He looked exhausted now, propped up by cushions in the master’s chair, dressed in a nightshirt and bed-robe, but he’d enjoyed himself and eaten heartily. She was glad Lucia had insisted on binding his wound. If he saw the stitches—
Grace’s never-ending fussing over him made Swan stupidly jealous.
“Did you not enjoy your meal?” she asked Rodrick seated beside her.
He shrugged, belching into his fist. “It was delicious. I ate too much.”
“Is your nose painful?”
“No.”
She squirmed in her seat, bothered by his sullen demeanor. “Do you wish you were at Ellesmere?”
He arched his brows, pressing his thigh against hers. “Why would you think that?”
She hated pouting. “You seem preoccupied.”
He exhaled deeply and took her hands in his. “The thoughts preoccupying me are to do with how much I love you and how desperately I want to make you mine. I’m sorry if I’ve been morose. Christmas is a special day for you.”
His words soothed her. “It will be special for you too when I tell you what Tybaut has procured for dessert.”
His eyes widened. “Something I’m fond of?”
“Something you love.”
He nibbled her ear. “You?”
She shrugged one shoulder, pretending to be annoyed. “No. Marzipan and custard.”
The corners of his mouth lifted. “I do like marzipan, but I wouldn’t say—”
The secret burst forth. “With cobnuts!”
He frowned. “What?”
She feared perhaps Grace had got it wrong. “Cobnuts. Tybaut had them brought specially from Farnham in Surrey, weeks ago.”
An expression of pure delight crossed his features. “You mean hazelnuts.”
What a relief!
“Yes. In Northumbria we call them cobnuts.”
He came to his feet, tapping his goblet. Every eye turned to him. “Swan FitzRam,” he announced, “a man must declare his love when a woman procures hazelnuts for him.” He bent to her ear. “Are they roasted?” he whispered loudly enough for everyone to hear.
She felt her face redden as his audience chuckled.
He picked up his goblet. “With your permission, Lord Bronson, I propose a toast to your sister.”
Bronson raised his goblet. “Only if we include your sister, Grace, who I suspect had much to do with fulfilling your desire for hazelnuts.”
Clearing his throat, Rodrick wiggled both eyebrows at Swan. “I drink to the health and long life of women who fulfill our desires. To Lady Swan and Lady Grace.”
Men-at-arms, tenant farmers, and servants who’d come to share the feast raised their tankards and goblets and joined the toast.
Swan’s heart threatened to burst out of her chest.
Chin and nose in the air, shoulders squarely braced, Tybaut signaled for the dessert to be served. Rodrick devoured the roasted hazelnuts before he touched the marzipan. To her surprise he suddenly came to his feet and hurried out of the hall, returning a few moments later with one hand behind his back.
Instead of regaining his seat, he crooked his finger and beckoned Swan.
Curious and not a little nervous, she joined him.
He took her hand. “As everyone knows, one of my great-grandfathers was a Welshman.”
Evidently, some in the room hadn’t been aware of it if their murmurs of surprise were any indication. Rodrick ignored them. “I was named for Rhodri ap Owain who believed in many of the ancient Celtic traditions.
“I am a proud Norman, but cannot deny the Celtic blood flowing in my veins,” he continued, producing from behind his back a twig with green leaves and white berries which he held up for all to see.
Some laughed and cheered, apparently knowing what it was. From the glint in his eyes, Swan suspected she would soon learn the significance of the twig.
“Before the birth of Our Lord that we celebrate today,” Rodrick droned on with mock seriousness, “pagan peoples regarded Mistiltan as a representation of divine male essence.”
He winked at her.
The men in the hall oohed loudly, some elbowing their neighbors.
Rodrick raised his hand for calm. “The Celts used it as a remedy for barrenness in animals and a cure for poison.”
Silence ensued, all eyes on the heir of Ellesmere.
Rodrick waited, plainly relishing his control over the assembly. Swan’s heart fluttered proudly in her chest.
“More importantly, when you have male essence, you have fertility and vitality.”
Loud guffaws broke the silence, accompanied by banging of tankards on tables.
“But!”
Everyone quieted as he raised the twig over Swan’s head.
“It only works if you kiss a maiden beneath it.”
Without warning he bent his head and took possession of her mouth with his warm lips. She tasted the fruit of the hazel tree, and knew in her heart it would forever evoke this Christmas memory. He kissed deeply, twirling his tongue with hers, all the while holding the sprig over their heads.
The loud cheering came to an abrupt end when one goblet banged more loudly than any other. Bronson’s voice caused Swan to pull away, afraid their public display had angered or offended him.
“Fetch that magic twig over here,” her brother demanded, his voice slurred, “and hold it over me and Grace. I’ve a mind to kiss my most excellent nurse.”
Rodrick complied. Bronson leaned his head back and accepted a blushing Grace’s kiss. Swan worried the mingling of dwale and wine hadn’t been such a good idea. Would he recall the kiss on the morrow?
I Wish
Twelve days after the Christmas celebrations, Grace was in two minds about the burning of the Yule Wreath. This would be the finale of Yuletide, and her last chance to force Bronson into admitting he loved her.
The day after Christmas, he’d lain in a stupor, complaining of a pounding headache.
Grace fumed. Obviously, the kiss beneath the mistiltan had happened as a result of imbibing wine on top of dwale.
For a few wild moments during the feast she’d behaved like a tavern wench lured into a kiss by a lusty warrior. And a rousing kiss it had been, firing her blood. Yet, he seemed to barely recall anything of the celebrations.
Her fuming turned to worry when he lapsed into another bout of fever.
Lucia removed the bandages to check on the stitches. Everyone dreaded his reaction if he saw them. His constant complaining about the itching was their justification for keeping them bound.
Swan was proud of the large wreath she’d fashioned, and Grace was relieved when Bronson rallied and expressed a wish to attend the ceremonial burning.
The weather had turned mild and Grace’s heart skipped a beat as she watched Bronson walk outside slowly but unassisted to take his place on the bench in front of the already burning bonfire. Tybaut had lectured the stable boys endlessly about making the pile of wood big enough, but not too big, and had supervised the torching as soon as the sun went down.
Bronson stretched out his long legs and held his hands to the fire, then rubbed them together, his red hair aglow in the light of the flames. He put his arm around Swan. “That’s a marvelous wreath you’ve made, sister. It’s a pity we have to burn it.”
She laughed, fluttering her eyelashes at Rodrick. “No, I’m looking forward to it. I’ll go first.”
She plucked a branch from the wreath, then closed her eyes and tossed it into the flames. “I wish to be married to Rodrick de Montbryce.”
Grace’s brother laughed as he selected his own branch. “Well, that’s no surprise.” He threw his cedar frond into the fire. “I wish to be married to Suannoch FitzRam.”
Grace’s heart filled with joy for her brother and Swan as they held hands, gazing at the brief flicker as the fire carried their wishes heavenward. But nervous apprehension crept in closely behind. Bronson had said nothing, his facial expression blank as he too peered into the flames, stroki
ng his beard.
It was now or never. “My turn,” she said as she pulled at a frond with trembling hands. It resisted until Rodrick came to her rescue. She held the cedar out towards the fire. “I wish—”
She risked a glance at Bronson who still gazed into the flames. “I wish to be Mistress of Shelfhoc,” came out in a rush as she threw the cedar, missing the fire completely.
Her brother kicked her offering into the flames. “Has to burn or your wish won’t come true,” he said, looking at Bronson.
Her innards knotted as Swan held the remnants of the wreath in front of Bronson. “Your turn, Master of Shelfhoc.”
He accepted the garland and gripped it in both hands before throwing it to the center of the fire. “I wish to be rid of the ghosts of the past,” he declared.
No one spoke. At first the wreath threatened to smother the fire. Smoke filled the air. Then the cedar boughs crackled and hissed in protest as the flames again took hold. Bronson raised his head to look at Grace, fire dancing in his eyes. He scratched his chest. “And for this infernal itching to cease.”
Bronson was on fire. The flames heated his face. His chest prickled with the bites of a thousand blood-sucking insects. He hated the itchy beard and mustache and longed for a shave. But it was his burning passion for Grace that would no longer be denied. He was grateful when Swan and Rodrick slipped away, leaving him alone with the woman he loved. “I told you once I will never marry again,” he said.
She kept her gaze fixed on the fire, hands clasped in her lap.
“You never asked me why.”
Her knuckles turned white. “I assumed you are still in love with your first wife.”
Had he loved either of his wives? Certainly he’d liked them, been comfortable with them, and enjoyed making love to their bodies. But he’d never been consumed with wanting as he was with Grace. “No, that’s not it.”
She glanced up at him, then looked back at the dying fire.
“I was married twice.”
She stared at him, open mouthed.
“Both my wives died.”
Strangely, he was calm now when he spoke of their deaths. The next part would be difficult. He swallowed the hard lump in his throat, but Grace guessed the worst of it.
“They died in childbirth,” she murmured hoarsely.
He clamped his hands on his knees.
“You lost both babes.”
Only glowing embers remained of the fire. If he stared hard enough, the pain might go away. “I couldn’t bear it if the same thing happened to you, Grace.”
To his surprise, she leapt from the bench and came to stand between him and the fire, hands on hips.
He no longer felt the warmth of the flames, but a wave of heat swamped him when he looked up at her face.
“Foolish man. Every woman fears death in childbirth, but we accept the possibility because children bring joy, and love. No one would make a better father than you, Bronson, and I will be an excellent mother. Give me the chance. Don’t deny what we might have because you are afraid. I love you, and you love me.”
She sat beside him on the bench. He turned to look at her, warmed by the love burning in her eyes. “I do love you, Grace, more than you can imagine. I’ve tried to deny it, fearful of facing the pain again. If I lost you—”
“Your fears will condemn us both to a lonely life of frustrated love.”
He looked back at the embers. Perhaps they did hold the answer. Grace’s words made sense. A leaden weight lifted from his heart. “I want to scoop you up in my arms and carry you to my bed.”
She leaned her head against his arm. “You’d break open your stitches.”
He chuckled. “You mean the ones on my embroidered chest?”
She looked at him in alarm. “You knew?”
He arched his brows. “I’m good at feigning sleep.”
Tybaut appeared out of nowhere. “May I douse the fire now, my lord?”
Bronson came slowly to his feet. “Yes, faithful steward. Thank you.” He proffered his elbow to Grace. “The future mistress of Shelfhoc will see me safely into the house.”
Tybaut grinned, beckoning to the shivering stable lads who appeared with buckets of water.
In Case Of Accidents
Rodrick rode away from Shelfhoc with a heavy heart and tired limbs. After the wreath ceremony he’d dozed all night in a chair in front of the hearth in the hall, Swan on his lap. Sweet torture!
Bronson insisted he was well enough to be left during the night and Grace took Swan’s place in the bed in the upstairs chamber.
This morning he’d voiced the desire to move back into the master’s chamber, and Rodrick had helped Tybaut and the lads move pallets and rearrange sleeping accommodations.
Swan insisted she understood why he had to return to Ellesmere, but he recognized she was bereft at his leaving. At first she’d whined. “Why can I not accompany you?”
“What’s the point? I have to leave with father on the expedition to aid Robert of Leicester in closing two mercenary castles. And in any case, Grace and Bronson cannot be left alone here together. They’ll be good company for you.”
She sulked, studying her feet. “They only have eyes for each other.”
He tilted her chin to his gaze, wishing to carry the memory of her lovely face with him. “Like us.”
Hoping to erase the pout, he added. “And Papa is talking of going to see Archbishop Theobald in person, in which case I’ll go with him.”
Bringing his thoughts back to the track, muddy now after the mild weather, he touched his fingers to his lips, savoring the taste of their farewell kiss in the courtyard. He offered a silent prayer that the archbishop would grant the dispensation on which much depended.
Bronson had mixed feelings as he watched Rodrick disappear beyond the horizon, and suspected he wasn’t the only one. He put an arm around his sister’s shoulder. “You’re sad to see him go, Swan, but his mission is important.”
Swan sighed. “Yes. England needs to be rid of the mercenaries.”
“True, but I meant the petition to the archbishop.”
She smiled wistfully. “Yes, that’s important to both of us now, brother.”
He scratched the irritating whiskers under his chin, stretching his arm around Grace’s shoulders when she took over the job. Somehow her touch was more effective. “Indeed, and with the men he’s left here and the ones we brought from Northumbria, we are well protected.”
It didn’t ring completely true. They’d been protected before and succumbed to treachery. He would feel vulnerable until Godefroy was captured or confirmed dead.
Grace’s scratching wasn’t helping any longer. “I have to get rid of this beard. Today!”
“I can do it,” Swan volunteered. “We had planned to have Lucia take out your stitches too.”
His sister had shaved him before, but it was the touch of another female he craved. “I was going to ask Grace to do it.”
Swan’s lip quivered. She darted a jealous glance at Grace. Perhaps this hadn’t been the best time to mention it. He opened his mouth to soothe her hurt feelings but she scurried off towards the stables, leaving them to enter the house without her.
Grace hesitated on the threshold. “I should go after her.”
“No. She’ll spend some time with Cob and be over it soon. She has to get used to sharing me with another woman. She’s taken care of me since—”
The dark memories threatened to surface.
Grace turned to face him and stood on tiptoe to kiss him. The darkness lifted as she thrust her tongue into his mouth. When they broke apart, she smiled mischievously. “A bath is in order once we get those stitches out. You still reek of onions.”
He wiggled his eyebrows. “I can hardly wait.”
Watching nervously as Bronson sharpened his razor on the leather strop, Grace wished she’d spoken up. Swan may have shaved her brother, but Grace’s brothers had valets to take care of such things. An earl’s daughter wa
s never called upon to groom males, even when the men in question were her brothers.
Jolly bustled in with a bowl of hot water and linens, followed by Tybaut with a bar of what appeared to be soap held aloft in both hands like a Mass offering. “Here we are. My finest hard shaving soap, handmade from beeswax and lard and my special secret ingredient.”
He placed the bar next to the bowl of water on a small table Jolly had provided near the hearth in the solar.
With a flourish, he produced a furry object from the pocket of his tunic. “There aren’t many of these around, my lord Bronson. Please accept it as my humble gift.”
Bronson furrowed his brow as he examined his gift. “Boar’s hair?”
Tybaut grinned gleefully. “I sensed you were a perceptive man of good taste.”
Grace, who’d thought the boar’s hair brush was a large lucky rabbit’s foot, wiped her sweaty hands on the apron Jolly had provided. The Steward stared at her for long moments. She eyed the table on which the brush, the razor, the hot water, and the soap had been lovingly placed. “All is in readiness?” she ventured.
Tybaut looked down his nose. “One more thing.” He opened his palm to reveal a tiny jar, big enough for only a fingertip to be dipped inside. “Just in case.”
Frowning, she sniffed the contents. “What is it?”
“A perfumed ointment of my own creation, with the added luxury of spider webs soaked in oil and vinegar.”
She stifled a giggle at the thought of the portly Tybaut harvesting spider webs. “What on earth is it for?”
He laid it on the table that now looked like a sacrificial altar. “In case of accidents.”
As Lucia prepared to remove Bronson’s stitches, Swan refrained from commenting on the nicks and scratches on her brother’s face. Served him right for not letting her shave him, though she had to admit Grace had done a creditable job, considering it was likely the first time she’d ever shaved a man.
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