Margaret Moore - A Warrior's Passion

Even at this distance, Seona could see Lisid’s petulant frown as she tossed her lovely head before hurrying away, leading a reluctant Fionn by the hand.

“I was helping Lisid with her children,” Seona explained, “and Sir Griffydd came to wash.

“It was a good thing,” she went on, looking at Naoghas as much as her father, “for Fionn fell in the stream and might have drowned if Sir Griffydd had not rescued him.”

“Is this so?” Diarmad cried. “Then it is well you were here. You have my thanks, DeLanyea.”

“And mine,” Naoghas said, albeit with less than good grace. “I am Lisid’s husband,” he added with a slightly belligerent tone, for Naoghas was a fiercely jealous man.

Seona wondered what Sir Griffydd made of him. Unfortunately, she could get no clue at all to that, or anything else the man might be thinking as he bowed his head in greeting.

“Our guest still has not yet had a chance to perform his ablutions,” Seona said, anxious to get away from her slyly grinning father and his men, as well as the confusing, infuriating, compelling Griffydd DeLanyea.

“Oh?” Diarmad responded, as if it were inconceivable that a man would want to wash.

“Perhaps we should leave him to do so in peace.”

“I would appreciate that,” the Welshman said evenly.

“I was thinking we should hunt this morning, while the weather is so fine,” her father remarked. “Plenty of time to talk of trade later.”

“If you wish,” DeLanyea replied.

“Good, good!”

“Unfortunately, I had not thought to bring my hunting weapons.”

“We will give you spears and one of our finest horses,” Diarmad offered.

Griffydd DeLanyea laid a hand on his breast and bowed. “I am honored by your generosity.”

Diarmad cleared his throat loudly. “I, um, am pleased to let you have the loan of them.”

Seona started to walk away, vaguely attempting to think of ways to occupy her time while the men were hunting. She hoped Griffydd DeLanyea would say nothing to her father about last night. She prayed she could trust him to keep silent.

Thankfully, the fleeting expression of concern she had seen on his face before her father had arrived made her think her hopes were not unfounded.

In the meantime, she could help Lisid with the dying of cloth, or Maeve with baking bread, or assist in the drying of the day’s catch—

“Seona!” her father barked.

She halted abruptly and turned to face her suddenly irate parent. “I have not given you permission to go.”

Blushing again, she wondered what he was doing, beyond humiliating her by treating her like a child.

“If you will excuse me, Father, Sir Griffydd,” she said, trying to be as inscrutable as the Welshman as she dipped her head in a bow, “I have many things to do.”

“Go to my hall and wait for me,” her father ordered, waving her away as if she were one of his dogs.

Or perhaps not even as important as that.

Griffydd didn’t watch Seona leave. Instead, he kept his attention on his host and Lisid’s husband.

He had to keep his wits about him. He had to remember that he was here to conclude a trade agreement between his father and MacMurdoch, not to interfere in the man’s family.

It should not matter a whit to him how Diarmad treated Seona. He should not have implied he would come between her and her father, even if the man did speak to her as if she were his servant, or a slave.

Perhaps this was all part of the plan. Maybe they were trying to make him feel sympathy for her. Despite her protestations, it might even be that the only reason she had spoken to him this morning was because she had failed in her objective to seduce him in order to force a marriage, and she didn’t want her father to know that.

Clearly, he dare not let down his guard against her, despite the proud, pleading look on her face when she asked him to keep silent, or the equally proud resentment that flashed in her eyes when her father sent her away so rudely.

“Well, a fine day for stag hunting it is, and no mistake,” Diarmad declared. “I’ll leave you now to wash, and we shall meet in my hall to break the fast.”

Griffydd bowed in acknowledgment while Diarmad strode away, followed by his silent warriors, including Naoghas, who gave Griffydd a hostile glance before he disappeared through the trees.

Although Griffydd had saved the man’s son, he was a foreigner, a Welshman with Norman blood in this land of Gall-Gaidheal and Scot. That could be cause for animosity.

No warrior of any discernment would doubt that. Griffydd DeLanyea was well-trained and a good fighter, so jealousy was always a possibility.

Or perhaps it was another type of jealousy that raised Naoghas’s animosity.

The vision of Seona in a passionate embrace with the dark-haired, stocky, morose Naoghas sent a cascade of emotions pouring through Griffydd, none of them good. Jealousy, anger, hatred—things he had not felt so strongly in his life.

Then he remembered the beauteous Lisid, and her grateful smiles.

He rubbed his forehead with frustrated dismay. Of course, the man was jealous of his wife—yet he had thought of Seona first. He must be going mad!

Griffydd turned on his heel and in one long stride reached the stream. He yanked off his tunic and threw it to the ground, then knelt on the bank and splashed his face with the frigid water.

It did nothing to cool the fires burning within him.

He sat back on his haunches and stared unseeing across the stream at the rocky hill on the other side, willing himself to regain his self-control. To put Seona MacMurdoch out of his mind.

It was a good thing Dylan wasn’t here, he reflected sourly. His foster brother always claimed Griffydd had a stone where his heart ought to be, and surely the only reason women went with him was because they surmised he was rock hard elsewhere, too.

Griffydd, of course, never rose to the bait of Dylan’s teasing, nor did he reveal how much his foster brother’s words disturbed him. He had a heart, he knew—did he not love his parents, who were the finest people in England? Did he not love his home, his country, his siblings—aye, and Dylan, too? It was just not his way to proclaim his feelings to any and all who would listen.

Nor did he get his women pregnant.

Dylan thought that odd, until one of Griffydd’s lovers confided that Griffydd always withdrew. He found it incredulous that Griffydd would rob himself of that great delight. After all, what did it matter if the woman got with child? No shame to a Welshwoman or the child, and none to him, if he did his duty and provided for them.

Dylan would never understand. Love was not a game or sport to Griffydd. A woman’s heart was not some kind of toy, and a child simply another possession. A woman’s love and the birth of a child brought with them duty and responsibility, as well as happiness.

Griffydd shook his damp hair like a dog, as if he could rid his mind of his troubles like droplets of water.

Vowing to keep his mind only on matters of business, and not on confusing, disturbing women, or their families and their friends, Griffydd drew on his tunic and marched grimly back to his quarters.

Aghast, Seona stared at her father incredulously as she faced him in the empty hall.

“Don’t look at me like I asked you to cut off a finger,” her father growled.

“I will not take them!” she muttered through clenched teeth, glancing at the pile of clothing on the table beside him. “I did what you asked of me last night, but I will not go to Griffydd DeLanyea’s quarters again! It would not be seemly.”

“You will if I order you to!” her father commanded.