by Alyssa James
“Lise—”
His word was cut off as she went up high on her tip-toes, threw her arms around his neck and pulled his head forward to claim his mouth in a hot, open-mouthed kiss that was so urgent and passionate he was powerless to resist. Never had he known a woman so brazen. Her assertive kiss caught him completely off-guard and inflamed his blood further.
The Countess of Romsey was a problem. Exceedingly beautiful, capable and heroic but wilfully stubborn, outspoken and brazen. In her strength of purpose she was like her father. In a man, her traits would be admirable—in a woman they were...a problem.
Yet, despite needing to have her understand that she would never win his love, there was naught else he could do at that moment but return her kisses. Not only were her kisses making him crazy once more with desire, but kisses were an effective way of silencing the nagging challenges she’d issued to him.
She had initiated this kiss but in a matter of seconds she was back on the mattress with Rowan having taken complete control. Naked in bed, at least, she yielded to him. Mayhap the only solution to taming his wife was to keep his wife confined to their bed and sated by his lovemaking.
He would not take her bodily, however, unless she knew the absolute truth between them. The vows he’d made before God...the words which had crossed his mind after he’d rescued her from the fire...She is mine to have and to hold, to love and to cherish...replayed through his head. Nay. He did not love her. He would not love her. The second before he plunged into her he said, “I have grown to like and respect you, Lisette, but do not ask me to feel more.”
Chapter 15
Wielding Stormbringer around, Rowan pointed his mount once again in the direction of the quintain. The destrier snorted and pawed at the ground before Rowan applied slight pressure with his heels to signal to the horse to proceed forward at a gallop. Raising the fourteen-foot long ash lance, Rowan judged the exact tilt required for the steel tipped point of the weapon to strike the practice shield on the quintain.
A great knock of steel against wood sent a forceful but familiar jarring through his right arm. The knights, squires and pages who were spectators in the training ground cheered and applauded as he struck dead centre of the shield and then rode past the quintain fast enough to avoid being dismounted.
Some of the younger squires were beginning to hit the shield in their practice sessions, but ended up dismounted and flat in the dirt each time. They had yet to master striking the target and avoiding being struck by the heavy sandbag on the opposite arm of the training device as the quintain swung around. Rowan had decided a demonstration was in order and had mounted up on Stormbringer to show them how ’twas done. ’Twas also a way to work off some of the uneasiness he’d been burdened with since his frank talk with Lisette last eve.
“Well done, brother.” Richard walked forward and clapped Rowan on the back as he dismounted.
Rowan passed his helmet and Stormbringer’s reins to his squire. ’Twas surprising just how much the word ‘brother’, coming from Richard, warmed him. Richard of Winchester was a man he believed would become a close friend. Stifling the unexpected sentimental thought, Rowan focussed upon the training. “And now ’tis time for pell training.”
“Aye. You adhere to a strict and thorough training program.”
“’Tis how I manage to attract so many knights to my service.”
“Mayhap that contributes to your growing numbers, but I believe it has more to do with the men having the opportunity to train with, and learn from, Henry’s first knight.”
“Your pardon, Lord Romsey.” A young page ran to the training ground. “The guards sent me to tell you that you have visitors from Baddesley village.”
The very mention of Baddesley induced an instant coil of tension in the pit of Rowan’s stomach. Even Richard stood more rigidly beside him. Were the visitors an official envoy from Malin? If so, to what purpose?
“Are you aware of the identity of the visitors, lad?” Rowan asked.
“Nay, my lord. I know only that they are an elderly couple and a young woman.”
“Find the countess.” Rowan issued the instruction automatically. “Tell her of the arrival and ask her to join me.”
“Aye, my lord,” the lad acknowledged before sprinting off.
’Twas only the slight widening of Richard’s eyes that gave Rowan pause and made him think back to Lisette’s words last night. Her words had challenged him when she had asked why he had called her to stand at his side when he met Sir Richard for the first time, and why she had been party to their private parley. Had she assumed he was falling in love with her because he had afforded her simple courtesies? Now he had again asked her to join him for it had been the natural thing to do.
With the increasing closeness of their relationship—the growth of trust and respect—he found he included Lisette in many matters which were not the traditional role of a chatelaine. He was of the opinion that ’twas only right that his lady should be by his side to greet their visitors. ’Twas nothing to do with the fact that he enjoyed having her by his side. ’Twas simply that this had been the example set to him by his step-father, who had included his mother in such matters.
If Lisette was getting the wrong idea—if she thought his invitations were motivated by love rather than respect—mayhap he should practice restraint and refrain from including her in all the castle business except the traditional roles of a chatelaine?
“Would you like to accompany me, Sir Richard?” He’d invited his wife. Why not invite his brother as well?
“I confess my curiosity was piqued at the mere mention of Baddesley, especially as I am aware of the circumstances that forced your departure from your childhood home.”
The mere mention of it brought the events of the day back with vivid clarity. The memories of the horror of that day were never far from the surface of his consciousness no matter how hard he tried to lock them away. His gut churned now with the old, yet still familiar, sensations of disbelief, confusion, denial, loss, betrayal, anger, and shame. He’d experienced all these emotions and more. The helplessness and knowledge that he’d failed to protect his parents were not memories he wanted to revisit.
“Sir Bradford, I am required elsewhere,” Rowan called. “Commence the pell training session without me.” To his brother he said, “’Tis not only you who is curious. Come, let us meet these visitors.”
Rowan reached the outer bailey and immediately recognised two of the three visitors from his former home. Curiosity replaced tension for these two elderly villagers were no threat and had surely not been sent as Malin’s representatives. This couple had thwarted Malin’s plans and been Rowan’s only friends in his hour of dire need. The young, heavily pregnant woman they had with them was unknown to him. Why had the trio left Baddesley and travelled to Romsey?
“Finnigan, Bethia!” He embraced the couple warmly.
“Lord Rowan,” they greeted, simultaneously.
“What a strapping knight you’ve become.” The ring of admiration in Finnigan’s voice was unmistakable.
If Rowan had been that knight all those years ago ’twould have been Malin who had been forced from Baddesley and mayhap the former Baron Baddesley would still be alive.
“The baron and baroness would have been so proud of you,” Bethia cried, her voice choked with tears.
Those words brought a swift, sharp pang of sorrow and loss to him, along with a renewal of his vow to avenge his parents’ deaths. Determined not to show his feelings, he merely gave Bethia’s words a quick nod of acknowledgement.
“And who is this young lady?” he asked.
“’Tis Gwen, Bethia’s niece,” Finnigan explained. “She’s been living with us since her parents died two winters ago.”
Gwen did not look at Rowan. She merely stepped a little closer to Bethia as though she was afraid to meet the Earl of Romsey.
Rowan tried to put the young woman at ease. “You are most welcome at Romsey, Gwen.” Turning t
o Bethia and Finnigan he said by way of introduction, “My brother, Sir Richard of Winchester.”
Lisette arrived as polite greetings were exchanged. The bailey was all the brighter for her presence. Her blue gown outlined her narrow waist and the feminine curve of her hips. The swell of her breasts above the bodice of her kirtle was slightly larger, but apart from that there was no evidence of her pregnancy yet. ’Twas still early days. The blue fabric enhanced the colour of her eyes—eyes which had been so expressive when he’d made love to her all through the night in the soft glow of the candlelight.
Rowan extended a hand to her, beckoning her forth. “My Lady Lisette, Countess of Romsey, I present Finnigan and Bethia Brown from Baddesley, and their niece, Gwen. I have spoken to you about these good people. Bethia was the herbalist who saved my mother from the ague. Finnigan saved my life when I was forced to leave Baddesley and ride to my uncle to seek refuge. ’Twas Finnigan’s horse that took me to safety.”
Lisette clasped their hands in turn and gave them a warm smile of welcome. “I am forever in your debt for the kindness you have shown my husband.”
“What brings you to Romsey?” ’Twas a burning question which Rowan had to ask.
“’Tis an important tale we’ve come to tell,” Finnigan told him urgently. “There is treachery afoot at Baddesley.”
“Against Malin?” Rowan quizzed.
Finnigan shook his head. “Nay, Lord Rowan. Against King Henry!”
Lisette’s lips parted on a little sound of alarm.
“Gwen informed us of what she had overheard four days ago and we set out immediately to tell you,” Bethia added quickly.
Opening his mouth to question Gwen about what she’d heard, the girl’s sudden, almost-deathly pallor had Rowan asking, “Gwen, are you unwell?”
The girl was biting her lip now and clutching to Bethia’s arm for support.
“You have travelled far and you are fragile in your condition, Gwen. Pray, come rest in the great hall and partake of some refreshments before we trouble you to tell your tale,” Lisette insisted.
His wife was ever the gracious, thoughtful hostess. Although he was frustrated not to have an immediate answer to his question, Rowan acknowledged that Lisette was right in considering the needs of their guests, particularly as Gwen looked as though she may pass out at any second. They must be in need of rest and refreshment. The answers he sought would have to wait a little longer. “We’ll speak in the hall,” he agreed.
The frustrated expression Richard wore indicated that he was similarly intrigued and wished for immediate answers. Gwen, however, looked grateful for the reprieve.
The moment they were settled and Finnigan had taken a long, refreshing draft of ale, he burst into speech. “Baron Baddesley, that is Malin of Baddesley, has gone quite mad, Lord Rowan.” The farmer’s knuckles showed white as he gripped the tankard of ale. “Gwen worked at the keep and has informed us of many of the goings-on there.”
“Malin of Baddesley took a fancy to her and she didn’t have any choice but to be his leman,” Bethia interjected, her distress tangible as Gwen hung her head in shame and gave a loud sob.
“’Tis my half-brother’s child you carry?” Rowan asked.
Gwen nodded but continued to keep her head down.
“Aye, and she fears him!” Bethia declared. “He’ll be in a right rage now with us having stolen her away in the middle of the night. We kept travelling day and night, barely pausing for rest because we feared the consequences if he caught up with us.” Her tone was full of worry. “I hope we haven’t put you in danger, my lord, by coming here.”
The notion that Rowan would be threatened by Malin’s inconsequential forces was laughable, but Rowan could see that Bethia’s fears were real. “Worry not, Bethia. All will be well, but Gwen must tell us what it is she has overheard.”
“The Baron received a visitor just a couple of days ago and Gwen, because of her position at the keep, was able to move freely while the men were talking.” Finnigan explained. “There was mention of King Henry and Gwen is sure Baron Baddesley and his visitor were plotting against him.”
“Gwen,” Rowan addressed her gently. “I am sorry for what you have endured at my half-brother’s hands, but you will come to no harm here.”
“We will see to it that you are taken care of,” Lisette added.
“Who was the visitor?” Rowan asked in coaxing tones.
The girl’s shoulders shook visibly as she began to cry in earnest. Lisette rose immediately and went to her side, offering her a kerchief and hugging her with reassurance. “I can only imagine that you have suffered greatly, but all will be well now. You will be cared for here and will come to no harm. You and your uncle and aunt are welcome to make your home in Romsey.”
The sincerity and caring of Lisette’s words and the warmth of her compassion reached the girl. Rowan marvelled at the way Gwen gathered herself as a result of Lisette’s assurances.
“The visitor...’Twas...’Twas a Lord Blake of Bridlemere,” Gwen said haltingly.
“Dear God!” Lisette blasphemed and Bethia instantly crossed herself. “Your pardon, Bethia,” Lisette apologised, “but this man was my guardian. He is still guardian to my young sister.”
Bethia blanched and Rowan guessed she was concerned in case there were repercussions in her passing on this information about Lord Blake’s treachery. “Do not concern yourself, Bethia. Lord Blake is no friend to us,” Rowan explained. There was instant relief on Bethia’s face as she absorbed his words.
Richard had sat forward at the first mention of a plot. Now he asked, “What exactly was said about the king, Gwen?”
“There was some mention of the Southampton plot,” Gwen said tentatively, referring to the conspiracy to replace King Henry with Edmund Mortimer, the fifth Earl of March. The plot had been uncovered only the year before. “Lord Blake told Malin that with the Duke of York’s death at Agincourt, the infant Richard Plantagenet will inherit the Mortimer claim to the throne, through his mother, upon the Earl of March’s death. They spoke of an early demise for the Earl of March and the possibility of rallying the barons to support the Mortimer claim through this infant, Richard.”
“Hell’s demons!” Richard cursed. “This is treason. We have him!”
Rowan hardly dared hope Richard’s assertion was true. “It must certainly be brought to the attention of the king.” There was more he needed to know. “Have you heard anything about Malin planning an attack on village Romsey?” Rowan held his breath, praying that the couple knew something that would implicate Malin in the attacks on both Romsey village and the village near Winchester. If Malin was not responsible for the attacks then Romsey and Winchester had an unknown enemy trying to incite bad blood between them. An unknown enemy was always far more dangerous.
“Aye. There have been whispers through Baddesley,” Finnigan’s voice was grave. “Hannah Miller was told to make tunics and banners bearing the crests of Romsey and Winchester. Will Fletcher needed to make more arrows than the normal quota for the Baron in the last sennight.”
“You were right, Rowan,” Richard cried, thumping his fist on the bench top in jubilation. “Malin must be the one who has set fire to our villages and tried to incite dispute between us. Baddesley will be tried for treason. If found guilty, he will be hanged for certain, but even if there is only enough proof to implicate him in the burning of our villages, he will surely be stripped of his title and incarcerated.”
“Aye,” Rowan agreed. Incarceration alone would fall short of the punishment he wanted for Malin, but at least it would remove him from Baddesley and enable the people of the village to settle into a more stable way of life. Rowan had heard over the years that under Malin’s rule the people were suffering.
Lisette touched his arm. “Genevieve’s guardian will also be tried for treason. This is wonderful news.” Hope lit her features.
“We must ride tomorrow to inform the king,” Richard declared.
�
��Aye,” Rowan agreed. “We shall ride out at first light.”
The herald’s horn sounded. One short note followed by a long note and another short note.
“’Tis the sound of the knights of Romsey returning,” Rowan explained to Richard.
Lisette sat forward. “Could it be the party you have only just sent to Bridlemere to fetch Genevieve and Ysabel?”
“’Tis the only party of knights who were away from the castle,” Rowan told her. “However they would not return so soon unless the party from Bridlemere were already on their way and they met on the road.” Or, they’d met with trouble. The cynical side of him was more inclined to believe the latter. “Come, let us see.” He stood and held his hand out to Lisette. The tingle of energy and awareness that he was becoming familiar with each time he touched his wife, charged through him again. To the rest of the group he said, “We will take our leave of you and see you for the meal this eve.”
Lisette almost pulled him along in her eagerness to meet with the party.
“Slow down, Lisette, or you shall trip on your skirts.”
“’Tis moments like this when I wish I was back in your hose,” she told him. “The heavy skirts of a woman’s gown are impractical.”
“You are incorrigible and most unladylike, Countess,” he chastised ruefully.
Her eyes shone. “Oh, Rowan. I am so excited I can hardly contain myself from sprinting out to meet them.”
He felt his features soften into a smile. “I can hardly believe that you have the capability to contain yourself, my lady wife. Such restraint on your behalf fills me with hope for the future.” He just prayed the party was returning with good news.
“Last night you told me you appreciated my lack of constraint,” she flirted, breaking free of his hold and skipping away from him toward the huge doors of the great hall. “You sing a different tune by the light of the day.”
