Tempt Me With Kisses (12 page)

Caradoc gave him a critical look that didn’t fool his friend for a minute, as Dafydd’s good-natured laughter showed. “But wash yourself first, Caradoc. You stink worse than these sheep.”

God’s wounds, he did. “Varlet,” he muttered as he pulled off his boots.

“Bastard.”

He shoved his boots into Dafydd’s hands. “Blackguard.”

“Nit.”

With a farewell scowl at his friend, he jumped off the pier into the river. The water was freezing, and he had a moment’s pity for the sheep, but they had their wool to warm them. He swam for as long as he could stand it, then climbed out onto the shingle of the bank.

He shook his head like a dog and sluiced off as much of the water from his chest as he could with his hands before Dafydd tossed him his boots. He nearly didn’t catch them because his hands were numb from the cold.

He glanced at the western sky. The sun was more than three quarters through its downward course. Still, they should be able to finish the washing today.

Resisting the urge to look and see if Fiona was watching, he headed for the wall of the enclosure and his dry tunic, all the while trying to look as calm as if he worked himself like this every day.

When he was dressed, he sauntered over to her, still affecting a far more casual air than he felt.

God save him, he was like a green lad feeling the first pangs of love-sickness.

No green lad was he, but he had never been as attracted to a woman before. Connor and Dafydd had fallen in and out of love with surprising frequency, at least in their youth. He had always observed their dramatic trials of the heart with disapproving skepticism. He had believed love must be a shallow pond the way they dipped into it.

Now, though, as he wandered toward the woman who was to be his wife, he began to think that maybe he had been very seriously mistaken. He was starting to understand how a feeling, a yearning, a desire that built into an intense need, could lead a man to do unusual things.

He came to a halt behind her, and once more the subtle aroma of her perfume stirred his senses.

“Will you be going back now?” he asked her as she finished packing away some of the leftover bread.

She started and looked back at him, obviously surprised.

He would not be disappointed by the possibility that she had not been watching him as often as he thought.

She faced him, a calmly quizzical expression on her face. “Will
you
be returning?”

She didn’t respond with bashful maidenly modesty like most of the girls who swarmed around Connor and Dafydd.

But then, he hadn’t liked those girls much, and not just because they ignored him. They were silly, flighty, vain creatures whose affections seemed even shallower than Connor’s and Dafydd’s. “Not yet. I’ll stay until the last sheep is done.”

He fought the urge to clear his throat or brush his toe across the grass like a bashful boy. “You are welcome to wait with me.”

He looked past her to the mountains, where the mist still lingered. Fortunately, it had not thickened into clouds. “The weather looks to hold.”

She smiled, and he thought he had never seen a prettier one. “Then I will stay. There is nothing for me to do at the castle anyway. Besides, I find this all very interesting, especially the dogs.”

What had he expected? That she was going to tell him that she had been admiring him?

He became aware that it had grown quiet, save for the constant noise of the sheep bleating and moving about the enclosure. A quick glance sent the women and men who had been watching and listening back to their business.

Suddenly he wanted to be somewhere private. Very private.

Well, not too private, or that would set the tongues to wagging. Once they were married, though, he would get Fiona alone as often as he could.

He put that incredibly arousing thought from his mind. There was a little rise a short distance away, still within full view of the
ffridd
—a perfect place to talk quietly and not be heard, yet still be within sight of the rest of the people.

He held out his hand to her. “Come.”

As she put her hand in Caradoc’s and again experienced that surprisingly intense reaction his touch inspired, Fiona wasn’t quite sure where he wanted to lead her, or for what purpose.

But the words to ask would not be spoken. She was too aware of the powerful, commanding masculinity of the man leading her away from the others. The memory of his naked back and rippling muscles, the ease with which he picked up and tossed the sheep into the river, made it even easier to imagine being in those arms, her body against his, naked and intimate.

Indeed, she had been so fascinated and intrigued and excited watching him, she had not minded that few save Dafydd had spoken to her. Let them leave her alone. She would far rather indulge in passionate fantasies about the man she was going to marry.

Although it would have been most improper for Caradoc to take her out of sight of the others, considering they were not yet wed, she couldn’t help being sorry when he didn’t. Instead, he led her a short distance away to a small rise that overlooked the large pen.

He gestured for her to sit. When she had, he sat beside her, over a foot away.

She waited for him to speak. When he didn’t, she decided to say something—anything, rather than sit here as if she were too timid to talk to him.

“I noticed that you don’t have a dog. I mean, a sheep dog,” she amended, not referring to the hounds in the hall.

She had paid little heed to the hounds because they were always in any nobleman’s hall, kept for hunting and to eat the scraps of food that fell into the rushes.

Caradoc shook his head, and it made his damp hair curl even more. “No. A courtyard is not big enough for their need to run and herd, and there are no sheep there. I did try once, but the poor beast kept trying to herd the chickens.”

She wished she could tell if he was serious or not. What he said sounded amusing, but he did not smile. “Dafydd’s dog is very good, is it not?”

“Aye, as well he should be. There’s not much Dafydd doesn’t know about dogs or sheep.” Caradoc pointed down the hill to three men who were involved in a heated discussion near the sheep pen. “See them arguing there?”

“Yes.”

“The tall one is Merlyn-of-Gwendwr, the short one is Cadwallader-from-over-the-rise and the other’s Peulan-who-limps. They quarrel like that every gathering. We always find some sheep with earmarks that don’t belong to Llanstephan when we gather. You know what an earmark is?”

“Rhonwen told me about the cuts and nicks you make in the animal’s ear to show who owns it.”

Caradoc nodded. “A few sheep range far and sometimes we find them, so the earmark is not familiar. Cadwallader, Merlyn and Peulan consider themselves experts, you see, so they will argue about where it belongs until dark, if we let them. Watch you now, for here comes Dafydd to set them straight.”

The bailiff walked up to the men, pointed at the sheep, said one word, gave them a smug, insolent grin, and sauntered off again.

“He’s just told them who owns it, and he is never wrong,” Caradoc explained.

By the time Dafydd returned to where Lowri and the other women were preparing to leave, the three men were arguing again, about another sheep.

“So do you shear the ones who don’t belong to Llanstephan or let them go?” Fiona asked.

Caradoc lay flat on his back, his head pillowed in his hands as he looked up at the sky. She was secretly pleased because this way, she could study him all she wanted without encountering his intense and inscrutable blue eyes.

“Got enough of our own to do,” he replied. “We’ll pen them with the lambs and let them go when we’re done.”

She raised her knees and wrapped her arms around them. “You don’t shear the lambs, then?”

“Some do, because the wool can get caught on branches or in the rocks, but I prefer ours to have it for the winter. Besides, they can kick like the devil and they wiggle so much, they’re harder to get a hold on.”

“Rhonwen told me that you shear. I was surprised that you would do something like that, but Rhonwen says—”

He sat up and regarded her suspiciously. “What did Rhonwen say about me?”

What if her impetuous remark meant trouble for Rhonwen? She should have kept quiet. “Only that you like to work. Nothing more you should be angry about,” she assured him. “She said it keeps you from thinking about your troubles.”

“Aye, it does.”

Inwardly pleased that he felt comfortable enough to reveal this, his answer raised another question far less pleasant. “Do you have troubles other than those I have already heard about?”

He shook his head. “No more than we discussed yesterday. You are very well informed.”

She was happy to hear that.

He pulled up a bit of bracken and twisted it around his long, slender, strong fingers. “You are not ignorant of politics, Fiona,” he said, not looking at her. “What do you think of our sovereign, King Richard?”

Fiona wasn’t sure what to say. Like many people, she had no great love for Richard, who was bankrupting his kingdom with his foreign wars. But she was not yet Caradoc’s wife and until that came to pass, she might do well to keep most of her opinions to herself. “I try to think of him as little as possible, my lord.”

Caradoc lifted the corner of his well-cut mouth in a sardonic grimace. “A fine answer. You would probably do well at court. Like Connor, before he lost his temper and criticized the king to his face.”

It was obvious he disapproved of his brother’s action and, given the results, she certainly didn’t blame him. “I remember your brother’s temper.”

“Do you, now? Still, a fine lad, our Connor, for all that.”

She plucked up a bit of bracken herself and pulled it apart.

“What, surely you must agree?” he asked, fixing his intense gaze upon her. “All the girls liked him.”

She didn’t answer. Even if he and his brother hadn’t gotten along as children and had parted on bad terms, a man as proud as Caradoc probably wouldn’t welcome any condemnation of a family member.

He put his hand on her arm, so that she had to look at him. “Does this silence imply you did not?”

“I found him too lively for my taste,” she prevaricated as he moved his hand away.

Caradoc’s brows lowered, as if he wasn’t pleased with her response.

Fortunately, his displeasure, if that’s what it was, did not last. “It has been a long time since you last came here with your father,” he observed, and she was relieved he had changed the subject of their conversation to one less fraught with potential trouble. “You were a little girl then.”

“The last time I was here, I was ten years old and you were fourteen.”

And tall even then, and dark and mysterious.

“So, twelve years ago.” He studied her. “And in all those years, no man has wanted to marry you?”

Less fraught? Merciful Mary, she was in a bog. One false step, and she would sink in quicksand. “That is hardly a polite question to ask a woman.”

Was he blushing as he bent down to brush some mud from his boot?

Emboldened by that sudden hint of remorse for his question, she continued, using his own words. “Perhaps I never found one to suit.”

He glanced at her sharply. Embarrassed? Not likely.

She flushed under his scrutiny and turned the talk away from her past. “Is Cordelia betrothed?”

“Not yet.”

That was unfortunate. Cordelia would leave Llanstephan when she married, and take her animosity with her.

“She hasn’t found anyone to suit.”

With a look that seemed suspiciously like smug satisfaction, he lay back down again. “I confess I have my doubts she will ever be wed if she keeps on the way she’s going, ignoring my orders and riding about the countryside like some sort of bandit. I always send two soldiers to accompany her, but she usually loses them. It’s a game with her.”

“But that’s dangerous!”

She didn’t particularly like Cordelia, given her reception, yet she hated to think of any woman in the hands of outlaws.

“My lands are safe enough, and I pity the man who tries to catch her. Icarus is the fastest horse in Wales, and she’s an excellent rider.”

“An arrow can go faster than a horse.”

He frowned and didn’t answer.

She had said too much too soon about his sister and her behavior. She must remember that, for the time being at least, she was in no position to offer her opinion, especially if it was critical.

Worse, he had seemed disposed to talk, and she had inadvertently silenced him.

Upset with herself, she surveyed the area below. The sheep pen looked nearly empty. “I think they are getting near the finish,” she observed, breaking the heavy silence.

Caradoc sat up and followed her gaze. “It takes longer than it looks toward the end. The sheep have more room to run in the pen and avoid the gate.”

She was relieved that he didn’t sound angry. “Why don’t they send in the dogs?”

“Too small for that. Look, they’ll send in Dafydd now.”

Dafydd clearly would have made a fine jester. He scampered to and fro like a madman, bowing majestically when he got a sheep through the gate. He threw himself headlong after some, and picked up lambs and handed them out of the pen with a flourish, as if they were gifts he was bestowing.

Watching his antics, her tension lessened. “He’s very funny.”

“Oh, a thousand laughs Dafydd gives us,” her future husband replied dryly. “As long as he’s not making sport of
you
.”

Another thing for her to fear?

“He won’t,” Caradoc said.

“I beg your pardon?”

He inched closer and reached out to toy with the end of the lacing at the side of her gown.

“He won’t make fun of you,” he replied, his voice placid despite what he was doing. “My good friend is Dafydd, and he might tease me nearly to madness, but he’ll leave you alone.”

“I do have a sense of humor, Caradoc. I can laugh at myself as well as the next person,” she said, not nearly as affronted as she was aroused by the realization that if he untied that knot, the lace would loosen and he could slip his hand inside her gown.