The Warlord's Bride. Margaret Moore

      “WHATEVER IVOR SAYS, never you fear about going against Madoc, my lady,” Lloyd assured her, trotting to keep up with her brisk pace as they went out the gate. “My nephew’s a bit stubborn and gruff sometimes, but he’d never hurt a woman. Never hurts anybody, except in self-defense or a tournament and then, God grant you, he’s something to see.”

      Lloyd’s words might have assuaged her fears, was she not well aware that pain could also be inflicted with a look or a word or a gesture. It didn’t have to be slaps or blows.

      “No need to worry about how Madoc will treat you, my lady,” Lloyd persisted. “A soft heart for the women, him. And don’t be troubling yourself about Ivor. He’s got a grudge against Normans, you see, not just you in particular.”

      So, it was as she’d suspected, and she was glad she hadn’t sounded as offended as she’d felt.

      “Ivor can be like an old mother hen, too, the way he fusses. But he wants Madoc to be happy, as do we all, so if Madoc wants you, Ivor’ll come round in time and so will everyone else who thinks it’s a mistake.”

      She wondered if she should give Lord Madoc’s uncle an indication of the unlikely possibility of a marriage, at least enough to warn him that the union he seemed so keen to promote was by no means certain.

      “Unless I’m losing my capabilities, I’m sure Madoc does want you,” Lloyd continued so enthusiastically, it suddenly seemed a shame to ruin his expectations. “Ever since Gwendolyn died, he’s had women chasing him and men trying to marry him off to their daughters or sisters, but he’s never had that gleam in his eyes he gets when he looks at you, my lady.”

      This was surely empty flattery. She hadn’t noticed any special gleam in Lord Madoc’s eyes when he looked at her.

      Haven’t you? a small, hopeful voice whispered. Haven’t you felt his desire calling to your own?

      No, she had not. She must not. To listen to the urges of her body was folly.

      Lloyd led her along a path that skirted the village at the south end of the castle, sparing her the necessity of walking through the market square, where more people would no doubt stop and stare at her. Whether he had done so on purpose or not, she wasn’t sure, but she was grateful nonetheless.

      The narrow river ran between banks of mossy red stones. A small, crooked wharf had been built close to the village and low-drafted boats were tied there or pulled up on the bank close by. Across the river was a forest of willow, ash and oak, pine and alders, so close together it was as if the trees were competing to see which one could reach the river first.

      Farther downstream she could hear the happy shouts of children at play and the occasional sharp reprimand of a mother. The language was Welsh, the tone universal.

      “Ah, like heaven itself, isn’t it?” Lloyd said with a sigh as they walked around a curve of the bank, so they were out of sight of the village, if not the high outer walls of the castle.

      He pointed at the grove of leafy alders ahead. “I told you it was a pretty spot.”

      “It is indeed,” she agreed, admiring the rugged beauty of the trees, rocks and river, with the rise of the mountain behind.

      Then they entered the grove, and Roslynn’s jaw dropped. A man was rising from the river—a completely naked man. His back to them, he stretched his long, powerful arms over his head as if he was worshipping the sun. Water glistened on his muscular torso, while his black, waving hair spread over his broad, powerful shoulders as he shook himself, like a great bear.

      The Bear of Brecon.