Sinful Passions

by Anna Markland

  They crept to the door. “Let’s hope it’s not locked,” Rodrick whispered.

  It opened readily into a pantry, but they cringed as the hinges creaked loudly. Suddenly hearing muffled voices, they walked stealthily through the kitchen, surprised it was empty.

  “There’s been no food prepared here this day,” Rodrick said. “Godefroy must have sent the servants away for Christmas.”

  Bravecoeur looked around. “I’d say this kitchen hasn’t been used in a while. The master of the household has been off causing trouble.”

  They paused at the entryway to the Hall. The sound of voices was coming from outside. Godefroy was shouting. “As you see, my dear Earl, your daughter is safe for the moment. Won’t you come inside and together we can formulate a plan to rid our country of Henry Plantagenet?”

  “I do not negotiate with men who hold women as hostages.”

  Rodrick surmised his father had come closer to the house. The strength in his voice was heartening.

  “Are you well, daughter?”

  Rodrick glanced quickly at Bravecoeur.

  My sister is outside with them.

  His cohort signalled his understanding.

  “I am, mon père,” Grace replied, her voice clear and calm. “However, I have been kept in an attic with no food or water, watched over by this hulking brute.”

  Rodrick’s heart pounded with fear and pride for his brave sister. He glanced to the stairs, pointing to himself, then motioned for Bravecoeur to remain below.

  He ran swiftly to mount the wooden staircase, panting when he arrived at the open door of a tiny attic. He’d been in the house when Victor died and Grace needed company during the long year of obligatory mourning, but never in this chamber.

  A wooden bar lay on the floor outside the door. He picked it up, testing its weight as he swung it with both hands.

  Perfect.

  Grace’s fingers and toes were frozen. She desperately wanted to get back indoors, but her father sat atop his horse mere yards away, man and beast snorting icy breaths.

  She hoped he’d understood her message—Godefroy and the giant were the only conspirators in the house as far as she knew, though for a moment she sensed movement behind her.

  “I will not parler with you until my daughter is allowed back in the house. Can you not see she is freezing to death?”

  Why does Papa want me back inside?

  She stared at him, trying to understand the message in his steely gaze.

  “Very well,” Godefroy declared, looking nervous. “Titus, take my stepmother back to the attic.”

  The giant grasped her arm. Should she fight him, try to run to her Papa? Her father inclined his head imperceptibly and she suddenly sensed he had a plan. She had to trust him. She allowed Titus to lead her into the house.

  He lumbered up the stairs behind her as she tried to make her numbed feet work. Her racing heart calmed as the certainty her twin was in the house settled in her bones. She walked to the edge of the pallet bed, turning to glare at Titus as he hovered on the threshold, unaware of what she’d seen—her smiling brother hidden behind the open door, a length of wood gripped in both hands.

  She had to entice the brute to enter the room. She stuck out her tongue and her breasts. “You’ll never have me, Titus. My father will make sure of it.”

  The pouting giant strode into the chamber and shoved her backwards onto the pallet. He grinned, fiddling with the laces of his leggings. The grin left his face when Rodrick cracked him on the back of the head with the bar from the door. He snarled, whirling around. Rodrick swung with both hands. The wood landed squarely on the giant’s bulbous nose. His eyes rolled heavenward and he crashed to the floor, raising a cloud of dust.

  Rodrick clenched his jaw as he brought the bar down on the giant’s head again. “One more for good measure.”

  Grace leapt up from the pallet and threw her arms around her panting brother. “Is Bronson with you?” she asked.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  It was evident to Gallien when Bravecoeur emerged from the house to stand behind Godefroy that the wretch believed his accomplice had returned.

  He smiled inwardly when his son and daughter appeared in the doorway, Rodrick’s arm around his sister’s shoulders. Still Godefroy did not turn to see who stood behind him.

  This nincompoop thinks to govern my country.

  As he dismounted, Godefroy strode toward him. “Excellent, my lord Earl. I was confident you would come to see it my way.”

  Gallien flexed his fingers, drew back his arm and thrust his fist into the grinning face. Godefroy crumpled silently to the ground.

  “Where’s the giant?” Gallien asked Rodrick.

  “Out cold.”

  He held out his arms as Grace rushed to him, enfolding her shivering body in his cloak. So great was his relief, words refused to come.

  Bravecoeur hoisted Godefroy over his shoulder and set off in the direction of the rampart. “I’ll get the swords,” he shouted.

  Rodrick joined his father and sister and the three clung together as Grace sobbed.

  “It’s over now,” Gallien reassured her. “I’m taking you both back to Ellesmere.”

  Rodrick eyed him strangely. “I cannot, mon père. I must return to Shelfhoc. Swan is alone with Bronson—”

  Grace turned to Rodrick. “What’s wrong with Bronson? Why is he not here?”

  Rodrick stepped backwards. “He was wounded. A fever took hold.”

  “I must go to him,” she murmured, swaying against him, her fingernails digging into his hand.

  Grace seemed unduly stricken by Bronson’s injury. He locked gazes with his son, who nodded in answer to his unspoken question.

  It grieved him that both his children had fallen in love with someone they might never be allowed to marry.

  Rodrick was impatient to return to Shelfhoc. “What’s keeping Bravecoeur?” he muttered. “How long does it take to retrieve two swords?”

  “What about Titus?” Grace asked.

  Their father had suggested he accompany them to Shelfhoc and insisted Grace ride with him. “He’s a follower, not a leader. When he regains his wits and discovers his master gone, he’ll go into hiding.”

  “But he should be punished for what he did to us.”

  Rodrick dragged his eyes away from watching for Bravecoeur. “He’s out cold, and it would take an army to carry him downstairs. His punishment will be the fate of a fugitive, forever looking over his shoulder.”

  “Look,” Grace exclaimed. “Something’s on fire.”

  “Fyke,” Rodrick exclaimed, spurring his horse towards the oak. The animal shied away from the flames licking at the undergrowth around the mighty tree. He dismounted quickly and slapped the beast on the rump. “Bravecoeur?” he shouted, coughing as smoke drifted into his eyes.

  The stiffening breeze would soon fan the flames. He peered into the hawthorn thicket. His captain lay near the base of the oak tree. There was no sign of Godefroy.

  Covering his mouth with his cloak, he strode into the prickly bushes. He knelt beside Bravecoeur and shook his shoulder. The man coughed, trying to sit up. “Your pardon, milord. They got away.”

  “Let’s get out of here,” Rodrick shouted, urging the well muscled captain to his feet, thankful he wouldn’t have to carry him.

  They stumbled away from the burning bushes as the fire took hold with a vengeance. They fell to their knees, watching as flames crept up the trunk of the mighty oak.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  Bravecoeur swiped his hand across his forehead. “I was stupid. I tossed Cullène to the ground while I buckled on my sword. Next thing he’d leapt on my back, his arms clamped around my neck.”

  Smoke swirled in the shifting wind, choking them. They moved further away from the now burning tree that hissed and crackled as it gave up its long life to the flames.

  “He hung on like a limpet I couldn’t shake off. Then to my surprise, the giant lumbered ou
t of the trap door.”

  “They must have been aware of the tunnel.”

  Bravecoeur shook his head. “Mayhap, but he looked around uncertainly as if he’d never been there before, and he’d brought a torch from the house. When he saw me struggling with his master, he thrust it in my face. I stumbled and fell. Last thing I recall is him tossing the torch into the trees as he lunged at me. Godefroy must have hit me on the head with something.”

  “They escaped.”

  “To my everlasting shame,” the soldier replied. “Or the flames have consumed them.”

  They stood for long minutes watching the tree burn, then Rodrick slapped Bravecoeur on the back. “Now comes the hard part, my friend—explaining this to my father, and to Grace.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  As she’d tossed and turned on the meager pallet in the cold attic of her former home, one thing had become clear to Grace. She loved Bronson FitzRam. The possibility of never seeing him again had pained her the most as she contemplated the terrifying likelihood Godefroy intended to take her life.

  She didn’t know why he was determined not to remarry, unless he was still in love with his first wife, but she was certain he felt something for her. She was ready to accept whatever he had to offer.

  Rodrick had held nothing back about Bronson’s injuries, and she was grateful. They’d always been honest with each other.

  As Shelfhoc came in sight, the familiar sense of homecoming swept over her. She suspected her father had sensed her feelings. He’d barely spoken a word, obviously furious with Bravecoeur. At the risk of infuriating him further she had to speak. “I belong here,” she told him with conviction as they entered the courtyard.

  He dismounted and lifted her down. “With Bronson, I suppose.”

  “I love him, Papa.”

  Her father winced. “As I told your brother, it will be difficult, but your mother and I want you and Rodrick to be as happy as we have been.”

  She looked her father in the eye. “And you experienced difficulties at first.”

  He chuckled. “We did, saucy chit. Now go in and see if he still lives.”

  Tybaut rushed out, bowing briefly to the Earl, then addressing Grace. “Milady. Saints be praised you’re safe.”

  She swallowed hard as he ushered her into the warmth of the house, glancing up the stairs. “How fares your master?”

  He touched her elbow, moving her towards the solar. “His sister tends him. He is still feverish, but everyone is praying hard.”

  She breathed again that he was still alive, but the news was nevertheless not good.

  Swan dozed in a chair, head thrown back, mouth open. She looked exhausted. Rodrick picked her up and cradled her in his arms. She blinked awake and smiled, then saw Grace. “Thank God,” she murmured. “He will get well now you’ve returned.”

  Rodrick carried his beloved out of the solar.

  Fearing the worst, Grace turned her gaze to Bronson. He dwarfed the raised pallet on which he lay. The golden stubble of his beard already darkened his face. Lucia stood at his side, tears streaming down her cheeks. She came willingly into Grace’s outstretched arms.

  “God be praised,” the girl sobbed into her mistress’s bosom.

  “You need sleep,” Grace whispered into the girl’s hair. “Tell me what to do. I will tend him.”

  Lucia wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve. “He hasn’t wakened, though he thrashed around when we had to cut away his tunic and sew him up. It’s a deep wound, and the vinegar I poured on it must have stung like the devil. But it’s the blow to his head that has stolen his wits.”

  Carefully she folded the linen away from Bronson’s chest. Grace winced at the thick wad of padding caked with dried blood.

  “It bled for a long time, but has stopped now,” the servant explained as she lifted the pad.

  Grace wrinkled her nose. “What smells?”

  Lucia poked at the poultice, and then peeled it back, rolling it up from one end. “Used everything available, mint, yarrow, onions, garlic. There’s a poultice of onions under each armpit too. I’ve been burning rosemary in the fumitory, but it doesn’t seem to help.”

  Grace clamped her hand to her mouth to stifle a strange sound threatening to emerge from her throat as Bronson’s chest was revealed. She’d seen soldiers stripped to the waist in the training yards and peasants laboring in the fields in the hot sun, but she had never set eyes on a male chest of chiseled rock. She wanted to run her fingertips over the golden hair dusting his chest that wandered in an intriguing line down his belly.

  But his incredible beauty was marred by a neat line of bizarre stitches stretching the breadth of his chest, above his dark nipples—nipples she had a sudden urge to lick, a notion she hadn’t known she was capable of.

  Stitches of blue, of red, of green held onto the jagged edges of a ghastly wound like shipwreck survivors clinging to driftwood. The juices of the poultice seemed to have rendered the colors more vivid.

  Lucia cleared her throat. “I did my best, milady. It was all we had.”

  “Thank you,” Grace managed from her parched throat. “Your needlework has always been the finest.”

  Lucia put back the poultice and the pad, pulled the linen back over Bronson’s chest, bobbed a curtsey then left.

  He lay like a stone statue atop a tomb, needing only a kiss to breathe life into him. She stroked his matted hair off his forehead, leaned forward and kissed his fevered brow, savoring the salty taste of his sweat. “Come back to me, Bronson.”

  Then she pressed her lips to his, delighting in the swans’ down softness of his beard. Pangs of desire skittered into her womb, despite the sharp taste of henbane that told her they’d drugged him with dwale. “I love you,” she murmured.

  She startled when he inhaled sharply then slowly touched his fingertips to his lips. She clasped his warm hand and held it to her breast. “Bronson,” she whispered.

  His hand tightened on hers. “Grace,” he rasped, licking his lips. “You taste salty.”

  A kiss awoke Bronson from a dream. He was lying atop a sarcophagus, a tiny winged cherubim hovering by each shoulder. He didn’t want to open his eyes, fearful he’d been kissed by the Angel of Death.

  He risked touching his fingertips to his parched lips.

  He’d heard whispered words of love, tasted salt. Surely harbingers of death breathed fire and brimstone?

  He inhaled deeply to reassure himself of his mortality. Someone took hold of his hand and pressed it to something soft and warm. As his palm absorbed the warmth, his heart filled with the certainty he was going to survive whatever ailed him. Pungent aromas assailed his nostrils, but overriding all was a scent he recognised immediately. “Grace,” he rasped. “You taste salty.”

  The cherubim giggled like naughty children and disappeared into the fog clouding his wits. “They’re gone,” he said, thinking suddenly of his unborn babes. He peeled open his eyes, elated to see Grace’s lovely face, but saddened by her tears.

  “You’re awake,” she sobbed.

  His throat produced a grunt of confirmation as he scanned the space around him. “Why am I in the solar and why do I smell like I’ve bathed in onions?”

  She smoothed a hand over his brow. “Rodrick was afraid carrying you upstairs would worsen your wound.”

  Wound?

  He furrowed his brow, trying to recall—

  It came to him then, the grinning face of the man who had slashed him. Now he understood the army of tiny creatures marching across his chest in boots spiked with nails. He raised his free hand to touch the wound, reluctant to remove the one cupped under Grace’s breast.

  Breast?

  Embarrassment washed over him. “Forgive me,” he drawled, making a half hearted attempt to remove his hand. “I’m in a stupor.”

  She resisted his efforts and grasped his free hand. “It’s the dwale, but you mustn’t touch the stitches. Lucia did a—”

  She hesitated.

&nbs
p; “—remarkable job.”

  It occurred to him he should ask what she meant but a dull ache throbbed at his temples and a pleasant one was stirring in his loins. “I’m hungry,” he managed, suddenly realizing he was, though he doubted she understood he thirsted for her.

  She laughed. “It’s a good sign.”

  Her bright smile filled him with contentment, though he missed the warmth and the weight of her breast when she removed his hand and stepped back.

  “I’ll fetch some broth.”

  He made an attempt to sit up, but she put a hand on his shoulder. “Lie still. He hit you hard, and you lost a lot of blood.”

  He lay back, enjoying her coddling as the warmth of her hand heated his bare skin. “Who did this? What did they want? Did they harm anyone else?”

  “Too many questions,” she said, obviously avoiding answering. “All will be revealed after you have eaten.”

  He watched her go, knowing deep in his heart she was made for him. But what did his dreams of angels portend? Were they to remind him life was fleeting and the risks of losing another wife in childbirth too great? Or did they signify something else?

  Rodrick carried Swan into the Great Hall, where his father was in discussion with Bravecoeur, though it seemed a one-sided conversation.

  The soldier studied his feet when his Earl abruptly stopped talking and hurried over to his son. “Suannoch, I regret the attack on you and your brother in my territory. Godefroy will be punished, if he still lives.”

  Swan furrowed her brow and looked at Rodrick. “He isn’t in custody?”

  Bravecoeur coughed as he bent the knee before her. “Forgive me, milady, he is still at large because of my failure.”

  Rodrick set her on her feet as the soldier explained. She offered her hand to the captain. “You’re excused, Captain Bravecoeur. I don’t fault you.”

  The soldier rose. “I swear I will do everything in my power to recapture him, if he survived the fire.”