The Warlord's Bride. Margaret Moore

in quiet contentment on his estate. That could explain why Madoc ap Gruffydd was so cheerful and welcoming: he had no reason not to be.

      “So, my lord, how does the king fare these days?” he inquired as he tossed his now-empty goblet at another of the servants, who caught it so deftly, she assumed this happened often. “Still happy with his little French wife?”

      “King John is quite well and, yes, happily wed. We have every hope an heir to the throne will soon be forthcoming,” Lord Alfred coldly replied. “Now, if you will permit me to introduce myself, my lord. I am Lord Alfred de Garleboine and this is—”

      “Lord Alfred de Garleboine? There’s a mouthful. Can’t say I’ve heard of you, but then, I don’t pay much attention to the English court and the mischief they get up to.” The Welshman patted Roslynn’s hand. “Much more pleasant to tell stories round the fire and sing songs of brave deeds, eh, my lady?”

      “A nobleman must pay heed to what transpires at court if he is to assist the king and protect his family,” she replied, not impressed by his apparently lackadaisical attitude, especially in such times, and with such a king upon the throne.

      “Oh, I know enough, I know enough. Not quite at the end of the world, us,” Lord Madoc replied, before raising his voice to shout for Bron. She immediately reappeared in the doorway, a distinctly harried expression on her pretty face. “Where’s the food, girl? And the drink? Our guests are starving! Fine thing if they can’t get a bite to eat after riding in the wet!”

      The maidservant said something in rapid Welsh, then disappeared again.

      “It’s not that we don’t have plenty in the larder, my lady,” the lord of Llanpowell explained as if it was a matter of grave concern. “It’s just you caught us between meals while we wait for the patrols to come back. Had a bit of bother with them over the mountain.”

      As Roslynn smiled to show him she wasn’t disturbed by the delay, she wondered what he meant by “bit of bother” and who “them over the mountain” might be. Enemies, clearly, but how many and how powerful? She’d been told almost nothing about the lord of Llanpowell and even less about any potential enemies he might have.

      “My lord,” Lord Alfred began again, his exasperation obvious. “We have come—”

      “Ah, here’s the food now!” the Welshman interrupted as the serving girl arrived carrying a large tray bearing three unexpectedly fine silver goblets, a carafe of steaming wine, whose spicy scent filled the air and a beechwood platter covered with a napkin. One of the other male servants hurried forward with a small bench, which he put in front of Madoc ap Gruffydd. After Bron set the tray on it, the Welshman whisked off the napkin to reveal two sliced loaves of fresh, brown bread and several slices of thick cheese, as well as honey cakes.

      As the aroma from the warm bread and spiced wine filled her nostrils, Roslynn’s stomach growled loudly.

      She blushed with embarrassment, but the lord of Llanpowell laughed and handed her one of the goblets before pouring her some wine. “What did I tell you? Hungry you are, and no mistake. I could see that by the look of you, and a little more flesh on your bones might not be amiss.”

      “Perhaps now we could discuss the purpose of our visit,” Lord Alfred said through clenched teeth.

      The Welshman’s merry expression disappeared in an instant, replaced by cold disapproval. “You may have come from the Plantagenet king, my lord, and with no invitation I’m aware of, but it’s hospitality first in this household, business after.”

      Lord Alfred’s narrow face reddened before he finally, slowly, sat down across the fire from Roslynn and accepted a goblet of mulled wine.

      “There now, eat and talk after,” the Welshman said, his anger disappearing as swiftly as the steam from the carafe.

      The wine was surprisingly good and did indeed warm her. In spite of its taste and comforting effect, however, she was careful not to drink too much. She didn’t want anything clouding her ability to think.

      “Isn’t that better?” the Welshman said after the platters were nearly empty and Roslynn couldn’t eat another bite. “And now to business. So, Lord Alfred de Garleboine, what brings you and your lovely daughter to Llanpowell?”

      Roslynn nearly spit out her wine, although it was an innocent mistake. Lord Alfred was old enough to be her father.

      “Lady Roslynn is not my daughter,” Lord Alfred sternly replied. “She is—”

      “Your pretty wife then, is it?” the Welshman cried, grinning. “What a fortunate fellow you are!”

      Lord Alfred couldn’t look more appalled, while Roslynn felt the most unexpected urge to giggle, despite her circumstances. “No, she most certainly is not my wife. She is—”

      “Saints preserve us,” Lord Madoc cried as if torn between scandal and admiration, “you don’t mean to say she’s your lehman?”

      “No!” Roslynn gasped, breaking into the conversation. “I am not his mistress!”

      “Well, thanks be to heaven for that,” the Welshman said with genuine relief as Lord Alfred’s face went from red to purple, “or I’d be thinking you were lacking in taste.”

      “My lord,” Lord Alfred ground out, “Lady Roslynn is here at the behest of King John.”

      “He has women ambassadors now, does he?” the Welshman replied with amazement, not the least upset by Lord Alfred’s anger and addressing Roslynn instead of the Norman. “Interesting, I must say, and clever, too. I’ll gladly listen to anything a beautiful woman has to say.”

      “If you will allow me to explain, my lord,” Lord Alfred said, his hands gripping the stem of his goblet as if he were wringing a chicken’s neck, “Lady Roslynn de Werre has recently been widowed—”

      “Oh, there’s a pity,” Lord Madoc exclaimed, regarding her with sympathy as he patted her arm again. “So young, too.”

      “Widowed,” Lord Alfred forcefully continued, “and the king has—”

      The door to the hall banged open and a tall, clean-shaven young man with dark hair to his broad shoulders strode into the room.

      He was dressed like the other men in a plain leather tunic over a light shirt that laced at the neck, with woolen breeches tucked into scuffed leather boots. Unlike Lord Madoc, he wore a swordbelt, old and supple, and the hilt of the weapon in the sheath was of iron wrapped in leather strips darkened with age and wear.

      Also unlike Lord Madoc, he was unexpectedly, astonishingly handsome. Curling dark hair framed a face of sharp planes and strong angles. A wide forehead and brown brows overshadowed equally dark eyes that seemed to glow with inner light. His nose was straight and narrow above full, well-cut lips.

      As he returned her scrutiny, she began to tremble. Yet it was not from fear or lust, but from the sudden certainty that he could see her beating heart thudding with dread.

      She was just as surprised to realize, from the wrinkle that formed between those penetrating eyes, that he was not pleased that it was so.

      The lord of Llanpowell hoisted himself to his feet and hurried forward to meet the man, mercifully taking his disconcerting attention away from her. They conversed in rapid Welsh, the older man seemingly 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