Tempt Me With Kisses (4 page)

She had been ten years old the first time she had seen Caradoc. He had been looking out the solar window. She had waved at the solitary youth with black, curling hair, straight nose and prominent cheekbones. He had started and flashed a shy, pleased smile before ducking out of sight.

For the sake of that smile, she had shadowed him afterward, trying to see him smile again. A merchant’s daughter, she hadn’t dared approach him, but had watched and waited. She had never seen another smile on Caradoc’s face, not then or during any of the other visits she made with her father.

More appealing than his handsome looks, though, had been his good temperament. Caradoc the lad had been quiet and reasonable, unlike his brother, who was hot-tempered and spoiled.

Now Caradoc’s dark, wavy hair brushed his shoulders and his thick black beard obscured most of his face, making him look more like a wild barbarian than a nobleman. His brilliant, sapphire blue eyes were still a startling and fascinating contrast to his dark complexion, but they burned with a searching intensity that seemed to demand her acknowledgment that he was master here.

Of everything, even a woman who had only just arrived.

A muffled grunt reminded her that the servants were holding heavy burdens. Entering the chamber, she gestured for them to bring the chests inside.

“The largest one should go at the foot of the bed,” she ordered, “and the other big one against the wall opposite the window. Set the smaller chests on the bed, please.”

It was large, that bed, with heavy wooden posts and dingy curtains open to reveal tousled coverings, as if Caradoc had risen a short time ago. He could not have, for it was too late in the day, so that suggested the maidservants had not yet been here to tidy, a notion Fiona found rather shocking. More surprising, she could see moth holes in the blanket.

Apart from the bed, there was very little furniture. A cheap candle stand, empty of candles, stood near the bed and there was no sign that any candles had burned there recently. A chair, very plain and very small for a man of his size, was by the window. It was covered in dust, leading her to suspect Caradoc never actually sat there. The narrow window had no covering or linen shutter of any kind, and stains on the wall told her the roof leaked. A battered chest in one corner completed the simple furnishings.

If she had needed more proof of Caradoc’s poverty, here it was.

Her gaze returned to the messy bed. She doubted he usually slept there alone. He was too young, too virile and even with that hair and beard, too handsome. Plus, he was half Welsh, and the Welsh were not known for chastity.

She told herself it didn’t matter if Caradoc had entertained half the female population of Wales in that bed. She was going to be a lord’s wife, and far away from Iain MacLachlann. That was what was important. That was why she had returned, despite the passing years and all that had happened to her.

As for those bed linens, she would replace them at once with sheets she had brought from Dunburn.

After the servants had done as she commanded, they stood looking at her doubtfully, as if they were trying to determine whether she was fish or fowl or something else entirely.

“Thank you. You may go.”

The men and boys nodded and filed out, leaving her alone.

She removed her cloak and laid it across the chest at the foot of the bed. She wasn’t surprised they didn’t know what to make of her. She was a stranger. She was going to marry their overlord, which would give her power over them, and they had never set eyes on her before.

She was also a foreigner. Llanstephan was a small place, with fewer people than her home of Dunburn, so it wasn’t hard to guess that the servants and townfolk would be less than delighted by Caradoc’s decision.

In spite of her trepidation, her whole body throbbed with the memory of Caradoc standing in his solar. His barbaric hair. His piercing eyes. His powerful body. His lean, strong hands.

His loneliness.

Loneliness—an odd word to intrude on her thoughts as she contemplated the lord of an estate, yet once there, it would not leave.

Was that what she had sensed below the surface of his blue eyes even when he was a boy, the ache of a heart as lonely as hers? Was that why she had been so drawn to him that first day long ago?

She had been lonely all her life. Too well-to-do to fit in with the village girls, not of noble rank to be the acquaintance of the girls of quality, she had inhabited a heaven of material plenty, but a purgatory of solitude. She had desperately yearned for friends and companions, and many a time she had longed to be poor enough to play with the peasant girls.

Since that had not happened, she had found refuge in stories she made up, especially the one about a boy in a tower. He was an enchanted prince and he fell in love with her after she released him from his tower prison. As she had grown up, so had he, becoming a man with dark hair and brilliant blue eyes, broad shoulders and long, strong legs—like Caradoc. She had imagined all this but never the waves of physical longing he inspired.

How could she, when she had never felt anything like that in her life?

Suddenly, an extremely thin, elderly woman marched into the chamber without so much as a knock to warn of her approach. She was clad in a plain brown woolen gown belted about her narrow hips and a white scarf was on her head. The keys tied to her belt jingled as she came to a halt and sneered with impertinent disapproval at Fiona.

Ganore.

Fiona remembered the woman from her visits. Ganore had been younger then, of course, and spent most of her time with Caradoc’s mother, or his sister, Cordelia. She had been a harsh, croaking raven of a woman. From her appearance it seemed little had changed, except that now her hair was white and the creases in her cheeks deeper. Unfortunately, the keys she carried indicated that she was of high rank among the servants. A woman like this, of such obvious prejudices and in a position of responsibility, was dangerous. She could make her mistress’s life a living hell.

“Hello,” Fiona began pleasantly, hoping for the best.

Ganore’s suspicious black eyes narrowed. “You’re a Scot.”

“Yes, I am.”

“And you’ve got red hair.”

She spoke as if Fiona had one eye, like a Cyclops.

“It’s auburn,” she genially corrected, still trying for a truce. “It was much redder when I was younger. I have hopes it will continue to darken. I would love to have black hair before I die.”

The woman not only didn’t smile, her brow furrowed as if Fiona had personally insulted her. Perhaps it had not been wise to mention death to one of Ganore’s years, even in jest. “My name is Fiona, Fiona MacDougal. I used to come here with my father, Angus MacDougal, the wool merchant. He bought Llanstephan fleece.”

Ganore sniffed derisively, as if to say, So what of that? “I don’t remember you.”

She sounded as if she thought Fiona was lying.

Fiona struggled to restrain her temper as she nodded at the keys on Ganore’s belt. “I see that you have risen in the world since last I was here, Ganore.”

“I am in charge of the household.” Ganore’s lip curled. “You’ve got the eyes of your father—sharp and cunning.”

There was another implication in this, too: that he was not honest.

Fiona bristled. Her patience, already thinned by her meeting with Caradoc, was rapidly giving way. “It would seem Lord Caradoc’s blanket is in need of mending. I am surprised you have been so remiss.”

“He never said it needed mending.”

“Why should he? Is it not your job to notice?”

Ganore lifted a chin that looked so sharp it could slice bread, and crossed her wiry arms. “He doesn’t like anyone coming in here without his permission.”

“So you have his permission to be here now?”

The woman’s neck reddened, but her blush got no further.

Nevertheless, Fiona was pleased to think she had gotten even that much of a chagrined reaction from Ganore. “I’m sure you’ve had many responsibilities but now—”

“I was nurse to Caradoc, and his brother and sister, too. I have been in charge of the household since his dear mother, our wonderful
Welsh
lady, passed away.”

Once more Fiona reined in her frustration and annoyance, but she was not about to let this woman think she could be bullied by a servant.

“I am your lord’s guest,” she said evenly, yet with a firmness that would have stood many a nobleman in good stead. “I am sure you have heard that soon I shall be his wife. Do not interrupt me like that again, Ganore.”

She watched as her words hit their target, then continued as if nothing of consequence had happened. “As I was saying, I’m sure you’ve had a position of responsibility for a long time, and that Lord Caradoc is very grateful. However, I am going to be your lord’s wife, so I will take over as befits the chatelaine of Llanstephan. After we are wed, you will give me the keys and show me about the castle. Before then, I should be introduced to those servants who have not marched into this chamber as if it were a soldiers’ barracks and introduced themselves to me. Do you understand?”

Glare met glare, but Fiona was determined and at last Ganore looked away.

“Yes,” she hissed.

“Excellent.”

Fiona turned back to the bed and lifted one of the small chests onto the floor. “Now, I need some help to change this linen,” she said as she straightened, turned—and found herself alone.

Ganore had quit the field, it seemed. For now, at least, or perhaps merely to regroup before another sortie to try to find her enemy’s weak points.

Of which there were many, and one most of all: Fiona MacDougal had been thoroughly, stupidly duped, tricked by a greedy scoundrel and played for a fool.

She didn’t want Ganore, or anybody, to discover the other reason she had come back here.

The shame of her folly haunted her still. She had been tricked by Iain MacLachlann’s persuasive manner and words of love, only to discover that he had merely wanted her money in his coffers, a means to raise himself in the court of King William of Scotland.

Humiliated to the core of her soul, she had left Dunburn and gone where he would never find her. She had decided that if she must be seen as only a commodity to be peddled in marriage, she would at least choose where she was traded, and to whom.

Her father had told her of the troubles at Llanstephan before he had died, having heard the stories from other wool merchants with whom he did business. She remembered her old infatuation, and her good opinion of Caradoc, and so she had sold her property and come here to make her offer.

But as Caradoc’s shining, intense blue eyes studied her in his solar, she had feared that he could read all of the past six months in hers. It had taken every ounce of courage and determination she had to appear more confident than she was, to seem resolute rather than desperate, as she made her proposition.

It had taken even more effort to meet his steadfast gaze in the courtyard, and to act as if his kiss had not incited hot desire with the force of a smith’s hammer striking an anvil.

Then he had agreed to marry her, and it had been another war not to betray her relief.

Or her sudden dread that she had made another mistake coming here, because when all was said and done, he was not the boy she remembered. He was a man, a lord in charge of an estate, mature and tested by troubles. Gruff, grim, stoic, how could she ever understand a man who displayed so little of his thoughts and feelings?

What was there to understand? her mind demanded. She was here, she was safe, she would be titled as she had also envisioned in her childish dreams. Caradoc would take her in his powerful arms, and if that kiss was anything to go by, sweep her into realms of ecstasy that Iain never could. Was that not enough?

It must be. To wish for more was folly, and had she not had enough of that? Had Iain not taught her to beware her fantasies and notions of love? That they were delusions best left to minstrels and silly girls?

Iain had been flesh and blood and flattery. It could be that Caradoc was fantasy and desire made flesh, and to forget that, as grave a mistake as letting Iain into her bed.

She ripped the old, moth-eaten blanket from Caradoc’s bed and rolled it, then threw it on the floor. Maybe she should have these coverings burnt.

“What are you doing?” a deep voice asked from the doorway.

She pivoted to see the dark lord of Llanstephan leaning against the frame, his arms crossed, one eyebrow raised in question.

If one of the gods of Olympus had come down to earth in mortal form, he would probably sound like Caradoc, his voice a rich baritone but with a hint of gruffness to give it command. And he would probably look like Caradoc, too—a god trying to appear a mere mortal, and failing utterly.

“I’m stripping the bed.”

Oh, good, very good, foolish Fiona! As if he’s blind and stupid to boot
.

He pushed off from the frame and ambled inside. Toward the bed. Toward her. “So I see. Why?”

“I have other linen in that chest,” she said as she pointed to the one at the foot of the bed. “Fresh linen.
New
linen.”

He came to a halt about three feet from her and his gaze shifted to the bed and the tick, which had several holes with straw poking through. “There are servants for such tasks.”

Her pulse began to race, just as it had in the solar when he had whispered in her ear. “I would have asked for Ganore’s assistance with the linens, but she left.”

He strolled around the bed. “I don’t think she approves my choice of bride.”

Fiona thought that was putting it mildly, but said nothing. She wasn’t going to begin by informing on the servants, no matter how they irritated her. She wanted their respect, not their hatred.

“I came for my clothes, to take them to the barracks. Or would you mind if I changed here?”

She fought to keep her reactions to herself, her voice serene and steady, as her mind’s eye conjured invisible hands stripping him as she had ripped the linens from his bed. “I would mind.”

“Pity,” he murmured, the low purr of his voice making her feel hot to the soles of her feet. “I think you will need some help to put this room to rights with all your personal goods.”