Margaret Moore - A Warrior's Passion

“Griffydd.”

She stared at him a moment, befuddled.

“Griffydd,” he repeated. “You may use my name, if you would like.”

“Griffydd,” she amended.

He shifted his weight a little and cocked his head as he continued to regard her. “If I am not at risk physically, I wonder how else I might be in jeopardy?”

She shrugged her slender shoulders, then gave him a shrewd look. “I believe from what you said in the hall, you already know.” She hesitated, suddenly unsure what else she should say.

But she was determined to say something in her own defense.

“If my father implies that I am in any way a part of this trading pact,” she averred, “he does so without my knowledge.”

Griffydd’s eyes widened slightly. “Without your knowledge?”

“Yes,” she answered with a nod.

“You have the Sight, then?”

She gave him a puzzled look. “No.”

“Are you a witch?”

“Certainly not! I am a Christian, like you.”

“I am relieved to hear it, and yet confused, too.”

Seona didn’t know what to make of him. “I have spoken clearly enough.”

“But what explanation have you?” he asked meditatively.

“Have I for what?” she demanded, her frustration with his enigmatic pronouncements growing.

“You would warn me against something of which you claim to be ignorant.”

She flushed hotly. “Surely you can guess what I meant,” she said. “I do not want to be a part of any offers my father might make.”

“I prefer not to make assumptions, of any kind,” he replied, coming closer.

In a moment, he was near enough for her to reach out and touch and she found that, despite her annoyance, her mouth had suddenly turned as dry as a salted herring.

“So, you do not approve of your father using you?”

She nodded wordlessly.

“Is this a general principle by which you live, or is it that you do not approve of me?”

“It has nothing to do with you.”

He raised a quizzical eyebrow. “I wonder if I should be pleased by that response, or not?”

“I do not seek to insult you, or flatter you, either,” she replied firmly. “I want you to understand that, regardless of anything my father might say, I do not consider my duties to extend beyond the honorable bounds of hospitality.”

“I see,” the Welshman murmured, gazing at her with the merest hint of a smile on his face. “I suppose what you are saying means that you do not intend to stay the night with me?”

“No!”

“I would have sent you away anyway,” he replied solemnly. “Being a nobleman has certain responsibilities, too, especially when one is a guest. I would never assume that I would be welcomed into the bed of my host’s daughter—although I must confess I have never been so tempted to forget the bounds of courtesy.”

She swallowed hard, very aware that he was gazing at her face, and that she was no beauty. His words might be only empty flattery, and yet at his softly spoken compliment, heat poured through every limb.

She also knew she was smiling like a ninny, knew she must look besotted, but she couldn’t help it. No man’s words had ever meant so much to her—and surely the sincere approval she saw in his eyes could not be a trick.

He gently took hold of her shoulders and drew her close, bending lower. “Your scruples do you credit, Seona. Beautiful, beautiful Seona.”

The moment his lips touched hers, she seemed to melt like wax in a molten flame. She could no more have turned away from his kiss than she could have willed the planets to stop their circling of the earth.

One of his hands brushed through her hair as the other stroked her back. Willingly, eagerly, she leaned toward him and returned his passionate kiss. His cloak opened and she splayed her hands on his broad chest, feeling it rise and lower beneath her outstretched palms.

With growing urgency, his mouth moved over hers and when his tongue pressed against her sealed lips, she answered his silent request, parting them to let his tongue slide into her warm and waiting mouth.

A low moan escaped her as he clasped her to him as if he would meld them together like beings made of clay.

Then, suddenly, he stopped.

Gasping, uncertain, she looked at him questioningly, her lips still tingling from his kiss.

Griffydd drew a ragged breath and pushed her away, astonished at the desire surging through him. He had never felt like this. Never! Something had to be wrong with him—or with her.

“Have you bewitched me?” he demanded. “Have you put some kind of spell upon me?”

“What…what do you mean?” she asked in a whisper.

“As tempting as the thought of sharing my bed with you may be, I am an honorable man, and I will not be seduced by my host’s daughter.”

“I am not seducing you!”

His hands curled into angry fists at his side and he fought to control his raging temper. Diarmad must have ordered her to escort him here as part of a dastardly scheme to force a wedding between them and therefore an alliance between his father and the Gall-Gaidheal. “Where is the jealous suitor? Or will it be your irate father who is supposed to burst in and accuse me of dishonoring you?”

She stared at him in disbelief at his accusations and the sudden change in his manner.

“For a woman who claims she does not agree with her father’s strategy, you seemed very eager to give yourself to me,” he continued, wrapping the cloak about himself again. “Or perhaps that kiss was only to whet my appetite?

“Unfortunately for you, his plan will not succeed. Although sleeping with you would be a serious breach of courtesy, to the Welsh making love before marriage is not enough to extort a betrothal.”

“No! No— you kissed me! ” she protested, dismayed by his suspicion.

“Why did you linger here at this hour of the night? And such enthusiasm to voice your honorable honesty!” he replied sarcastically. “Very clever and very crafty, Seona. Perhaps you think I am feebleminded not to see exactly what kind of trap this is? My father warned me about Diarmad MacMurdoch. It is to be regretted that he didn’t give me similar warnings about you.”

“Because there were no warnings to be given!” she retorted, angered by his implications. “I meant what I said. I wanted you to know that I have no hand in any of my father’s scheming.”

“No?” Griffydd demanded, his cold, skeptical gaze wounding her more than a dagger might have done. “Then what plan of your own were you hatching?”

“None!” she cried, glaring at him and hating him for not believing her. “This is to be the thanks I get for trying to be honest with you?”

She thought of the look in his eyes when he called her beautiful and marveled at her gullibility. “I should have realized you were not to be trusted—”

“ I am not to be trusted? If there is duplicity here, look to yourself!”

“I am not the one spouting lies!” she replied, turning on her heel to leave.

He grabbed her arm to halt her progress and came to stand before her.

“I am an honest man, but that does not mean I am a fool. Now tell me what lies I have told,” Griffydd commanded with more angry animosity than even his own parents would have suspected he possessed.

But angry he was, and hurt and upset. He had been tricked by a lovely woman, a woman he still desired so much that, despite her deceit, it was all he could do not to carry her to his bed.

He must be going mad, driven slowly insane by Diarmad MacMurdoch and his desirable daughter, who stood defiantly before him, proud as a queen, bold as an Amazon.

“Take your hands from me!” she ordered scornfully.