me. I’ve never forced myself upon a woman and I never will.
“Unfortunately, I find it almost impossible to tell if a Norman’s honorable or not. Now I’m sure you are.”
Roslynn shoved Lord Alfred aside. “Was this some sort of trial, you Welsh oaf, to determine Lord Alfred’s honor—or mine?” she demanded, her whole body quivering with rage. “Perhaps you hoped to find me in Lord Alfred’s arms, the better to reject me and seek a different reward from the king? How unfortunate for you that your plan was doomed to fail, for I value my honor as much as any man.” She pointed at the door. “Get out!”
He raised a brow, but otherwise didn’t move.
“Get out!” she forcefully repeated, and when he still didn’t move, she pulled the dagger from her belt.
In two strides the lord of Llanpowell crossed the floor and grabbed her forearm. He looked like an enraged god, angrier than she’d ever seen any man, even Wimarc when he was captured. Terrified, she cried out and twisted away, protecting her head with her other arm as she anticipated the hard blow, the curses and the kicks that would come.
Instead, she heard his voice, quiet yet strained, firm but steady, as he let go of her. “I’m not going to strike you, my lady, although you drew a blade and I have every right to defend myself, even from a woman.”
Although she had never met him before, he sounded sincere and she choked back her fear. “I drew my knife because I will never again allow a man to take me against my will.”
Lord Madoc’s eyes flared with surprise, then what had to be pity, as if she were a poor, pathetic thing.
“I wasn’t raped by a stranger,” she hurried to explain. “It was no thief or outlaw who outraged me. It was my husband. Our bed was only for his pleasure, never mine.”
Lord Alfred flushed. “If he was your husband, it was his right to—”
“Leave us, my lord,” Lord Madoc ordered. “I will speak to this lady alone and I will not touch her.”
Roslynn saw the truth of his promise in those deep brown eyes that seemed to reveal every flicker of emotion. This might also be her one and only chance to secure her freedom. Therefore, she would take it, and if she was wrong to trust those eyes, she still had her dagger.
Lord Alfred wasn’t willing to acquiesce. “It is most—”
“My lord, please,” Roslynn insisted.
Lord Alfred sheathed his sword. “Very well, I shall go, but know you this, my lord. I will not be kept waiting like a dog on a leash. In two days, I return to court with Lady Roslynn, or without her. However, if this marriage does not take place, rest assured that I shall not be held responsible!”
CHAPTER THREE
AFTER LORD ALFRED had left the room, Lord Madoc turned to Roslynn and studied her as if he’d never seen a woman before. “You were ready to kill me if I tried to force you, weren’t you?”
She saw no reason to dissemble. “I was. I meant what I said.”
“I meant what I said, too. I’ve never taken a woman against her will, and never shall. I never hit women or beat my servants. Those are the acts of a brute and a coward.”
Words could be meaningless and as insubstantial as air. How could a man of his temperament not strike out in anger?
He walked past her to the window, where he stared at the wall and spoke without facing her. “Your marriage to Wimarc—were you forced into that?”
“No, my lord,” she said, although it both shamed and pained her to admit it. “I thought he loved me, only to discover I was nothing more to Wimarc than a dowry and a woman to abuse whenever he felt the need. Worse, he was a traitor and although I was innocent, I could have faced a traitor’s death, too, if not for intercession of friends. Kings are suspicious men, and my fate could easily have been otherwise.”
“So the king let you live to use you as his tool, his gift.”
What could she say to that? It was the truth.
The Welshman turned at last, resting his narrow hips on the sill and crossing his powerful arms. “I’ve heard about your husband. Quite the smooth otter he was, and handsome and clever. Older and wiser heads than yours were turned by him. And love can make a fool of anyone.”
“I don’t believe now that I did truly love him. I was flattered by his attention and swayed by his outward appearance.”
God have mercy, what had compelled her to make that confession, and to a stranger, too, especially one she was supposed to marry?
“So you were deceived and married a traitor and now the king thinks to use you,” Lord Madoc mused aloud. “Yet you have family and friends. Surely the convent is not your only alternative if we don’t marry.”
“I’ve disgraced my parents, and I have imposed upon my friends long enough, so if I don’t marry you, it will be the church for me.”
“Then you will never be able to have children.”
“Since I’m not a simpleton, I’m well aware of that.”
He walked around her and she felt his gaze upon her, but didn’t move. Let him stare all he liked. She had been the object of men’s scrutiny before, especially at court.
“I think you’re no more keen to enter the church than I am to make enemies,” he said at last. “Despite what I said to Lord Alfred, I would prefer not to have John for an enemy. Even so, as I said before, I won’t marry an unwilling woman.”
He halted behind her and when he spoke again, his voice was low and soft, like a lover’s, or as she’d always imagined a lover’s should be. “But you need not lock yourself away in a convent, my lady. Excuses could be found to explain why we won’t marry. An illness perhaps, or I could claim I’ve gotten betrothed since I made my bargain with John. Or that our grandparents were too closely related. Meanwhile, you’re welcome to remain my guest for as long as you like, and whether we marry or not.”
Whether they marry? He was actually considering agreeing to the king’s proposal?
She turned to face him and tried to gauge his true feelings. Did he want her, or only the dowry? Was he hoping to use her, as Wimarc had? As a bedmate, or political pawn, or both? What did he really want?
What she saw in his eyes was not greed or lust or ambition, but a speculation that matched her own, as if he was just as curious to know what she wanted.
As their gazes met and held, however, she saw and felt something more.
Desire.
Yes, he was a man to tempt her, but what then? Madoc ap Gruffydd was no boy, no green lad playing at love. He was no courtier, used to smooth banter and games of seduction.
Madoc of Llanpowell was something else altogether—more elemental, more primitive. More virile and more arousing than any man—any man—she’d ever met.
As that realization struck her, so did another—that
