Tempt Me With Kisses (29 page)

He couldn’t take his eyes off her as she politely greeted Lord Rhys, then directed him to sit at the center of the high table, the place of highest honor as befitted his rank.

He was to sit at Lord Rhys’s left, she gravely informed him. She came to stand beside him, while Cordelia went to Lord Rhys’s right. Father Rhodri would sit beside her.

As Caradoc waited for the priest to arrive and say the blessing, it was all he could do not to touch his lovely, exciting wife. Indeed, he lost the battle when she looked at him, her slightly curious expression seeming to ask if he remembered that morning, when they had been alone in the solar.

Aye, he did. The memories had tempted and tormented him while he listened to Rhys and even when he pondered all that Ganore had said.

He took her hand in his and squeezed lightly.

Father Rhodri came bustling into the hall, at once deferential because of their mighty guest, and yet pompous as always because he represented God. He smiled at Lord Rhys as if that alone conferred a blessing while Caradoc introduced him to the Welsh nobleman.

Then, after slowly raising his hands and pressing them together, he began to pray in his most sonorous tones, obviously with an eye to impressing Lord Rhys. “Oh God, His Son, and blessed St. David, look down on us mortals as we prepare to partake of Your generous bounty. We give You thanks for the fine leadership of this great nation of ours. Grant all here, both high and low, native and foreign, wisdom, mercy and
chastity
. Remind them that we are put on this earth to overcome our mortal coil, and the sins of the flesh—”

Caradoc cleared his throat. Loudly.

Father Rhodri’s eyes flew open. He glanced at Caradoc, who raised his brows and gave him a glare, silently ordering the man to cease such “graces” unless he wanted to follow Ganore out the gate.

The priest swallowed hard and resumed. “The sins of the flesh…”

Caradoc kept glaring, and Father Rhodri’s eyes cracked open a bit, to encounter his hostile gaze.

“Bl-bless our friends, oh God and smite—”

Caradoc coughed as if he had a rock in his throat.

Lord Rhys opened his eyes and looked around curiously, obviously wondering what was going on.

“I beg your pardon. I fear I am catching a cold,” Caradoc whispered by way of explanation.

Then he went back to glaring at Father Rhodri.

“Bless all here and the food before us. Amen,” the priest finished swiftly, his face red and his bearing much more honestly humble.

Satisfied, Caradoc slid a glance at Fiona as they sat. She looked as calm as she had that afternoon when Lord Rhys had arrived, and she did not meet her husband’s gaze.

Maybe she was thinking he had been rude again and acted improperly. Well, he did not regret anything except making her endure Father Rhodri’s rudeness for as long as she had.

Then, as the maidservants began to serve the meal under the watchful eye of Lowri—when she wasn’t staring at Rhys, for Ganore was not the only Welshwoman who thought the majestic older man a marvel—he suddenly felt his wife’s hand upon his thigh.
High
on his thigh.

He couldn’t have felt more shocked if she had suddenly stripped naked.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“I should have caught a cold sooner,” he quietly replied, covering her hand with his.

“It’s too bad you’re sick. Of course, I shall have to nurse you back to health,” she finished in a low, sultry tone that made him wish the meal was over.

When she moved her hand away, he brushed his fingers lightly over her thigh, keeping his face perfectly placid, as hers had been.

She stiffened, then relaxed. “My lord,” she murmured while apparently fascinated by the top of Jon-Bron’s head, “you had best move your hand. You will need it to eat.”

Unfortunately, she had a point. He could probably manage with one hand, but it would soon become obvious to anybody who cared to look that he was caressing his wife’s leg.

Reluctantly, he stopped, consoling himself with the thought that eventually, they would be alone.

Unfortunately, not only did the meal promise to take forever, Fiona clearly having exhorted Gwillym to extraordinary culinary exertion, but he knew Rhys would not retire without some kind of entertainment first.

“A pity it is your brother is not here,” Lord Rhys said to Caradoc when the meal was finally at an end. “I would like to hear him sing again. A very fine voice he has, I recall.”

Unlike me
, Caradoc thought grimly as he washed his hands in the basin Lowri set before him.

“Cordelia sings well, my lord,” he noted, putting aside his humiliation over this lack.

“Ah!” the man cried, turning eagerly to Cordelia. “Will you grace us with a song, my dear?”

“I would be happy to,” she said, flushing with pleasure.

Yet still she did not look at her brother.

“I have a musician who always travels with me. Cynvelin is a most excellent harpist,” Rhys declared. “He has won the
Eisteddfod
two years running now. I’m sure he will be delighted to accompany you. There must be a song you both know.”

Cordelia smiled, and Rhys signaled a man to come forward. A slender youth came forward carrying a fine-looking harp, obviously well cared for. He was tall and long-fingered, with an otherworldly look about his eyes that made Caradoc think of stories of men who were given magic musical gifts.

Cynvelin sat on the edge of the dais, then turned his gentle and intelligent brown eyes toward Cordelia.

She named a well known ballad about Tristan and Isolde. Cynvelin nodded, then put his hands on the strings as if they were the most delicate things in all creation.

While his sister sang, Caradoc simply let himself enjoy it. As the music filled the hall, it was as if all the troubles between them disappeared, rendered unimportant by the beauty of her voice and the music. She wasn’t his sister calling him names, or disobeying him, or treating him with disrespectful insolence. She was the voice and the song, blending together in wondrous union.

The last notes died away, and brought him back to the hall. Like everyone else, he stamped his feet and clapped his hands with approval while, flushed with pleasure, Cordelia returned to her seat.

“Marvelous,” Rhys declared. “There is nothing to equal a proud Welsh voice raised in song.”

Fiona rose abruptly.

Caradoc stared at her. Her eyes flashed with fiery determination and her back was straight with pride as she waited for everyone in the hall to fall silent and realize she was on her feet and waiting.

For what? She had put up with much, and more since Rhys had come. What the devil was she going to do, denounce them all?

Fearing disaster, he put his hands on the arms of his chair, prepared to rise and stop her.

Then she closed her eyes and began to sing.

He sat back with wonder as her smooth, honey-sweet voice filled the hall. Finer than Cordelia. Better than Connor. Rich and warm, full and perfect, the notes soared and dipped, powerful and then soft as a mother’s whisper to her baby, in a language he didn’t understand. She sang with no accompaniment, Cynvelin as stunned as them all, at the virtuosity of Fiona’s voice.

If his sister’s had been the union of voice and ballad, Fiona’s was the union of voice and song and feeling, for she imbued the words with such emotion, they seemed to explain his own. Although he did not understand the words, he knew it was a song of longing and desire, of hope and need—all the feelings that he had tried to conquer, only to know now, as he listened, that they were powerful and strong beyond conquest.

Then the longing ended, for it had been satisfied. He heard that in the joy and rapture in her voice, the trill of happiness, the pure bliss of pleasure.

Suddenly he felt as he had on their wedding night, and the morning after until, with a final, triumphant note, her song ended.

There was a moment of stupefied silence. Everyone in the hall must feel as he did, sharing her feelings, caught in the same web of sorrow and triumph.

To think he had no idea—none at all—that she could sing, let alone like that. That might have mollified even Ganore.

Lord Rhys began to clap. Around them, the hall burst into applause and shouts and stamps, from all except Cordelia. Her face burned red, and her hands didn’t move in her lap.

Unfair, Cordelia. Petty and unjust
.

“Wonderful, my lady,” Rhys said. “That was Gaelic, was it not?”

“Yes, my lord,” she replied as she faced him. “It is a song about Scotland, for I am as proud of my country as you are of yours.”

“You must come to my
Eisteddfod
.”

She gave him a haughty little smile and lifted her chin a bit. “But I am not Welsh, my lord. I am a Scot.”

“Married to a Welshman.”

“So while I am not good enough to be treated with courtesy for those things alone,” she said, her voice strong and proud and firm as the mountains, “once I prove that a fine voice for singing is not unique to the Welsh, apparently I am worthy of your regard. I should have been worthy of your respect simply because I was Caradoc’s wife, if for no personal reason, just as he is worthy of your respect because he is a noble lord. Indeed, he is worthy of respect for more than that—by virtue of his concern for his people that led him to marry for their sake rather than his own, and a hundred other things he does for them alone. There is not a more just, conscientious overlord in the land, and the people here should thank God for him every day and not take him for granted.”

She shot Cordelia a stern look. “
No one
should take him for granted. Now if you will excuse me, my lord, I believe I shall retire. All this
Welshness
is overwhelming for a poor little Scot like me.”

With that, she did not wait for a response but marched from the hall, leaving another stunned silence in her wake.

Caradoc wasn’t angry as he watched her go. He was delighted and prouder than he had ever been in his life, even the day he was knighted.

He turned to Rhys and made no effort to mask his proud pleasure. “As I told you, my lord, she has many qualities. Now if you will excuse me, I believe I shall retire, too.”

Chapter 14

C
aradoc had no idea what to expect when he opened the door to their bedchamber. Fiona standing there like an irate goddess? Fiona acting as if nothing was the matter? Fiona naked in bed, waiting for him?

A quick glance revealed that whatever Rhonwen had taken from the room, the bed had been untouched. The room was dimmer than usual, for the candlestand was gone, but he could see Fiona plainly enough.

She sat at her dressing table clad in her silken shift and combing her long auburn hair. The candle on the table cast a pool of golden light upon her face, and with her unbound hair and simple white shift, she looked like an angel.

By the saints, she was lovely, and as today had proven, an even more wonderful bride than he had assumed on that first day.

He wanted so much to kiss her and touch her, but first he
must
speak of what had happened tonight. “Why did you not tell me that you could sing?”

Although she kept combing, her shoulders tensed. “You never asked.”

He had not meant to sound critical, but he must have. Damn his stupid tongue and awkward manner.

Yet he would try again. “You might have told me anyway.” He tried to make a joke. “I could have died of shock.”

“You didn’t.”

She still sounded angry, but perhaps not quite so much. “Fiona, I was proud of you today.”

“Because I can sing.”

“Not just for that,” he protested as he took the comb and set it down. Gently taking her hands in his, he pulled her to her feet to look into her face. “Before that. Because you stood your ground like a warrior and did not let Rhys snub you. Because you will not be intimidated by him, or Cordelia, or anyone, including me. Because you showed Lord Rhys better than I ever could with a thousand words why I am not, and should not, be ashamed of my foreign wife.”

“Because I can sing,” she repeated, and he heard the distress beneath her words. “I am not pleased to think that if the people here now agree with your choice of bride, it is only because of that. That is not how I wish to earn their good regard. I wanted to show them that I could be a lady by my acts, if not by birth.”

“If they do not yet, as I do, at least your voice is a beginning,” he said softly. “But your music is not why you made me glad that I had married you. I was glad the day you came, and more the night we wed. I have been glad ever since, in many ways. But I am not good with words, Fiona, and didn’t know how to tell you.”

“Now you have,” she whispered, smiling with such warmth and happiness, the world seemed newly made and fresh, with all the past pain and insecurity taken away.

She leaned against him, and never had he felt so wanted, not even when she had made love to him. “Caradoc, I do not need flowery speeches or poetic explanations. You have made me happier than I had ever hoped. You even made me feel beautiful.”