The Welshman's Bride. Margaret Moore

look at her face. On her head was a stiffened band with matching embroidery held in place by a white silken scarf that passed from one side of the crown under her chin to the other.

      Without the cluster of golden curls that usually surrounded her face, she looked older, and more womanly.

      His heart beat faster.

      Then she came near enough for him to get a good look at her expression.

      Rarely had he ever seen anyone, including Griffydd, appear so grimly resolute. She looked more like a condemned prisoner being led to the block than a woman who had connived to bring about her own marriage.

      If she did not want to be married to him, why was she there?

      Confused, and with his pride wounded—for never had he imagined his bride would have such a look on her face—he glanced at Lady Roanna He knew she had spoken with Genevieve. Perhaps Genevieve had given his foster mother some inkling...?

      Lady Roanna smiled tranquilly, as if this were nothing more than a joyous occasion and she glad to be there.

      Surely she would not look so calm if she thought there was trouble in the offing.

      Next, Dylan glanced at the baron, who had a somewhat troubled frown on his face, and his sons likewise.

      Dylan grew aware of the puzzled murmurs of the assembly, and the various expressions of the guests, who generally seemed to be regarding him with a certain questioning gravity, and Genevieve with...pity?

      Anwyl, this was her doing. Her fault. The result of her scheming and trickery. He would have no one think this was being forced on her!

      Or him, either, his pride reminded him.

      So Dylan left the dais and approached his beautiful, scheming bride. When he reached her, he yanked her into his arms, and boldly and passionately kissed her.

      

      

      Dylan’s unexpected kiss quite took Genevieve’s breath away—and threatened to strip her of what dignity she retained in front of all these people.

      Try as she might to feel nothing, or perhaps only anger, the moment his lips were on hers, her blood began to throb wildly, and her knees felt strangely weak.

      Finally he stopped kissing her, although he still held her in a grip of iron. His lips trailed across her cheek toward her ear while she tried to catch her breath.

      “This was more your doing than mine, my lady, so smile,” he whispered harshly, “or by God, I’ll walk away and leave you here.”

      Passionate kiss or no passionate kiss, she knew he meant it. He would do it. He would see her humiliated yet again, and he would probably have the gall to say she had only herself to blame.