Tempt Me With Kisses (20 page)

In truth, her husband did smell rather strongly of wet sheep.

“Sir Ralph, allow me to present—”

“I am Lord Caradoc of Llanstephan Fawr. Who the devil are you?” her husband growled, crossing his arms and glaring.

Sir Ralph looked as if he’d soiled himself.

She pitied the hapless Norman more than she would have thought possible only moments ago. He could not be faulted for assuming a man dressed that way, soaked to the skin and with hair like a Norseman, was nobody he need regard. Besides, no matter how upset Caradoc was because the rain interrupted the shearing, this was no way for a lord to behave to a guest.

She smiled, trying to lessen the tension. “My lord, this is Sir Ralph de Valmonte.”

Caradoc’s eyes flicked to her, then back to their guest. “And what, pray tell, does Sir Ralph de Valmonte want?”

The man went as pale as his white shirt.

“If it is about the taxes,” Caradoc growled, “you may tell Richard they will be paid the next time the king sends his tax collectors, and the full amount owing, as well.”

Unless Caradoc knew for certain that this man was a minor noble with no particular ties to the king, it surely was not wise to address him this way. “My lord, perhaps you should get into dry clothing—”

Caradoc’s look silenced her.

“I-I’m sure King Richard will be glad to hear that … that your financial difficulties have been alleviated,” Sir Ralph stammered. “But th-that’s not why I’ve come.”

Sir Ralph seemed to recover when he remembered why he was there. “I was traveling to my estate north of here, and Richard commanded me to bring you this, on your brother’s behalf.”

A direct request from the king? Merciful Mary, this was not good. Caradoc must be more polite.

Unfortunately, one glance at Caradoc’s face told her that if anything, he was even more annoyed.

His hands trembling slightly, Sir Ralph reached into the pouch tied at his waist and pulled out a scroll. “Normally, of course, I do not do this sort of thing, for I am no messenger. But as the king commands, I obey.”

The king would not
command
a friend. Then she recalled what she had heard of Richard and his imperious manner. Maybe he would. Either way, upsetting this man was probably a grave mistake.

“Thank you,” Caradoc replied with the barest hint of sarcasm as he snatched the parchment from Sir Ralph’s hands.

“Won’t you sit down, Sir Ralph?” she asked, gesturing to the chairs nearby and wondering what else she could do to repair the damage. Maybe invite him to stay a few days … no, considering this household, that was probably not a good idea.

A gift, perhaps? Yes, she could give him some of the fine Italian cloth. It would not be a bribe, exactly—

“I don’t believe it!”
Caradoc bellowed.

Fiona started as if he’d grabbed her and Sir Ralph sat heavily, practically collapsing into the chair.

The very embodiment of outraged majesty, Caradoc crumpled the scroll and waved it at the Norman. “What took you so bloody long to get here? Connor wrote this weeks ago and only now do I receive it?”

“M-my lord, I didn’t think there was any need to rush,” Sir Ralph stammered, pale to the lips, practically cowering in the chair.

Fiona stared, aghast. Whatever this message was, Sir Ralph came from the king. Besides, he was their guest.

She opened her mouth to urge peace, but Sir Ralph spoke first. “I understood your brother merely wished to inform you of his marriage,” he all but whimpered. “I didn’t think the message was anything urgent.”

Fiona went to stand in front of Sir Ralph, determined to end this confrontation now, before Caradoc did something rash, like strike the man.

“My lord, whatever news you have had, it should be discussed in more privacy.” Ignoring his scowl, she addressed their visitor. “Please, have some wine, Sir Ralph, and if you will excuse us, I must speak to my husband about his display of temper.”

With that, she took Caradoc’s arm in a firm grasp and sailed toward the steps to the solar, towing him like a barge.

“Let go of me, Fiona,” he muttered under his breath.

She gripped his arm tighter. “No. Act like a child, and like a child I shall treat you.”

“I said, let go of me!” he repeated, pulling his arm.

She wound her fingers into his sleeve. “No.”

“Why must I be surrounded by stubborn women?” he charged as they started up the stairs.

“Perhaps it is the air of Wales, for the men are just as stubborn,” she retorted.

Once in the solar, she yanked her hand free, shoved the door closed and faced him. “I don’t know what exactly was in that message—”

Glaring at her, Caradoc shook the document as if he would squeeze the very ink from the parchment. “My damned brother has married a Norman heiress. He’s rich, he’s got an estate. He’s paid Llanstephan’s debts and managed to convince the king to lower the taxes.”

Now his anger really made no sense. “Isn’t that good—?”

“He’s been married for
six weeks!
Six bloody weeks, while I was thinking every day I was going to lose Llanstephan and getting more desperate every day! Six bloody weeks while this fool wandered around the country probably sleeping with every tavern wench between here and Westminster, and me here suffering! Six weeks when I could barely sleep for worry, until I finally sold myself like a whore!”

When she gasped, he fell silent and stared at her as if he had never seen her before. Maybe he never really had. Perhaps all he had seen when he looked at her was a pile of money, and a body in his bed.

But that was the bargain you made
, her mind charged as humiliation swept through her.
You knew that when you came here and made your proposal
.

At first
, her heart retorted,
at first it was a bargain. But afterward, when he loved you—

What? Did you think he was falling in love with you
? Maybe she hadn’t really seen him either, but only what she wanted to see, her dream lover made flesh, and loving her.

Foolish, foolish Fiona! You should know that men make love without giving their heart. Did Iain not teach you that
?

Then her pride arose, burning as hot—hotter—than her humiliation.

Mustering her dignity, she drew herself up. She would not let him see her shame or hurt. “I insist that you apologize to that Norman before he makes trouble for Llanstephan.”

Her husband planted his feet and crossed his arms. “I will not apologize to that fat dolt.”

All her emotions boiled over and she returned his angry glower with equal animosity. “
You
are the dolt if you don’t! Think, Caradoc. Why did the king send such a man on such an errand? Sir Ralph himself said the king asked it of him. Why would Richard do that?”

Caradoc leaned his weight on one leg, as if her questions were wasting his time. “Because Sir Ralph was coming this way.”

“You are smarter than that, surely,” she countered. “Richard probably sent that man because he wants to know how things are here, and how loyal you are to the crown. He wants to hear it from a man he has some kind of faith in, whose loyalty he does not doubt, or he would simply have sent a messenger. If Sir Ralph goes away offended, what do you think he will say? He will claim that whatever your brother may be, you are a barbarian who insulted the king’s representative. Have you forgotten that Richard can raise the taxes again as easily as he lowered them?”

“Since you seem so well versed in politics, why don’t you apologize for me?” Caradoc demanded.

“I am not the lord of Llanstephan Fawr who commands this fortress. I am not the one who acted like a child. You made the mistake. You fix it.”

Glare met glare, pride against pride, until finally Caradoc went to the door. He yanked it open, making her jump out of the way.

“By God, woman,” he snarled as he looked back at her, “what have I ever done
but
consider the good of Llanstephan? As you should well remember, that is why I married
you
.”

With that he went out, slamming the door so hard, the furniture rattled.

Fiona pressed her hands against her eyes, willing herself not to cry despite how upset she was. Tears were a weakness, and she would not have red-rimmed eyes and tear-stained cheeks for Ganore and Cordelia to gloat over.

They would have enough to gossip and snicker about already.

Chapter 10

A
s Caradoc marched down the stairs, hot anger flared and burned with the heat of a smith’s forge. Wife or no wife, Fiona had no business telling him what to do.

Apologize to that fat fool? He would sooner lick the man’s boots.

He was Caradoc of Llanstephan Fawr, baron of the march, knight of the realm. He was a lord, a powerful man, not a boy whose brother, though younger, seemed to be everything he was not—bold, glorious, the pride of his family.

He was not Connor the tempestuous, the handsome and the demanding. He was Caradoc the patient, the wise—Caradoc the fool, who had just reacted with as much irrational anger as Connor ever had.

He halted and leaned against the cool stone wall. Yes, he was frustrated by the rain that forced them to stop shearing before they were finished. Yes, he saw Sir Ralph as a representative of the greedy king he hated.

Yet to quarrel with Fiona as he had … to have his control shatter and disappear, his raw emotions on display… Not since he was a child had he lost his temper.

In a way, it was her fault. She had aroused his emotions, and not just his desire, since she had arrived.

But that was no excuse.

Then to tell her that she made him feel like a whore…

Fiona had looked as if he had thrust a dagger through her heart when he said that.

New and deeper shame overwhelmed him. What he had said to her was worse than reacting as arrogant, spoiled Connor always had.

Because he had lied.

He had not sold himself to her. He had gladly given.

Yes, he needed the money she had brought for her dowry, but more than that—far more—he had wanted her as he had wanted no other woman in all his life. From the moment he had seen her in his courtyard, even that very first time when he was but a youth, Fiona had opened his heart and claimed a place there.

Perhaps that was why no other woman had ever really captivated him. Maybe that was why he could not understand Connor and Dafydd’s fickle ways. He had belonged to Fiona MacDougal from the first time she had smiled at him and made that cheery, friendly wave.

The money was but the excuse he needed to justify his decision to everybody else.

That was the real, secret truth. He wanted her, and yet he had not been able to admit the weakness of his need. He could not confess to anyone, not even himself, that he was lonely and afraid, and she offered the end of both.

What was he going to do now?

He turned and looked up the steps, back to his solar where Fiona still remained. He should return and apologize. He should say … what? How could he begin? What could he say to make her understand?

Words were his enemies, more so than Richard or Rhys or anyone. Words betrayed and hurt him far more than helped, and he could not trust them.

What if he only made things worse?

It would be easier to apologize to Sir Ralph first, he decided. After all, he didn’t really care if Sir Ralph forgave him or not, just so long as he smoothed things over enough that the Norman would not send a scathing report of the lord of Llanstephan to the king.

He trotted down the steps and strode into the hall—to discover that Sir Ralph wasn’t there.

“Where is the Norman?” he demanded of Ganore, who appeared at the entrance to the kitchen with a bucket of water and a rag in her hand.

“Gone, and good riddance,” she snapped as she marched to the dais.

Gone
? In this rain? He felt like a slowly closing bellows, all the air pushed out along with his rage. Rain was nothing to a Welshman, but it would be different for a pampered nobleman of the sort Sir Ralph looked to be.

“Damn the man,” he muttered while Ganore plunged the rag into the bucket and began to vigorously scrub the chair in which Sir Ralph had been sitting.

He went to the door and surveyed the courtyard through the torrential downpour.

Sir Ralph wasn’t there, either. He and his guard were already out of the gate.

Ah, well. He would go to Fiona and say … what?

As he contemplated the words he would use to apologize, he turned back into the hall. Fiona came gliding toward the hearth as serene as an angel, her sewing box in her hands. She sat near the fire and ignored both Ganore still scrubbing and him as she began to embroider a band that would eventually be used to trim a gown, he supposed.

He wasn’t about to apologize with Ganore close by, or in such a public place.

Maybe Sir Ralph had taken refuge at the village inn. If that were so, he could still apologize.

With a sigh, he plunged into the rain and headed toward the stable.

“I don’t care if you’re the king of France and Italy besides,” Bronwyn declared in very passable Norman French, having learned it from several young men who passed through Llanstephan.