Margaret Moore - A Warrior's Passion

He obeyed at once. “What lies have I told?” he demanded again.

Her lip curled and passionate anger burned in her large eyes, although her tone was coolly sarcastic. “Since I am so tempting, sir, I had best leave you to your rest. Sleep well.”

With that, she marched haughtily out the door.

After she had gone, Griffydd stood motionless for a long time before he raked his trembling hand through his hair.

Even now, he half expected a gang of Gall-Gaidheal led by a belligerent Diarmad to charge into his quarters and demand that he wed Seona or die.

He had been trapped like the most naive dupe in Britain.

Then he stared at his quivering fingers as if they belonged to somebody else. Indeed, he almost felt they must.

His was the steady hand. He never trembled, not with fear or longing or excitement.

Dylan did. And Dylan was the lover, never without a woman. Not him.

Yet Griffydd knew he had acted as impulsively as Dylan ever had. At the time, he had given no thought to the ramifications of kissing Seona MacMurdoch.

He had acted with his heart, not his head.

Which was wrong. And weak. And foolish. Most of all, foolish.

Her presence in his quarters had to be part of a strategy, and her apparent sincerity only a trick.

Despite Seona’s denials, she must have been a willing participant in the plan. After all, no one had shoved her through the door or asked her to stay.

Griffydd slowly drew his sword from its scabbard. With deliberate movements he twisted it to and fro until his hand grew steady again.

Until he was master of himself again.

Disgusted with his own gullibility, Griffydd told himself he would think only of the trade pact. He would ignore Seona MacMurdoch, with her fascinating face, spirited manner and huge brown eyes.

She had deceived him once, and he would not let that happen again.

Seona came to a halt on top of the rise overlooking the harbor of Dunloch near the ruined broch. The cold air blew through her loose dress and whipped her hair about her face. It howled through the gaps in the stones of the ancient tower like the keening of mourning women before heading toward the fortress and village below. In the village, a few flickering lights occasionally shone out into the darkness of the night. The sound of drunken singing rose from her father’s hall, telling her that her father was in a jovial mood, obviously anticipating a considerable profit from his pact with the Welshman’s family.

Wrapping her arms about herself for warmth, her gaze moved to the boundless ocean, its shimmering water lit by the pale moon.

If only she could sail away from here, or run away to some place where she could be free—of her duties, of her father, of his constant disapproval, of his plans and schemes.

But where could she go, a lone woman with no friends and no money? Her brothers would send her home, too afraid of losing command of their villages if they offended their father to shelter her. No other chieftain would want to risk his wrath, either, because Diarmad MacMurdoch commanded a large fleet. He had the ships, the men and the arms, as well as the money for more, if he chose to punish them.

Nor could she count on sanctuary in a holy place. The priests had endured many attacks over the years from the Norsemen and were all too grateful for Diarmad MacMurdoch’s protection. They would certainly tell him where she was, if nothing else, and then her father would come for her. She could envision him dragging her out of a chapel, the priests helpless to stop him.

Now she had made things even worse.

She had been a fool, a simpleton so moved by her attraction to a handsome stranger that she had been totally humiliated while trying to do good.

Yet whose fault was that, really? If she were in his place, what would she make of such a visit and her willing kiss?

She should be glad he had been angry, otherwise who could say what more she might have done?

At least all that had resulted was anger on both sides, and grave suspicion on his.

She smiled sardonically. Considering her father’s ability to get the best of men with whom he bargained, Griffydd DeLanyea should be thankful that she had roused his distrust. Surely now he would be twice as wary…

She gasped and her hand flew to her lips. What if he told her father what had happened in his quarters to rouse that mistrust?

Her father didn’t like her as it was. Surely he would consider anything that interfered with his trade negotiations unforgivable.

This time, she might finally incur such wrath that the consequences would be more than having to listen to him berate her.

Maybe he would take away her little house. It had been very difficult to persuade him to let her live in solitude so that she did not have to endure gossip and speculation.

Perhaps he would send her to a convent. He had threatened to do so countless times; this might finally drive him to do it.

Seona shivered as she made her decision.

Somehow, she would have to insure that Griffydd DeLanyea did not tell her father what had happened in the guest quarters tonight. No matter how much more humiliating it would be to have to speak with the Welshman again, she simply could not risk the alternatives.

As the light of early morning struggled through the low clouds, Griffydd groggily trudged through the spruce trees toward the stream near his quarters. Clad in breeches, plain tunic and boots, his cloak slung over his shoulder, he could hear the water babbling like the sly laughter of sprites making sport of him.

He frowned darkly. He had lain awake for a long time last night deciding how best to proceed with the negotiations, even as he had tried not to contemplate Seona. Or the kiss they had shared. Or the softness in her eyes as she had looked at him, and the way that tender, yearning expression had seemed to touch his soul.

Diarmad MacMurdoch was a despicable old villain, setting his daughter as a trap and, Griffydd knew, only a fool would continue to be a victim of her allure.

He paused a moment and drew in a breath of the piney air. The clouds looked to be moving off and the air was bracingly cool for spring. In the near distance, the stream gurgled on.

He sighed deeply and rotated his aching neck. Almost groaning aloud, he hoped a wash in the cold water would help clear his befuddled head.

He came out of the trees and immediately halted at the sight that met his eyes.

There, beside the stream a short distance away, a shaft of sunlight illuminated Diarmad’s daughter as she cradled an infant in her arms.

In a plain gown as green as the trees around him, Seona regarded the babe she held with downcast eyes. Her thick, magnificent hair was drawn away from her face to fall in two twisted coils down her back, glowing in the early morning sunlight like a halo. He had never seen anything quite so breathtaking, except perhaps his first glimpse of Seona MacMurdoch’s half eager, half questioning eyes.

She looked like a Madonna with child, and the sight brought such a longing to Griffydd that it seemed a lump the size of the Stone of Scone had suddenly lodged in his throat.

It took him another moment to realize she and the baby were not alone. Another young woman squatted a short distance away, washing a garment in the fast-moving and no doubt chilly stream. She was, he saw at once, what other men would call beautiful, with a fine profile and long slender neck emphasized by her dark hair braided about her head. As she worked briskly, it was evident her body was shapely, too.

A little boy played beside her with a stick in the water, and the woman paused to admonish him, a petulant frown on her face. Beautiful, perhaps, but it was the patient smile on Seona’s visage as she called the lad to her side that appealed to him more.