The Warlord's Bride. Margaret Moore

      “Don’t be afraid, Roslynn,”

      he whispered, his voice husky, his Welsh accent stronger. “I told you I could be patient and gentle. See, very patient, me.”

      He angled closer to her, and although she felt his arousal, he made no effort to hold her any tighter, his excitement held in check by his undoubtedly powerful will. Nevertheless, she could sense his desire lurking like an animal only temporarily tamed.

      As her fears kept her passion caged.

      Until now. Until she had married this man who could set her free and release her from the chains of her past.

      Holding him tight, she relaxed against him, her passion burning hotter as she parted her lips and pushed her tongue into Madoc’s warm, wet mouth.

      Praise for USA TODAY bestselling author

       Margaret Moore

      “Fans of historicals will be unable to put Ms. Moore’s story down. The story is fresh, fun, fast-paced, engaging, and passionate, with an added touch of adventure.”

      —The Romance Readers Connection on The Notorious Knight

      “Filled with fast-paced dialogue and historical details that add depth and authenticity to the story. Readers will be well entertained.”

      —Romantic Times BOOKreviews on My Lord’s Desire

      “Readers continue to ask for ‘Moore.’ Her latest book is a sparkling, dynamic tale of two lonely hearts who find each other despite their pasts and the evil forces surrounding them.”

      —Romantic Times BOOKreviews on Hers To Desire

      “Colorful and compelling details of life in the Middle Ages abound.”

      —Publishers Weekly on Hers To Command

      “A lively adventure with enough tension and romance to keep me turning pages.”

      —National bestselling author Roberta Gellis on Hers To Command

      “This captivating adventure of 13th-century Scotland kept me enthralled from beginning to end. It’s a keeper!”

      —Romance Junkies on Bride of Lochbarr

      “Margaret Moore is a master storyteller who has the uncanny ability to develop new twists on old themes.”

      —Affaire de Coeur

      MARGARET MOORE

      The Warlord’s Bride

      For those who share my affection for men

       with broadswords, with my thanks.

The Warlord’s Bride

      CONTENTS

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      CHAPTER FOURTEEN

      CHAPTER FIFTEEN

      CHAPTER SIXTEEN

      CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

      CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

      CHAPTER NINETEEN

      CHAPTER TWENTY

      CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

      CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

      CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

      CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

      CHAPTER ONE

      Wales, 1205

      LORD ALFRED DE GARLEBOINE drew his dappled palfrey to a halt and peered through the water dripping from his coif. More rain fell from the pine trees beside the road and roused their heavy scent, while the verge was a mess of mud and running water. The drizzle rendered the sky a leaden gray and the rest of the landscape all mucky brown and dull green, the few exposed rocks like hunched little men trying to keep dry.

      “God be praised, Llanpowell at last,” the middle-aged nobleman muttered as his mount refooted, its hooves churning up mud and pebbles.

      From under the sodden hood of her cloak lined with fox fur, the young lady riding beside him followed his gaze to what was most definitely a castle and not just another stony outcropping in the south of Wales.

      “My lord!”

      At the alarmed cry, Lord Alfred and Lady Roslynn de Werre looked back to see a heavy wooden cart stuck in a rut and tilting precariously. The toothless carter leaned to one side, whipping the pair of draft horses and exhorting them to move. The horses snorted and pulled against the harness, but the wheel only sank deeper into the mud.

      “Don’t just sit there like a lump of dung,” Lord Alfred ordered. “Get off and make those stupid beasts move!” He pointed at six of the soldiers in the escort. “Stay with the wagon until it’s at the castle. The rest of us will continue.”

      He shifted forward, then turned his steely, gray-eyed gaze onto Lady Roslynn. “Do you have any objection to leaving the wagon and going on to the castle, my lady?”

      “You are in command here,” she said with a beatific smile quite at odds with her internal turmoil. In truth, she would rather sit in a downpour than reach Llanpowell. “Are six men really necessary to guard the wagon when we’re so close to a nobleman’s castle, and in such inclement weather?”

      “I’ll not take any chances,” Lord Alfred replied before raising his hand and shouting for the rest of the cortege to move on.

      Lady Roslynn suppressed a sigh. She didn’t know why King John’s courtier had even bothered to ask her opinion. No doubt she shouldn’t have bothered to answer.

      The cortege continued on its way, the silence broken only by the falling rain, the jingle of accoutrements and soldiers’ chain mail, and the slap of hooves on the muddy road, every step bringing them closer to the castle of the lord of Llanpowell. Like the rocks, it seemed to be a natural feature of the landscape, exposed by time and the weather, not an edifice built by men.

      This entire land was a rough contrast to Roslynn’s familiar Lincolnshire, where the flat fens stretched out for miles and the sky seemed endless. Here, there were hills and valleys, unexpected streams and wet bracken, scree and rocks. It was wild and untamed, strange and breathtaking, despite the presence of the colossal fortress looming ahead.

      Roslynn tried to stifle her dread as they neared the massive, bossed gates of thick oak. Whatever happened here, at least she was away from the king’s court, and the accommodations should be better than those they’d had along the way.

      A voice called out from the top of the barbican, speaking Norman French, albeit with a noticeable Welsh accent. “Who are you and what do you want at Llanpowell?”

      “I am Lord Alfred de Garleboine, on the king’s business,” the nobleman shouted back.

      “The king’s business?” the man on the wall walk repeated. “Which one?”

      “Is the man a simpleton?” Lord Alfred muttered. He raised his voice. “John, by the grace of God, king of England, lord of Ireland, duke of Normandy and Aquitaine, count of Anjou.”

      “Oh, the Plantagenet