A Warrior's Honor. Margaret Moore

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СКАЧАТЬ Valmont has made no secret of her fondness for scoundrels.”

      “Are you saying, my lady, that I am a scoundrel?” he asked worriedly, placing his palm against his cheek in a gesture of dismay.

      “Oh, most certainly not!”

      Her companion gave her another smile. “Then I forgive Frechette his notoriety,” he said magnanimously. “I hope you will not question my judgment when I tell you I have asked him to join my retinue when I leave for Wales tomorrow.”

      Rhiannon paid little attention to the first part of Lord Cynvelin’s announcement. “You are leaving tomorrow?”

      “After mass.”

      “My father comes tomorrow,” she reminded him. “I was hoping you would be able to meet him.”

      Lord Cynvelin’s expression was all contrition and regret. “Alas, my lady, I cannot linger here, as much as I would like to. I have business that requires my immediate attention.”

      “Oh.”

      “Perhaps I might be permitted to visit you at Craig Fawr when my business is concluded,” he suggested.

      She could think of no reason he should not, beyond a certain discomfort in his suddenly proprietary manner. “We shall be pleased to welcome you.”

      “I shall count the hours until I see you again,” Lord Cynvelin whispered, gazing at her with eyes full of meaning.

      She blushed again and looked away, taken aback by the possessive expression in his dark eyes. Did he want to meet her father because he wanted to ask for her hand?

      She liked Lord Cynvelin. She admired him and she was pleased that he apparently admired her. She respected him. He was Welsh. For those reasons she had sought out his company during Lord Melevoir’s tournament and invited him to Craig Fawr.

      But she had only known him three days. That was hardly enough time to know him well, and certainly not enough to fall in love or commit herself to marriage.

      Her mother often cautioned her to be more circumspect, and right now Rhiannon wished she had heeded that advice. Obviously she had inadvertently given him cause to believe she cared more for him than she did.

      “If you will excuse me, my lady,” he said, standing, to her undeniable relief, “I must speak with Lord Melevoir before I leave and thank him for his hospitality. Then I should retire to my quarters.”

      “Yes, certainly, my lord,” she stammered, flushing even more as he lifted her hand and pressed a kiss upon it, looking at her with an expectant expression.

      “Until later, my lady.”

      He bowed low and strolled away, and for the first time since she had made his acquaintance, she was happy to see him go.

      Until later? What had he meant?

      She almost groaned aloud. Did he think she was willing to join him in his quarters?

      What had she made him believe?

      She watched him pause to speak with Lady Valmont, who gave her a speculative look. Did she wonder, too, at the nature of the relationship between Rhiannon and Lord Cynvelin?

      Looking away, Rhiannon’s gaze encountered a group of Norman noblewomen whispering and smiling as they glanced at her.

      What did all these people assume?

      Suddenly the hall seemed too crowded and far too hot. She rose and hurried out into the cooler air of the courtyard. It was a huge open area, surrounded by the high inner walls. Beyond that lay another ward encircled by thicker outer walls, and the most imposing gatehouse Rhiannon had ever seen.

      She slowed her pace to a more sedate walk, as befitted a gentlewoman.

      Then she halted. His back to her, a man stood in the shadows near some carts outside the barracks where the visiting knights and their retinues were housed. He seemed to be rummaging among the goods on the back of one of the wagons, yet it was too late and too dark for any of the castle servants to be preparing for a journey.

      “You, there! What are you doing?” she called out, moving closer, prepared to summon the guards if need be.

      She realized the man had shoulder-length hair only a moment before Bryce Frechette turned to face her. “I am looking for my baggage, which isn’t in the barracks. I was told one of the servants put it here by mistake.”

      As he spoke, Rhiannon saw that he did resemble a Saxon more than a Norman, with his hair to his broad shoulders, angular face and an aloof, slightly disgruntled expression.

      He also stood in an interesting manner, as if he were in a relaxed battle stance. She knew only one other man who stood that way when not actually engaged in combat. Urien Fitzroy, a friend of her father’s, was credited with being the finest trainer of fighting men in England.

      Bryce Frechette was a most imposing warrior, too, and yet, now that she was close to him, she did not find him frightening. She found him rather intriguing and wished she could see his face more clearly, particularly his shadowed eyes. “I’m sorry. I made a mistake.”

      “Did you think I was trying to steal something?” he charged.

      “Yes...no...” she began, then she straightened her shoulders defensively. “You must appreciate that your activity did look questionable.”

      “Especially when I am not a nobleman?” he queried, his tone ostensibly polite, but with an undercurrent of hostility.

      Why should he have cause to be angry at her? she wondered, her own ire rising when she recalled what she knew of him. “If you are no longer a nobleman, you have only yourself to blame, Bryce Frechette,” she retorted.

      “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 СКАЧАТЬ