style="font-size:15px;"> This dangerous goal had remained a mystery until that night when the older girls also fostered to Lady Katherine had taken it upon themselves to enlighten the younger ones. Certain portions of that fascinating discussion had immediately returned to Genevieve as she tried to look away from the handsome stranger with his devilish grin and merry eyes. She had not been able to manage it until her uncle barked at his men to dismount. Half-afraid and half-hopeful, she had wondered if the young man would approach her. He did not, but later she had discovered that he was Dylan DeLanyea, the nephew of Baron DeLanyea, lord of Craig Fawr.
What would her uncle say if he discovered her now, in this secluded garden, waiting for Dylan?
She could not even imagine the extent of his ire. They were guests of the DeLanyeas, breaking their journey north at the baron’s castle and, incidentally, attending the knighting of the baron’s youngest son. Nevertheless, she was sure her uncle would not hesitate to condemn her in front of them all if he thought her guilty of shameful behavior.
As for what Lady Katherine would say, that was easier to guess, for she had lived the past eight years under Lady Katherine’s roof, being instructed in the skills, duties and manners of a chatelaine.
Lady Katherine would say that Dylan DeLanyea, for all his smiles and kind looks, was not to be trusted.
Genevieve didn’t believe that. Dylan was noble and chivalrous, and completely trustworthy.
To be sure, he had kissed her, even though he knew she was betrothed. Three times. Once on the cheek, and twice on the lips.
Her heartbeat quickened. During the somewhat tedious business of the knighting of Trystan DeLanyea, Dylan’s cousin and foster brother, she had realized that Dylan was looking at her—often. And smiling. He continued to do so during the subsequent feast.
And then came the dancing. She had thought she would swoon when Dylan approached her and asked her to stand beside him in the dance. When he had taken her hand, she had scarce been able to breathe.
Fortunately, thanks to Lady Katherine’s teaching, she was able to dance the steps, even though she found it exceedingly difficult to concentrate.
Afterward, Dylan DeLanyea had escorted her back to her uncle. Then he had returned and beseeched her to dance again.
That time, when the dance was over, he did not take her back to her uncle, who was engaged in deep conversation with the baron and his eldest son, Griffydd. Instead, he led her to a more private part of the hall—still in full view of everyone, of course, so there could be no charge of impropriety.
She was, after all, betrothed—albeit to a man old enough to be her father.
Her face flushed as she thought of what had happened next. Somehow, and she wasn’t sure just how, she found herself farther back in the shadows. Nor could she recall what they had been speaking of, for all at once, Dylan DeLanyea had suddenly leaned forward and kissed her.
She was not cold now, as she remembered the sensation of his warm, soft lips first brushing her cheek, then touching her mouth.
“There is a rose blooming here, after all.”
She started when she heard Dylan’s musical Welsh voice.
She stood as he came through the gate, closing it softly behind him before he faced her, smiling.
His untamed hair moved gently in the chilly breeze. He did not look cold, although he wore no cloak. He was clad in an open-necked shirt beneath a leather tunic girded by a thick sword belt. The tunic brushed his muscular thighs, which were encased in breeches. Fur wrappings covered his shins and boots.
Plain clothing indeed, and yet he looked absolutely splendid. She did not think a prince could look finer, especially when he regarded her with that intimate smile and those shining eyes.
“I was afraid you would not come,” he said as he approached her.
Genevieve looked at the frosty ground. “I should not, perhaps, have done so.”
“I would have been very sad.”
She risked a glance at him. “Truly?”
“Most truly. Come, sit here beside me.”
He sat on the stone bench she had recently vacated. Her heart throbbing so that she was sure he must be able to hear it, she hesitated a moment, then joined him, sitting as far away as possible.
Although she had been unable to resist the lure of being alone with him in the garden, she was a lady, and there were certain proprieties to be observed.
But not by him, apparently, for he boldly reached out and took her gloved hand in his.
She knew she should not allow such familiarity, but the words of protest would not come.
“Baron DeLanyea tells me you are to leave tomorrow,” he said softly.
She nodded.
He sighed. “I will be very sorry when you go.”
Emboldened by his manner and his words, she looked at him. “So will I.”
He smiled wistfully. “You are to be married within the month?”
“Yes, within the month,” she replied, not troubling to hide her dismay at her impending fate. “To an old man.”
“That is often the way of it,” Dylan replied gravely. “An old man and a young wife.”
“Why must it be so? It doesn’t seem right.”
She saw that her forceful words startled him. “I know such a match is not unusual, and I know my marriage to Lord Kirkheathe pleases my uncle, who is my guardian now, yet I wish I were not betrothed.”
When Dylan answered, he sounded as sad as she felt, and his hand squeezed hers. “But you are.”
“I wish I could stay.”
“I wish you could, too,” he replied softly, reaching up to caress her cheek.
“Is there nothing to be done?”
“I fear there is not, my lady. We must say our farewells. Let us do so here, where we can be alone.”
Her eyes welled with tears. “I do not want to say farewell.”
“Then do not,” he whispered, bending his head to kiss her.
For a fleeting instant, it crossed Genevieve’s mind that she should not allow such a liberty.
Yet she could not stop him, or herself. She wrapped her arms around him and leaned against him as she lost herself in the wonderful sensations his lips engendered.
Dylan shifted closer, moving his hands into the warmth of her cloak to hold her in his arms. He caressed her slim back as his kiss deepened.
Engulfed in the pleasure of their embrace, he let himself drift on a sea of delightful perceptions. The perfect softness of her lips. The slight arch in her back. The brush of the fur lining
