Tempt Me With Kisses (18 page)

“Thank the Lord for that.”

“I don’t think she’s like any woman we’ve met,” Dafydd gravely warned. “Take care, Caradoc.”

“Now you make her sound like an assassin.”

“A man can be wounded without a drop of blood being shed.”

“You think she will hurt me?” he demanded.

“I think she could, and you’ve only just been married. A warning is all, before you are blinded by love.”

“Love?” Caradoc scoffed as he got stiffly to his feet, and despite the hope that had taken root in his heart. “Have I said I
love
her?”

“No,” Dafydd conceded as he, too, rose. “But you scarcely know her, when all is said and done.”

“And you are the expert, of course,” Caradoc mocked as his hope seemed to feel the blight of frost.

“Enough that you sought my advice before,” Dafydd reminded him as they faced each other. “I don’t mean to pry or ruin your happiness. I just want you to be careful.”

“Aren’t I always?” Caradoc snapped as he grabbed his sword belt. It caught on the post.

“Well, once I would have said yes without hesitation. Now I’m not so sure. I have made plenty of mistakes when it comes to women, Caradoc, and I don’t want you to make any with your wife.”

Caradoc glanced at Dafydd over his shoulder as he tried to get his sword belt off the post. “This is certainly an unfamiliar modesty.”

“It’s the truth, and I wouldn’t be saying it to anybody but you, and if I didn’t think it was important. So you will take care, my friend?”

As his sword belt finally came free, Caradoc realized that it had taken something for Dafydd to admit his failings. His annoyance fled, replaced by gratitude that Dafydd was worried about his happiness. “Aye, I’ll take care.”

Dafydd smiled, and the familiar merriment came back to his dancing eyes. “So, was my advice a help last night?”

Caradoc didn’t answer with words. Instead, and to show that all was well between them, he did something he hadn’t done in years.

He winked.

Chapter 9

I
ain MacLachlann thrust hard into the harlot, driving himself further and further in his pleasure. She moaned and whimpered and perhaps called his name, but he wasn’t listening. He was enjoying her willing flesh; beyond sating his lust, nothing else intruded into his consciousness until, with what sounded like a snarl, he climaxed.

Sweat-slicked and panting, he collapsed against her, then rolled off. He slowly grew aware of the trollop’s ale-soaked breath and the lice in her tangled, filthy hair. She stank, too, as much as the fusty linens in this rundown tavern. Water from the leaking, bug-infested thatch stained the wattle-and-daub walls, bringing with it the smell of mold, decay, and the aged dung used to make the daub. It had fallen away in places, exposing the woven twigs of the wattle.

Fiona had smelled of flowers, and her thick auburn hair had been like silk in his fingers.

That whore—and he wasn’t thinking of the woman lying beside him now.

The harlot inched closer, all too horribly visible in the moonlight coming in through the open shutter on the small window. She laid her hand on his chest. “I heard you Scots were fearsome lovers, but I wasn’t expectin’ ya to be as fast as that! Will we wait a bit, then go again?”

With a scowl, he threw her off. “Leave me. My friend waiting on the stairs will pay you.”

“I’m in no hurry,” she purred, nipping at his chest with her blackened teeth. “Not at all. Ain’t you going to stay and let me enjoy meself, too?”

As if he cared about a whore’s pleasure! He shoved her so hard, she tumbled from the bed and hit the wall of the small room. “I’m finished wi’ you. Get out.”

The woman adjusted her filthy shift and gathered up her equally filthy and ragged gown stained with ale and gravy. “Fine way to be, I must say. Just wantin’ a bit more fun, is all. No need to be so rude.”

Iain laughed, enjoying her anger as much as he had her body. “Go away, that’s a good girl. Do as I say, and maybe I’ll come back.”

“Don’t bother. You ain’t so much anyway.”

He was out of the bed in an instant, fierce rage twisting his face that could be so attractive when he smiled. He grabbed her and threw her hard against the wall.

Terrified, she stared at him helplessly as he grabbed his dagger from the pile of clothes on the rough wooden floor. Hugging her tattered garments to her chest, she inched toward the door, but he caught her, pinning her beside it, the tip of his knife at her throat.

“What did you say?” he demanded.

“Nothing, sir, nothing,” she mumbled as tears oozed out of her red-rimmed eyes.

His features contorted with wrath so that he didn’t even look human anymore. “I’m the best you’ve had, aren’t I?”

“Aye, sir, aye. The v-very best,” she stammered.

“You would do me for nothing, wouldn’t you?”

“O’ course I would.”

“Right. Now get out.” Regardless of his nakedness, he lunged for the door and threw it open, then pushed her through. He slammed the door behind her and strode to the pile of his clothing. He just as swiftly and angrily dressed himself. What did that harlot know, anyway? Women begged for his embrace.

A soft rap at the door interrupted his disgruntled ruminations and he turned toward it, a smug smile on his face.

She had come back to apologize. Of course she had, and he would dearly enjoy making her beg for forgiveness. “Enter.”

Fergus warily stuck his head inside the door.

“That whore didna dare ask you for more money, did she?”

“No. Douglas is back. With news of Fiona.”

“About bloody time,” Iain growled, angry and yet pleased, too. His men had ranged all over the south of Scotland and north of England trying to find out where his money had gone. Fiona had led them all a merry chase, hiring new men every twenty miles, doubling back, staying a day or two in some places, and apparently sleeping by the side of the road others.

He put his hands on his hips and glared at Fergus. “Well?”

“She may have gone to Wales.”

“Wales?” he demanded incredulously.

Then he remembered she spoke Welsh, as well as French and even some of the gibberish of the Norsemen. “What the devil would she be doing there?”

Trepidation in his eyes, Fergus shrugged.

The answer came to him. Getting as far away from him as possible.
That bitch
. “What part o’ Wales?”

“The march.”

“Well, that makes it easy,” Iain muttered sarcastically. He fastened his cold glare onto Fergus. “What part o’ the borderlands?”

“Probably the north.”

“Then that’s where we’re going.”

Fergus shifted uneasily. “But King William—”

“Can damn well wait! I’m no’ going back until I’ve got my money!”

“Oh, God, Father in Heaven, we give thanks to you for stopping the rain at last,” Father Rhodri intoned as he said the grace. “We pray that all those who should have, have recalled the great flood, when You washed away the sin of the world. We pray they pay heed to this warning and sin no more or act with impulsive haste. Help us to remember the light of Your countenance and benevolent mercy in the sun shining upon the hills, oh God, a reminder that mistakes can be remedied.”

Alone at the high table, Fiona shifted her weight from one leg to the other. Since their marriage Caradoc had stood beside her for every grace, sometimes even surreptitiously rolling his eyes as Father Rhodri reminded them yet again that he didn’t approve of their marriage. He was obviously still quite convinced God didn’t, either.

Today, however, Caradoc and most of the men had gone to shear, for the rain had finally abated, at least for the time being, and thankfully before they had to wash the sheep again.

Father Rhodri’s lips narrowed even more as he continued. “Be kind to your servants, oh Blessed Savior, who seek to do Your will and walk in Your ways, with fortitude, humility and chastity.”

At first, Caradoc had taken the continuing rainfall with good grace. So had she, for it meant he was always close by, even though he spent a great deal of time with the soldiers of his garrison, or with Dafydd, discussing the shearing to come and the possible amount of fleece they would get.

Yet as the rain had gone on, even Caradoc began to get tense. Finally, last evening, it had stopped. Caradoc had sent out word for the men to be prepared to gather and shear beginning at dawn the next day. He had been too restless to sleep, even after making love, and had gotten up several times to make certain the rain wasn’t starting again. It had not, so immediately after mass, he and the other men had grabbed bread and cheese and left for the hills to gather, hoping that the rain would hold off long enough to get the shearing finished.

Fiona hoped so, too, for her husband’s sake, although the sky was still dark with heavy clouds of moisture.

“And finally, oh God…”

She nearly groaned with relief.

“We also humbly ask that You bless this food, and all who eat it, that they may know when they are sated so they do not fall prey to gluttony or greed, of any kind. We ask this in the name of Your Son, Jesus Christ the Righteous, who fasted forty days and nights resisting the devil’s own tempting. Amen.”

Fiona muttered an amen and sat down. Eight days, and Father Rhodri still managed to make every blessing and grace a curse upon her head.

Eight days, and the servants still regarded her as if she were the serpent come to ruin Paradise, watching her with barely disguised scorn and obeying her orders as if it would simply be too much bother to protest, or they certainly would. She had been polite, she had been friendly, but nothing seemed to thaw the frigid, rigid Welsh.

Ganore, of course, was the worst, and the others followed her lead. Unfortunately, short of dying her hair black and announcing she was a changeling really born in Wales, there didn’t seem to be much she could do to change the woman’s feelings about her. There was one other arrow in her quiver, but she did not want to use it yet. She wanted the servants to see that she was worthy of respect because she knew how to manage a household, even one of this size.

It wasn’t only the servants and Father Rhodri who made her days a trial. Cordelia barely spoke to her and refused to sit at the high table. She spent most of her time riding about the hills like some sort of merry vagabond.

Fiona almost envied her that freedom. She would have, if she didn’t truly believe this behavior was a dangerous thing for a woman.

Fiona could console herself that there had been no outright mutiny so far, but that was small comfort as the days went on.

Indeed, if it wasn’t for the nights she shared with Caradoc, her new life would have been misery itself. Outside of their bedchamber, Caradoc was brusque and gruff, the commanding lord of an estate. Alone with her, however, it was like their first night and early morning. He seemed years younger then, and free of the burden of his responsibilities, while she escaped the animosity surrounding her everywhere else in Llanstephan.

After the meal concluded and the servants dispersed, she detained Rhonwen a moment.

“I was thinking that perhaps we could go see the shearing today,” she said. “I’ve never actually witnessed such a thing, and I would be glad of your company.”

She knew, but did not say, that Dafydd would be there as well as Caradoc.

Rhonwen bit her lip nervously, and looked around as if she feared they were being spied upon. “I have much to do, my lady.”

“Tidying our bedchamber won’t take long.”

“There’s your shifts to be washed, and … and other things.”

It was clear the girl didn’t want to go. “Very well. I’ll go by myself.”

Fiona watched her quiet little maidservant hurry away, her head bowed. Then she sighed. So far, she hadn’t made much progress figuring out what she should do about Rhonwen and her attraction to the friendly bailiff, if anything. He seemed a nice enough fellow and not simply interested in making a number of conquests like some sort of merchant tallying his coins. No men of that ilk remained friends with their lovers once the relationship was over, but from the things Rhonwen had said, and her own observations, it seemed Dafydd did.

Dafydd also took his duties seriously. The times she had seen him in discussion with Caradoc about the sheep, such as when a fox had killed several of the lambs and Dafydd had organized a hunt despite the rain, she had been very impressed by his serious attitude.

She could understand why he, seemingly so merry, and Caradoc, seemingly so grim, could be friends.

But would Dafydd and could Dafydd make Rhonwen happy, or would she be better off waiting for another man who offered marriage? She could ask Caradoc what he thought, but that would reveal Rhonwen’s secret. Rhonwen herself had never said anything about her feelings, so perhaps it would be best to keep quiet.

She headed for the kitchen to speak to Gwillym about fish for that evening’s meal. Gwillym was under the impression that only on Fridays should they have fish. She, however, liked a nice fresh fish at other times, and planned to ask him to prepare one for the evening’s repast. Unfortunately, she could already imagine the look on his broad face. Friendliness seemed to be ineffective, so she would order him if necessary, although she hoped it didn’t come to—