"My lady, stop," cried the man who watched the portal. He spread himself across the gate in an attempt to prevent her departure. "Oh stop, please. Don’t leave without an escort."
"Move, churl," she snapped, her voice low and furious. He leapt aside and Rowena stomped through the stone arch, then stormed off along the narrow winding path that led down to the river.
"But where do you go?" he called after her as the washerwomen all straightened from their pounding and rinsing to look up at her.
"Away," Rowena shouted back, her voice echoing angrily against Graistan's high walls. "Tell that stupid son of a worm I married that I am going away."
Rowena knew nothing but the red heat of her rage as she strode angrily along the river, which followed the town walls to the road at the foregate. Nor did anyone give her a second glance as she passed. Dressed in only her plain gown with a simple head cloth to cover her hair, she looked no more remarkable than any other modest townswoman out about her daily business.
But once she'd stepped away from the protective walls common sense returned.
There was no haven for her here. She stared ahead along the dusty road. Fields and forest, orchard and village made a peaceful patchwork from the surrounding countryside. But these were her husband’s holdings, his lands. She needed a sanctuary beyond his reach. To the east lay the convent where she'd confined Maeve. They would take her in, but her heart would break if she were so close to Graistan and could not return. Would Jordan cry when he found she'd left without even a word in farewell? She breathed a ragged sigh, but now there was no going back.
From within the town walls came the sound of screaming along with splintering wood. The sudden commotion woke her from her twisted thoughts. Hoofbeats thundered and people shouted. She didn’t need to look to know who it was. Grabbing up her skirts, she leapt from the road and raced across a field toward the forest beyond with its concealing trees and brush.
A glance behind showed her a single rider erupting through the gateway, sending carts and cursing townsfolk sliding into the ditch at either side. Rage put wings on her feet. Yet by the time she dashed between the first trees, she could almost feel his horse’s hot breath on her back.
"Leave me alone," she yelled, cutting suddenly to the right.
Here the trees were close, and a horse could only walk. She ducked beneath a low-hanging branch, seeking growth that was denser still. Twigs and thorns raked her skin and tore off her head cloth. Too slow!
She flung herself out of the other side of the thicket. He stood there waiting for her. With a cry, she struck out wildly. There was a satisfying depression of flesh beneath her hand. When he grabbed for her she whirled away, sprinting through the trees.
"Rowena, this is insane," her husband called as he chased her. "It’s useless, I have you."
She screamed in wordless rage, but knew that he was right. Her foot caught on a root. Her palms scraped against the tree's sharp back as she tried to catch herself. His arms closed about her waist, and they fell together. When she would have scrambled away, he dragged her back. She twisted around to strike out at him, and he grabbed her arms. Suddenly, she lay on her back, her arms pinned at her side, while he sat atop her thighs.
"Let me go," she cried out, struggling hopelessly from beneath him.
"You little fool," he growled. "What were you thinking to leave my walls? How long do you think you’d live without my sword to see you safe?"
"Better a swift death than the torture of life with you," she shrieked, writhing beneath him in an effort to overbalance him and win free.
"Best you stop that," he said, his voice so full of sudden amusement it shocked her into stillness. She stared up at him. His gray eyes were warm with his awakening desire. Laughter softened the lines of his mouth and awoke strong creases in his lean cheeks. Here was the handsome man who had so charmed her on their wedding night. "I have never hunted a woman before. I found it—exhilarating."
Her stung pride made her cry out. "You’re laughing at me." With every ounce of her strength, she sought to throw him off.
He laughed again. "Aye, but at myself as well." He loosed her arms. When she struck out at him, he caught her hands as if she were no more trouble to him than a fly. Then, holding both of her hands in one of his, he ran his free fingers through his hair in a distracted gesture. "You may as well cease, I won’t let you go."
She yelled out her frustration, damning her womanhood, damning him. There had never been any escape from him or from their marriage. Whether she lived in his keep, a convent, or a hovel, she belonged to him. Her anger died against this realization, and she caught her breath in a choking gasp. The same aching pain that stabbed at her side tore her heart to bits.
"Aye, you have me. I concede. But you only need me until you have my inheritance safe in hand. If I vow to help you obtain my lands, will you promise to let me live elsewhere?"
His smile died, and his eyes saddened. "Sweet Jesu, to hear my own words thrown back at me," he whispered. "I’ve treated you so badly, I don’t deserve to be forgiven. Tell me I won’t lose you, too."
Her eyes widened in disbelief at his words. "Lose me?" she spat out. "You cannot lose me. As you, yourself have said, you own me."
"Too late," he breathed to himself. "Nay, it’s Graistan that holds your heart. I’ve no claim on you, and now I’ve driven you from the only thing that binds you to me." He released her and eased away to sit beside her. Pain radiated from him. "Temric is right. I’ve been determined to prove myself cursed, so much so that I destroyed my home, my brother, and, now, you. Even Temric is leaving. There is no one left. I am alone."
She lay still, finding no sense in his sudden change. Above this tiny glade, the canopy of fresh, green leaves rustled against a sky of crystal blue. The gentle breeze brought her the scent from a nearby clutch of lilies. Beneath her head the moss was springy and soft. Golden sunlight trickled through the branches to find the auburn in his hair and gild the strong planes of his face. He gazed off into the woods, his expression all harsh lines of heartbreak.
Suddenly she knew if she were to walk away he wouldn’t pursue her any farther. So why didn’t she rise and leave? Her eyes clenched shut against the truth she kept trying to escape. It was not prestige or power or any keep she wanted, it was him.
Rowena rolled to her side and pushed her tangled hair back to better study him. "How can I believe you after what you said to me, to Gilliam?"
He jerked as if startled by her voice, then looked at her as if he’d forgotten she was there. It was a moment before he spoke. "When I saw you in his arms, I wanted to kill him. You are mine. All I could see was that he held you. The words fell unconsidered from my lips." He turned his gaze to his clenched fists in his lap. "Then, when I realized what I'd done to him, I struck out at you as a way to ease my own pain. Mea culpa," he breathed.
Against all her better judgment, Rowena’s heart leapt at what he'd said. Jealousy? Over her? She reached out and touched his hand. His fingers opened to enclose hers in his.
"Your apology is accepted," she whispered, hardly daring to believe and half convinced she'd just see his scorn again.
He studied her for a long moment, then the corner of his mouth quirked upward. The bitterness she knew so well seemed to melt away with this motion. "We are a couple of strange ones, eh? You scandalize my folk by attacking me before them all, while my ride through town has done the same. No doubt it will cost me a pretty penny, although I cannot say I regret riding down the courvesier. What a pompous ass. A few bruises could do him nothing but good." There was the oddest glimmer in his eyes, something between laughter and tears.
Rowena stared at him. "You rode him down?" she breathed. "But he sits as headman on the council this year." Of all the town's guildsmen, this one was the most powerful as well as the most arrogant. He would, indeed, make a complaint and cry loudly about all the hurts done to him.
Rannulf tried to stifle his grin. "He leapt into the fishmonger's troug
h to avoid me."
"Poor man," Rowena tried to say, but her inner vision of the scene drove away her pity. Laughter gurgled out of her. Then, suddenly, unexpectedly, a terrible sob broke free. She covered her face with her free hand in a desperate attempt at control, but it didn’t stop the next gasp, or the sob after that.
"Rowena," her husband murmured, his voice filled with sorrow as he drew her into the circle of his arms and held her close. His fingers caressed the back of her neck, their pressure soft against her nape. She cradled her face against the curve of his shoulder as tears flooded from her, ripping away the locks she'd placed on all the hurts that had ever been done her. She cried for the forlorn child she'd once been, for the loss of her far-flung goals and ambitions, for the pain of his rejection, and for the new sense of belonging she'd discovered at Graistan but did not yet know how to accept.
"I'm so sorry." Rannulf softly murmured it again and again against her cheek. At last, drained and empty, she caught her breath in a hiccuping gasp. "Hush, sweet. Hush. Be still. I won’t let you go."
She heard his voice, heard his kindness, and felt his gentleness. And then, she knew. Here, in this wild place and away from the source of all that was wrong between them, they would begin again. Her fingers burned with the heat of his skin through the thin material of his shirt. She slid her hand upward along the strong column of his throat. The soft curls of his hair lay within her reach. A shiver wracked her as she combed its silkiness with trembling fingers. Then she caressed the hard outline of his shoulder and upper arm.
He shuddered just a little, his voice dying away until only the lively quiet of the woods remained. She pressed her ear to his chest and heard the steady thud of his heart. His fingers curled beneath her chin and lifted her face until his lips touched hers. Her breath caught at the quiet sweetness of his kiss.
But this wasn’t what she needed. It was his passion for her she craved; she coveted his demanding need to fill the newborn emptiness within her. Her mouth melded to his, teasing, taunting until she felt him shake against her onslaught. His fingers raked through her hair to cradle her head while he took her mouth with his. A deep sigh escaped her as she slid her hands beneath his shirt to caress his chest. Her fingers found his chausses. He groaned and tore away from their kiss to lean back as her hand closed about his shaft. His heat seared her, bringing throbbing life to her womb. With a muttered word he ripped off his shirt and eased his chausses over his hips. They, and his boots, flew behind him. She laughed at his eagerness, the sound sultry with her own rising need. But her amusement died into awe as he knelt before her, every inch of him revealed to her in the soft summer's light.
Mary, Mother of God, but he was beautiful. The wide sweep of his forehead, the arrogant line of his nose, his mouth curved in a smile. His eyes burned with his desire for her, their gray lights intense and hot despite the cool color. She laid her hands on the broad stretch of his shoulders as she studied the solid curves and planes of his torso. At last, her gaze caressed the proof of his need for her, and she touched the tip of his shaft with a finger.
"Love me, Wren," he asked, his voice heavy with more than physical need. "I’ve been cold and dead these past years until you came. Love me."
She caught her breath at his invitation, at the use of her private name. It shivered through her, promising much for the future. With a smile, she stood and pulled her loose gown off over her head. Beneath it she wore only a thin, linen chemise. When she would have shrugged free of that as well, he shook his head. "Let me."
Slowly, he lifted the sheer garment, kissing each newly revealed inch of skin from her knees to her inner thighs until he reached her nether lips. When he touched his mouth to that most intimate part of her, she could tolerate no more. Her legs shook, and she sank to kneel on the ground.
He tossed away her undergown and cradled her breasts in his hands while his mouth met hers. When his fingers teased her nipples into hard points she drew his face down to them. His mouth against her sensitive flesh made her cry out in longing.
It felt so different here. True, before today his touch had made her shiver and shake, his kisses teasing her body into readiness for him. But then she'd only been focused on seducing him into caring for her. Now a different goal awakened.
His caresses reminded her of their wedding night and her odd longing for that greater something from their lovemaking. She gasped in sudden excitement. A new, delicious tension sprang to life within her. It made her need to touch the very part of him she so desired.
He caught her hand. "Nay," he breathed gruffly, "touch me and I swear I’ll explode. Sweet Jesu, I want you, but this time, I seek only to pleasure you."
So lost in her own needs was she that she barely heard him. She knew only that he urged her to lay back, that he kissed her breasts, her stomach, then finally her womanhood, until she hoarsely demanded he enter her and grabbed him by the arms as if to force him. He laughed and acceded to her command. But even this simple act became sweet torture as he eased into her with such deliberate slowness that she finally thrust upward to sheathe all of him within her. His deep groan at her unexpected motion made her smile.
He moved with agonizingly slow movements, teasing himself as well as her. With his every motion that impossible tension grew. It made her writhe beneath him even as she prayed it would never end. Her legs clasped him hard to her, her arms bound him. His thrusts grew faster, harder. She raised her hips then cried out when her tension exploded away and burst into waves of pleasure. They washed over her, each one more exquisite than the last. She buried her face in the curve of his neck, her hands clutching, grasping against the incredible sensations. His movements quickened, and he begged her to let him have his own fulfillment.
Incapable of answer she let his passion carry her along to greater and still greater enjoyment, until she felt she’d die if it didn’t end. Then, with a final, searing flood of heat that rippled and surged over her, her husband groaned in his own pleasure.
Rowena couldn’t move. She closed her eyes and sank into the soft completeness of it. When Rannulf lowered himself to lay upon her, she savored the touch of his skin on hers, his fingers in her hair. She gloried in his weight atop her. His arms closed around her and he rolled to his side, pulling her against him.
"My God," he breathed in ebbing passion, "I’ll never let you leave me."
She lay content beyond expression in his arms, her head pillowed against his shoulder. Sensations blurred, and she drifted into sleep.
She awoke to the chirping of birds, the bark of a vixen to her young, the scurrying of mice around them. With a sigh, she stretched just a little while still in the circle of his embrace. Deep within her lay the warm memory of their passion and her fulfillment. She cherished it and made it precious. Oh, but dear God, the very movement of her skin against his was an almost painful pleasure.
He stirred, but his breathing remained even and untroubled. She looked up into the lacy boughs above them. The sky was stained rose and gold with sunset.
"The bishop!" she cried out frantically, trying to lift his arm from her while rising at the same time.
Her husband’s embrace tightened, and he dragged her back down beside him, then he sighed and opened one eye. "The bishop does not come today," he murmured. "Weren't you told? I sent the pantler with the message when I arrived. You are warm." He closed his eye, kissed the top of her head, and tucked her back into the curve of his shoulder.
Rowena relaxed against him in relief. "Nay, I heard nothing. I suppose he didn’t find me in time." It felt so right to lay next to him like this. There was such wonder in the pleasure they shared. She greedily wanted to experience it again, but not here.
"They’ll be closing the gates soon. Shouldn’t we go back before they begin searching for us?"
"They already started searching," Rannulf whispered back without opening his eyes. "Don’t stiffen so. It was only Temric and when he found my clothes he looked no farther." His mouth had quirked up in
to a smile at her reaction.
At last, he opened his eyes and studied her. Rowena gently touched his cheek, awed by the warmth and acceptance she found in his look, then she sighed with worry.
"You are so changed. How can this be and all so suddenly? I’m so afraid, Rannulf. Tell me that when we leave here this won’t have been a lie." Her heart caught at the very thought of how his rejection would hurt her now.
He briefly closed his eyes against the pain he'd caused her. "I have a tale to tell you, but it’s very difficult for me. Will you dress, then come sit with me so I can say it?"
She nodded and rose quickly to gather up her shift and gown, then hand him his shirt and chausses. When she was once again properly clothed, she sat down next to him ready to listen. But he wasn’t content with that. He drew her to him until she rested with her back to his chest, protected in his embrace. He turned his gaze out away from them, his focus far outside this tiny glade of theirs.
"Six years ago I wed Isotte DelaCroix. She was a beautiful girl, but much petted as the family's youngest daughter. She had little dowry, having gained what she did have through the auspices of a bachelor uncle. I’d been a widower for two years and, although I could have wed a woman with more wealth, I found myself wishing to be the master of such a beautiful creature. Unfortunately, she was only fourteen when we married, and found my thirty years to be enormously old and me quite frightening. When it came time for our bedding, she cried and pleaded with me to spare her. So I did."
Rowena looked at him in confused curiosity. She opened her mouth to ask, but thought the better of interrupting. Nevertheless, he caught her motion and glanced aside at her, then smiled.
"You are too naive. There are many ways to bloody sheets to the satisfaction of worried and overprotective mothers.
"I took her to Graistan, her virginity intact. Once home again, other matters held my attention. I don’t know if you recall that our family yet claims a keep in Normandy? Aye, my father's younger brother holds it, but he has no surviving children and is now quite old. It will come to me when he’s gone. It was on his behalf that I left England, to serve in his stead whilst our Henry fought his war against his son. I didn’t leave again until the old king's death in June that year.
The Seasons Series; Five Books for the Price of Three Page 23
