Winter's Heat

by Denise Domning

  He laughed and settled down against the sheets. "It would be my pleasure to provide you with nothing but my dull company in an uneventful life. I can see it now. Year after boring year will pass. Now, let me sleep."

  Chapter 22

  Rowena awoke on the fourth full day of their captivity with a steady, dull ache in the small of her back. She stretched against it, then once again fought the turning of her stomach. As much as she wanted this child, she was already deadly tired of being sick. To make matters worse, what had once been an occasional sharp pain in her womb was now a far too frequent visitor.

  After a few minutes everything eased into a more normal queasiness, and she turned toward Rannulf. He still slept and lay with his back to her. Although his skin was still purpled with bruising, the marks were rapidly fading to a pale yellow-green.

  She arose to do as she had done the other mornings. But once her prayers were said, her hair combed, and she'd washed and dressed, there was nothing left save to stare outside and wonder how much more confinement she could tolerate.

  The view was as quiet and peaceful as it had been the other mornings. If she put her hand through the window slit as far as it would go, she could just feel the fresh breeze against her skin. It would be another fine day while she was trapped inside.

  Slowly, as the minutes passed, all her aches and pains, even the queasiness, disappeared. There was an odd finality in the feeling that followed, as though it would never plague her again. She breathed a grateful sigh.

  Behind her, she heard Rannulf rise. "How do you fare today, my sweet?" he asked as he began his morning ritual.

  "Much better," she replied, turning to greet him with a swift smile, then immediately turning back to the narrow window. She dared not watch. He was so prickly about her help, yet she could not bear to see him struggle. Never mind that it took him twenty minutes to do what she could have done for him in just moments. What else did they have, but time?

  At last, he came to stand behind her. "Has that pain returned? You look pale this morn." He kissed the top of her head, then her brow when she looked up at him.

  "Nay. In fact, I feel better than I have for days. I think it is only the confinement that weighs on me. I am bored." She leaned back against him.

  "You could come back to bed, and we could sleep again," he said. "Unless you prefer to drive yourself mad with ennui." His arm came around her. She shivered when his fingers splayed to gently rest against the curve of her breast.

  "Sleep, indeed." She laughed, not at all displeased by his interest. But she stepped slightly forward to dissuade him from continuing. It would serve him right for all the times he'd snapped at her these last days. When he pushed aside her braid and kissed the nape of her neck, she ignored him the best she could. "I know full well what you mean, and it is not sleep." There was a sudden tremble in her voice.

  "It will help to pass the time," he suggested, his voice warm with desire. When his mouth touched her ear, her eyes closed, and she drew a deep breath against the thrill of pleasure that shot through her. She leaned her head back, resting it against his shoulder, exposing more of her neck to him.

  "You are not strong enough yet," she murmured.

  "Yesterday, I was not strong enough. Today, I am." His fingers slid ever so slightly upward to cup her breast. Her breath caught in her chest.

  "I would not have you hurt yourself by laying atop me." Despite her words, she made no move to pull away.

  This made him laugh in deep amusement against her throat. "And I thought it inconvenient to wed a virgin." She let him turn her slightly so he could once again kiss her nape. Then he continued speaking. "I can see I have neglected your education when there is so much left to teach you. The very thought of what you do not know sends chills down my spine."

  "Pay them no heed, it is only your wounds healing," she sighed, but he was already leading her back to their pallet.

  "Now, you must pay strict attention if you are to master this art," he said, his gray eyes warm and filled with both desire and laughter.

  Screams and shouts shattered the morning's peace. Animals bellowed and cried. The world outside their makeshift prison exploded in sudden activity. Footsteps rushed past their door and upward to the roof above them. Rannulf whirled back to the window.

  "What is it," she cried, as the horrible screaming and shouting continued.

  "I think the village is afire," he said. "Smoke is billowing out across the river."

  "Afire?" she breathed in new terror. These simple places with their flimsy walls and reed roofing burned with the utmost ease. She looked at him. "And what if the fire spreads here?" she breathed. "The hall is wood and will not offer any resistance to flame."

  "Aye, but our prison is stone, not wood," he said, but she was not placated.

  "Aye, so it is. All the worse for us. The fire will draw up through here like a chimney. And we are locked in." Her hand touched her growing womb. "Poor child. We have not given you much chance, have we?"

  Rannulf drew her close. "Hush, sweetling. You worry over what has yet to happen. This building is protected by water and stone. No fire can leap so far."

  They listened, straining their ears for some clue as to what was happening. Minutes passed. Slowly the noise from the inhabitants quieted even if the smoke continued to billow. Rannulf frowned. "They do not seem to have tried to fight it at all," he said.

  "John of Ashby!" The deep, bass voice was clearly audible even though it seemed to come from beyond the outer walls. "Give me my brother, or I vow I will do more than burn your village. Only God can save you if you've harmed a hair on his head."

  "Gilliam," Rannulf breathed in wonder. He turned to her as his brother chanted out a string of obscene promises of what would happen to Lord Ashby if his captives were not freed. Her husband's eyes were alight with amazement and joy. "It is Gilliam. He has fired the village. My God, he has set siege."

  "Walter must have heard me after all," she replied in pleased satisfaction. "I was so sure he hadn't."

  "Heard you?" His brows drew down in his confusion. "What do you mean?"

  She shrugged. "I was so positive my voice was not loud enough to carry over the walls, I saw no point in mentioning it to you. Once the attack was finished and John had commanded that we live, Walter came calling at the gate wondering what was afoot within. Maeve had told John's man he was to follow our remaining four all the way to Graistan to finish them. So I shouted that Walter should go to Gilliam. Maeve did not know that your brother was no longer at Graistan." She touched a finger to her temple as she frowned in consideration. "Mayhap he did not hear me and simply thought of it himself."

  "My clever girl," he said, then he threw his head back and his laugh rang out, wild and free. "And he came for me." With his arms wrapped around his wife, he lifted her feet from the floor and whirled her around in his joy. "He came. My brother is out there, and he has come to free me."

  "Rannulf," she cried, "let me go before you hurt one of us."

  "Never, I would rather die than let you go," he said, although he ceased to turn in a circle. Instead, he caught her face in his hand and leaned to kiss her. His mouth touched her cheek, her nose, her brow, then her lips. His kiss deepened until this simple meeting of their mouths became a wild mating. She was dizzy with his need, his joy. She clung to him, her hands joining behind his neck so she could pull herself closer still.

  He cupped her head in his palm, his fingers burying into the wealth of her hair. His mouth raked across hers, slashing and demanding her response. She melted against him. It did not matter that he was hurt or that Nicola might throw open the door at any moment. It only mattered that she wanted him, that her love for him made her feel whole and complete.

  It was he who tore away, catching his breath in great gasps. "It is truly for me. You only do that for me. Oh God, Wren, you will not die, I will not allow it. You are mine and only mine." This time, when he kissed her, it was with a tenderness that shot through her heart.
"And you have given back to me my brother," he breathed against her lips.

  But she no longer cared that there were men outside the walls or that the village burned. Pressing herself against him, she trapped his mouth with hers. When he pulled away, she cried out in disappointment. But as she opened her eyes to look at him, she caught her breath.

  Never had she seen his eyes so soft, not for Jordan or his brothers. Even as she studied him, he lifted her beyond them in his heart and made her more dear to him than they would ever be. He folded her within his being, binding her with chains to make her his prisoner for all his life. And that was good.

  "I love you," she breathed. She touched his cheek with gentle fingers, again overwhelmed by the feeling that filled her. He leaned against her caress, his eyes closing. Her fingers moved to the fine strands of hair along his cheek. She pushed them back, curling them around the curve of his ear. He sighed and once again opened his eyes. Now, their gray depths were filled with the unmistakable lights of his passion for her.

  "Besieging is a slow and tedious process. We have nothing but time to waste," he murmured as he once again placed his mouth on hers. Her need was a fire that consumed her. And when he finally let it consume him, he saw to it that he was not hurt in the slightest.

  Rannulf leaned back against the wall and watched his wife again try to peer out the window. She wore only her undergown, and that thin bit of material clung to the pretty curve of her back. His desire for her awoke anew, completely oblivious to its previous satisfaction. Never had a woman excited him more than she did, nor made him more content. He smiled, feeling for all the world like some lovesick pup.

  Oh, she had her faults. She was independent, even self-contained, and to a greater extent than he'd ever thought he could accept. But, somehow, that seemed to make her all the more dear to him; it made her the woman he loved.

  Loved. Within him still lay a core of resistance to the very thought of this. Despite himself, he remembered his father's pain and how his father's mourning had hurt his sons. Surely, there was a way to have one without the other. He shook his head in confusion and put the puzzle back in a corner of his mind. It would wait until they were home again. With his brother at the gates, it was only a matter of time before they were free.

  "Wren, come sit down. It will be days before anything happens. Gilliam has only arrived two hours ago. Even if his equipment is here, rather than trailing far behind him, he's not yet had time to have it constructed and in place."

  Suddenly, there was the oddest series of sounds. His brows shot up with his surprise, then he dismissed the thought as ridiculous. It could not be.

  Then a single explosion of sound reverberated through the bailey and echoed into their tiny chamber. His wife leapt back from the window in fright. "What was that?" she gasped.

  "And, then, I could be wrong," he said in amazement. But Geoffrey's holdings were much farther from Ashby than was Graistan. To have brought the ballista here so quickly, and have it already working, meant they'd marched through at least one night, more likely two. But what in God's name was Gilliam doing using such a machine against a wall? With its ability to shoot missiles great distances, it was better suited to raining terror down on the stronghold within, rather than at the walls themselves.

  "What is it?" she cried again, holding her hands over her ears as a second explosion of sound echoed around them.

  "A ballista. From the sound of it, Gilliam is firing at the south wall. If he's firing at the wall, I wonder if he's using bolts or stones?" he asked in quiet preoccupation. But why that wall when it was one of the two protected by water? And what if the engine did work to soften this strong, defensive line? Gilliam would be days doing it, and he'd still need to get men across the moat to finish the job.

  Now, that would be a very tricky business, indeed. A wooden bridge could span the distance, but Ashby's men would hardly sit idly by while miners took down their walls. Nay, fire, boiling water, and other missiles would rain down on both men and bridge while they picked their way through. It seemed a hare-brained scheme at best. Then, again, who was he to judge? It had been his own hare-brained thinking that had trapped them here in the first place.

  "I do not like it," she said, coming to sit beside him. He put his arm around her. There were three more explosions and, then, silence.

  Above them, he heard footsteps. One man called down, reporting that there appeared to be no damage yet. Another answered from the bailey floor. Again, no damage was reported.

  When the silence continued, Rowena pushed away from him, but just a little bit. "Why do they not surrender and give us to Gilliam?"

  "Were I in this Richard's place, I would do as he is doing, simply sit quiet and still behind the walls. I would offer no resistance, but neither would I give over. Nicola said her father opened his eyes yesterday and spoke a few words. No doubt, his man knows this and thinks he will soon hand the whole problem to his lord."

  "But if Ashby's man were to give us to Gilliam, would it not be the same?"

  "It is not, and he will not do it. That is a decision belonging to his lord. He has only been ordered to preserve us and so he shall, even if he must keep his lady at bay to do it. That is good for us, but not so for Gilliam. I doubt he knows what has become of us. I've not heard one word of response uttered by Ashby's men, despite Gilliam's constant callings and shoutings. It seems that this Richard stands fast to the man who holds his oath, wagering that John will live, the walls will stand, and he'll not be held responsible for what has happened."

  There was another reverberating explosion. She cried out again, clutching him tightly and burying her face against his chest. "I do not like that sound."

  "Ah, my sweet, it is the sound of freedom." He laughed. Four times in an hour's passing, the ballista sent its missile against the wall. But when it finally ended, there was no man atop the keep, so he heard no call. Instead, there was shouting from the south corner of the bailey.

  He listened carefully, gathering from the sounds of the voices, more than anything else, that Gilliam had put some sort of bridge in place. No doubt, his brother meant to cross the water and check on his handiwork. Ashby's men would be on the wall above, if not attacking the besiegers, at least keeping their eyes on them.

  His wife looked up at him, and he caught his breath at her magnificence. Her hair color was so rich and such a contrast to her creamy skin and dark blue eyes. He stroked her cheek with a gentle finger, then pulled her closer still. She lay her head against his chest, and her trust in him spoke to his soul.

  But what if this babe of theirs killed her? The very thought of her death, of the great rending absence she would leave behind, not just in him but in his family and folk as well, made him cold.

  Then, again, what if the babe did not take her? It might well be he faced a full and happy life with her. She was so much younger than he, it was more likely he would precede her into death. He would leave her a wealthy widow who would all too quickly be remarried.

  That thought rankled. Better that she went first, for he could not bear the idea that another man might hold her. Would she burst to life with desire for her next husband as she did for him? That he should think this way made him laugh.

  "What is so amusing?" she asked. "Do I smell burning again?"

  He paused to test the air. "Aye, and it is closer now." Then, he grimaced. "I think Gilliam has put a bridge across the moat to see what damage he has wrought. Ashby's men are not sitting so still as I expected they would. They must have succeeded in setting it afire." The smell of smoke grew steadily stronger.

  "Oh, sweet Mary," she whispered. "Poor Gilliam."

  "Now, who was the one who told me he was no boy to be fretted after," he chided, no longer threatened by her affection for his brother and recognizing friendship for what it was.

  "So," she said briskly, visibly forcing her thoughts away from what went ahead outside, "what was it that made you laugh?"

  He smiled, still amused by his
ridiculous thoughts. "I was thinking it would be better if you died first, for I would surely be a vengeful ghost who would haunt you if you were to remarry."

  "Rannulf," she cried, pushing away from him. "That is morbid. Do not think like that."

  He only laughed, enjoying his own foolishness. "Nay, not morbid, I am only imagining. Ah, I have the solution for it. We shall both live forever, then neither one of us will have to be alone." When she only stared at him in perplexity, he continued, "Play this game with me. Let me say that it is so. Would you live with me forever?"

  She studied his face for a long moment and whatever she saw made her happy. Her eyes brightened, and she smiled softly. "Aye, my love, I would live with you for all time," she replied.

  It was only then that he realized what he'd said and why she'd smiled so. There was no escaping it, no holding back. Even his own tongue betrayed him. This love of theirs was right and good, the way it was supposed to be between a man and his wife.

  "Many women do not die in childbirth," she said, gently touching her fingers to his lips. He kissed her fingertips. "My mother did not, nor did Temric's. Nor did Queen Eleanor, and she had many children. She is strong and healthy despite her age."

  "You are right," he replied, catching her hand and placing a kiss into her palm. "But I would still rather have you with me than trade you for the sake of a legitimate heir."

  "But I want our child," she cried softly. "It is my gift to you, proof of my love for you."

  "And what proof would you ask of me? Jewels, clothing, lands?" His tone was teasing but not so his heart.

  Her eyes were soft and warm. "There is nothing more I want from you that you have not already given me."

  She would not make him say it; she would not demand from him the final proof of his feelings for her. If he spoke them, it would be because he had chosen to do so. Would he? He drew a deep breath as his last fears shredded and disappeared. "Wren," he started, the words forming, then falling away to form again.