“I offer you marriage in order to secure the lands offered to me by my king; lands I have worked for my whole life. I am a bastard, Lady Ceara. Alone in the world as you have been since your parents died. I am dependent upon my king for title and land, and for that reason I had to consent to a Welsh wife. Although there is no love between us, I expect there to be strict fidelity and truthfulness.”
Her leap across the ravine was turning into a free fall. There was naught to hold on to as she sank headlong into the abyss of his green gaze.
“I do not wish to wed under false circumstances, Ceara, so I tell you this now.”
He looked at her expectantly, his eyes slowly growing more gentle until he tipped her chin with his fingertip. “I tell you this in the interest of being fair to you. If you choose to become my wife, your position will be respected. Though I cannot commit my heart to the union, I vow you will have my protection and I assure you a place of honor.”
Ariana struggled under the weight of his words, as if now there were a stone tied to her foot, too.
“You are very honest,” she managed, her voice sounding husky and emotional even to her own ears.
Dear Gwydion, but Eleanor said obstacles would fall away if he were the right one. Right now, the obstacles mounted by the moment.
Yet…
Something about the man’s intensity appealed to her. She believed him when he said he would protect her. There was a certain inner strength and determination about Roarke Barret that Ariana admired. This was a man who would never dream of backing down from a fight. He was no Thomas Glamorgan to cave under the weight of unhappiness.
“It is still a genuine proposal, my lady. You would have a keep of your own to tend, and children.” He grinned broadly—much to her embarrassment. “’Tis more than you can say for your convent.”
And it was far better than living under the weight of family legend and fruitless dreams. She wanted to know the love of children, even if she did not know the love of a man. Besides, he needed her. After a lifetime of near invisible servitude to her unappreciative father, Ariana knew well how to give of herself. She could make this man happy. Bring light and laughter to her household in a way she’d never been able to at Glamorgan. Not only that, but she would also be helping Roarke to fulfill his own destiny.
Surely fate would handle the rest.
“Aye.” She smiled back at him, her face still warm with embarrassment, but her mind resolved. “It is preferable to the convent, my lord. If my uncle consents, I will be your wife.”
Finding her footing, she sensed a long climb in front of her. But she felt more keenly alive than she had since she was a young girl. Her world was suddenly bursting with possibilities.
“Excuse me, Ceara,” Thomas Glamorgan haltingly interrupted them. “But it grows late and the guests grow restless. I think ’tis past time we call an end to the meal.” He looked questioningly to Roarke. “That is, if it is acceptable to our guest of honor?”
At Roarke’s nod, Thomas signaled for the entertainment to commence. A neighbor to the Glamorgans brought out a small reed instrument and joined his daughter in a lilting duet homage to their Welsh homelands while the servants finished clearing the tables and picking up the trenchers for the village’s poor.
“Have any of our girls caught your fancy then, sir?” Lord Glamorgan inquired.
Ariana only half listened to Roarke’s exchange with her father, her nerves jittery and her resolve faltering. Roarke’s speech about honesty had her questioning her motives, doubting her cause and overall sick to her stomach. How could she go through with her ploy, knowing Roarke only expected truthfulness from her?
Worse, how could she get married to a man who practically admitted he would never love her?
Her mind wandered as her father announced that Ceara Llywen would marry Roarke Barret in the morning. She kept envisioning someone among the crowd pointing her out as a fake. But apparently she really could pass for Ceara. They possessed similar features and identical amber eyes, though few people noticed their resemblance because of the stark contrast of their hair. Once Ariana put Ceara’s red locks over her own and dotted a few freckles across her nose with the help of a few ashes from the fireplace, they looked like twins.
Except for their figures. Even at sixteen, Ceara had surpassed her cousin in curves. The extra padding Ariana used around her bosom and hips was uncomfortable, but the difference was quite noticeable without it. She would shed a little padding each day after she left Glamorgan until she was back down to her usual size.
With any luck, her husband would never notice.
By now, cups were raised from all sides in toasts to the new couple. Even Lord Glamorgan offered his blessing.
“You seem distracted, my lady,” Roarke remarked. “Do you feel well?”
His question reminded her the charm might very well be wearing off. Either that, or perhaps her sense of daring merely faded now that her fate as Roarke Barret’s wife had been decided. Something about the English knight unsettled her on a fundamental level. Rendered her breathless and a bit weak-kneed.
“Would it seem terribly rude if I were to withdraw from the celebration, my lord?”
“Not considering the haste of our wedding tomorrow. I wish to leave by the time the bell tolls for tierce at mid-morning.”
“As you wish,” she agreed before backing out of the hall into the keep’s entryway where the front doors were thrown open to the night.
She only took a few steps before he followed her. “Aren’t you forgetting something, mor-forwyn?”
It was not his sudden use of Welsh that caught her off guard so much as what he called her.
Temptress. Siren.
“You are familiar with our tongue, my lord?” Her mouth went dry, as much because of the glittering intensity of his gaze as the warmth behind his endearment.
“I learned my first word tonight.”
“You are aware of what you just called me then?” She could not guess where he had run across such a term.
“Temptress.” The slow smile that crossed his lips called forth a peculiar weakening in her knees. He closed the distance between them until he was a hand span before her. Unwilling to move away, she tilted her chin to look up at him.
“And I heard the word in reference to you, lady. I overheard a bold cupbearer remark you went from nun to mor-forwyn in the course of one day. I admit I was curious to know exactly what he meant regarding my future bride, so I had him explain himself. I trust he did not give me false information?”
Judging from Roarke’s intimidating height and far too intense manner, Ariana guessed he had scared the unfortunate lad out of his wits.
“No, my lord. But I hardly think ’tis a flattering name, whether it comes from a member of the kitchen staff or a future husband.”
“Perhaps not. But for now, it is all I know of your language and I rather like the sound of it.” His grin was utterly disarming, perhaps because it seemed a rare occurrence for the serious foreigner. Ariana could not help the answering smile that twitched at her lips.
“I expect one more thing before you retire, lady,” he reminded her as she began once again to take her leave.
Ariana half turned, thinking he was going to mention another detail about their trip, like “bring warm garments,” or some other practical concern.
She was not prepared for his sudden nearness. Nor did she have time to consider the heavy arm that swiftly encircled her before it pulled her toward him.