Forbidden

by Markland, Anna

  “No, thank you. I’m not much good at it,” she replied.

  The countess held out a hooped linen, complete with needle and threads. “I never was either. My sister, Fermentine, loved embroidery and she and I, well, let’s just say anything she liked, I didn’t. I’ve improved with practice. It’s taught me patience.”

  Swan accepted the sampler, relieved when Rodrick and the earl came into the gallery. Their sullen faces indicated the interview hadn’t gone in their favor. She clutched the embroidery to her breast. “He said no.”

  “I expected as much,” the earl replied.

  His apparent disappointment was heartening, and Rodrick looked truly stricken. She wanted to kiss the frown away from his brow, but touching him in front of his parents would be inappropriate. “I suppose I did too,” she replied.

  She was heartened when Rodrick took her hand and brushed a kiss on her knuckles.

  “We’ll find a way,” he said with such conviction she almost believed it possible.

  * * *

  Grace recognized as genuine the deep disappointment etched on her twin’s face. She tried to compose her features so her own dismay wouldn’t be obvious. The knot lodged in her throat made breathing difficult. Despite her resolve, she had pinned too much hope on the old priest’s approval of a union of distant cousins. Her heart bled for Rodrick, but also for the hopeless notions she’d harbored of a relationship with Bronson. She’d long ago come to accept the reality there was no knight in shining armor in her future. The life of a lonely widow was her destiny.

  Stifling the urge to wallow in self pity, she hugged Swan. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “But don’t lose hope. Rodrick is right. There must be a way.”

  Call To Arms

  Rodrick was filled with an urge to kiss away the tears welling in Swan’s eyes, but simply taking her hand had caught his parents’ attention. “We will find a way,” he repeated in an effort to dispel her frown. “Père Rigord is a local priest set in his ways. He is not the Church’s highest authority. We’ll go to the bishop.”

  His mother threw her embroidery onto a nearby chair with a skeptical grunt he recognised well. Much as he loved her, he wished she hadn’t added to Swan’s consternation.

  Silent minutes dragged by.

  The normally reticent Aurore came to the rescue. “You could petition the Pope,” she offered.

  Her father’s reply was interrupted when Steward Bonhomme appeared unexpectedly, accompanied by Robert of Leicester. Everyone came to their feet, surprised by the return of the earl who had left Ellesmere only two hours before.

  “Robert, welcome back,” the countess said, proffering her hand.

  Leicester brushed a kiss across her knuckles. “Forgive my abrupt entry. I received a message that prompted my return.”

  Rodrick’s heart sank. He sensed before Leicester revealed his mission it would be a call to arms.

  “Stephen has laid siege to Wallingford.”

  Everyone in the gallery knew Wallingford was loyal to Maud and Prince Henry.

  “It’s location on the River Thames is apparently too close to Westminster for the king’s comfort,” Leicester went on. “Henry is marching to relieve the siege. If he succeeds in routing Stephen, an end to the civil war might be at hand.”

  His father didn’t hesitate. “Rodrick, alert our men. Tell them to be ready to march at dawn. It will take at least four days to get there. Seek out your brothers—and Bronson. Bring them to the Chart Room.”

  Leicester clapped a hand on Gallien de Montbryce’s shoulder. “Good man. I’ve sent a message on to my troops. I’ll depart with you and meet up with them en route.”

  The earls left to discuss strategy. This call to action had fired Rodrick’s warrior blood. “At long last we may see an end to the anarchy gripping England.”

  None of the females replied, but anxious faces betrayed their anxiety. He supposed that was the way of it for women whose men went off to war. He squeezed Swan’s hand, now gone alarmingly cold, and left to organize Ellesmere’s fighting men.

  * * *

  Swan’s blood had turned to ice. Had she stumbled upon a man who fired her body and her spirit only to lose him in battle? One moment life held promise, the next it was snatched away. And her brother would be expected to join the fray. She shivered, despite the countess’s warm arm around her shoulders.

  “This is the way of it, Swan. Every Englishwoman has felt your fear. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve sent Gallien off to fight, in large conflicts and small, and it never gets any easier.”

  Swan’s palms were sweating. “I suppose I am being selfish. I’ve come to care for your son.”

  “What of Bronson?” Grace suddenly blurted out.

  Her mother eyed her curiously. “Of course Swan is worried for her dear brother too.”

  Grace reddened. “I—I’m sorry,” she stammered. “It’s only, er, well, I had hoped perhaps to accompany the two of you to Shelfhoc.”

  The reminder that Bronson’s claim to his inheritance would now be delayed saddened Swan. She didn’t want to wait idly at Ellesmere. Inactivity and endless hours of embroidery and sewing loomed large. An idea occurred to her. “You and I should go. To prepare the hall for Bronson’s return.”

  Grace clapped her hands together. “What a good idea. You don’t mind, maman?”

  The countess smiled. “If Bronson agrees, I have no objection. I’ll instruct Bonhomme to gather a crew of servants and an escort.”

  * * *

  Grace had allowed her dismay at Bronson’s imminent departure to control her tongue. She must be more careful. There was no point revealing her feelings. Her body heated whenever she set eyes on him. Nay, she had only to think of him for strange tinglings to pervade her veins.

  It was evident Rodrick and Swan would have difficulty obtaining permission to marry.

  Bronson hadn’t shown the slightest interest in her.

  But ahead lay the promise of at least doing something to prepare his new home for his return. She was certain she and Swan were destined to be good friends.

  If the worst happened and the men fell at Wallingford, they would both need a shoulder to weep on. She glanced at her mother. Peri de Montbryce risked the loss of her husband and three sons in the coming conflict, she and Aurore their father and brothers. It would be an intolerable loss, for their family and for the earldom. But the sharpest ache in her heart was the possibility Bronson might die without knowing of her feelings for him.

  Swan jolted Grace out of her reverie. “Let’s find my brother and explain our plan,” she urged.

  * * *

  Bronson was on his way to the Chart Room, having met with Rodrick and William and learned the news of the march to Wallingford. Rodrick had been visibly impressed when he’d immediately committed to the fight. His cousin’s apparent surprise was irksome. The FitzRams might be the illegitimate branch of the family, but Ram de Montbryce’s warrior blood ran just as hotly in their veins.

  He was disappointed his possession of Shelfhoc had to be delayed. Swan would be dismayed. She’d never been known for her patience. Waiting at Ellesmere for news from the battlefront would drive her out of her wits.

  Why not suggest she go to Shelfhoc without him? Perhaps Grace could accompany her as they’d planned. He rather liked the notion of the auburn haired widow helping to prepare for his eventual homecoming. He’d never had a home of his own.

  If he came home. There was the possibility of suffering mortal wounds in any battle. A mere scratch often putrefied. Only the other evening, Uncle Gallien had told the tale of the Conqueror’s grandson dying a painful death in Flandres when a seemingly harmless hand wound from a lance turned gangrenous. He had been there, had seen the infantryman thrust his lance into William Clito’s hand.

  A warrior acknowledged and accepted the dangers, but he was strangely bothered. If he didn’t return from Wallingford, he would never know if Grace cared for him or not.

  Little B
ird

  Rodrick paced in his chamber, still fully clothed though it was well past midnight. He’d spent an exhausting day supervising preparations for the morrow. Ellesmere’s armory was always stockpiled with sharpened swords, lances, arrows, and daggers, its soldiers highly trained and battle ready. Damaged shields were either repaired or thrown out. Life in the Welsh Marches was precarious despite that four score and seven years had passed since the Norman invasion, a reality many Welsh rebels still refused to accept.

  Steward Bonhomme’s efficiency at ensuring the castle was well provisioned meant Rodrick didn’t have to worry about food for the troops on the four day march.

  There were good quality tents and pavilions aplenty for the nobles and knights.

  The Montbryces who had fought at Hastings were Norman cavalrymen whose lives often depended on their mounts. The stables at Montbryce holdings, from Alensonne, to Domfort, to Belisle, to Montbryce itself in Normandie, and from Ellesmere to the vast Sussex estates they controlled, all were renowned for the care they lavished on their horses.

  The Ellesmere army would arrive at Wallingford well fed, well prepared, and immaculately turned out, their armor and surcoats clean and in good repair. Every earl since Ram de Montbryce had taken pride in their fighting men. A military man who enjoyed the fruits of life fought harder to stay alive.

  Emotions ran high during the evening meal, the people of the castle excited by the looming dawn departure. His father gave an impassioned speech, exhorting his soldiers to help save England from the anarchy tearing it asunder.

  Leicester added to the fervor with rousing words.

  Rodrick was swept up by the prospect of the daunting heroic task ahead of them, yet couldn’t take his eyes off Swan. She too was caught up in the excitement but, from time to time, she glanced at him, her eyes full of a sadness that sent blood rushing to his groin.

  He was relieved she wasn’t seated beside him. He’d have been hard pressed to keep his hands off her. She and Grace and Bronson had chosen to sit at a table below the dais. He understood her need to be with her brother, but why had his twin come between them? Surprisingly, it appeared Grace was flirting with their red-headed cousin. He cast his mind back trying to recall if Bronson was married, or had been married. No wife had accompanied him to the Marches, so she was either still in Northumbria, or nonexistent. Mayhap he wasn’t the marrying kind, in which case Grace would get her feelings hurt. And she’d been hurt enough.

  Exhausted at the start of the meal, he was a wreck by the time it was over. He wanted to carry Swan off to his chamber and devour her, but they had to content themselves with perfunctory pecks on the cheek as everyone said their goodnights. His impatience grew at the sight of Bronson and Grace lingering over their fare-thee-wells.

  Pacing in his own chamber, he wondered if Swan was doing the same. What harm in making his way to her chamber quietly? It was close by. Everyone would be abed. He wanted one more passionate kiss before he left. Just a kiss to reassure her of his feelings.

  He cringed when the door creaked loudly. He’d never noticed the hinges needed oiling. He’d mention it to Bonhomme on the morrow, though chances were he’d have other things on his mind.

  He closed the door carefully, but the draught almost blew out the single candle he carried to light his way in the dark corridor. It was as well he’d left off his boots, although most of the stone floor was covered with rush mats that muffled his footfalls.

  He tapped lightly on Swan’s door, held his breath, and waited. The hairs on his nape bristled momentarily when he heard another door close quietly further down the hallway, near Grace’s chamber. He heard footsteps approaching and hurriedly shoved the door wide when Swan opened it a crack.

  * * *

  Swan stepped back, thrown off guard by Rodrick’s hasty entrance. She hadn’t disrobed, hoping and praying he would come, but now her heart skittered around in her rib cage.

  “Sorry,” he murmured, blowing out his candle as he closed the door quickly and put a finger to his lips. “Someone’s coming down the hallway.”

  “At this time of night?” she whispered.

  He chuckled, gazing into her eyes. “Perhaps some other lovesick swain come to kiss his lady-love goodbye.”

  Try as she might, Swan couldn’t guess who that might be. “You’ve come to kiss me?”

  He put his hands on her waist. “I have.”

  His warmth penetrated the thick velvet. Imagine if she’d changed into her nightgown! She pushed away the shameful urge to rip off her clothes and press her naked body to his. Looking up into his darkened eyes she parted her lips and murmured, “I’m glad.”

  Taking her hand, he led her to the chairs by the hearth. “Sit with me.”

  He sat down but when she moved to the other chair, he pulled her onto his lap. She squealed as delight ran rampant through her body.

  They clung together for long minutes. She stared into the empty grate, her head on his shoulder, listening to the beating of his strong heart. Something hard pressed against her derrière.

  “You have me bewitched, Swan FitzRam,” he rasped, moving his hips. “Just having you on my lap stirs me. If I kiss you—”

  “But you must kiss me,” she complained. “I want a kiss that will last me until you return.”

  Swan was a forthright person who spoke her mind, but the brazen words surprised even her. She fiddled with the loosened laces at the neck of his linen shirt. “I am a wanton.”

  He brushed a curl away from her forehead. “No, Swan, you are a passionate woman, and I cannot tell you how relieved I am you’re free of the nunnery.”

  She sat up to look at him, cradling his face in her hands. “Kiss me.”

  He smiled. “If you keep moving around I’ll do more than kiss you.”

  “Promises, promises,” she teased, sensing she was playing with fire, but not caring. Something was building inside, something that drove her to touch him, savor his scent, share the warmth of his body.

  His growl as he took her hands from his face and put them around his neck surprised her, but she had no time to think when his lips crushed hers, his tongue demanding entry. She opened her mouth, tasting the sweet wine he’d imbibed at supper, relishing the tingling of her scalp as he ran his fingers through her hair.

  Hiram had kissed her, but this was different. She nibbled his lip. “I don’t know how to kiss.”

  “Yes, you do,” he rumbled before he delved his tongue in again, teasing hers to follow into his mouth. As far as she recalled, she’d never seen another person’s tongue, now hers mated with Rodrick’s, sending shards of delicious sensation shooting into very private places. Of its own volition, her throat made a strange mewling sound. There was no fire in the grate, but her body heated. The bodice of her gown was suddenly too tight, her nipples protesting their confinement.

  As if sensing their need, Rodrick’s hand stroked down her neck and cupped her breast. When he brushed a thumb across the nipple, her body went limp. She stopped breathing, content to let him breathe for her. She put her hand on his face, relishing the velvety softness of his unshaven skin.

  “Swan,” he rasped, swallowing hard when they broke apart. “Let me touch you.”

  She wasn’t sure what he meant, since they were already touching. He moved his hand slowly over her ribs and belly until it came to rest on her mons. She opened her legs, seeking release from the throbbing pulse. He moved his hand. She stirred restlessly, torn between propriety and desire.

  Her skirts rustled as he gathered the fabric with his hand. “Hush, Swan, let me please you.”

  “You are pleasing me,” she breathed in a voice she barely recognized.

  He pecked a kiss on her forehead. “Oh, my Swan, so worldly, yet so innocent.”

  He came to his feet, sweeping her up and depositing her on the bed. Her heart lurched. She wanted his attentions, but her parents had ingrained in her the importance men placed on a bride’s virginity.

  As if sensing h
er reluctance, he touched his forefinger to her lips, then took her hand and placed it on the hard flesh at his groin. “Feel what you do to me. I want you, but I give you my pledge I will return from Wallingford, and we will marry and I will plunge my shaft into your warm sheathe. I am an honorable man and I will take your virginity in our marriage bed. But tonight I want to give you pleasure—something to remember me by.”

  His words sent her heart soaring, but she was confused. Her married sister, Elayne Agneta, had confided in hushed whispers that a man inserted his male part into his wife’s body. The size of the shape under her hand made her wonder why her sister had teased her. Such interaction was obviously impossible, though a strange and not unpleasant sensation spiraled up her thighs into her lower belly as the flesh beneath her fingers grew heavier.

  Rodrick lifted her hand. “Best stop that now, or I may be tempted to foreswear myself. Trust me this night.”

  She looked into blue eyes full of love and longing and whispered her permission.

  He eased off her shoes and stockings. It was the first time since childhood anyone other than a maidservant had done so and no man had ever touched her feet. Hiram had not been permitted to see them. Yet, she trusted Rodrick, despite the excitement bubbling in her veins like water in a pot on the boil. He put his hands on her ankles. “Open your legs.”

  She dug her fingers into the damask bedspread and did as he bade her, never taking her eyes off his.

  “Good girl.”

  He feathered his fingers along her shins then grasped her knees, pushing them up as he came to kneel on the bed between her legs, The fabric of her gown slid to her hips, revealing her to his gaze. She swayed on the edge of a dangerous precipice, yet had never felt safer.

  “You are as beautiful as I imagined,” he said, his eyes fixed on a part of her body she’d never seen. “So pink, and wet.”