Tempt Me With Kisses (8 page)

In that, Rhonwen was blessedly different from Ganore. She wondered if Caradoc had chosen this girl to help her for precisely that reason, or if he had thought about it at all. Perhaps Rhonwen was used to waiting on ladies. Or perhaps she was simply the first maidservant whose name had come to his lips.

Either way, the bed was now remade with clean, fine linens and covered in a scarlet coverlet of silk. Matching scarlet velvet curtains had replaced the old. A dressing table now stood across from the bed, covered with Fiona’s combs, a few small glass bottles holding perfumes and unguents, and the sandalwood box in which she kept her ribbons and the bronze casings for her hair. A cushioned stool was underneath it. Tapestries depicting a hunt and a couple in a garden graced the walls, hiding the water stains. Two large candle stands holding expensive beeswax candles would provide ample light, and a bronze brazier stood in the corner, ready to be filled with glowing coals to heat the room against the evening’s chill. There were even carpets on the floor—a luxury the returning Crusaders had introduced, and her father had enthusiastically adopted.

Their work completed, Fiona had washed and dabbed on a bit of the expensive perfume her father had given her as a gift. Then, with Rhonwen’s help, she had donned one of her finer gowns, a delightful garment of rich creamy velvet embroidered about the neck and cuffs with delicate greens, golds, and reds, which she thought brought out the green of her eyes. Wearing this gown, she felt equal to any noblewoman, even if she was no beauty and had no title. Or rather, no title
yet
.

They entered the hall. Tables and benches were set up for the meal, and the high table on the dais was covered with a white linen cloth.

As Rhonwen slipped into the crowd of people waiting there, Fiona paused a moment to survey them. Ganore stood at the head of a phalanx of maidservants like a general on the battlefield. Her expression was just as fierce as Fiona imagined a general’s would be if he were facing a detested enemy.

There were soldiers milling about, too, and what appeared to be three brothers were obviously leaders among them. Cordelia stood on the dais beside her brother and a priest. If Ganore looked angry, it was nothing compared to the animosity fairly shooting from Cordelia’s gray eyes.

The priest, a middle-aged man in the black robe of a Dominican, seemed tense and extremely unhappy.

She saved Caradoc for last.

Wearing a simple black tunic that reached to his knees, black woolen breeches, boots and a wide leather sword belt, he stood with his feet apart, his hands clasped behind his back, commanding as befitted the lord of a castle. He needed no fine clothes to show that he ruled here; the mantle of leadership hung about him like a cloak.

But that was as she might expect. It was his face, clean-shaven and more handsome than she had ever imagined—and she had imagined him very handsome, indeed—that took her breath away.

Over the years the soft planes of his cheeks and the line of his boyish jaw had developed into an angular, altogether masculine, incredibly attractive face. His lips had felt wonderful upon hers, and seeing them without the hindrance of his beard, she knew why. They were full, sensual, yet as undeniably masculine as the rest of him.

If she had known just how good-looking Lord Caradoc of Llanstephan had become, she would never have dreamed of coming here to offer herself to him, for she would have been quite certain he would laugh in her face. Skin-and-Bones Fiona, Freckled Fiona whom the other children laughed at, would never have presumed to think so handsome a man would marry her even if she came to him with ten times three thousand marks. Nor would he have to. Women of rank would be lined up a hundred deep outside the castle gates for the opportunity of finding favor with the dark lord of Llanstephan.

She nearly turned tail and ran. But what fate awaited if she did that? Besides, she had given her word. Her father had shown every day by word and deed that honor did not rest solely with the nobility. Indeed, a merchant needed to be more honest and trustworthy than they if he was to have the respect of the world.

A title would give her a certain amount of respect. Some of her other attributes might win her more from these people. But more importantly, she needed to prove her worthiness by earning their respect, and that she was determined to do.

Yet still she hesitated, the taunting laughter of her childhood ringing in her ears. And then she found her strength where she so often had in those days. She told herself to forget the dowry that made their marriage possible and the shame that had sent her here. She imagined instead that Caradoc had chosen her from a horde of beauties for her looks, her wit, and her wisdom. She was Fiona the Fair, and he was the Dark Prince she had saved from the Lonely Tower.

Her shoulders straightened, her chin lifted, and she began to cross the hall. She ignored the stares, the questioning looks, the whispered comments. She was Fiona the Fair, sure of her value, confident of her worth, and such things could not touch her.

Not even the lack of expression on the face of the man she was to marry could upset her.

She reached the dais and bowed. “My lord.”

He came forward and took her hand to lead her toward the priest and Cordelia. Despite her resolve to be as calm and serene as a statue of the Holy Mother, the first touch of his flesh against hers made her instantly aware that she was very mortal indeed, and as full of original sin as Eve. Caradoc’s grasp released a coil of heat and fervent desire within her that destroyed the inner calm she had managed to achieve and sent it spiraling away into the ether.

“This is Father Rhodri. Father, this is Fiona,” Caradoc said in his deep, rich voice as he introduced her to the priest.

While she was struggling against lust, he spoke as if he felt nothing at all.

“Father Rhodri,” she replied, still struggling.

The priest rudely stared at her.

When Caradoc ignored the priest’s obvious insolence, the excitement in her shifted to the beginnings of anger. Did he not notice the man’s rudeness? Did he not see the lack of respect? Did he not care?

“Cordelia, this is Fiona,” Caradoc continued. “Fiona, my sister.”

“I know who she is,” Cordelia snapped as she ran a scornful gaze over Fiona and her fine gown.

Fiona felt a hot blush spreading on her face. There was nothing she could do about that. Nor had she expected to be welcomed with open arms by Caradoc’s sister, especially under these circumstances. Nevertheless, she would not accept being treated as if she were some kind of outlaw or thief, unworthy of courtesy. Nor would she wait for Caradoc to intervene. As with Ganore, this would have to be a battle between
them
.

“I know who you are, too, sister-in-law-to-be,” she said with a serenity distinctly at odds with the anger burning in her breast. “Your rudeness tells me that you are in need of an older sister’s guidance. I shall do my best, although it is a sad day when the daughter of a Scottish merchant must teach the daughter of a Welsh princess how a lady should behave.”

Ignoring the shocked gasp from those nearby, and the growing outrage on Cordelia’s face, she continued to regard the young woman steadily.

“Are you going to let her talk to me like that?” Cordelia demanded of Caradoc after the initial moment of surprise had passed.

“Since she is right, yes. Your greeting was not polite, Cordelia.”

Cordelia’s eyes blazed and her hands balled into outraged fists. “If you don’t mind, I’ll go sit with Dafydd and Eifion,” she declared.

“I don’t mind at all,” he replied with placid calm.

A moment’s pleased relief passed through Fiona as Cordelia marched past her and took a place at another table. Caradoc had not taken Cordelia’s side against her.

Then, disaster.

Caradoc turned to face everyone in the hall and raised his voice so that it rang out like the bell of a cathedral calling sinners to prayer. “This woman is to be my wife. You will
all
respect her and treat her accordingly, because she is my wife.”

Fiona wanted to howl with frustration. While a look or a brief word to the priest would have been welcome, she did not want this imperious command to the entire household. Fitting in here and earning their respect was going to be difficult enough, but it was for her to do. By doing this, he had only increased their wariness of her.

But what could she say to him? The deed could not be undone.

She might not be in a position to chastise her husband-to-be, she decided, but she must try to find a way to repair the damage he had unwittingly inflicted.

“Now, Fiona, I will introduce you to the others here.”

Fiona the Fair steeled herself and went forth into the lion’s den of Llanstephan.

As Caradoc led his bride toward the people waiting at the tables, he surreptitiously studied her. She was stoically staring straight ahead as if she were made of marble.

It wasn’t hard for him to guess why.

God save him, he hated his sister sometimes. She had no thought beyond what she considered right and proper and befitting a Welsh nobleman. She had no concern for finances or necessities. She had been too coddled and spoiled for too long, doted on because of her beauty and spirit.

Fiona had spirit of a different sort, for there was humor and generosity in it, too. Cordelia would not have found his lack of recognition amusing; she would have found it offensive in the extreme. While Cordelia could probably face any man in defiance, he doubted she could plead her case so fluently and so well as Fiona had, putting her request in reasonable terms that were difficult to disagree with. She never remained calm in the face of another’s anger, but lashed out.

He had had little joy in his life these past few years in no small part because Cordelia couldn’t accept that he stood in the place of their father. It was his right and his duty to command everyone here, including her. Worse, she would always compare him to Connor of the merry smile and winning charm, a contest he was always bound to lose.

Putting his sister’s displeasure from his mind as best he could, he again glanced at his future wife. She carried herself with the pride and dignity befitting a noblewoman, and better than some he had seen. If he had had any fears about how she would act in noble company, they were dispelled. Yet while he appreciated this dignified lady, he preferred the confident, spirited woman of the solar and bedchamber.

His bedchamber, where soon they would join as man and wife. Again his burning desire rose up and threatened his self-control. He could barely prevent himself from tugging her into his arms and kissing her right then, regardless of where they were or who would see. More, he wanted to sweep her into his arms, dash up the steps to his chamber, kick open the door, lay her on his bed and—

Keeping any hint of the visions playing about his mind from his face and his voice, he introduced Fiona to Eifion, who tonight looked like a man who had lost his last hope. Fortunately, Fiona seemed to find nothing wrong with his demeanor as she nodded regally and gave him a small smile.

As Caradoc escorted her toward Jon-Bron, Emlyn-Bron, Bran-Bron and the other soldiers, a silent recitation of his oath of fealty further subdued his vivid imaginings.

He needed no such thing to keep his mind focused when he introduced Fiona to the servants, for they were barely civil.

He hadn’t expected a warm welcome, but he saw Ganore’s hand in this, and anger filled him, replacing everything else.

But he didn’t show that, either. Instead, he silently reassured himself that Ganore must come to accept Fiona one day and treat her as his wife deserved.

Or, considering how she usually treated him, better.

After that, they went toward Dafydd. He had left his friend for last, fearing that Dafydd might say something undignified or tell some outrageous tale from his childhood, like the time he had gotten his head stuck in a bucket. Now, he thought they could all use a little touch of levity, and it might help lessen his smoldering ire. “Fiona, this is Dafydd. He is my bailiff, and my friend.”

Dafydd grinned and bowed low. “A pleasure it is to meet you, Fiona MacDougal,” he said, sincerity in every word.

Fiona must have heard that, too, for her haughty grandeur fled, and with it, the last of Caradoc’s anger. Now she was again the woman in his solar. The woman he had kissed.

The woman who had so eagerly kissed him back.

“I am pleased to meet you, too, Dafydd,” she said.

“If you’re going to live here married to this shaggy fellow, you had best know my full name. Dafydd-y-Trwyn.” He tapped his nose and his brown eyes shone with mirth. “Dafydd the Nose, that is, because God saw fit to give me enough for two.”

Fiona clearly didn’t know what to make of that.

“Of course, the women know that it means I have enough for two of something else,” he said with a sly wink.

As Fiona colored, Caradoc wished the stones beneath his feet would heave, splinter, open up and swallow him—aye, and Dafydd, too.

“Dafydd,” he growled, his tone warning that his friend had gone too far. Relief from anger and tension was one thing; such rude implications were something else again.

“I thought it was a man’s ears that indicated that,” Fiona remarked, apparently gravely serious. “Yours seem quite small, although very attractive.”

Then she turned and tucked Caradoc’s hair behind his right ear, her touch so much like a caress, his whole body warmed with it. Her lovely lips turned up into a devilish smile that made his heartbeat skip. “Whereas my lord’s seem … quite substantial.”

Caradoc didn’t know what he felt more: shock, distress, pride, or glee to see the look of stunned surprise on Dafydd’s face.

Countless times he had yearned to pay Dafydd back for all his teasing, and here she was doing it for him.

He could not let her have all the fun.

“You’ve hurt his feelings, Fiona,” he noted, apparently equally serious. “Proud of his prowess with women is our Dafydd.”

“I can see why women would like him,” she said as if Dafydd wasn’t there. “He is a very charming fellow. Impertinent, of course, but one cannot take offense at what so merry a man says, even if it is most improper.”