The Warlord's Bride. Margaret Moore

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ pretty wife then, is it?” the Welshman cried, grinning. “What a fortunate fellow you are!”

      Lord Alfred couldn’t look more appalled, while Roslynn felt the most unexpected urge to giggle, despite her circumstances. “No, she most certainly is not my wife. She is—”

      “Saints preserve us,” Lord Madoc cried as if torn between scandal and admiration, “you don’t mean to say she’s your lehman?”

      “No!” Roslynn gasped, breaking into the conversation. “I am not his mistress!”

      “Well, thanks be to heaven for that,” the Welshman said with genuine relief as Lord Alfred’s face went from red to purple, “or I’d be thinking you were lacking in taste.”

      “My lord,” Lord Alfred ground out, “Lady Roslynn is here at the behest of King John.”

      “He has women ambassadors now, does he?” the Welshman replied with amazement, not the least upset by Lord Alfred’s anger and addressing Roslynn instead of the Norman. “Interesting, I must say, and clever, too. I’ll gladly listen to anything a beautiful woman has to say.”

      “If you will allow me to explain, my lord,” Lord Alfred said, his hands gripping the stem of his goblet as if he were wringing a chicken’s neck, “Lady Roslynn de Werre has recently been widowed—”

      “Oh, there’s a pity,” Lord Madoc exclaimed, regarding her with sympathy as he patted her arm again. “So young, too.”

      “Widowed,” Lord Alfred forcefully continued, “and the king has—”

      The door to the hall banged open and a tall, clean-shaven young man with dark hair to his broad shoulders strode into the room.

      He was dressed like the other men in a plain leather tunic over a light shirt that laced at the neck, with woolen breeches tucked into scuffed leather boots. Unlike Lord Madoc, he wore a swordbelt, old and supple, and the hilt of the weapon in the sheath was of iron wrapped in leather strips darkened with age and wear.

      Also unlike Lord Madoc, he was unexpectedly, astonishingly handsome. Curling dark hair framed a face of sharp planes and strong angles. A wide forehead and brown brows overshadowed equally dark eyes that seemed to glow with inner light. His nose was straight and narrow above full, well-cut lips.

      As he returned her scrutiny, she began to tremble. Yet it was not from fear or lust, but from the sudden certainty that he could see her beating heart thudding with dread.

      She was just as surprised to realize, from the wrinkle that formed between those penetrating eyes, that he was not pleased that it was so.

      The lord of Llanpowell hoisted himself to his feet and hurried forward to meet the man, mercifully taking his disconcerting attention away from her. They conversed in rapid Welsh, the older man seemingly trying to placate the younger.

      Their stances similar, they could be relatives. Father and son, perhaps?

      She hadn’t been informed that the lord of Llanpowell had been married before, or had a son or other children, but then, she’d been told almost nothing about Madoc ap Gruffydd. All John had told her was that the Bear of Brecon was to be rewarded with a wife and rich dowry for helping to end her late husband’s rebellious schemes, and she was to be the bride.

      What if he was his son? A grown son made a second wife’s position much more precarious—if she were to marry the lord of Llanpowell.

      “We’re being rude,” the older man suddenly declared in Norman French, turning toward his guests. “Come and meet our visitors.”

      Lord Alfred was already on his feet, and Roslynn slowly joined him, sliding her hands into the long cuffs of her gown and gripping her forearms to still their trembling as they approached.

      “This is Lord Alfred de Garleboine come from King John,” the older man said, “and this is Lady Roslynn. Not his daughter or wife or anything else to him, apparently, and recently widowed, poor thing.”

      The young man planted his feet and crossed his arms as he regarded her warily.

      He didn’t mask his feelings, his thoughts or his reactions, as so many did. Because he didn’t have to? Because he had the power and confidence to reveal exactly what he thought and felt, to everyone?

      Power and confidence—yes, he fairly exuded those qualities. His manner made Lord Alfred seem a model of gentle courtesy, and his father hospitality personified.

      As quickly as the heat of desire had rushed over her at that first glance, it died. He wasn’t some untamed warrior prince to be admired and desired, but an arrogant, powerful man who might do her harm.

      She had vowed that she would never again allow a man to hurt her, whatever King John ordered.

      Her determination and pride roused, she raised her chin and met his suspicious scrutiny steadily. “I am Lady Roslynn de Werre.”

      “De Werre?” the younger man repeated, his eyes narrowing. “Like the traitor?”

      “Yes. I was Wimarc de Werre’s wife, and since the king is grateful for your father’s recent—”

      “My father?” the younger Welshman interrupted. “My father’s been dead these past three years.”

      Roslynn’s startled gaze flew from the younger man to the older one behind him and back again. “Isn’t your father Lord Madoc ap Gruffydd?”

      “No,” the young man replied. “I am the lord of Llanpowell.”

      CHAPTER TWO

      HE WAS MADOC AP GRUFFYDD? This young, strong, arrogant fellow was the man King John expected her to marry?

      She felt for the bench and sat heavily. She could reconcile herself to a marriage to an older man, especially a friendly and generous one. But marriage to an arrogant, virile warrior, who could prove to be as violent and cruel as her first husband? That she could never accept.

      “Uncle, what have you been doing?” the young Welshman asked of the man they’d assumed was Madoc ap Gruffydd.

      “Welcoming your guests, since you weren’t here yourself,” the older man replied without a hint of remorse. “Proper introductions must have slipped my mind, what with the surprise and the lady’s beauty.” He smiled at Roslynn. “I’m Lloyd ap Iolo, Madoc’s uncle. I’m in charge of Llanpowell when Madoc’s on patrol.”

      Lord Alfred glared at the man who’d welcomed them. “What sort of Welsh trickery is this?”

      The real Lord Madoc regarded Lord Alfred with undisguised scorn. “There was no trickery or deceit. My uncle is in command of Llanpowell when I’m absent, and I count on him to act as host in my stead. If he says he forgot to introduce himself, that is the truth. No insult was intended.”

      “Aye, a mistake, that’s all, what with the unexpectedness of your arrival, you see,” the older man assured them.

      “Uncle, will you be so good as to pour the lady a drink?” the young lord of Llanpowell ordered. “She looks a little faint.”

      Roslynn СКАЧАТЬ