A Warrior's Honor. Margaret MooreЧитать онлайн книгу.
chuckled again. “You speak like a Norman nobleman right enough,” he said as he rose. He straightened his black tunic and adjusted the goldembossed belt at his waist. “Now then, I will go to her rescue. We shall meet at the stables in the morning, Frechette.”
Bryce nodded his farewell, then watched Lord Cynvelin stroll across Lord Melevoir’s hall and approach the beauteous Rhiannon DeLanyea.
Lady Rhiannon DeLanyea, Bryce silently corrected, who was his new overlord’s intended bride.
Well, so be it, he thought as he once again leaned against the wall, smiling to himself. He had come to believe that no nobleman would ever offer friendship or treat him as an equal again. That he would forever be the dishonored, disgraced son of the Earl of Westborough.
Now it seemed there was hope that this could change and he might yet gain tide on his own merits. If that, what else could he not hope for?
After all, there would be other laughing, beautiful young noblewomen who would not be beyond the reach of a knighted Bryce Frechette.
Rhiannon sat upon the nearest bench and tried to catch her breath. Lord Melevoir bowed his graying head and she reciprocated before the elderly nobleman tottered away, looking for somebody else with whom to dance.
At least she had managed to stay on her feet, she reflected as she fanned herself with her hand. Lord Melevoir had been rather zealous in the round dance, and at one point, Rhiannon had feared she was going to be sent spinning into the musicians.
“Some wine, please,” she panted when a maidservant appeared at her elbow.
“Allow me, my lady,” a masculine voice said in Welsh, and slender, familiar fingers held out a goblet.
She accepted the drink gratefully and looked up into the smiling face of Lord Cynvelin ap Hywell.
“Lord Cynvelin!” she said happily. “How good of you! Thirsty, I am, and worn my feet to my anklebones, I think.”
“There is not a more lovely, delightful dancer here, so all the men want to take a turn with you,” he answered, sitting beside her.
Rhiannon smiled in response, then took another drink, nearly choking. “O‘r annwyl!” she spluttered as Cynvelin quickly moved to take the goblet from her. “If I am not careful, I will be reeling about like a sot. Lord Melevoir is a most excellent man and so is his wine. I am not used to such full-bodied drink.”
“Whereas I am getting drunk only on your beauty,” Cynvelin replied in a low voice.
Pleasantly flattered, Rhiannon blushed. “I thought you didn’t like me anymore. You might have rescued me sooner from the round dance instead of talking to that Saxon. Imagine coming to a feast without a shirt on!”
She nodded at the man seated across the hall. His brown hair fell to his broad shoulders, and he wore only a plain leather tunic laced up the front, open at the neck with no shirt beneath, so that his bare, muscular arms and chest were exposed. There was something almost savage or untamed about him, and the unnerving way his gaze darted about made her feel he was containing a vigorous energy that he could release at will.
“A Norman he is, my lady,” Lord Cynvelin revealed. “And don’t your father and brothers wear their hair in such a fashion? I have heard that they do.”
Rhiannon laughed gaily. “Indeed, you are right. They claim it makes their helmets sit better, although in the case of my brothers. I think it is only vanity. Perhaps it is so with that fellow.”
“Have you never heard of Bryce Frechette, the Earl of Westborough’s son?”
Rhiannon regarded Lord Cynvelin with genuine surprise. “Of course! Everyone knows about him, and how he argued with his father and left home, and never came back even when his father lay dying. I wonder what he’s doing here? I’m surprised he dares to show his face among noble folk.”
She glanced at the disgraced Norman again, to see him rise and saunter toward the opposite end of the hall. His walk had all the grace of a large cat, and once more she had that sense of a contained power waiting for release.
“And to think you had never heard of me until we met three days ago, whereas you know all about that fellow,” Lord Cynvelin said with a wounded air. “You are breaking my heart.”
She smiled at her countryman. “I am sorry to be breaking your heart, but I’m sure there are plenty of other ladies here who would like to help you mend it.”
“There is only one lady who can do that,” he replied with unmistakable significance.
“Oh, I think not, my lord,” she said with a laugh, suddenly rather uncomfortable. To be sure, she liked the Welsh nobleman and found his attention flattering, but there was a new, searching quality to his gaze she found disconcerting. “Lady Valmont would surely gladly give away her estate and count it well lost if she thought she could win your heart.”
“Perhaps if I am rejected by a better lady, I might have to console myself with a woman obviously inferior and take an estate as a consolation prize.” He leaned closer, so that his breath was hot on her cheeks and she could smell the wine on it, too. “But I would rather not. Besides, I think you overestimate my ability to attract a Norman lady. Lady Valmont has no use for Welshmen. Look you how she’s staring at Frechette.”
“Only because he is a dishonorable rogue, I’m sure,” she said soothingly. “Lady 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