Tempt Me With Kisses (11 page)

“He picks them and throws them in?” Fiona repeated incredulously, for sheep were not light.

“Otherwise they don’t get their backs under the water.” Rhonwen gave her a little smile, and her eyes sparkled. “Your husband-to-be generally starts, and when he is tired, Dafydd takes over, and after him another shepherd, and so on.”

Fiona stared at Rhonwen with blatant surprise, then recalled Caradoc’s strong arms. That walk up the side of the hill told her why his legs were so muscular, too.

“He likes to do such work,” Rhonwen explained. “I heard him say once to Dafydd that it gives him something to do instead of thinking about his troubles.”

It was folly perhaps to ask questions of a servant, even Rhonwen, yet Fiona couldn’t resist the opportunity. “Has he many other troubles besides his debts?”

Rhonwen looked as if she regretted saying what she had, so Fiona did not wait for her answer. “I remember that he did not get along well with his brother, or his sister, either.”

Rhonwen pulled out a bit of grass growing from the wall as she shook her head. “No, they used to argue all the time, worst of all when Sir Connor came back from the East after the king raised the taxes.”

She shivered, as if a chill breeze had just blown by. “That was a terrible time. He has not heard from his brother since Sir Connor left, and Lady Cordelia still says he all but banished him from Llanstephan.”

“Did he? Or did Sir Connor leave in a huff? I saw him march from the hall once when the stew was not to his liking.”

Rhonwen threw away the bit of grass. “More like that, I think.”

Fiona could easily imagine how difficult it was for Caradoc if Cordelia blamed him for the breech between the brothers.

And then she had arrived, and made things worse.

She had not seen Cordelia today. Likely the gathering of sheep was nothing new to her, so she had taken herself elsewhere, perhaps purposefully avoiding her future sister-in-law.

Ganore was certainly giving Fiona a wide berth. As soon as she had set foot in the hall this morning, Ganore had marched out the door leading to the kitchen.

Well, she was happier out of their hostile presence, too.

“Mistress?”

Fiona came out of her reverie and realized Rhonwen was looking very serious and very worried. “What is it?”

“Ganore loves Cordelia like a daughter and believes everything she does is perfection. Ganore leads the other servants by the nose, and I fear she has taken a dislike to you.”

Fiona smiled to put the girl at ease. “I know, and I will deal with Ganore.”

Somehow
.

“She would have taken a dislike to any woman not Welsh born and bred,” Rhonwen continued. “A few Norman lords brought their daughters here, and that was a disaster. The Welsh ones she would fawn and fuss over. Lord Caradoc mostly ignored them all until their fathers took them away.”

She had thought Caradoc’s claim that there had been others seeking his hand in marriage an exaggeration to assuage his pride, but apparently it was not.

Yet why, if this were so, would Caradoc want
her
?

Because as time passed he must have gotten more desperate and more in need of money to pay his debts.

As this thought rankled in her bosom, Rhonwen suddenly straightened and looked up the hill. “They’re coming.”

Fiona followed her gaze, and in the distance saw what had to be a flock of sheep and lambs and rams rushing down the slope like a wide, white waterfall. Behind and to the east was a line of men, and between them and the sheep rushed the dogs. She scanned the men for a familiar face and dark wild hair, and finally spotted Caradoc in the middle of the top line, with Dafydd beside him.

The thunder of her excited heartbeat was nearly drowned by the thunder of the approaching flock, but not quite.

Even dressed in the same simple tunic and breeches as the others, Caradoc was clearly a lord among them. Everything about him proclaimed it: his bearing, his commanding mien, the way everybody’s gaze would drift toward him.

To think that tomorrow, she was going to be this man’s bride. After their wedding night, she would be his legal wife, and no man could come between them.

Yet it was not the legality of it or the pride of being a lord’s wife that thrilled her as he came closer. It was the inward image she had of being in his powerful arms, making love.

Surely then the memory of Iain’s lustful embrace would be forever purged, and her shame likewise.

She watched with silent fascination as the flock came closer. The dogs barked and yipped and raced about chasing any sheep who looked to break back through the line. The bleating of the sheep mingled with the dogs and the calls of the men, for sometimes, a sheep did manage to break free. Then, with a bark that sounded like a canine curse, one of the dogs rushed after it and herded it back.

Caradoc was so deep in discussion with Dafydd, he did not notice her. Of course, he did not know she was going to be there, so there was no need for her to feel disappointed.

A few of the men spotted her, and the word went up the line. Caradoc looked in her direction, but he didn’t indicate in any way that he saw her.

Well, what had she expected? That he would cheerfully wave and call out her name?

As for the other men, whenever they looked her way, they seemed perplexed, clearly wondering what she was doing there.

Fiona and Rhonwen jumped down from the wall as the sheep were herded into the pen. The animals milled about, annoyed at being compelled to leave their pasture, and sounding like querulous old women disturbed after a nap. Behind the gate, the dogs sat with their masters, barely still, their haunches quivering. Other men leaned on the wall, looking at the flock with great satisfaction—when they were not glancing at their lord, and her.

Still Caradoc did not acknowledge her presence. He continued to speak to Dafydd, his expression grave. Perhaps there was a problem with the sheep.

She almost hoped that was so. Otherwise, she would have to admit that he was purposefully ignoring her.

“If you will excuse me, mistress,” Rhonwen said, bashfully backing away toward the castle. “You don’t need me, so I’ll go back and see to the … to the … laundry.”

Before Fiona could stop her, she hurried away.

Puzzled, she looked at Caradoc and Dafydd still deep in discussion. Maybe Rhonwen was upset that Dafydd hadn’t noticed her, either, but that didn’t seem likely.

Then another possible reason for Rhonwen’s bashful flight appeared.

A group of servants, led by Lowri, a middle-aged, stout serving woman with a face that looked as if she brooked no nonsense, came trudging up the hill. The grooms who had helped Fiona unload her wagons bore trestle tables to be assembled, and more women carried baskets and small casks of ale. Una, not as old or as stout as Lowri, but round-faced and dark-haired, carried a basket full of mugs. Mercifully, there was no sign of Ganore or Cordelia among them, but when she saw the expressions on the serving women’s faces as they realized she was there, she sympathized with her maid’s desire to flee.

Fiona straightened her shoulders. She didn’t belong there, and Caradoc acted as if she didn’t exist, yet she wasn’t about to run away. And maybe helping the women would be a start to earning their respect. She certainly wasn’t afraid of a little hard work. She had helped around the household whenever she could.

Her decision made, she went toward the tables and approached Lowri. “I will pour the ale,” she offered.

Lowri’s eyes narrowed. “We don’t need
your
help.”

The back of Fiona’s neck prickled, as if a thunderstorm or other natural phenomena loomed close behind her.

“You don’t have to do that,” Caradoc said, and she turned to find him so close to her elbow, she might have hit him with hers if she had turned too quickly.

She blushed, and knew she was, and wished she wasn’t. She probably looked silly petitioning a servant for the right to pour ale. “I want to help, as you do.”

“If you like.”

His mellifluous voice and sapphire eyes should be condemned by the church for temptations to sin, or declared illegal by the crown for leading women to indulge in wanton behavior. He didn’t have to smile before waves of hot desire swept over her. The promise of a passion such as she had never imagined seemed to emanate from him, drawing her close.

Maybe she shouldn’t linger here. Maybe she should hide herself away lest she betray her far-from-innocent hunger and give him cause to wonder.

Caradoc looked at Lowri, not condemning or chastising, but calm and purposeful in a way that would not allow protest. “Lowri, you set out the mugs and my bride-to-be will pour.”

Then he turned and walked away.

Chapter 6

“S
howing off, are you?” Dafydd demanded later. There was a grin on his face but gravity in his eyes as he pushed his way through the sheep crowding the narrow enclosure leading to the river.

Caradoc paused in the act of pitching a sheep into the deep water. Sweat poured off his forehead, naked chest and back, and it dampened the waist of his breeches. His arms and legs and shoulders ached from the lifting, and his throat was as parched as if he hadn’t had a drink in days. He hadn’t felt this physically exhausted in years.

That was not so surprising, considering he had been tired when he had started out that morning. It had taken him even longer than usual to fall asleep last night. Normally, it was worrying about how he was going to pay his taxes and feed his household that kept him staring at the ceiling well after everyone else slumbered.

Trying to fall asleep in the barracks with all the noise the men made would have been difficult enough at the best of times. With all that had happened that day rushing through his mind creating eddies of desire and whirlpools of dread, fervently anticipating his wedding night while fearing he would rue accepting Fiona’s offer, sleep had eluded him.

Finally, toward the dawn, he had dropped off into an uneasy rest, to dream of Fiona naked in his arms while around his bed, Father Rhodri and everybody else in Llanstephan chastised him for a stupid, silly little boy whose father would be justly ashamed of him.

Despite that nightmarish aspect of his dream, when he had awakened, he had been astonishingly aroused and it was the memory of Fiona in his arms that lingered longest.

He heaved the bleating, struggling sheep into the river, then turned to Dafydd, who nodded toward the tables set near the big
ffridd
where Fiona and the maidservants were clearing away the food and drink. “For her, is it?”

“She’s still there?” he asked, his voice a rough croak as he tried to sound unconcerned, although he knew full well she was.

He had not expected her to be at the river, but when he had seen her, he had been undeniably pleased. Too many highborn women cared only about the finished wool and the income it provided, not the way it was obtained, or the work that went into caring for the animals that produced it.

He had almost waved and called out to her, until it had occurred to him that she might be appalled a lord would do such labor. What if she thought helping his shepherds beneath him?

If that proved to be, he had decided, he wouldn’t trouble himself to explain that he enjoyed being out in the mountains with men who were his friends as well as his tenants. Here he felt free and happy, unencumbered by his cares and worries and duty.

When she stayed, he began to think she must not disapprove. He had even begun to hope that she was impressed.

Not wanting to be teased by Dafydd or any of the others, though, or seem as if he was becoming too enamored of a woman he had only just met, he had ignored her for as long as he could.

When he couldn’t do that anymore, he walked over to the tables where she was speaking to Lowri, allowing himself the simple pleasure of watching her as he did. Her auburn hair glowed in the sunlight, and her supple body had a grace such as he had never seen before, as if she were dancing even when she stood still.

He had overheard Lowri’s insolent response and braced himself for Fiona’s answering burst of temper.

None came. Instead, she replied calmly, yet with a hint of iron in her voice that was most impressive.

Obviously Fiona MacDougal was not a woman to be trifled with, yet she was willing to help with a menial task when she could have stayed in the castle doing whatever it was well-bred women did.

He hoped that would go some way toward showing his household that he had not made a disastrous choice of bride.

“Of course she is still here,” Dafydd said, “and she keeps looking at your manly form, as I’m sure you know. That is why you’re going to do this until you drop, aren’t you, fool that you are?”

Caradoc wasn’t about to admit that there was some basis for Dafydd’s observation. “Since you’ve finally stopped talking with the women and come, now I’ll go.”

“Oh, my fault, is it?” Dafydd asked sarcastically as he stripped off his tunic, revealing a body as lean and hard as Caradoc’s. “That’s right. Blame me—but go and talk to her before her eyes fall out of her head.”