A Warrior's Honor. Margaret Moore

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ

      No, not only himself. Not this time. She was just as culpable as he for what had occurred in the shadows. Lady Rhiannon had not uttered so much as a murmur of protest when he had taken her in his arms. Indeed, she had responded as fervently to his kiss as any man could ever hope.

      Surely she would say nothing to Lord Cynvelin, not unless she was willing to lie.

      Which she might very well do.

      Scowling, Bryce pushed off from the wall. If questioned, he would not lie, he decided. He would tell Lord Cynvelin exactly what has passed, and let the Welshman believe what he would.

      

      The next morning, Rhiannon scanned the gathering in the chapel. She easily spotted Lord Cynvelin, dressed for traveling in a short black tunic, brown breeches and with a black cloak of light wool thrown over his broad shoulders. He stood beside Lady Valmont, so close that their shoulders touched, and he seemed to be whispering in the lady’s ear almost constantly.

      Good. He might not notice her, then, and hopefully she could get to the hall to break the fast without having to speak to him. After last night, she thought avoiding him would save her any awkward moments or explanations.

      She had even considered avoiding the rest of Lord Melevoir’s guests, too. Then she had decided she couldn’t stay hidden in her chamber like a terrified mouse. She had to know if she had been seen in the arms of Bryce Frechette, or if he had told anyone that she had acted little better than a wanton bawd last night.

      That kind of gossip was too scandalous not to fly about the castle like a feather in a stiff breeze, and this morning, she could sympathize with Bryce’s denunciation of hearsay.

      Fortunately, no one seemed to be taking any speciai notice of her. Nobody stared or darted pointed glances her way. Everyone who caught her eye gave her a friendly smile, not a smirk of derision.

      She sighed with relief.

      Nevertheless, she was glad the Norman was not at mass. She didn’t know what she would do if she had to speak to him.

      Perhaps he, too, regretted what had happened between them. After all, he had not treated her as befitted her station.

      Just as she had not behaved as befitted her station, or she would have gone on her way the moment she had realized he was not a thief rifling through a baggage cart.

      It had to be because he was not what she had expected that she had lingered. He was not a wastrel, for he had behaved with all due decorum at the feast, even holding himself rather aloof from the other celebrants. He was not a bully and a hothead...or rather, not until he was provoked, perhaps.

      She had obviously provoked him—but then, he had not been right to criticize her behavior. That was for her parents.

      As for what her father would make of her behavior in the courtyard last night, letting herself be guided into the shadows, out of sight of the guards, alone with a young, virile, misunderstood, exciting man....

      She shuddered—and she was not thinking of her father’s reaction.

      One of Lord Melevoir’s guests, who was standing beside her, gave her a quizzical look that reminded her she was in company. Besides, she chided herself, she shouldn’t be having such thoughts, not in a chapel. Not of a dispossessed nobleman, who had kissed her with such fervent passion.

      She could only hope that Bryce Frechette never saw fit to brag of his easy conquest.

      And she would never, ever, allow herself to be put in such a confusing, overwhelming situation again.

      The mass ended at last, and she quickly went outside into the chill of a spring morning. She walked briskly toward the hall, her only concern getting inside before Lord Cynvelin saw her.

      Outside the stable she passed Lord Cynvelin’s black horse, saddled and waiting. His men and his baggage carts were all ready to leave, too, apparently, for several of his guards loitered nearby, some leaning against the stable walls.

      “Wonder if she’s a moaner or a screamer?” a rough Welsh voice muttered just loudly enough for her to hear.

      Rhiannon halted and slowly swiveled on her heel to look at the lout who dared to make such a rude remark in her hearing. She thought it was the brawny fellow who ran a bold gaze over her, for he grinned when she looked at him.

      “What did you say?” she demanded in Welsh, putting her hands on her hips.

      “Nothing, my lady,” he answered with wideeyed—and quite false—innocence.

      “Is there some trouble here?” a familiar deep voice said in Norman French.

      Her whole body warmed as Bryce Frechette came to stand beside her, as if he had materialized out of thin air.

      As before, he was simply attired in leather jerkin and breeches, his sword belt slung low on his narrow hips. Despite his lack of mail or other armor, he seemed far more imposing than the chain-mailed brawny fellow, perhaps because of his regal bearing and the sense of self-confidence that seemed as much a part of him as his deep brown eyes or sensuous mouth.

      What on earth was she doing, thinking about his mouth? She was supposed to be quite properly indignant.

      He looked at the man, then her, his expression inscrutable. “Is anything wrong?”

      Rhiannon lifted her chin slightly. “He said something rude to me.”

      “Is that so?” Bryce asked before walking toward the soldier. His tone had been calm and noncommittal, but she saw the tension in his shoulders and guessed that he was angry. “Did you say something rude to the lady?”

      The man gave him a blank look and answered in Welsh.

      “He says he doesn’t understand you,” Rhiannon explained.

      Bryce glanced at her over his shoulder. “But you understood him, did you not, my lady?”

      “Unfortunately, I did.”

      In the next moment, Bryce had the man pinned against the wall, his hands on the man’s shoulders. “Apologize to the lady,” he muttered between clenched teeth. “You understand that, don’t you?”

      The man looked at Rhiannon with fear in his eyes. “I don’t understand him!” he cried in Welsh. “What did I do?”

      Rhiannon ran forward and grabbed Bryce’s arm, his muscles hard beneath her fingers. “He doesn’t understand you! Let him go.”

      Bryce didn’t move. “Then you tell him he should apologize to you, or by God, he will be sorry.”

      Rhiannon quickly told the man what the Norman had said, and just as quickly the Welsh soldier stammered out an apology.

      Bryce let go and the man slumped to the ground. The rest of the men gathered round him, a few casting wary glances at the Norman.

      “As grateful as I am for your championship of my honor, I fear you’ve made some enemies,” Rhiannon said when Bryce turned to face her. She tried to keep an icy demeanor, even though she felt as hot as if she were in СКАЧАТЬ