Rose of Hope

by Mairi Norris

  His grin was infectious. Despite herself, she responded with a timorous smile of her own.

  “You may have all the time you need, little rose, so long as you do learn I may be trusted to keep my word.”

  “Then I will try, Fallard.”

  “That is all I ask.”

  ***

  Fallard could resist not the impulse to bring her softness back into his arms. At first, she stiffened, and seemed to withdraw, and he thought to release her, but she yielded. As his strength swept round her, she trembled, but he cradled her as gently as he could. She offered neither resistance nor encouragement as he brushed his lips upon hers. The kiss began tentatively, lightly as mist. But as her lips moved, the embrace flamed, suddenly, wildly. In an instant, all intent to go carefully with her dissolved beneath an avalanche of heated craving.

  She moaned in protest, and her hands sought to push him away. But even as he fought to free her while he still could, her struggles again ceased, and she went still, then leaned into his strength. Triumph, hot as his desire, blazed through him and his arms tightened, gathering her more closely against him as he plundered her soft lips with a fierce and startling hunger he had never before known.

  His hand slid beneath her hair to cradle her head and hold her more securely for his deepening assault on her senses. Her arms slid around his neck. She clung to him, and rose up on her toes to better accommodate the fit of her body to his. Dazed, he realized she kissed him back with a fervent need that matched his own. He opened his eyes to find hers closed. He doubted she knew even what she did. Her countenance blazed with a hunger he shared. He shuddered at the sight. This unexpected fire between them, it overwhelmed them both.

  He was losing control. He was going to take her, now, and he knew she would welcome him. As the thought crystallized, a violent trembling that ripped from head to toe wracked his body. He forced his mouth from hers. She gave a little soft cry of denial. Her fingers clutched in the tufts of his hair as she tried to recapture his head and pull him back. But he would take her not like this, in rampant lust, as if she were no more than a common harlot. He caught her small hands and encased them within his own. They trembled within his grasp, as would a spider’s web in a strong breeze.

  Faith and the saints! Never in his life had he lost control with a woman as he had done now with Ysane. What spell did she weave upon him to unman him so?

  Her breath came in shallow pants. ’Twas truth, his own did the same. Her eyes opened, but their vivid green was dazzled, and her expression slack, for she remained lost in the throes of her own yearning. He stared at her sweet lips, open and swollen now from his bruising caress. How it happened, he knew not, but he had found with this woman a harmony unexpected, an affinity to be cherished and nourished with all the care and wisdom garnered from the violent insanity that had for so long been his life. ’Twas something akin, mayhap, to that sweet sharing of life his warrior father had found with his gentle mother, though she too, had been a stolen bride.

  “Ysane,” he whispered, then glared at nothing when he heard how low and husky was his own voice. But she had not even heard him. He shook his head, seeking clarity. “Little rose!”

  This time, his voice conveyed determination. He stepped away, then gently shook her. Cupping her chin with his fingers, he called her name a second time.

  She stared at him in dawning realization. Abruptly, the sensual haze holding her in thrall vanished and she groaned again, but this time, seemingly in shame. Her face flamed scarlet, and she tore her gaze from his, cringing away and seeking to break free of his hold. He would allow it not.

  “Nay!” Echoes of the unforeseen depths of the passion they shared still throbbed in his tone, but he cared not. “Nay, my rose, look at me. Look…at…me!”

  Once he captured her gaze, he held it secure. “Ysane, I will suffer you not to hide from what has passed between us. You are…disquieted, I know. It caught me off guard, as well. Saint’s toes!” He swept his hand back and forth through his pate of hair. “It nigh swept me away. Never has such a torrent overtaken me, my lady. Neither of us expected such fire to erupt, but see you not what a priceless gift we are given? There is no shame to be found within its embrace. Know you not that great passion can become a strong foundation for the building of a good and lasting marriage? Few are offered such a gift, and I will allow it not to be scorned.”

  His voice softened then, for there was in her face both fear and uncertainty. She held herself stiffly, and he knew she recalled the cruelty of her husband.

  “Fear this not, Ysane. ’Tis a thing of goodness. Have I not already pledged I will hurt you not, nor give you cause for shame? Imagine if you will, was there no such harmony between us. Is it not better to desire a husband’s touch than to fear it, or to find it loathsome, and a burden?”

  ***

  Ysane fought to give credence to his words. With an instinct as old as the first woman, she understood he was right. The potency of the passion that exploded within her when his mouth settled upon hers had astonished her. It subsumed every thought and had submerged beneath a torrent of glorious sensation all awareness save that of his taste, his scent, and the fire of his touch.

  Never had she thought, nay, or even dreamed it could be so sweet, so pleasurable, for in Renouf’s bed she had endured only pain and humiliation. Aye, she had abhorred her husband’s hands upon her body, at times so repulsed it had taken all her strength not to vomit her hate upon him. He would have killed her if she had. But ’twas truth what Fallard said. Desiring, even craving the touch of the man who wed her was far better.

  “Ysane?” He still waited her answer.

  She nodded. “Aye, my lord. ’Tis better. ’Tis much better.”

  She felt within him a release of tension at her assent. His smile was gentle.

  “You have the look of an affrighted hare. Am I then such a wolf in your eyes, little rose?”

  She started. How strange was it that his words so conformed to her own thoughts earlier, when first he confronted her. She could think of no immediate response. Oh, but of a certain he would know how intimidating he was, especially to a woman without the strength to defend herself should he choose to hurt her. She would offer a measure of trust, but concluded maintaining some distance between them would go not amiss. ’Twould do no harm, and mayhap ’twould protect her heart should her decision be not wise.

  When she made no response, he said, “Then I will repeat it, Ysane. I will hurt you not.” He spoke the words with resolute clarity, as if he had read her thoughts. “Mayhap, if I say it oft enough, you will begin to believe. With time, I will also prove you may safely trust in my care for you.”

  She was abruptly weary. He must have seen it, for his big hand was tender as he brushed back the hair from around her face. “’Tis time for you to sleep.”

  His kiss brushed her forehead, and though her skin tingled with his touch, there came no great burst of the fire that had blazed before. “Good night, little rose. I command you to dream only of sweet things, and to rest well.”

  With those words, he left her, calling for Lynnet.

  ***

  “Ysane!” Fallard’s whisper accompanied the jarring of his elbow against his betrothed’s ribs the next morn as she knelt for prayers during second service. She looked around, startled, for the two of them were the only ones still on their knees. Fallard slipped a hand beneath her elbow and helped her regain her feet. She flushed, and he suspected that instead of praying, her mind had been as occupied as his own with all that had passed between them the eve before.

  The service over, Fallard led her to the door and paused to wrap her woolen mantle about her shoulders. Lady Roana and Trifine, Thegn and Lady Randel, Roul and Fauques and the men of the night guard, who would seek their pallets after noontide meal, followed in their wake as they left the chapel.

  Fallard reached for her hand, seeking to tangle her fingers through his own. ’Twas in his mind he wanted all to see his white rose had
accepted her fate. She resisted not his gesture, and they walked hand-in-hand toward the hall, Fallard matching his pace to hers. He found that the simple act of cradling her small fingers within his own filled him with an unanticipated contentment.

  But then, nigh all of his responses to the woman by his side surprised him, and left him feeling distinctly nonplussed. Had he been told a seven-day earlier he would so quickly harbor a desire to protect and cherish a woman—any woman—more strongly than his urge to bed her, he would have guffawed in their face, or at the least allowed the corners of his eyes to crinkle. No woman but his mother and sisters had ever claimed such a hold upon him, and he would have bet none ever would.

  Not that he was unhappy with the idea, disturbing though ’twas. Fallard stole a glance at her serene countenance and his shoulders lifted in a resigned shrug. She was to be his wife. If that included a few stronger-than-usual feelings beyond the bower, he certainly would complain not. ’Twould make living the rest of his life with her a great deal more pleasant.

  He gave her hand an easy squeeze. “All this morn you have been preoccupied, Ysane. Dare I ask if some of your musings give consideration to the man at your side?”

  ***

  Ysane smiled at Fallard, taking in the sight of his long, muscular legs swinging in tempered strides. ’Twas an oddly stirring sight. She tore her thoughts from his intriguing, and rather exciting musculature. She was aware of his focus on her and had wondered at his thoughts. How unsurprisingly brash and decidedly male was his assumption her thoughts were of him. That they were indeed, all of him had no bearing on the matter.

  “You may dare, Fallard,” she said, “but that is guarantee not you will receive an answer.”

  The corners of his eyes crinkled. “You dare to tease me, my rose? Methinks you test your courage beyond your ken. Come. Admit it. You have discovered your betrothed husband is a more companionable soul than you expected.” He bent close so none but she would hear. “You find yourself attracted to me, and for more than bed sport. I am witty, charming and well-favored, am I not?”

  A distinct flavor of laughter underlined his words, yet she sensed her answer mattered. “Should I admit to those things, my lord, I fear your conceit will know no bounds.”

  “Ah, but my mother says that be already so. How then, might it grow worse?”

  Ysane gaped at him, and spoke ere she thought. “Your mother? You have family?”

  His eyebrows soared toward his hairline at her incredulous tone. “Thought you I sprang fully formed from my father’s head as the goddess of old?”

  Heat scorched her face as she clapped her hand over her mouth. “Forgive me. I meant that not as it seemed. One thinks not of the enemy as having family of their own.”

  “Remain I your enemy then, in your eyes.”

  “Nay. ’Tis but what all Saxons believe. Normans are monsters and beasts who care naught for any but themselves, know you not?”

  “Aye, so I have heard it said, though not to my face.”

  Ysane breathed a laugh and wondered at the ease of his conversation with her, for Trifine had remarked him a man of little speech, and so he had seemed. The soothing warmth of his hand, along with the unexpected attentiveness and kindness he displayed—not to mention that glorious, heart-rending, soul-stirring kiss, the only one he allowed since that night—played havoc with her decision to remain aloof.

  What was this tenuous but honeyed thread that stretched between them? With every moment she passed in his company, the attraction she felt for him seemed to grow stronger. A link was forming between them, more rapidly than she would have believed, a bond she understood not. It seemed to weave, moment by moment, more closely around them and draw them ever nearer. The potential depth of that bond terrified her, for she feared lowering her guard. But she could deny not a wary anticipation of where such an attachment might next lead.

  She gave a little shake of her head to clear her thoughts, and allowed her eyes to take note of the world around her. ’Twas mid-morn, and the day was overcast and drear. A fitful breeze sent dead leaves skittering across the ground and rattled the branches of the trees in the orchard. It whispered through dry grasses and sent chill fingers to stir beneath her mantle. She shivered. How she longed for the warmth of summer.

  Her betrothed noticed, and urged her closer to the heat of his body. “I would know of what you think.”

  “Only that the spring rains will soon drench the land. Always do my people rejoice at the renewing of the year, with its hope of bounty to come. ’Twill be not long ere the whole land is in bloom, and the meadows will abound with color. How gloriously wonderful ’tis to be alive to see it! But a handful of days past, I believed I would not.”

  She glanced up into midnight eyes, their deep blue depths glowing, and stumbled, shaken by the expression within them. Aye, a smile like that could go far, too quickly, in winning her trust. He dropped her hand and slid his arm around her waist to steady her. Almost, she lost the train of her thought, and her heart tripped in its beat. The easy strength in the arm about her made her feel breathless, as if she had run all the way from the chapel.

  I must remain wary. He charms without effort, but I must forget never he is a man of violence, and war. Who can know what might provoke a fury beyond his control?

  He gently squeezed her waist. “What more?”

  “Oh, ’tis only I am grateful winter is nigh over, and our people have survived and prospered through it. Renouf was evil, but a good overlord of the land. The estate, if naught else, thrived beneath his hand.”

  “’Tis my intent, Ysane, to do no less.”

  “I would not expect otherwise, my lord.”

  “Fallard.”

  She started to speak, but was forestalled when a shout rang out from the closest sentry on the wall. At nigh the same moment, the trumpets rang their clear notes announcing the arrival of friends.

  “Thegn D’Auvrecher! Riders approach from the west. The pennons are those of Ashbyrn, Falconhome and Sandmere.”

  “Ah. More of my stewards arrive. Let us greet them, my lady.” His pace increased until Ysane was all but running.

  “My thegn,” the guard called again. “They seem to have met with trouble. Several of the men appear wounded, one holds to an arrow point in his side, and another lies draped across his horse!”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Anger spiked in Fallard at the words, for it meant whatever had happened, at least one man was dead. This was an unwelcome and unexpected circumstance, and he abruptly wished he had not ordered the men to bring their families. He could but hope none of the women or children had been harmed.

  Yet, an attack upon such a large and well-guarded company as he knew this one to be was all but unheard of. Though ’twas true thieves roamed the woods, their groups were small, poorly armed and rarely trained for fighting. ’Twould be foolhardy, nay suicide, were they to assail a party of experienced warriors. But the rebels? Aye, a large enough force might dare.

  He and Ysane reached the courtyard even as the sharp clip clop of hooves rang out against the timbers of the bridge. The first of the new arrivals rode in.

  Fallard issued orders to Ethelmar, who had appeared at his elbow. “Have the wounded moved into the hall, and find Luilda. See she has aid with her linens and medicinals. Prepare refreshments. Our guests will be cold and in need of sustenance. Roul, attend Ethelmar.”

  Trifine give a similar order to Fauques.

  Among the group of stewards filing into the courtyard were six women and two young boys. Fallard heaved a silent sigh they bore no sign of injury. A striking older woman of mayhap fifty twelvemonths, who looked remarkably calm for having been caught in the midst of a skirmish, rode in front beside a warrior who appeared about ten twelvemonths her senior.

  The guard had missed not his guess. As a whole, the group looked road worn and weary, the men’s clothing spattered with dirt and bloodstains. One of the pennons was shredded. At least two men, Saxon hearth compa
nions by their mail, leaned precariously in their saddles, bloody bandages marking their wounds. A third man, plainly unconscious, was supported by the arms of a burly Norman knight who rode in the saddle behind him. From the riders, cries for assistance were raised. The courtyard swarmed with activity.

  Ysane pulled at his arm, but his focus was fully on the task before him. When she persisted, he frowned at her, impatience written in his stance and the lines of his face.

  “My lord, you should know! That one is Thegn Noll of Ashbyrn,” she said, pointing to the older man who rode at the head of the company. He was a short, slender man who sat his horse like a king and clearly held control of the group. She pointed to two other men, much younger than Lord Noll. “That one is Thegn Royse of Sandmere Manor and the other is Baron William D’Orsay of Falconhome.”

  Fallard threw her a grateful look. Though he was familiar with the names, the order of passage had been disarranged by the battle they had fought. ’Twas impossible to discern which pennons the individual men had ridden beneath and he could have guessed not, for the two Saxons wore clothing and mail similar to that of Lord D’Orsay.

  “My thanks,” he whispered. She nodded and hurried toward the steps of the hall, calling for Ethelmar as she went.

  Fallard reached Thegn Noll and grabbed the reins of his courser as the older man slid from the saddle. A wary hostility shone in Noll’s gaze as he helped his wife dismount, but his words were genial enough. “’Tis good to arrive at Wulfsinraed, and safely. You are Thegn D’Auvrecher?”

  “I am, and you are Thegn Noll. What has happened here?”

  “We were attacked shortly after leaving the Crossroads at Fallewydde. We had spent the night there, and left ere first light. Lady Norma—that is Lord D’Orsay’s wife—is increasing. She is late in her second month, and has been ill upon the journey. ’Twas decided bringing her here quickly was preferable to spending longer on the road, so we rode gently but steadily, wishing to arrive ere mid-morn.”