The Warlord's Bride. Margaret Moore

trying to placate the younger.

      Their stances similar, they could be relatives. Father and son, perhaps?

      She hadn’t been informed that the lord of Llanpowell had been married before, or had a son or other children, but then, she’d been told almost nothing about Madoc ap Gruffydd. All John had told her was that the Bear of Brecon was to be rewarded with a wife and rich dowry for helping to end her late husband’s rebellious schemes, and she was to be the bride.

      What if he was his son? A grown son made a second wife’s position much more precarious—if she were to marry the lord of Llanpowell.

      “We’re being rude,” the older man suddenly declared in Norman French, turning toward his guests. “Come and meet our visitors.”

      Lord Alfred was already on his feet, and Roslynn slowly joined him, sliding her hands into the long cuffs of her gown and gripping her forearms to still their trembling as they approached.

      “This is Lord Alfred de Garleboine come from King John,” the older man said, “and this is Lady Roslynn. Not his daughter or wife or anything else to him, apparently, and recently widowed, poor thing.”

      The young man planted his feet and crossed his arms as he regarded her warily.

      He didn’t mask his feelings, his thoughts or his reactions, as so many did. Because he didn’t have to? Because he had the power and confidence to reveal exactly what he thought and felt, to everyone?

      Power and confidence—yes, he fairly exuded those qualities. His manner made Lord Alfred seem a model of gentle courtesy, and his father hospitality personified.

      As quickly as the heat of desire had rushed over her at that first glance, it died. He wasn’t some untamed warrior prince to be admired and desired, but an arrogant, powerful man who might do her harm.

      She had vowed that she would never again allow a man to hurt her, whatever King John ordered.

      Her determination and pride roused, she raised her chin and met his suspicious scrutiny steadily. “I am Lady Roslynn de Werre.”

      “De Werre?” the younger man repeated, his eyes narrowing. “Like the traitor?”

      “Yes. I was Wimarc de Werre’s wife, and since the king is grateful for your father’s recent—”

      “My father?” the younger Welshman interrupted. “My father’s been dead these past three years.”

      Roslynn’s startled gaze flew from the younger man to the older one behind him and back again. “Isn’t your father Lord Madoc ap Gruffydd?”

      “No,” the young man replied. “I am the lord of Llanpowell.”

      CHAPTER TWO

      HE WAS MADOC AP GRUFFYDD? This young, strong, arrogant fellow was the man King John expected her to marry?

      She felt for the bench and sat heavily. She could reconcile herself to a marriage to an older man, especially a friendly and generous one. But marriage to an arrogant, virile warrior, who could prove to be as violent and cruel as her first husband? That she could never accept.

      “Uncle, what have you been doing?” the young Welshman asked of the man they’d assumed was Madoc ap Gruffydd.

      “Welcoming your guests, since you weren’t here yourself,” the older man replied without a hint of remorse. “Proper introductions must have slipped my mind, what with the surprise and the lady’s beauty.” He smiled at Roslynn. “I’m Lloyd ap Iolo, Madoc’s uncle. I’m in charge of Llanpowell when Madoc’s on patrol.”

      Lord Alfred glared at the man who’d welcomed them. “What sort of Welsh trickery is this?”

      The real Lord Madoc regarded Lord Alfred with undisguised scorn. “There was no trickery or deceit. My uncle is in command of Llanpowell when I’m absent, and I count on him to act as host in my stead. If he says he forgot to introduce himself, that is the truth. No insult was intended.”

      “Aye, a mistake, that’s all, what with the unexpectedness of your arrival, you see,” the older man assured them.

      “Uncle, will you be so good as to pour the lady a drink?” the young lord of Llanpowell ordered. “She looks a little faint.”

      Roslynn was not weak or dizzy. If anything, she had never felt more alive—with furious indignation. Once again, a man had deceived her, and although the explanation seemed harmless and plausible, it nevertheless implied disrespect.

      Unfortunately, because she was a woman and a guest, and considering the reason she was here, she was in no position to voice her true feelings, so she silently accepted the goblet of wine Lloyd ap Iolo held out to her.

      The young man walked to the chair and sat upon it as if he were a king upon his throne. “I apologize for any distress this mistake may have caused you,” he said, not looking the least bit sorry. “Perhaps you’ll be so kind as to explain why you’ve come to Llanpowell, Lord Alfred.”

      “I’ve been trying to,” the Norman nobleman snarled.

      “I’m at your disposal, my lord,” Madoc ap Gruffydd replied with exaggerated politeness.

      Again she felt as if they were being treated with contempt, and her indignation increased.

      Lord Alfred clearly felt that way, too, but he answered with the civility of a man used to the hypocrisy of the court. “King John is grateful for your help defeating the rebellion planned by Wimarc de Werre.”

      Lord Alfred then paused, as if giving Lord Madoc time to appreciate the king’s magnanimity.

      “His gratitude I can do without,” Lord Madoc remarked instead. “What about the payment I was promised?” His glance flicked to Roslynn and his lips jerked up into a disdainful smile. “Are you about to tell me Lady Roslynn is my reward?”

      Roslynn flushed, but met his scornful gaze steadily. “As a matter of fact, my lord, I am.”

      She had the brief satisfaction of seeing the arrogant lord of Llanpowell look as stunned as she’d felt when she found out who he was.

      “Lady Roslynn and her dowry are indeed your reward,” Lord Alfred clarified.

      “Dowry? Did he say dowry?” Lloyd ap Iolo asked as his nephew stared at Roslynn like a man who’d been struck over the head with a heavy object.

      “Her dowry consists of eight hundred marks in silver and jewels, as well as many fine household goods,” Lord Alfred added.

      Madoc ap Gruffydd launched himself out of his chair as if he’d been set ablaze. “I was promised money for my aid, not a wife! I want no wife, especially one chosen by another man.”

      Hope surged through Roslynn. He was going to refuse! She would be spared another terrible marriage and the king couldn’t blame her.

      Lord Alfred rose, nearly apoplectic with ire. “How dare you reject—?”

      He took a deep breath and got his rage under control. “Think wisely, Welshman, before you reject what King John so generously offers. It is Lady Roslynn and her dowry, or nothing.”

      “Be reasonable, Madoc,” his uncle urged. “That’s a lot of money, that dowry, and it’s time you married again.”

      Again?

      “And although you’ve got one son already, more would be better.”

      He had a son?

      “I don’t marry at any man’s command, or to breed children,” Lord Madoc replied, “and I won’t have any woman forced to marry me, either.”

      As if a woman’s wishes could possibly matter to a man like him.

      “Lady Roslynn is not being forced,” Lord Alfred said, turning toward her. “Tell him, my lady. Tell him that you came here of your own