Tempt Me With Kisses by Margaret Moore

hall.
    Feeling that same horrible sense of deficiency as when he had failed to please his father or his tutors, he scowled and took a gulp of her fine French wine.
    Would that he had scowled thus at the priest after that insolent, outrageous blessing! Fiona thought as she watched the goblet meet Caradoc’s shapely lips. If Father Rhodri had raised his hand and struck her, she couldn’t have felt more humiliated and embarrassed. If that was his idea of a blessing, she didn’t want to imagine his curse. What would he say at the marriage? That they deserved excommunication and eternal damnation? Or would he refuse to bless it at all?
    Why had Caradoc accepted the insolence without a look or word of criticism? After all, the priest didn’t seem to be limiting his disgust to her, but obviously sought to criticize Caradoc, too.
    On the other hand, she reminded herself, she had not admired Connor of the fiery temper, so how could she condemn Caradoc for being more moderate?
    Caradoc took another huge gulp of the wine. “God’s wounds, that’s good.”
    She sipped hers and realized it was the Bordeaux. “You have already opened the French wine?”
    “Why not?”
    Why not indeed?
    In an attempt to have some sort of normal conversation—for surely then she would feel normal—she nodded toward the three dark-haired men sitting together at a table full of raucous soldiers. “Those three brothers have unusual names. Is Bron a family name?”
    Caradoc wiped his lips after another gulp of wine. When he spoke, his accent was broader and he seemed far more relaxed than he had been before. “In a way. It’s from their older sister, Bronwyn. Famous is our Bronwyn, you see, for her talents.”
    Since she was in Wales, Fiona made a guess. “She is a fine singer?”
    She had the sudden sensation he was doing his best not to burst out laughing, which was almost as disconcerting as if he had.
    He leaned close again, bringing his broad shoulders nearly to hers, and whispered as if revealing state secrets. “She makes a kind of music. An earthy lass is our Bronwyn, and liking men, especially young ones ready for their first time. In other places they say such lads are sowing their oats. Here we say the lad’s gone to Bronwyn, because most times, he has.”
    This was not what she had expected to hear. At all.
    “She was the most popular tavern wench between Cardiff and Shrewsbury,” he continued, as if he were proud of Bronwyn, too. “She made enough that now she owns the tavern in the village.”
    “Then she was a—?”
    “Whore, aye. A good one.”
    He sounded so proud and happy for the woman, he must have been a frequent customer.
    Then the corners of his mouth slowly curved up in a secretive smile that seemed to say he had read her thoughts. “No, not me. I went farther afield.”
    She stared down at the table, blushing like a green girl who didn’t know men had needs, especially virile men like Caradoc. And after all, he would not be her first, either.
    But he would be far and away the best .
    She silenced that knowing little voice, so confident and keen.
    “She doesn’t mind the reputation, and neither do they.”
    “Then the stories are true about the wild Welsh in their mountains,” she replied, fighting to sound matter-of-fact. “I had believed them exaggerations, but obviously they are not if those men take part of her name as their own.”
    “That isn’t the way it works. Others give you the name.”
    She fingered the base of her goblet. “And they still don’t mind?”
    “No. Not so delicate, the Welsh,” he replied, by his tone condemning not the Welsh but everyone else. “It’s part of living, isn’t it? Nothing to bring shame.”
    Unless you were too easily won over by empty flattery and even emptier promises. That would bring shame, far more than the act itself, although in the eyes of the church, the act alone was a serious sin. “Father Rhodri surely doesn’t think so.”
    “Father Rhodri