The Warlord's Bride. Margaret Moore

and it’s nothing for her to worry about.”

      “Aye, it’s not.” Especially if she was leaving. And thank God Lloyd hadn’t said more. “Where are the Normans now? In the hall?”

      “Last time I saw Lord Alfred, he was lying on his cot, moaning, poor man.” Uncle Lloyd sighed with completely bogus sympathy. “Like all the Normans, the man can’t handle even a bit of braggot.”

      Lloyd’s false gravity gave way to a bright-eyed grin. “He’s got to be feeling better by now, though. I’d be feeling better with a pretty woman to nurse me. Lady Roslynn’s tended to him with great kindness, Madoc, although he’s only got himself to blame for his state.”

      “You shouldn’t have offered him the braggot,” Madoc said as he filled the manger with fresh hay.

      “Not his mother, am I? And I did warn him, the day they arrived, before you came charging into the hall like the wrath of God.”

      “If I looked like the wrath of God, it was because Dafydd told me an armed party of Normans had come. I thought Llanpowell was being attacked.” Madoc straightened his tunic and adjusted his swordbelt before giving his uncle his formal smile. “Well? I look amiable enough now, don’t I?”

      Uncle Lloyd wrinkled his nose. “You look fine, but you smell of the stables. It’s a fine, sunny day and the river’s nearby. Why not go for a swim?”

      A surreptitious sniff proved his uncle wasn’t exactly wrong, and while it was not shameful for a man to smell like a horse, he didn’t want Lord Alfred to go back to the king and his courtiers and tell them the Welsh smelled bad.

      “All right,” he agreed, “if you’ll bring me some linen, I’ll be down by the alders. Quickly, mind. I can’t loll about like a lad with nothing to do.”

      “Right you are, Madoc!” Lloyd cried, already halfway to the stable doors. “You head off and I’ll be there quick as a fox.”

      SITTING ON A STOOL behind the wooden screen painted with a hunting scene and beside the cot of the snoring Lord Alfred, Roslynn heard a commotion in the yard and guessed Lord Madoc and his men had returned.

      If they had, she wasn’t sure what she should do. Stay here with Lord Alfred, or go to greet him? Then what? Ask him about the feud? Try to find out how it had started and why, as if she cared?

      Or use it to her advantage?

      She could question Lord Madoc’s reluctance to go after the thief, implying he was a coward. A man as obviously proud as he would surely take offense at that. Or she could suggest the Welsh must be childish, indulging in such petty games.

      As tempting as that was, she might rouse his temper too much. If she did follow such a course, she would have to ensure that she wasn’t alone with him, which shouldn’t be difficult.

      Before she could decide what she would do, she heard the sound of brisk footsteps approaching.

      Whoever it was, she would be calm and aloof. She would be polite but distant. She would—

      It wasn’t Lord Madoc who came to stand at the foot of the cot. To her disappointment—a response she should not feel, she told herself—it was his uncle.

      “Poor man can’t hold his drink, can he?” he whispered loudly, regarding Lord Alfred as he might a sick child.

      “He should be fine by this evening,” she quietly replied. “I don’t think you should offer him any more braggot.”

      “I won’t,” he agreed. “Look you, my lady, Madoc’s come back and he wants to see you. Since it’s such a fine day, he’ll wait for you down by the river, in a little grove of alders. Very pretty spot for a conversation, if you’ll join him.”

      Roslynn wanted to get out of the stuffy confines of the hall and there was no real need for her to stay by Lord Alfred’s side; nevertheless, she hesitated. It might not be considered a wise or honorable thing to leave the castle without Lord Alfred to escort her. On the other hand, her host might consider it an insult if she refused his invitation, especially since they would be with his uncle, and so not alone. “Very well.”

      “Excellent!” Lloyd cried.

      As she rose to join him, he reached around to grab a square of linen on the table beside the bed. She’d been bathing Lord Alfred’s face when he was awake and complaining of evil Welsh brews. This large square, however, was dry.

      Lloyd used it to wipe his brow, then tucked it into his belt. “I was in a rush to find you, and I sweat like a horse.”

      Accepting his explanation, she took his arm and together they left the hall, passing the servants replacing the flambeaux in iron holders on the walls. Roslynn felt their watchful eyes and wondered if there would ever be a time when she would no longer be the subject of gossip and speculation.

      Outside, the weather was still fine, with a breeze redolent of fresh grass and warm summer days to come. Despite their curiosity, the servants at their chores and soldiers on guard duty went about their duties efficiently, although without the haste of colder days.

      The yard itself was tidy, with nothing out of place, and the buildings were all in good repair.

      As they were nearing the gate, the steward came hurrying around the side of one of the smaller buildings, probably a storehouse, as fast as his limp would permit. “Well now!” he cried. “Where are you two off to? And without Lord Alfred?”

      “Lord Alfred’s sleeping and Madoc sent me to fetch Lady Roslynn,” Lloyd answered. “Wants to have a little chat with her down by the river on this lovely day.”

      “Then I won’t keep you,” Ivor replied, giving them a smile that didn’t impress Roslynn. It was too much like Wimarc’s—more a barring of the teeth than an expression of pleasure. “One thing you’d better learn if you’re to live in Llanpowell, my lady—if Madoc gives an order, he expects it to be obeyed, and quickly, too.”

      “Or what?” she asked.

      “If you’re a soldier, night duty and short rations,” Ivor answered. “If you’re his friend, his eyes alone can make you feel you’ve sinned. If you’re his wife…”

      His smile widened as he shrugged. “I don’t know. Gwendolyn never disobeyed, did she, Lloyd? A very sweet, quiet wife she was for Madoc—quite different from you, my lady.”

      Had Lord Madoc not said he liked spirited women? What, then, did the steward mean by this? Was he trying to insult her, or intimidate her or make her afraid of his master?

      Whatever he was trying to do, she wouldn’t let him see that he was affecting her in any way.

      Instead, she gave him a smile as condescending as his own. “Poor man, to lose such a model of a wife. But surely you don’t begrudge Lord Madoc another chance for happiness in marriage, especially since it means a powerful alliance and wealth, too?”

      She caught a flash of annoyance in the steward’s eyes, although it was quickly replaced with another patronizing smile. “Indeed, my lady, some would consider your arrival most fortunate.”

      But not this man.

      Yet perhaps she shouldn’t be surprised. He was Welsh, and she was not, and his animosity could be based on no more than that.

      Deciding to give him the benefit of the doubt, she said with cool politeness, “Since I don’t wish to upset your master in any way, we had best be on our way.”

      “WHATEVER IVOR SAYS, never you fear about going against Madoc, my lady,” Lloyd assured her, trotting to keep up with her brisk pace as they went out the gate. “My nephew’s a bit stubborn and gruff sometimes, but he’d never hurt a woman. Never hurts anybody, except in self-defense or a tournament and then, God grant you, he’s something to see.”

      Lloyd’s words might have assuaged her fears, was she not well aware