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Authors: The Mistress of Rosecliffe

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BOOK: Rexanne Becnel
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“Ah, but hatred is a powerful emotion. A passionate emotion,” he added, deliberately taunting her.
But she did not rise to his baiting. He wanted to turn her around and make her face him, to take hold of those slender shoulders and draw her up against him. Instead he restrained himself, only catching her by the elbow. It did elicit a satisfying gasp of alarm from her, however, and he steered her to the door. “’Tis time for dinner. I would have you enjoy the fruits of your other efforts today—those in the hall.”
She looked up at that remark, a wary expression on her face.
“Yes, I am aware you have taken matters in hand belowstairs, despite my orders to the contrary. The hall was not so calm when I left this morning.”
“Mayhap it is your absence that restored the calm,” she
snapped. Then she yanked her arm from his hold and hurried ahead of him to the stairs.
Rhys watched her go, grinning at her angry strides. Angry or no, she exuded some sort of seductive aura and he acknowledged to himself that he was not immune. He’d had the entire day to consider her and his perverse attraction to her. He still did not entirely understand it. He’d known women with features more exquisite than hers, women with more curvaceous bodies who were far better versed than her in the pleasures of the flesh. But this woman …
He shook his head. Though he did not understand his desire for her, he was wise enough to accept it as fact. He wanted her; he would bring her to heel; and he would have her.
Perhaps it was only that he possessed Rosecliffe now and so had no other challenge save the one she presented. Whatever the reason, he meant to master Isolde FitzHugh. It would be an entertaining pastime and would help speed the days until her father and uncle returned, and he could take up his sword once more.
She had seated herself below the salt when he descended to the hall. Every eye in the vast chamber turned toward him when he entered. Everyone in the hall waited to see what he would do.
“You will sit beside me,” he said as he strolled past her.
“No.”
He stopped and turned on his heel. “I am lord here. You will obey me or suffer the consequences like everyone else.”
She jerked upright, glaring at him. “Then I will suffer the consequences.” She started for the stairs, but he caught her wrist and spun her around. With a cry she swung her free hand wildly, and with a sharp crack, her palm connected with his cheek.
The entire company gasped at her recklessness.
Isolde heard their gasps, and heard also her own quick intake of breath. What had she done? And to what end?
She faced her nemesis, the man who controlled her fate, and felt his hand tighten around her wrist, almost to the point of pain. How could she have forgotten the vow she’d made? If she could not control her temper for even a few hours, how would she ever control herself for two weeks?
Though she hung back, he pulled her closer to him, so close that when he bent down their faces were but inches apart. She heard the hiss of the fire in the hearth behind her, and the nervous clearing of someone’s throat. A chair scraped back and footsteps sounded. But her attention was riveted upon Rhys.
“Your heart is racing,” he said, too low for anyone but her to hear. “Are you afraid?”
How she wanted to say no. But at that moment she was terrified, and she knew he could see the truth.
“Yes,” she managed to say, through lips gone completely dry.
“Good. I am reassured that you retain some remnant of self-preservation.”
“I may be afraid,” she rashly went on. “But I will not be cowed by you. And I refuse to sit beside you and share a meal while you pretend to be lord here!”
They were words intended to prick his pride, and they worked very well. She saw the burn of fury in his night-dark eyes. But his voice maintained an icy calm.
“You will share a meal with me, here in this hall, Isolde. Or else we can dine together in private.” He pulled her so close she could feel the heat of his body. “Is that what you desire?”
“No—”
“I think that is enough,” a voice said from beside them.
Isolde turned gratefully to see Tillo standing there. At least someone was brave enough to challenge Rhys. But one glimpse at the cold fury on Rhys’s face banished that brief glimmer of hope. The old minstrel was twice Rhys’s age, and half his size.
“Did you want something?” Rhys bit out in a dangerously quiet voice.
“Do not fault him for his concern.” Isolde spoke before Tillo could. “It takes an exceedingly brave man to interfere when his only weapon is reason.”
Rhys turned his black stare from Tillo to her. To her surprise, however, her words seemed somehow to have calmed him. He scrutinized her face. “You need not defend him to me. I have a great respect for his bravery—and his loyalty.
Take your place,” he added to Tillo, without glancing at the man. “She will come to no great harm at my hands.” Then he swept the silent hall with a sharp gaze.
“Since you will not deign to sit at the high table, nor will you willingly dine with me in private, you leave me but one option. No,” he said, interrupting her sigh of relief. “You will not be allowed to return to the tower. Not yet.”
Isolde regarded him warily. “What do you mean?”
“If you will not perform the role of mistress of Rosecliffe, then you must perform the role of servant.”
“I’ve been doing just that all day,” she muttered.
“
Personal
servant,” he clarified. Without warning, he started for the high table, dragging her behind him while everyone gaped at them. He released her, then seated himself in her father’s chair and fixed her with a stern look. “Serve my meal; pour my wine. Mend my garments; clean my boots. You will perform all those tasks for me. Unless you prefer to dine at my side.” He gestured to the empty chair.
Isolde frowned and unconsciously rubbed the wrist he’d held so warmly. How had it come to this? She’d not intended to confront him, certainly not in full view of all the castle folk. Now everyone stared expectantly at her, awaiting her response.
What should she do?
To serve him would be galling. But to acquiesce to his demands would be more so. She should not have tried to annoy him by sitting below the salt. Now she was in a worse position than ever And if she refused to accept either of the choices he gave her now … She did not want to think about spurring his temper that far.
She swallowed her pride, though with exceeding difficulty, and lifted her chin to an arrogant level. “Very well, then. I suppose I will serve you your meal.”
He smiled then, a slow grin that sent waves of alarm skittering up her spine. There was triumph in that smug smile. But worse, there was knowledge in it. Had he guessed what she’d been up to, that she had meant to go along with him but in a fit of anger had forgotten her plan? Surely he could not know that. Yet it was clear he did know how to play on her
volatile emotions, and thereby ruin any plan she mounted. He had simply to rouse her temper.
Isolde swallowed and looked away from him. She must maintain a better hold on her emotions. Then, angry, she snatched a ewer from a gawking page and began to fill a goblet of wine. She would show him that she had a stronger will than that!
Slowly the great hall came back to life. The servants carried in their platters of food; those seated began heartily to eat. As if her dilemma were ended, everyone assumed their normal places and performed their normal roles.
But there was nothing left of normalcy at Rosecliffe. Not really. Throughout the long meal she picked out his food: tender slices of guinea hen and eel; a bowl of stewed vegetables; a generous slice of white bread slathered with salted butter. Her own stomach growled, for she was hungry. But she would eat later, with the other servants.
When Linus and Gandy took up their instruments to begin the evening’s entertainments, Isolde stepped back, hoping to escape to some private spot. But Rhys spied her movement and, with a crook of his finger, halted her.
“Fetch me my gittern,” he told her. “You have not had a lesson in several days.”
She stared at him dumbfounded. “The gittern?” Her expression turned bitter, for they both knew he had used her interest in music to seduce her. Outraged that he could bring that up now—outraged and humiliated—she glared at him. “I no longer have any interest in learning to play the gittern.”
His expression did not alter, unless it was to grow more smug. “So you say. But just as a passionate anger can fire great art, so can it fire great music. Fetch the gittern, woman. I would hear you sing and play ’ere I seek my bed this evening.”
“I am hardly in a mood to sing,” she snapped, balling her hands into fists.
He shook his head as if he were forced to a great patience by a recalcitrant child. “Have you not yet learned the futility of opposing me? I will hear you sing and play in the hall, in this company.” His voice lowered. “Or else I will hear you moan and sigh, in private with me. Which will it be?”
Isolde sucked in a harsh breath. She wanted to scream her frustration at him, but her shame was too great. She glanced around, horrified that others might have heard his wicked words. Thankfully no one was near enough. But her face nonetheless flamed with color to imagine herself once more moaning beneath him. Better to fetch the gittern, she consoled herself as she made her way on shaky legs to his chamber. Better that than the alternative.
In the dimly lit chamber, however, the dragon she’d sketched on his wall mocked her, as did the wolf prostrate beneath it. She stared at the design she’d drawn so angrily, and to her chagrin, she saw what Rhys had seen: fiery emotion. Erupting passion.
“
Taran,
” she muttered, turning away in despair. How had that happened? But tomorrow she would change the design to something milder, something not so potent. This painting would
not
be a masterpiece, she vowed.
And he would not manipulate her any more.
THE LITTLE DOG, CIDU, DID HIS TRICKS. GANDY SANG, ONCE more wooing his gigantress love, and well sated with food, the subdued people of Rosecliffe slowly relaxed. Two of the young pages performed a tumbling routine Gandy had taught them.
They were upstaged, however, when three of the hounds chased Cidu through the hall, under tables, over benches, and knocked down one of the maids. It took three men and both of the lads to drag the beasts away from the cocky little dog, and everyone was still chuckling when peace was at last regained.
Everyone but Isolde.
She stood behind Rhys with the gittern clutched in her damp palms, waiting, as good servants were expected to wait, until her master bade her come.
Her master. How she despised the idea of serving him! But there was little she could do to alter her fate—her
temporary
fate. So she stood there amidst the other gaiety of the hall, and she waited, and she glared her hatred at the back of Rhys’s head.
He seemed, however, impervious to the force of her emotions. Her dark, menacing looks only deflected off him, repelled by the arrogant set of his wide shoulders, and glanced off his rich, shining hair. His hair was pure black, she noticed as the entertainments progressed, and still a little too long, as befitted a ruffian. But it was clean and thick, and it glinted in
the golden light of the torchères, appearing blue-black and golden, all at one time.
His eyes were like that, too, she resentfully recalled as he kept his interest focused elsewhere. They were black as midnight, yet there was a light in them that burned.
She clutched the gittern to her chest as her mind ranged into dangerous territory. Why could he not have remained Reevius, the beguiling minstrel who had captured her heart? The compelling poet who’d stolen her innocence.
Not stolen, she admitted. She’d been a more than willing accomplice, until the very end. Yet even then he’d seduced her into willingness. Even when she had known his true identity, she still had found pleasure in his arms.
As if he sensed the mortifying direction of her thoughts, he turned and captured her gaze. He did not speak, but only stared at her, an endless, disconcerting stare. She wanted to turn away, to close her eyes and seal her thoughts from him, for she feared he would discern things she did not want him to know. But she could not avoid those brilliantly dark eyes. They compelled her and seemed to raise her shameful remembrances even closer to the surface.
“You are ready for your lesson.” Not a question, but a statement. As if he were still Reevius, his words seemed to carry a double meaning.
She swallowed hard and reminded herself sternly that he was not Reevius. He never had been. “No. I am not ready. Nor am I in the least interested. But I am here—as you ordered.”
“So you are.”
Beyond him Gandy and Linus took their bows to enthusiastic applause. At once several of the youngsters in the hall surrounded the pair, for despite everything that had happened, the dwarf and giant remained great favorites, as did their pet. People drifted into smaller groups, several men to throw dice, the few women to chat. Tillo was no longer anywhere to be seen, she noticed. Nor was Newlin, whose advice she could sorely use. But it was Rhys ap Owain who faced her now, and save for the several curious glances sent their way, the two of them were essentially alone.
“Come.” He rose and she fell back a pace. His hard features
relaxed in a half-grin. “Be at ease, Isolde. So long as you are compliant, you need not fear my temper.”
“How reassuring,” she muttered.
“I would rather we speak in Welsh.”
“Very well,” she answered in sarcastic Welsh.
Again he studied her for a long, uncomfortable moment. Then he gestured for her to accompany him nearer the hearth. “Play that lullaby,” he ordered once they were seated in the light of the fire. “The one you played down at the beach.”
“I don’t remember it.”
“You do.” He positioned the instrument on her lap, then circled her shoulders with one arm. “Shall I remind you?”
“No!” Isolde slid away from him, as far as the bench allowed, and took up the gittern as he’d taught her. Anything to avoid his wholly unsettling touch. She bent over the instrument, her heart hammering as she fought to regain her calm. But she would not meet his eyes, for he might then guess how distressed he made her.
And she was deeply distressed.
I hate him!
she reminded herself.
He is not Reevius. He is Rhys ap Owain, my bitterest enemy
.
But as she recalled the several chords he’d taught her, and began to pick out the simple lullaby, she admitted to herself the awful truth. He had some power over her, some pull she was helpless to avoid. Was it because she had already succumbed to him once? Was she now destined ever to be haunted by her erotic memories of that night?
That night.
Her mother had explained the basics of the physical relationship natural between a woman and her husband. But Isolde understood now, as she had not then, that marriage was not a necessary component for such a relationship. In those same explanations, had her mother ever mentioned lust? Had she warned about the fiery consequences of innocence lost—the enduring consequences?
“Sing the words,” Rhys said, startling her from her disturbing thoughts. She trembled at the dark quality of his voice, at the warm whisper of his breath against her cheek.
“You ask too much of me,” she blurted out. “I cannot sing, not when I am so … so distraught.” Too late she realized her
mistake. For once she looked up at him, she could not look away.
“You were distraught when you drew the mural, or so you said. Yet despite that, your sketch vibrates with passion. The truth is, your art is improved by the distress you profess to suffer—for the passionate feelings it rouses in you. So play for me, Isolde. And sing the words to me. Relieve those furious emotions of yours with music, and we shall see what comes of it.”
He strummed the strings, brushing her fingers in the process, and a shudder of awareness quivered through her.
“All right,” she muttered. “All right. Just … just allow me some room to breathe.”
He laughed, but he did lean away from her. He stretched out his long legs, crossing them at the ankles, and folded his hands contentedly across his stomach. It was truly astounding, the aberrant thought came to her even as she fought to ignore his proximity. She hated him—she always had. And yet she felt a terrible attraction to him, as well. How could she be so utterly perverse?
She bent to the gittern, beginning the lullaby anew. But when she felt sufficiently composed to sing, she did not sing all the words as she knew them. A few she altered and made up as she went along.
Faraway, faraway child of mine,
There will come wolves, strong and fine.
The fears of the night, they’ll slay in time,
And you shall be safe come morning.
 
Faraway, faraway babe I hold,
The dragons of night can seem so bold.
But soon enough, their fire will grow cold
And you shall be safe come morning.
She slanted a look at him, to gauge his reaction, for she knew she once again courted his anger. To her surprise, however, his mouth turned up at the corners in a droll smile. Did he find her amusing? She bent to the gittern emboldened by anger.
Faraway, faraway child, you’ll see.
Enemies one and all shall be
Draped on your father’s mighty shield
And you shall be safe—
Rhys’s hand came down hard on the strings, cutting her off mid-note.
“You don’t like my song?” she asked with exaggerated innocence.
“The lyrics are unwise,” he said in a cool tone. “But as I suspected, they do display your passion.”
His big hand slid to cover hers and though she tried to free herself from his grip, she could not. His callused palm enveloped hers, hot and hard, while the gittern’s neck beneath her hand was cool and smooth. Like the two sides of a dangerous man, she thought inanely. He was a man of beautiful words and music. But he was also a man of war. He was filled with rage, and one way or the other, it must be set free.
“I do not know any other songs,” she muttered, averting her eyes. “I told you that before—”
“Then you will sing to my tune.”
He took the gittern from her. It was a relief to be free of his touch, she told herself. The hall had gone quiet and she realized that everyone who had not yet sought their beds was staring. She grimaced at the spectacle he made of them. But it was plain that did not bother him one whit.
He began to play a traditional Welsh air that every Welsh child knew. With a dark look and the arch of one imperial brow, he commanded her. “Sing.”
It was a simple song about the hills and rivers and the spirit of the wind. But Isolde was certain no one had ever sung it with less enthusiasm than did she. She sang in a flat, off-key monotone. He sang as well, though through teeth gritted in anger. Several of his men joined in with wine-fueled fervor, and on the last of the verses their voices drowned out all the others. But even they could not mistake the tension that seethed between her and their leader.
“I would retire,” she said, lurching to her feet when the last note died in the air.
“You have tasks that yet require tending.” He stood and,
still gripping the gittern, started for the stairs. “Come.”
He did not look to see if she followed, and for several long seconds Isolde did not move. She was afraid to follow him, for he was not to be trusted. But neither was she—or rather, neither was her body to be trusted. For just the thought of going up those stairs with him had started a hot knot writhing in her stomach.
“What tasks?” she hissed, trailing reluctantly behind him.
What tasks, indeed? Rhys wondered, for what he wanted of her and what he
should
want of her bore no similarity whatsoever.
To the victor went the spoils. That was a truism of all battles. Both English custom and Welsh supported his claim to her. But he was no barbarian heedless of those he conquered. Though he did not like to acknowledge any honor on the part of the FitzHughs, one truth could not be ignored: rape of Welsh women had been strictly forbidden, and transgressions had always been severely punished. Rhys had no intention of appearing less honorable than a FitzHugh.
But it was difficult to deny the urgent burn of desire, this inconvenient fire she’d ignited in him. He heard her soft tread on the stairs behind him, and the beast inside him clawed for release.
“What tasks?” she demanded once more. Was that a quiver of fear in her voice?
On the third-floor landing he turned. She stood halfway down, backlit by a torchère mounted in the curve of the stairs. The flickering light cast a shimmering golden halo around her. But she was no angel, he reminded himself. More like a she-devil. Again he felt a rush of desire as heat pooled in his loins. She had but to come up a dozen more steps. The bed was just beyond the door.
“You are no longer the lady of the castle,” he stated in a harsh tone. “You are my hostage. My captive. As such, you must earn your keep like any other.”
“Is not the mural sufficient to earn my keep?” She stared resentfully at him. “Did I not serve the meal well enough? What else must I do?”
He did not answer, but his gaze on her was steady, and a vein throbbed in his neck. As the silence stretched out, her
eyes grew wide with comprehension and fear, and she backed down a step.
“No. No! You cannot mean that—”
“You will fold back the bedcovers,” he snapped. “And arrange the drapery.” His voice sounded cracked and hoarse, even to his own ears. But he pressed on. “You will hang my garments and clean my boots, and tend to the soiled linens.”
She shook her head. “I’ll not go inside your bedchamber while you are in it.”
He should not want her to. But her violent objection fanned some primitive fire inside him. She would take back those words; he would force her to. “What is it you fear from me, Isolde?”
She took a harsh breath. He saw the rise of her breasts against the bodice of her simply cut forest-green kirtle. When she only stared warily at him, he went on.
“Methinks it is not me, but rather your own passionate nature that you fear.”
“Then you are wrong!”
“For you have lain with a man,” he continued, “and taken much pleasure in it—”
“I did not!”
“Ah, but you did, Isolde. You filled with passion. You throbbed with it.” He was the one throbbing now, but still he pressed on. “Though you know you should not want to experience such passions again, you nonetheless want to. Isn’t that the truth of it? You fear not my lustful nature, but your own.”
He was not certain how right he was, not until she turned to the side and the light revealed the high color in her face. It also outlined the tautness of her nipples beneath the soft wool of her kirtle.
BOOK: Rexanne Becnel
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