The Welshman's Bride
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Margaret Moore
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HarlequinChapter 1
“Don’t be daft!” Dylan DeLanyea exclaimed with a roguish grin as he regarded his unsmiling cousin.
His head cradled in his hands, his feet crossed at the ankles, Dylan lay upon the large bed in the chamber made over to his use while he visited his uncle at the castle of Craig Fawr. “Not serious, me, and she knows it. You could have saved yourself some trouble and stayed in the hall with your wife.”
“How can you be so sure what she thinks?” Griffydd demanded, his arms folded over his broad, muscular chest. “If I did not know you well, I would think you were wooing Genevieve Perronet with marriage in mind.”
Dylan shook his head, his eyes twinkling merrily. “Everybody knows I’m not ready to be married, and I’m too young, besides.”
“Not ready, maybe—but you’re older than I am,” the newly wedded Griffydd reminded him.
“Just because you’ve got yourself a wife doesn’t mean everybody thinks of marriage. I was only enjoying the young lady’s company.”
“Lady Genevieve Perronet is already betrothed.”
“There, then!” Dylan cried triumphantly, shifting to a sitting position. “She can’t think I’m serious.”
“People have broken their betrothals before this, and I hear you’ve been doing a little more than talking to her,” Griffydd said, looking at Dylan with grim intensity.
Dylan flushed. “A few chaste kisses hardly count as trying to break a betrothal,” he replied, wondering if one of the nosy castle servants had seen him with her and gossiped.
“For you, perhaps. It could be Genevieve Perronet thinks differently. She has led a very sheltered life with Lady Katherine.”
“And now she’s free for a short while. I don’t see anything wrong with amusing her.”
“Tell that to her intended. Lord Kirkheathe might take a different view.”
“Well, as I am an honorable knight, I would never come between a man and his future wife,” Dylan said with genuine conviction.
“And you are being honorable, aren’t you?”
“God’s wounds, what’s that supposed to mean?”
“You aren’t trying to seduce her?”
“I’ve considered it.”
“Dylan!”
“But only considered,” he assured Griffydd jovially. “She’s a well-bred, betrothed lady for whom I have the greatest respect, for one thing. And for another, there’s her uncle. Norman to the bones, that one, all gloom and ambition. I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of him.”
“I’m glad you’ve realized that. Her uncle does not strike me as a forgiving man, should his plans for her be thwarted.”
“They won’t be, although I must say it is a waste to marry one so young to one so old. Kirkheathe must be—what? Sixty?”
“Forty.”
Dylan stretched, his movements lithe as a panther. “Making too much of this you are, Griffydd.”
“Making too little of her feelings you are,” Griffydd retorted. “A woman’s heart is not something to be toyed with.”
“We’re both enjoying the game, that’s all,” Dy-lan insisted. “And if she’s a little sad when she leaves here, I see nothing so wrong in that. I will be sad to see her go, too.”
“So you like her, then?”
“Of course. What is there not to be liked? She’s young, she’s pretty, she laughs when I make a joke.” Dylan leaned conspiratorially closer. “She’s as shapely a woman as ever I’ve seen, and her kisses—chaste though they were—were very pleasant.”
“You are beyond redemption,” Griffydd growled.
“Nonsense! I’ve done nothing that requires redemption.”
“Did you tell her about your children?”
Dylan frowned. “There was no occasion to mention them. We are having a little harmless fun before she marries that ancient knight, is all.”
“You are absolutely certain she understands that is how you feel?”
Dylan could not quite meet Griffydd’s steadfast gaze. “I said so, didn’t I? I’ve given her no reason to think otherwise.”
“I hope you’re right. I wouldn’t want anything to spoil these celebrations. This is Trystan’s time. He’s worked hard for his knighthood, and I don’t want the festivities disrupted because you can’t keep it in your breeches.”
Dylan scowled. “Anwyl, listen to you! I told you, I haven’t done any harm. And speaking of Trystan, should you not be seeing if your little brother has recovered from his vigil and his knighting? It’s long past noon, and he was still asleep the last time I looked. I hope he’ll be well enough to attend tonight’s feast.”
Griffydd nodded as he rose from the stool. “You will be at the feast?”
“Where else?”
Griffydd raised an eyebrow.
“Maybe I do have a notion to go see Bertha at the village tavern, for old times’ sake.”
Griffydd shook his head. “You’re hopeless,” he muttered as he strode through the door.
“Only joking, me!” Dylan called out as the door banged.
For a moment, an uncharacteristically serious expression appeared on his darkly handsome face, then, being Dylan, the expression disappeared, replaced by a merry grin.
He rose from the bed and started to whistle as he went to see if pretty Lady Genevieve would keep their rendezvous in his aunt’s garden.
Genevieve pulled her fur-lined cloak more tightly around herself as she waited. She shivered despite the warm lining, for it was a chilly morning in early March. Occasional remnants of snow dotted the stone path and beds, and the bare stalks of the climbing roses rubbed against the garden wall.
She wondered if she should have come here at all. Perhaps she should have stayed in her chamber, where her uncle believed her to be.
She should have been engaged in her prayers, instead of sitting in a barren garden awaiting a young man.
A very handsome, charming young man.
The first time she had set eyes on Dylan DeLanyea, he had been standing in the courtyard among a group of other knights. They, warriors all, had turned to look at her uncle’s cortege.
Her gaze had been drawn to the dark-eyed, good-looking man whose black hair brushed his shoulders. He stood with his arms casually folded, his weight on one long, lean leg.
At once she had been reminded of Lady Katherine’s cautions regarding evil young men who only had one thing in mind when it came to women. The one thing was, Genevieve had to assume from Lady Katherine’s tone, something a young lady should not want.
This dangerous goal had remained a mystery until that night when the older girls also fostered to Lady Katherine had taken it upon themselves to enlighten the younger ones. Certain portions of that fascinating discussion had immediately returned to Genevieve as she tried to look away from the handsome stranger with his devilish grin and merry eyes. She had not been able to manage it until her uncle barked at his men to dismount. Half-afraid and half-hopeful, she had wondered if the young man would approach her. He did not, but later she had discovered that he was Dylan DeLanyea, the nephew of Baron DeLanyea, lord of Craig Fawr.
What would her uncle say if he discovered her now, in this secluded garden, waiting for Dylan?
She could not even imagine the extent of his ire. They were guests of the DeLanyeas, breaking their journey north at the baron’s castle and, incidentally, attending the knighting of the baron’s youngest son. Nevertheless, she was sure her uncle would not hesitate to condemn her in front of them all if he thought her guilty of shameful behavior.
As for what Lady Katherine would say, that was easier to guess, for she had lived the past eight years under Lady Katherine’s roof, being instructed in the skills, duties and manners of a chatelaine.
Lady Katherine would say that Dylan DeLanyea, for all his smiles and kind looks, was not to be trusted.
Genevieve didn’t believe that. Dylan was noble and chivalrous, and completely trustworthy.
To be sure, he had kissed her, even though he knew she was betrothed. Three times. Once on the cheek, and twice on the lips.
Her heartbeat quickened. During the somewhat tedious business of the knighting of Trystan DeLanyea, Dylan’s cousin and foster brother, she had realized that Dylan was looking at her—often. And smiling. He continued to do so during the subsequent feast.
And then came the dancing. She had thought she would swoon when Dylan approached her and asked her to stand beside him in the dance. When he had taken her hand, she had scarce been able to breathe.
Fortunately, thanks to Lady Katherine’s teaching, she was able to dance the steps, even though she found it exceedingly difficult to concentrate.
Afterward, Dylan DeLanyea had escorted her back to her uncle. Then he had returned and beseeched her to dance again.
That time, when the dance was over, he did not take her back to her uncle, who was engaged in deep conversation with the baron and his eldest son, Griffydd. Instead, he led her to a more private part of the hall—still in full view of everyone, of course, so there could be no charge of impropriety.
She was, after all, betrothed—albeit to a man old enough to be her father.
Her face flushed as she thought of what had happened next. Somehow, and she wasn’t sure just how, she found herself farther back in the shadows. Nor could she recall what they had been speaking of, for all at once, Dylan DeLanyea had suddenly leaned forward and kissed her.
She was not cold now, as she remembered the sensation of his warm, soft lips first brushing her cheek, then touching her mouth.
“There is a rose blooming here, after all.”
She started when she heard Dylan’s musical Welsh voice.
She stood as he came through the gate, closing it softly behind him before he faced her, smiling.
His untamed hair moved gently in the chilly breeze. He did not look cold, although he wore no cloak. He was clad in an open-necked shirt beneath a leather tunic girded by a thick sword belt. The tunic brushed his muscular thighs, which were encased in breeches. Fur wrappings covered his shins and boots.
Plain clothing indeed, and yet he looked absolutely splendid. She did not think a prince could look finer, especially when he regarded her with that intimate smile and those shining eyes.
“I was afraid you would not come,” he said as he approached her.
Genevieve looked at the frosty ground. “I should not, perhaps, have done so.”
“I would have been very sad.”
She risked a glance at him. “Truly?”
“Most truly. Come, sit here beside me.”
He sat on the stone bench she had recently vacated. Her heart throbbing so that she was sure he must be able to hear it, she hesitated a moment, then joined him, sitting as far away as possible.
Although she had been unable to resist the lure of being alone with him in the garden, she was a lady, and there were certain proprieties to be observed.
But not by him, apparently, for he boldly reached out and took her gloved hand in his.
She knew she should not allow such familiarity, but the words of protest would not come.
“Baron DeLanyea tells me you are to leave tomorrow,” he said softly.
She nodded.
He sighed. “I will be very sorry when you go.”
Emboldened by his manner and his words, she looked at him. “So will I.”
He smiled wistfully. “You are to be married within the month?”
“Yes, within the month,” she replied, not troubling to hide her dismay at her impending fate. “To an old man.”
“That is often the way of it,” Dylan replied gravely. “An old man and a young wife.”
“Why must it be so? It doesn’t seem right.”
She saw that her forceful words startled him. “I know such a match is not unusual, and I know my marriage to Lord Kirkheathe pleases my uncle, who is my guardian now, yet I wish I were not betrothed.”
When Dylan answered, he sounded as sad as she felt, and his hand squeezed hers. “But you are.”
“I wish I could stay.”
“I wish you could, too,” he replied softly, reaching up to caress her cheek.
“Is there nothing to be done?”
“I fear there is not, my lady. We must say our farewells. Let us do so here, where we can be alone.”
Her eyes welled with tears. “I do not want to say farewell.”
“Then do not,” he whispered, bending his head to kiss her.
For a fleeting instant, it crossed Genevieve’s mind that she should not allow such a liberty.
Yet she could not stop him, or herself. She wrapped her arms around him and leaned against him as she lost herself in the wonderful sensations his lips engendered.
Dylan shifted closer, moving his hands into the warmth of her cloak to hold her in his arms. He caressed her slim back as his kiss deepened.
Engulfed in the pleasure of their embrace, he let himself drift on a sea of delightful perceptions. The perfect softness of her lips. The slight arch in her back. The brush of the fur lining on the backs of his hands.
Her lips parted ever so slightly, and he needed no more invitation to push his tongue gently between them. As he did so, he moved his hand to cup the malleable flesh of her breast.
As her tongue boldly intertwined with his, she made a sound in the back of her throat, half moan, half whimper.
The small noise broke the spell, and reminded him who she was, as well as what she was.
Despite her responses, she was Lady Genevieve Perronet, the betrothed of Lord Kirkheathe, niece of stern Lord Pomphrey Perronet, and on her way to be married.
With more reluctance than he cared to acknowledge even to himself, Dylan pulled away and tried to smile as he looked at her. The corona of blond curls that clustered around her heart-shaped face was a little disheveled. Her cheeks glowed, and her bold, blue-eyed gaze seemed to transfix him and render him speechless.
As well as fill him with a burning desire.
He did not want to talk, let alone say a farewell.
He pulled her onto his lap. No tender, tentative kiss this time, but a passionate taking of her mouth. She responded with equal fervor, clutching him as if she never wanted to let go. With increasing need, he stroked and caressed her, drawing forth small moans and sighs that spurred him on, as the shifting movement of her body increased his arousal.
Usually, he preferred to take his time and linger over every delightful step on the path. Here, now, with this young woman who looked so innocent yet who kissed with such wanton abandon, he simply could not wait.
Still kissing her, he fumbled with the ties of her cloak, determined to undo it Finally, with a low growl of both want and frustration, he tore the strings and shoved it from her shoulders. He did the same at the back of her bodice, until it was loose enough for his hands to travel inside to the warm, satiny flesh.
She gasped when he touched her, then arched, another moan breaking from her slender throat.
He kissed her there, too.
“Dylan,” she whispered fervently, her breasts rising and falling rapidly. “I... I must go.”
Even then, she cupped his face with her palms and pressed more kisses upon his cheek.
“Stay,” he murmured, grinding his hips in response to the pressure of her buttocks.
One hand left the confines of her bodice and went to her ankle. He began to slowly push her skirt higher, his hand running up her slim bare leg.
He had to possess her.
The bell that summoned the servants to the evening meal began to ring.
Dylan went still as a stone when he realized what he had been about to do. With a betrothed lady. In his aunt’s rose garden.
He had not even intended to kiss her. He had thought only to say a brief and suitably touching farewell in the garden before this evening’s feast.
He had meant every word he said to Griffydd. His flirtation with Genevieve Perronet was just that: a flirtation. A bit of meaningless fun while they were at Craig Fawr.
He simply had not been prepared for the startling intensity in her eyes as she had looked at him, or the extreme sadness in her voice as she spoke of leaving. Nor had he at all anticipated the fire of passion in her willing kiss.
Anwyl, he, a man who had been intimate with a number of women and fathered children by some of them, had never guessed shy, demure Genevieve Perronet possessed the power to be so astonishingly arousing.
Appalled by his lack of self-control, he gently pushed her off his lap and stood. “Forgive me, my lady.”
Her hair more disheveled than ever, her lips swollen from his kisses, her cheeks red and her bodice loose about her body, she regarded him with obvious confusion.
He tugged his tunic back into place, then strode to the gate. His hand on the latch, he paused and glanced back, to see that Genevieve had pulled her cloak around her shoulders.
“Farewell,” he said softly, and then he opened the gate and left her.
That evening at the feast, Genevieve anxiously searched for Dylan DeLanyea. She had to be subtle about it, for her uncle was sitting beside her. Although her hawklike relative seemed most interested in discussing matters of state with the other nobles around him, he was not ignoring her.
The comfortable hall was filled with fine and titled men and their wives, both Norman and Welsh: the Baron DeGuerre, Sir Urien Fitzroy, Sir Hu Morgan, Sir Roger de Montmorency, to name but a few. Their host was quite well-known in his own right, and rather fearsome to look at, Genevieve thought, with his scarred face, one eye and limping gait.
The women of Craig Fawr were friendly and seemed quite nice, except perhaps for Griffydd DeLanyea’s bride. Seona was with child again, and it seemed she was having a difficult time. Perhaps that was due to the fact that her second pregnancy came so hard upon her first, for her infant son was not yet a year old. Still, Genevieve envied her the children, and looked forward to the day she would be a mother.
She also envied her hostess, who seemed to be everything that Lady Katherine said a chatelaine should be: kind, competent, pleasant. Everything at Craig Fawr was well-regulated and comfortable, too. Genevieve sighed and hoped that she would be so successful when it was her time to take on such duties.
The center of most people’s attention tonight, however, was Trystan DeLanyea. Like all the DeLanyea men, he was comely. He shared Dylan’s dark, curling hair, worn to his shoulders in the manner of his father, brother and cousin, so that altogether, they reminded Genevieve of a band of savage Celts. Trystan also shared Dylan’s sensual lips, although he did not smile as much. He lacked his cousin’s snapping black eyes, possessing instead the grave, gray eyes of his older brother.
So, Genevieve mused as she regarded him, he was young and handsome, but he did not fascinate her, not as Dylan did.
She had been rather astonished to think that Dy-lan was not already married, but perhaps, she thought with a secret, satisfied smile, he had never met the right woman before.
She wondered where he was. She knew he was still at Craig Fawr. She would have heard if he had ridden out, for he came with a troop of ten men, although his own castle, Beaufort, was not very far away.
It had to be love she felt for him, she told herself. She seemed to melt whenever he looked at her with his passionate dark eyes, and when he kissed her... there were no words to describe what she felt then.
And he must love her, too, to embrace her as he had in the garden.
Of course, they had perhaps gone a little far, but that only proved that he returned her love. He had looked so sorry when he stopped and even more when he said farewell. If he did not come to the feast, she didn’t doubt it was because he thought their situation hopeless, since she was betrothed to Lord Kirkheathe.
“We will leave at first light,” her uncle said beside her, momentarily drawing her attention away from her silent search. “Be ready.”
“Yes, Uncle.”
“The journey to Lord Kirkheathe’s estates should take a sennight.”
Genevieve nodded her head—then her heart seemed to stop, for Dylan was there, seated half-hidden by a pillar in the vast hall. No wonder she had not been able to see him before.
Looking at Dylan, she knew she could never marry Lord Kirkheathe now. She started to raise her hand in greeting, then glanced at her uncle.
Better, perhaps, if she made no sign.
Despite her conviction, her uncle was an ambitious, unsympathetic man who would never understand her feelings—but something had to be done to prevent her arranged marriage.
Again, her gaze strayed toward the dark-haired warrior. Even his smile was enough to make her heart race and her mind recall how his lips felt upon her own.
Her breath caught in her throat as he looked her way, but he did not meet her gaze. Instead, he turned away, a slightly troubled frown on his handsome face.
Because he was as upset as she was at the possibility of her marriage to another, Genevieve didn’t doubt. He must feel it too painful even to look at her.
Yes, something had to be done to prevent her marriage to Lord Kirkheathe. Dylan, being an honorable man, would not seek to do so.
She, therefore, must, she decided.
She, therefore, would.
