Tempt Me With Kisses (30 page)

“You
are
beautiful, Fiona, in a hundred ways the poets never sing of. They would put a woman on a pedestal, to admire from afar. I would admire you here, in my arms. Or as I watch you go about your day. I see your grace in the way you open that chest at the foot of our bed. I see the beauty of your pride in the carriage of your head. I see loveliness in the fierce sparkle of your eyes, brighter by far than the jewels another wears around her neck. I heard the beauty of your soul tonight when you sang. I am a lucky man, Fiona, because you choose to marry me. You blessed me beyond hope, when I thought I had none.”

She did not speak. She could not. What words could
she
find to describe how he made her feel? There were none.

“Fiona, are you … are you crying?”

She nodded her head, her throat tight with emotion as a tear rolled down her cheek. She had come to Llanstephan angry and desperate, determined to repair a shameful error as best she could, yet now she could believe it was divine providence that had brought her here, because God knew that they needed each other.

He brushed the tear away with the tip of his finger. “I did not mean to make you cry.”

“It is a happy tear, Caradoc,” she whispered. “Like you, I find it hard to speak of what I feel most deeply. The words will not come, or if they do, they are not the right ones. So let us have no more words tonight, my husband.” She smiled tremulously. “We have managed all right without them when we are alone.”

He laughed softly, a low, deep sound of joy that echoed within her heart. His hand brushed her shoulder and swept down her arm, sending thrills of pleasure through her body.

She sighed as his hand skimmed her breast, moving toward the lacing of her shift. Her breathing quickened with anticipation when he untied the knot and pushed her garment from her shoulders. His lips glided over her skin as she clutched him, ready to surrender to the wonder of his mouth and body, liberated at last from the past and all the insecurity that went with it.

This night, they loved gently, as if marveling at their blessed fortune. They loved long, taking time to explore their bodies and their reactions to lips and caress. They loved playfully, free as they had never been with each other before.

This was a new beginning, and the past was unimportant.

It was indeed like the start of a new season, Fiona thought as she rode contentedly behind Caradoc the next morning. As if to also herald her happiness, the sun had risen in a cloudless sky, blue and free of so much as a hint of rain.

Even more wonderfully, for the first time mass did not seem a personal assault. Apparently Father Rhodri had indeed seen the error of his ways. Afterward, Lord Rhys had greeted her with all the deference she could ever want when she joined him to break the fast.

Cordelia had not been any more welcoming, but she had not expected that, and was simply grateful that the young woman had chosen to ignore her. Indeed, she believed Cordelia would never accept her, although the young woman was finally learning how it felt to be second-best. Considering how Cordelia had treated Caradoc, this was a lesson long overdue.

She herself would learn to live with her sister-in-law’s hostility. After all, she had Caradoc’s love, and that was far more important.

As recalcitrant Cordelia might prove, the servants now looked at her with guarded respect. Perhaps she should have performed for them sooner, but she had truly hoped she could win them over without having to entertain them first. She might never have sung at all, except that Cordelia looked so smug and Caradoc so ashamed that he could not.

After mass, Lord Rhys suggested a hunt. Caradoc readily agreed, inviting her to accompany them, and she gladly assented. She was no horsewoman, but it was a beautiful sunny day, and she did not want to stay inside.

Cordelia fairly leapt at the chance to ride out. Caradoc gave her a warning look, then announced that Jon-Bron and some of his soldiers would come, too. He said nothing about the thieves that might be stealing sheep, no doubt to keep an eye on his sister. Surely Cordelia would not dare to try to flee when surrounded by Jon-Bron, his men and such of Lord Rhys’s retinue as cared to accompany them.

Now, she rode beside Fiona, the fiery Icarus fairly chaffing at the bit, the impatient look in his eye not very different from that of his mistress.

Regardless of Cordelia’s perpetual, petulant frown, Fiona vowed to enjoy the day. Iain was locked in the past, where he belonged, Ganore was gone, Father Rhodri subdued, and the people respectful at last.

Best of all, though, was the new depth of understanding and emotion she shared with Caradoc. As she watched her handsome husband, she marveled to think that all she had ever hoped had transpired.

Well, except for one. Children.

But there was no reason to fear that could not also come true. Indeed, on this beautiful, glorious morning, she could easily envision herself with several of their children gathered about her, some with dark hair, some with auburn, some with blue eyes, some with green.

She sighed with happiness. It had been a long time—or so it seemed—since she had ridden along this road headed toward Llanstephan, trepidation and fear dogging her with every lurch of the cart. She had been afraid Iain was hiding behind each bush or tree, waiting to leap out and demand that she marry him.

Her gaze returned to Caradoc, so tall and fine, his hips moving forward and back with the motion of his horse, reminding her of other times his hips moved like that. She smiled to herself, knowing that the heat coursing through her body was not solely from the sun.

A pebble struck her horse’s rump, hard enough to draw blood.

The normally placid mare whinnied with pain and reared. Panic seized Fiona as it galloped off the road at a breakneck pace.

The horse tore across a bracken-covered hillside. Panting, winded from the jostling that threatened to send her toppling to the ground, Fiona could scarcely see where they were going, or find her breath to scream.

Every impulse, every thought congealed into just one thing: hold on, with a grip tight as a death throe.

She heard other hoof beats, not just the mare’s.

Praise God! Caradoc had come.

The horseman came beside her and reached for her reins.

Like some vision from a nightmare, Iain MacLachlann tried to grab hold of her reins.

New determination burst through her panic, and she tugged on the reins not to pull the horse to a stop, but to turn away from Iain.

Iain snarled a curse.

She dug her heels into the mare’s side, paying little heed to where they went. Over another hill, through a meadow, toward a wood. The beast was winded, but she didn’t care. She kicked again and again, trying to get away.

But the mare was no fiery stallion like Icarus; Caradoc had told her this horse was a gentle beast, perfect for someone who was not used to riding. Perfect for a slow ride on a fine day. Terrible for getting away from Iain.

He caught hold of the reins and steered them toward the wood. She raised her hand and tried to hit Iain’s arm. She missed.

He laughed in that mocking way he had. Laughed at her futile efforts. Laughed like the demon he was come to destroy her happiness.

Where was Caradoc? Would he come to her aid? What if Iain killed her?

They reached the wood and plunged into the sudden dimness. Dappled sunlight lit the ground, and she realized they were on a path.

Did Iain lead her into this wood on purpose? For what reason? To kill her for leaving him, out of sight of prying eyes?

Oh, God
, she prayed as they finally slowed,
protect me. Send Caradoc, even if he sees Iain. Even if I must tell him everything
.

At last Iain brought the mare to a halt in a clearing. Where it was in relation to Llanstephan or how far they had come, she had no idea.

All she knew was that she had to get away from Iain. Again.

Anger nipped at her fear, and fought to overcome it. She was married. She was the wife of the lord of Llanstephan Fawr, and there was nothing Iain could do about that. She must make him see that he would gain nothing by hurting her. The vain, arrogant bully should let her go.

“What do you want, Iain?” she demanded, breathing hard as she glared into his detestable face.

“I wanted to speak with my betrothed alone. I thought you were never going to leave the castle, but my patience has finally been rewarded. Fergus has a fine aim with a stone, does he no’?” Iain said with a loathsome smile as his stallion snorted and refooted.

“You are not my betrothed,” she declared, all the while trying to decide what to do. Get down and run? He would give chase, and he would be faster than she could be, for she was weighted down with skirt.

Try to ride away? Her horse was exhausted nearly to collapse, sweat streaked and breathing as hard as she.

She must buy some time. Surely Caradoc would come after her, with Jon-Bron and his soldiers. “Iain, this is madness. What little there was between us is finished. If you are wise, you will let me go.”

His expression altered, to one of unmasked fury and scorn. “Finished? I am not finished with you, my love.”

“I am not your love, and never were. All you loved was my dowry, and it belongs to another now.”

Iain swung down from his horse and approached the mare, grabbing its bridle and glaring up at her. “So I have heard. You have taken from me what was mine and given it to a Welshman. What am I to think about that, eh?”

From her saddle, she looked down on him as if he were made of dung—as he had made her feel. “You should think that you erred when you made it so clear that you wanted my money far more than me.”

“How can you say that when we shared your bed?”

“To my eternal shame! You seduced me with the sure and certain belief that once you had done so, my money was as good as yours. You made that very clear afterward, bragging how your money would be welcomed by William, and wondering aloud what titles he would reward you with once you had bought them. Did you think I was too stupid not to understand what that really meant? Did you believe I was too infatuated to care? If I was a fool—and by God, I was!—you were a greater one, and by following me here, you prove you are a greater one still. You will get nothing more from me, ever. I have wed another, and that is the end of it.”

“No, it is not,” Iain snarled as he grabbed her arm and hauled her, struggling, from the mare.

He shoved her up against the horse’s quivering, sweaty, blood-streaked flank, blocking her escape with his body. “What, no kiss? And once you could not get enough of them.”

Triumph gleamed in his eyes as a cruel smile curved his lips. “I want what you owe me, Fiona. I have already taken a small payment in some sheep, but that is not nearly enough.”

She would not look away. She faced him squarely, hatred and pride strengthening her. “I owe you
nothing
and the penalty for stealing sheep is death.”

“Will your husband agree, do you think?” Iain asked with a vestige of his sly, seductive charm. “Or do you think he will agree with me that a broken betrothal is worth some kind of compensation, especially when he learns how close we were? And I must say, Fiona, I thought you would at least wed a clever man. Neither he nor his men have come close to finding us or the sheep we’ve slaughtered.”

She should have told Caradoc about Iain the day she arrived. She should have been honest from the start. With her secrecy, she had given Iain the power to make this threat.

Iain’s eyes gleamed with cruel jubilation. “Ah, he does not know about me and all that we have shared, does he? I heard he was a proud man. Welsh or not, a proud man might not want a bride who was not a virgin. You must have tricked him into believing you came a maiden to his bed.” His eyes hardened. “You condemn me for deception, but what else would you call what you have done?”

God help her, he was right.

And his presence here and now must be the punishment sent down from heaven.

“Tell me, Fiona,” he asked with smooth mockery, “has he heard of me at all?”

She did not answer. She was trapped, trapped by her own unwillingness to tell Caradoc the whole truth about why she had come to Llanstephan.

“Better and better,” Iain murmured, his voice dripping with vile delight. “Well, then, my dearest, darling Fiona, unless you want him to, you should make it worth my while to quietly creep back to Scotland.”

Her head snapped up. “Like the snake you are!”

Her insult meant nothing to him. “If you do not want your husband to know
all
about us, you will bring me a thousand marks. I know you’ve got that much in coin and jewels alone. You showed me, remember? There is a village a few miles from here, Pontyfrydd. Go to the tavern there in two days with the money and wait for me.”

He believed he had won. That by following her and threatening her, he was triumphant. That she would pay for his silence rather than risk her husband’s wrath.

He knew nothing of love. He would never comprehend that feeling and the strength it could imbue.

And the trust. As Caradoc loved her, he would understand.

She had made a mistake not telling him of her past, but she would confess all, and gladly, for she had faith in his love.

“You haven’t grown any more intelligent since I left you, I see,” she replied, scorn in every syllable. “Even if I wanted to pay for your silence, the lady of Llanstephan can hardly ride to a tavern and sit waiting.”

“I think the lady of Llanstephan is clever enough to come up with an explanation.” Iain grabbed her upper arms and held her so tight, she had to bite her lip to keep from crying out. “I mean it, Fiona. I’m not leaving until you pay me.”

He moved suffocatingly closer and ran his hand over her breast, a gross parody of Caradoc’s gentle caresses. “Otherwise, my dearest darling, I might just as well kill you as I have your husband’s sheep and that one over there.”

He smiled another terrible smile as he nodded to something to his right. She followed his gaze, to see Ganore’s limp body hanging from the limb of a chestnut tree.