to be married,” Genevieve said.
“What?” Dylan gasped, lowering his sword and staring at her, wide-eyed with...horror?
Her stomach knotted. “Yes. You love me. I love you. We...we spent the night together. We have to be married.”
He shook his head, his angry gaze boring into her. “Oh, no, we don’t.”
Now truly dismayed and fearful, she stammered, “You...you kissed me...and...”
“Quiet, Genevieve!” her uncle commanded as he marched toward the baron. “Your nephew, who is, I understand, also your foster son, has basely used and deceived my niece. What are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing—at the moment,” the baron replied just as calmly. “I suggest we let them get dressed and then we can discuss this...situation...in a more rational manner.
“Without swords,” he finished pointedly.
“She’s right. They’ll have to be married,” Perronet declared. “Lord Kirkheathe—”
The baron held up his hand, silencing him. “Please, Lord Perronet, let us take some time to calm ourselves. Then we can decide how best to proceed.”
Her uncle hesitated, then sheathed his sword while continuing to regard Dylan disdainfully. “Because you ask it of me. Baron, I will. But that whelp will make amends!”
With that, he reached out and grabbed Genevieve roughly by the arm.
“Come along, girl!” he growled, pulling her toward the door.
“My dress—”
“Leave it!” he snarled as he all but dragged her past the baron.
Dylan raised his sword again and took a step forward.
“Let them go,” the baron commanded. “Did you hear me, Dylan? Let them go!”
“He cannot treat her that way!”
“Get dressed.”
Dylan glanced down at his naked body. Without another word, he threw his sword on the bed and picked up his breeches, which were lying on the floor. He looked around for his tunic, noticing the unfamiliar clothing on the chest
Not unfamiliar, he corrected, for he recognized the gown Genevieve had worn last evening at the banquet, when he had done his best to avoid her.
He spotted his tunic stung over the chair and yanked it on.
“No matter what she’s done, he shouldn’t have been so rough with her,” he muttered before he stuck his head out of the garment.
“Her uncle has the right to treat her as he sees fit,” the baron replied, coming farther into the room. “What rights have you been enjoying?”
“Not that! I don’t know how she got in my bed.”
With a sinking heart, Dylan noted the skeptical quirk of the baron’s lips as he sat in the chair. He looked like a king about to dispense judgment.
He suddenly wished the baron’s wife were there. Lady Roanna’s serenity would be welcome at a time like this. Unfortunately, the baron’s ancient nurse was very ill; Lady Roanna had been tending to her when she was not involved in the preparations for the festivities surrounding Trystan’s knighting.
“He called me a bastard, that cur,” Dylan said defensively.
“You are a bastard,” the baron replied evenly.
“I know that!” Dylan replied. “But he had no right to impugn my honor.”
“He thinks he does, and the evidence is against you.”
“Don’t you think I would remember having a beauty like Genevieve Perronet in my arms?” Dy-lan protested, his arms akimbo. “I didn’t make love with her!”
“Sit down,” the baron ordered, pointing at the bed.
Dylan didn’t like the coldness of his uncle’s tone.
Nevertheless, he had been told to sit, and that was some cause for comfort. When he had been naughty as a child, he had been kept standing while he was chastised.
Of course, this situation was different from stealing apples or sneaking out of the castle at night, and he wasn’t ten years old anymore.
When he was seated, the baron said, “You can see how this looks, Dylan. She was naked in your bed.”
“I never touched her. At least, not last night.”
The baron reached up to scratch the scar that extended beneath his brown leather eye patch. “But before then? What were you up to with Genevieve Perronet?”
“Nothing—or nothing much. I certainly never said I wanted her to break her betrothal, and God knows I never invited her to my bed. You have to believe that, Uncle. I’ve never seduced a woman with a promise of marriage.”
“Good thing, or you would have been married at fourteen.”
The baron’s remark, although grimly said, made Dylan relax a little more. “I honestly have no idea how she came to be in my bed, naked or otherwise.”
“That is what I find most surprising of all. Is it possible you could have brought her here without remembering? Were you drunk last night?”
“I had some wine and ale, and I was very tired. But I’m certain I would have remembered making love.”
Indeed, as he recalled the perfect pale flesh of Genevieve’s shoulders and the pretty tumble of her blond hair, he knew he would have remembered. “She must have come into my bed after I was asleep.”
“I suppose that might be possible,” the baron replied with a dubious expression. “How do you explain the blood on the sheets?”
“I don’t. I can’t—because I don’t know how it came to be there. Maybe I’ve got a cut someplace and it bled.”
“That’s possible. Did you look?”
“Not yet.”
“Lord Perronet will no doubt want to see such a cut, if it exists.”
Dylan regarded the baron steadily. “There was no need for him to try to kill me, or to manhandle Genevieve that way.”
“Put yourself in his place, Dylan. He manages to get her betrothed to one of the most powerful men in the north of England, and then he finds her in your bed.”
“I didn’t—”
The baron nodded patiently. “I believe you. But he may not. He hardly knows you.”
“He seems to know of me, or at least my family,” Dylan replied dourly.
“Your grandfather
