It would be better if he did not touch Rhoni, but he moved from the log on which he sat to hunker down behind her. He put a hand on her quivering shoulder. She curled up into a tighter ball. “I’m just cold,” she murmured.
He rubbed her arm. “No one blames you for crying, Rhoni. People would worry if you didn’t.”
She turned liquid eyes to him. “I cannot stop. Will you hold me?”
Críost, how this woman tempted him without knowing the fire she played with. He lay down beside her, his head resting on his bent arm. Careful not to touch her with his body, he put his hand on her hip. To his consternation she turned over and snuggled into him.
Desire churned its way through his body clear down to his toes by way of his loins. “Dia, Rhoni.”
This woman was in his blood and his blood was on fire. He had always been a lusty man, and Mary had never completely satisfied his male needs. But he had not wanted her the way he wanted Rhoni. He cupped her bottom and pressed her to his raging arousal. Her eyes flew open. He feared he had reawakened the terrible memory of her assault, but instead of fear, he saw desire in her eyes. She opened her mouth in the most blatant invitation to kiss he had ever seen. It was irresistible.
Still in the throes of shock after her ordeal, she would regret her impulsiveness on the morrow. He had seen grown men, seasoned warriors, reduced to fits of uncontrollable laughter after a battle.
But desire spurred him on. He kissed her hungrily, plunging his tongue into her mouth, tasting the sweetness of her breath, inhaling the tantalising aroma that clung to her even after her ordeal.
This was impossible. On the other side of the fire lay a severely wounded man who might not see the dawn. Others drowsed fitfully beside him. Conall slept but three feet away, though Ronan doubted the boy was asleep.
He broke away from the kiss.
She frowned and pressed her breasts against his chest. “Touch me, Ronan.”
“Nay, Rhoni, mo stór, not here. If I touch you I am lost.”
She gazed at him for long moments, then smiled. “But you want to touch me.”
He groaned. “I want to do more than touch you, woman, but I have told you before, I—”
She yawned and put a finger to his lips. “I know, I know. Your vengeance.”
She turned away from him, but snuggled her bottom to his arousal. She reached for his hand and cupped it under her breast. “I am warm now.”
He was on fire.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Ram de Montbryce had reassured his distraught wife he would wait until dawn before setting off with his men. The exhausted messenger had arrived with the dire news after midnight and babbled a confused account of the attack. The only thing Ram heard was that Rhoni had been taken by brigands. It had taken all Mabelle’s gentling to calm his fury and allow the man to continue his tale.
“She is safe, milord. She was rescued.”
Ram’s heart was breaking. His beloved, carefree Rhoni, defiled by some outlaw Saxon lout in his own territory. Heads would roll for this. “By whom?” he had shouted.
“The Irish baron, Lord Ronan.”
It was a kick in the gut he had not been prepared for. He had looked quickly to Mabelle whose mouth had fallen open. She had gazed back at him, a bemused expression on her face. “You were right, Mabelle. I will indeed meet this Irishman.”
Ram revisited what the messenger had told him over and over, pacing as he waited for the sun to come up, Baudoin at his side. Rhoni’s brother had been all for setting out as soon as the news came.
Finally Ram could wait no longer. He ordered his thirty knights to mount and he and Baudoin led them out of the bailey of Montbryce Castle and into the pre-dawn darkness.
Harnesses jingled, hooves thundered, but not a word was spoken for more than an hour. Every man was aware that dire events that had taken place. The sun came up, but Ram felt no warmth, wrapped in a chill that gripped his heart.
Baudoin’s face bore a mask of ill-concealed fury.
From the account of the messenger they must be nearing the scene of the attack. Suddenly, a youth stepped out of the forest, an arrow nocked to his bow, pointing directly at Ram. The Normans reined in their horses.
Ram drew his sword. “Who are you to dare challenge me on my own lands?”
The boy did not take his eyes off Ram, but shouted something in a foreign tongue. Not Welsh though, that much Ram knew.
A giant armed with the biggest sword Ram had ever seen appeared from the trees. The Earl of Ellesmere recognized instantly this was Ronan MacLachlainn. The eye patch confirmed it. A tide of conflicting emotions swept over him. Mabelle believed this man was Rhoni’s destiny, and for a moment Ram thanked God for it. Yet his heart fell. Life for his daughter with such a man threatened to be full of difficulty. High hopes of a marriage to a Norman nobleman crumbled at his feet.
The giant sheathed his sword and bade the boy put down his bow. “Earl of Ellesmere, Comte de Montbryce, I apologise you were challenged, but we had to be careful. I am Lord Ronan MacLachlainn. Your daughter is safe. I will lead you to her.”
The Irishman spoke English, yet he had respectfully addressed Ram with his title in Anglo-Norman French, and known his daughter would be his first concern.
Ram sheathed his sword and dismounted, turning to Baudoin. “Stay here with the men.”
His son bristled, but Ram insisted. “Get them to hew down trees to make biers for the wounded. We do not want thirty witnesses to Rhoni’s shame.”
Baudoin reluctantly complied.
Ram followed the Irishman to the clearing. Several Ellesmere soldiers lay wounded, among them Gabriel Duquesne. He was relieved the young man had survived. He was a good soldier. Two or three others came to their feet and pressed a fisted hand to their hearts as soon as they saw him.
“Papa!”
Rhoni appeared from nowhere, flinging her arms around him.
“Rhoni,” he gasped. In the darkest moments of his life, Ram had never wept in front of his men, but tears welled in his eyes. He hugged his daughter tightly, unable to speak. He kissed the beautiful golden hair so like her mother’s, smoothing his hand over it, reassuring himself she was alive.
What to say to her? How to ease the pain of her assault? How to tell her he still loved her, that the loss of her virginity would make no difference.
She broke away from him, a smile on her face. A smile?
“Papa,” she gushed, beaming, “I am glad you have met Ronan. He is my hero. He saved my honour.”
In the many years Ram had suffered from rheumatism, he had never thought his knees might actually buckle beneath him, but if he did not get off his feet, they would. MacLachlainn watched him with one dark eye, his expression unreadable.
Ram released Rhoni and strode towards his daughter’s champion, his hand extended. “I owe you a great debt, Lord Ronan MacLachlainn.”
The Irishman returned the handclasp, the corners of his mouth edging up. When Ram made to withdraw his hand, the giant held on. “I might hold you to that, milord de Montbryce.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Ronan had lain awake with Rhoni cradled in his arms, anticipating the arrival of her father. When he heard Conall’s call, he hastily disentangled their bodies. This would be a difficult enough encounter without Ram de Montbryce finding his daughter abed with him, though he had not taken her as he had ached to.
He suspected from the number of horses arriving that it was the Earl of Ellesmere, but he deemed it a good idea to appear with sword drawn. Let Montbryce be aware he dealt with a warrior unafraid to challenge anyone, Earl or no.
He was as surprised as Montbryce obviously was by Rhoni’s happy demeanour. He had expected the horror of her ordeal to have dawned on her during the night, but she had slept peacefully. He, on the other hand, had spent the night fighting the urge to toss his honour away and possess the angel in his arms.
The Earl’s face betrayed his anguished uncertainty as he held his daughter. Th
e Norman suspected rape, hardly surprising since the messenger had been sent off in a state of exhaustion.
He felt compassion for the man, but would have to be wary. The Earl was powerful, his emotions frayed by worry for his child, but Ronan needed him as an ally. Had he overstepped good sense in his challenge? He needed to take the measure of this Norman nobleman quickly.
To his relief, a glint of amusement showed in Montbryce’s eyes when Ronan finally released his hand. Strong men despised weakness, but respected strength in other men.
Rhoni stood beside her father and put her hands around his arm, leaning her head against him. She flashed a smile at Ronan. “I’m sorry I have been so much trouble, Papa.”
Montbryce cleared his throat and patted his daughter’s head. “You’re safe now, Rhoni. That’s what is important. We will discuss your behaviour once we are home. We must take care of these wounded men. How fares Duquesne?”
Ronan led him over to the wounded Captain. “His pallor has improved, but he is still feverish. He took an arrow in the thigh. It had to be pushed through. He lost a lot of blood, though the bleeding has stopped now.”
Rhoni grasped Ronan’s arm, pressing her breasts to his bicep, beaming up at him. “Ronan took care of it, Papa.”
The Earl clenched his jaw and for a moment Ronan feared he might punch him in the face. The memory of the discomfort of a broken nose had him unpeeling Rhoni from his arm. The Earl must not get the idea he had seduced his daughter while she was vulnerable.
Ronan knelt to feel Duquesne’s forehead. The soldier stirred from his stupor and swallowed hard when he saw Montbryce. “Milord—”
The Earl raised his hand. “Not now, Duquesne. We will discuss what happened when you are recovered.”
The wounded man slipped back into sleep.
Ronan came to his feet and faced the Earl. “He may yet die of his fever.”
Montbryce put a hand on Ronan’s shoulder. “Nevertheless he has a fighting chance without the arrow in him. He is a good soldier, from a worthy family. I thank you for your efforts on his behalf. It seems you are a man to be relied on in dire circumstances. Yet my wife tells me that not long ago you were at death’s door yourself.”
Ronan touched a hand to his eye patch. “Aye. It’s not a pretty tale, but I’ll tell it if you’ve a mind to listen once we get to Ellesmere.”
The Norman stared at him for long minutes, taking his measure. “That’s the least I can do, Lord Ronan MacLachlainn.”
He took his daughter’s hand, the sadness in his eyes acknowledging she was no longer the little girl who had left on the journey to Llansanfraid. “You have suddenly grown up, Rhoni. Fathers want to see their children grow to adulthood, but we miss the days they were still children.”
He smiled at her. “Are you fit to ride?”
“Oui, Papa.”
“Your brother anxiously awaits news of you yonder.”
Rhoni grinned, then skipped off to reunite with her brother.
The wounded men were carried to the biers made by the knights. The sun was high in the sky when the cavalcade set off for Ellesmere, led by Ram de Montbryce and his son. Behind them rode his daughter beside Ronan MacLachlainn, now proudly mounted on Gabriel Duquesne’s magnificent beast.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Mabelle de Montbryce paced the solar, waiting for news of Rhoni’s arrival, full of misgivings. She had often whispered to her only daughter of the intimate joy to be found in bed with a man. It broke her heart that her child’s first experience of physical union may have been one of brutality. How would her flighty daughter cope with such horror? Exile to a convent loomed large. They might as well condemn Rhoni to death.
And what of the Irishman? Mabelle had been sure he was Rhoni’s destiny. He may have rescued her from brigands, but no man wanted a woman defiled by another.
She heard Steward Bonhomme clear his throat before he tapped at her door. She stopped in her tracks, her spine rigid. “Entrez!”
Martin Bonhomme bowed his head as he entered the solar. “Milord de Montbryce has been sighted not far away.”
He held the door for his mistress as she took a deep breath, gathered her skirts and strode from the room. Rhoni was a Montbryce. She and her family would bear whatever calamity had befallen them together. Bonhomme’s worried gaze locked with hers for a moment. The Bonhommes had been stewards for the Montbryce family since before her husband was born. Martin’s father had come from Normandie to be their first steward at Ellesmere. She could depend on this man’s loyalty to control whatever was passed on to the castle’s servants.
“Merci, Bonhomme,” she murmured.
“Milady,” he acknowledged.
She lifted her chin and descended the stone steps to the Great Hall with as much dignity as she could muster, her belly in knots. What should her first words to Rhoni be?
Bonhomme opened the door leading out to the bailey and she exited in time to see Ram, Baudoin, Rhoni and Lord Ronan ride in.
To her great surprise, Rhoni was smiling—at Ronan!
What a splendid sight he was. The last time she had seen him he had hobbled on crutches. Now he sat tall in the saddle, an imposing presence, a huge sword resting on his hip. Someone had obviously provided him with a new wardrobe. She smiled inwardly, knowing exactly who it was. She wondered what her husband had thought of this mighty warrior when he first set eyes on him.
She looked belatedly at Ram, guiltily aware it was the first time since they had met that she had paid more attention to someone other than him on his return. His grin told her he had noticed, but his eyes travelled to Rhoni. Hope crept into Mabelle’s heart. No one was behaving as though Rhoni had been violated. She rushed to her daughter’s side as Rhoni dismounted with Ronan’s aid.
“Maman!” Rhoni exclaimed, throwing her arms around Mabelle.
The unbidden tears fell at last. “Rhoni,” she breathed into her daughter’s hair, hugging her tightly.
“I am well, maman. Do not cry. I am whole. Ronan saved me.”
Relief choked Mabelle. “Rhoni,” she rasped, unable to let her daughter out of her embrace.
Ram peeled her arms away. “You will squeeze the life out of her, Mabelle. Besides, where is my welcome home?”
Mabelle accepted a diplomatically proffered kerchief from Bonhomme and dabbed her eyes, sagging into Ram’s arms. He enfolded her in his cloak, rocking gently.
She calmed, then jolted from his embrace. She had failed to welcome Lord Ronan as befitted his rank, but more importantly she had not thanked him. She was tempted to throw her arms around him in gratitude, but doubted Ram would approve of that. She offered her hand. “Lord Ronan, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for rescuing Rhoni.”
He brushed a respectful kiss on her knuckles. “Milady comtesse, how good to see you again. It is thanks only to Rhoni that I was saved from the sea. It is perhaps Fate that we have found ourselves at the right place and time to be of assistance one to the other.”
His speech and manners were courtly. This Irishman was no barbarian any more than Prince Rhodri was a barbarian. There was more to Ronan MacLachlainn than anyone had imagined when he was brought half dead to the Priory. Only Rhoni had seen it immediately, and she gazed at him now with adoration.
He shifted his weight and seemed uncomfortable with the attention.
Mabelle’s belly tightened. She prayed her daughter’s heart would not be broken. Ram could be a compassionate man, but he was ruled by form and order. Ronan had nothing to offer Rhoni but an uncertain future. He was not the kind of man who would accept a dowry like Alensonne and forget the wrongs done to him.
Stable boys led their mounts away. The castle’s healer, Caryl Penarth, had taken charge of seeing to the comfort and care of the wounded. Ram ushered everyone into the Keep. “Welcome to Ellesmere Castle, Lord Ronan.”
Ronan bowed in acknowledgement of the Earl’s invitation, but noted the sour look on the Norman’s face when Rhoni linked her arm possessively with
Ronan’s. He bent close to her ear. “You are antagonising your father, Rhoni. He will get the wrong idea about us.”
She smiled patiently and pressed her breasts against his bicep. “Don’t worry. Let me handle my father.”
The round firmness of her breasts was playing havoc with his resolve. He glanced at the Countess. Críost, Rhoni was behaving as if they were betrothed. Her parents would be alienated before he had a chance to solicit the Earl’s help.
They entered the Great Hall. A young maidservant bobbed a curtsey at Rhoni, smiling broadly. Rhoni held out her hands. “Jacquelle!”
The girl rushed into her mistress’s arms. “Milady, I was afraid I might never see you again.”
Rhoni patted her back. “Well, here I am, in the flesh, and in need of a bath. Hurry and prepare one for me.”
Jacquelle smiled knowingly. “Already done, milady. Hot water awaits in the kitchens.”
Conall had followed his master into the Hall, and Ronan noted with amusement the gobsmacked expression on the lad’s face. His gaze was fixed on the little maid.
Well, well!
But he was mortified when Rhoni unexpectedly pecked a kiss on his cheek.
“I apologise, Ronan. As you know I am in dire need of a bath. I must excuse myself.”
She kissed her flustered mother, then her red-faced father, then flounced off with Jacquelle, a spring in her step.
No doubt some things were different in England, but Ronan was sure young noblewomen did not share details about personal cleansing with men they barely knew. Her parents would assume they were more than acquaintances.
Conall’s eyes trailed the maidservant. Ronan was tempted to thump the boy back to his senses. The Montbryces would think they had a couple of randy Irishmen on their hands.
He faced the Earl. “I apologise. I believe Rhoni is still suffering from the after effects of her ordeal. She perhaps thinks that putting a brave face on things will erase the memory of what happened.”
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