The Seasons Series; Five Books for the Price of Three

by Domning, Denise

  Disappointment ate at her heart. The last thing she needed right now was more time with a man determined to spurn her in all things. She hid her emotion behind a tight expression and nodded her agreement.

  He stood and held out his hand. When she laid hers upon his, his fingers, long and graceful, closed gently to trap her hand into the square strength of his palm. His fingers moved ever so softly against hers.

  Despite her emotions a shiver of reaction to his touch rushed through her. She glanced up at him. He stared back, his eyes half-closed and his mouth bent in a small smile. It was the promise of bedplay she saw in his expression. Much to her surprise her pulse leapt.

  "Good even, all," he called out to the hall, leading her away from the tables. She didn’t resist him. "I thank you for your welcome and bid you to stay and enjoy the entertainment."

  Together they climbed the stairs and, a moment later, he closed and latched their bedchamber door. The silence in the room fair deafened after the noise of the hall. Somehow, this privacy only aggravated her hurt, dulling her senses, until she couldn’t react when he drew her into his arms and kissed her. Yet, when he released her, she keenly felt his loss and wanted his arms around her again.

  "So, that's to be the way of it, eh?" His gray eyes were cold. "You’re too naive to know that one night will not convince me."

  She turned away, confused as much by her erratic emotions as by his words. Her keys clattered loudly as she twisted her hands in her belt. The raucous noise reminded her she'd vowed to make him hers. Pushing him away surely wouldn’t help her in that end.

  "Take those damn things off," he snapped, "and call a servant to bring up some wine." He threw himself down in a chair and sullenly studied the leaping flames on the hearth.

  She did as she was told and used the waiting time to silently scold herself for her attitude. Thus, by the time the wine arrived she’d slipped out of her clothing and wore only her chemise. She filled his cup and came to stand behind his chair.

  "My lord?" She handed it to him from over his shoulder; he took it without a backward look.

  There was something alluring about standing so near him when he couldn’t see her. The dark gold material of his gown stretched taut across his powerful back, almost binding against the curve of his upper arms. She laid her hands on his shoulders. He started slightly. Beneath his gown and shirt, his muscles were corded with tension.

  Touching him made her fingers tingle. She studied the way his hair curled slightly against the collar of his gown. How odd that it should look so brown now, yet glow red in the light. Lost in her musing, she idly shaped one strand to lay around the curl of his ear, pressing it in place with a light touch.

  He caught her hand in his and, with a swift tug, pulled her around the chair to sit in his lap. "Is it yea or nay?" he demanded, then raised a brow when he noticed how little she wore.

  Yea or nay? Rowena stared at him in confusion, still trapped in the sensations of the prior moment.

  "If you’ll not say, then I will simply take it," he said, somewhat harshly, then bent his mouth to hers.

  This time her body burst into lively response to his kiss. She laid her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him. Cradled in the strength of his embrace it was easy to forget hurt and let the moment be all that was important.

  Rannulf let desire wash away his suspicions. Once again, her reaction to him stunned him. When she first refused him, he assumed she'd left the bedchamber for refuge in the women's quarters where even he could not go. In that moment he'd been certain what waited for him. There would be weeks of coldness after which she’d announce she was with child. Everyone would comment on how swiftly his seed had taken root. Some might even believe it.

  Yet, she stayed with him, even served him. When she touched him chills of longing shot down his spine at her play. Whatever her reasons, her body offered him much pleasure, much pleasure indeed. He forgot to be cautious. Instead, he indulged himself in the incredible sensations she woke within him.

  When Rannulf arose early the next morning his wife yet lay in a sound slumber. And so she should after their exertions of the past night. She curled beneath the bedclothes, her hair, black as a raven's wing, carelessly strewn over the bolsters. God's blood, but he wanted her again.

  He hastily dressed and slipped from their room. It was still an hour before sunrise when he exited the keep with his foresters. In the gray light, they rode through the silent woods, their passage waking rich scents from the moist, cool earth. Unwilling to break the deep stillness that lay all around them, he only nodded as they quietly pointed out the changes, be they restorations or removals, they'd made both in clearing and copse.

  Then the sky lightened to golden pinks and pure blues. Dawn's wind rustled through brush and tree, and the birds began to stir, first one, then another and another until the branches were alive with their songs. Rabbit and squirrel darted away from their passage through the feathery new growth. In the distance he heard the trumpet of a stag and a bull's challenging bellow.

  A deep breath filled his lungs with the spicy air. It would be a good day to hunt. Aye, his kennel master had a new litter ready for blooding. He could spend the day sorting his tangled thoughts. His chore finished, he turned his steed back for Graistan. Aye and he'd take Gilliam with him.

  Dogs belled at his return as the sentry called out a greeting. The ring of hammer on anvil in the smithy competed with the ring of steel to steel in the tilting yard where Temric drilled his men. The bailey was alive with the bleating of sheep and cackle and call of poultry. Maids and men chatted as they fed their charges, whether they be bovine, ovine, or fowl. A cock crowed from the inner wall, and stable lads whistled and sang as they tended the horses and swept the stalls clean.

  Rannulf dismounted and handed his reins to a groomsman, then commanded his huntsmen to prepare for the day. All that waited now was his companion. He climbed the stairs to the tower’s raised doorway, eager to claim a little joy.

  The hall was awaft in the scent of the day's baking. As with yestermorn, all the tables were up and at the first hearth stood a huge iron pot in which a thick vegetable and grain potage bubbled. Set out on trays were fresh breads, cheeses, and hard-boiled eggs. He grimaced, sick to death of eggs, having eaten so many since the Easter tribute.

  "Gilliam?" he called out, expecting to find his brother at the table.

  "He's at mass, my lord," a servant informed him.

  Rannulf nodded his thanks, somewhat surprised. Before the Crusade once a week on Sunday had served his brother well enough. He seated himself at the high table and carefully studied the massive room as he waited. It was truly a pleasure to see it restored to what it had been under his stepmother's rule.

  A serving woman handed him a cup of watered wine, and he took bread and cheese to break his fast. He glanced toward the end of the room, then looked again with a frown. There was no mistaking where Gilliam's interest lay.

  His wife and brother stood conversing just beyond the chapel's entrance into the hall. Even in her plain gown and simple headdress, his wife caught and held Rannulf’s interest. She glowed with vibrant life. Ah, and what pleasure he found at the touch of her lips and in the gentle curve of her body.

  While she seemed intent on whatever she was saying, his brother only laughed. This obviously irritated her, for when he offered her his arm, she shoved it away and started up into the hall. When she caught his gaze, her expression dimmed even further.

  If she was so unhappy each time her eye met his why did she so freely offer herself to him? To what purpose did she use him? Rannulf looked away, trapped between doubt and desire. But, to recognize her manipulation was to be armed against its outcome.

  She seated herself next to him. "Good morrow, my lord," she said flatly.

  "So it seems," he said mirroring her blandness. Then he turned toward the young knight. "Gilliam, I am for hunting this morn. Will you come?"

  "Hunting? Me? Just point the way, b
ut not until after we break our fast." His brother seated himself and began to eat.

  Rannulf watched in amazement as the boy finished several bowls of potage and a full loaf of bread before starting on the cheese. "No wonder we’re impoverished," he chided. "You, alone, will eat me into penury."

  "At least he now uses manners." His wife laughed. "I’ll never forget my first morning at Graistan."

  Gilliam blushed. "I had forgot that," he said in quiet shame. "What you must have thought."

  Graistan’s lady only shook her head and laughed. "I forgive you."

  "What is this?" Rannulf asked, a wave of jealousy sweeping over him at their private memories.

  It was his wife who answered. "He sought to drive Lady Maeve from the table by eating like a peasant. He drank from the pitcher and spoke with his mouth so full that he spewed crumbs at me." She leaned forward to look past him at the young man, her blue eyes dancing in amusement. "There, I have paid you back for every one of those silly jests of yours."

  "Augh!" the young knight clutched his chest, "I am mortally wounded."

  Rannulf forced himself to smile at their banter. "What reason had you for driving Maeve from my table?"

  His brother's grin slipped just a little. "I said all I will say about her yesterday."

  "How can you be so sure about her? After all, you knew her only a little."

  "I am sure." There was no amusement left in Gilliam’s face now.

  "And you’re certain you don’t judge her for some other reason?" Rannulf needed to say no more. Gilliam knew exactly what he meant. It was his own heart Rannulf saw reflected in his brother's eyes.

  "Nay, if I judge her, it’s for no reason save those she’s earned," the boy breathed his reply.

  "Sweet Mary, but I’m sorry I said anything," his wife sighed. "This is a subject best left to die."

  Rannulf threw his hands up in submission. "I still cannot believe the lady capable of all you describe. Nevertheless, it’s resolved and I’ll hear no more of you leaving Graistan, Gilliam."

  His youngest brother stared at his hands where they lay on the table’s edge, then raised his head. Pain, deep and intense, filled his eyes. "Why do you keep me here? At best I’m a poor steward. It seems I am the cause of only your trouble, never your good." He threw himself to his feet as if to depart, but Rannulf caught him by the arm before he could move.

  "That’s not true. There have been times when you were my only good. Don’t leave me." Why had he spoken of the past? How could he believe the wound would so easily heal in Gilliam when it yet festered within himself?

  Gilliam only shook his head and averted his eyes. When Rannulf finally released him, the youngest son of Graistan fairly ran from the room. Rannulf stared after him, not knowing how to mend the gap between them. He started with surprise when his wife lightly touched his arm.

  "I doubt he’ll leave you," she said. "He dearly loves Graistan, but I believe he loves you more."

  Rannulf turned toward her. "You are fond of my brother." There was no need to question what he knew to be true.

  "I suppose I am," she responded, her brow creased in consideration. "He’s been a great help to me in these past months, although I first despaired of understanding why you had made a steward of a man who could neither read nor write. Now I see it’s his loyalty and his love you value. But, he's no clerk and would be far better suited to holding a keep of his own, even if only as your castellan."

  The words pierced Rannulf’s heart, freeing all the suspicion that resided in that organ. "No doubt you’d think so. A castellan travels less frequently than a steward." His voice was harsh.

  Rather than deny or protest her innocence, his wife but shot him a curious look as if she didn’t understand why he'd said what he had. "Do you think me so close with a coin that I begrudge the cost of a steward's travel?"

  Did she think she could so easily evade what he could see with his own eyes? She might lie with him, but she was attracted to his brother. Unable to tolerate any more of this topic, he turned his attention back to his bread and cheese.

  "I missed you at mass this morn, my lord," she said to him as she chewed on a bit of bread. "You left without telling me your intent. I asked the chaplain to delay the service, but you did not come. Will you attend on the morrow?"

  "It’s my business if I do or not," he replied, stung by her request. He could hardly bear to scrutinize his own soul much less let a churchman have a try at it.

  She made a strange sound. Rannulf glanced up at her. Her expression was so horrified that he almost laughed.

  "Do you never attend mass?" she breathed in worried question.

  The urge to chuckle grew. "Did I attend mass at our wedding?" he retorted.

  "Aye." The answer was whispered as if she found meager solace in that thought.

  "Leave it, wife. Let me worry over my own soul," he warned her.

  His chief huntsman appeared inside the screens at the hall’s door. "My lord, we’re ready as soon as you are."

  "Good," Rannulf called back, glad to be free of his wife and this conversation. "Find Sir Gilliam and say to him that I beg his pardon and dearly desire his company this day. If he resists, tell him I’ll tie him to his steed and force him to attend me if need be."

  "As you wish, my lord." The huntsman laughed and departed. Rannulf came to his feet.

  "My lord." His wife caught him by the sleeve. "Are you still set on a grand celebration for this wedding? We were to discuss it."

  "Later,” he told her. "I’m tired of plans and schemes and contracts. We'll talk when I know whether Sir John accepts her or not."

  "Please, I beg a moment with you. I swear a moment is all it will be." She came to her feet, her lower lip caught between her teeth, the very picture of consternation.

  "As you wish," he replied, and led her to one of the hearthstones, away from the general bustle of the servants. "Speak, I listen."

  She stood uneasily before him. "You may not credit what I’m about to say, but my heart insists that I speak. It’s wrong, this wedding of yours. Lady Maeve isn’t fit to be any man's wife."

  Irritation exploded in Rannulf. He raised his hand to stop her before she went any further. "Nay! If you intend another harangue against her, I won’t listen. I’ve made my decision."

  His wife stared up, the worry in her eyes slowly dying into dull acceptance. "Aye, I see that you have," she said with a nod, then turned with a heavy sigh and picked up an unburned stick off the hearth. She used it to poke at what few coals yet glowed on the stone, teasing a new cloud of smoke from the fire. "Sir Gilliam says Ashby is only a wooden hall with a single village on its lands."

  "What’s your point, woman? Stop that before you choke us with smoke."

  She set the stick atop the burning logs. "Is this man you've chosen strong enough to control Maeve? More importantly, what if she refuses to accept him as her husband? Can you control her?"

  Rannulf stared down at the woman who was his wife as irritation flared into something deeper. If only she never opened her mouth, this would be an acceptable marriage. Instead, with her every comment she questioned his competence, whether it was his ability to run his own home or his judge of character. The only thing that kept Rannulf from shaking some sense into her was the watching servants.

  "Maeve will accept him," he replied stiffly. "As her guardian I can marry her as I see fit. John is a good man. She could do far worse."

  "Your ward is accustomed to a more luxurious way of life," his wife persisted, yet again questioning his competence. "Ashby won’t support her needs."

  "No doubt it is better than a convent," he retorted, striving with all his might not to scream.

  "So you would say," she replied, her tone unemotional as she raised her head to gaze up at him. "Would you grant me favor?"

  Working to tame what raged in him, Rannulf looked into her face. There was nothing in her clear blue gaze or the soft set of her lips to indicate what sort of boon she wanted. Und
er his scrutiny, she smiled a little. As she did so the memory of the pleasure they made between them returned, acting like water on the fire of his anger. Against that he could afford to give her her favor. He nodded.

  "For the sake of your folk my lord, please don’t release Maeve from the convent until the very day of the wedding. The servants are uneasy when she’s here."

  That she would ask on behalf of his folk went far to drain the tension from Rannulf. She cared for them, that was obvious. Against that, perhaps he could forgive her her unfortunate tongue.

  "While I think it all foolishness, I cannot deny that others feel differently. I’ll honor your request for that reason."

  So great was her relief at this that she took his hand and briefly raised it to her lips. "Thank you, my lord."

  The shock of her touch ran through him like a sword's thrust. Every particle of last night’s lust reawakened. How did she do that to him? He reached for her, meaning to draw her into his embrace.

  "Now that this is settled, my lord, how will you wring from Maeve the wealth she stole from you before the wedding?"

  He froze, his hands yet on her forearms. Lust died, taking all his soft feelings for her with it as it went. Here was what she wanted. She would humble him by revealing to the world the fool he'd been, a lord who’d let his treasury be plundered under his very nose. Rannulf opened his hands and released her, then took a backward step.

  "You have no proof of her involvement," he snarled, unable to control what now roiled in him.

  "How can you say that?" his goading wife insisted. "How else can you account for her rich gowns and jewels? Unless it was you who supplied this poor widow her finery." There was something harsh in her tone.

  "Me? I needed buy her nothing, for she had plenty when she came." He willed her to drop the subject, to let not another word fall from her lips. Unfortunately, there wasn’t enough will in the world to stop the shrew he’d wed.