Tempt Me With Kisses (23 page)

Once at the top of the hill, Caradoc raised his hand to halt them. Again he stood in his stirrups and surveyed the area.

No smoke. No encampment.

But a rider on the road below heading for Llanstephan, on a white horse galloping as fast as the winter wind howling down from Snowdon.

Cordelia on Icarus, with her hair streaming out behind her, and her ruby red cloak likewise.

As always, she was alone. He could not see her guards anywhere.

A shaft of chilling fear stabbed him. Very vulnerable she looked, despite her speed. Cordelia’s sex alone put her at risk of attack, and her fine clothes and beauty added to her value, whether for outlaws or men who would sell her to Norse slave traders, or rebels who might decide to hold a Welsh-Norman lord’s sister for ransom. Fiona had been right to warn him that it was dangerous for Cordelia to be alone and unprotected when she rode, even on their estate.

He might not be able to find a way to mend his marriage, but he could do something about this. At once.

A short time later, Caradoc turned away from the solar window as Cordelia marched into the chamber without so much as a tap on the door.

“Ganore said you wanted to speak to me,” she declared.

“I do. Sit down.”

She threw herself in a chair like a squire and not a young lady of rank. Her long hair had come partly out of her braids, and she had not troubled herself to tidy it upon her return. Her saffron yellow woolen gown smelled of her horse, and her boots were caked with mud and manure. She must have come directly from the stable, and he supposed he should take some comfort in Ganore’s swift summons and his sister’s equally swift obedience.

She was not going to be pleased with what he had decided, so there would be another skirmish, one of a multitude. This one, however, he was absolutely determined to win. He had been blind not to see the jeopardy she put herself in with her headstrong ways.

Yet because what he had to say was so important and because he was partly to blame for the state of things, he must try to be patient. After all, he should have reined her in long ago.

“So speak,” she ordered dismissively, as if he was her lackey.

At her tone, the frustration that was simmering beneath his surface arose and he fought to control it. “Since you insist upon endangering yourself by losing your escort, I have decided you must not leave this castle without telling me, and when you go out you must have a guard of ten men.”

She sat up straight and stared at him with disdainful disbelief. “What sort of jest is this?”

“It is no jest. It is too dangerous for you to be riding alone, Cordelia. You are a woman, and of high rank. You have fine clothes and a fine horse, all of which make you a tempting target for brigands, and somebody is stealing our sheep. I will not let you risk being robbed, or worse.”

“Who would dare to steal sheep from Llanstephan?”

“If I knew that, I would have them in my dungeon already. Yet Dafydd is quite sure somebody is.”

“No sheep thief would dare to touch the lord’s sister.”

“As they have not dared to steal our sheep?” he countered.

“I am perfectly safe on our lands!”

He crossed his arms over his chest, as if that could keep his temper in check. “No, I do not think you are.”

She glared at him, her gray eyes smoldering. “Our parents were admired and respected. No brigands would dare attack their daughter.”

“Perhaps once that was so, but our parents have been dead for some time now, and things are different. You cannot be certain of your safety, and neither can I.”

“So I must beg to ride out?” she cried, her face reddening as she jumped to her feet. “And with ten men who surely have better things to do than play nursemaid to me? Why not just throw me in the dungeon and be done with it?”

“I gave you more freedom than most ladies of rank ever enjoy, and you have put yourself at risk,” he said, sitting behind the table and attempting to be as cool and composed as their father had always been when chastising his son.

He ignored the fact that his youthful dismay had been all the worse for his father’s frigid calm.

“And do not think to sneak away,” he continued. “Every sentry, every soldier, every person here will know of my command, and that I will not look kindly on anyone who does not report it if you try to ride out without my leave. I have been too lenient, and the time for lenience is past.”

“Your wife has told you to do this,” Cordelia accused, jabbing her forefinger at him, “to punish me because I did not welcome her with open arms.”

He wondered if Fiona had warned Cordelia, too. But Fiona would surely have mentioned it to him if she had.

When? When did they ever
talk
as husband and wife?

Besides, Cordelia would have complained of it if she had.

“No, she has not,” he said. “I rule here, Cordelia. This is my decision and mine alone, and the men stealing sheep on our land make it vital that you obey me.”

“If there is an danger here, it’s not because of what
I
do,” she declared, still defiant, “but what
you
have done with your foreign marriage.”

“The
foreigner
I married made it possible for us to keep our Welsh home, a fact you seem determined to forget. Now you will stay in the castle or the village. It simply isn’t safe for you to ride about the countryside like some kind of merry Gypsy. Besides, you are not a child anymore. It’s time you began to act like the lady you are.”

“I do,
brother
,” she retorted, indignant and insolent, her tone the same as when she had called him a troll.

Staring at her with righteous, ancient indignation, he put his hands on the table and slowly rose. “When you speak to me, remember you address the lord of Llanstephan Fawr,
sister
.”

Cordelia tossed her head and frowned, feet planted and arms akimbo. “Why don’t you just marry me off and be rid of me?” she charged, her voice rising almost to a shout.

Her accusation, as well as her tone, cut him to the quick.

“Because I have been forced to do too many things in my life, things I did not want to do, but was told I must,” he said, still trying to restrain his anger and his hurt. “I will not have that fate thrust upon you, as you should have guessed, or you would have been married by now.”

Her steadfast gaze faltered for the briefest of moments before her more familiar contempt returned. “Perhaps you will not—but I’ll wager
she
would. I would wager that wife of yours was already planning how to get rid of me before she had your ring on her finger.”

Now she would accuse Fiona of scheming selfishness, too?

He strode toward her and stopped inches from Cordelia’s recalcitrant face, glaring into her gray eyes. When he spoke, his voice was hard and stern. “Fiona has not put these things into my head, but if she did, I wouldn’t blame her. This is the
troll
you’re talking to, Cordelia. You and Connor made my life miserable, and now you are doing the same to her.”

“Because I do not trust her, and neither should you!”

His anger boiled up and he ground his fist into his palm as if to shove it down physically. “I would trust Fiona with my life.”

“Why not? She already rules you. She has changed you, Caradoc. You suddenly speak to me of acting like a lady. What else am I to think but that you are planning to marry me off to further her ambitions. Or yours.”

“Ambitions?” he repeated, dumbfounded. “When have I had the leisure to have ambitions? All my time has been spent trying not to lose Llanstephan.”

“And doing whatever it takes, no matter how shameful,” she countered, her whole body quaking with ire. “But I forget—you nobly sacrifice yourself for my welfare. How dutiful, how good, how wonderful.” She made a mocking little bow. “I am forever in your debt. And the fact that you have comforts you couldn’t afford only a little while ago, and a warm body in your bed at night, that is nothing, of course. You do it all for me.”

“Fiona is more than a warm body in my bed, and so help me, Cordelia,” he said, his jaw clenched even tighter than his fist, “if you don’t start acting like a lady and treating her better, I’ll send you to a convent myself!”

“Why don’t you?” she cried, tears starting in her eyes. “I am just a millstone around your neck, another mouth to feed. She is everything, and I am
nothing
. I have never been anything to you. You never paid the slightest bit of attention to me until now, and only then because I upset your wife.”

God save him! Was that why she was so cruel to Fiona? To get his attention?

As he stared at Cordelia, he suddenly saw not the outraged young woman, but the little girl after their parents’ deaths. For days afterward, he had stayed in the solar, afraid that someone would see him cry. He knew Ganore would look after her, and he did not think he could offer her better comfort. After he had learned to hide his grief, he had yearned to go his sister and try to offer her a brother’s solace, but she always asked for Connor, who was not there, and Ganore who was. She had never, ever asked for him.

That was not all her fault. He had locked himself away, and not only in his solar. He had locked away his feelings, too, until Fiona had arrived and set them free. All of them.

Regret, remorse, dismay and lingering despair overwhelmed his anger. She was his little sister still, and he loved her dearly. Surely there must be some way to make a truce with her, if not outright peace.

He held out his hands in a placating gesture. “Fiona is my wife, and you are my sister. I would have you both live here in harmony. There doesn’t need to be a war between you, or between us.”

She marched to the door, then whirled back to glare at him again. “Oh yes, there does. Her wiles do not blind
me
. I do not trust her, and neither does anybody else except my besotted brother. So as long as either that Scot is here, or I am, there can be no peace.”

She went out, slamming the oak door with all her might.

Caradoc sat in his solar alone for a long time after that, considering all that was and might have been.

As Dafydd entered the dim confines of the village tavern several days later, he spotted the huddle of men waiting for him—the brothers of beautiful Bronwyn, who was carrying cool ale and steaming meat pies to them, as well as Eifion looking as miserable as it was possible for Eifion to look, which was like he had worse troubles than Job.

The air was scented with ale and roast mutton, and the small windows didn’t do much to dispel the perpetual gloom.

“Thank you, my beauty,” Dafydd said as he attempted to grab one of the mugs from Bronwyn’s tray.

She swerved and ducked out of his reach. “Spill it, and you’ve still got to pay, my buck. Wait till it’s on the table, will you?”

Dafydd sighed and followed her to the corner table

“No work to do today, is it, the lot of you?” she charged as she set the tray down in front of Jon-Bron and waited for him to pay. Brothers or not, she gave out no free food and drink. There was only one thing Bronwyn ever gave freely, and then only if she decided to. “The sun shines, yet you would sit here in the dark in the middle of the day.”

“Having to eat and drink, aren’t we?” Jon-Bron said defensively. “I’ve got ten patrols out there in the hills. They don’t need me watching over them like the angel Gabriel. Go about your work, woman, and leave us to have our meal in private.”

She gave him the sort of disdainfully dismissive look only a sister can give. “Very well, then. Clear the table when you’re done, and give a shout if any more customers come in. I’ll be out back sitting in the sun like I have no work to do—the Queen of Sheba, me—or like you.”

With that, Bronwyn sauntered from the room laughing, her womanly hips swaying.

Dafydd sighed again as he sat on a bench at the scarred oak table, while her brothers and Eifion each took an ale and a pie. “I’m glad I had no sisters. Torments they are, the lot of them.”

Bran-Bron shrugged as he shoved his doe-colored brown hair out of his eyes and reached for a pie. He held it up, examining it as if he were a goldsmith pricing a necklace. “You will be thinking different when you bite into one of these. A great cook, our Bronwyn. Worth a little teasing for the food.”

“As your belly attests,” Dafydd agreed, glancing down at Bran-Bron’s rotund torso. “And she’s a beauty, too, and talented as few are. But I am thinking of Cordelia. You’ve heard what’s happened now, of course.”

Their mouths full of pie or ale, the men nodded, their expressions grave.

Jon-Bron wiped dripping gravy from his chin and set his half-eaten pie on the table. “Not to go without permission, and with ten of my men if she has it. Hell to pay when he told her, I heard—shouting and doors banging and the sulks, as always. There’s still a hell of a lot of trouble over it. Cold as the top of Snowdon in winter, that hall is these days, despite the warmer weather.”

“Aye,” Dafydd agreed with another long-suffering sigh. “It’s like the trouble between them has burned so bright, only cold ashes are left. And then there’s his trouble with Fiona.”

“Has he talked to you about it yet?” Jon-Bron asked.

Dafydd shook his head. “No, and not likely to now, it’s been so long.” He regarded his ale thoughtfully, like a seer seeking visions. “I never thought I’d see the day Caradoc would quarrel with his wife or lose his temper like that. They could hear him shouting in the hall, Una said. They have not made it up yet, either. A wall there is between them that I confess it pains me to see.”

“A wall there may be in the day, but at night they breech it,” Emlyn-Bron calmly observed, delicately picking up a piece of crust and putting it in his mouth.

“How do you know that?” Dafydd demanded.

“Rhonwen. Takes the linen off the bed, doesn’t she?”

Dafydd looked skeptical. “She told you this?”

“I asked.”

Dafydd’s brown eyes lit up. “Well, that’s a hopeful sign, at least.” He hesitated a moment, then asked, “What else does Rhonwen say?”

“Lady Fiona’s not with child.”