Tempt Me With Kisses (2 page)

“Right, right, I will, my most sovereign lord, my liege, baron of the march, knight of the realm,” Dafydd said, still grinning as he fairly danced to the ladder and descended.

The moment Dafydd was out of sight, Caradoc ran his fingers through the long tangle of his black, waving hair and rubbed his palm over his beard. It had been weeks since he had thought about his appearance, and he wondered if he looked as scruffy as Dafydd implied.

He climbed down the ladder and regarded his reflection in the water trough. Dafydd’s comparison to a sheep in need of shearing was not that far off the mark.

Well, he wasn’t about to cut his hair and shave or change his clothes for some woman he had never met who rode into his courtyard as if she was the queen and a tax collector combined.

He did splash some water on his face, and wiped it with a handful of hay he grabbed out of the manger, but only because he was sweating—and that had nothing to do with her, either.

Thus prepared, Caradoc went forth from the stable and began to cross his courtyard. As he drew near the wagons, however, he slowed his steps. Tempted by curiosity, he quickly glanced inside, trying to look into them without displaying any overt interest.

He didn’t have any luck. He saw barrels in one, but couldn’t determine their contents.

Disgruntled, he marched into his hall. Ganore was nowhere to be seen, for once, probably having decamped lest she be tainted by the presence of a redheaded Scot. She would likely have the rushes swept out and replaced and the walls washed before the sun went down.

Otherwise, it seemed every other servant with any possible excuse to be in the hall was there. Meri, Una and Lowri, bolder than all save Ganore, and even shy little Rhonwen stood staring with wonder and anticipation at the woman beside the empty central hearth as if expecting her to burst into flames at any moment. Dafydd was with them, watching, too, and whispering and making them cover their mouths to stifle their giggles.

Envy tweaked Caradoc, for Dafydd had an undeniable way with women, which he most certainly did not.

Apparently not a whit disturbed by being the center of attention, the woman examined everything as if taking stock here, too. She had thrown back her hood, revealing glossy auburn hair, more brown than red, drawn back in two braids gathered at the ends into bronze casings etched in a circular design.

At last the woman realized he was there and turned to face him. Now Caradoc could see the freckles scattered across her nose. Again he felt he should know her, and be happy with the remembrance.

Unfortunately, even this close, he still had no idea who she was.

Her full, beautifully shaped lips turned up into a very friendly, yet speculative, smile. Maybe they hadn’t met before. Maybe she simply found him attractive.

Well, what was so surprising about that? Women had wanted to share his bed since he was sixteen. But only his bed, and only if they had already failed to catch his younger brother’s eye, or Dafydd’s.

If he lacked Dafydd’s way with women or his younger brother’s skill at both fighting and seduction, at least he wasn’t completely unattractive, or so he told himself.

He approached, bowed politely, and waited for her to speak.

That was not long, for she returned his bow, smiled again, and said, in a very clear and musical voice, “Greetings, my lord. It has been a long time.”

Her Welsh was excellent, though she had the accent of a Scot.

“Yes, it has,” he agreed, still completely baffled, but demonstrate his ignorance of her identity he would not. “What brings you to Llanstephan Fawr again?”

Her brow furrowed slightly, and he wondered if his puzzlement was obvious, after all. “A proposition.”

“Indeed?”

“An important one, so I think we should discuss it in private. May we go to your solar?”

Since Caradoc was in no humor to look ignorant or discuss business in front of his curious friend or the servants, he nodded and proceeded to lead the way to his private chamber at the head of a curving staircase.

Trying to ignore a stab of dismay at the fact that his obvious poverty was about to be revealed, he opened the door to the barren solar. The tapestries that used to grace the walls had been sold long ago, along with the bronze candle stands and silver plate.

As the woman passed by him to enter the chamber, the top of her head came level with his chin. He caught the hint of a delicate scent, like wildflowers. The feminine scent bespoke wealth and leisure and pleasure, too—the sort of pleasure he had denied himself for a very long time.

While that tugged at the edges of his consciousness, he followed her into the room, leaving the door open. He didn’t want any hint of impropriety, and nobody could listen at the door if it was open.

“Are you not going to ask me to sit down, my lord?” she asked, a hint of amusement in her dulcet voice.

“Please,” he said, gesturing at the chair opposite the scarred and ink-stained trestle table covered with parchment lists and scrolls, a vessel of ink, and the remnants of quills.

The chair was covered in a film of dust, but she sat nonetheless. Her cloak flared open to reveal a beautiful gown clinging to a shapely figure. The garment was made of soft sea green wool and embroidered about the rounded neck and long cuffs with blue and golden threads.

Indeed, she had a very shapely figure. High, rounded breasts just the right size to fit into the palm of his hand. Slim waist. Curving hips.

A jolt of desire hit him right in the gut, and lower, too.

The woman having such a powerful and unexpected effect upon him cocked her head and regarded him with a look of amicable amusement. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

No point lying now, and in truth, it had become rather difficult to think clearly. “No.”

“I am Fiona MacDougal. My father was Angus MacDougal, the wool merchant.”

Expelling the breath he didn’t know he had been holding, Caradoc lowered himself into a nearby chair. Fiona. Of course.

She used to come to Llanstephan with her father. The first time Caradoc had seen her, he had been in this very room, studying with his tutor. He had looked out the narrow window and noticed Fiona MacDougal. She grinned and waved when she saw him.

He had done nothing save swiftly return to his studies, too shy to even wave back. When she came again with her father, he purposefully avoided her rather than be embarrassed and risk being tongue-tied. Yet in time he realized she was sneaking about and following him, the way other girls shadowed his handsome, bold, younger brother, Connor. Flattered, yet still too bashful, Caradoc did not speak to her.

He had never forgotten the girl who seemed to find him interesting. However, she had been forever a girl in his mind, and this was certainly no girl before him now. Fiona MacDougal was a grown woman. He was undeniably pleased to see her again, but she was a bold, brazen and baffling woman, so betray his pleasure like a boy he would not.

“It has indeed been a long time,” he said with placid politeness. “How is your father?”

She sobered, and it was like seeing a cloud momentarily blot a sunny sky. “He is dead, two months past.”

“I am sorry to hear that.” He cursed himself for asking such a question. He should have been more cautious. “My father thought very highly of him.”

“I’m sorry about your parents, too,” she said softly, genuine sorrow in her green eyes.

It had been a long time since anybody had spoken to him in such a manner. In fact, he could not remember anybody, not even his mother, showing such kind concern. Disconcerted, he fought to keep his expression calm. “Thank you. Now, what is this proposition you spoke of?”

“I have learned that you have fallen on hard times.”

He tensed, his pride piqued. But this chamber and the equally barren hall below had already answered for him, so he could not deny it. “Yes.”

“I have also heard the taxes on Llanstephan are very high, and you have not been able to pay them.”

Was
all
his business common knowledge?

Probably, he grimly acknowledged. People talked, and news of a lordly family’s difficulty would be much remarked upon by high and low alike. “Yes, that is so.”

“How seriously are you in arrears to the crown?”

Confirming what was already well known was one thing; discussing his debts and obligations were another.

“Why should I tell you?” he demanded, barely restraining his annoyance.

Her bright eyes brightened even more, and a wry little smile played about her lips, as if she was secretly and vastly amused by his troubles, a notion that increased his growing rancor.

“I intend to provide a way for you to pay your debts and to rebuild Llanstephan’s prosperity.”

His hands gripped the arms of his chair as he examined her face. How could this merchant’s daughter, who was little better than a stranger to him, do that?

He steepled his fingers and regarded her as he might a peddler trying to cheat him. “What are you going to do? Give me a good price on this year’s fleece, for old time’s sake?”

Taking a deep breath, Fiona MacDougal shook her head and looked as if she were preparing to do something astounding. “By offering to marry you.”

Speechless, he stared in stunned disbelief. Of all the answers she might have made, he had not expected anything like this.

“You are very poor, my lord,” she continued as if the worst were over, or as if she were certain there could be no disagreement. “That is no secret. I am very rich. All I lack is a husband, and what I want is a titled one. If I marry you, your financial problems will be solved, and my desire for a noble husband will be, too.”

The reality of what she was proposing crashed into him, propelling him to his feet in outraged majesty. “You want to
buy
me? By the saints, woman, do I look like a
whore
to you?”

She flushed, but rose and faced him squarely, as if speaking man to man, or warrior to warrior. Her green eyes shone with determined spirit, and her breasts rose and fell with each breath.

A vision of her in his bed burst into his head. Her bountiful hair spread upon his pillow, her soft, shapely body beneath him, and her luscious lips parted in anxious cries of desire as he caressed and stroked and loved her…

“If I were a titled woman and came to you with the same offer, would you say this?” she inquired, yanking him back to reality. “Or would you be relieved?”

“Unfortunately, you are not a titled woman,” he replied, as he tried to focus his mind on the practical reasons for her proposal and why it would never be acceptable despite the furious longing surging through his traitorous body. “You are a wool merchant’s daughter, and you are a Scot. Lord Rhys of Wales would not be pleased if I marry a Scot.”

She didn’t even blink. “He may be the most powerful nobleman in Wales, but you hold your estate by the grace of King Richard, not Lord Rhys. Besides, he rebels against Richard because the king snubbed him after his coronation. If you wish to worry about what such a man will think of your marriage, let me ask you this: What has Lord Rhys ever done for you? Has he offered to help you with your debts? Or does his childish rancor make your life more difficult?”

God save him, for a mere woman she sounded well versed in the politics that interfered with his life.

“And let us not forget King Richard, so busy and indebted with his foreign wars,” she continued just as matter-of-factly. “What will he care who you wed, as long as you can pay what you owe, especially when I bring no land or alliances to the marriage? Our union will be for financial reasons, not political, and both Rhys and Richard should appreciate the difference.”

She seemed to have anticipated every possible objection.

“My dowry is three thousand marks.”

He felt as if she had punched him in the stomach and winded him completely. Such a dowry would tempt the devil himself into matrimony.

“Nobles marry for power and gain all the time,” she continued, her gaze even more intense, as if she would stare him into agreeing. “This would be no different, except that I bring no land or titles of my own. Therefore, I am no threat to anyone.”

No threat, perhaps, but she was certainly unusual. She made her offer as calmly as if she were trading in a marketplace, not discussing marriage.

What else should he expect from a wealthy merchant’s daughter? Awe? Deference?

Surely at least a hint of uncertainty.

“Why am
I
to be the lucky recipient of your largess, Fiona MacDougal?” he demanded. “There are other noblemen in need of money who could give you a title.”

“That’s true,” she glibly answered. “But you have never been married before, so have no children who could cause conflict between us. Also, my father thought highly of your father.”

Nothing of feelings, as he should have anticipated, and he told himself he was glad it was so. This way he could be all business, too. “Perhaps talk of my desperate straits has been greatly exaggerated.”

She slowly surveyed the chamber, then him. “Many things have changed since I was last in Llanstephan.”

He suddenly saw himself through her eyes: a man no longer in his youth, dressed in an old wool tunic much mended and the color of dung, wearing breeches not much different, with scuffed boots about ten years old and showing every day of their age.

She smiled once more, smugly. “Nor do I see Welsh noblewomen lined up at your castle gate to marry you.”

“Which does not mean I have not had other proposals made to me, Fiona MacDougal,” he retorted, his pride outraged despite his shabby garments. “I do, after all, have rank, and as you so bluntly point out, a title is a valuable commodity.”

“Where is your bride, then, my lord?”

“I have not yet found a woman to suit me,” he countered.

She raised a brow in query. “Well, then, my lord, I assume you will be telling me to find another man with whom to share my body and my bounty.”

She crossed her arms as she waited for him to answer, just as his father had all those times in this very room.

But he was no longer a little boy anxious for a father’s approval, or a youth absurdly flattered by a girl’s attention. He was Lord Caradoc of Llanstephan Fawr, and he would remind this bold and brazen woman of that, no matter how much money she had.