Master Of Surrender (24 page)

The old woman didn’t budge. Instead, a smile twisted her thin lips. “Nay, lass, stand and face the devil.”

Isabel gasped as Henri crashed through the bramble to their left, several of his men following close behind. Cedric rolled out from under the hooves that would have shred him to pieces had he not acted so quickly.

Henri’s bay stallion reared and pawed the air with his hooves. When he dropped to all fours, he blew nervously, stomping the hard ground. Henri removed his helmet, his grin, so much like Rohan’s, screaming victory. “So, we meet again, Isabel.”

Henri dismounted. Isabel move backward. Cedric, in an act of submission, bowed low to the devil. “My lord,” he said. “As promised, the lady Isabel.”

Henri gave him a cursory glance, then motioned to one of his men. The knight dismounted and drew his sword. Cedric read his death in the knight’s eyes. He dropped to his knees, then lay supine, grabbing Henri’s ankles. “I pray you, do not do this! I know the hiding place of the lady’s treasury!”

Henri held up his hand and kicked Cedric in the chin, rolling him over. He placed a heavy foot on the reeve’s chest and drew his sword. He pressed the tip to Cedric’s throat. “Tell me now, or die.”

Cedric opened his mouth, but no words came. “Nay! Do not slay him!” Isabel screamed, tearing away from Wilma. “Enough Saxon blood has been spilled for silver. End it now!”

Rohan galloped furiously toward the screams. The hairs on the back of his neck rose at the first cry. It was too familiar. When he broke into the clearing, his eyes went directly to the devil knight and the woman he clasped tightly to his chest. The Saxon at his feet groveled like a mewling bitch. Not far from the trio stood a grizzled old woman who seemed to have command of the situation. Farther back still were several of Henri’s men.

Rohan reined his horse to a grinding halt several horse lengths from his brother and his minions behind him. Rohan knew his own men were ready to lay down their lives at his slightest command. And, Rohan thought as his blood began to boil, the end of the day might very well see his brother’s blood fertilizer for the hard English soil. His patience was at an end.

Henri grinned, and with Isabel clasped to his chest, he bowed and extended his arm to the piked heads. “Welcome, brother, to hell!”

Rohan’s men flanked him, their hands on the hilts of their swords. Henri’s men mirrored the action. “What goes on here?” Rohan demanded.

Henri threw his head back and laughed. “It appears, dear brother, you have been cuckolded.”

Rohan scowled at the implication. His angry gaze locked onto Isabel’s wide-eyed stare. Slowly, she shook her head.

“Your lady was off to meet her lover. How fortunate for you I discovered her ruse.”

“Nay!” Isabel screamed, twisting in Henri’s arms. “’Tis a lie!”

Rohan sat quiet but alert in the saddle. Anger burned hot in his belly. His eyes dropped to the Saxon cowering at Henri’s feet. Henri pointed his sword at the man. “Ask him. He will tell you.”

Rohan contemplated the man as an unexpected spear of jealousy stabbed him. While the man appeared to be nothing but a coward, his rich clothing spoke of his higher standing. Was this Dunsworth? “Who are you?” Rohan demanded.

The man rolled over to face Rohan. He started to crawl away from de Monfort, but the Norman placed his booted foot on his back, planting him hard into the ground. “Speak from there, Saxon, and speak clearly so we all may hear the truth.”

Rohan stiffened. The Saxon swallowed hard, and his body shook violently beneath Henri’s heavy foot, but when he spoke, he spoke clearly and strongly. “I am Cedric, reeve to Lord Dunsworth. I came to take the lady to my lord.”

“Why did he not come himself?”

Cedric looked up at Henri, then to Isabel, then to Rohan. “He—he had pressing matters to attend.”

Rohan laughed coldly, not believing the reeve. Nor Henri. He speared Isabel with another glare. He did not believe her, either. There was far more afoot than Isabel simply going to meet her betrothed.

“Did the lady go with you willingly?” Rohan softly asked.

The reeve nodded, not making eye contact with Rohan. “Aye, she did indeed.”

The old woman cackled. “The Saxon speaks in half-truths, Norman.”

“Shut thy mouth!” Henri shouted.

The crone moved toward Henri, no hint of fear in her eyes. Indeed, her calm boldness impressed Rohan. “Your lust for revenge will be your undoing, Norman. Leave this island now, and you will live to see yourself lord over all your sire claims.”

“You are addled, crone! My brother Robert is heir to all my sire holds sacred!”

She smiled, her lopsided, snaggletoothed grin unnerving. Rubbing her hands together the old woman cackled again. “Aye, you, sir knight, are the least-favored son.” She turned to Rohan, then looked back to Henri. “The sire even favors his bastard above his noble-born second son!”

Henri roared in anger and moved forward with Isabel in front of him, using her as a shield, with his sword pressed across the vital vein in her neck.

“How do you know this?” Rohan demanded.

She turned dark eyes up to Rohan. “The forest whispers her secrets to me.” The old woman’s eyes darted from Henri to the reeve, then to Rohan and beyond. She moved at an angle away from the noble-born son.

“What madness do you speak, woman?” Rohan demanded.

She stopped her sideways movement and looked long and hard at Rohan. Despite her crazed ranting, her eyes were clear and lucid and held a deep wisdom he saw in few men and fewer women. His skin flinched as he thought of A’isha. She’d had the same knowing eyes of this sage.

“I am Wilma of Menloc, seer of the ignoble.” Her eyes moved past Rohan to Thorin, touching on each of his men before landing on Isabel, then back to Rohan. She raised her hands to the sky. “In the dungeons of hell, you have sworn your oath to one another. For the oath to take root, each of you must sow your seed deep between the thighs of England. But before each coupling, blood must be shed, for only the blood sacrifice will assuage the fury of the Blood Sword!”

Her words stunned Rohan. When he looked to his men, he saw they were equally stunned. When he looked to Henri, he saw murder in his eyes.

“Norman knight, bastard kin of the bastard duke, strike your mark, and make it sure, for if you do not, the legacy will die before it breathes life!” Wilma turned and looked to Isabel of Alethorpe. “Your destiny is clear, virgin daughter of Saxony. Prepare yourself!”

With those last words, Rohan felt as if he had been struck by a bolt of lightning. His chest heaved toward the sky as if a rope pulled it, before being abruptly released. With a clarity he had never before experienced, he understood his destiny was with the maid. He had known the moment she challenged him from the tower rampart that she was destined to be his. Now he could no longer deny it. Nor did he want to.

His body frosted, before his blood thawed, then warmed to hot. He turned to face Isabel, who stood blanched white in Henri’s arms. A fierce possessiveness grabbed hold of Rohan’s heart. Yet a calm determination held on tighter.

“Henri, release the maid,” Rohan said, his voice barely audible yet laced with tempered steel the noble could not deny.

When he did not release her, Rohan dismounted. He silently signaled his men, and in the time it took to blink, the knights had arrows notched and bowstrings drawn. Henri’s lips twisted in a maniacal smile. He nodded as if warming to this deadly game, then lifted his foot from the reeve and moved Isabel backward away from Rohan, toward the piked heads.

“My men never miss their mark. Release the maid,” Rohan said again.

“Men!” Henri shouted. In answer, his six knights drew their swords.

Rohan laughed, unfazed by Henri’s threat. “You will be dead before they can thrust.” He moved toward his retreating brother. “Release the maid.”

“Release her, second son!” the crone cackled. “If you do not, your head will grace my pike.”

Rohan watched the cowardly reeve skulk to the edge of the clearing.

It took the words of the witch finally to get to Henri. Wildly, he looked around. Rohan’s men had two arrows notched in each of their bows, aimed directly at his head.

“You are doomed, brother. Release the maid,” Rohan softly said, moving closer.

Henri smiled, his eyes clear. Then, in a swift move, he ripped Isabel’s dress down the middle, exposing her naked breasts. “The hag’s prophecy will die here and now!” He pushed Isabel’s back with his knee, forcing her to arch toward Rohan. When Isabel tried to shield herself, Henri slapped her hands away and pressed his sword harder into the white flesh of her throat. Rohan roared and moved toward his brother. When Henri grabbed a breast and rubbed a nipple between his thumb and forefinger, Rohan saw red.

“She is quite the prize, brother. Much sweeter then Eleanor. Did you know this lady’s betrothed is willing to pay for her?”

“Release her,” Rohan ground out.

“I will, but first, brother, I will take from you what you stole from me.”

As he moved to push Isabel back into the thick forest, he was suddenly hurled high up into the air.

Rohan and his men stood wide-eyed, their jaws agape. Henri hung by his right foot, swaying back and forth and upside down from a thick rope attached to a high limb of a sturdy oak. His screams of frustration echoed throughout the forest. The crone laughed so hard she coughed. Henri’s men swarmed below him, looking up, not sure how to free their lord. With all eyes on de Monfort’s dilemma, Isabel darted to Rohan but was grabbed by the reeve, who had kept his focus solely on the maid and had grabbed Henri’s sword from where it fell on the ground. As Henri had done before him, the reeve pressed the blade to Isabel’s throat.

Though he stood fast, the man’s eyes implored Rohan for understanding. He would get none. “Forgive me, Sir Rohan, but my loyalty lies with my lord first, and he insists I bring his lady to him at all costs.”

Rohan strode toward him, his body heated and taut. He saw nothing but the shaking pale hand of the Saxon and the blade at Isabel’s throat. The vision of her flesh slit and her life’s blood slowly oozing from her clouded his sight with rage but more than that, a gut-twisting sorrow. He would go to hell first before he allowed Isabel to be taken from him.

“Forgive me, Saxon, but my loyalties are to the lady!” Before the Saxon knew what he was about, Rohan grabbed Isabel with one hand and plunged his sword deep into the man’s gut with the other.

Isabel screamed.

The crone laughed in self-satisfied glee. “’Tis as I foretold!”

R
ohan jerked his surcoat off and placed it over Isabel’s head. She shivered from the cold but more from the shock of all that had just unfolded. Numbness kept her from going completely hysterical.

Wilma moved toward Henri, who had quieted from his humiliating upside-down position on the rope. Instinctively, Isabel knew he realized that his life was in his brother’s hands. When Wilma pulled a short knife from the inside of her garment, Rohan stepped between her and his blackhearted brother.

“Nay, Lady Wilma. My brother will not die by your hand today.”

She raised dark eyes up to him, and her lips twitched. “Allow him to live now, Norman, and he will cost you more.”

Rohan nodded and hacked the taut rope in half with his sword. “So be it.”

Henri tumbled to the hard earth with a sickening thud. His men rushed to him. Rohan’s knights still held bows drawn, aimed directly at the ignoble.

Wilma threw her hands up and tore at her hair. “I cannot control your destiny, bastard Norman!”

Rohan sheathed his sword and walked to where Isabel shivered uncontrollably. He picked her up and carefully placed her in his saddle. He mounted behind her and turned to the seer. “Nay, you cannot, but I can.”

The ride back to Rossmoor was long and silent. Rohan’s arm clasped Isabel possessively to his chest. The powerful thrust of the great horse beneath her ate up the turf and his body steamed, keeping her warm. Isabel’s thoughts and emotions whirled from relief at not going to Arlys, not succumbing to Henri, and surviving Cedric’s attacks to fear and despair at what Wilma prophesied. Her body trembled violently at the implication of her words. Rohan pulled her tighter against his chest, and try as she might to deny that she wanted a life with the Norman, the prospect excited her. Being wife to a man such as he would be a constant challenge.

But he did not offer marriage.

Even if he did, as his wife, she would no doubt see him off fighting beside his duke more than he would stay and be husband, for while England was crippled, there were those such as Arlys and her father so passionate about keeping a Norman off the throne that they would die for the cause. What would Geoff want? Would he lay down his arms and swear to the Norman duke, or would he stand and fight him?

Isabel shook her head, still unable to bend her mind around exactly what was expected of her. Was she to bear the bastard a bastard? Nay! She would not. She would not give herself to any man but her wedded husband. She looked up at the set jaw of the man who had since his arrival turned her life inside out. Aye, she could admit she lusted for the man. Her cheeks warmed. She would not lie. But he was a landless knight; there was no future for them.

Isabel sighed heavily. And she was a landless Saxon noble. She had nothing but the remains of her father’s treasury at her disposal, and that she would not touch, for in truth it belonged to her brother now. And she would never take from Geoff.

So, like Rohan, she had nothing. Was nothing enough? Mayhap it would be if there was love between them, but there was really only the ramblings of an addled old woman in the forest.

Isabel’s chest tightened as grief and despair engulfed her. For the first time since the Normans’ landing, she felt the urge to give up. To go away and lick her wounds. To be left completely alone. She was tired of taking care of everyone. She wanted someone to take care of her.

She settled back against the hard chest of the man who dominated her every thought, and she closed her eyes. Mayhap when she awoke, the world would be brighter.

It was not. A dark gloom hung over the manor, giving it a dull, sad pall. Whereas the villagers had looked cheery and carefree that morning, now they looked forlorn and sullen. Wulfson met her stare with a furious glare. Isabel’s cheeks flushed hot. ’Twas not her intention to shame the knight in the eyes of his master.

Rohan tossed his reins to Hugh and dismounted; he turned to Isabel and extended his arms. She moved easily into them, and as he drew her from the horse, her body pressed against his. She caught her breath at the heat that radiated from him. She looked up into his stormy eyes. Her heart beat so hard against her breast she felt as if it would break out. The storm passed in his eyes; he turned and extended his arm to her. She took it.

He ignored Wulfson, who did not look nearly as afraid as Warner had when she gave that knight the slip. Indeed, Wulfson’s face twisted in furious anger. Rohan ignored his man. They swept into the hall, and despite her fatigue, she perked up when she saw it was vacant of any Willingham. She did not have the strength to trade barbs with the peevish Deidre.

Isabel sat quietly throughout the meal, the day’s events unfolding again and again in her head. She was tired, confused, and afraid. But she also felt a different, more ready tension. She watched Rohan’s large hand cut meat in their trencher, then grasp the goblet of fine wine and drink heartily of it. He had killed with no compunction today. Yet those hands could be gentle. And had been with her. She trembled. What would he expect from her this eve?

She looked up to see his tawny eyes quietly contemplating her. While they burned, there was a serene sheen to them. Isabel dropped her gaze to her food and nibbled on a piece of spiced capon. Emotions collided in her heart. She would not succumb to him. She could not.

She would come to her husband a virgin. She could not bear the thought of bearing a bastard. ’Twas not fair to the child, and ’twas not fair to her. She knew Rohan would press her for complete yielding. She would not bend. On this matter, she was steadfast in her resolve.

“Isabel, what plagues you?” Rohan softly asked.

A sudden wave of hot tears welled up in her eyes. She shook her head, but a big tear plopped onto her hand. She moved to wipe it on her sleeve, but he brought her hand to his lips and kissed it away. He raised his lips, hovering just above her skin, and said, “Your bravery today was commendable. Do not despair overmuch, damsel. This war is coming to a close, and you will benefit from the outcome.”

“Rohan.” She choked as emotion overcame her. “I must know of my brother. Too much hinges on his life.”

He squeezed her hand gently. “Nothing changes between us should he return.”

Isabel withdrew her hand from Rohan’s. “You are wrong to think that. He would be a worthy ally to you and your duke. I cannot think William would relieve him of his lands and title. He is rightful lord here.”

“This land is still unsettled, Isabel. Much can change. William is a man of his word and not one to change his mind with the direction of the wind. He will see his loyal subjects where he will. And we are all subject to his discretion.” He smiled, plucked a piece of succulent capon from the trencher, and waved it beneath her nose. “Eat, Isabel, you will need your strength.”

She looked up to see a flash of fire in his eyes. Her belly did a slow roll. She opened her mouth, and he popped the meat between her lips. When she closed her mouth around his finger that lingered against her bottom lip, a hard, sensual jolt nearly unseated her. Rohan smiled and slowly withdrew his finger.

His action surprised her. The erotic charge the soft brush of his fingertips across her lips elicited shocked her. Just moments before, she sat determined to end their physical liaison. But now, a different hunger consumed her.

She watched him watch her, and when he understood her thoughts, his lips turned up into a slow, knowing smile. Heat infused her cheeks. She turned and looked away from him. She had fought so valiantly to put carnal thoughts of this man far from her mind. But with this one, single, innocent touch, her body flamed for more.

“May I be excused, Rohan?” she asked softly.

“You do not hunger for food, Isa?”

She refused to look at him. Instead, she shook her head.

“Nay. I am weary. I seek a bath and my bed.”

Rohan stood and offered her his arm. She took it, and he led her to the bottom of the stairway. Without looking back, Isabel ran up the stone steps to the chamber she shared with him. Once inside, she closed the door and pressed her back against the hard timber. She caught a hard breath and pressed her hand to her belly. Her entire body flared hot with desire.

A soft knock on the door pulled her out of her thoughts. She opened the door to Enid, who stood wringing her hands. Isabel bid her maid come in, and Enid quickly set about preparing a bath for her. As she bustled about the room, several times she cast an eye toward Isabel. Finding the maid’s actions annoying, Isabel said, “What pricks your mind, Enid?”

Once again, the tiring woman stood wringing her hands. “There is word of others lurking in the forest. The branded souls from Dunsworth.”

Isabel’s heart went out to the poor people. Henri was a menace. He would see every Saxon and no doubt some of his own countrymen dead. Indeed, Isabel knew it was only a matter of time before the two brothers clashed, and one would not rise. The thought of Rohan lying on the cold, hard English soil as his life blood drained from him terrified Isabel. Her heart squeezed so tightly she could not draw a breath. The unexpected emotion that claimed her at the thought of Rohan’s death terrified her as much as his death itself. She sat perfectly still. What did it mean? Did she—did she have feelings for the dark knight? Isabel pressed her hand to her throat and swallowed hard. The buzz in her belly and the heat in her loins told her what her head did not want to acknowledge. Somehow, in the last week, a man, a sworn enemy, had found his way into her heart.

How could it be? She tried to swallow but the dryness in her throat hurt. Nay, she could not care for a man such as Rohan du Luc! Could she?

“Milady?” Enid softly questioned. “What ails you?”

Isabel blinked and shook the crazy thoughts from her head. She looked up to Enid and smiled. “Forgive me. I am weary. What did you say of the people of Dunsworth?”

“They band together in the forest.”

“Do they seek refuge here?”

Enid shrugged, still holding back.

“Tell me where they hide, and I will alert Sir Rohan to fetch them.”

“’Tis rumored they are marked by the devil’s brand now. They conjure spells and are more bent on revenge than rescue, milady. They hold no trust for the Normans.”

Several boys brought in steaming buckets of water and poured them into the copper tub, filling it. Once they left the room, Enid helped Isabel undress. As she sank into the steamy water, Isabel closed her eyes, and as much as she did not want to think of her feelings for Rohan, the buzz in her belly made her smile. “Enid, Sir Rohan is not like his brother. Rest assured, he means the villagers no harm. I will talk to him on the matter. Now, please leave me to my bath.”

Enid made haste to leave the room.