The Pleasure of the Rose

by Jane Bonander

  Before he got too close, she said, “We will not share bedrooms.”

  He crossed the room, stopping just behind her. “We won’t?”

  She tried to laugh. “Of course not. It isn’t as though this were a real marriage.”

  “The ceremony was real enough.”

  She caught his gaze, suddenly feeling naked and vulnerable and nervous. “You know what I mean.”

  He chuckled, the sound like silk on her bare skin. “Oh, I know what you mean. But if we are to produce the required heir, Rosalyn, we must spend at least a minimal amount of time alone together.”

  She straightened and picked up her brush, gripping it tightly as she ran it through her hair. “Perhaps I’m already pregnant.”

  He took the brush from her and continued the task, sending frissons of shock through her. “Maybe you are, but if you aren’t, your return to celibacy will only drag this marriage out.”

  “My return to celibacy? What about you? Do you intend to bed every available wench on the island if I don’t submit?”

  One corner of his mouth turned upward. “Would you care if I did?”

  She crossed her arms and stared at him in the mirror. It was on the tip of her tongue to say she wouldn’t care one whit, until she saw the look on his face. For the moment, his roguish air was gone. His cavalier attitude didn’t exist.

  She considered carefully how to respond. “Whether this marriage is an emotional fraud or not, it is still a marriage. It binds us together for a specific purpose. If it were not for that purpose, we wouldn’t be in this room, talking about it. But it’s still a marriage, and yes, I would care if you went out and satisfied yourself with every trollop on the island.”

  “Because of how it would make you look?”

  She glanced away, her discomfort palpable. “In part, I suppose.”

  He ran a finger along her cheek. For some odd reason, her nipples pebbled.

  “For what other reason, Rosalyn?”

  “Because it is still a marriage.”

  “Does this have anything to do with your first foray into wedded bliss?” he asked.

  She turned on him swiftly. “It has nothing to do with Leod, if that’s what you mean.”

  His gaze narrowed. “Was Leod not a faithful husband?”

  She laughed in spite of herself. “I cannot and will not begin to tell you what Leod was or was not, Your Grace. To speak of him at all will only make this day worse. Suffice it to say that whatever this marriage becomes, it will undoubtedly surpass my first one in every conceivable way, and I won’t necessarily even have to like you very much to achieve that.”

  He pulled her up from the dressing table and drew her close to him. “Then we had better set down some rules, wife, if this marriage is to achieve its one main goal.”

  Her fingers fluttered nervously over the neck of her nightgown. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” he began, “I will want access to your body at all times.”

  “You what?” Her eyes grew big and her heart drummed erratically. He spoke so casually one would have thought he was speaking about accessing the pantry or the root cellar.

  “I’m sure you’ll agree, Rosalyn, that the quicker you become pregnant, the sooner we can stop dancing around one another so cautiously.”

  She stood in the circle of his arms, fighting the urge to lean into him, fighting the need to feel satisfied once again. “Surely you don’t mean that whenever you want me, I must submit, no matter the time of day.”

  “That’s exactly what I mean, Rosalyn.”

  Frantically, she said, “I must have one day. I must have one day to call my own. A day that you cannot touch me, a day that will be mine to do what I wish without wondering when you’ll stalk me.”

  He tipped her chin up so she was gazing into his dark eyes. She saw humor there, a hint of merriment, and it annoyed her.

  “Considering what we’ve had together, I would think you’d be more receptive.”

  “We’ve had nothing together.”

  “Was it so terrible, Rosalyn? Was it so unpleasant?”

  “It was an accident. But for the circumstances, it would never have happened.”

  “But it did happen, Rosalyn.”

  His fingers grazed her cheek, the gentleness throwing her off balance. “I still need a day to myself.”

  “I can live with that. What day do you wish to escape me?”

  She swallowed; she couldn’t deal with this today. “Sunday. Every Sunday you will not touch me from midnight to midnight.”

  “Today is Sunday,” he reminded her.

  She gave him a triumphant smile. “I know.”

  He smiled too, but she wasn’t certain she liked the dare behind it. “Then I’ll leave you, ma’am. Good night.”

  After he’d gone, she couldn’t explain the feeling that came over her. She should have been happy to have outsmarted him. But had she? In truth, her free day was almost over. She could expect him to return at the stroke of midnight, and she wasn’t ready. Or was she? By the holy, she was becoming a mess of nerves, and this folly of a marriage had just begun.

  • • •

  She didn’t sleep; she kept waiting for his footsteps. Once the clock had struck midnight, she had been certain he would barge in on her and expect her to submit to him. When he didn’t, the reasons why kept her from falling asleep.

  She had even gotten up, lit a candle, gone into the hallway, and crept toward his room. She had stood outside his door briefly, but of course it was not like the first time, when he’d cried out and she had gone in all innocence because she’d thought he was in pain.

  In the end, she had returned to her room, blown out the candle, and crawled back into bed, wide awake, nervous as a caged wild bird, anxious for morning.

  Now, in the gray light of dawn, she struggled from her bed, stiff, sleepy, and irritable. In truth, she had expected him to come. She had waited for him. She would have submitted. She might even have enjoyed it.

  Who was she kidding? She had wanted him to come. She had lain there, imagining the moment, wondering how she would respond when she saw him standing beside the bed. Dampness had gathered between her legs as she had envisioned him there, warm and naked. She had remembered his manhood well. Thick and strong, hot and hard, and she had impaled herself on it, feeling it press so deep inside her she had thought she might faint from the pleasure of it.

  But to admit she wanted him was to submit, and that was very, very hard for her to do.

  She had wondered if he would be a gentle lover. She thought he could be, but she also felt he could be rough and demanding. And what were they, anyway? Who set the standards for how people should act in the bedroom? Some pious, self-proclaimed virginal queen?

  Although Rosalyn’s marriage to Leod had deteriorated into something dreadful before she had known what he was, she had been an enthusiastic partner.

  Perhaps she would be again. Perhaps. In fact, in a way, her new husband’s savage past excited her in some insane, exasperating fashion.

  She had been ready to shed her nightgown, if he had wished it. She had been waiting to touch his warm, brown skin, feel the scars, the bumps and indentations she had seen on him that first morning when he had arrived.

  Perhaps she was not happy in her celibacy, but she had been content. At least until it was shattered by that one moment when she could stay celibate no longer.

  And now, although she would admit it to no one, especially her husband, she wanted him. Her needs and desires had been awakened, and like a wakening beast, they were hungry to be fed.

  But to admit this would be like opening herself to pain and heartache. She had done that once; she didn’t intend to do it again.

  • • •

  Fletcher had slept, eventually. He had gone downstairs to retrieve another bottle of whisky to replace the one he had drunk the week before, and as he came up the stairs he saw the flickering of a candle slanting shadows against the walls of the long hallw
ay.

  The indistinct silhouette of his wife appeared not far from the door to her bedroom. He took a few steps back to stay out of her sight.

  She had stopped near his door, paused, and then turned and hurried back to her room, a wraith in her pristine white gown with her wheaten hair flowing down her back.

  Even now, in the dim morning light, it made him smile. He had ignored her intentionally. He knew she expected him to return after midnight and claim his rights as her husband. He wanted her, yes, but he wanted her eager and willing, not reticent and unwilling. Her venture to his bedroom door was encouraging, but he didn’t think she was ready. Yet.

  There were other thoughts on his mind as well. He loved riding and he had enjoyed getting familiar with the castle and the village. Although he’d been on Hedabarr only a short time, he already knew most of it well. He wasn’t one who could sit idly by and do nothing; he had worked for a living from the time he was a boy of ten. He was bored.

  He desperately needed a project, something to throw himself into. Something besides the seduction of his reluctant bride, although that certainly could become a full-time and very pleasurable endeavor.

  But he needed something else, something to make him feel useful. This life of ease wore thin.

  Chapter Thirteen

  In the week that followed, Fletcher rose early each day, saddled Ahote, and rode around the island. One morning he rode north. He passed numerous small huts, all with thatched roofing and small windows. A woman bent over a steaming wash pail, and when he rode by, she straightened and stared at him. He bowed his head and smiled, but she gave no response. At another hut, a woman dug in the earth, a trifling pile of potatoes beside her. A number of small children, at least five, dressed in sparse and ragged clothing, ran toward him as he came closer, gleeful and excited, laughing and shouting.

  The woman raised her head, looked at Fletcher, and then gave them a sharp order, and they all scampered away like so many frightened puppies.

  Further on, he drew Ahote to a halt as a herd of sheep crossed his path, driven by a shaggy dog and a grim shepherd. Fletcher watched as the dog obeyed the shepherd’s whistles, forcing the sheep to stay together and hurrying them along, out of Fletcher’s way. Again, Fletcher smiled and again got no response from the native.

  As he came to the far end, the landscape, desolate and craggy, reminded Fletcher of a world yet to be discovered. But as he approached a grassy plain, his heart beat faster as he viewed a magnificent surprise.

  A few dozen wild horses pranced and played, running and rearing up with abandon. The sight thrilled him. Beneath him, Ahote shivered, perhaps with anticipation or excitement.

  Fletcher rubbed the stallion’s neck. “Easy, boy.”

  The animal’s answer was a throaty whicker as he pawed at the ground.

  Gathering the circle of rope in one hand, Fletcher gently nudged his mount’s belly and, with stealth and purpose, headed toward the herd.

  • • •

  “Mistress! Mistress, come look!”

  Alarmed by Annie’s voice, Rosalyn dropped her spade, dusted off her apron, and followed her maid from the garden.

  Annie ran toward the stable, her skirt to her knees and her pale calves exposed above her worn boots.

  Curious, Rosalyn followed. And what she saw filled her with wonder.

  There, in the wide fenced circle, was her husband and a horse she had not seen before.

  Her husband’s movements captivated her. With a looped rope, he stepped slowly toward the skittish animal, all the while talking to her under his breath.

  Rosalyn studied her savage. He wore no shirt and the thick, rope-like muscles of his brown arms bunched as he worked. Sweat glistened off his shoulders and even from where she stood, Rosalyn could see it running in rivulets down his broad, smooth back. Tall and strong, he was very, very appealing indeed.

  An unfamiliar pride of possession sluiced through her and she felt a peculiar need, one she couldn’t explain and one she had never felt before.

  He coaxed the mare, speaking in low, seductive tones. Rosalyn imagined it was how he would seduce a woman, and the mare began to respond, whinnying and prancing before him as if she, too, could play his game.

  Rosalyn watched as he approached the mare, rope in hand. He reached out and touched her nose, his motions gentle. She jerked back, and then forward, finally allowing him to stroke her.

  As he would a woman, Rosalyn thought, imagining the gesture on her own skin. Gooseflesh rose on her arms.

  But she saw something else. There was happiness on his face that she had never seen before. A look of pure bliss, almost, certainly satisfaction. And she realized that this was a man who could not sit idly by and do nothing. He needed a purpose and he had found one. She was happy for him, almost envious.

  “It’s one of them wild horses from the north end,” Annie said, excited.

  “I see that.”

  The duke turned briefly and caught her gaze. Again, something fluttered in her stomach.

  “Why didn’t anyone tell me about the horses?” His words weren’t accusatory, but filled with reverence.

  “How were we to know you’d be interested?”

  He stroked the mare’s nose. “How did they get there?”

  Rosalyn watched him, still envious that something should bring him such unfettered joy. “I heard they had been on board a ship, bound for Ireland, from Sweden, I believe. At one time I believe there were as many as fifty or sixty, maybe more.”

  Her husband frowned. “I know there weren’t that many, maybe a few dozen at the most.” He stroked the mare’s nose.

  “Are you going to ride her?”

  Her husband continued stroking the mare. “In time I will.” He turned toward her again, a cautious yet mischievous gleam in his eyes. “Like any woman, she’s reluctant to be forced.”

  Rosalyn glanced away, “And you’re certain she will eventually capitulate?”

  “I, personally, have never met a female who didn’t eventually surrender.” His hand did not stop caressing the mare, yet his gaze was on Rosalyn.

  She had to force herself not to look away. “You rate your skills very highly. Perhaps you have yet to meet your match.”

  He gave her a roguish grin. “In horses or in women?”

  She felt the flush creep up her neck into her ears. “Perhaps in both,” she answered, then turned and strode purposefully toward the castle, her heart still beating an erratic tattoo in her chest.

  • • •

  Fletcher watched her leave, her head high and her back straight as a board.

  As engrossed as he had been in the mare, he knew the moment Rosalyn stepped to the fence; he felt her presence the moment she came near. He could also detect her scent, which was like smelling a breeze that had just blown through a succulent rose bush. She was a remarkable woman, and, like a good mare, difficult to tame, which only made him determined to do so. But when he decided the time was right.

  The mere fact that she had understood his innuendo meant she was closer to capitulation than she had been the day before.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Fletcher found Geddes in the library. “What haven’t you told me?”

  Geddes looked up, guilt written all over him. “Well, I meant to, but—”

  “It’s almost like they’re angry with me. Why is that?”

  Geddes frowned, puzzled. “Who?”

  “Those poor crofters who live north of here.”

  Geddes sat back in the chair and removed his spectacles. “What makes you think they’re angry with you?”

  “Well, they might not be angry, but they sure as hell aren’t friendly.”

  “They know their place,” Geddes said, straightening some papers on the desk.

  Fletcher paced in front of him, his hands behind his back. “Tell me everything about them.”

  With a casual shrug, Geddes said, “There’s not much to tell. You already know that crofts are actually little parc
els of land worked by the farmers. Those who live north of here have the poorest land on the island. As with all the crofters, some raise sheep, some fish, and some collect kelp.”

  “Kelp? You mean seaweed? What for?”

  “It’s collected to make alkali.”

  “Why do they have such poor land? There’s plenty of fertile land on the island, I’ve seen it myself.”

  “Aye, that’s your land.”

  Fletcher stopped pacing and stared at Geddes. “You mean, all the arable land is mine, and what’s left belongs to those crofters up north?”

  “It’s been that way for a long time, sir.”

  “Do they at least own it?”

  Geddes glanced down. “I’m afraid not. They pay you rent.”

  Fletcher dropped into a chair beside the desk. “They actually pay me for that? That’s terrible.”

  “It’s always been that way, probably from the beginning of time.”

  The elation of finding the horses was quickly diminishing into self-loathing, something he was quite good at. “Good God, it’s no wonder they hated the sight of me.”

  “It’s not your concern, sir.”

  “Of course it’s my concern.” But Fletcher had no idea what to do about it. He had so much to learn about his new station in life. “Surely something can be done.”

  “If that’s what you wish,” Geddes answered.

  “You mean it’s up to me to change it?”

  “Of course. You’re the duke.”

  Fletcher laughed quietly. “You say that so easily. It isn’t easy for me to believe I actually have the power to do something. You must realize I’ve never had any power before. When you found me I was two days away from being hanged.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  Fletcher steepled his fingers in front of him. “Do we really need rent from those poor people?”

  “No, it’s just always been that way.”

  “Then stop collecting it.”

  Geddes gave him a cautious look. “As your solicitor, I don’t recommend it.”

  “Have you any idea how much rent we’ve collected, say, in the past ten years, for example?”