Tempt Me With Kisses (28 page)

Rhys did not look pleased that Caradoc had answered in such blunt terms. His eyes flashed with ire, and his lips thinned. “If that is the way you wish to put it, yes.”

“Who would you have had me wed?”

Rhys folded his arms across his chest. “There are Welsh heiresses.”

“Aye, my lord, and I have met a few. Of course, I might have paid off the worst of my debts had I wed one of them, but I might also have made an alliance that neither you, nor Richard, would look on with favor. Instead I have married a merchant’s daughter who came to me with moveable goods, not land or political allegiances or secret ambitions. Since our marriage has no political repercussions, I saw no need to ask you for your permission, or Richard, either.”

The nobleman’s eyes flared with sudden pleased satisfaction.

So that was it—he had wondered if Caradoc had sought Richard’s approval, and not his.

“What is important to consider is that if I had refused this marriage,” Caradoc said, “and the dowry that went with it, I would have lost my home eventually—and you know as well as I that Richard would have put his own man in my place.”

“Perhaps the choice of bride was wiser than I thought,” Lord Rhys conceded.

For the sake of Fiona’s pride, Caradoc gave the man a secretive smile. “I had other reasons for my haste. She has many excellent qualities not immediately obvious, my lord, and I found I did not want to wait.”

“Well, every man to his own taste, of course.”

He really should leave the levity to Dafydd.

Rhys sat back and studied him a moment. “I heard your wife sought
you
out.”

The man’s tone implied that this utterly baffled him and Caradoc struggled not to reveal how offended he was. “I may not sing like Connor, but apparently I have other qualities not readily apparent, either.”

Rhys’s brow quirked upward. “I wonder if your brother will offer a similar explanation for his marriage to a Norman.”

So, it wasn’t only
his
marriage that had brought Lord Rhys to Llanstephan.

“I know little about it,” Caradoc honestly replied, “save that the heiress was a reward for saving Richard’s life. Since Connor is a knight of the realm, that is what he had sworn to do, just as I have.”

“I have no criticism of Connor’s action with regard to Richard. Assassins are dishonorable rogues who deserve death. It is his marriage that concerns me.”

“I do not recall that Connor ever swore an oath of loyalty to you. Neither have I.”

Lord Rhys’s eyes narrowed and he looked far from pleased by this reminder. Before he could speak, however, Cordelia appeared. She had put on her finest garment of rich, scarlet velvet, and dressed her flowing hair with scarlet ribbons.

Caradoc studied her face, looking for remnants of her tears, and saw it in the puffy skin about her eyes. But she was too lovely to be much marred by that, and that was not what affected him as she glided toward them, her bearing as regal as Fiona’s. Indeed, she seemed to be imitating his wife’s natural grace and proudly poised head.

He had told her to act like a woman and by the saints, she was. Suddenly, he saw and truly understood that Cordelia was no longer the little hoyden who used to tease him and call him troll, but a beautiful woman men would desire. Aye, and fight over, too.

That realization hit him like a punch in the gut. It hit him even harder as his gaze swept over the men in the hall, who were all looking at his sister with blatant admiration.

Especially Lord Rhys.

The man had been fast falling in Caradoc’s estimation since his arrival and rude reception of Fiona; his repute slipped yet more the closer Cordelia came, and his expression grew more lascivious.

God save him, if Rhys didn’t start behaving better, powerful nobleman or not, and whether it was wise or not, he would order him to leave.

Rhys rose and bowed to Cordelia as if she were the queen, far more deferential than he had been to Fiona.

“My lord, my sister, Cordelia,” Caradoc said, fighting to keep his growing wrath in check.

“My lady Cordelia,” Rhys said, giving her a warm smile. “It has been many years since last we met, and seeing you now reminds me of my age, for you were but a child then and you have grown into a beauty.”

Cordelia flushed, all trace of her bold manner subverted. “Thank you, my lord.”

He had never seen Cordelia act the coy maiden before.

He didn’t like it. He preferred the spirited woman, even if she aggravated him, to this pale imitation of Cordelia before him now. It was like having a ghost there, and not a person of flesh and blood.

Then Cordelia glanced at him, and for once, he was relieved to see the flash of ire in her eyes. She was still fiercely angry with him for sending Ganore away. She would probably be fiercely angry about that for the rest of her life. While that troubled him, it wasn’t as disturbing as seeing her act little more than a pretty doll.

“I would like nothing better than to visit with you, my lady,” Rhys continued. “Unfortunately, I fear your brother and I have other business to discuss. Perhaps you will wait here while we go to his solar?”

Cordelia’s eyes showed her displeasure, but she did not protest. “As you wish, my lord.”

Since he had been given no real choice, Caradoc led the Welsh nobleman to the solar. He glanced at the chair in which he had been with Fiona a short time ago while Lord Rhys sat behind the table, again as if he ruled here.

Reminding himself that he must control his temper, Caradoc clenched his jaw as he sat opposite him.

“I did not want to speak of this in front of your sister,” Rhys began, “although it is part of what we were discussing before, that is the subject of marriage. Your sister should be betrothed soon.”

He gave Caradoc a pointed look. “To a Welshman, eh, Caradoc? Your brother has a Norman wife, and you a Scot. Surely you can spare your sister for a fellow countryman.”

“I would be hard pressed to spare my sister at all, my lord.”

Rhys steepled his fingers and laid them against his lips. “I do not want to hear of the lovely Cordelia wed to some Norseman or other foreigner at a later date.”

“She will marry whoever she chooses, my lord,” Caradoc answered, struggling to remain calm. “I have always intended that it be so.”

His guest lowered his hands and regarded Caradoc as if he wasn’t sure if he had heard aright. “I can understand if you will let her have her opinion, but surely the choice must be yours.”

“The permission will be mine to grant, but she will have her choice, and I will not withhold it without serious cause.”

Rhys stared at Caradoc as if he had suddenly declared that the earth was round. “Why, just think, Caradoc, if we let women marry whoever they wanted, what chaos it would be! My sister—who is a fool if ever there was one—would have run off with a shepherd had my father not had the presumptuous lout killed.”

Caradoc tried not to show how this comment repulsed him, but he couldn’t. He had held himself in check too long as it was. “No man deserves to die for falling in love, and no woman, either.”

Rhys reclined in his chair. Despite his relaxed attitude, his gaze was still intense, a reminder to Caradoc that the man before him wielded considerable power of his own and might not hesitate to use it. “You may be no singer, Caradoc, but perhaps you have the makings of a poet, eh?”

Ganore had not thought so. To her, he was a Norman to the core. “I doubt it very much, my lord.”

“A pity, that.”

“Perhaps you can think of someone appropriate for my sister, my lord,” he suggested, not at all serious, “and send him to visit us.”

“Why, that’s a fine idea, Caradoc, a fine idea.”

In truth, it was a stupid, useless idea. Cordelia would not welcome a parade of suitors. Indeed, he could almost hear the jibes she would hurl at them. “Of course, it may be that it will take a wild Norseman to tame her.”

“Whoever it is and however he is found, when she is betrothed, I expect to be informed.”

“I will inform you, my lord, as you ask, but it will be for me to grant permission or not, as
I
see fit.”

Rhys straightened, his intense gaze suddenly hostile. “Are you saying you will pay no heed to the duty you owe your countrymen?”

He had endured enough, been patient long enough, and put up with more than he should have to. He rose and regarded the nobleman coldly. Sternly. As the lord he was. “Are you challenging my right as her elder brother and the lord of Llanstephan Fawr to make decisions as I see fit?”

Rhys’s gaze faltered. “Of course not. Please, sit down, Caradoc.”

The man obviously realized he had gone too far, so Caradoc did as he asked.

“Of course it is for you to choose, or give permission, or whatever aspect of agreement you prefer when it comes to your sister’s marriage. However, the marriage of a noblewoman is an important thing and must not be undertaken lightly, or in haste.”

Rhys sounded just like Father Rhodri.

“My marriage may have been made in haste,” Caradoc retorted, his temper flaring once again, “but I assure you, I did not undertake it lightly, whatever you or anyone else may think.”

“Good,” Rhys said. He leaned forward and fixed his fierce gaze on Caradoc. “Since you have brought up the question of loyalty and allegiances, let me ask you this: if it came down to a choice between Richard or me, who would you choose to follow?”

“Are you asking me to make that choice here and now, my lord?”

“Do you have to think about it?”

“Do you have to ask? My father was a Norman, and I am a Norman knight, a baron of the kingdom. My first duty must be to Richard. My second will be to you, since my mother was a princess of Wales. But know you this, my lord, no matter what oaths I have sworn, my first and foremost loyalty is to God, then my family and Llanstephan.”

Whether his answer pleased Rhys or not, it was the truth, and nothing that should have taken Rhys by surprise.

“Yet what of this Scot you have married?” Rhys demanded. “She ties you to that land, and their king.”

“I married Fiona, not Scotland, and she is here, not there.”

“A good answer.” Rhys studied Caradoc. “So, it shall be England first, then Wales, then Scotland with you?”

“As I said, my lord, it shall be God and then my family and my land. Those I will protect, from anyone who tries to attack them or take them from me, whether they are Norman, Welsh, Scot or something else entirely.”

“You tread on dangerous ground, Caradoc.”

“I have done so for many years, my lord, and I do not seek any man’s enmity. I want only to be left to live in peace.”

“So do we all, but these are troubled times.”

Caradoc did nothing, said nothing, as Rhys continued to regard him steadily for a long moment. He had been honest and truthful, and now it was for the man before him to make of that what he would.

Rhys smiled, a genuine smile that was guarded, but with honest acceptance in it, too. “Very well, Caradoc. I seek no enmity with you. All I ask is that you do not fight against your fellow Welshmen.”

“I have no intention of doing so,” he answered honestly, “unless they fight against me. Or steal my sheep.”

“Ah, yes, I have heard that some have gone missing from your hills and others nearby. It’s probably Norsemen or the Normans, their cousins, when all is said and done. They are all pirates at heart.”

“If it is Welshmen and I catch them, I will punish them as the king’s law allows, my lord.”

“Of course. I would do the same. I merely ask that you do not start feuds with your countrymen.”

“As I said, my lord, I seek to live in peace.”

Rhys nodded, then got to his feet. “Now, let us go below. We have left your charming sister alone long enough.”

The lord of Llanstephan Fawr saw little of his wife for the rest of the day. She flitted about, with Rhonwen trailing her like a faithful puppy, as she oversaw the preparations for a sumptuous evening meal and accommodations for their guests.

Caradoc kept watch out of the corner of his eye as Rhonwen trotted through the hall going from the stairway leading to his bedchamber to a section of the hall behind a painted screen that Fiona had designated as Lord Rhys’s while he stayed. Rhys’s men would bed down in the open portion of the hall.

First the young woman went by carrying a brazier, then a candlestand, then linens and what looked like a bronze ewer and basin. In fact she made so many trips that he wouldn’t be surprised to find their bedchamber stripped when he retired that night.

Barren bedchamber or not, he would be with his wonderful Fiona. As long as they had something to lie on … sit on … even lean on.

He let his mind drift to such thoughts while Rhys unfavorably dissected the king of England and his military campaigns. Cordelia sat with them, also listening, apparently raptly, as the man went on and on.

How he wished Ganore had been as silent that morning! Whether what she said were horrible lies, or the truth, he wished she had simply taken the money and gone.

Lies, or the truth. He had no way of knowing. His parents were dead, and he had never heard of this DeFrouchette. The man could be dead, for all he knew.

Besides, what good would it do for the truth to be revealed now? He had been named heir by his father and nobody disputed it. Connor had his own estate; he did not need this one, as well. Caradoc decided he would let the past stay buried, as his mother had wanted, and he would bury the emotions Ganore’s story aroused beneath the happiness he found with Fiona.

Finally the servants began setting up the tables for the evening meal. Several other guests arrived, including Dafydd, who needed no special invitation. The brothers of Bronwyn entered with their men, and after acknowledging Lord Rhys, went to their customary places.

Eifion and his family appeared. Eifion’s wife was as stout as he was thin, and pleasant and well liked by all. Usually she preferred to eat in her own home, but clearly the lure of a famous man like Lord Rhys was too great. She came clutching her husband’s arm, more than a little flustered.

Only when the hall was prepared and most of the people in their places did Fiona appear. She wore the lovely dress of ivory velvet that he liked so much, although he had never told her. In what might be considered a breach of etiquette, she wore no scarf or wimple. Instead, her flowing, waving auburn hair hung loose about her shoulders like a living cloak. It shimmered and gleamed in the light of the torches now lighting the hall, and memories of it spread upon their pillows teased him. Her eyes were so bright and glowing, it was as if she were lit from within.