Domning, Denise (16 page)

His breathing was shallow, his heart raced. She could feel its beat against her cheek. Mary, Mother of God, help me, she prayed. "Please," she whispered hoarsely, meaning to say more, but her voice broke; she was not accustomed to pleading.

He released her shoulders and set his hands against her waist. "Let go," he said, but the muscles of his chest were still tensed, as if to strike.

Instead, she resettled her grip, pressing herself even more tightly to him. "You will hit me" was all she whispered and cursed herself as a coward.

"Let go," he repeated, his words rumbling against her ear. "I am calm now. I will not hurt you."

A moment passed and, then, another. Still, she did not move.

He gently stroked her hair. "Let go." The palm of his hand cupped her cheek. Despite her resistance, he lifted her face up from his chest.

She kept her eyes shut and tensed for the blow that must surely follow. His fingers lay warm against her jaw. She bit her lip to stop its trembling. When he sighed, she opened her eyes just a little.

The madness had left his face, although anger remained. She saw it in the muscle that twitched along his jaw. His thumb moved slightly across her cheek. Then, his gray eyes clouded and the harsh contours of his face relaxed into something akin to acceptance.

Slowly, her arms loosened. She stepped back. Her legs trembled. "You tore my chemise," she said, her voice quiet, awed by the height of his rage.

"And lost my mind as well," he replied with a crooked grin.

She blinked, fighting sudden, unexpected tears. Her knees buckled, and she began to fall. He caught her to him. "I was afraid," she cried softly, her head cradled against his shoulder, her fingers soft against the hard contours of his chest. "I thought you would kill me."

His lips touched her forehead. "Never, never goad an angry man," he murmured, his mouth moving softly against her brow as he spoke. He leaned his head against hers.

For a long moment, they stood in silence. She knew the warm silkiness of his skin against her hand and the strength of his shoulder against her cheek. Beneath her palm she felt the steady beat of his heart.

His lips touched her cheek in a gentle kiss, then he released her and stepped back. She looked up, sorry he had moved and ended the moment. She memorized the arrogant line of his straight nose, the curve of his mouth. His cheekbones jutted high over the strong line of his jaw and chin. Dark auburn hair lay in fine curls against the strong column of his neck. Under her watchful gaze, his eyes darkened to blue and filled with an odd sadness that seemed to beg for her touch.

She raised a hand to the newly shorn hollow of his cheek. His skin was rough, yet soft beneath her palm. He shut his eyes and leaned into her caress. Her fingers traced the line of his mouth. When he kissed her fingertips, she caught her breath and would have withdrawn her hand had he not taken it in his, lacing his fingers between hers.

"Dear God in heaven, never have I been in such a rage," he breathed, slowly drawing her nearer. "You raise such passions in me." He touched his mouth to hers, his lips moving slightly in a soft kiss.

She clung to him and let the gentleness of his kiss wash over her. He wanted her. Surely, that meant he'd not send her away. Still, if she wished to secure her place at his side, she'd have to make him hers, just as she had made his home hers. Her mouth moved in response to his as her arms slipped around his neck. As she drew herself up against him, she gasped against the searing heat that filled her.

Her skin burned against his as she felt the strength of his chest against her breasts, felt his hard thighs touching hers. In dizzying response to these sensations, she forgot about walls and keeps, halls and servants. Instead, she caught her breath when his kiss deepened in defiance, as if he expected her denial. But she met his hunger with a very real need of her own.

His hand slipped inside the remnants of her gown and found her breast. He kissed her cheek, her neck, the base of her throat. Lost in the wonderful, terrible need that consumed her, Rowena ran her hands over the broad planes of his chest until she felt the soft linen of his chausses. He made a quiet sound of pleasure when her fingers played along the drawstring waist.

There was a tap at the door. "My lord," a servant called out, "we cannot find your lady. Shall we begin a search?"

He straightened. She stared up at him. Slowly, slowly, he smiled, his look fierce with desire. "Never mind," he said, his gaze trapping hers as he eased the torn gown off her shoulder. The garment fell into a pile around her ankles. She wore nothing beneath it. He drew a quick breath. "I have found her."

Deep in sleep, Rowena pulled at the bedclothes. They were caught somewhere near the end of the bed. It took a moment to open her eyes. She peered hopelessly toward the foot of the bed, but the darkness was nearly absolute, as they'd let the fire die and forgotten to light the night candle.

Her outstretched hand found her husband's shoulder. He shifted slightly at her touch. The memory of their bed play made her shiver. At the center of her being awoke a throbbing need that she knew only he could ease. She bit her lip and mentally recited a prayer of protection for her heart. Would this time be like the last? In the morning, would he once again be the cold, hard man he'd been after their wedding night? Oh, dear Lord, but he might still send her away. She clenched her eyes shut on that thought. Did he not realize that this was now her home, too?

Perhaps, as he understood and saw all she had done for him, he would like her better. Aye, if she guarded her tongue and did as he bid until he'd grown accustomed to her, he would come to accept her.

She crept from the bed and brought a burning splinter back from the solar and set it to the wick of the thick night candle. Even though it stood near the head of the bed, its meager flame was enough to show her the bedclothes bundled near the bottom of the mattress.

Its pale illumination touched her husband's face. She smiled. The resemblance between him and his son was so remarkable. It could not be so hard to care for the father when she already loved the son. Then, her smile faded. The very thought of losing Jordan broke her heart. Even if rejection and pain were the price she paid, her husband must never send her away. Graistan must be hers for all time. Resolved, she slid back into the tall bed forgetting to retrieve the bedclothes.

Her husband opened his eyes just a little later. "Why did you leave?" he murmured.

"I was cold and could not find the bedclothes in the dark," she whispered back, sliding down beside him.

"Impossible." He grinned slightly. "There is nothing cold about you."

"Do not tease me," she whispered in shy embarrassment. He only chuckled and put his arm beneath her to draw her near. When he nuzzled her ear, his warm breath set her skin to shivering. Her arms slipped around him when he set his lips to the spot behind her ear, and she eased downward until their hips met. His shaft moved in new life. She caught her breath as her body answered with its own desire. There was great pleasure in knowing she could wring this reaction from him.

"Who is the tease now," he said hoarsely against her ear. His free hand slipped into her hair to cradle her head and turn her face to his. Their lips briefly met, then he rolled back down against the mattress as if to escape her. But she did not release him. Instead, she came to rest on her side against him.

He sighed. She did not yet know him well enough to read his expression, yet he seemed troubled by something. He combed her hair with his fingers as though distracted. "Why did you lay with me? After I threatened you with violence, why—?" He seemed ready to ask more, but his whisper died into silence as his fingers descended the peak of her breast.

"I—" she started, barely breathing the word as his hand left her breast and his fingers drew curving lines against her stomach. "I—" She caught her breath as his hand slid lower still to find her soft woman's flesh between her thighs. "I, oh, I cannot think when you do that." She kissed his throat, needing to touch him somewhere to release the lovely pressure he awoke.

"That," he said with a smile, his fingers once again teasing her breast, "is answer enough." She shivered in response, then lay back in the mattress. It took only the slightest tug to convince him he should lay atop her. When she lifted her hips in invitation, he made her wait an exquisitely long time before he finally accepted.

Rannulf was awake long after his wife had dropped into contented slumber. She lay in the curve of his arm, her breathing even and peaceful, long strands of her hair falling across his chest. In all his life he had never once raised his hand in anger toward a woman, not even Isotte. Until this night he had not believed himself to be capable of such violence. But this spit of a girl had goaded him until he had near destroyed her in his rage.

Not only had she taunted him, her rage had met and matched his. As her anger, so her passion. He closed his eyes as his body reacted pleasurably to that thought. On the heels of pleasure came doubt.

If she were still the innocent she'd been on their wedding night, she should have cowered from him after he'd threatened her very life. Instead, she'd met him willingly, even wantonly, as though she truly desired him. Was this simply passionate innocence or something more calculating? If so, then for that purpose did she seek to use him? Could it be she was already with child and could now claim the babe his, but "born too soon"?

He closed his mind against these painful thoughts and eased his arm out from beneath her. Deep within him there was a longing to believe what his senses told him, that she desired him for no other reason than himself. Yet, the past had taught him he could so easily delude himself. How was he to know the truth? Rannulf rolled away and lay sleepless for hours.

Chapter 10

Rowena sat bolt upright and pushed her tangled hair out of her face. Light flooded into the bed from the solar's open door. She glanced quickly about. The room was empty; he'd left her sleeping. Why? To secretly prepare for her departure?

With an anxious cry, she threw herself off the mattress, snatched on her robe, and hurried into the solar. Her personal items still lay where she'd left them. She dashed to the windows, only her clutching hands holding the garment closed over her nakedness.

The courtyard was bathed in the lazy warmth of midday. No baggage wains stood waiting to be filled with her belongings. No peasants and oxen milled about waiting to carry them away, nor was there a mounted escort ready to send her back to Benfield.

She released her breath in a long sigh, then squinted down at the crowd of stable hands clustered at the inner gate. They were peering out into the bailey. She looked beyond the inner walls to see what'd caught their interest. It was Jordan astride his new pony.

With a scream of delight even she could hear, he sent the small beast dashing full tilt across the bailey and through a flock of unwary geese. Feathers flew as servants scrambled to catch the fowl. At the far end of the yard was Gilliam, now doubled over in laughter, and beside him, Rannulf.

An odd sensation awoke at the sight of her husband's broad shouldered form. The sun burnished his dark hair with a coppery glow and gleamed golden on his soft gown. Although she tried from this distance, she could not make out his expression. As if sensing her interest, he looked up toward her windows. She gasped and stepped back, then wondered why she'd done so. Surely, he'd not seen her.

"Enough of this foolishness," she scolded herself and threw open the door to the women's quarters. "Ilsa?! Ilsa! Where are you?" Without waiting for an answer, she stalked back into the solar. At least the maid had thought to lay out a ewer of water and a fresh washcloth. She dampened the square and scrubbed her face.

"Here I am, lady," the old woman said, stepping spryly into the solar.

"Bring my clothing," she snapped as she tossed aside her robe. "Why did you leave me sleeping?"

"Lord Rannulf told me not to disturb you." Her maid held out her chemise.

"But, it is so late and I had much to do with the feast this afternoon. And"—Rowena hurriedly pulled the garment on over her head—"above all, I have missed mass." Following this, she donned the loose white undergown and slipped her feet into stockings and shoes.

"Well," Ilsa said with a nervous laugh, "what is one from seven? Besides, you look rested. Perhaps you should sleep late more often."

"You know what my wishes are. Why did you listen to him when I have commanded differently?"

"Oh, lady, but he is my lord. Will you worry me between you like two dogs with a meaty bone until I snap and am useless to you both?" The old woman twisted her hands into her lady's simple blue wool overgown.

Rowena opened her mouth to reply, only to shut it against the angry words waiting to tumble out. If she vented her fears and frustration over her marriage on those around her, she would soon destroy all the faith and confidence she'd so strived to build. "My apologies," she said after a moment, "I am not fit to be with this morning."

Ilsa helped her into her overgown and pulled the laces tight as Rowena knotted her belt about her waist. At last, she tied her key ring into place on the belt's long tongue. When she let it fall, the many keys jangled merrily at her knees.

"Sit, lady, and let me fix your hair."

"Today, I will do it for myself."

"But, it is my duty to—"

"Go." Her tone quickly sent the old woman back into the safety of the women's quarters. Rowena sat in the chair and tore the comb through her long tresses. It would have taken that woman a half an hour to do what she could do for herself in minutes.

Suddenly, the solar's door burst open. "Lady Wren, Lady Wren," Jordan screeched, "you should have seen me!" He was fair dancing with excitement. His hair stood straight up from his head, and his robe was smeared with mud. "You should have seen Scherewind. That is my pony, I have named him Scherewind for he is faster than any other horse."

"Oh, but I did," she interrupted. "Ooof," she gasped as he leapt into her lap. "Have a care with me, my heart. I am no burly man like your father or your uncles."