Tempt Me With Kisses (3 page)

“Are you forgetting to whom you speak?” he asked, his voice a rumble as he came around the table and slowly circled her. “I am not some shepherd, Fiona MacDougal, discussing the price of wool. I am Lord Caradoc of Llanstephan, baron of the marches, knight of the realm.”

He paused in front of her and leaned forward and his voice became a low growl as he whispered in her ear. “I do not take very kindly to ultimatums.”

She did not avert her steadfast, green-eyed gaze. She did not wrinkle her nose as if he smelled. She did not move at all.

Until she swallowed. Hard.

A brazen, bold woman indeed, but he took a great deal of satisfaction in that swallow. He glanced down at the smooth curve of her jaw where it met her neck and fought a strong, unbidden urge to press his lips there.

Her body and her bounty. A way to pay his taxes and keep his home. Money that would provide a dowry for Cordelia, too, so she could have some choice in a husband. Connor would even be absolved from the need to raise funds, and although he didn’t think his younger brother deserved absolution, the notion was tempting nonetheless.

Her body was tempting, too. Lithe and supple, slender and shapely—a man could do much worse.

What would she be like in his bed? Would she be as bold and forthright as she was now, or would she become shy and uncertain?

His blood quickened with these thoughts, until the other part of him—the sensible, rational part—wondered what kind of wife she would make the rest of the time.

Still she regarded him questioningly, waiting for his answer. Then the expression in her eyes suddenly shifted, to one not quite so certain.

She looked vulnerable. Or … lonely.

Alone she was, he realized, for alone she had arrived, except for men paid to escort her. He, too, was alone even when surrounded by all the people here. It had always been thus for him.

His gaze drifted lower, past the throbbing pulse in her neck to her breasts, rising and falling with her breathing.

This bold, astonishing woman wanted to be his wife. Would the daughter of a wealthy man, no doubt carefully raised, understand
all
that she was asking for?

He would show her.

He tugged her into his arms and claimed her mouth.

Hot hunger exploded in him. Desire surged and threatened to swamp his senses at the taste and touch of her.

By the saints, he wanted her. Now. Completely. Her legs around him, holding him tight as he thrust inside her. Her anxious moans of yearning sounding in his ears. Her lips crushed beneath his, her breasts against his chest as he took her.

When she wrapped her arms about his neck and pressed her body against his, returning his kiss with equal and insistent passion, he thought he would die if he did not have her.

Was this how it was for Connor and Dafydd when a woman wanted them? If so, he had not envied them nearly enough.

His mouth still locked on hers, he pushed her back until she met the table and could go no farther. He frantically began bunching the soft wool of her gown into his hand, the other splayed against her back, holding her as close as he could. His mouth left hers to slide along her smooth and slender neck. Small sounds of need vibrated in her throat as he kissed lower, and lower still.

She put her hands on his chest and shoved him back.

“We are not married yet,” she said, panting, her eyes flashing fires of protest and her lips slightly swollen. “Indeed, my lord—and I do know
exactly
who you are—I do not even know if you are agreeable.”

His chest heaving, his whole body ready and anxious to take hers, he stepped forward. She wanted him. He felt her need and desire coursing through her hot and willing body.

She held him back, her lips a firm hard line of decision. “No more until we are married. And you have not yet given me your answer, my lord.”

Was this coy refusal after that passionate kiss some kind of game?

If it was a game she wanted, it would be a game she got.

He smiled slowly, as Connor did when he sought to tease a woman into bed. He may not have the experience or the charm of his younger brother, but he had always been a studious boy. Now he would find out how much Connor the fair and winning had unknowingly taught him. “I will have to sleep on it.”

Her eyes widened with her surprise, and her full lips parted.

He had taken her aback. Good.

Then her eyes narrowed and that firm resolve returned to her face as she shook her head. “No, my lord. You must decide now. If the answer is no, I will not stay.”

So, he had not learned the lessons Connor could teach, not if this bold, insolent creature could so swiftly resume her former manner and ignore what he said about ultimatums to give him another.

No game, this, then, but a haggling in the marketplace. “Three thousand marks, your dowry?” he demanded.

She nodded.

“I want to see it and be sure of its value. I trust it is in the wagons?”

“You will find jewelry, wine from France, fine cloth from Italy, Irish silver and Flemish gold. Also five hundred marks in silver coin.”

He tilted his head to study her. “You must be very trusting, Fiona MacDougal, to bring that here and let your escort go.”

“If I doubted that you were an honorable and honest man, Lord Caradoc of Llanstephan, I wouldn’t have.”

Shocked again and undeniably delighted, he nearly grinned like a jester. A compliment was a rare thing in his life. Even his own parents … but he would not think of them now. He had to deal with the astonishing Fiona MacDougal, whose naked body he could so easily imagine pressed against his own in the throes of passion. “I would like to see what is in the wagons.”

“Certainly, my lord,” she said briskly.

She started toward the door, and he followed her just as swiftly. His gaze strayed to the luscious curves of her hips and rounded bottom marching so purposefully before him.

She had offered herself to him. Along with her money. In exchange for his title and the status that went with it.

A trade. A bargain. A sale.

A way out of his troubles.

They passed Dafydd and the servants who were still lingering, as well as elderly pinch-faced Ganore peering out from the kitchen corridor. They continued into the courtyard, which also seemed rather more crowded than it should be.

Big, brawny, black-haired Jon-Bron, his garrison commander, sat outside the barracks apparently polishing his sword. Jon’s younger brother, Emlyn-Bron, the sergeant at arms, also big, brawny and dark, likewise supposedly examined a halter. A careful, fastidious man by nature, this might not have been so unusual, except that he wasn’t usually quite so slow about it.

Their youngest brother, Bran-Bron, and the only one of the three with light brown hair, was hanging about the kitchen pretending to converse with his troop of bowmen. From the snatches of conversation Caradoc overheard, it was clear none of them were paying any attention whatsoever to what anybody else said. Meanwhile, the scullery maids were busily fetching what looked to be enough water to wash the whole castle top to bottom.

Eifion, the village reeve, must have got wind of the visitor, too, for now he stood near the gate, his long, thin frame in a long gray tunic.

Caradoc subdued a scowl, although at least their curiosity was normal, unlike so much this day.

Glancing at him, Fiona threw back the covering on the first wagon, revealing several barrels with markings on them. “This is the wine. Are you familiar with Bordeaux wine?”

“I prefer ale.”

In truth he hadn’t been able to afford wine in years, and never anything but English wine, which tended to be bitter and unpleasant.

She let the flap fall, then went on to the next wagon. “In these chests are the fabrics, the silver plate, and the coins are in that smaller box.”

“What is in the third wagon?”

“My personal things.”

His brow lowered with suspicion. “You have that many clothes?”

She came close to him and smiled a secretive, seductive little smile that made him think she could give lessons to Connor, for he felt the warmth of it along every limb of his body. “There are fine linens and other things to make a bedchamber comfortable and inviting.”

His chest constricted, like a landed fish struggling to breathe.

“So, my lord, what is your answer? Will we wed, or not?”

Every person in the courtyard had heard her question. He didn’t see Ganore; nevertheless, he was sure she was also watching and listening somewhere, praying to God to strike the Scottish heathen witch dead. He could almost feel her gaze searing his flesh.

Other noblemen would think he had no proper, lordly pride. His own people would balk at a Scotswoman becoming the chatelaine of his castle.

As for Cordelia, he could imagine how she would react to this proposal. A storm at sea, with waves as high as a mountain, would probably be calmer.

But as he looked at Fiona MacDougal, so bold, so confident, so tempting and so rich, he knew there was really only one answer he could give unless he wanted to lose the castle that was his home and his responsibility. “I will.”

A murmur of both surprise and discontent began in the courtyard. If Fiona heard the mutterings, or understood what they meant, she made no sign.

Nor did she smile, or even look relieved. She seemed perfectly, utterly calm. “When?”

Ignoring her lack of reaction, because after all this was but a bargain concluded, he mused a moment. “Tomorrow we have to gather my flocks for the washing before the shearing. We can marry between the washing and shearing—the day after tomorrow.”

She nodded, once, then stuck out her hand expectantly. He looked down at it, then back at her.

“We are striking a bargain, my lord, are we not?” she inquired.

“Ah.” Indeed they were. He slapped his palm against hers, and thus they were betrothed.

Their gazes met and held for a long moment as he wondered what she was thinking.

And feeling.

He simply could not tell, and once more envy for others’ understanding of women nipped at him. If only one of his tutors had been able to instruct him on that subject!

“I will supervise the unloading of the wagons,” she said, breaking the silence, “if you will tell me where the goods should be put, and where I may sleep.”

“Although I trust everyone in the castle,” he answered just as briskly, “the silver and gold should go in my solar, where it can be safely locked away. The cloth will go in the storeroom. As for where you will sleep…” He thought of how she looked after they had kissed, and decided to try to gain the upper hand, at least in one way. He dropped his voice to a low, intimate purr. “In my bedchamber.”

She flushed, and he felt a surge of triumph. Maybe he didn’t need instruction, after all.

Then indignation grew in her green eyes. “My lord, need I remind you—”

“That we are not yet wed?” He raked her with his gaze, only partly to discomfort her. He enjoyed his perusal of her shapely figure too much for it to be just that. “I will sleep in the barracks until we are.”

Her blush deepened. “Oh. Very well, then.”

Again he felt a rush of restored pride at her discomfort and could not resist pressing his advantage. “I intend to be very well married, indeed.”

His gaze locked onto hers, trying to make her silently acknowledge that he was her master.

A movement from the barracks caught his attention, and he half turned. Jon-Bron had dropped the clay vessel of polish.

As he quickly bent to retrieve it, Caradoc scanned the courtyard. Emlyn-Bron still examined the halter as if his eyes were going, while Bran-Bron and his bowmen huddled together in intense discussion. The scullery maids stood by the well, their mouths moving as quickly as baby birds hungry for a worm.

When he turned back, her eyes focused on his with the intensity of a bowman sighting a difficult target.

“I had best tell Father Rhodri about the wedding. The chapel is outside the castle in the village,” he said, weary of being a spectacle, and this silent, silly game of staring had gone on quite long enough. Surely he had made his point.

“There is no need to tell anybody else,” he concluded as he swiveled on his heel. “They already know.”

Chapter 2

F
iona stood on the threshold of Caradoc’s bedchamber, her hands on her hips and her cloak thrown back over her shoulders. Behind her, grooms and stable boys carried her baggage from the third cart, two large chests and two smaller. The smaller ones were the heaviest, the large ones awkward to hold.

She should not make them wait overlong with their burdens. Nevertheless, she took a moment to survey the small chamber she would soon be sharing with Caradoc of Llanstephan.

And the bed she would be sharing with him, too. Where she would be in his arms, making love.

Fiona put her fingers to her lips and lived again the sensation of his kiss. Never had an embrace aroused such fire and burning need, not even when she had foolishly believed herself in love.

But surely never had a man possessed such a potent combination of attraction and danger as Caradoc of Llanstephan. When he looked at her, heat and dread seemed to blossom in equal measure. From the first moment today, part of her yearned for him to sweep her into his arms and caress her until her cries echoed off the ancient stone walls of this castle. Another part warned that he was not the man she had expected, and he was certainly no longer the boy she had admired from afar.