Margaret Moore - The Welshman's Bride

“So you should be.”

Noting that he didn’t sound quite so angry, she risked a glance up at him, and thought she saw a crack in the veneer of wrath.

“I was weak and foolish.”

Because I thought he loved me.

“All women are weak and foolish,” her uncle growled. “It is their nature.”

“I regret that I have sinned so grievously.”

And trusted him.

“You could not help it, I suppose,” he said, slightly mollified. “Like Eve when she was tempted by a snake.”

She tentatively raised her eyes to regard him.

“I suppose the betrothal to Lord Kirkheathe must be broken?” she asked with very real remorse.

She had never met the man, did not know him—but could marriage to him make her feel any worse?

“He very specifically wanted a virgin,” her uncle muttered as he strolled to the window and stared out, unseeing.

Genevieve swallowed hard. That did not make the man sound any more attractive; still, what alternatives existed?

“You will have to marry DeLanyea.”

She stared at him. “After what he did?”

Her uncle turned to face her. “We have little choice.”

“Lord Kirkheathe lives far away. Rumors may not reach him, so he need not know—”

Her uncle’s fierce scowl silenced her. “I will know, and I gave the man my word that you were a virgin. Besides, Kirkheathe hears everything one way or another. Since you are no longer pure, honor demands that I break the contract, just as honor demands that DeLanyea marry you after what he has done.”

“But I do not want to marry him now!”

“You wanted him enough last night to dishonor yourself,” he noted, glaring at her.

“I... I was overwhelmed by him. I made a mistake. I should not have done it.”

“Girl, get it through your head. Your reputation is irrevocably destroyed—unless he marries you.”

She got to her feet.

“Uncle,” she said resolutely, “I am a virgin still. It was a ruse to break the betrothal. I crept into his bed last night when he was already asleep.”

Her uncle’s eyes narrowed. “Did that bastard tell you to say that?”

“No! It is the truth. I thought he loved me and would want to marry me if I were free. Clearly, I made a serious error,” she finished bitterly.

“Yes, you did,” her uncle concurred grimly. “Whatever stupid thing you thought, this is not some childish prank, easily mended. Easily forgiven.”

It was unfortunately obvious that he did not believe her explanation.

“There is only one way out of this with even a hint of honor. You must and shall marry Dylan DeLanyea, and now I will ensure that is what comes to pass.”

He started for the door.

“I would rather die!”

He halted, then wheeled slowly on his heel to regard her dispassionately, as if she were a stranger to him. “There is a window. Jump.”

Appalled at his cold remark, she could only stare at him.

“I thought you would not,” he muttered as he left her.

After he closed the door, she heard the sound of a key in the lock.

Smking down on the chair, she put her head in her hands.

And cursed herself for a fool.

Chapter Three

“My lord!” Dylan cried as he nearly collided with Lord Perronet on the steps leading to Genevieve’s chamber.

“DeLanyea,” the nobleman snarled, glaring at him.

Dylan tried to remain calm, or at least as calm as he had been since his abrupt waking this morning. He would rather have talked to Genevieve first, but he might as well get the worst over with, he told himself. “I would speak with you, my lord.”

“Yes, you will,” the man replied. “But not here.”

Dylan fought to keep the scowl off his face. Of course he would not discuss this business on the stairs. “My uncle’s solar would, perhaps, be best.”

“Show me the way.”

Without a word, Dylan turned on his heel. He led the man down the stairs and through the hall, ignoring his uncle and cousins as they sat breaking the fast, to a tower recently built abutting the hall. The lower levels were used as offices by the steward and the bailiff. The baron’s solar was on the second level, and a fine new bedchamber for the baron and his wife comprised the third.

He waited for Lord Perronet to enter the room, then followed him, closing the door behind him.

“Please, sit,” he offered, gesturing at the baron’s chair behind the large wooden table.

“I prefer to stand.”

Dylan shrugged, then he himself took the baron’s chair. At that, Lord Perronet looked even more irate, but Dylan didn’t much care. If the man insisted upon standing, so that now he looked like a humble penitent brought before the lord of the manor, he had only himself to blame.

Like his niece.

“You’ve dishonored her, so you’ve got to marry her,” Lord Perronet declared without further preamble.

“I did not, so I do not,” Dylan replied. “I don’t know what she told you, but I didn’t even know she was in my bed until you came barging into my chamber this morning. If there’s dishonor here, you cannot lay it at my feet.”

“It’s not your feet that ruined her,” Lord Perronet growled. “She was in your bed with blood on the sheets, man! That’s evidence enough for what you did.”

“That is evidence that somebody bled for some reason. Otherwise, it is my word against hers.”

“The word of my niece against that of a—”

“Bastard?” Dylan regarded him steadily. “I must say, my lord, I’m surprised you would insist I marry her, given your low opinion of my family.”

“You gave me no choice.” The nobleman’s brows lowered. “Perhaps that was your plan—to get her dowry as well as entry into my family.”

“If I did dishonor her, as you claim, those would be the furthest things from my mind. I don’t need her dowry, and I certainly don’t want to be related to you in any way.”

The nobleman’s frown deepened. “Then why did you do it? To destroy my allegiance with Kirkheathe?”

“I don’t give a fisherman’s fart for your allegiances,” Dylan retorted. “That’s a Norman for you, thinking only of power and gain.”

“You young—”

“Welshman,” Dylan interrupted.

If the man insulted him again, he was quite likely to lose what remained of his control over his temper, and that would be a mistake.

“Or rather,” Dylan continued, “happily more Welsh than Norman. Tell me, my lord, what does the lady say? Does she claim that I made love to her under promise of marriage?”

Lord Perronet didn’t hesitate a moment. “Yes.”

The bile rose in Dylan’s throat. Genevieve had lied as blatantly as any charlatan, making him bear the blame.

“She is but a weak-willed girl easily led astray by a honey-tongued young man.”

Dylan thought of Genevieve’s eyes before his passionate kiss.

She was no weak-willed girl; she was a woman, with a woman’s passion.

And a very adult capacity to lie without detection.

He rose and faced Lord Perronet. “Whatever I may or may not have done, I will not be blackmailed into marriage.”

For the first time, it finally seemed to penetrate Lord Perronet’s brain that Dylan could not be compelled to marry Genevieve under these, or perhaps any, circumstances.

“I hope you realize you’ve destroyed her chances,” he snarled. “There’ll be nothing for her but a convent—a secluded one.”

“That is not my concern.”

“No, it isn’t, is it?” Perronet demanded. “Just like your father, aren’t you? Don’t think about consequences—just so long as you get what you want! Greedy to the bone!”

“If you were wise, you would cut out your tongue before you spoke of my father again,” Dy-lan said quietly as he came out from behind the table.