He froze at the doorway, his back going rigid as he slowly turned toward her. She could feel the bitter coldness of his gaze. “Very well. We will let you have your way and remain here.” Then his eyes were off her and on the man still standing next to Carling. Ryann followed his gaze, and suddenly the floor tilted beneath her feet. “You have ten minutes.”
“No,” Ryann whispered, franticly shaking her head. “I will go,” she said, speaking louder, and taking several steps forward.
“Of course you will Countess. Because next will be that lovely young lady next to her. Her sister if I’m not mistaken.”
Ryann’s eyes fell to Ember, who was forced away as the old man ripped the shoulder of Carlings gown enough to expose one of her breasts. The woman tried to fight then, but she was quickly sat upon by two other men, as they forced her onto the ground, holding her kicking and thrashing body down. Some of the women tried to defend her, but there were too many men, brutal men, who used their fists freely to drive the women away.
“Do you see what happens if you are anything but obedient?”
The man turned and walked through the door, and Ryann forced her feet to follow him. The vision of what was happening in the hall could only be made worse if the younger sister, a mere child, was forced to endure a similar attack.
Alena stared at the huddle of girls, and at their center was Carling. She was handling the situation admirably well. Perhaps she drew from the strength of her sisters. Truthfully, there was a look about her face that made Alena believe she wished her sisters would give her space, a little room to breathe. Alena looked from them to the other women milling about. There were no men left, the man who took Ryann saw to that. As she looked around, she could see it on the other women’s faces, the sadness nearing desperation. She knew desperation well.
She turned back to the group of women. At that instant Carling’s gray-brown eyes looked up at her, and she saw something familiar in them. It was the same look the Countess Ryann had after she came back from being kidnapped and raped. It was the look of a woman who had fought against another human being for her soul, and lost. It was the face of a woman who did not know how they would ever forget such a violation of their bodies. It was a face that churned her stomach and built anger in her chest.
The men responsible answered to only one, and he had the Countess. A woman who was nothing but kind to her. Most women were not. Alena no longer considered herself a woman. Ghalib stripped her of any feelings she would associate with being a woman. Now she was mostly filled with anger for the stronger sex, and she vowed, when she first learned she could fight, she would no longer be the weaker sex. But where did that leave her? Where could she go from there?
“Get Ryann,” she mumbled to herself. Turning, she looked to the group of women huddled around Carling. “We have to rescue the Countess,” she said, loudly. She stood in the middle of the hall, her back straight, her chin high, and her shoulders back. She exuded confidence, a habit more than anything, because the weak were trod upon until there was nothing left.
The women looked at her as if she was crazy. “Halvor said he taught his sisters how to defend themselves. We have no men to do this for us. If we want to stop that man from hurting Ryann, and even Garrick, we must find them.”
“Then what?” Brenda, the oldest sister, asked.
“We kill him.”
“We can’t,” Ella replied. She looked scared, uncertain, and kept casting glances between Carling and Brenda, ready to follow her other sisters’ lead. “We’ve never.”
“Have you?” Carling asked, as she stood on her feet.
Alena killed Alfred when he threatened her. Why killing Ghalib affected her so eluded her until that moment. Ghalib made her feel weak, unsubstantial, so raising her hand against him was torture for her, because of the lessons he taught her to keep her from fighting him. Now she knew Marcus was right all along. Killing Ghalib was something she could never accomplish on her own, but now she knew she was victorious, and could be again.
“Yes,” Alena said, and found by her admission, her anger increased toward the man who took Ryann.
“I will help you,” Carling said, stepping forward.
Brenda reached a hand out toward her younger sister, hesitated, and then slowly nodded her head. “We will too.”
Alena nodded, and she felt confidence begin to take the place of the anger. She watched Garrick and Marcus organize their men, was even with Ghalib many times when he spoke with his commanders. That was one thing she knew, war.
“Who else will go to get Countess Ryann back?”
“Are you crazy?” one woman hissed, stepping forward. “Did you not see they killed all the men?”
“Because they surprised us. We must surprise them.”
“You’re a fool,” the woman replied, turning to leave the hall. Many followed in her wake. Alena watched with a sinking heart. The lower the numbers, the less chance at success. By the time the door closed, the sisters stood together, and three other women, a mother and her two daughters. Both daughters were near their twenties.
“Garrick’s mercenaries took us from our home, killed my husband, hurt my daughters. The Countess made them stop, she gave us safety here when we had nowhere else to go. We will always fight for her,” the older woman replied.
“Let us begin,” Alena said, turning to lead the women to the armory. It was not difficult to follow the men who left sorrow in their wake. They took what they wanted, and those in possession of it, were usually killed. They did not trail the men, and Countess Ryann, by more than a few hours.
Chapter 12
February 1199 Chateau Gaillard, King Richard’s castle in Normandy
“Do you know this man?” Emma asked, as she stood obediently for Roland to fasten the necklace around her neck. She touched the sparkling green jewel reverently, before looking up at him. One eye ticked as they narrowed, but he shook his head and turned away.
“You must know him,” she insisted, following him toward the door.
“Why must I know him,” Roland asked, stopping in mid stride, so she had to stop suddenly, or bounce off his back.
“At least have heard of him. Don’t you run in the same circles as men such as he?”
“I assure you,” Roland began, removing her cloak from the rack next to the door. He turned offering it to her. “I do not run in circles. The best path is straight ahead. Also, I have been serving in Lord Damien’s army, so have not had time to associate with men such as he.” He lightly placed the warm material about her shoulders, and when she turned to look at him, he focused on the tie just below her throat.
She saw his focus, and not for the first time, she wondered how good a soldier the man was. Relentless, she would bet. Of course he is, you fool, he’s alive isn’t he?
He took a step back, before he looked at her. She could read nothing of his thoughts. Was he ready to be rid of her, so he could be on his way, or was he as nervous as she about meeting the man the King appointed to be her husband? “How do I look?”
The question was out of her mouth before she could stop it. Honestly, she could care less how she looked. Despite Roland’s history with the King, he secured fine clothing, complements of the King’s purse for her. For the past three weeks she spent nearly every day in fittings, until she had a wardrobe she could never dream of on her own. The task of selecting fabrics and colors were too difficult a task for a woman who never wore anything but men’s clothing to run about the woods in. So Roland stepped in. He was a man with an eye for style, and she loved each item he selected. The gown she wore tonight was emerald in color, it sparkled nearly as much as the large emerald framed in gold that hung about her neck, and the matching earrings dangling from her ears. The gold brought the gold lights out in her coppery hair, so she felt she fairly sparkled. Suddenly, she wished Roland was not so competent, and she had only gaudy clothes in which to meet her husband.
“You are a goddess the sun worships.” Roland turned awa
y as he spoke the words. He was full of complements such as those. Complements that left her wondering if he toyed with her. She was no goddess, nor did she attain to be one, nor did she think the sun could worship any being, let alone her. She only asked the question because she feared each time she entered the hall, and the curious turned to stare at the wayward lady, the people would point and laugh at her, because she did not belong there.
Sighing, she followed Roland from their rooms. The King only took three weeks to find a husband for her to marry. Three weeks! What kind of man could possibly be found and convinced in that amount of time? She would have a large dowry, and she did not fool herself into believing that was not the lure of marriage to her. The man never laid eyes on her, after all.
The King announced the arrangement last night at the evening meal. She felt faint. When she looked to Roland, she felt betrayed, for he made no indication the announcement was anything to him. She thought they were at least friends. They spent nearly every waking moment together. As she followed him, she couldn’t help but recall all their talks involved her speaking of growing up with her father and uncle, with no mother as an influence. She talked about learning to shoot with her bow and arrows, even where she lay hidden after she stole his knife, and how she came to find such a magnificent hiding place. But never did he speak of anything about his life, other than as a soldier. He would speak of battles, fighting, the places he had been, even the strategies he used in leading an army into battle, but never did he mention a life that included a wife and his children. It was as if it never happened. Would he be able to wipe the memory of her away just as easily? Of course he could. He loved his wife deeply, because her death left him with great open wounds, and they appeared as if they would never heal.
Then they were standing in the hall, before the dais, and the King was presenting her husband to her. He was an ugly man. Short, fat, hairy and grotesque. The man who stood beside her, offered her no relief, no assurance, nothing but his rigid stance and unwavering expression.
“What say you of your bride?” the King asked proudly.
The man began to speak, but spittle escaped between his teeth, and he made a slurping sound to draw it back into his mouth. Oh God, really, this is the best you can do, her heart pleaded to the ultimate power. Why didn’t Roland say something? She wanted to kick him, to prompt him to speak, but what could he really say? Congratulations, though you may not be happy together, I will never have to see you again.
“I am not a virgin,” she blurted. She felt her cheeks grow crimson, for silence fell across the hall, and every eye in the room stared at her. Every eye but the blue ones of Roland, who stared straight ahead.
“That is no matter…” her husband, appointed by the King, began with more spittle escaping his mouth. The man had far too much moisture in his body, for he was like a dog as it ran down his chin.
“I carry another man’s child.” What? Why would she say such a thing?
Her husband drew back, and she saw anger in his little beady eyes. “I will raise no man’s bastard,” he said with fury, before turning away from her, and leaving the hall. The King’s face held a barely contained rage, as he looked from her, to Roland.
“Who is the father?” the King demanded.
Who indeed? It could not be Roland, the King might kill him if she tried to point a finger at him. It would be quite believable, and he could not deny lying with her. Well he could, but she did not think he would. But she could not do that to him. She could not put him at risk like that.
“It was a man before Roland brought me here.”
“His name,” the King insisted.
“Oscar, I do not know more.”
“Did you know this?” the King demanded of Roland.
“No your majesty. I was under the impression she was untouched when I found her.”
Good, he’s sticking to the truth, she thought.
“You have put me to a great deal of trouble young lady,” the King admonished her, but he did not sound as angry as she feared him to be. “No matter, there is someone who will not mind to have a pregnant wife of your caliber. Bastards can always be dealt with.”
Did Roland really flinch at that statement? Of course he did. That was part of the stories he told, stories about the Fenton Bastard, and the hunt that was going on to kill the King’s best commander, and his best assassin, while he was appointed babysitter. A loyal man the King did not appear to be.
“I will find you another, don’t you fret. Now, let us enjoy the meal, I am starving.” Just like that, the King dismissed them, and Roland turned away to lead them to their table. Throughout the meal Emma felt an uncomfortable silence coming from Roland. As soon as he finished his meal, he stood and offered his arm to Emma. Considering she did not taste a bite of her food, she stood quickly, grateful to escape the stifling hall.
Not a word was spoken all the way back to the Inn. As a matter of fact he said not a word to her since he told her she was a goddess. Finally, she was back in their sanctuary, and Roland closed the door as he entered behind her, and she felt safe once again. How much longer would that be possible?
“Are you pregnant?” Roland asked her, as he unfastened her cloak, his eyes steady on his task.
“No.”
His eyes darted to hers, then away again. “You played a dangerous game in front of the King,” he said, turning away to hang her cloak next to his.
“The thought of that man…” she could not finish, for she could not imagine one more minute in that man’s presence, let alone a lifetime.
Roland reached out and took the emerald hanging from her neck and turned it slightly, the light playing across it, before he looked at her again. “The King does not like to be lied to.”
She swallowed, and she felt the back of Roland’s knuckles against the skin at her throat, as he continued to hold the emerald. With Roland standing so close, his scent, his power was overwhelming, and she thought she would be sick the way her stomach twisted, and her heart beat took on an erratic, almost frantic rhythm. “He does not know I lied to him.”
“He will when you are married and no bastard is born.” His eyes were on her, and she saw they were like a window into the life he did not speak of. She saw sorrow for what once was, and could never be again. Fear that she played a dangerous game with the man who killed the woman he loved, was also reflected there.
Emma did not know what compelled her. If it was his fear for her, the sadness of his loss, or her need to have a babe planted inside her, but she closed the space, and standing on tiptoes, laid a kiss on his lips. It was like a dam broke. Roland dropped the emerald, and she felt its coolness strike against her skin. His hands were on her shoulders, holding her still, steadying her, as his lips met hers, and she suddenly felt the loneliness she was unaware of, escape her. He pulled her to him, crushed her to him with his arms wrapped securely around her. He broke the kiss, pressed her head into his chest, and held her securely in his arms for several moments.
When finally he released her, he met her lips more gently this time, as if he found control where before he had none. The back of his knuckle stroked her cheek, and he paused to look at her, studying her face, before kissing her again.
He cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs caressing her chin, before he gently used them to leverage her chin down, to open her mouth. His tongue dove in, and she sighed, her body relaxing into him. His kiss became tender, his touch even more so, as he wrapped one arm about her, securing her, guarding her tenderly.
Roland undressed her, each clasp and tie he slowly undid, until she stood before him, and he stepped back to look at her. She did not have the will to look away from the blue depths of his eyes, as his hands moved to unfasten his own clothing. His gaze was unwavering as they held hers, and she felt a shiver of anticipation race up her spine. She could see to his very soul at that moment, and his one greatest desire was to be with her. The knowledge was a heady feeling, she felt herself begin to quake, and
she found herself forcing back tears.
Though Roland did not speak of them, she knew his family was always at the forefront of his thoughts. That was why she could never read him. He was constantly trying to hold in his grief, just so he could cope with a life he was forced to live. She never wanted him to forget his wife and children, but he needed to let his wife go, so he could begin to live. Knowing he was here with her, and not remembering the death of another woman, even if it only lasted a moment, made her ecstatic.
He came to her, wrapped his arms around her, and she felt a level of preciousness she never had in all her days before. He kissed her gently on the shoulder. She felt his warm breath on her neck. Each touch, each kiss, melted her. This was different than their first time. Being with Roland now seemed as necessary as drawing her next breath. Roland’s touch was reverent, each one as gentle as the last, until he slowly pushed his way inside her. She cried out, there was no pain, just a feeling of elation as he slowly moved in and out. She felt the tears come to her eyes, and she could not say from where they came. Perhaps it was this man’s gentle handling of her. He was a soldier, but he was a man. He fought, he killed, but she knew now it was not who he was, but only what he did.
He gathered her close as she felt herself release around him, sending her flying into the sky, soaring in ecstasy. She felt his explosion inside her, and it made her cry out as she clung to him, for what seemed like dear life. He held her, lying on top of her, his elbows taking a great deal of his weight, as his quick breath came back under control.
After some time, he rolled from her, but did not leave the bed. Instead, he left her side only long enough to pull the covers up over both of them, before he raised his arm and she took the invitation to slide beneath it, and rest her head on his chest, as he pulled her close.
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