by Brenda Joyce
“I am marrying the Norman,” Alice spat. “And when I am his lady, you will be dealt with—have no fear. For I shall not be made a fool of like my mother.”
“My lord, more wine?” Alice asked gaily.
Rolfe, in the act of knifing a leg of mutton, nodded curtly. His bride’s knee touched his. So did her arm. She was a bony thing. Did she truly think to seduce him? He was highly annoyed. She had been overly garrulous and attentive throughout supper.
Alice poured the wine, knowing the lout would not thank her, he was such a brute. Still, she could live without manners. She flashed him another charming smile, fluttering her lashes, but he did not see—for he was not looking. His gaze was on the low end of the table. On Ceidre. Alice felt like overturning the table and dumping the entire contents on her damned bastard sister.
Rolfe watched Ceidre eating, with a real appetite, but with utter feminine deportment. He was glad to see her at his table. It was a vivid reminder that she was a part of his household, and this thought was heady and provocative indeed.
She wore a simple tunic of rust wool, over another of deep blue. The two colors were perfect for her, complementing the rich bronze of her hair, the dark purple of her eyes. She nibbled a joint. She was too far away for him to see the whiteness of her teeth, but her lush lips opening upon the meat were fascinating, mesmerizing. He could not look away, did not want to look away; in truth, he wanted much, much more than to look. He was already thick with aching lust. He shifted and adjusted his hose.
“My lord,” Alice said sweetly, once again trying to gain his attention.
Rolfe sighed, not regarding her, draining his wine. She, of course, ever dutiful, promptly refilled his cup. “My lord, I found her in your chamber today.”
Rolfe was all ears. “Ceidre?”
Alice saw that she had his instant, complete attention—now that the topic was her hateful sister. “Yes.”
“What do you have to say to me, Alice?”
“She was in your chamber. Searching for her amulet,” Alice said, watching him closely.
Rolfe shot Ceidre a hard glance. Now what was the wench up to? He knew very well she was in possession of her herbs. She is your enemy, he reminded himself. No longer your bride, yet still your enemy. Do not ever forget it.
“Will you punish her?” Alice asked.
“I do not punish lightly,” he said, reaching for a hunk of bread. The topic was ended. Alice gripped the table, hard.
Ceidre was trying to ignore Rolfe’s impertinent, and so very hot, stares. But she was embarrassed—and flustered, uncomfortable. There was not a person in the hall, she was sure, who did not see the way the Norman lusted after her, so openly, with his bride seated at his elbow. Ceidre would not look at them. She had seen enough. Alice’s gentle trills had sounded all night, were even now ringing. Rolfe listened courteously to whatever she kept spouting—once he had almost smiled. And Alice, Ceidre had seen her flirt many times, but tonight she went so far as to brush her small breast against his arm. Ceidre felt sick, and wished it was because of the food. She knew it was not. She told herself it was because of the upcoming marriage—because he was cementing his position at Aelfgar at her brothers’ expense. Not for any other reason.
But this logic was starting to sound, and feel, feeble, even to herself. Ceidre wished she could escape the table. Of course, she could not, not until the “lord” and lady had risen first. How she preferred the sweltering kitchens to this!
From outside a horn sounded, warning of the arrival of a stranger. Another blast sounded, indicating there was no call to arms. One of Rolfe’s men, who was on guard duty, entered, followed by a royal messenger. Ceidre went stock-still.
He was obviously sent from William, for he wore the Bastard Conqueror’s colors. He was coated thickly in dust, indicating a long, hard ride. He dropped to one knee before Rolfe, who impatiently waved him up and dismissed the company in the midst of their meal. Ceidre’s heart fell. How could she find out what was going on if she had to leave?
She was slow to exit, letting everyone wander out of the hall ahead of her. A glance over her shoulder showed Rolfe holding a sealed missive in his hand— but making no move to open it. So he did receive written messages! Oh, could he read or not? If only she could read it to him! His glance swept the room impatiently and pinned her as she loitered. Ceidre quickly turned and left.
Ceidre stood outside restlessly, knowing there was no way for her to find out what was going on inside the manor. Rolfe could be reading the document, or he could be listening to a verbal report. Whatever the message was, it was brief, because the assembly was soon allowed to return. Rolfe was leaning back in his chair, sipping the red wine that was becoming tolerable, staring at the hearth. The messenger took a seat at Ceidre’s end of the table, across from her. Ceidre was no longer hungry, but could not let this situation pass. She smiled at him. He was blond like the Norman, but slight and of average face. He looked at her, startled.
“You look tired, sir,” she said. “I would not relish having to ride so hard and so far.”
“’Tis not easy,” he said, flattered at her interest. He tore off a hunk of mutton and began to eat. “But I am young and strong, and the most trusted of the king’s messengers,” he boasted.
“’Tis true?” Ceidre asked, awe in her tone.
“God’s truth,” he said, grinning, mouth full. “What is your name, wench? I have never seen so fair a damsel, not in all of France and England combined.”
“I am Ceidre. And you?”
“Paul.” He drained a beaker of wine. “Mayhap you will walk with me after I sup?”
She had only a moment to make her answer known, and thinking only of her goal, she said, “Yes, how nice.” She would deal with the problem of his expectations later, she decided.
Rolfe watched this interchange with growing irritation. When Ceidre first graced the boy with her smile, he was stabbed instantly with an emotion suspiciously like jealousy—something he had never in his entire life entertained. Distrust arose also—what was the little witch up to with her flirting manner? Then, as their dialogue progressed, the messenger as proud as any strutting, puffed-out cock around a hen, Ceidre coy, admiring, his irritation became vast annoyance. Did the wench think to provoke him, test him? Or was she so foolish to think to learn of the royal business at hand? Or did she truly like the mealy-mouthed boy, barely out of his swaddling?
It was as if Alice had read his thoughts. Her voice was undisguised in its pleasure, and in its spite. “You see, my lord, how she carries on with the king’s man? ’Tis disgusting. Why, she is no different from her mother! No different at all!”
Her words burned, fueling his jealousy. Was she like her mother, who had been no more than the old eoarl’s mistress—his whore? Did she tease and tempt others as well? His tone was harsh. “I care not, my lady, what you think. If I want your opinion I shall request it. Otherwise, keep your malice to yourself.”
Alice went red.
Rolfe stood abruptly, his chair scraping the floor, and, face grim and angry, he strode from the hall. Immediately his men jumped up. Ceidre’s heart was pounding in both elation and anxiety. Now she must seduce this messenger into revealing what he knew!
Everyone had adjourned except for the Norman across from her and Alice, fuming as she sat on the raised dais. The messenger was grinning, sprawled comfortably, his back against the wall. His gaze was lewd.
Ceidre felt her heart take a nosedive. How was she going to do it? A lump of despair rose in her breast. With sheer will, she leaned forward and smiled enticingly. “The nightingale sings, can you hear?”
His grin widened. “Then we must not miss the tune.” He stood, waiting expectantly.
Alice’s chair made a grinding noise as she rose, and then she was passing her sister with a hateful yet triumphant look. “Have you acquired a taste for Norman meat, Ceidre? Was last night only the beginning?” she hissed.
Ceidre wanted to smack her, hard,
but she refrained because of her goal, and the lout waiting for her hadn’t understood Alice’s whisper anyway. Grimly she extended her hand. To her shock, he pulled her abruptly forward and began kissing her wetly, fondling her breasts. Reflexively Ceidre tried to twist free, but only succeeded in maneuvering her back up against the table—and he pushed her resoundingly down upon it.
“Stop!” She cried furiously, all thoughts of spying gone. He had her skirts up to her knees as he pinned her down, his mouth smacking her neck, one hand on her breast. She fought to pull down her gown, remove his hand from her chest, and heave him off at the same time. Panic started to set in as she realized he was much stronger than she and not more than a mere moment from actually raping her.
The sound of Guy’s voice was the most welcome thing Ceidre had ever heard. “Hear, hear! What’s this?”
The messenger ceased wrestling with her, turning with irritation, although not quite releasing her. Ceidre pushed away from him and out from under his arm as if she were leaping off hot coals. “Sir Guy!”
“Rolfe wants you, Ceidre,” Guy said, his expression grim and fixed upon William’s man. “Is this how you abuse Lord Rolfe’s hospitality?”
Never had Ceidre thought she would welcome the Norman’s summons, but she did so now. She fled up the stairs, leaving the messenger sullenly defending his actions—and blaming her for enticing him in the first place. Once in front of the Norman’s door she paused to push at stray tendrils of hair and sweep a hand down her gown. She was damp from the lusty encounter, flushed, and still a bit out of breath. But before she could regain more of her composure, the door swung open and the Norman stood there, scowling.
His gaze swept her so thoroughly Ceidre’s relief was forgotten and in its stead rose bristles. His tone was abrupt. “I want a potion.”
Ceidre knew what she looked like and was both dismayed and furious. Did he think she’d actually been fornicating? “For what?”
He smiled unpleasantly. “It seems I have the devil’s hooves pounding right here.” He touched his temple.
He had a headache? He had summoned her for a headache? Suspicion came swift and hard. “I believe,” she said, quite sarcastically, “more red wine will ease your suffering.”
“Are you upset, Ceidre?” His tone equaled hers. “Disturbed? Have I disturbed you?”
“You are my lord and master,” she said, too sweetly. “How could you disturb me?”
“That’s right,” he said, leaning close, his gaze riveted upon her bruised mouth. “Your lord and master.” He smiled again, and Ceidre felt a frisson almost like fear. “I do not want red wine. I want a potion. Some of your witch’s brew. For my head.”
Witch’s brew. His words stabbed, so she turned away haughtily. He was so fast she didn’t take even a step, for his hand gripped her arm and he whipped her back around to face him. “And no loitering, Ceidre,” he snarled. “No dallying.”
Her eyes went wide with understanding and surprise. He was telling her in no uncertain words that she was not to rendezvous with the messenger! Something hot rushed along her veins, something like elation. She found herself smiling. “I will not dally, my lord.”
His ill humor increased. “Good! Go, then!”
Ceidre left to fetch his potion and was not at the top of the stairs when she heard his door slamming like thunder. She began to hum.
“He has ordered the village destroyed!”
Ceidre stared at her cousin Teddy. “Surely you jest!”
“No, ’tis true, the entire village, Ceidre, ’twill be burned!”
Two days earlier Ceidre had given Rolfe the potion he’d requested and then been promptly dismissed. Rolfe had taken a score of men and disappeared the morning after and had not returned until late last night. There was no way that Ceidre could find out where he had gone, nor for what purpose. She had once again been free to do as she pleased. She decided to stay out of Alice’s way, and had spent time with her grandmother, gathering herbs, crushing them, blending them carefully into potions for numbing pain, for curing sores, for inducing sleep, for fertility and impotence. It was early morning.
Teddy, clad in a tunic and wool hose, clung to her wrist. “Can you not curse him?” he begged. “I know you are a good witch, Ceidre, but can you not, this once, strike him dead? He is destroying all our homes!”
The Norman had not one human bone in his entire body, Ceidre thought furiously. She strode past the manor, staring at the keep, three stories high, square and ugly, its only windows tiny slits, gracing the barren hill above the village. A huge, deep ditch had been dug around its entire perimeter, excluding the orchard and the hayfield and the corn. Then she saw a cottage go up in flames.
She lifted her skirt and began to run. It was a terrible moment: déjà-vu. The Norman sat his big, ugly stallion, watching, surrounded by three of his men. At the sound of her hard, fast footsteps, he shifted his horse and regarded her.
“You must stop at once!”
A hint of a smile appeared on his stern features. Ceidre was panting, bosom heaving. His gaze roamed from her face to her breasts. It was distinctly greedy, like a wolf in winter. “Did you hear me?” Ceidre cried.
“Do not interfere,” he said, turning away from her. Another cottage went up in flames. The sound of women weeping drifted to them.
“You have no soul,” Ceidre hissed. “And no heart. How sorry I am for you!” Tears stung her eyes. His men were efficiently setting the huts on fire, and now half the village was burning.
He turned a dark look upon her. “The village must be moved.”
“Why? ’Tis their homes. Their lives. Their livelihood!”
“Everything will be rebuilt, Ceidre,” he said, warning in his tone. “Do not interfere in what you do not understand.”
She ignored the threat. “You get perverse pleasure, do you not, using your power so? Frightening the ignorant with fear of a Norman death?”
“Ceidre, cease.”
“You terrorize the helpless—women, children, serfs. Yes, that takes a lot of courage. I am surprised they do not call you Rolfe the Brave for all the courage you show!”
He was red-faced. Mounted next to him, Guy Le Chante was incredulous, and also crimson. The other two men pretended not to have heard. Ceidre did not care, she was frantic and furious, beyond fear. “Yes, from now on, that is your name—Rolfe the Brave!”
It happened so fast, she could not react. The words were not out of her mouth before he had jerked her roughly up onto his mount, slamming her facedown across his thighs. And the stallion was in a hard gallop, almost simultaneously. Ceidre could not have moved if she wanted to—which she did not. The breath had been knocked out of her, and she could see two things —his foot in the heavy stirrup and the ground, speeding beneath them. She was in terror of being dropped beneath the great destrier’s thick, shod hooves.
And in terror of what he was going to do.
Oh, why, why could she not keep her unruly mouth shut?
The beast stopped. She was pulled down even as he dismounted, in a most undignified way, like a sack, hanging over his arm from her waist. She began to writhe. For one scant second. Her pelvis was jammed hard onto one braced thigh, the movement nearly shoving her nose in the dirt. Then, at the feel of her skirts being tossed over her head, realization took hold, and she screamed, trying to wrench free.
“You have tried me again and again,” he said through gritted teeth as he bared lush white buttocks. He was so determined, the sight did not deter him. “A child deserves a child’s chastisement.”
“If you hit me!” Ceidre shouted, furious, disbelieving that he would dare to spank her.
“You will what?” he taunted, and he smacked her hard across her buttocks.
It hurt. It also stunned her into immobility—but not for long. “How dare you!” She was enraged.
He held her easily although she struggled to get free with all of her strength. “I dare anything I please.” He hit her again, harder.
“How brave you are!” She gasped, writhing across his lap.
A third slap followed. “No one, not man or woman, talks to me the way you do,” he said harshly, staring at her white flesh. She was impossibly shapely. Her legs were long and curved, her buttocks high, round, and lush.
“I will never forgive you.” Ceidre choked, more humiliated than hurt.
“I need not your forgiveness, but you need sense,” he said hoarsely, unable to tear his eyes away from her derriere. His hand settled of its own accord upon one firm buttock.
Ceidre jerked as if burned. His hand closed upon her, squeezing. Her breath caught in her throat and she could not breathe. Nor could she move.
“You try my vows,” he said harshly, sliding his hand down to the back of her thigh. His fingers splayed, slipping intimately between her legs, a hair’s breadth from the moist heat of her womanhood.
Wildfire, hot, electric, raced through her. His hand moved, so slightly, but it was enough to press against the soft curls guarding her femininity. And against her hip, his maleness thrust boldly, hotly. “Do not,” Ceidre managed hoarsely. “Please.”
He suddenly pushed her to her knees, his hands holding her hips, hard. “I care not for my vows,” he said, gasping, his tone strangled. He groaned, long and low and so very male. “God, Ceidre, I cannot …” His groin pressed against her buttocks, hot and full, and she felt his mouth on the side of her neck. In another moment her virginity would be lost. There was despair—and there was elation.
And then he released her.
With a cry, Ceidre scrambled away on hands and knees, then turned, crouching, her back against a thick, ancient oak. She was panting, her gaze riveted upon him. Her heart thundered in her ears.
He was on his knees, staring at the ground, sweat standing out upon his face, his arms and back corded beneath his tunic. She both sensed and saw the battle he was waging, his mind against his lust. Passion and arousal darkened his features, strained them. His body looked as if it might snap. Ceidre whimpered, in abject fear—or in abject need? He lifted his head and impaled her with his hot blue eyes.
