A Warrior's Passion. Margaret Moore

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      “Glad to hear it! A fine man—a fine fighter! The Baron DeLanyea was on the Crusade!” the chieftain declared, apparently for the benefit of the men around him. “Nearly killed, he was, but the heathens couldn’t do it, although they took his eye. Isn’t that right, young DeLanyea?”

      “Yes,” Griffydd acknowledged, his body slowly adjusting to the solid, unswaying land.

      “And your mother? She is well?”

      Griffydd nodded. “Yes.”

      “Good, good!” Diarmad cried, throwing his arm about Griffydd like an overly friendly bear, which was, Griffydd realized, what was familiar about his smell. “To the hall then, for some ale.”

      Griffydd had no choice but to agree, for Diarmad’s beastlike grip did not loosen. The chieftain led his guest along a wide street through the village to the fortress.

      The Welshman felt the eyes of the villagers on him, but he paid that no mind. Instead, he concentrated on what he saw—the smithy, with more than one man busily at work, the well-built houses of stone and thatch, barns, storehouses, wooden outbuildings and even the muck heaps, which could easily tell a man how many horses were kept. Dogs ran barking around them, the largest obviously Diarmad’s hound, for a word from the chieftain brought the brute impressively to heel.

      “Fine mail you’ve got there, DeLanyea,” Diarmad noted in a conversational tone. “That sword’s a marvel, too. Must have been a prosperous year.”

      “The mail and sword were gifts from my father’s friends when I was knighted,” Griffydd explained truthfully. “The cloak and brooch, as well.”

      “Generous friends you’ve got.”

      “And powerful at court, some of them.”

      Diarmad gave him a sidelong glance but said nothing.

      Griffydd sighed rather melodramatically. “As you know, the king has raised our taxes again, and of course, the winter was harsh.”

      There was a nearly imperceptible pause before Diarmad responded. “Oh, aye?”

      “I heard it was bad here, too,” Griffydd continued evenly.

      “So it was, so it was!” Diarmad muttered.

      By now, they had reached the tall, wooden wall of the fortress. As they went through the gate, Griffydd took note of the stables, the longhouses, the well—but everything inside the fortress palled beside the enormous stone hall in the center. Although the hall was smaller than his father’s, it was impressive nonetheless, larger and longer than any building of the Gall-Gaidheal Griffydd had ever seen before.

      Diarmad strode toward the building and proudly gestured for Griffydd to enter. “Well, here we are! Not so fine as your father’s hall, I know, but fine enough for a poor man like me.”

      If Diarmad’s poor, I’m a girl, Griffydd thought sarcastically as one of Diarmad’s men, a dark-haired, sullen fellow, hurried forward to hold open the door.

      Griffydd strode into the building, and suddenly felt as if he were in a cavern. There were no windows, and the sod-and-thatch roof gave the air an earthy smell. Smoke drifted toward a single hole above, with much of it lingering in the room lit by oil lamps and rushlights stuck in sconces in the wall. The lamps burned whale oil, if Griffydd’s nose was any guide. A roaring fire blazed in the central hearth, providing more illumination, as well as welcome warmth after the chill of the air. Benches and tables ringed the hearth, drinking horns and trenchers already in place.

      A sudden movement to Griffydd’s right caught his eye and he swiftly turned to see a young woman rising from a stool in the corner. She wore a pale brown, rough woolen gown of simple cut. It fell loosely from a curved, unembellished neckline to the floor, although a plain belt hung about her hips and made the full dress blouse. Long, red-gold hair of luxuriant thickness reached to her waist.

      Then, with one long-fingered hand, she slowly brushed her amazing hair away from her elfin face and looked at him, her dark eyes large, and their expression one he had never seen before—half defiant pride, half yearning vulnerability.

      And totally compelling. As she was.

      In that moment, it was as if the breath had left his lungs and his heart had ceased to beat. Then his heart came to vibrant life, thudding with a rapid drumbeat that surely had to be audible.

      The woman did not speak or move, but regarded him steadily, her lips parted as if she would speak.

      He waited, not breathing, for her to utter a single word.

      Then Diarmad shoved his unwelcome way past Griffydd and broke the spell. “Seona!” he barked.

      The young woman stepped forward and rose up on her toes to press a light kiss of greeting upon Griffydd’s cheek, the sensation like the touch of a feather tip. She smelled of grass and sea air, a perfume of natural purity that pleased him far more than the costliest unguent from the farthest land in the East.

      He had been kissed before, of course, but this gentle caress seemed to make his blood burn beyond anything even the most experienced and passionate of lovers had ever made him feel.

      “This is Seona,” Diarmad announced beside him. “Seona, this is Sir Griffydd DeLanyea of Craig Fawr.”

      As Griffydd bowed to her, a powerful surge of longing flowed through him and a wild thought sprang into his mind. Had Diarmad set her to wait here because she was to be Griffydd’s servant—and whatever else he wanted—while he was in this village?

      Such things had happened before when Griffydd had traveled on his father’s business. Always he had refused the “hospitality,” recognizing it for a tactic intended to distract him.

      This time, however…this time, he decided without hesitation, he would accept.

      “I am happy to meet you, Seona,” he said, and with a gentleness that surprised even himself.

      Then Griffydd DeLanyea did something even more unusual.

      He smiled.

      “Seona is my daughter,” Diarmad declared with a proud and happy grin.

      Diarmad’s daughter? Griffydd’s eyes widened with disbelief. This delicate woman with the bewitching eyes and hair such as he had. never seen or imagined was the offspring of loud, brawny Diarmad MacMurdoch? He could more easily believe she was a faerie changeling.

      Then he realized that wily old Diarmad was watching him closely, and Griffydd’s smile dissipated like mist in the valley when the sun rose.

      Of course, Griffydd thought with more anger than he had felt in many a day. A canny devil like Diarmad would use any ploy in negotiations, including setting his lovely, intriguing daughter to bewitch a man.

      He had to be bewitched. No woman had ever made him feel as she had, and on first sight, too.

      He had heard that these Gall-Gaidheals were only partly Christian and the other part pagan still.

      A shiver ran through Griffydd as he turned away, suddenly aware that his task СКАЧАТЬ