Forbidden

by Markland, Anna

  Rodrick’s mouth fell open. How had Suannoch known the direction the discussions would take?

  There was uproar. Gallien called repeatedly for order, which was eventually restored.

  “Let us take a look at this prince who would be king,” he said calmly. “Is he a prince, or merely the son of a land grabbing comte from Anjou?”

  “He’s the son of an empress, grandson and namesake of King Henry,” one baron shouted.

  Gallien held up one finger. “A true prince then. Has he proven his prowess on the battlefield?”

  This was greeted by hoots of laughter. Rodrick felt it incumbent on him to contribute to the discussion. “He was a mere lad when he first came to England, yet he led an attack against Stephen.”

  His father smiled. “Yes, and it was a complete failure because Henry had no money to pay his mercenaries. Stephen paid them off and sent the boy packing back to Anjou.”

  Rodrick jumped to Prince Henry’s defense. “But the point is he was willing to fight. And King David knighted him.”

  “David is his grand uncle.”

  “But later the same year he relieved the town of Devizes after Eustace laid siege.”

  “A brave soldier then,” Gallien confirmed, holding up two fingers.

  There was general agreement.

  Rodrick took a deep breath. His father might not like what he felt compelled to say. “But we also need to consider the power Prince Henry now wields. Since his marriage to Eleanor of Aquitaine, he controls vast territories that stretch to Spain and encompass more lands than those of the King of France, though Henry is his vassal. Normandie, Anjou, Maine, Blois, Touraine, and Aquitaine are all under his dominion.”

  Gallien narrowed his eyes at his son. “It seems you deem him a fit candidate to be king.”

  Was his father testing him?

  Rodrick clenched his fists. “I do. I have long feared what might happen if Eustace inherits the crown.”

  Gallien smiled as he put his hand on Rodrick’s shoulder. “Good, I agree.”

  Robert of Leicester thrust his fist in the air. “As do I.”

  Pandemonium broke out. Several barons stormed out. Others rallied around Gallien and Robert as they clasped arms to seal their new alliance.

  Swan's Ploy

  News of the outcome of the assembly traveled quickly along the halls and corridors of Ellesmere Castle. It permeated the chapel where Suannoch knelt in silent prayer, her only remaining hope that God would somehow intervene and she’d be spared a life of religious discipline.

  Obedience had always come hard. Perhaps she was being punished for her willfulness. But never to ride a horse again, never to feel the wind on her face as she and her siblings galloped across the moors of Northumbria; never to set eyes on her beloved family, to savor the warmth of her mother’s kiss on her cheek; never to know the love of a man, the fulfillment of children. It was unbearable.

  For the umpteenth time, she contemplated escape, but where would she run? Cuthbertson would likely punish her parents if she fled.

  Excited whispers among the handful of kneeling servants jolted her from despondency. Ellesmere and Leicester had chosen to support Henry. She smirked, filled with a notion to seek out Rodrick de Montbryce and stick out her tongue at him.

  Perhaps the evening meal in the Great Hall might not be the tedious event she had dreaded. The earl had graciously invited her and Bronson to sit at the head table, an honor considering the illustrious guests who would be present. With any luck she might get to sit beside Rodrick. Then there’d be opportunity to irritate him further with her insights into the wretched state of England. Bronson wouldn’t be happy, but she had little time left to speak her mind.

  Rodrick would be a worthy adversary who would likely challenge her solely because she was a woman. But at least it would be conversation, a chance to be herself for perhaps the last time.

  The stale air in the chapel was becoming stifling with all the excitement. She made the sign of the Savior across her body, rose from her knees, and hurried to her chamber. Bronson had balked when the nuns had proposed giving her clothing to the poor. It was difficult to imagine a peasant decked out in her fine wools and silks.

  Everything was in his trunk in the chamber next to hers. She doubted he’d locked it. Why not enter the hall in her own clothes? She wasn’t a nun yet. Geography alone had caused her and Bronson to stop at the convent first.

  They’d barely exchanged a word in the two hours it had taken them to ride from Whitchurch to Ellesmere. He’d only grunted when she’d thanked him for insisting she be allowed to visit her relatives before entering as a novice. It hadn’t hurt that the relatives were a powerful earl and his family.

  It was the first time she’d visited Ellesmere, the castle built by her great grandfather. It was impressive, much bigger and grander than Kirkthwaite Hall, though her home was the largest manor house in the vicinity of the village of Bolton. At the end of the last century, the same great grandfather had seen to the rebuilding after its destruction by marauding Scots.

  She hurried along the corridor, dodging servants lighting torches, contemplating the strange twists and turns of destiny that had brought her to this place. She wished she’d met the great Ram de Montbryce. Did Rodrick resemble him? According to her father, all Ram’s sons had taken after him, including her grandfather Caedmon.

  But the present earl had silver grey hair, perhaps because of his age. Apart from the difference in their hair color, Rodrick did resemble his father.

  She’d been told often enough she looked like her aunt Ragna whom she’d met more than once during visits from Denmark where she lived with her husband and family. Suannoch failed to see the physical resemblance, apart from their fair hair, but recognised the same stubborn traits in her aunt for which she was often chided. Ragna had confided gleefully her family had nicknamed her the Wild Viking Princess because of their Danish heritage on their mother’s side.

  What would Rodrick think of her fair Danish hair when she showed up without the cursed wimple and coif? A gurgle of excitement bubbled up in her throat, taking her breath away. She’d obviously hastened too quickly along the corridor in the heavy habit.

  She shook off her irritating preoccupation with Rodrick de Montbryce as she tapped lightly on Bronson’s door.

  * * *

  From down the corridor, Grace saw Suannoch knock on Bronson’s door, then enter. It seemed strange because she was sure he wasn’t in his chamber. She tiptoed to the door and put her ear to the wood, then eased it open. She cursed the steward for not making sure the hinges were oiled. Kneeling by her brother’s trunk, her cousin looked up sharply, her arms full of clothing—women’s clothing. For a moment Grace wondered if there was something about Bronson she hadn’t suspected, but her fears were quickly allayed when Suannoch scrambled to her feet.

  “Please don’t raise the alarm. I’m not stealing anything. These are my clothes. I thought to wear them one last time.”

  A glint of something in her cousin’s eyes—despair, mischief, rebellion—touched Grace’s heart. Why not? Here was a taste of adventure for them both. She grabbed a pair of shoes from the trunk and relieved her cousin of the chemise. “You’ll need help. Come to my chamber.”

  She scurried back to the door, opened it cautiously, and signaled to Suannoch. Giggling, they ran to Grace’s chamber, their arms full. No sooner had she shoved her cousin through the door when Bronson appeared, coming down the corridor. Her throat constricted as her lungs stopped working. She tried to control it, but a loud laugh escaped. She gripped the undergarments and shoes to her breast, sweating with excitement. “Ladies’ things,” she gurgled. “Just ladies’ things.”

  He looked at her as if she’d lost her wits as she stumbled backwards into her chamber and slammed the door.

  * * *

  Puzzling over his cousin’s strange behavior, Bronson entered his chamber. Women were definitely odd. A man never knew what they might do next. He stripped off
the shirt he’d worn all day and decided to rest for a few minutes before dressing for the evening meal.

  He was on the point of dozing off when a perfume he’d noticed somewhere else wafted into his nostrils. It was the scent of a woman.

  Grace?

  He sat up on the edge of the bed, inhaling deeply. Perhaps he’d been mistaken. The earl’s daughter wouldn’t set foot in his room. Would she? For what purpose?

  Attributing his suspicions to fatigue, he lay back down, putting off getting changed until his unexpected arousal had subsided.

  Struck Dumb

  A handful of dissenting barons left the castle immediately after the decision, but a greater number rallied to support Ellesmere and Leicester. By the time everyone gathered for the evening meal, the two earls had managed to calm most of the fears of those who remained undecided. Rodrick marveled at his father’s ability to smooth ruffled feathers. He was confident he could follow in his sire’s footsteps in that regard.

  It wasn’t only his father’s physical features he’d inherited, though praise be to the saints his hair hadn’t turned white like Gallien de Montbryce’s. But then Rodrick had never suffered the extreme misadventure that had befallen his father in his younger days. If he ever married and discovered on his wedding night he’d already been cuckolded, his hair might turn white too. Fortunately, the shrew had died and Gallien de Montbryce had subsequently been betrothed to Peridotte de Pontrouge.

  Rodrick considered himself outgoing, affable, a good conversationalist. People generally seemed to like and respect him. He furrowed his brow, suddenly recalling the scene in the gallery when his Northumbrian cousin had ruffled his feathers. He hadn’t handled the situation well. He’d allowed a chit to get under his skin, a girl who might have the body of a boy under the voluminous white material—though he somehow doubted it.

  Catching sight of two young noblemen of his acquaintance searching for vacant seats, he hastened over to welcome them, intending, once they were settled, to speak to Steward Bonhomme. The servants needed to let the fires die down. The stifling heat was making him sweat.

  He noticed his brother William and Bronson FitzRam conversing confidently with Robert of Leicester. It was generous of his father to have welcomed the northern cousins to sit at the head table. He hoped Suannoch wouldn’t be seated next to him. Where was she anyway? Evidently, Bronson hadn’t accompanied her.

  Normally, there’d be no danger of getting stuck next to her, but the arrangements had been changed to allow for Robert of Leicester to sit at the head table. Rodrick had ceded his place at his father’s right hand.

  He’d prefer to be paired with Bronson. At least then he might enjoy an intelligent conversation.

  His mother entered in the company of Grace and his younger sister, Aurore. He wandered over to join William’s little group, watching with pride out of the corner of his eye as the three beautiful women were greeted by visiting barons.

  Leicester slapped him on the back. “Well spoken today, young Rodrick. You’ll make a fine earl when the time comes.”

  William laughed. “Aye, but let’s hope that time doesn’t come too soon.”

  Rodrick feigned a blow to his brother’s belly. “Right!”

  Bronson offered Rodrick his hand. “I agree. It took courage to declare your opinions when you didn’t—”

  He withdrew his hand quickly, seemingly choking on his words. His face reddened considerably as he stared in the direction of the entry doors. Rodrick frowned, worried his cousin was having an apoplectic fit. He turned to look at what had stunned Bronson into silence.

  A young woman had entered the hall. No wonder his cousin had been struck dumb. She was easily the most alluring blonde he’d ever seen. Her fair hair was covered with a modesty veil, but its transparency revealed luxurious tresses that fell around her shoulders.

  She held the copious skirts of her deep red gown in long, delicate fingers. He licked his lips as his hungry gaze traveled to the bodice that clung to perfect breasts then continued to her incredibly long elegant neck. She was a majestic swan, smiling regally at the handful of noblemen who fluttered around her like courtiers wooing a queen. Her smile sent blood rushing to his groin.

  Bronson suddenly catapulted himself in the woman’s direction. Rodrick would be damned if he was going to let his cousin claim her attentions. He hurried to catch up.

  The beauty frowned as they approached. There was something vaguely familiar about the frown, the flashing amber eyes.

  “Suannoch, what is the meaning of this?” Bronson spluttered.

  Rodrick’s feet were suddenly stuck to the stone floor, rendering him immobile. This vision of female beauty was Suannoch?

  A maelstrom of conflicting emotions ran rampant through his brain, churning his gut. He wanted to fall to his knees and tell her she was lovely, then pick her up and whisk her off to his bed.

  But she was a nun. Wasn’t she?

  This was a travesty. Here was a woman of great beauty who exuded passion. He would move heaven and earth to spare her imprisonment in a convent.

  But then the sky fell in on his head. This incredible creature was his cousin. It was wrong to desire her, a sin in fact.

  She stared at him, obviously enjoying his discomfort, while Bronson continued his tirade through gritted teeth. He had to do something. Teetering on the edge of a precipice, he reached for her hand. “Swan,” he murmured, brushing his lips across her warm knuckles, inhaling her fresh scent. A jolt of desire turned his already hard shaft to granite. Without thinking, he entwined his fingers with hers and in a raspy voice he barely recognised, said, “It would be my pleasure to sit beside you at table.”

  * * *

  When Rodrick whispered Swan, his husky voice echoed from her hand into a very private place in her body. It was startling. She’d certainly never experienced such a jolt of desire with Hiram. The servants should douse the fires in the hearths. It was much too warm in the overcrowded hall. Perhaps the red velvet hadn’t been a good idea. Still, it was preferable to the habit.

  However, she was confused. “Bronson has obviously revealed the nickname my closest family and friends call me.”

  He frowned as if she was speaking Greek, so she babbled on. “It’s a sobriquet bestowed upon me since childhood because of my long neck and the coincidence of the sound of my name.”

  His mouth fell open, his gaze fixed on her neck.

  “My Scottish mother suggested they baptize me Suannoch because, as a newborn, I slept a lot. They evidently hadn’t enjoyed such good fortune with the rest of their brood.”

  Something she said seemed finally to penetrate his wits and he smiled. Was he making fun of her?

  The possibility of sitting with Rodrick had loomed like a jagged rock before a listing ship. Yet, it was as if her dearest wish had come true as he escorted her to the dais, his warm fingers entwined with hers. What had happened to the prickly cousin who apparently couldn’t stand her when she was shrouded in a nun’s habit? Her outspokenness had offended him, but he craved her attention now he’d seen her clad in her favorite gown.

  She chuckled inwardly, recalling the expression on his face when he’d first noticed her in the doorway. Had he drooled? It was as if he’d been struck by lightning when he realized who she was.

  She had to admit to a sense of relief that he hadn’t turned away. Ignoring her spluttering brother, he’d shooed away the other noblemen clustered around her like pesky flies.

  Poor Bronson followed them to the dais, still scowling. She had put him in an awkward position, but he would forgive her. He always did.

  However, his irritation sobered her. Rodrick would probably be like most men, with the exception of her father and brothers, who thought women should be seen and not heard. Well, they’d see.

  What was she thinking? This attractive, well-muscled man with the smoldering ice blue eyes was her cousin. It was a sin to feel drawn to him that way.

  She had no choice now but to sit beside him
. This was her last night of freedom and she intended to relish it. Outspokenness would soon curb his interest. This wasn’t the time to become preoccupied with a man, especially one she could never have. Being shut away from her family would be hard enough.

  She missed his warmth when he withdrew his hand once she was seated, but was relieved not to be reliant upon her trembling legs when he twirled his finger in a curl at her temple and rasped, “Your hair is fair.”

  * * *

  Given her dark eyebrows, Rodrick had daydreamed of his cousin as a redhead, as a brunette, as a raven haired beauty—never as a blonde. He couldn’t understand why he’d thought she’d be anything other than fair haired. Without the confining coif, her face was transformed into a vision of stunning beauty—high cheekbones, long eyelashes, a perfect nose, and that neck! It begged for his kisses. He would start at the top under her chin and work his way down over her throat to the pulse throbbing—

  Bronson’s whisper in his ear brought him back to earth. “My sister has dressed this way without my permission or knowledge. I trust your father has guessed this?”

  He glanced along the table. His father, seated in the lord’s chair, was indeed eyeing them curiously. His mother had a strange smile on her face. It seemed everyone’s attention had been drawn to his behavior, including Robert of Leicester. He was drowning in the oppressive heat. He smiled weakly at Swan, cleared his throat loudly, and took his seat, suddenly regretting the impulse to have her sit next to him.