Tempt Me With Kisses (6 page)

York. She could set sail from there to … anywhere. That homely bitch.

He had promised a thousand marks to King William, and he was going to bloody well provide it. Fiona MacDougal was not going to ruin his plans. No woman was going to make a fool out of him.

By God, he would find her, and he would get his money, one way or the other.

Trying to keep his boiling wrath under control, Iain got to his feet. “I’m ready for that ale now.”

The Saxon turned to open the door, and as he did, Iain slid his hand around the man’s head to cover his mouth. Then he plunged his dagger between the Saxon’s shoulders. He smiled with grim delight as the fellow uselessly struggled and the life left his stinking carcass.

One less insolent Saxon in Scotland.

Chapter 3

I
nstead of going directly on to the barracks after leaving Fiona in his bedchamber, Caradoc ducked into his solar. He did not want to see anyone until he was once more in complete control of his wayward emotions.

As he tossed his clothes onto the messy table, he battled to subdue the surges of impassioned desire coursing through him.

Long ago, in a vain attempt to stop Connor and Cordelia from teasing him, he had learned how to hide his outward reactions. If they couldn’t goad him, he had reasoned, they would tire and stop.

That had not worked, but by the time he had decided it was ineffective, he had come to appreciate the privacy and protection his stoic mask created. People did not know what he was thinking or feeling, and that gave him an advantage. It also made him feel strong and in control of one aspect of his life, at least.

Then, as the years had passed, he had learned how to control more than just the mask. He could control his emotions as well as their display.

At least so he had believed, until today.

What was wrong with him now that he could not subvert the desire coursing through him? Why could he not remove the image of Fiona and her bright eyes and soft lips from his mind, or stop envisioning her remaking his bed with clean, fresh sheets, and silken pillows that a man could sink into? Why could he not prevent the picture of her beneath him, naked and anxious, making small sighs of love and arousal as he slowly pushed inside her, from forming in his head?

He strode to the window where he drew in great breaths of air.

It had to be because she had surprised him with her offer, he told himself. She had disrupted the pattern of his days.

As having her beside him in his bed would disrupt the pattern of his nights.

He must control such thoughts and the feelings that went with them. He must be strong, not weak. He must rule, not be ruled.

He was the lord here. It was the role he had been born and bred for. It had been his destiny from the time of conception. It was what he had worked for.

He did not realize that his hands had balled into fists so tight, his knuckles whitened.

Looking out the window, he surveyed his castle and forced himself to consider the dowry and all that it could do.

He could see at once to the repairs of the roofs and walls. He could purchase new shears for his shepherds and new weapons for his garrison. New horses, too, and cows from the south.

He began to make a mental list of all that he would do with his newfound wealth, and his desire slipped away. Once more, he was Caradoc, the lord of Llanstephan, and master of himself.

Then Cordelia rode into the courtyard. As always, she was alone, and must have escaped her escort. The two men detailed to ride with her would undoubtedly return some time later and complain of having to chase her all over the hills.

She would smile and shrug, vastly amused and proud of her prowess as a rider and the speed of her fiery mount, Icarus.

She stared at the wagons, then jumped from her horse and hurried into the hall.

He could imagine how she would react to the news surely flying around Llanstephan. A few moments later, he had his confirmation. Her booted steps sounded on the stairs, for she was taking them two at a time.

He sat behind his table and prepared for war.

The door to his solar crashed open and Cordelia burst into the chamber like an irate whirlwind.

“Have you gone
mad
?” she demanded. “Utterly, totally mad?”

Her gray eyes snapping, she faced him with feet planted and arms akimbo, her cloak flaring. “What’s this I hear about you getting
married
? To a
Scot
. A redheaded creature who just appeared out of nowhere with three carts like some kind of brownie. And the day after tomorrow! I told Jon-Bron he must be making it up, and a very poor jest it was.”

In her anger, she was the female image of Connor in one of his rages, and Caradoc’s ire burned the hotter for it. Always Connor had gotten his way because he could make life a misery when he was thus enraged.

Caradoc forced away the past and faced the angry present. “Then you owe Jon-Bron an apology, for it’s true. I am getting married the day after tomorrow to a Scot who appeared as if by magic in the courtyard, with three carts and three thousand marks for her dowry.”

Cordelia’s jaw dropped. Then it just as quickly snapped shut before she spoke. “So that’s it? Three thousand marks and the lord of Llanstephan is sold?”

“Watch your tongue, little sister,” he growled as he rose. “I don’t recall asking your opinion, and I don’t have to ask your permission to marry—but you will have to ask mine.”

“Why should I?” she demanded, crossing her arms, like Connor in that, too. “Surely I will choose better than some Scot who arrives unannounced and unlooked for and convinces my brother to sell himself!”

Her angry denunciation cut Caradoc like a dagger’s thrust. He had worked and worried for her sake, yet she would stand there and hurl such words at him.

He strode toward her until he was nearly nose to nose with her, for she was tall for seventeen. “I am the lord of Llanstephan and
no one
tells me what to do, or how, or when. I have made my decision, and you will simply have to abide by it.”

She didn’t back away. Cordelia never backed away.

“Oh, yes, Caradoc, the mighty lord of Llanstephan Fawr, who sells his title for some Scots coin,” she retorted, her fists on her hips. “How could you do something so shameful? Have you no pride? No honor? Do you forget you are Welsh?”

Glaring at her, he crossed his arms over his broad chest and fought to keep from shouting. “Listen to me, little sister, and listen to me well. I have sense, and pride, and honor, and we are but half Welsh. You would do well to remember that before you use that sharp tongue of yours to upbraid me again. What I do, I do for the good of Llanstephan, and you, and everyone who depends upon me for their safety and their livelihood. Have you forgotten that we are not rich, thanks to Connor? That we have little power, thanks to Connor? Or would you rather I found some rich and ancient Welsh knight who craves a young and beautiful bride? You are so lovely, Cordelia, I could have offered a pittance for your dowry, I’m sure, and then used your
amobr
to pay our debts.”

She reared back as if he had struck her. Instantly, his heart wished he could take back those final words. Yet his mind rebelled against regret, for what he had said was a truth, albeit an ugly one. She was beautiful enough that he would have a fine profit between a small dowry and the
amobr
, the Welsh bride price.

Cordelia’s nostrils flared as she sniffed with disgust, although not with the same vim. “How foolish of me not to be grateful that you did not sell me off to the first knight who came calling.”

“You should be. And I think you are angry because you will no longer be the chatelaine here once I wed.”

He immediately realized this was a mistake. The expression on her face declared that she had not thought of what this marriage would mean to her beyond the shame of being the sister of a man who would sell himself for money.

She marched over to the window and looked out a moment, thinking—something she had not done prior to marching in here like an enraged shrew, he was sure—before she whirled around to face him again. “What of Lord Rhys? Do you think he will stand idly by afterwards? He will say you are betraying the Welsh, as many others will.”

“What has Lord Rhys ever done for me? Or these other Welsh you speak of?” he countered as he leaned his hip against the table, Fiona’s argument coming easily to his lips. “They will not pay the taxes for us, will they? As for Rhys, he’s too busy weaving his own plans and nursing his grudge against Richard. Nor should King Richard care who I marry, as long as he gets his money. You see, little sister, I did not make this bargain without thought.”

He waited for Cordelia to try to disagree with him.

Her frown deepened and suddenly, he saw a hint of pity in her eyes.

“Do you hear yourself?” she asked. “A bargain, you call it. A trade. You might as well be speaking of horses at the fair.”

His anger spiked again. He didn’t need anyone’s pity. There had been a time he ached for a kind word, or praise for a lesson well done, but it had not come, and he had learned to live without it. “So what if it is? All marriages are business agreements.”

“That’s a lie and you know it. Our parents’ marriage was not a bargain.”

Lingering grief cooled his hot anger to practicality.

“Our parents are dead and we are in danger of losing our home,” he said with more restraint. “Marrying Fiona will prevent that, and that’s what I intend to do, whether you approve or not.”

Storm clouds gathered again on her brow and in her smoke gray eyes. “I know our parents are dead, and so you are the overlord here. I know full well that we are not rich anymore, and if you want to do this thing, I cannot stop you. So do what you will. Just don’t expect me to like it, or that brazen Scot.”

“Fiona. Her name is Fiona.”

Cordelia’s lip curled, barely perceptibly, but he saw it nonetheless. “If you say so.”

She marched to the door, then looked back at him. “If you
had
to sell yourself, it’s too bad you couldn’t at least have been purchased by a
pretty
woman.”

With that she went out and slammed the door behind her, the sound echoing through the solar.

Caradoc ground his fist in his palm as he stared at the back of the door. What else had he expected? That she would welcome this news and gladly give up her position as chatelaine of Llanstephan to a stranger, and a Scottish one at that? That she would understand the problems he faced? That she would have a moment’s compassion for him?

God save him, every time he tried to reason with his sister, he only made things worse. When he tried to talk to her, it was disastrous. He should join a holy order of monks under a vow of silence.

But then he would have to give up Fiona, too.

He ran his hand through his hair and threw himself in his chair, slinging one leg over the arm as he leaned his head back.

Could Cordelia not see that he agreed to this marriage out of duty? That most of what he did had little to do with his own desires or needs or wishes?

This was not the life he had dreamed of during all those long hours here with Brother Adolphus droning on in Greek and Latin, staring at figures on the parchment, tallying profits and gain and taxes until the numbers swam before his eyes.

Then he had longed to leave Llanstephan, to travel the world and see the things he’d read about—elephants, the great pyramids of Egypt, the Roman Coliseum. Paris. Florence.

Instead, he had done his duty as the eldest son while Connor got to go, sent off on Crusade with great fanfare and at such great cost, only to have it end in disaster. Connor had quarreled with King Richard and been sent from the royal retinue in disgrace. Then the taxes on Llanstephan had been tripled, so that now they had scarcely a coin to their name.

To be sure, it could be much worse. Connor could have been killed.

And he could have been born a poor peasant … a poor peasant who had only himself to think of, not a sister who argued, and a castle and village full of people who looked to him for safety and security.

Sometimes he thought of leaving Llanstephan, going out into the dark of the night, away from responsibility and duty. He’d go to some place where he could think and plan and dream for himself alone.

Alone, but no more lonely than he was here.

Then he thought of Fiona standing here in this chamber making her incredible proposition. The physical desire she stirred within him. The fierce, passionate kiss they had shared.

No matter what he said to Cordelia, in his heart he knew he had not agreed to this marriage solely because of money. Nay, nor lust, either, as he remembered Fiona’s frank, bold manner. She addressed him as an equal, not a lord to be feared or an annoying sibling. A small part of him hoped he could find some measure of happiness with such a woman as his wife.

Perhaps he was wrong to entertain even a tiny sliver of hope. He had been disappointed often enough in the past.

And yet, as he remembered Fiona’s kiss and her passion, the hope that had taken root dared to grow a little more.