Margaret Moore - The Welshman's Bride

Lord Perronet’s eyes filled with panic, and he took a step back.

“I am not the greedy one here, my lord,” Dylan continued in that same softly menacing tone. “What will you forfeit if the betrothal between your niece and Kirkheathe is broken? Money? Power? Influence? All three? Was there ever any thought of her happiness when you made that betrothal?”

Lord Perronet stepped back again as Dylan approached him like a lion stalking its prey. “Perhaps if you had thought of her, she would not have been driven to impugn my honor to avoid marrying against her will.”

“I...she...”

“You would sacrifice her happiness for your greed,” he accused.

“You...you impertinent—!” Lord Perronet spluttered.

“Watch your tongue, my lord! Or should I say, Uncle?”

The man’s eyes widened.

“Why look so surprised? Isn’t that what you came here demanding, that I should marry your niece? Anwyl, maybe I should. She wanted me, after all, so there is that to consider. And you are a rich, powerful man.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Lord Perronet gasped.

“You seem to think I am capable of anything. Why not honorable marriage? Tell me, my lord, what might her dowry be?”

“It is—it doesn’t matter what it is! You will never see it!”

“This may be an appropriate time to point out that my own family is not insignificant,” Dylan said. “While I agree my father and grandfather were despicable monsters, my uncle and his sons are considered among the finest nobles in all of England. Baron DeLanyea is easily a match for you in powerful friends, as well as wealth. So you see, my haughty Norman, perhaps marriage to me is not to be considered a fate only slightly better than life in a secluded convent.

“Now, I ask you again, what is the lady’s dowry?”

Baron DeLanyea glanced at the entrance to the tower containing his solar, then back to the bread and ale before him as he broke the fast.

“God’s wounds, nerve-racking this is, and no mistake,” he muttered to his sons, who sat on either side of him.

“If he doesn’t part the man’s head from his body, it will be a miracle,” Griffydd observed.

“Then someone should go and make sure he doesn’t,” Trystan said, looking pointedly at his father.

“He won’t attack the man,” the baron said, although not without the merest hint of doubt in his voice. “He wouldn’t be that stupid.”

“He hasn’t proved to be very wise these days,” Griffydd remarked.

“That is true enough.”

Trystan stood abruptly. “Someone should see what they’re doing.”

“Sit down,” the baron ordered. “If we have to interfere, we will—but not unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

“He’ll make things worse, and hasn’t he done enough harm already?”

“He says he has not,” the baron reminded his younger son.

“I saw the way he looked at her,” Trystan replied. He looked at Griffydd. “You did, too. I know you spoke to him about his behavior.”

“And I thought he had taken heed.”

“He says he did,” the baron said. “He didn’t even talk to her at the banquet last night, did he?”

“That doesn’t mean he’s innocent,” Trystan charged.

“I know,” the baron replied. “But let us not be casting blame where it isn’t deserved.”

Suddenly, the older man straightened. “Shh! Someone’s coming from the solar now.”

All three watched expectantly as Lord Perronet strode out of the tower, through the hall and outside.

They exchanged puzzled glances.

“At least he’s not dead,” Griffydd offered.

“He looked angry, though,” Trystan noted warily. “What do you suppose—?”

They fell silent as Dylan appeared, his head bowed as if lost in thought, a scowl on his usually smiling face until he looked up and saw his relatives.

Then he grinned, but all realized there was no true joy in it. “Congratulate me, gentlemen. I am to be married.”

Griffydd and Trystan stared openmouthed as the baron slowly got to his feet. “What are you saying?”

“I am saying I am going to marry Genevieve Perronet. Today.”

The baron sat back down heavily.

“Why?” Griffydd demanded, eyeing him sternly. “You claim you did not dishonor her.”

Finally, a spark of mirth appeared in Dylan’s dark eyes. “Maybe it is because I am of an age to be married.”

“Are you certain this is a wise decision?” the baron asked. “Lord Perronet didn’t force—?”

“Him? Force me to do anything?” Dylan scoffed. “That would be something to see.”

“What about Lady Genevieve?” Trystan demanded.

“It was her idea, wasn’t it, although she went about letting me know that she wanted to be my wife in a rather unusual way,” he replied.

He turned to the baron. “You yourself heard her confess that she loved me, Uncle. Obviously, she is an intelligent woman and no one can deny her beauty.”

“You are absolutely certain about this?” the baron asked.

“Uncle, do you honestly believe I could be forced by any man—or woman, either—to marry against my will?”

“No,” the baron admitted.

“Griffydd?”

“No,” he agreed.

“Trystan?”

“No,” the youngest knight grudgingly concurred. His gaze mirrored the intensity of his father’s. “Do you love her?”

“Not yet, but I shall, beginning this very night. Now if you will all excuse me, I had better start arranging my wedding.”

He marched from the hall, whistling a jaunty tune as if he got married every day, leaving the other three feeling like men who had been expecting a pitched battle, only to find themselves sent home without so much as a glimpse of the enemy.

Below the table, Trystan’s hands balled into fists.

Genevieve stared at her uncle in disbelief. “My what?”

“Your wedding dress. Get it out and get it ready. You are going to be married today.”

“Married? To whom?”

He gave her a sour look. “To whom do you think? Sir Dylan DeLanyea, lord of Beaufort, that’s who.”

“But what of my betrothal to Lord Kirkheathe?”

“That is obviously at an end, thanks to you. I shall find some means to make amends. Maybe your cousin Elizabeth can be persuaded to marry him in your stead.”

“Uncle!”

Genevieve rose from her chair and faced him resolutely. “I admit I made a grievous error, but I will not compound it by marrying that man.”

“Oh, yes, you will!” her uncle replied harshly. “How dare you refuse? After what you did, you should be glad we’ve got a way out of it before your reputation is totally sullied. There will be rumors and gossip enough as it is. As for what Lord Kirkheathe might think, I don’t want to even consider. You should thank God I’m not sending you off without a shift to your name.”

“I would prefer that fate to marriage to Dylan DeLanyea.”

Her uncle looked at her as if she had gone mad. and clearly he thought she had. “You were in his bed naked, Genevieve!”

“To my everlasting regret. I would rather marry Lord Kirkheathe.”

“That’s impossible, and you know it! Marry DeLanyea, or so help me, I’ll send you to the most remote convent I can find and leave you there to rot!”

As she looked at his angry visage, she knew he would do exactly that. She would be exiled to an existence little better than a living death, with no husband and no possibility of children.

“Lord Petronet?”

Genevieve started and looked at the door, where the baron’s wife stood.

Lady Roanna was tall and slim, dressed in a simple gown of fine red wool girdled with a belt of soft beige leather. Her hair was covered by a red cap and white scarf.

She regarded them placidly, her pale, patient face showing signs of weariness, yet her voice, while soft, was as commanding as the baron’s.