Winter's Heat

by Denise Domning

  She 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 am so afraid, Rannulf. Tell me that when we leave here, this will not 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 depth of pain he'd caused her. "I have a tale to tell you, but it is 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 once again properly clothed, she sat down next to him ready to listen. But he was not content with that. He drew her to him until she rested with her back to his chest, protected in his embrace. His gaze aimed 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 had 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 so."

  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 do not 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 is gone. It was for him that I left England, to serve in his stead whilst our Henry fought his war against his son, our present king. I did not leave again until the old king's death in June that year.

  "When I arrived home, I discovered that Gilliam was here. He'd returned to recover from an illness so grave, his foster father had not expected him to live. But live he had. I suppose it could only be expected that these two so close in age should seek each other out in their mutual loneliness and boredom. There was no one here to see that they were kept apart. Friendship became love, and love became loving. If only I had not left her alone," he sighed, then fell silent.

  She lay back into the hollow of his shoulder and watched him for a moment. He tried to smile, but couldn't. He rested his cheek against her hair before continuing. "I truly thought I had forgiven all. I cannot blame Gilliam for being sixteen and hot-blooded. Nor can Isotte be charged for being what her family had made her, a spoiled child who had never before denied what she desired, save when they married her to me. But, God help me, he took what was mine; she gave him what she would not give me." His voice broke as he tried to continue.

  She lay her hand on his clenched one and when he opened his fist, she twined her fingers between his. Suddenly, many things were making sense. There remained only the question of why he had sent her to Graistan knowing that she and Gilliam would be there alone. Had he meant to test his brother and his new wife? Or had it been a test of his own forgiveness and trust?

  "There is worse to come," he said and continued. "He had got her with child. I had been gone too long and home too little to claim it was mine." He shot her a grimly amused look. "There has never been a child twelve month's in coming. By this time, Richard had been crowned and was calling knights to his crusade. I convinced Gilliam's foster father to join them so my brother would be gone for the babe's birth. As for Isotte, I kept her confined and out of the reach of her family, thinking that once the child was born and enough time had passed, no one would care as long as I accepted him.

  "But, she hadn't the intelligence to see what she'd done was wrong and hated me for sending Gilliam away. It was obvious she would never be a wife to me, not that I wanted her any more. When she became ill, I dismissed her complaints as a spoiled child's manipulation. She begged to see her mother. I would not allow it. I could not tolerate the truth of their actions coming to light.

  "Then, she began to bleed. We called the midwife, but there was nothing to be done. It was late in the pregnancy, and we hoped the babe might live." He shrugged uneasily. "Something went wrong. She died. Gilliam's son died, both sacrificed to my pride."

  She slipped her arms around him and held him tightly. He sighed, then lifted her face to kiss her cheek. "My guilt over her death has driven me to do a number of things I now have cause to regret. You were right."

  Her eyes widened in surprise. "About what?"

  "Maeve." He paused for a brief instant. "I think I brought her here to absolve myself of her sister's death. To find my own peace, I had to blind myself to what she was and what she did. This I managed quite successfully until you arrived. But you, you forced, nay demanded, that I acknowledge a truth that I just as stubbornly refused to see. No doubt I would have destroyed us both over her had she, herself, not confronted me. Last night, when I received Oswald's message, I sent my man into our chamber—"

  Her heart clung to his naming his chamber theirs.

  "—to retrieve my armor. When he returned, Maeve followed him. She made me a proposition I found most foul, the same one that you had earlier suggested and for which you had been named liar. Although I sent her back to their room, I told her I intended to speak with John about her when I returned with the bishop."

  Rowena blinked. "So that is why she was in such a hurry to leave us today. She almost twisted Sir John into knots before he finally conceived the idea as his own."

  It was Rannulf's turn for surprise. "Then she was not so sure of him as she let on. Good. There is yet time." His cryptic comment was punctuated with a nod of satisfaction. "We must absent ourselves from Graistan for a week or two until the bishop calls us back after your relations arrive. I had intended to send you to your dower properties while I went else- where. But, perhaps, if you do not mind, I will ride with you to Upwood before going on."

  A single shaft of happiness shot through her at this. "I would be honored." She stared, then frowned slightly. "You do not intend to go to Ashby, do you?"

  "I have no choice," he sighed. "Last night, I vowed to warn John against her. I cannot allow her to come between me and my man."

  "Before she left, she said she would never forget what we had done for her. It sounded like a threat, although I dared not warrant it as such then."

  "Empty words, promising what she cannot deliver." When she would have said more, he pressed a finger to her lips. "Nay, do not say it. I have vowed to go. Only death can prevent me from doing what I have vowed." Then, Rannulf grinned broadly. "John may be love struck, but she has yet to get her claws into him. Think no more on it. Come, my sweet, let's go home."

  Chapter 18

  Rannulf whistled to his horse, who whickered in friendly greeting from just beyond the trees. And why not, when the beast had just spent a gentle summer's afternoon cropping meadow grasses with no bridle, saddle, or hobble to restrain it. Rannulf vaulted onto its back and pulled his wife up to sit in front of him.

  The lanes within town were quiet as dusk gathered to lay velvet shadows against the massive walls of his home. With heel and knee, he guided his mount through Graistan's gate and to a halt in the bailey. Here, the sheep murmured and settled for the night. A cock crowed in irritation as his hens shifted on their roosts.

  There was no need within him to speak, so he said nothing as he slid to the ground, then turned to help his wife descend. She came lightly into his arms, and he found himself loath to free her from his embrace. When she laid her head on his chest and sighed, he closed his eyes against the mingling of hurt and hope that awakened within him. By God, it was
right to have settled their differences, but why had he needed to destroy his brother in order to accept what she gave him?

  From out of the darkness came a stable boy with a lead to take his horse. The child's movement disturbed his wife. When she stepped back, he let her go.

  "Rannulf," she said, her voice low, almost shy, "how are we to go in without being seen?"

  He looked down at her, somewhat surprised at the question. "Why would we wish to do that?"

  "Well"—she twisted her hand into a fold of her skirt, a now familiar gesture that indicated she was nervous—"my dress is stained and torn, and my hair is uncovered and unbound, and well, I—" she hesitated, then continued even more quietly—"Well, I hit you in front of them and called you names. I had a right to my anger, but I should have kept it private, between us. Instead, I have diminished you in their eyes with my behavior."

  What an interesting contrast she was. She could be as young and foolish as Jordan, only to act as priggish as an old grand dame in the next moment. He reached out and cupped her face in his palm, then touched his lips to hers. Her mouth clung to his, soft and pliant. When he would have drawn back, her arms went around him until she leaned full against him. His flesh tingled as she moved to stand on her toes, sliding her body upward along his, and his desire for her once again burst into life.

  It was he who tore away, he who drew the shuddering and unsteady breath. She had all but driven away his common sense. In another moment he would have been willing to take her again, right here in this open place and damn the consequences.

  She looked up at him, the gentle curves of her face touched with both confusion and concern at his sudden retreat. Before this day, he'd had no complaint over their lovemaking, for she had more than fulfilled his needs. But this afternoon all that had changed. By giving herself freely to him, holding nothing back, even reaching out to touch him, he learned that everything that had come before was inadequate.

  He started, astounded by sudden realization. The flame of wantonness that drew him ever to her as a moth to a candle, it was all for him, only for him. When he had awakened her passions on their wedding night, she had cleaved solely to him. There had never been another for her nor would there ever be. Had she known this when she gave him her body?

  "You are mine," he whispered, overwhelmed by exultation and torn by fear.

  "Aye, but I do not think I mind it so very much as I did this morn," she replied with a soft smile, mistaking his meaning. An easiness crept over him with her words, and he smiled in return.

  From behind them came a polite cough. They turned in unison. It was the pantler, but his gaze was focused up into the darkened sky filled with newly borne stars. "My pardon, your lordship, my lady, for my interruption, but I did not wish you to think me derelict in my duty. My lord, I would have carried your message to your lady, but I did not find her until just now. May I assume she has been apprised of the bishop's late arrival?"

  "You may," Rannulf returned with equal formality, stifling his desire to laugh.

  "Ah, well, then I need say no more," the man continued, still keeping his eyes averted. "I am glad to see you both safely returned." He seemed to choke a little on his final words, then turned briskly and strode back to the inner courtyard. No doubt he would carry the news of their arrival to the whole hall.

  He turned to glance down at his wife. She stared after the man, her forehead creased in concern. It was not she who had done him any harm here at Graistan. There wasn't a soul within these walls who hadn't known him for the whole of his life or he, theirs. Nothing she did or said would change that bond. It was she who was the stranger here, the outsider. His silences and now his open accusations of adultery had threatened her carefully carved-out position.

  Well, what he had so steadily undermined, he could now completely secure. "Do not worry so," he said, and started toward the inner gate. With his hand holding hers, she had no choice but to follow.

  They were up the stairs and almost past the door screens before she realized he intended to walk through the very center of the hall. "Wait, my lord, stop," she protested, trying to hold back, but she slowed him not a whit. "Please, Rannulf, wait," she tried again, but they were already well within, and it was too late.

  He strode to the spot between the two hearths where everyone would have a clear view of them. "Good evening to you all," he said with a broad grin. Although he had not let her go, his wife slipped as far behind him as she could in an attempt to hide. He drew her forward, holding her at his side with an arm about her waist. "This night, I do something that I should have done in May. I must now present to you my wife, the Lady Rowena of Graistan."

  In the instant of stunned silence that followed his words, he looked down at Rowena, who stared in sublime embarrassment at the hearth. Her hair, so incredibly dark and thick, fell free about her, tangled with leaves and a few, tiny star-bright flowers. The rag she dared call a dress bore a multitude of tears, and was grass-stained and muddy. Her brow was smudged with dirt, yet she had never looked more beautiful to him. He lifted her face and kissed her.

  At first she remained unresponsive, but by now he knew she could not long resist him. His mouth moved against hers, teasing from her the reaction he desired. She sighed, her arms creeping around him as her mouth opened to his.

  The room exploded into laughs as his people stomped their feet and cheered. "Like father, like son, eh, Lord Graistan?" someone yelled. "Aye," another retorted, "although I think he's slower to learn than his father."

  "Nay," a woman shot back. "Lord or no, you'll not give a man credit for what a woman has wrought. 'Twas Ermina who captured Lord Henry, not the other way 'round, just as our lady now holds Rannulf. A woman only runs when she knows she will be chased, isn't that right?" A chorus of female voices rose to agree with her.

  His wife laughed and tore away from his embrace. She looked up at him, her wondrous blue eyes sparkling in joy, and her face filled with such happiness he could not help but to smile in return. "Thank you, my lord," she whispered, then closed her eyes and buried her head against his shoulder.

  Rannulf wrapped an arm around her to hold her close as he addressed his folk. "For those who may not yet know, on the morrow the bishop will take up residence here at Graistan until my wife's relatives arrive. My lady and I will retire to Upwood until we are called to return by the bishop. In reward for all your hard work and effort this day, I suggest you share a round of beer and ale, and drink a toast to us. Since we are both tired and hungry, we will not be joining you, but drink to us nonetheless."

  As he led his wife up the stairs, they were followed by a cheer as well as a few, explicit comments. "Hungry, mayhap," one man called out, "but it's not food they crave."

  "And tired it is that they say they are? Do you believe that, goodman?"

  Rannulf sat bolt upright, startled awake by the soft creak of the door's leather hinges as it opened. "Who is there," he whispered hoarsely.

  "Papa," Jordan called quietly, his young voice trembling with tears. "Papa, I have had a dream."

  The instantaneous drain of tension from his muscles made him sigh. He thrust open the bed curtains and peered out past the puddle of light from the night candle and into the darkness beyond it. "Come here, then," he said.

  His son hurried across the room and crawled up into the tall bed. He curled onto his father's lap and looked up. The flickering candlelight made his tears gleam like jewels. Rannulf drew him closer into the curve of his arm and kissed his head. "Now, what is this dream of yours? Can you tell me?"

  Jordan drew a shuddering breath. "You made her go away even when I cried that she should stay. Then, you were angry at me, and you made me go away, too. I was so sad I cried and cried."

  "And who was it I made leave?"

  "Lady Wren, Papa," he said around a short sob. "Did you really make her go as Alais said you would?"

  How easily and deeply this woman had wound herself into his family. It was as though everyone save hims
elf had been eagerly waiting to welcome her. He now doubted if he could ever have succeeded in sending her away.

  To his son, he shook his head. "Of course not. She is my wife and, as such, she lives with us. See, here she is, lying beside me just where she is supposed to be." How odd to say the words to his son only to feel the rightness of them within himself. He reached over to gently stroke her cheek. "Wren, wake up a moment. Jordan is here. He had has a dream and is worried over you."

  She stirred sleepily, then pushed the hair from her face. As she moved, it stirred the warm scent of their lovemaking from the sheets. "Jordan," she said, her voice still husky from her own dreams, "my heart. I am here and well." She yawned, stretched, then sat up. "See?"

  "You didn't leave." He squirmed free of his father's embrace to wrap his arms around her neck. For a moment she hugged him tight, then kissed his cheek.

  "Of course not. Where would I go? Graistan is my home, just as it is yours." She rocked him gently in her embrace for a few moments until his head drooped sleepily against her shoulder. "Sweetling, you must go back to your own bed in case Alais should awaken and find you missing, then go about screeching that you've been kidnapped again. That would be horrid, wouldn't it?"

  "Aye," he murmured, "she was so loud, she woke us all up."

  Rannulf lifted the boy from his wife's arms and set him onto the floor. "Are you content or will your sleep be troubled still?"

  "Nay. It was a baby's dream. I won't be scared of it again. Good night, Papa."

  "Sleep well." He watched his son trot from the room.

  "Thank the Lord," Rowena breathed from beside him. "He will not go back for me, and he is awful to sleep with. He tosses and turns and kicks."

  "So he does," he agreed quietly, while a quick stab of jealousy thrust through him. But it died almost as swiftly as it was born. He could not deny Jordan his "Lady Wren" when the boy had no mother. The girl who'd birthed him had left her son with her lord, more than content with his promise to raise the child as a recognized son.