if I were you,” he said wryly. “Think of the scandal, my lady.”

Madeline’s eyes widened and she forgot to hide a smile of sudden excitement. Of all things, she had not considered what might happen if she returned to Roger and let it be known she had spent the night alone with a man. And worse, from Roger’s point of view, at least, a Welshman who might very well be a rebel. A scandal might be the very thing to prevent a wedding.

Then she frowned. As much as she did not like the idea of marrying Chilcott, she was not certain she was willing to lose her reputation to prevent it. Then she realized the Welshman was smiling at her. “You must have been a very poor soldier, David, to let a woman sneak up on you,” she remarked calmly.

“Give me the sword before you hurt yourself,” he said, rising.

“No.”

As she backed away, still keeping the weapon pointed at him, he suddenly dove for her, knocking the sword from her hand and sending it skittering across the packed earth of the floor. He landed on top of her and knocked the wind out of her.

“Why didn’t you run when you saw I was asleep, Lady Madeline de Montmorency?” Dafydd asked. He drew back a little and looked at her, aware of her body beneath him and his proximity to her luscious lips.

“I need an escort and, unfortunately, you are the only one available.”

“Not much cause to help you, maybe, if you put my sword at my throat,” he noted dryly.

“I wanted to know who you are.”

“I am your escort. That will have to do.”

“I suppose,” she said, pouting. She gave him a sidelong glance that was at once proud and impertinent, questioning and very enticing. “Will you please get off me? You are...”

“What?” he asked softly, leaning forward so that his lips were close to hers. “What am I, my lady?”

Gently he kissed her. At first, he simply enjoyed the long-denied sensation of a kiss. And then, miraculously, wonderfully, he realized she was returning his kiss, with a tentative innocence that bespoke passion awakening. The notion that he could inspire such a feeling within her increased his own ardor. His tongue tenderly yet insistently probed her lips, until they parted for him.

When his tongue thrust slowly inside her mouth, Madeline could scarcely comprehend the host of feelings struggling within her. The foremost was nearly overpowering surprise. Touch of any kind was forbidden in the convent, even to the touch of a hand when passing food. The kiss alone had been intoxicating; this was beyond that, sending her spinning into a realm so exciting that she could barely think beyond the pleasure as his lips moved over hers, delightfully slowly, firm and possessive.

And if a kiss could make her feel that way, what of the other things some of the other girls had spoken of, secret things, whispered about in the corner of the garden when the holy sisters were not near?

Heady with the excitement, Madeline clutched his muscular shoulders, his flesh hot beneath her hands, and instinctively began to undulate beneath him.

He had saved and protected her. He would help her still. He was strong, handsome, virile. A warrior.

And then she felt his hand upon her breast. Startled, she thrust him back. “Stop!” she cried, surprised and horrified not so much by his unexpected action as by her own lack of self-control. This was too much intimacy, too soon. What she felt must be lust, could only be lust. Blushing with shame, she shoved him away. “Stop that!”

Indeed, his grin could have been lust personified. “You like being kissed.”

“No, I do not.” She squirmed beneath him, trying to make him let her up.

In response, he moved his hips, the slight motion awakening a yearning so strong she could scarcely believe it.

She lay still, staring up at him, horrified. “I...I want to be a nun!”

“I thought you were getting married.”

“Yes. No. Get off me!”

“Very well.” Mercifully he rolled away. “You want to live among women for the rest of your days?”

“Yes.”

“That would be a great waste,” he murmured, smiling at her as he rose slowly and reached for the dalmatica.

“How dare you!” she cried as she scrambled to her feet. “I am betrothed!”

He pulled on his garment, then faced her, his expression unreadable. “How dare you?” he asked coolly.

“Me? It was you! You knocked me down, you—”

“If you do not wish to be kissed, do not look at a man that way. If you are indeed betrothed, you should act like it.”

She drew herself up. “What `way’ did I look at you? And I am acting like a betrothed woman! I keep asking you to take me back to my brother.” She had merely regarded him as she would any other man...hadn’t she?

“Are you trying to say you did not enjoy the kiss?”

“No, I did not! I could not enjoy the embrace of a...of a peasant!”

“You do not know I am a peasant.”

“You are not a nobleman.”

His infuriating smile broadened.

“Do you intend to help me or not?”

“I said I would, so I will.”

“Then you will please have the goodness to stay far away from me.”

“As you wish, my lady.”

“I’m hungry. What is there to eat?”

He pulled out yet another piece of stale bread from his pack and tossed it at her. She caught it just before it landed on the ground and then watched as he picked up his weapon and walked toward the horse. “We should go soon,” he said.

She took a bite of the bread and marveled that her teeth did not remain behind. Chewing slowly and avoiding meeting his gaze, she nodded. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

“No.” He saddled the horse and tied on his pack. She kept silent as she ate and watched him. He was no nobleman, say what he would. He couldn’t be.

And he should not have kissed her. It was all his impertinent doing. Indeed, she would do well to be rid of his company. Truly, she did not enjoy his lips upon hers. How could she? He had taken a great liberty.