Tempt Me With Kisses by Margaret Moore Page A

Behind the gate, the dogs sat with their masters, barely still, their haunches quivering. Other men leaned on the wall, looking at the flock with great satisfaction—when they were not glancing at their lord, and her.
    Still Caradoc did not acknowledge her presence. He continued to speak to Dafydd, his expression grave. Perhaps there was a problem with the sheep.
    She almost hoped that was so. Otherwise, she would have to admit that he was purposefully ignoring her.
    “If you will excuse me, mistress,” Rhonwen said, bashfully backing away toward the castle. “You don’t need me, so I’ll go back and see to the … to the … laundry.”
    Before Fiona could stop her, she hurried away.
    Puzzled, she looked at Caradoc and Dafydd still deep in discussion. Maybe Rhonwen was upset that Dafydd hadn’t noticed her, either, but that didn’t seem likely.
    Then another possible reason for Rhonwen’s bashful flight appeared.
    A group of servants, led by Lowri, a middle-aged, stout serving woman with a face that looked as if she brooked no nonsense, came trudging up the hill. The grooms who had helped Fiona unload her wagons bore trestle tables to be assembled, and more women carried baskets and small casks of ale. Una, not as old or as stout as Lowri, but round-faced and dark-haired, carried a basket full of mugs. Mercifully, there was no sign of Ganore or Cordelia among them, but when she saw the expressions on the serving women’s faces as they realized she was there, she sympathized with her maid’s desire to flee.
    Fiona straightened her shoulders. She didn’t belong there, and Caradoc acted as if she didn’t exist, yet she wasn’t about to run away. And maybe helping the women would be a start to earning their respect. She certainly wasn’t afraid of a little hard work. She had helped around the household whenever she could.
    Her decision made, she went toward the tables and approached Lowri. “I will pour the ale,” she offered.
    Lowri’s eyes narrowed. “We don’t need your help.”
    The back of Fiona’s neck prickled, as if a thunderstorm or other natural phenomena loomed close behind her.
    “You don’t have to do that,” Caradoc said, and she turned to find him so close to her elbow, she might have hit him with hers if she had turned too quickly.
    She blushed, and knew she was, and wished she wasn’t. She probably looked silly petitioning a servant for the right to pour ale. “I want to help, as you do.”
    “If you like.”
    His mellifluous voice and sapphire eyes should be condemned by the church for temptations to sin, or declared illegal by the crown for leading women to indulge in wanton behavior. He didn’t have to smile before waves of hot desire swept over her. The promise of a passion such as she had never imagined seemed to emanate from him, drawing her close.
    Maybe she shouldn’t linger here. Maybe she should hide herself away lest she betray her far-from-innocent hunger and give him cause to wonder.
    Caradoc looked at Lowri, not condemning or chastising, but calm and purposeful in a way that would not allow protest. “Lowri, you set out the mugs and my bride-to-be will pour.”
    Then he turned and walked away.

Chapter 6

    “S howing off, are you?” Dafydd demanded later. There was a grin on his face but gravity in his eyes as he pushed his way through the sheep crowding the narrow enclosure leading to the river.
    Caradoc paused in the act of pitching a sheep into the deep water. Sweat poured off his forehead, naked chest and back, and it dampened the waist of his breeches. His arms and legs and shoulders ached from the lifting, and his throat was as parched as if he hadn’t had a drink in days. He hadn’t felt this physically exhausted in years.
    That was not so surprising, considering he had been tired when he had started out that morning. It had taken him even longer than usual to fall asleep last night. Normally, it was worrying about how he was going to pay his taxes and feed