Winter Roses

by Anita Mills

  “Nay. Giles was but five when we went into King Henry’s household, and he learned more quickly than I. The longer the wait, the harder the task.” William looked again to his young priest. “As you yourself have surely seen, Father Edmund, there is a need for clerks, and ’tis a goodly occupation,” he reasoned.

  “Aye.”

  “I’d at least know if he has a mind for it.”

  It did no good to argue over Jamie with him, and well she knew it. Every quarrel she’d forced, she’d lost. Telling herself that at least now she saw her son, she bit back bitter words. For all that she wanted to rail at William, for all that she wanted to accuse him of hating the boy, she said nothing.

  “ ’Twill be as you ask, my lord,” Walter promised smoothly. “When would you that we began?”

  “The morrow is soon enough.” William turned to leave, then stopped, his gaze taking in the painted walls of his hall once more. “Aye—’tis fine, Bella,” he murmured. “You give me pride in it.”

  After he’d left, Walter sighed. “I’d have him come to me when morning prayers are done, I think.”

  “Nay,” she responded slowly. Looking up at him, she managed a weak smile. “After midday would be better, Father, for I would come also.”

  “You?”

  Despite the fact that the blood rushed to her face, she met his eyes steadily. “Aye. I cannot read, Father, and mayhap when I watch, I will learn.”

  “You would have me teach you to read?”

  “Aye. That—and I would see my son.”

  Bowing slightly, he kept his face grave despite the hope that rose in his breast. “Lady Arabella, you would honor me with the task.”

  “And I’d not have my lord know of it.”

  He bowed again, and this time he smiled. “As in all else, ’twill be as you wish.”

  As she wished? Nay, for all that they prayed together, this priest could not give her William’s love for her son. She looked to where her husband left the hall, then turned her gaze once more to the brightly painted walls.

  “At least he is pleased with what we have done.” Her eyes took in the large blossoms that hovered above William’s chair. “Winter roses,” she repeated softly.

  “And he is displeased with anything about you, he is a fool,” Walter murmured behind her.

  Surprised by the tone of his voice she turned quickly, and for a moment she saw the warmth in his blue eyes. Then just as quickly they cooled, robbing his face of its handsomeness. Telling herself she must be mistaken, she looked down to the clean rushes beneath her slippers.

  “I have prayed he will love me first, then my son,” she said low. Her toe lifted the thin reeds, revealing the crushed herbs and flowers she’d had strewn beneath. “ ’Tis all I’d ask, Father Edmund.” As the sweet fragrance floated upward, she dared to meet his eyes again. “For all that I would have greater kindness for Jamie, I’d still honor my husband.”

  “Lady, I did not think else,” he hastened to assure her. “ ’Tis a wife’s duty to be obedient to her husband.”

  “And no matter how sorely it pains me, I will try.”

  He would not let his thoughts betray him, not now, not yet, but neither could he accept that she could love her giant of a husband. He glanced to where James of Woolford bent over his game. “Mayhap you mistake how he thinks of the boy, you know,” he said slyly. “As the child cannot be fostered, mayhap Lord William would send him to the Church. And the boy can read, there will be a place for him there. Mayhap he looks to your son’s future.”

  For an awful moment she stood very still, not wanting to hear him. “Nay, you are mistaken, for he has promised to let me keep Jamie with me.” But even as she said it the words rang hollow in her ears. “He cannot send him away—he cannot. Jamie requires too much care.”

  “It would not surprise me and he did,” Walter said gently. “He does not seem to like the boy.”

  “Your words carry little comfort this day, Father.” She started toward Jamie. “Until supper …”

  “Wait—you do not come to prayers first?”

  She shook her head. “Too long have I neglected my sewing for the wall, and Christmas draws near.”

  “Leave it to your woman,” he advised, “and we will pray for James of Woolford once more.”

  “Ena cannot make my husband’s tunic for me. I’d have it be the best I can sew, ere I speak again of Jamie to him. And I can make him love me, mayhap he’ll not deny me.”

  Cursing himself for having misplayed a pawn, Walter watched as she stopped to hug her son ere she left. Jesu, but she was far too lovely and graceful for that great bear she’d wed, and now he, Walter FitzHamon, in a moment of foolishness, had only pushed her back into William of Dunashie’s arms. And all because of her brat. Jesu, but if she could be brought to stay with him after the Bastard was gone from this earth, he’d send the boy away also. ’Twas one thing he could not fault her lord for.

  He stared after her, the thought crossing his mind that if he waited overlong she was like to conceive, complicating things for him. Nay, but for all that he would have her, he dared not let any born of William’s or Giles of Moray’s blood live. It was the first time that he’d considered the Devil had made him a cruel bargain.

  Chapter Nineteen

  She’d been so very occupied with running her household that it did not seem as though she’d been at Blackleith a full month and a fortnight. And yet Christmas was upon them, and now the keep bustled with preparations for the second greatest feast day in Christendom. Still, despite the endless sewing and the hundreds of small tasks to be done, she managed to slip away for a time every afternoon, leaving Ena to prod and bully the women over their needles whilst she struggled with her letters and with a son who did not want to learn them.

  But not today. On this, the eve of the celebration of Christ’s birth, Arabella bent low over the precious velvet she’d begged and cajoled out of the cloth merchant, getting him to disguise the purchase as part of the “stout cloth” she’d bought for the household’s Christmas robes. When William had pored over the accounts, he’d merely grunted that the cost of wool must have gone up. She suffered pangs of conscience at the deception, then told herself ’twas worth it, for would he not forgive her when he saw what she’d made him? Besides, when she’d confessed the sin to Father Edmund, he had merely shrugged and absolved her, saying if ’twas the worst she’d done, the Kingdom of Heaven surely awaited her.

  Her fingers worked nimbly, plying the needle through the small pearls—a purchase that had been listed as “wax candles”—fixing them within the embroidered design. Aye, when they went to Dunashie, her husband would be dressed as fine as Giles of Moray. She bent to bite the gold thread, then knotted it carefully.

  Holding up the tunic she viewed it critically, wishing she’d been able to make it of crimson rather than blue, but the red came even more dearly. It was, she decided with satisfaction, as fine a thing as she’d ever fashioned with her needle. Laying it across her lap, she traced the delicate golden flowers that circled the neck, then rubbed at the shining pearls that were sewn in the center of each, making certain they were secure. Like her wall below the design was of her own making, filled with the roses he admired so much. Her hands moved lovingly over the broad width of the garment, seeing it as it would look when it lay over powerful shoulders. And she blushed with the thoughts that came to mind.

  She folded it carefully, smoothing the soft nap with her palm until it nearly had the sheen of satin. The firelight from the small brazier played upon the richness of the fabric and warmed the pearls. If William of Dunashie did not like this, then surely he could not be pleased.

  Reluctantly, she laid it aside and picked up the scraps of parchment on which Father Edmund had written her lesson. William had been right about this: ’Twas no easy thing to learn that which ought to have been taught to a child. For all that Jamie did not want to do it, he was the better pupil.

&nbs
p; Tracing over the bold characters, she spelled B … E …L F…I …L … S. Pretty son … handsome son … Aloud, she spelled each letter, then repeated the words: “Bel fils.”

  And she could not help thinking of Jamie. What hopes she’d had for the babe she’d carried, in what seemed an age ago! She’d been like any other, wanting a tall, fine son. But it had not happened. ’Twas Jamie she’d brought forth, and for all that she regretted his lameness, she could not regret him. No matter what Elias, her father—or William—had thought, her small son could not be considered a curse. But none of them understood.

  Sighing, she moved resolutely to the next words, saying them several times each, committing the letters to memory. She’d wanted to learn more than this— she’d wanted to learn something useful ere William discovered what she did. When she showed him, she wanted to surprise him with what she knew—not with a few words. But Father Edmund had said ’twas how it was done. First the letters, then the words, then the thoughts, he’d said. It would be years ere she could read enough French to matter, years ere she could equal the skill of William. As she’d struggled her pride in her husband had grown, for ’twas not only French but also Latin that he knew as well as any clerk.

  “What is it that you do so much away from the others?”

  She jumped, startled, and would have thrust the parchment beneath her cushion had not he towered over her. “You ought to warn rather than creep,” she muttered crossly. “Were I a guard, I’d have swung round with mine dagger.”

  “Were you a guard, I’d have disarmed you.” Before she could hide her lesson he’d reached to pick it up. “ ‘Comely son’,” he murmured. “Or ‘sweet son’.”

  “Comely. Sweet is douce,” she retorted, snatching it back. “And I was but looking at what it is that Edmund teaches Jamie.”

  “The rose has thorns this day,” he teased, dropping down to the bench beside her. “ ’Tis that you spend too much time alone. Ena says you labor long after you send her away.”

  “Sweet Mary, but there is not time enough for what must be done, my lord. There are the candles for the chapel, the cloths for the hall, the alms to be divided for the morrow, the robes to be finished for Lang Gib and the others, the food for a feast, and—”

  “ ’Tis Christmas,” he said softly.

  “ ’Tis Christmas, and I am unready for it. I—” She started to rise but he caught her arm gently, pulling her onto his lap. “Sweet Mary, but I have not the time,” she finished weakly as his hands touched the laces beneath her arm. “There are the gifts …”

  “Ena tells me the robes are nearly done,” he whispered against the crown of her hair. His fingers tangled in the cords, loosening them and freeing her gown. Nuzzling the top of her head, he savored the smell of dried roses. “Douce … sweet …” he murmured, as his hand found the opening to the wide sleeve and slipped within, moving to the drawstring neck of her undergown. “Nay, Bella, but the only gift I’d have of ye,” he said softly, “is that ye lie willing for me.”

  His warm palm brushed over her breast lightly, then cupped it, and his fingers massaged her nipple. As it hardened beneath his touch, the rest of her body came instantly alive to his desire. She held herself very still, despite the overwhelming sense of him that surrounded her. The rush of his breath, the heat of his body … the strength of the man, the sheer power of him flooded her with an anticipation so intense she felt brittle, ready to shatter. She turned into him, hiding her face in the soft wool of his tunic, lest he see what he did to her. But she could not hide the heat that rose beneath his hand. Nor could she still the wild beating of her heart that accompanied the sharp intake of her breath.

  “And ye dinna mind it, I’d nae wait for the night,” he whispered hotly against her ear.

  Still she would not go mindlessly, tamely to him yet again. She’d savor what he did to her. Her hands crept between their bodies, catching his through the gown.

  “The door—”

  “ ’Tis barred.”

  “Ena—”

  “She will not come up.”

  He shifted her slightly on his lap, turning her for better access, all the while tracing the line of her neck with his lips. Shaking free of her protesting hands, he explored her body beneath her loosened gown, tracing the smooth, bare flesh over her ribs, down to her belly, and below. And everywhere he touched, he could feel the heat rising under his palm.

  It was going to be good between them, and both knew it. For all the times he’d lain with her before, there was yet an urgency that was as great as that first time she’d come to him. Only now he knew how to please her.

  His hand moved over her, playing her with the newfound skill of a troubadour lately proficient on his lute, touching, tantalizing, eliciting the low moan of her response, until she forgot her resolve to hold back. She leaned back in his arms and closed her eyes, savoring the ecstasy of his touch. His free hand eased her gown and undershift upward, baring her legs to the chill air, revealing flesh pebbled by heat rather than cold.

  The firelight played on the planes of her face, illuminating the purple of closed eyelids, the thick fringe of lashes. Jesu, but she was as beautiful as any he’d ever seen. And she was his, his alone to have.

  Her low moan rose to a sob when his fingers slid between the fold to discover the familiar wetness within, and she turned in his arms to cling to him. She was as ready as he was.

  He ought to have taken her to bed, and he knew it, and yet he would not break the bond of heat that was between them. Kissing her, possessing her mouth fully, he worked her clothes up further, tugging them until there was naught but her bare skin against his chausses. His hand delved beneath her to untie them, freeing himself and pushing her gown and shifts out of the way. And then he sought her again.

  She’d wait no longer. She was too hot to breathe, and still the fire raged within her. She twisted against him, feeling his aroused body under hers.

  “The bed,” she gasped, tearing her mouth from his.

  For answer he lifted her, turned her. “I’d hae ye ride me here,” he told her thickly. “Now.” He withdrew his hand and guided her over him, filling her body.

  “Sweet Mary!” she breathed in shock. For an awkward moment they teetered on the bench, then she managed to bring up her legs, resting her knees at either side of him. Afraid of falling, she grasped his head, holding it against her breast.

  “Ye can move,” he urged her, leaning forward to bury his face against her breasts. “I’d hae ye show me.

  It was as though ’twas she who took him. She moved tentatively at first, savoring the sense of power. He pushed her gown over her shoulder while his mouth sought a nipple, drawing on it. His tongue curved around the hardened button as every fiber of her being tautened anew. Twisting her hips against his, she moved greedily, rocking and sliding, feeling like a primal goddess granting her favor, while he worshiped her with his mouth, his hands, and his body. Her thoughts urged her on, chanting rhythmically in her ears, “He is yours to take—yours to take!”

  For Will it had been a matter of expediency, of the urgency of the moment, but as she rode, her body twisting and grinding against his with such abandon, he stroked her damp skin restlessly, losing himself in what she did to him. The bench rocked, knocking upon the wooden floor of the solar, and still she did not stop. He bucked and thrust beneath her, trying to capture the elusive woman who rode him, until he thought he’d burst. He grasped her hips, holding her, crying out loudly as he released his seed. She gave one last long moan as her body quivered almost convulsively, then she too was quiet.

  She leaned forward, spent, and waited for the peace to descend. His arms still encircled her waist, holding her hips in that most ancient of embraces, as her head rested on his shoulder. For a time she gasped for air, and waited for the blood that pounded in her temples to slow. There was no sound beyond the labor of their breathing. Finally, there was the calm. And still she was loath to leave him.


  Running feet were heard on the stairs outside, then someone shouted, “Is all all right, my lord?”

  William’s hand smoothed the thick braid over her disordered gown, whispering, “Aye.” Then, still holding her, he raised his head to answer loudly, “Aye! All’s well!”.

  Blood flooded her face, heating it, and she did not dare look at him for the sudden embarrassment she felt. She closed her eyes, this time to hide from him.

  “Art beautiful, Arabella of Byrum,” he muttered against her hair. “I have never seen your like.” He shifted her slightly, pulled down her gown and under-gown to cover her backside.

  “You must think me little better than a whore,” she whispered, betraying her mortification. “ ’Twas the most wanton thing I have ever done.”

  “There is no shame in loving where you are wed, Bella,” he countered gently, lifting her chin. “Aye—it pleases me to have you want me also.” There was such warmth in his hazel eyes that they seemed nearly gold. He grinned crookedly, then nodded. “I’d hae ye know, Arabella of Byrum,” he added, lapsing into the familiar Scots tongue, “I’d hae ye and none other, I swear to ye.”

  “And I you, my lord,” she answered softly.

  “I’d hae no more anger between us.”

  “Aye.”

  He lifted her slightly, and she separated from him. Edging from the bench, she stood, and her gown fell about her ankles once more. She felt the trickle down her leg and turned to search for a cloth.

  “ ’Tis a messy business when ’tis done,” he observed as he retied his chausses. “Would you that I aided you?”

  “Nay.” She could see that he’d spied the blue velvet tunic, and she was afraid he would pick it up before she could give it to him. She moved between him and the folded garment. “I’d thought to wait to give you this until the chairing,” she said, smiling almost shyly as she lifted it. “But as you have seen it already, I’d give it now.”

  “Nay, but I did not expect anything, Bella.”