A Warrior's Passion. Margaret Moore

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      

      Seona stared after Griffydd DeLanyea as he strode toward the bench at the end of the hall to take his seat beside her father.

      She had thought to find the Welsh nobleman a short, squat, dark man, for weren’t the Welsh all short and dark? Instead, she beheld a tall, gray-eyed warrior with doe-brown, shoulder-length hair that brushed broad, muscular shoulders. The complexion of his angular face was sun browned and his cheeks were ruddy from the sea breeze. His nose was remarkably straight, his jaw strong like the rest of him. He was well dressed in gleaming mail, black hauberk and a black cloak that swirled about his long legs when he moved.

      Those things she had noted when he had first entered the hall and they had been surprising enough.

      Then he had looked at her with his grave, gray eyes. What she had seen there had made her heart beat like the rapid movement of a bird’s wings and filled her with a strange thrill such as she had never felt before.

      What had she seen there? Approval, certainly, and that was rare enough. Admiration, she thought. Perhaps even desire.

      In all her life, no man had ever really looked at her as if he thought her worthy of his interest beyond asking for food or drink.

      As their guest drew off his cloak and took his seat to her father’s right, the place of honor for a respected guest, she instantly recalled the sensation of the stubble of his cheek against her mouth, the sea-spray scent of his skin—and the yearning that had blossomed within her.

      Most surprising of all, perhaps, was her sudden realization that if her father made his outrageous request of her again, here and now, she would eagerly agree.

      Indeed, she more than half suspected if her father proposed a marriage with the Welshman, she would accept him on the spot.

      Unfortunately, whatever expression had been in Griffydd DeLanyea’s eyes, it had died when he found out who she was.

      Why?

      Perhaps he kept his smiles for serving maids, who would be more procurable and appropriate bed companions than the daughter of his host.

      Maybe he was playing a game. Perhaps her own astonishing desire had been too evident. He was a handsome man. He must be used to women’s admiration. It was not so incredible that he might think to toy with her, encouraging or dismissing her as whim or strategy suggested.

      Her jaw clenched as she told herself that if Griffydd DeLanyea had been truly canny, like her father, he would not have altered a whit when he found out who she was. He would have done his utmost to win her to his side, and so take advantage of her loneliness and anger at her father…

      He could not know about that, of course. He was no mind reader, to reach into the recesses of her heart and understand her feelings, no matter how he looked at her with those iron-gray eyes.

      Which meant she must and would subdue this wild excitement coursing through her, this sudden burning desire for a man she had only just met.

      Yet she could not prevent herself from imagining what might have happened between them if she had not been Diarmad’s daughter, but a maidservant.

      Her body throbbed as her imagination envisioned—indeed, almost physically felt—being in his strong arms, his powerful hands and fingers caressing her body as he kissed her passionately.

      The men of her father’s council began to take their places, interrupting her ridiculous flight of fancy. As her father introduced them to Griffydd DeLanyea one by one, the Welshman completely ignored her.

      No matter. She was used to that, was she not?

      “Seona!” her father barked, making her jump.

      Griffydd DeLanyea had said her name softly, in a way she had never heard before. Gently. Like a caress.

      She grabbed the carafe of wine on the table nearby and hurried forward as other women entered with food and ale for those who preferred that beverage. Around her, her father’s men spoke in low mutters and cast wary glances at their guest.

      Not all of them welcomed an alliance with the Welsh, she knew. Some, like her father’s oldest comrade, Eodan, would not question his plans. Others, like the religious Iosag, would look for signs from God as to whom they should choose as allies.

      Then there were those such as Naoghas, a sullen, dark-haired fellow Seona had never liked, who would rather ally themselves with the Scots. Naoghas and his friends traced their forebears to the royal house of the Scots—or so they claimed—regardless of any influx of northern blood. They favored only compacts with Scots, and no one else.

      As for her father, Seona knew he would unite himself to whoever offered the most profit.

      She reached the head table and her fingers trembled as she began to pour the wine into the Welshman’s drinking horn. She bit her lip, trying to gain control of herself, fearful that her father would denounce her clumsiness if she spilled, any of the costly beverage and even more fearful of meeting their guest’s steadfast, unnerving gaze.

      “So, I hear that your sister has wed,” her father said to DeLanyea.

      Seona couldn’t help listening as their guest responded in his deep, musical voice. “Aye, a year past.”

      “To the brother-in-law of Baron Etienne DeGuerre, too,” her father noted. “A fine alliance for your family.”

      Seona moved on to her father’s drinking horn.

      “There is that, but it was a love match, too.”

      “Oh, aye!” her father answered with a sarcastic chuckle. “A love match that joins your family to one of the most powerful men in England!”

      Startled by her father’s blunt insolence, Seona jostled the carafe. Some of the wine spilled onto the table. Blushing with embarrassment, she quickly set down the container and wiped the spill with the hem of her skirt.

      When she finished, she raised her eyes to see her father glowering at her while Griffydd DeLanyea’s face betrayed absolutely nothing as he raised his drinking horn and drank the strong wine.

      Then he set down the vessel and matter-of-factly said, “If Rhiannon was not in love with him, the marriage would not have taken place, even if Frechette were the heir to the throne.”

      “Oh, come now, man!” Diarmad protested as Seona hurried away. “Your father would—”

      “Never use his child to further his own ambitions,” their guest replied, still in that same prosaic tone, although he directed a pointed glance at Seona, then his host. “Unlike many men.”

      Seona flushed with humiliation and her hands clutched the handle of the carafe until her knuckles went white.

      She knew what Griffydd DeLanyea was implying and she wanted nothing more than to repeat the same assertions she had made to her father: she would not be used as chattel for his bartering.

      Yet while she could find the strength to speak her mind to her father when they were alone, here in the hall, before his men and their guest, she dare not.

      Instead, she СКАЧАТЬ