Border Bride

“Will gold and glory warm your bed at night?

“Will they tend you when you’re ill, or weep for you when you die?”

Dumbstruck, Con struggled into his breeches, trying to think of something, anything he could say that might convince Enid to have him on his own terms.

For once it was her turn to have the final word.

“I think the world of you. I’d sooner have you for my husband than any lord or prince. If you thought half as highly of yourself as I think of you, you’d have nothing to prove to anyone.”

Without giving him a chance to reply, she closed the door of the wash house, plunging it once again into stifling darkness.

“I have nothing to prove.” Con tried to believe it, but the words rang false in his ears and the empty place inside him gaped wider than it ever had before….

Acclaim for Deborah Hale’s recent titles

THE WEDDING WAGER

“…this delightful, well-paced historical will leave readers smiling and satisfied.”

—Library Journal

THE ELUSIVE BRIDE

“…an absolute pleasure!”

—The Romance Reader Web site

THE BONNY BRIDE

“…high adventure!”

—Romantic Times

A GENTLEMAN OF SUBSTANCE

“This exceptional Regency-era romance includes all the best aspects of that genre….Deborah Hale has outdone herself…”

—Romantic Times

#620 BADLANDS LAW

Ruth Langan

#621 A PERILOUS ATTRACTION

Patricia Frances Rowell

#622 MARRIED BY MIDNIGHT

Judith Stacy

Border Bride

Deborah Hale

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Available from Harlequin Historicals and

DEBORAH HALE

My Lord Protector #452

A Gentleman of Substance #488

The Bonny Bride #503

The Elusive Bride #539

The Wedding Wager #563

Whitefeather’s Woman #581

Carpetbagger’s Wife #595

The Love Match #599

“Cupid Goes to Gretna”

Border Bride #619

For my eldest son, Robert, the best birthday present I ever received, who more than deserves a dedication after eight books. Thanks for your patience, sweetheart!

Special thanks to Heidi Hamburg, who knew just what kind of woman Con ap Ifan needed.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter One

Have a care, now! a small voice whispered in Conwy ap Ifan’s thoughts as he picked his way through the quiet, greening countryside of the ever-shifting border between England and Wales. Watch your back. Stay on guard.

He was a carefree, impulsive fellow by nature. It had taken him many years of mercenary service in the Holy Land and elsewhere to cultivate a sense of caution.

Con had the scars to prove it.

Perhaps he ought to heed that vigilant little voice, now. These borderlands, which Norman folk called The Welsh Marches, were far less serene than they might appear to the casual traveller on a fine spring day.

“Tush!” Con muttered to himself as he scrambled from stone to stone, fording a swift-flowing stream. Between planting and shearing, even Welshmen were too busy to make war at this time of year. And who’d take notice of a lone wanderer on foot, anyhow? Especially one with a bard’s harp slung over his shoulder?

Once again Con congratulated himself on adopting such a clever disguise for this mission to his native land. In Wales, a bard could roam the country at will, with the door of every maenol open to him—always assured a seat of honor by the hearth, a good belly-filling meal, and a warm woolen brychan to roll himself in at bedtime.

When a bard plucked his harp and sang the heroic ballads that were his country’s lifeblood, folk dropped their guard to listen. After the last notes died away, oft as not they’d tip another cup of ale or hard cider and grow talkative. Then Conwy ap Ifan, envoy and spy for Empress Maud, Lady of the English, would listen and weave another thread into his tapestry of intelligence about the Marches.

Not a spy! Con’s sense of honor bridled. At least not in the usual sense of that word. He meant no harm to his countrymen, and never would he put the interests of a Norman monarch above those of a Welsh prince. However, if the ambitions of the border chiefs should harmonize with those of the Empress, it would make sweet music for all.

Sweetest for Con himself.

As he ambled along a well-trodden forest path, inhaling the rich, pungent scent of new life, Con recalled his Christmas audience with the Empress, and her special commission for him.

“My Lord DeCourtenay says you gave a good account of yourself when his forces recaptured Brantham Keep from Fulke DeBoissard. Thanks to the arrow you put through his elbow, that’s one traitor who will never again hoist his sword against me. It takes a cool head and a true aim to turn your bow on a man who holds a knife to the throat of your dearest friend.”

For all her imperial bearing, the lady had returned Con’s admiring smile. Perhaps she’d been flattered that her arresting beauty still had the power to stir an attractive man some years her junior. Con had never been one to hide his appreciation of a pretty woman.

“Such a decisive fellow could be a great asset to me on the Marches just now, sir. Particularly if he has an agreeable humor and a persuasive Welsh tongue in his head.”

Con had acknowledged the compliment and expressed his interest in hearing more.

The Empress chose her words with care. “During these past years, while my cousin and I have contended for the throne, many Welsh border lords have seized the chance to take back lands conquered during the time of my sire and grandsire. It would be only fitting if my loyal southern Marches remained free of strife, while those manors which hold for Stephen of Blois suffered for their treachery.”

“Fitting indeed, your Grace,” Con agreed.

As a Welshman, he had no sworn fealty to either the Empress or King Stephen, but his natural sympathy lay with Maud. For as long as he could recall, Con had always sided with the underdog in any fight.

The Empress swept a lingering look from the toes of Con’s soft leather boots to the tangle of dark curls atop his head. She appeared to approve what she saw. “A man who could tame some border lords on my behalf while inflaming others would be well rewarded for his labors.”

With a raised brow and a curious half smile, Con inquired what form that reward might take.

“I would be prepared to honor such an enterprising fellow with a knighthood.” Maud’s shrewd dark gaze probed his. “Then I would equip him with suitable men and arms to return to the Holy Land. It would buy me favor with His Holiness the Pope as well as my husband’s kinsman, the Prince of Edessa.”

Con had struggled to keep his face impassive, even while his heels yearned to break into a jig. By heaven, this woman could calculate a man’s price to the groat. In a stroke she’d offered him the two greatest boons he had ever desired from life—advancement and adventure.

On this bright, green April day fairly bursting with promise, Con journeyed north, basking in the satisfaction of having fulfilled half his royal commission already. The more difficult half, to be sure, since it was a far easier task rousing Welshmen to war than persuading them to keep the peace.

During the long, dark months of winter, Con had made his way from cantrev to cantrev in the guise of a wandering bard. At each maenol he’d engaged in secret talks with the local border chief, counselling peace and consolidation of territory. Hinting at Angevine favor when Maud or her son, Henry, finally wrested the English throne from her cousin Stephen.

To a man, the chiefs of Deheubarth had heeded him.

Now with Empress Maud’s promised reward beckoning, Con had come to Powys on the latter half of his errand, to stir up trouble for the Marcher lords of Salop. He judged himself at least another full day’s journey away from Hen Coed, the stronghold of powerful border chieftain Macsen ap Gryffith.

When Con emerged from the eaves of the forest, he spied a thin plume of smoke rising from beyond the crest of the next hill. It must come from a dwelling of some kind. A dwelling where he could expect to receive warm hospitality on a cool spring night, along with the latest news from the surrounding country. All for the price of a song and a tale.

And if his usual luck held, he might find a comely lass among the household on whom he could exercise his ivory smile and extravagant flattery. Somehow, that prospect did not hold its usual appeal for Con.

Since coming to Wales, he’d found his appetite for feminine company unaccountably dulled. Could it be his age? Though often mistaken for a good bit younger, he was a trifle past thirty.

Or was his fleeting interest in the women he met always tempered by bittersweet memories of one woman? Long-slumbering recollections roused since Con’s boon companion, Rowan DeCourtenay, had found the one lady for whom he’d been destined.

Heading toward the smoke, Con shook his head and chuckled to himself. Queer that he should still burn for the one lass of whom he’d never made a conquest, when others he’d bedded had long since faded from his memory.

“Mother,” sang nine-year-old Myfanwy as she skipped into the washhouse at Glyneira, “Idwal said to tell you there’s a traveller come. Shall I fetch my harp and keep him company till supper? Or should I offer him water first?”

Enid looked up from her task of cleansing wool in the great iron cauldron. With the back of her hand, she nudged several fine tendrils of dark hair off her brow. They’d escaped her long braid, teased into curls by steam and sweat.

Traveller? Could Lord Macsen have come so soon?

Why did her belly suddenly feel full of wet wool at the thought of her chosen suitor arriving earlier than she’d expected him? Perhaps because Glyneira wasn’t yet fit to receive such exalted company, she decided. For a dozen good sensible reasons, Enid wanted to wed the border chief. She couldn’t afford to make an unfavorable impression.

“Of course you must offer him water straightaway, my pet. A big girl like you should know that by now.” Enid couldn’t help but smile at the child who looked so little like herself. Both Myfanwy and young Davy took after their late father, who’d had Mercian blood. “If our guest accepts, then we’ll know he means to stay the night at least.”

The ceremonial offer of water to wash a traveller’s tired feet was a tradition as old as the Welsh hills. If a guest refused, it meant he would not bide the night under his host’s roof. If he accepted, then the hospitality of the house would be his for as long as he chose to stay. Enid cherished the comforting familiarity of such traditions.

Myfanwy bobbed her golden head, eager as eager. “If the stranger says he’ll take water, can I wash his feet?”

“Not this time.” If Macsen had come to Glyneira, Enid wanted to make certain he was properly received—with her best ewer and basin, herb-sweetened water neither too hot nor too cold, and her softest cloths for drying. “I’ll see to it as soon as I tidy myself up. You can entertain him with your harping and singing, in the meantime. Go along now. Our guest will be pleased to hear you, I’ve no doubt, for you have a sweeter song than a linnet.”

As the child raced off, her mother called after her, “Tell Auntie Gaynor I need her to come finish a job for me.”

The wool only wanted one more rinse. Enid knew she could trust her sister-in-law not to handle the fleece over-much and risk felting it.

Hiking up her skirts, she dashed the short distance from the wash shed to the back entrance of the house, startling an old goose that ruffled up its feathers and hissed at her.

“Keep a civil tongue, or I might pluck and roast you for our guest’s supper,” Enid warned the testy fowl.

The goose waddled off with its bill in the air.

The lady of the house managed to reach her own small chamber without being harassed further. After pulling off her coarse-woven work tunic, she rummaged in the chest at the foot of her bed, looking for an overgarment better suited to welcoming such an important guest.

A flash of green caught her eye. From the very bottom of the trunk Enid lifted a fine woolen kirtle, trimmed at the neck and wrists with close-stitched embroidery. Her breath caught in her throat as she held the garment in her hands.

During the years since she’d come to Glyneira, she had found one excuse after another to avoid wearing it, until she’d almost forgotten it existed. She had worn this fine garment on her wedding day, though it had been fashioned to impress a much grander bridegroom than Howell ap Rhodri.

It reminded Enid of all she’d risked once upon a time. And all she’d lost in the risking.

“Oh, don’t be fanciful,” she scolded herself as she slipped the garment over her head. “A kirtle’s a kirtle and this is the best you own.”

As she covered her hair with a fresh veil, a small boy barrelled into the chamber. A stubby-legged puppy scrambled through the rushes at the child’s heels.

“Myfanwy said to tell you the man wants water.” Blurting out his message, Master Davy looked ready to bolt out of the room as fast as he’d bolted in—until he caught a good look at his mother.

“What’re you dressed so grand for, Mam?” Davy scooped up the puppy, who wriggled in his arms. “You look as fair as the queen of springtime. All you need is a crown of flowers in your hair like Myfanwy makes for hers.”

“Queen of springtime, is it?” Enid blushed as she remembered a young fellow who’d once fashioned a garland of spring blossoms for her hair and offered equally extravagant praise to her looks. That fellow had danced all over her heart, then danced away…never to return.

“I mind you’ll make a bard yet, Davy-lad.” Enid ruffled her son’s honey-brown hair, determined not to let thoughts of Con ap Ifan spoil this moment. “But you make it sound as though your poor mother goes around like a slattern most of the time. Away with you now before that dog messes on the floor again.”

As the boy ran off laughing, Enid noticed how tall he’d sprouted through the winter. It was a wonder he could still wriggle into his tunic, it had grown so tight. She’d have to look through her other trunk to see if there were any clothes Bryn had outgrown that might now fit Davy.

Thinking of her older son made Enid remember their guest. Of the many boons she stood to gain from wedding Lord Macsen, she most craved the chance to reunite her family. It’d been such a long time since Howell had sent the boy away for fosterage. She’d rather hoped Macsen might bring her son along on this visit.

A wistful pang gave way to questioning. It wasn’t like Macsen ap Gryffith to travel alone, without a small but skilled escort of armed men. Did the border chief have reason to call on Glyneira in secret? Or could something be wrong?

From out of the chest Enid snatched a handsome basin and ewer of beaten copper along with linen drying cloths, all too fine for any but Glyneira’s most honored guests. Making her way to the kitchen to fetch hot water, she schooled her steps to a brisk but decorous pace appropriate for a lady of the maenol. Her thoughts fluttered though, like doves in a cote when a fox prowled the ground below.

What if Macsen had changed his mind about the betrothal he’d hinted at when Howell lay dying? What if he’d never meant it in the first place—only wanted to calm her fears for the future? She’d managed well enough, had even come to enjoy being mistress of Glyneira in her own right instead of always deferring to a husband.

But the past winter had been an uncommonly quiet one. Such tranquility could not last on the borders. When strife erupted again, as surely it would, Enid wanted her children tucked up in the comparative safety of Hen Coed, buffered by a stout palisade with a canny warrior lord for a step-father.

Almost without her noticing it, the rhythm of her footsteps quickened.

The nimble music of Myfanwy’s harp greeted Enid as she entered the hall. For an instant the mellow glow of maternal pride radiated through her. Then she heard a second instrument join her daughter’s, lower in pitch and more assured in touch. Myfanwy began to sing in her high, pure treble, while a masculine voice chimed in a pleasing harmony.

The voice had a most agreeable timbre in the mellow middle register, unlike the ominous resonant rumble of Macsen ap Gryffith’s.

Enid crossed the cavernous hall with a halting gait, like a sleepwalker drawn by the Fair Folk. Something deep within her quivered to life at the sound of that all-but-forgotten voice. Or perhaps it shivered with foreboding.

She approached so quietly the two musicians did not pay her any mind at first. In the dim interior of the hall, Myfanwy’s young face seemed to cast a radiance of its own, kindled by the admiring attention of their guest.

He was a handsome fellow. Not towering and brawny like Lord Macsen, but medium tall for a Welshman, his lithe frame fleshed with hard, lean sinew. The eastern sun had tanned his face since last Enid had beheld it, and any suggestion of boyish roundness had been pared away by the years.

Topped by a vigorous tangle of nut-brown curls, it was a well-shaped face in every way. Agile brows arched above a pair of eyes that shimmered with lively charm. Beneath the straight sloping nose with its potent flared nostrils, poised a tempting pair of lips. They were neither too full nor too thin, but so ideal for kissing they made Enid’s own lips quiver just to look at them. Below that melting mouth jutted a resolute chin, softened by the disarming hint of a dimple. It was a face to break a woman’s heart.

How many more had he broken since hers?

Clutching the basin with a remorseless grip to keep her hands from trembling, Enid willed her voice not to catch in her throat as she spoke loud enough to be heard above the music.

“Well, well, Conwy ap Ifan, what are you doing in Powys? The last I heard you’d hired out as a mercenary to the Holy Land.”

His voice fell silent and he glanced up at her with a sudden questioning look. For a moment Enid’s unhealed heart wrenched in her bosom fearing he would not remember her.

Then his smile blazed forth. “Well, well yourself, Enid versch Blethyn. What are you doing in Powys? The last I heard, you were set to wed some princeling from Ynys Mon.”

Something about the set of his features or the tilt of his head sliced through Enid like an arrow loosed at close range from a powerful Welsh short bow.

Dear heaven! She must get Con ap Ifan away from Glyneira before Macsen and his party arrived.

Chapter Two

A pity he couldn’t linger here, Con found himself thinking as he cast an admiring eye over the cariad of his boyhood, since ripened into vivid, beguiling flower.

Enid’s sudden appearance and sharp questions had taken him by surprise. Yet in another way they hadn’t. Something about the child had put her mother firmly in his mind, though he’d scarcely been aware of it at the time. The sweet lilt of her young voice, perhaps, or some trick of her smile, for all else about the pair went by contraries.

The girl was fair and tall for her age and race, while her mother had the dark, fey delicacy of a true Welsh beauty. Full dark brows cast a bewitching contrast to her dainty elfin features. Her eyes were the dusky purple of black-thorn plums, and her hair—what Con could see of it and what he recalled—still black as a rook’s wing. Skin like apple blossoms and lips the rich intoxicating hue of Malmsey wine.

Indeed, a kind of besotted dizziness came over Con as he drank in her twilight loveliness.

A trill of laughter from the child startled him halfways sober again. “Mam, do you mean to wash our guest’s feet before the water gets cold?”

Enid gave a startled glance down at the ewer and basin in her hands as if they’d appeared there by magic.

“Aye.” She took a step toward Con, then hesitated. “If you wish it, that is. I only heard secondhand that you’d accepted the offer of water.”

“With pleasure.” Con set his harp aside and pried off his boots, wondering if he’d only imagined the shadow that had dimmed her features. Had she hoped he’d change his mind about accepting the water? “After a day’s brisk walk, your hospitality is most welcome. The young lady’s music has already lightened the weariness of my spirit. Such a jewel is a mighty credit to you and her tad.”

Enid had dropped to her knees on the rush-strewn floor, and begun to pour gently steaming water into the basin. At Con’s tribute to her daughter, her slender form tensed.

“Myfanwy, cariad, will you go check how Auntie Gaynor is coming with the last rinse of the wool? That’s a good girl.”

When the child had made a subdued exit, Enid explained, “My daughter does mighty credit to her father’s memory. She’s much like him in many ways.”

“I’m sorry.” Con chided himself less for the compliment gone awry than for the envious curiosity that flamed in him. By the tone of Enid’s answer, he might guess how much or how little she had loved Myfanwy’s father.

It should not matter to him…but it did.

“Was it very long ago you lost your husband?” At the last instant he managed to stop himself from adding the Welsh endearment, cariad.

“In the fall.” Enid pushed the basin toward him. Though her curt reply told him she didn’t want to dwell on the matter, it gave no real clue about her feelings for the man. “There was some trouble with the Normans, so Howell joined the muster of Macsen ap Gryffith. He took sore wounds in the fighting. They brought him home where he lingered until the first snow.”

Con eased his feet into the warm water as he digested this intriguing scrap of news about Macsen ap Gryffith. If the border chief had lost men in an autumn skirmish with the Normans of Salop, he might not need much nudging to retaliate in the spring.

“What brings you to the borders?” asked Enid, her head bent over the basin. “Did you grow tired of plying your sword for hire to the Normans?”

Her question caught Con like an unexpected thrust after a cunning feint. For a moment his glib tongue froze in his mouth. If he told her he’d come on a mission from the very people who’d killed her husband, she’d likely turf his backside out the gate, traditions of Welsh hospitality be damned.

“You might say I’m taking a rest from it.” No lie, that—not a bold-faced one, anyhow. “I mean to go back to the Holy Land, though.”

As Sir Conwy of Somewhere, riding at the head of an armed company of his own men. The dream sang a most agreeable melody in Con’s thoughts.

“In the meantime, barding lets me enjoy a bit of adventure without the danger. Mercenary or travelling bard, both make good jobs for a vagabond.”

“You’ve always had itchy heels, haven’t you, Con?” Enid mused aloud as she washed his feet. “I suppose you’ll be on your way from here tomorrow morning?”