Welshman's Bride Read online

  “Jocelyn? Are you saying your mother frightened you with tales of the marriage bed?”

  I could not have him think ill of my mother, who was most surely not at fault. “I fear I frightened myself,” I admitted. “Yes, Mama warned me there could be some discomfort, but it was the whole that startled me. I know I should not have been so naive, but I was. I scarcely know you, yet such intimacy . . .” I hung my head, certain I was the greatest fool on earth. Or at least in all England.

  My husband heaved a sigh. Exasperation? Relief? I could not tell. I waited, no longer quaking, simply numb.

  “Ignorance is easily remedied.”

  Oh.

  “Have you ever seen a man’s form, Jocelyn?”

  Nothing beyond shirtless men harvesting grain or digging drainage ditches. Eyes still fixed on the coverlet, I shook my head.

  “Then it’s time.” He stood up, untied the belt of his banyan, slipped out of the robe and tossed it onto a chair. “Take a good look,” he told me, stepping back to put distance between us, spreading his arms wide. “God made man and woman to fit together. It is the most natural thing in the world.” Seeing the doubt on my face, he added, “Yes, there are times when men wield their man part as a weapon, but it will not happen between you and me, this I promise. Except for the breaking of your maidenhead, there should be no pain. Nor should there be fear. This too I promise.”

  Promises should not be one-sided. I retained enough of my intelligence to know that. So after I had taken a long look at his oddly shaped man parts, I lifted my gaze to his face. “If you will but forgive my abominable ignorance, I promise I shall attempt to learn the joys of the marriage bed that Welshwomen know. To give pleasure, as well as to receive.” He raised his fingers to his brow, his hand obscuring his face. His shoulders heaved. Had I said the right thing? Was he laughing at me?

  Rather belatedly, it occurred to me that conversations such as this were likely highly unusual on a wedding night.

  Two hands shot out, and in a twinkling I was standing beside the bed. Seconds later my lacy dressing gown went flying on top of the banyan. I sucked in a breath, forced myself to stand tall, chin high, as my husband examined me from the top of my head to the tip of my toes. I gulped as his eyes lingered over my nipples, pressed taut against the gossamer thin lawn of my nightwear, before pausing with something close to a smile at the patch of hair crowning my woman’s portal. And then he smirked—I swear that great stone face smirked!—as my entire expanse of white skin turned as rosy as my nipples. But something besides embarrassment tugged at me now. Something strange and wonderful. Exciting. Replacing fear with . . . anticipation? Hope?

  My gown disappeared. I wasn’t even aware of lifting my arms, yet it was gone, settling into a puddle at my feet. A giggle welled up, I couldn’t help it.

  “You are amused?”

  I had confounded him. Good. But I did not care to have him think me one of those empty-headed females who giggled endlessly over nothing. “My mother must have dragged me into every shop in Bond Street in an effort to find the most perfect ensemble for my wedding night. And now . . .” I waved my hand toward the delicate nightgown crumpled on top of the lacy white dressing gown and the blue silk banyan.

  This time there was no doubt about his laugh—beginning with a chuckle deep in his chest and bursting into a guffaw which sent me stepping back, eyes wide in surprise. The Welshman had a sense of humor?

  “Both quite lovely,” he managed at last, “but I assure you men prefer their brides skyclad.”

  Skyclad? Oh. I stifled an urge to put my hands where they would do the most good, as it was all too clear I would have to have as many hands as that multi-armed Indian goddess to cover all I wished to cover. I clenched my teeth, lifted my chin, and fixed my gaze on his face. After all, looking down was quite out of the question when he was so close my head was filled with the scent of him. Male. Powerful to the point of overwhelming. With a hint of the exotic. And wholly not English.

  Oh, very well, I did want to look down. Take another look at that forbidden part of him. The part that could not possibly go where Mama said it would. If I simply ignored this moment, would it go away? Become nothing more than fantasy, and I would awake back in my own bed in Hawley Hall—

  What an appalling thought! I chose to come to Litchfield Manor. I chose to become Rhys Maddox’s wife tonight. Now, this very moment.

  1Perhaps he could read the wavering emotions in my face—my faltering journey from fear to acute embarrassment to curiosity, and back to the determination that had kept us from skipping our honeymoon and driving straight on to Wales. Did he also see the something more I could feel welling up inside me? The something that might have been anticipation? For he seemed to sense it was time for our strange conversation to end. Time to begin our life together. If not on the most romantic note a bride might wish for.

  “Just think, Jocelyn,” he said with a wry curl of his lips, “very soon you will no longer be ignorant. I suspect that will suit you very well.”

  He was right, of course. This was the path I had chosen. No matter how obscure the future, now was the time to begin the journey. My fears dissolved, I looked up at him. And smiled.

  Although my husband is not the all-seeing, all-knowing male he thinks he is, I have to grant that he was right about one thing: what Mama called the Act of Procreation painful only briefly. In fact, there were moments . . . No matter, I will not elaborate except to say that my husband—who wishes me to call him Rhys though I find it difficult to form the word—is far more of a gentleman in bed than one would expect from his rugged, barely tamed exterior. Not that I expected passion—or even knew what passion was—but he never seemed to forget I was not one of his warm and welcoming Welshwomen. Which, by the fifth day of our marriage, I must admit I was beginning to regret. He was gentle, kind, instructive, but gradually I came to realize he was giving of his body but not of himself. I was his latest project, a pupil to be taught, perhaps at times no more than a toy. Did some hot-blooded Welsh woman wait for him at home?

  Some day, I promised myself . . . some day I would capture his whole interest. I would discover what Rhys Maddox wanted in a wife. We would be friends. And genuine lovers.

  Ah well, perhaps that was too much to hope.

  One night, after we had indulged in what I could only describe as a courteous bout of love-making, he rolled off me all too quickly, as if his thoughts had already leaped to something else. “Tomorrow,” Rhys said, his tone oddly grim, “we must talk. There are things you need to know about Glyn Eirian, about my family, before we arrive.”

  “You have told me—”

  “Other things.” His cryptic tone left no doubt there was something he was reluctant to impart. Mentally, I reviewed what I had learned and realized Rhys had been close-lipped about Glyn Eirian. We had gone five days with him imparting little more than a vague description of the valley where he lived, his home built on the downside of the pass from the east, the town below clustered about a colliery, with an iron foundry close by. Nor had he done more than list the occupants of the house—his mother, grandmother, younger sister, and two female family connections. Companions? Indigent relations? I had no idea. I suppose we had both been too busy adjusting to the remarkable institution of marriage to think of anyone other than ourselves.

  Untrue. I had seen Rhys frowning over letters he was writing, for even on his wedding retreat my husband did not ignore his responsibilities. I rather suspected I was simply one more chore to check off his list. Rather lowering for someone who had been the constant center of attention at home. If only some of my cousin Matilda’s humility had rubbed off on me . . .

  Nonsense! I had not been raised to be humble. I was Jocelyn Eleanor Hawley—now Maddox, I reminded myself. I was married to a latter-day prince of Wales and humility was not required.

  Rhys could tell me what he would tomorrow. I would not be intimidated.

  Chapter Four

  I confess to a frisson
of trepidation, however, the next afternoon when my husband suggested a walk to a scenic view the butler told him was well worth twenty minutes of travel by foot. I also felt a soupçon of annoyance as well. A Welshman might be accustomed to such a lengthy walk. I was not. And in addition to suspecting Rhys was maneuvering this walk in order to facilitate the private talk he wished to have with me, I feared I was not going to like what he had to say. But houses have ears everywhere, and a serious discussion on horseback was awkward, to say the least. Therefore . . .

  As I tied my chipstraw hat in place, I heaved a long-suffering sigh, but by the time I joined my husband at the bottom of the staircase, I had rearranged my features into what I hoped was a pleasant expression. I accepted his proffered arm and off we went, soon plunging into the dappled shade of the home woods. We were immediately surrounded by so much beauty, from wildflowers peeking up from a carpet of brown and green to a melodious concert of birdsong, punctuated by the rustle of small creatures in the brush—the whole lit by shafts of light spearing through the canopy of leaves overhead—that, chagrined, I bit my lip. There had been a time before I became a much-sought-after heiress when I had enjoyed the outdoors, run freely through the woods . . . Well, as freely as a young girl could when two grooms accompanied her everywhere. Alas, I had been as much an heiress at ten, after all, as I was at twenty. And always vulnerable to being snatched for ransom.

  Strange, but being constantly watched was so much a part of my life, I had long since ceased to notice. Was that over now? Did marriage to Rhys Maddox make me more secure? Was I to have freedom of movement at last? Was it possible?

  The sun nearly blinded me as we came out of the woods and the path, strewn with rocks that served as stepping stones, plunged suddenly upward. Rhys shifted his grip to my hand, hauling me up, willy nilly. Strangely enough I didn’t balk at his rather fast pace. If I had learned nothing else in these past few days, I trusted him not to let me fall. I was his wife, after all, his to protect. Even if love played no part in his reasoning.

  After no more than a five-minute climb, Rhys paused, tucked me into his side, and waved his free hand toward the panorama below. “Tame by Welsh standards,” he declared, “but worth the walk, do you agree?”

  “Yes,” I murmured, for here was a microcosm of English beauty, a picture perfect landscape that could be found but a few steps from busy villages and roads from Cornwall to Yorkshire. Beside us, a bubbling brook meandered through lush green grass, tumbling over modest-sized granite boulders as it spilled down the hillside and created a fishing pool before continuing its journey through a narrow valley dotted with sheep. “The water sings.” And where that remark came from I had no idea!

  “A lullaby compared to the waters in Wales.”

  “Tell me,” I said.

  He drew a deep breath, his arm tightening around my shoulders. “In Wales our waters roar, gushing down mountains instead of the bumps in the ground you English call hills. Our boulders rise like standing stones, our cataracts would laugh at this feeble fall. Our sheep graze not on flat ground but on hillsides so steep it would seem they must have legs on one side shorter than the other. And see that cloud over there? Our skies do not simply turn a weak gray; they go black. Our lightning splits the skies and our thunder roars, as if all the gods of the past were caught up in a raging war.”

  Completely astonished, I turned my head and stared up at him. This from my taciturn husband? “I had heard the Welsh are known for their poetry, but you . . .?”

  “We are all poets,” he returned curtly. “It is part of our soul. Welsh poets were writing down history and making up stories of the English, as well as ourselves, when the rest of this so-called tight little island was nothing more than squabbling warriors, and illiterate at that. We were the first to record tales of King Arthur, though he was not one of us.”

  “But the French—”

  “The French stole the story from our Welsh poets.”

  Oh. Somehow I never doubted him. My sixth day of marriage and instead of coming to know my husband better, Rhys Maddox was becoming more of an enigma each hour.

  “In Wales,” he said, “there would be a choice of boulders to sit on. Here, I’m afraid we must settle for a fallen tree.” He steered me toward a well-worn tree trunk, some dozen feet back from the tinkling fall of water. He took out a handkerchief and dusted off its nearly bark-free exterior before helping me sit on its slightly too high rise and taking a seat beside me.

  “It would appear this is a popular place to rest,” I offered. Absently, he agreed. My spirits plunged. This was it then. The moment for our “talk.” Silly! I was being foolish. What could possibly be so serious that I should be afraid to hear it?

  For a few moments we sat in silence. I suppose Rhys was gathering his thoughts, while I made a concerted effort to let the beauty of the view soothe the qualms that threatened to twist my stomach into knots.

  “You should know a bit about my family,” he said at last. “They are all in residence at Glyn Eirian, and you will encounter them daily.” A bolt of relief shot through me—too soon, as it turned out—yet what was there to fear in learning about his family?

  “My mother Gwendolyn runs the household, though my father’s mother, Lady Aurelia, daughter of an English earl, seldom hesitates to tell us how things were done in her time. “ Rhys paused, as his face softened into a hint of the fondness he felt for his grandmother. “There are two other ladies, family connections who serve as companions for my mother and grandmother. Miss Emily Farnsworth, the elder, is a nonentity without two words to rub together. My mother’s companion, Dilys Trewent, is a shrewd creature. Tart of tongue and too free . . .” Rhys paused, finally continuing so softly I almost failed to hear him. “She and my mother, a matched pair.”

  My head swung round. I stared. Had Rhys just spoken ill of his mother?

  “I also have a younger sister—almost as shockingly indulged as a certain Englishwoman I could name. Liliwen fancies herself a free spirit, and my mother tends to encourage her nonsense . . .” Once again, Rhys broke off, stopping just short of another swipe at his mother.

  He propped his chin on his hand, his eyes narrowing beneath a forehead furrowed by wrinkles. “As you may have begun to suspect,” he said, “my mother and I do not always see eye to eye. In fact, I did not inform her of our marriage until the day after it was accomplished.” Ignoring my sharp intake of breath, he continued, “You should know that my mother had another candidate in mind, which is one of the reasons I set off for London to find a bride for myself.”

  Though Rhys’s words speared through my head like lightning bolts, it took a moment for the full implications of his statement to make themselves clear. Another candidate? Rhys Maddox had married me to spite his mother?

  Which meant my husband’s mother was going to be hostile. She might even hate me.

  Oh. Dear. God.

  “I would never have married the woman,” Rhys declared hastily, evidently reacting to the expression on my face, for I suspected I had turned as pale as the white quartz imbedded in the granite boulders near the edge of the cataract.

  I’m not sure where my words came from—I suppose they proved I was my father’s daughter. “So I am to be your shield against your mother’s machinations.”

  “You are to be my wife. And glad I am of it.”

  “I can see why we needed to talk,” I returned with no little irony.

  “My mother is very . . . Welsh,” Rhys said, an actual note of apology in his tone. “She is determined to shut anything English out of our lives. Yet by her own standards of Welsh hospitality and Welsh law, she must accept you. I am simply warning you not to expect a welcome with open arms.”

  Ladies don’t snort, but I did. Open arms indeed. Was he mad? His mother would likely welcome me with a line of footmen—Welsh warriors all—each armed with a longbow. For a moment I quailed, I admit it. A demand to be sent back to Hawley Hall quivered on the tip of my tongue. Papa was not an ancien
t marcher lord sending his daughter as a political sacrifice to a Welsh prince. Papa and Mama never considered the possibility I might have to suffer for being English. Perish the thought!

  Yet that was what was about to happen. Rhys was far from stupid. He considered the warning he had just delivered a necessity. Which meant I was facing a difficult situation with no way out, short of cowardice and a life of loneliness and ostracization for doing something so shocking as rejecting my husband. Oh, Papa might be able to contrive an annulment—though only equal mountains of lies and guineas could manage it—but my life would be ruined forever. Did you hear about the Hawley chit? Left her husband after no more than a week of marriage? Mind you, no doubt he discovered she’s no better than she should be!

  But worst of all, I would lose Rhys. A prospect I could not like at all, although at the moment I had discovered my stalwart Welshman had feet of clay.

  Imagine, my inner voice mocked, an imperfect man. Who was I to cast stones?

  I glanced at Rhys and found him stoic, his granite face in place, his eyes fixed on the distant horizon, as if he hoped to see into a future brighter than the prospect he had just outlined.

  “Rhys?” I touched his hand, and his solemn gaze retracted, focusing on my face. “I know I am spoiled, that my life has been all too smooth, but I am my father’s daughter, not some blancmange of a creature who cannot say boo to a goose. I will manage. It may take a bit of time, but I promise you I will manage.”

  He nodded, his strong fingers closing over mine. “Thank you.”

  That’s all he said, but it was enough. Watch out, Wales. Jocelyn Eleanor Hawley Maddox is going to war.

  Armed with what? my inner voice jeered. Pretty gowns and English manners?

  Be quiet! How can I possibly know until I get there?

  I heard a hiss inside my head, an idea attempting to slither through a crack in the Welsh wall towering before me. The grandmother. The English grandmother. Surely an ally . . .