Slowly, her arms loosened. She stepped back. Her legs trembled.
"You tore my chemise," she said, her voice quiet, awed by the height of his rage.
"And lost my mind as well," he replied with a crooked grin.
She blinked, fighting sudden and unexpected tears. Her knees buckled, and she began to fall. He caught her to him.
"I was afraid," she cried softly, her head cradled against his shoulder, her fingers soft against the hard contours of his chest. "I thought you would kill me."
His lips touched her forehead. "Never, never goad an angry man," he murmured, his mouth moving softly against her brow as he spoke. He leaned his head against hers.
For a long moment, they stood in silence. She knew the warm silkiness of his skin against her hand and the strength of his shoulder against her cheek. Beneath her palm she felt the steady beat of his heart.
His lips touched her cheek in a gentle kiss, then he released her and stepped back. She looked up, sorry he’d moved and ended the moment. She memorized the arrogant line of his straight nose, the curve of his mouth. His cheekbones jutted high over the strong line of his jaw and chin. Dark auburn hair lay in fine curls against the strong column of his neck.
Under her watchful gaze, his eyes darkened to blue and filled with an odd sadness that seemed to beg for her touch. She raised a hand to the newly shorn hollow of his cheek. His skin was rough, yet soft beneath her palm. He shut his eyes and leaned into her caress. Her fingers traced the line of his mouth. When he kissed her fingertips, she caught her breath and would have withdrawn her hand had he not taken it in his, lacing his fingers between hers.
"Dear God in heaven, never have I been in such a rage," he breathed, slowly drawing her nearer. "You raise such passions in me."
He touched his mouth to hers, his lips moving slightly in a soft kiss. She clung to him and let the gentleness of his kiss wash over her. He wanted her. Surely, that meant he'd not send her away. Still, if she wished to secure her place at his side, she'd have to make him hers, just as she had made his home hers. Her mouth moved in response to his as her arms slipped around his neck.
As she drew herself up against him, she gasped against the searing heat that filled her. Her skin burned against his as she felt the strength of his chest against her breasts, felt his hard thighs touching hers. In dizzying response to these sensations, she forgot about walls and keeps, halls and servants. Instead, she caught her breath when his kiss deepened in defiance as if he expected her denial. But she met his hunger with a very real need of her own.
His hand slipped inside the remnants of her gown and found her breast. He kissed her cheek, her neck, the base of her throat. Lost in the wonderful, terrible need that consumed her, Rowena ran her hands over the broad planes of his chest until she felt the soft linen of his chausses. He made a quiet sound of pleasure when her fingers played along the drawstring waist.
There was a tap at the door. "My lord," a servant called out, "we cannot find your lady. Shall we begin a search?"
He straightened. She stared up at him. Slowly, slowly, he smiled, his look fierce with desire.
"Never mind," he said, his gaze trapping hers as he eased the torn gown off her shoulder. The garment fell into a pile around her ankles. She wore nothing beneath it. He drew a quick breath. "I’ve found her."
Deep in sleep, Rowena pulled at the bedclothes. They were caught somewhere near the end of the bed. It took a moment to open her eyes. She peered hopelessly toward the foot of the bed, but the darkness was nearly absolute, as they'd let the fire die and forgotten to light the night candle.
Her outstretched hand found her husband's shoulder. He shifted slightly at her touch. The memory of their bed play made her shiver. At the center of her being awoke a throbbing need she knew only he could ease. She bit her lip and mentally recited a prayer of protection for her heart. Would this time be like the last? In the morning would he once again be the cold, hard man he'd been after their wedding night?
Dear Lord, but he might still send her away. She clenched her eyes shut on that thought. Didn’t he realize that this was now her home, too? Perhaps, as he understood and saw all she’d done for him, he’d like her better. Aye, if she guarded her tongue and did as he bid until he'd grown accustomed to her, he’d accept her.
She crept from the bed and brought a burning splinter back from the solar and set it to the wick of the thick night candle. Even though it stood near the head of the bed its meager flame was enough to show her the bedclothes bundled near the bottom of the mattress. Its pale illumination touched her husband's face. She smiled. The resemblance between him and his son was remarkable. Surely, it couldn’t be so hard to care for the father when she already loved the son.
Her smile faded. The very thought of losing Jordan broke her heart. Even if rejection and pain were the price she paid, her husband must never send her away. Graistan must be hers for all time. Resolved, she slid back into the tall bed forgetting to retrieve the bedclothes.
Her husband opened his eyes just a little later. "Why did you leave?" he murmured.
"I was cold and couldn’t find the bedclothes in the dark," she whispered back, sliding down beside him.
"Impossible." He grinned slightly. "There is nothing cold about you."
"Don’t tease me," she whispered in shy embarrassment. He only chuckled and put his arm beneath her to draw her nearer. When he nuzzled her ear, his warm breath set her skin to shivering. Her arms slipped around him when he set his lips to the spot behind her ear, and she eased downward until their hips met. His shaft moved in new life. She caught her breath as her body answered with its own desire. There was great pleasure in knowing she could wring this reaction from him.
"Who’s the tease now," he said hoarsely against her ear. His free hand slipped into her hair to cradle her head and turn her face to his. Their lips briefly met, then he rolled back down against the mattress as if to escape her. Rather than release him, Rowena came to rest on her side against him.
He sighed. She didn’t yet know him well enough to read his expression, yet she knew a troubled man when she saw one. He combed her hair with his fingers as though distracted.
"Why did you lay with me?" he asked after a moment. "I’d threatened you with violence. Why—" He seemed ready to ask more, but his whisper died into silence as his fingers descended the peak of her breast.
"I," she started, barely breathing the word as his hand left her breast, and his fingers drew curving lines against her stomach. "I," She caught her breath as his hand slid lower still to find her soft woman's flesh between her thighs. "I, oh, I cannot think when you do that." She kissed his throat, needing to touch him somewhere to release the lovely pressure he awoke.
"That," he said with a smile, his fingers once again teasing her breast, "is answer enough."
She shivered in response, then lay back in the mattress. It took only the slightest tug to convince him he should lay atop her. When she lifted her hips in invitation, he made her wait an exquisitely long time before he finally accepted.
Rannulf was awake long after his wife had dropped into contented slumber. She lay in the curve of his arm, her breathing even and peaceful, long strands of her hair falling across his chest. In all his life, he’d never once raised his hand in anger toward a woman, not even Isotte. Until this night, he hadn’t believed himself to be capable of such violence. But this spit of a girl had goaded him until he’d near destroyed her in his rage.
Not only had she taunted him, her rage had met and matched his. As her anger, so her passion. He closed his eyes as his body reacted pleasurably to that thought.
On the heels of pleasure came doubt. If she were still the innocent she'd been on their wedding night, she should have cowered from him after he'd threatened her very life. Instead, she'd met him willingly, even wantonly, as though she truly desired him. Was this simply passionate innocence or something more calculating? If so, then for that purpose did she seek to use him? Could it be she
was already with child and could now claim the babe his, but born too soon?
Rannulf closed his mind against these painful thoughts and eased his arm out from beneath her. Deep within him there was a longing to believe what his senses told him, that she desired him for no other reason than himself. Yet, the past had taught him he could so easily delude himself. How was he to know the truth? Rannulf rolled away and lay sleepless for hours.
Rowena sat bolt upright and pushed her tangled hair out of her face. Light flooded into the bed from the solar's open door. She glanced quickly about. The room was empty; he'd left her sleeping. Why? To prepare in secret for her departure?
With an anxious cry, she threw herself off the mattress, snatched her overgown off its peg and shrugged into it. It revealed almost more than it covered, but fear drove Rowena into the solar. Her personal items lay just where she'd left them. She dashed to the windows.
The courtyard below was bathed in the lazy warmth of midday. No baggage wains stood waiting to be filled with her belongings. No peasants and oxen milled about waiting to carry them away, nor was there a mounted escort ready to send her back to Benfield.
She released her breath in a long sigh, then squinted down at the crowd of stable hands clustered at the inner gate. They peered out into the bailey. She let her gaze shift beyond the inner walls to see what held their interest. It was Jordan astride his new pony.
With a scream of delight even she could hear, he sent the small beast dashing full tilt across the bailey and through a flock of unwary geese. Feathers flew as servants scrambled to catch the fowl. At the far end of the outer yard, Gilliam doubled over in laughter. Beside him stood Rannulf, her husband.
An odd sensation awoke within her at the sight of his broad-shouldered form. The sun burnished his dark hair with copper and gleamed golden on his soft gown. Although Rowena tried from this distance, she couldn’t make out his expression.
Then, as if sensing her interest, he looked up toward her windows. She gasped and stepped back, only to wonder why she'd done so. Surely, he couldn’t have seen her.
"Enough of this foolishness," she scolded herself and threw open the door to the women's quarters. "Ilsa?! Ilsa! Where are you?"
Without waiting for an answer, she stalked back into the solar. At least the maid had thought to lay out a ewer of water and a fresh washcloth. She dampened the square and scrubbed her face.
"Here I am, lady," the old woman said, stepping spryly into the solar.
"Bring the rest of my clothing," she snapped as she pulled off her overgown and tossed it to Ilsa. "Why did you leave me sleeping?"
"Lord Rannulf told me not to disturb you." Her maid turned to gather the rest of Rowena’s garments off the wall peg, then found the chemise in the jumble and handed it to her lady.
"But you know how much I have to do with the feast this afternoon. And," Rowena hurriedly pulled the chemise on over her head, "above all, I missed mass." Following this, she donned the loose white undergown and slipped her feet into stockings and shoes.
"Well," Ilsa said with a nervous laugh, "what is one missed service among so many attended? Besides, you look rested. Perhaps you should sleep late more often."
Rowena shot her a sharp look. "You know what my wishes are. Why did you listen to my lord when I commanded differently?"
Ilsa’s face creased. "My lady, he is my lord. Will you worry me between you like two dogs with a meaty bone until I snap and am useless to you both?" The old woman twisted her hands into her lady's simple blue wool overgown.
Rowena opened her mouth to reply, only to shut it against the angry words waiting to tumble out. If she vented her fears and frustration over her marriage on those around her, she'd soon destroy all the faith and confidence she had so strived to build. "My apologies," she said at last, "I’m not fit to be with this morning."
Ilsa helped her into her overgown and pulled the laces tight as Rowena knotted her belt about her waist. At last, she tied her key ring into place on the belt's long tongue. When she let it fall the four heavy keys jangled at her knees.
"Sit, lady, and let me fix your hair," the maid commanded.
Rowena shook her head. "Nay. Today, I’ll do it for myself."
Again, Ilsa’s face creased. "But it’s my duty to—"
"Go." Rowena’s tone sent the old woman back into the safety of the women's quarters. Rowena dropped into a chair and tore the comb through her long tresses. It would have taken Ilsa a half an hour to do what she could do for herself in only minutes.
Suddenly, the solar's door burst open. "Lady Wren, Lady Wren," Jordan screeched, "you should have seen me!" He was fair dancing with excitement. His hair stood straight up from his head, and his robe was smeared with mud. "You should have seen Scherewind. That’s my pony. I’ve named him Scherewind for he is faster than any other horse."
"Oh, but I did," she interrupted. "Oof," she gasped as he leapt into her lap. "Have a care with me, my heart. I’m no burly man like your father or your uncles."
"Pardon," Jordan said in the same breath with, "You saw? Was I not the fastest man on horseback you have ever seen?" He waited expectantly for her nod and when he received it yelled in pleasure. "I knew I was."
Rowena laughed. "I also believe we are now short a goose or two."
Jordan had the grace to look sheepish. "Papa says I’ll learn to be more careful if I must help Cook pluck the one Scherewind killed. Do I have to?" he asked, his eyes wide with hope of reprieve.
"Jordan." The stern, hard word made both the child and his stepmother start in surprise. Rowena turned to look. Rannulf stood in the doorway, his fists clenched at his side and a dark expression on his face.
"Why did you come here when I sent you to the kitchen?" Her husband’s voice wasn’t loud, but there was no mistaking his anger.
"But Papa," the boy whined pitifully, "it will be so hard.” Again, he turned to his stepmother. “Must I?" he pleaded.
Instinctively, protectively, Rowena’s arms tightened around his slim shoulders as he burrowed even deeper into her embrace.
Her husband turned his hard gray gaze on her. "Put him down." It was no request. "I'll not have you stepping between me and my son."
Rowena stiffened at the command in his tone, but knew he was right in what he ordered. Although she loosened her hold on the boy, she wasn’t ready to free him. "Jordan, someday you will hold the lives of others in your hands," she said, turning her full attention to this child she loved. "If you don’t learn to accept responsibility for your mistakes how will they be able to give to you their loyalty?"
"But I cannot do it," he cried. "I am only little."
From his stance, Rannulf loosed a small sound. "Cannot or will not?" he asked his son, a sudden softness in his voice.
Rowena looked up at him. Gone was the tension of the previous moment. He now leaned casually in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. When he lifted a brow in response to her look, his mouth seemed almost to bend in a smile.
"If you are man enough to ride the pony you must be man enough for this. I will brook no further disobedience from you. Go. Do as you have been told. And," he continued, " tomorrow that you eat the fruits of your carelessness. Today, it seems we feast. I understand there will even be mummers."
The child in Rowena’s lap crowed in excitement. "Players! May I see them now?"
"You have something else to attend to," his father told him. "Off with you to the kitchen. I wish to speak with your stepmother."
The boy's look was beseeching as he slipped from her lap and started toward the door. "I’ll be more careful of Scherewind, I will, I vow it," he offered, still hopeful.
"I have no doubt you will," his father replied, deaf to the pleading in his son's voice.
Rowena said nothing, only bit her cheek to keep from smiling as the boy hung his head and walked from the room as if he were going to his death. How could father and son be so alike in look and yet so different in disposition? Where her husband was moody
and unpredictable, his son was calm and happy. Had Rannulf been like Jordan once, long ago?
When he could see his son no more, Rannulf shut the door then stepped into the solar. "Cover your hair," he brusquely commanded of his wife. "My brothers will be here in a moment."
Rowena’s heart fell at his harsh tone. So, there was no change between them. The softness she’d seen in his face was only for his son. Standing, she pulled her hair over her shoulder, her fingers flying as she braided it. When she glanced up, he was watching her. Her face reddened at his intense look, and she turned away to tie the thong at her braid's end. With that done she deftly fastened on the plain linen head scarf Ilsa laid out for her.
"I saw you at your window not long ago. You weren’t yet dressed." Rannulf’s comment was flat and a little harsh.
Startled, Rowena whirled to face him. "You saw me?" she gasped out. If he had seen her, had others noticed her as well? Once again, her cheeks burned.
His eyes narrowed. "I hope that isn’t your habit, for I won’t tolerate such boldness."
His chiding tone reawakened her anger, chasing away all the shame. "Of course it isn’t my habit," she snapped. "I only wished to see if you were," she caught herself before she spilled the rest of what she meant to say: removing my belongings. No need to borrow trouble.
"If I was what?" Rannulf snapped back. "Still within these walls?"
Rowena frowned at him. What in the world was he talking about? Where else would he be?
Sighing in frustration, she reined in her emotions. There was no need to provoke him again. "It’s nothing but a woman's foolishness," she said with a small smile. Within her heart, she prayed she was right, that she'd been foolish to believe he might send her away.
He watched her, his tension again easing from him, softening the set of his shoulders. With startling suddenness, he grinned. "So, you admit to an occasional foolishness, do you?"
The Seasons Series; Five Books for the Price of Three Page 13
