Forbidden

by Markland, Anna

  “There are still extremist factions dissatisfied with the peace process. Our part will be to assist Robert of Leicester to keep an eye on them and root out any seeds of rebellion.” He looked at Grace. “It probably comes as no surprise to you that Godefroy de Cullène is among them.”

  His twin shivered, though she stood near the hearth. “But on whose behalf would dissidents rebel? Eustace is dead.”

  Bronson replied. “But his brother William still lives, although I don’t see him coveting the throne. Others may push him.”

  Grace put her hand on the mantel, as if needing support. Rodrick suspected she was as much in love with Bronson as he was with her. He resolved to discuss the matter with Swan later.

  He's Afraid

  “May I ask my brother to escort me into the hall?” Grace said. “I have missed him terribly.”

  Swan pouted momentarily, but then smiled. “Of course, and Bronson will escort me. Good idea.”

  Grace breathed easier; no one seemed to have suspected she wished to avoid walking through the hallways with Bronson. He, in turn, appeared irritatingly relieved to be accompanying Swan.

  The earl and countess led the procession along corridors already festooned with boughs of holly.

  As usual, Rodrick sensed her mood. “Are you unwell? I understood you were looking forward to Bronson’s homecoming, anxious to show him the improvements you and Swan have made to his manor. Yet, you’ve done naught but glare at him since our return.”

  She studied the stone floor as they walked arm in arm. “I doubt I’ll accompany them when they go to Shelfhoc.”

  Rodrick lay a hand on her arm. “I thought you liked him.”

  Her twin would immediately see through any untruth she might tell. “I do, but he doesn’t care for me.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “It’s apparent he isn’t interested in women.”

  Even as she spoke, her body heated at the memory of his kiss in the bailey. He’d enjoyed it.

  Rodrick leaned closer. “Bronson guards his emotions,” he whispered, “but I have come to know him as an honest man I can trust. I believe he has feelings for you, but something holds him back.”

  She was suddenly breathless, though their pace was slow. “What could it be?”

  “I don’t know. Mayhap Swan can enlighten us?”

  * * *

  Swan held Bronson’s arm tightly. “I’m happy to see you safely returned, brother, but something is bothering you.”

  Bronson studied the stone floor as they walked. “I’m fine.”

  “No you’re not. What is it? Grace and I have looked forward to showing you our handiwork at Shelfhoc, but now she has intimated she won’t be going with us. What did you say to her?”

  Bronson furrowed his brow. “Nothing. Perhaps she’s offended because I kissed her.”

  Swan wanted to laugh out loud. “Why would your kiss offend her? She’s in love with you.”

  He flinched, as if he’d been whipped.

  “You love her, don’t you?” she whispered.

  “Aye,” he replied sadly, “but it can never be. We’re cousins.”

  Now Swan laughed, drawing William’s eye. “I’m the wrong person to use that excuse with.”

  Bronson gritted his teeth. “I’ll not marry again.”

  Sorrow for her brother’s loss swept over her, as it did whenever she remembered the anguish on his face as he lay first Alys and then Beatrix to rest with his stillborn children. The cold north wind off the North Sea had frozen the tears on his face as he stood in Kirkthwaite’s burial plot.

  But life was for the living. “You cannot punish yourself for what happened.”

  “Death stalks me, Swan. I am destined to be alone.”

  “Rubbish,” she exclaimed.

  This time, her outburst caught the attention of the earl who came to a halt several paces ahead of them and turned, brows raised. She smiled weakly, and the procession continued.

  She glared at Bronson. “Therefore you intend to punish Grace and yourself.”

  “I love her,” he rasped, his jaw clenched. “I will not risk—”

  “No, you’ll condemn her to a lonely life, when she could have one filled with love for you and your children. You disappoint me, brother.”

  She broke away, and strode off to link Rodrick’s free arm.

  * * *

  Bronson supposed it was inevitable he’d be seated next to Grace at the head table. He’d previously sat beside Rodrick, but Swan had been moved to that place of honor.

  Good manners demanded he carve the roasted chicken on the trencher placed between him and Grace, and offer her the choicest morsel. Her obvious nervousness and refusal to look him in the eye reminded him of Alys at their wedding feast. Little had he and his first bride known then their life together would be cut cruelly short.

  Grace’s soft voice jolted him back to reality. “You seem preoccupied,” she said.

  Realizing he was on the point of offering her an empty eating dagger, he forced a smile. “My apologies. I’m out of practice at this.”

  “I’ll help myself,” she replied, reaching for the chicken leg.

  He stayed her hand, startled by a spark that flared when they touched. “You should have the breast,” he declared.

  Aware his face must be as red as hers, he stabbed the best part of the fowl and held it to her lips, trying desperately but without success to keep his eyes off the décolletage of her gown.

  His arousal bucked when she grasped his hand holding the dagger, nibbled the meat and licked the grease from her lips.

  He squirmed in his seat, longing to tell her of his feelings, but fear kept him in its thrall.

  He wasn’t surprised when she stood and begged leave of her father to be excused. She swished out with a curt nod in his direction.

  Clearly, his behavior had made her uncomfortable.

  However, discomfort was preferable to the agony of professing his love and losing her to an early grave.

  But he was in for another sleepless night.

  * * *

  Swan paced in her chamber, rubbing her upper arms, then hugging her breasts tightly. She and Rodrick had arranged to meet when everyone was abed. She wanted to discuss their siblings, but feared the moment he arrived she would attack him and insist he touch her again in those special places he’d shown her.

  It was growing late. The fire in the grate had burned down, allowing the winter damp to settle on the chamber. Shivering, she climbed into bed and wriggled deep into the heavy linens, one ear exposed, listening for sounds in the corridor.

  A warm kiss on her forehead startled her awake. The candle must have burned down, plunging the chamber into darkness. “Rodrick,” she whispered.

  “Aye, my love. Were you expecting someone else?”

  She sensed his grin and sat up. “No. I was cold, so I got into bed. I fell asleep.”

  He sat beside her. “It’s late. Papa talked on and on. He’s filled with regret. He’s sorry now he named one of his sons after King Stephen.”

  She leaned into him. “Stephen disappointed many people. It’s not your father’s fault he was a weak king. Perhaps if he hadn’t had to contend with Maud’s attacks, he might have made a good monarch.”

  “You’re wise,” he said, nibbling her ear, his breath tantalizingly warm.

  A warm lethargy crept into her bones. “We need to discuss Grace and Bronson,” she said sleepily.

  “She loves him,” Rodrick declared. “As I love you.”

  It was the first time he had uttered the words and her heart soared. “I love you too, Rodrick, and Bronson loves Grace.”

  She sensed his surprise.

  “I suspected, but why doesn’t he tell her?”

  “He’s afraid.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of killing her.”

  “What?”

  She gripped his warm hand. “Bronson was married twice before. Alys and Beatrix both died in childbir
th. Neither child survived. He believes he is cursed.”

  He pressed her hand to his lips. “I had no idea.”

  “He prefers not to speak of it. Their deaths broke his heart.”

  “But Grace is strong. She deserves a chance to have children. We must force him to face his fears.” He came to his feet beside the bed. “I’ll think on it and we’ll talk on the morrow.”

  “Don’t go,” she sighed as sleep claimed her.

  Scheming

  Everyone at Ellesmere was swept up in the whirlwind of preparations for Yuletide, rendering it increasingly difficult to devise a plan to throw Bronson and Grace together. Swan and Rodrick barely had time to see each other, let alone plot a tryst for their siblings.

  In addition, the men spent many an hour closeted with the earl planning strategy to deal with rumblings of discontent from Godefroy de Cullène and his cronies, though the general opinion was nothing would happen during Advent and rebellious activity was less likely during Yuletide.

  By the third week of Advent, Swan had come to the definite conclusion that Ellesmere was not the place to arrange the tryst. As the hour for the evening meal approached, she lingered in the corridor outside the Chart Room and accosted Rodrick when he emerged. “Why not suggest to Bronson he spend Yuletide at Shelfhoc?” she whispered as they walked to the Great Hall. “He is chomping at the bit to go there.”

  He frowned. “But he wouldn’t want to spend Yuletide alone, surely?”

  She controlled the temptation to roll her eyes. “No, he wouldn’t be alone. I can say I want to go with him. The season of renewal is a marvelous time to begin life in a new home and I wish to accompany my brother.”

  He pouted. “But I would miss you terribly.”

  She inhaled deeply. “You wouldn’t miss me because you would be there too as a gesture of goodwill towards your Northumbrian cousin. And Grace would have to accompany us, because I cannot go alone with two men.”

  “Ah!”

  At last!

  “She might balk.”

  “Then it’s up to her twin brother to convince her.”

  He rubbed a forefinger across his chin. “Maman will be disappointed.”

  “Not if we let her in on the secret.”

  “You’ve thought this through.”

  Swan wasn’t sure what he meant, but decided not to question him. His head was probably still full of weighty matters discussed in the Chart Room. She leaned close to his ear as they entered the noisy hall. “Are you with me?”

  He grinned. “Aye!”

  * * *

  Bronson was surprised to see Rodrick on the threshold when he cautiously opened the door of his chamber. He’d wondered who was knocking late at night. “I was about to retire.”

  “May I enter? There’s something I want to discuss.”

  His cousin seemed unusually nervous, so he allowed him entry. “What is it?”

  Rodrick combed a hand through his hair. “Swan is pestering me. She wants to spend Yuletide at Shelfhoc.”

  This was an interesting turn of events. He’d been trying to come up with excuses for not spending Yuletide at Ellesmere, longing to get to his new home. Grace and Swan had written glowingly of it and he had yet to set foot there. But the earl and countess would be offended if he shunned their hospitality for the Yuletide season. He played for time to consider Rodrick’s words. “Why didn’t she speak directly to me?”

  Rodrick hesitated. “She feels you’ve been avoiding her.”

  Bronson clenched his jaw. He’d steered clear of Grace, but had also inadvertently avoided his sister since the two women were often together. “Go on.”

  “She wants to spend what she sees as her last Yuletide as a single woman with you, her brother, in your new home.”

  Bronson was taken aback. “You believe you will secure permission to marry?”

  If Rodrick and Swan married, then there was a possibility—

  Why can I not get the notion of marrying Grace out of my head?

  Rodrick braced his legs, arms folded across his chest. “I will marry your sister if I have to go as far as Rome for a dispensation.”

  Bronson sensed where the conversation was going, but saw no harm in prolonging Rodrick’s discomfort. “But if Swan and I go to Shelfhoc, will you not miss her?”

  His cousin eyed him suspiciously. “Man to man, I have more chance of dallying with your sister at Shelfhoc than I do here.”

  He should have been insulted that Rodrick took it for granted he would allow such dalliance but, in truth, he recognised he wouldn’t be the one to stand in the way of his sister’s contentment. Rodrick was an honorable man he trusted. He chuckled. “I suppose it’s true. I’m to be the chaperone? But what of your parents? I have no wish to offend them.”

  Rodrick grinned. “Leave them to me.”

  * * *

  Swan’s constant chewing of her lower lip and sideways glances were getting on Grace’s nerves. Her cousin obviously had something she wanted to say.

  “Ouch,” Swan suddenly exclaimed, sticking a finger in her mouth. “I’ve stabbed myself again with this cursed needle. I hate sewing.”

  “No wonder,” Grace countered. “Your mind is elsewhere, certainly not on the stitches. Careful you don’t bleed on the linen.”

  Swan smiled. “You know me well. I was daydreaming of Rodrick.”

  And I of Bronson.

  “Bronson wants to spend Yuletide at Shelfhoc.”

  Grace’s heart did a somersault. Had Swan read her mind? Or perhaps Bronson had somehow divined her longing to go to Shelfhoc with him. She held her tongue, afraid she might babble like an infant.

  “He’s asked me to accompany him. I want to go, but not if it means being apart from Rodrick. I cannot go alone with two men.”

  Swan wanted her along as a chaperone. Or did she? One of the men was her brother—hardly a risky escort. She’d traveled from Northumbria with him as her only companion apart from the men-at-arms who’d accompanied them.

  She had to refuse. Celebrating Christ’s birth with Bronson in the house she had worked hard to prepare had been her dearest wish and her worst nightmare. Better to be far away from him, enjoying the entertainers at Ellesmere. There would be no such distractions at Shelfhoc, though she guessed the servants would perform some mummery.

  “You want me to accompany you?”

  Dismayed by her lack of resolve, she poked at an ill-made stitch in her embroidery, intending to unpick it. She cursed under her breath when the needle punctured her flesh. A tiny blob of blood bubbled to the surface of her skin, and sat there like a raindrop on a leaf. She stared at it, close to tears.

  “Don’t worry,” Swan reassured her. “It will soon stop bleeding.”

  It’s not the wound that’s painful.

  “Will you come with us?”

  I cannot.

  “Yes. If Bronson allows it.”

  “Leave him to me,” Swan replied.

  Shelfhoc

  Despite the cold weather, Bronson savored the journey to Shelfhoc, his expectations high. A light dusting of snow shone white under the brilliant sunshine. He and Rodrick rode together at the rear, Swan and Grace in the midst of the column of men-at-arms, many of whom had accompanied him from Northumbria. It was reassuring there would be familiar faces among the brigade protecting Shelfhoc.

  Village folk they encountered seemed content and unafraid, despite the deep chill. It was a far cry from the journey from the north. Mayhap Advent, traditionally a time of cease-fire, gave folk a chance to get on with their lives again, or perhaps they sensed peace on the horizon at last.

  Grace and Swan bubbled with excitement as they crested the rise of the rampart ditch around his new home. He understood why. The house was impressive—smaller than Kirkthwaite, with more wood than stone in its construction, but far more imposing than anything they’d seen since leaving Ellesmere.

  Bronson dismounted, his eyes wandering over the façade of his domain. Pride surged through
his veins. “Your namesake great grandmother must have married a Saxon with great wealth,” he said dryly to Swan.

  Swan smiled as a stable lad came to her aid. “Aye. And a good thing for us Thane Woolgar fell at Hastings, one of King Harold’s housecarls who fought to the death.”

  Rodrick tsked loudly as he took over from the stable boy, lifting her down from Cob. “Now, now, let’s not get into that can of worms.”

  The lad walked over to assist Grace. Bronson quickly motioned the boy away and put his hands on Grace’s waist to help her dismount. “I’m lord of this manor now. It’s my duty to welcome you, all of you, to my domain.”

  Blushing, Grace placed her hands on his shoulders, but then pouted, her body stiff, back rigid.

  Why is it I always say the wrong thing to this woman?

  He took his hands off her waist and stepped away.

  A man he supposed from his sister’s description must be the steward, hurried out of the house, accompanied by two dogs. Apparently, Edwin had been very attached to these animals, but Bronson didn’t recognise the breed. Compared to his father’s mastiffs in Northumbria they were small. They bounded over and sniffed him, tails wagging furiously.

  Rodrick arched his brows. “I’ve never received such a welcome from Edwin’s dogs. They normally bark their heads off.”

  “They seem happy to meet you,” Grace murmured. “They are hovawarts, descendants of two dogs given to Edwin by his German brother-by-marriage, Dieter von Wolfenberg. They are known as valiant guardians of their masters rather than watchdogs.”

  Bronson hunkered down, surprised when both dogs allowed him to pet them, then rolled over to have their bellies scratched.

  “Welcome back Mesdames, Milord Rodrick,” Tybaut said effusively, bowing low. Then he turned to Bronson. “Milord Bronson FitzRam, welcome to your new home. It appears Bendik and Becca have adopted their new master. It was my privilege to serve your uncle Edwin in the tradition of generations of my family, and it will be an honor to be your steward. If I may say, I see a resemblance to your uncle, except for—”