Tempt Me With Kisses by Margaret Moore Page A

understands there is a time to condemn and a time to forgive.”
    No wonder he had not chastised the priest—he thought the man’s disapproval only temporary. She hoped he was right.
    And then a new fear slipped into her consciousness. “Do they nickname everybody?”
    “Mostly, yes,” he replied, ripping apart a loaf of brown bread with his lean fingers. “Sometimes it’s from a feature, like Dafydd, or something to do with the family like Jon and his brothers, or a quality, like piety.”
    Holy Mother, what would they call her ?
    Not Fiona the Fair, that was certain. “Does the lord of Llanstephan have a nickname?” she asked.
    “Aye. Connor and Cordelia gave me a name. Would you like to hear it?”
    His low, proud growl of a voice seemed to challenge her to ask. Yet in his eyes, she saw something that made her hesitate: a pain as old as the first cruel taunt of childhood.
    “They called me the troll. I stayed so long in the solar at my studies, I was like a troll in my cave or under a bridge somewhere, they said.”
    Appalled, she exclaimed, “You are far too handsome to be likened to a troll!”
    A spark kindled in the blue depths of his eyes and he once again put his strong, broad hand on her thigh. “Calm yourself, my champion. They have not called me that in a long time.”
    Once more she felt that leaping excitement. When he had put his hand on her knee the first time, she had nearly jumped out of her skin, and not just because she was surprised. His simple action engendered a shockingly powerful excitement.
    As for the way his kiss made her feel…
    Despite her own volatile reactions, however, she had to act as if mightily offended when he touched her in that intimate manner. She must pretend to be the virgin bride unless she wanted him to ask a lot of questions.
    So she had, even when his incredible deep, luxuriant voice seemed more thrillingly intimate than his caress. He could seduce her with his voice alone.
    No, he didn’t even have to speak. He didn’t have to do anything at all except look at her, and she was like chaff in a strong breeze, helpless to resist the winds of desire sweeping through her.
    He took his hand away before she had to tell him to. “Did you ever have a nickname, Fiona?”
    The churning excitement died with his question. She had no desire to humiliate herself by confessing that she had. Nevertheless, his questioning gaze compelled her to answer.
    “Skin-and-Bones,” she admitted quietly, so that only he would hear. “Freckled Fiona. Cows-eyes. They would moo when I walked past, or cluck like chickens.”
    His expression softened. “It must have been difficult.”
    Nothing had prepared her for that different look in his blue eyes. She had not anticipated his sympathy or his understanding. Suddenly she saw again the Caradoc of his youth, when he had been shy and unassuming.
    “If your own brother and sister called you a name like that, no wonder you stayed so long in the solar,” she said, grateful for that glimpse, and hoping young Caradoc would not retreat behind the cool facade of Caradoc the man for a while yet.
    “I did not stay there to avoid them. I had my lessons to learn and work to do. Did you hide at home, Fiona, or did you ignore the taunters?”
    Caught in the warm swell of his unexpected sympathy, she was proud to answer, “I ignored them.”
    “I knew it.”
    His lips curved up a little into a smile that told her he understood the courage she had been forced to muster to face her tormentors daily. More, he admired it. She heard that in his voice and saw it in his brilliant blue eyes.
    Iain would never have understood. For him, courage was something that only a man could feel, and only then in a battle.
    “What of Rhonwen? What is her nickname?” she asked, trying to clear her mind of Iain, hating the intrusion of her folly into this moment.
    He regarded Fiona steadily, and to her sorrow, the shutters closed once more. “She is only and always