Tempt Me With Kisses by Margaret Moore

her, it was disastrous. He should join a holy order of monks under a vow of silence.
    But then he would have to give up Fiona, too.
    He ran his hand through his hair and threw himself in his chair, slinging one leg over the arm as he leaned his head back.
    Could Cordelia not see that he agreed to this marriage out of duty? That most of what he did had little to do with his own desires or needs or wishes?
    This was not the life he had dreamed of during all those long hours here with Brother Adolphus droning on in Greek and Latin, staring at figures on the parchment, tallying profits and gain and taxes until the numbers swam before his eyes.
    Then he had longed to leave Llanstephan, to travel the world and see the things he’d read about—elephants, the great pyramids of Egypt, the Roman Coliseum. Paris. Florence.
    Instead, he had done his duty as the eldest son while Connor got to go, sent off on Crusade with great fanfare and at such great cost, only to have it end in disaster. Connor had quarreled with King Richard and been sent from the royal retinue in disgrace. Then the taxes on Llanstephan had been tripled, so that now they had scarcely a coin to their name.
    To be sure, it could be much worse. Connor could have been killed.
    And he could have been born a poor peasant … a poor peasant who had only himself to think of, not a sister who argued, and a castle and village full of people who looked to him for safety and security.
    Sometimes he thought of leaving Llanstephan, going out into the dark of the night, away from responsibility and duty. He’d go to some place where he could think and plan and dream for himself alone.
    Alone, but no more lonely than he was here.
    Then he thought of Fiona standing here in this chamber making her incredible proposition. The physical desire she stirred within him. The fierce, passionate kiss they had shared.
    No matter what he said to Cordelia, in his heart he knew he had not agreed to this marriage solely because of money. Nay, nor lust, either, as he remembered Fiona’s frank, bold manner. She addressed him as an equal, not a lord to be feared or an annoying sibling. A small part of him hoped he could find some measure of happiness with such a woman as his wife.
    Perhaps he was wrong to entertain even a tiny sliver of hope. He had been disappointed often enough in the past.
    And yet, as he remembered Fiona’s kiss and her passion, the hope that had taken root dared to grow a little more.
    Dafydd surveyed the group of men sitting in the barracks of Llanstephan Fawr.
    At this time of day, when the sun was nearly set, the chamber was dim and would have been empty except for the rows of cots, the long table at one end holding basins and ewers of cold water for washing, and the pegs near the door where cloaks and various bits and pieces of armor hung. Each man had a wooden chest beside his bed for his personal belongings. In the evening, light was provided by torches in sconces on the walls, as well as by a fire lit in the small open hearth in the center of the room.
    The loopholes, windows only wide enough for an archer to take aim, provided little ventilation, so the scent of smoke, pitch, horse, and sweaty soldiers lingered.
    Jon-Bron and his two brothers sat glumly on one of the cots, looking like three statues of mournfully martyred saints. Eifion, called the Eel for his tall, slender build, leaned against the wall, thoughtfully picking at a small hole in the nearest stone with his long, narrow fingers. Dafydd paced down the room and back again.
    “There’s nothing we can do, then?” Jon-Bron repeated for what must have been the twentieth time since they had gathered there.
    “No, nothing. He’s decided and there’s an end to it,” Dafydd replied as he halted. “He went to the priest like his britches were on fire. We should be glad he didn’t marry her then and there, I suppose. Maybe the gathering and washing will give him time to cool his ardor and