An Excerpt From TEMPT ME WITH KISSES

Caradoc turned toward the window and, resting one broad hand against the frame, searched the courtyard of his castle, which was a humble one by Norman standards. Beside three large covered wagons, looking about as if surveying the place for taxes, stood a lone woman. Slender and well dressed, she wore a light blue cloak against the morning's chill, her face hidden by a hood trimmed with fox fur.

Caradoc had the sudden unsettling sensation that she seemed familiar -- from the way she stood so straight and confident, perhaps. Or was it the way she studied the fortress that troubled him. Llanstephan Fawr was no great Norman monstrosity with inner and outer walls and towers to spare. True, the word fawr meant great, but it had been a simple motte and bailey fortress orginally, an enclosure of wooden walls surrounding wooden buildings on a hill overlooking a Welsh valley. Caradoc's father had rebuilt the castle with stone and slate, strengthening the walls and adding a second level to the hall for his solar and family quarters, but it was great only compared to the cottages in the village.

Yet it was more than enough for him, and he had sworn to protect it and hold it, and so he would, for as long as he possibly could.

His gaze returned to the unknown woman. If she had been here before, why wouldn't she tell Dafydd who she was? And there was something else. "Where are her drivers, her escort?"

"She paid them and they've already gone."

Brows raised in surprise, Caradoc faced his friend. "She means to stay, obviously. Is she under the impression I enjoy having guests?"

And having to feed and house them as well, when his purse was nearly empty?

"She paid them in silver," Dafydd noted significantly.

"So what if she did?" he replied, trying not to be annoyed that some possibly crazed woman had so much money while he, the lord of a Welsh estate, had so little. "Unless those carts are full of money and jewels and she intends to give it all to me, why should I care?"

"Nobody knows what she's got in there."

Caradoc snorted. "Maybe it's nothing at all." He studied her some more. "She wants to talk to me, does she?"

Suddenly the woman turned and saw him. More startling than that, she smiled and gave him a merry wave.

He drew back so fast, a muscle in his back twinged in protest. He ignored it as he wracked his brain for an explanation, because there was something even more familiar about her -- something that made him feel...happy. He should know that face and her pointed chin and delicate elfin features. He should recognize the gesture she made, for it seemed to echo another long ago. Deep in his heart, a wee voice told him he should be pleased to see her.

Why should he be pleased to see a woman who arrived uninvited and unannounced, his rational mind argued. "She's a brazen wench."

"That's the general opinion," Dafydd agreed.

"Where is Cordelia?" Caradoc asked. "Maybe this woman is a friend of hers."

"Riding still."

Of course. If it wasn't pouring rain or blowing snow, his sister would be riding, and losing her escort, as often as not. "What does Ganore make of her?"

"Touched in the head, or lost," Dafydd replied. "The woman's got red hair, too."

Caradoc barked a laugh. "I'm surprised she didn't drive her out of the gates." The elderly Ganore hated red-haired women on principle, believing them all witches, or women who would be witches if they only had the nerve.

"Ganore won't go near her. She's watching from the hall, crossing herself every time she takes a breath."

"Lucky for the red-haired woman, I suppose." He glanced out of the window again. The madwoman was still standing in his courtyard, as calm as could be. "Is she Norman?"

"A Scot by the sound of her, which is another reason Ganore won't go near her."

"God help us."

Ganore hated Scots even more than red-haired women.

Caradoc started for the ladder. "Maybe I had best see this woman before Ganore falls into a fit."

Dafydd grinned and nodded and got out of his way. "Aye."

Caradoc checked his step and pivoted toward his friend. "Ask the woman to go to the hall."

Dafydd's merry grin disappeared with his puzzlement. "Why not just meet her in the courtyard?"

Caradoc squared his shoulders and regarded Dafydd with haughty majesty.

"Because I am the lord of Llanstephan Fawr, baron of the march, knight of the realm," he declared in the deep and powerful baritone he could summon when necessary. "I don't introduce myself to unknown women in the courtyard."

Such dignity was completely lost on Dafydd.

"You're going to wash first," he said with sudden understanding, as if this could be the only reason Caradoc wasn't immediately rushing to the courtyard. "And maybe take the shears to that overgrown beard and hair of yours? You know, for a man who's such a dab hand at shearing a sheep, you look --"

"Just go and tell her to wait for me in the hall," Caradoc commanded.

"Right, right, I will, my most sovereign lord, my liege, baron of the march, knight of the realm," Dafydd said, still grinning as he fairly danced to the ladder and descended.

The moment Dafydd was out of sight, Caradoc ran his fingers through the long tangle of his black, waving hair and rubbed his palm over his beard. It had been weeks since he had thought about his appearance, and he wondered if he looked as scruffy as Dafydd implied.

He climbed down the ladder and regarded his reflection in the water trough. Dafydd's comparison to a sheep in need of shearing was not that far off the mark.

Well, he wasn't about to cut his hair and shave or change his clothes for some woman he had never met before who rode into his courtyard as if she was the queen and a tax collector combined.

He did splash some water on his face and wiped it with a handful of hay he grabbed out of the nearest manger, but only because he was sweating -- and that had nothing to do with her, either.

Thus prepared, Caradoc went forth from the stable and began to cross his courtyard. As he drew near the wagons, however, he slowed his steps. Tempted by curiosity, he glanced inside, surreptitiously trying to look into them without betraying any overt interest.

He didn't have much luck. He saw barrels in one, but couldn't determine their contents.

Disgruntled, he marched into his hall. Ganore was nowhere to be seen -- for once -- probably having decamped lest she be tainted by the presence of a redheaded Scot. She would likely have the rushes swept out and replaced and the walls washed before the sun went down.

Otherwise, it seemed every servant with any possible excuse to be in the hall was there. Meri, Una and Lowri, bolder than all save Ganore, stood staring with wonder and anticipation at the woman beside the empty central hearth as if expecting her to burst into flames at any moment. Dafydd was with them, watching, too, and whispering and making them cover their mouths to stifle their giggles.

Envy tweaked him, for Dafydd had an undeniable way with women which he most certainly did not.

Apparently not a whit disturbed by being the center of attention, the woman examined everything as if taking stock here, too. She had thrown back her hood, revealing glossy auburn ahir, more brown than red, drawn back in two braids gathered at the ends into bronze casings etched in a circular design.

At last the woman realized he was there and turned to face him. Now Caradoc could see the freckles scattered across her nose. Again he felt he should remember her and be happy with the remembrance

Unfortunately, even this close, he still had no idea who she was.

Her full, beautifully shaped lips turned up into a very friendly, yet speculative, smile. Maybe they hadn't met before. Maybe she simply found him attractive.

Well, what was so surprising about that? Women had wanted to share his bed since he was sixteen. But only his bed, and only if they had already failed to catch his younger brother's eye, or Dafydd's.

If he lacked Dafydd's way with women or his younger brother's skill at both fighting and seduction, at least he wasn't completely unattractive, or so he told himself.

He approached, bowed politely and waited for her to speak.

That was not long, for she returned his bow, smiled again, and said, in a very clear and musical voice, "Greetings, my lord. It has been a long time."

Her Welsh was excellent, yet with the accent of a Scot.

"Yes, it has," he agreed, still completely baffled. However, demonstrate his ignorance of her identity he would not. "What brings you to Llanstephan Fawr again?"

Her brow furrowed slightly, and he wondered if his puzzlement was obvious, after all. "A proposition."

"Indeed?"

"An important one, so I think we should discuss it in private. May we go to your solar?"

Since Caradoc was in no humor to look ignorant or discuss business in front of his curious friend or the servants, he nodded and proceeded to lead the way to his private chamber at the head of a curving staircase.

As the woman passed by him to enter the chamber, the top of her head came level with his chin. He caught the hint of a delicate scent, like wildflowers. The feminine scent bespoke wealth and leisure and pleasure, too -- the sort of pleasure he had denied himself for a very long time.

While that tugged at the edge of his consciousness, he followed her into the room, leaving the door open. He didn't want any hint of impropriety, and nobody could listen at the door if it was open.

"Are you not going to ask me to sit down, my lord?" she asked, a hint of amusement in her dulcet voice.

"Please," he said, gesturing at the chair opposite the scarred and ink-stained trestle table covered with parchment lists and scrolls, a vessel of ink and the remnants of quills.

The chair was covered in a film of dust, but she sat nonetheless. Her cloak flared open to reveal a beautiful gown clinging to a shapely figure. The garment was made of soft sea green wool and embroidered about the rounded neck and long cuffs with blue and golden threads.

Indeed, she had a very shapely figure. High, rounded breasts just the right size to fit into the palm of his hand. Slim waist. Curving hips.

A jolt of desire hit him right in the gut, and lower, too.

The woman having such a powerful and unexpected effect upon him cocked her head and regarded him with a look of amicable amusement. "You don't know who I am, do you?"

No point lying now, and in truth, it had become rather difficult to think clearly. "No."

"I am Fiona MacDougal. My father was Angus MacDougal, the wool merchant."

Expelling the breath he didn't know he had been holding, Caradoc leaned back in his chair. Fiona. Of course.

She used to come here with her father. The first time Caradoc had seen her, he had been in this very room, studying with his tutor. He had looked out the narrow window and noticed Fiona MacDougal. She had grinned and waved when she saw him.

He had done nothing save swiftly return to his studies, too shy to even wave back. When she came again with her father, he purposefully avoided her rather than be embarrassed and risk being tongue-tied. TYet in time he realized she was sneaking about and following him, the way other girls shadowed his handsome, bold, younger brother, Connor. Flattered, yet still too bashful, Caradoc did not speak to her.

He had never forgotten the girl who seemed to find him interesting. However, she had been forever a girl in his mind, and this was certainly no girl before him now. Fiona MacDougal was a grown woman. He was undeniably pleased to see her again, but she was a bold and brazen and baffling woman, so betray his pleasure like a boy he would not.

"It has indeed been a long time," he said with placid politeness. "How is your father?"

She sobered, and it was like seeing a cloud momentarily blot a sunny sky. "He is dead, two months past."

"I am sorry to hear that." He cursed himself for asking such a question. He should have been more cautious. "My father thought very highly of him."

"I'm sorry about your parents, too," she answered softly, genuine sorrow in her green eyes.

It had been a long time since anybody had spoken to him in such a manner. In fact, he couldn't remember anybody, not even his mother, speaking with such kind concern. Disconcerted, he fought to keep his expression calm. "Thank you. Now, what is this proposition you spoke of?"

"I have learned that you have fallen on hard times."

He tensed, his pride piqued. But this chamber and the equally barren hall below had already answered for him, so he could not deny it. "Yes."

"I have also heard the taxes on Llanstephan are very high, and you have not been able to pay them."

Was all his business common knowledge?

Probably, he grimly acknowledged. People talked, and news of a lordly family's difficulty would be much remarked upon by high and low alike. "Yes, that is so."

"How seriously are you in arrears to the crown?"

Confirming what was already well known was one thing; discussing his debts and obligations were another.

"Why should I tell you?" he demanded, barely restraining his annoyance.

Her bright eyes brightened even more, and a wry little smile played about her lips, as if she was secretly and vastly amused by his troubles, a notion that increased his growing rancor.

"I intend to provide a way for you to pay your debts and to rebuild Llanstephan's prosperity."

His hands gripped the arms of his chair as he examined her face. How could this merchant's daughter, who was little better than a stranger to him, do that?

He steepled his fingers and regarded her as he might a peddler trying to cheat him. "How are you going to do that? Give me a good price on this year's fleece for old time's sake?"

Taking a deep breath, Fiona MacDougal shook her head and looked as if she were preparing to do something astounding. "By offering to marry you."