"And has your suffering been worth it as well?" St. Cyr asked. The grief had faded from the old man's gaze, and Rafe saw in his face a kind of surrender.
"My suffering?"
"I saw the girl striding into the chamber at your side. Saw the way you looked at her before you were swept off to talk to Walsingham and the rest. Her eyes reminded me of Anne's when she stood at Ruy's side. They held all that was good, brave, pure. And strength, aye, there was enough love and strength in that child's face to keep you warm for the rest of your life."
"She has promised to stand beside me, whatever my life might be." Rafe watched his grandfather's face, searching for the disapproval he had seen weeks earlier. But he saw only resignation and a spark of respect.
"I made a muddle of it when last you were here, lad. I tried to arrange your life as I saw fit. If you'll consent to stay, I'll not do so again."
"Grandfather, I'm going to wed Tessa, make her my wife." Rafe met the earl's gaze levelly, wanting no veils between them. "Were I to be crowned king on the morrow, my intentions toward Tessa would not change."
"I much doubt you'll ever be offered a monarch's crown, lad. But the golden circlet of an earl will be yours one day. You see, I petitioned to have the title to be passed through the female line when I knew I would have no sons. God knew, Henry Tudor understood what it meant to father only daughters. Yet, I always believed His Majesty acceded to my request because even the Great Harry loved my child. I’d hoped that maybe one day, Anne’s heir might take the name St. Cyr, so that it will not die with me.”
Rafe stiffened, uncertain what to say, but his grandfather laid a gnarled hand on his sleeve. “I’d not ask it of you now, nor press you, ever. It would be a gift given freely, Rafael, or not at all. Do you believe me?”
Rafe looked into his grandfather’s eyes. “I do.”
“We’ll have time, now, lad. Time to come to know each other. It is a gift I feared I had squandered. And as for your choice of bride…”
St. Cyr touched the frame on his daughter’s portrait. “Rafael, I raged at you when first you told me you wanted to take Tessa to wife, and it is true that the girl lacks the skills and graces necessary for a chatelaine. But on second thought, I think she has qualities more important than courtly manners and an understanding of how to run a vast castle." Tarrant's face creased with an aged guilt.
"My Alison was bred of generations of nobles, but within these walls she always had the look of a frightened tiring-maid. Your Tessa was every inch the countess when she entered the great hall at your side. You said she was willing to stand beside you, whatever your life might be."
The earl stepped back, slipping free a velvet pouch that hung at his waist. He spilled the contents of the bag into Rafe's palm, the light glinting upon the ring Rafe had treasured. "You might give this to her, if you wish. Ask her if she'd like to be a countess." A grin curved Tarrant's lips. "May God preserve us all!"
* * *
Rafe stood, silent, in the arched doorway, treasuring the sight of Tessa silhouetted against the jeweled tones of a tapestry depicting the return of Odysseus. She bent to some hidden task, industrious as any Penelope, unaware of his presence as the heat from the brazier turned her smooth cheeks a warm red, an adorable crease marring her brow. Her nose crinkled in concentration, her fingers deftly wielding some object in her hand, while her body—that ripe wood-nymph body that had driven him to madness—was veiled from his sight by only the wispiest of nightrails.
Her full breasts pushed impudently against the soft fabric, the aureoles' tempting shadows hinted at by the glow of candlelight. Her lips were stained so red he wanted to nip at them to see if they tasted like the berries they resembled.
Sweet. She was so sweet, his Tessa. Like a winsome fairy—until she changed into the wildwitch who had stolen his heart. And she was his now. Forever. His.
The wonder of it made his heart thud hard against his ribs, made his arms ache to hold her. But he only stood there watching her, wanting to hold this moment of magical contentment for as long as he was able.
"Hellfire and damnation!" Her oath startled him from his musing as something fell from her hand and clattered to the floor. She lunged to her feet, popping her thumb into her mouth and sucking on it, but not before Rafe glimpsed a drop of crimson staining the folds of her nightrail.
"Tessa?" He hastened to her side. "Did you hurt yourself, love?"
She nearly jumped from her skin, her eyes blazing, accusatory, as she thrust something behind her with her other hand, and there was nothing of the winsome wood sprite in her face. Instead, she had the look of the sea just before a storm, entrancing, alluring, irresistible.
"What the devil are you doing here? Why did you not warn me?"
"That I was coming to my own bedchamber? I thought you were waiting for me. In fact, I cherished some strange hope that you might be relieved to see me freed of the lion's den." Rafe allowed himself a smile as he drew her injured hand into his own, rubbing the palm in seductive circles as he examined the tiny cut. "I thought that you—we might spend what little remains of the night celebrating the fact that I managed to keep my head this day—quite literally."
"It is a miracle you did, the way you went stalking in there like a witling! It is just good fortune Lady Warburton was attempting to poison the queen, else—"
"Good fortune?" Rafe gave a shout of laughter, loving the way Tessa's face washed red with temper. "You'd best not let anyone else hear you say that, or we'll be taken up for treason."
Tessa's eyes flashed to the door, but there was no fear in them. "Do you think there is anyone skulking about?"
"If there is, I will summon them in at once and demand they aid me in discovering what secret plot my betrothed has been about in my chamber."
"Plot?"
He nodded, feigning solemnity. "With my own eyes I saw you hide something behind you when I entered the room." Her lips were set in the mutinous line he loved, and yet she looked almost shy—and seeing his bold Tessa thus sent desire racing through his blood.
"It is none of your affair, Santadar," she warned. "If I had wanted you to see it, I would not have taken the trouble to hide it."
"If you had not wanted me to see it, you would scarce have brought it into my room." He raised her hand to his lips, kissing the tips of her fingers, tasting them with his tongue. "Now relinquish your treasure, my pretty"—his voice was deep and husky—"or I will demonstrate how ruthless rovers upon the sea make their captives spill secrets."
Tessa caught her breath as his lips sought out the shadowy curve of her throat, teasing the sensitive flesh with a playfulness she had never seen in the bold sea hero she had come to love. She pulled away from him, glimpsing the twinkle of merriment in his eyes, and despite the unaccustomed shyness washing over her, she could not muster any expression except a grin to match Rafe's own.
"All right, you merciless brigand. All right. I surrender. But it will be the only time you'll ever bend me to your will." She stomped over to the chair and drew something from the rushes behind it.
And then there was no more amusement in her face, no more laughter. She felt suddenly vulnerable and incredibly foolish.
"Here." She all but jammed a circular piece of wood into the hard plane of Rafe's stomach, then wheeled away, unable to watch his face as he saw what she had labored upon.
Silence seemed to press like lead upon Tessa's chest as she waited for Rafe to say something, anything. But at last she could stand the silence no longer. "Well? You were so anxious to see it. It serves you right to have your eyes thus offended."
"Offended?"
"Aye. This carving is ludicrous. But I've never done anything like it before. The chin is not stubborn enough, and the nose doesn't hold enough arrogance. And the lips are the most ill worked of all. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't carve tenderness, temper, and the hot sweep of passion upon them all at the same time. It is your own fault for having such difficult features. I would have use
d it for kindling, but—"
"This is how you see me?"
Tessa thought he was baiting her again, teasing, but as she wheeled upon him to snap out a sharp rejoinder, what she saw stole the biting words from her lips.
He was staring down at the disk of wood she had been carving upon, but his eyes were glowing, not with humor, but rather with a kind of awe. The long, bronzed fingers that had caressed her body with such feverish need now traced the image she had wrought of him.
In the wood carving, waves crashed in wild abandon, storm-tossed about the figure of a woman racing into the sea, into the arms of a man who was rising from the waves like some sea god come alive. She had sculpted the silky darkness of Rafe's hair blown by the wind and had struggled to carve the beautifully hewn planes of Rafe's face, but though she had done her best, she felt she had failed to capture the strength, the tenderness, and the fiery passion that had consumed her.
"I began it before we left for court, when I thought you would sail off to Spain one day and leave me. I wanted something to keep, something to remind me of the day my sea phantom came for me, just—just as my father always promised he would."
"Tessa"—Rafe's hand was unsteady—"I can never be the man you've carved upon this wood. I can never fulfill all the wonderful dreams you've captured here. It makes me afraid I'll somehow fail you."
"Nay." Tessa's heart swelled with joy at his praise for the carving that had been for her a labor of love. "You could never fail me, Rafael Santadar. Your love fills me until there is no more room for fantasies of sea gods and phantoms. No room for anything except a Spaniard with a foul temper and far too much pride and eyes as blue as a sun-struck wave."
"Tessa." He groaned her name, catching her to him, and Tessa gloried in the feel of him, so hard, so hot, so hungry, as his lips closed upon hers. "Tessa I need to ask you one more question, before we celebrate."
"Question?" She could scarce speak, scarce think as his hands wove magic upon her breasts and buttocks.
"Mm-hmm, would you suffer being a countess?"
She stiffened with surprise, shoving at his chest with her palms. "A what?"
"A countess." She could feel his laughter soft against her as he nudged aside her nightrail, his lips seeking out the crest of one rosy breast. "Just think, you could spend all your days ordering people about, and when you fell into a temper the whole castle would be forced to listen to you rail."
A soft cry burst from Tessa's lips as Rafe's mouth caught the hardened nub he had been teasing with his tongue, suckling it for an instant, then releasing it.
Tessa bit her lip to stifle a groan of need and resolved to treat Rafe to the same subtle torture.
"But then I would have to wed an earl, and you... you wanted nothing to do with being one."
"Ah, but I changed my mind after my grandfather and I discussed the... er... responsibilities that would be mine. You see, it seems that earls are duty bound to father hordes of children—sons, daughters, heirs. It is a most wearing task, but one I think I could suffer if my future countess had skin as sweet as new cream and lips that tasted of honey, and breasts so full they filled my hands."
She heard a ragged moan work through him as her fingers began to skim down his flat stomach, the sound banishing any hint of teasing from her as she lost herself in the joy of this tender, loving man.
"Rafe, are you sure? I don't need to be a countess. I don't need a castle or land. If you are hungry for the sea, we can sail away on a ship."
He kissed her, fierce and hard, with all the love he felt for her. "Ah, wildwitch, do you not see? Loving you is more adventure than I ever dreamed of. I need no other mistress, not even the sea. You are tempest enough for me, wildwitch. I love you."
His lips closed upon hers, tender, so tender, and her bold sea phantom swept her into a world of wild imaginings, of dreams that would last forever.
Preview Crown of Mist
Ireland 1649
The banshee worked a-weaving, snarling silken webs of death about the ancient walls of Drogheda. Seventeen-year-old Brianna Devlin clenched trembling hands in the folds of her heavy green cloak, but the fur lining crushed beneath her fingertips did nothing to banish the chill that prickled her skin. It is only the mist, she chided herself, aye, and the cry of the wind.
But as she peered down from the steeple of St. Mary’s to the Irish countryside beyond the massive city wall, it was not the army of Oliver Cromwell she saw, straining to entrench its daunting train of artillery upon the hillside. Instead, it was the banshee’s face grinning back at her, the old hag’s fingers dancing over the sea of Sassenach invaders blighting the land.
Brianna shivered, the sound of screams long silenced echoing in her memory. She had heard the white fairy’s keening before; stumbled into the stark abyss of death.
“Shane.” She whispered, clutching her arms tight under her breasts. Yet, the pain still came. The dawn blurred into tawny hair, lips twisted in agony; Agony caused by an Englishman’s sword. Caused by her selfish pride.
“So you deigned to drag yourself from your blankets at last.”
A voice behind her cracked the silence like iron slamming stone. Brianna spun around, frieze skirts swirling about her ankles. Her hand instinctively flew to the wire-bound hilt of the rapier that never left her side.
Thick fingers caught her wrist, the rasp of her blade half-yanked from its scabbard ringing to silence. “Hold, you little she-cat! The enemy is out there!”
Brianna’s bounding heartbeat eased at the familiar voice, her gaze locking with the disgruntled glare of Fergus Mac Dermot. She slammed the rapier into its sheath, her whip-taut nerves snapping into anger.
“Plague take you, Fergus!” Brianna blazed. “You’re lucky I didn’t hurt you, creeping up on me like that!”
“Creeping? Creeping?” The wily old veteran bellowed, his cheeks turning red. “I was minding my own concerns, coming to fetch the bit and sup you were supposed to have delivered here an hour ago. And you almost sent me soaring down to Cromwell like a cursed tiercel!”
The image he conjured ghosted a smile across Brianna’s lips. She could almost believe Fergus would take flight, he looked so much like an old falcon, bushy brows crashing low above his great hooked nose, his eyes black with righteous indignation.
She had seen that glare cow seasoned soldiers who towered above the barrel-chested Mac Dermot. But the scars slashed across his craggy features didn’t fill her with fear. They only deepened her foreboding. The short sword bound to his side was ludicrous against the gleaming mass of Sassenach steel beyond the city’s wall. A hundred nicks and dents upon the ancient blade stood testament to feats of daring, of death-defying raids and yet . . .
“Musket balls care nothing about courage.” She whispered, scarce aware she had spoken aloud as she watched a distant cuirassier cantering his mount through the maze of English tents.
“What?”
She flushed, chagrined at being caught in her childhood trick of spilling her thoughts into words. “I said bullets care nothing about courage.”
“Bree.”
Her gaze leapt back from the hills, expecting the censure or amusement her verbal stumbling had always sparked from her brothers, but Fergus’s gruff baritone was soft.
“Brianna, no chains bind you to the battlefield. You’ll not be branded coward if you choose not to fight.”
“I’m not afraid of their muskets and cannons. It is something more than that.” She groped for the words. “Doyle and Daniel— Shane, too— used to torment me whenever I’d try to explain. But sometimes I get these feelings, as though there are things just beyond the mists.”
“Things?”
“Hauntings from beyond. Spirits. I don’t know what they are. I can feel them. I almost see them. But I can never stop them.” Her voice trailed off. “They taunt me, dancing always at the tips of my fingers.”
“When they dance, Bree, what do you see?”
“War. Death. Crazed, isn’t
it?” Brianna gave a shaky laugh, surprised at the serious expression in Fergus’s keen eyes. “Doyle would say it is little wonder such scenes are playing out in my imagination. It takes no spirit whisperings to see that the Sassenach will soon be pounding at the gate. Shane used to tell me to doff his hat to the fairies when next I met with them, and ask them to send fair weather for a ride or a hunt.” She raked slender fingers through the curls at the end of her braid, the soft gold strands twining about her hand. She dared a look at Fergus. “Most likely you think I’m telling a fool’s tale as well.”
“I’ve seen my share of things to turn your hair white, these four and fifty years. Far too many things to scoff at you, Bree,” Fergus said. “Who knows? Maybe what you foresee is the Sassenach’s destruction. Maybe it is our own.” His voice fell to the softest burr. “But no matter which way fortune’s sword cuts, I must believe I can change what’s destined to be. That somehow, someway my doings can turn the tides.”
Brianna’s gaze shifted to the hills framed in the steeple window. Could any man or woman roll back the waves that would soon crash down on Drogheda? The great iron siege guns crouched atop the hill, poised to hurl lead and fire into the city. Soldiers swarmed the countryside like an apocalyptic plague, back and breastplates gleaming. Soldiers of God, the Puritan commander, Oliver Cromwell, claimed. Or were they the vassals of Satan himself? Devil-soldiers spawned by the hate that had gnawed in the bellies of two nations for five centuries. A hate that had festered since the day the sly prince the masses called John Lackland had swaggered ashore to plunder the country his father, Henry II, had tossed beneath his trampling feet.
Brianna shivered. For ten lifetimes the English had swept across Ireland, a torrent of war, oppression and death that crashed over the land, ebbing only to return with more brutal fury. Now, after waging a civil war that had culminated in the beheading of a king, the tempest had once again returned to Eire.
To Chase the Storm Page 25
