Authors: The Mistress of Rosecliffe

Rexanne Becnel (16 page)

BOOK: Rexanne Becnel

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Beneath his tunic, trapped within his braies, his manhood swelled to its full, demanding length.

Damnation! He fought down a groan.

“’Tis you and your own lust that you fear, not me,” he managed to get out. “Get you up to the tower room,” he added, though it pained him to do so. “This night only will I absolve you of your responsibilities.”

He stepped back and gestured up the stairs with one hand.
“Go, before I change my mind,” he muttered, furious with the situation she’d put him in. “But think on what I have said, Isolde. Think on it and admit the truth, at least to yourself. ’Tis your lust that you cannot face.”

She did not move, not for the longest time. Neither did he, for it had suddenly become imperative that she come up to him. She must pass within his reach in order to seek the privacy of her prison room. He did not intend to touch her—though the restraint might very well kill him. But he would content himself with forcing her up the stairs, with seeing the truth of his words in her huge gray eyes.

And when she finally relented, when she gathered her full skirt in one hand and came slowly, warily, up the steps, it was harder even than he thought—and more rewarding.

She advanced past the circle of light cast by the lower torchère and into the light of the one on the third level. Her face was soft and pink; her hair rich and golden in the irregular amber light. And her eyes were a dark, fathomless gray. In that moment she was more beautiful, more desirable, than any woman he’d ever known.

That was the hard part, to stand rock still—and rock hard—and let her go by.

But the rewarding part was the flush of arousal she wore. He sensed it as if it were a palpable thing, a signal she gave off, her body to his. A scent of desire and longing and regret.

She wanted him, just as he’d said she did.

She sidled past him, shooting him a quick, wary—guilty—glance. Then she scurried up the stairs, into the dark rising well that led to her tiny chamber just above his.

If he wanted her, he had but to go to her.

He knotted his fists until his arms trembled and he thought he might crush the slender neck of the gittern in his ferocious grip. Better for her to come to him, he told himself, though sweat popped out on his brow and his jaw hurt from clenching his teeth. She would not accuse him of rape. Better to wait for her to approach him, though it took every bit of his will to do so.

The time would come and soon, he told himself, when she would come to him. Then he would claim her in every way a man could claim a woman. He would lose himself in her softness,
bury himself in her warmth, and fill her with his strength.

“Holy Mother,” he swore and closed his eyes, fighting for control. He managed to turn on his heel and stalk toward his chamber. He managed to close the door without slamming it, and lay the gittern aside. When he came face-to-face with the mural, though, with the wolf lying beneath the rearing dragon, he let out a string of oaths, every foul word he’d ever learned, in Welsh and English and French.

She’d drawn the images he’d demanded, the symbolic domination of the FitzHughs by the Welsh. But in the dark and solitude he knew a bitter truth. As he leaned his fevered brow against the cold stones of Rosecliffe and pressed his hand against his aching loins, he felt less the victor and more the victim.

Of all the women to desire, why her?

Downstairs in the great hall, the last of the castle folk sought their beds. All but Gandy and Linus.

“I don’t want to fight against her family,” Linus complained. He looked mournfully at his friend. The dwarf patted his crooked knee, then cuddled Cidu when the little dog leaped into his arms. After a few seconds Linus continued. “If he keeps her, they will come and fight him. But if he lets her go—”

“They will still come and fight,” Gandy interrupted.

“But I don’t want to fight anymore.”

“Then don’t.”

Linus scratched his head. “I don’t want him to fight, either, Gandy. He should stop.”

“I don’t think he can. Anyway, ’tis not our business.”

“But he is our friend.”

At that moment a dark figure descended the stairs with movements slow and uneven. Gandy slid down from his stool and Cidu leaped at once into Linus’s broad lap, as the ancient bard of Rosecliffe shuffled toward them with his odd sideways gait.

“Have you come from his chamber, or from hers? Or perhaps they are together,” Gandy said, giving Newlin a knowing wink.

Newlin smiled at him, a sweet, benign smile. “They are apart physically, but not because they wish to be. Other matters
separate them, though.” Slowly he shuffled past them to stand before the glowing hearth. He held his hands to the heat and his beribboned cloak fluttered and moved around his squat form.

“‘Tis cold, and ’tis certain to grow more so.”

“Winter is nigh,” Linus said.

“So it is.” Newlin nodded and smiled at the simple fellow. “So it is. It will be bitterly cold, I am afraid.”

“Not particularly promising weather for mounting a siege,” Gandy remarked.

Newlin turned to face him. “In truth, the bitter cold may be of great aid to this siege.”

Gandy smirked. “’Tis plain you know little of warfare.”

Newlin did not answer, except with another smile. He stepped closer to the welcome heat in the huge hearth. ’
Tis not warfare I speak of
, he thought.

Gandy had turned away. Linus lavished Cidu with affection. Across the hall, sitting alone in the shadows, Tillo looked up in dismay. Not warfare? What did Newlin mean? Then Newlin turned and looked straight into the shadows, straight into Tillo’s eyes.

Alarmed, Tillo shrank back, pressing a trembling hand to his chest. How had he heard the bard’s thoughts? More importantly, did the strange little man hear Tillo’s own dark thoughts? Tillo shivered fearfully, for he did not want Newlin to divine his thoughts or delve into his secrets.

But he knew somehow that Newlin
had
seen the truth. He had seen Tilly, who for so long had been protected by Tillo’s façade. Would Newlin reveal that truth now? Would he expose Tilly for who she truly was?

And if he did, what would she do then?

SIXTEEN

THREE DAYS PASSED. WINTER DESCENDED WITH ABRUPT FEROCITY, and the mural progressed. Meanwhile the tension between Isolde and Rhys seethed with violent throes of repressed emotions.

A relentless storm descended over the land, pushing snow into high drifts and driving both men and beasts indoors. The mural grew and developed with each added swath of dark paint. Fiery rivers of blood red; vivid streaks of yellow and purple and blue that brought to life a battle to the death.

It was because she fought just such a battle within herself, Isolde fretted as she stared up at the nearly completed painting. She’d not meant it to be so large, nor so compelling, and every comment Rhys made on its progress infuriated her. But she could no longer deny the truth. It was her best work, her most ambitious and her most powerful.

The foul dragon, painted in blacks and blues, with glowing nostrils and glittering eyes, was supposed to be hideous. But somehow it had become magnificent.

She stood back and wiped the back of her wrist against her brow. If the dragon was magnificent, it was because it symbolized Wales, and through her mother, she was half Welsh. But she could not allow the dragon to actually defeat the wolf, symbol of the FitzHughs and the other half of her lineage. After all, her mother had not defeated her father, nor had he defeated his Welsh wife. They had struggled—she knew the tales of those difficult first years. But once they’d joined together,
once they’d wed, their union had made everything better.

Occasionally they still fought, but neither of them was ever defeated, and neither could Isolde allow the wolf in her painting to be defeated. So the wolf grew and became splendid. Her fangs gleamed; her claws fended off the mighty dragon.

And day by day, as the pair struggled across the wide plastered wall, Isolde refined the image she meant one day soon to destroy. With layer upon layer of paint, she added details: roses along a cliff; the hazy shadow of a distant castle. Painted people crept out from the shadows, watching the battle in awe. She wanted to stop, to call the painting complete. But she could not, and Rhys seemed not to begrudge her the long hours she spent working in his chamber.

That he stayed away during the day was a relief to her. At first. She left when the daylight faded. He returned once she was gone. He complimented her on the work while she served his meal, and all in all, she should have been reasonably well satisfied with the progress of her captivity. But sometimes at night she heard music from his chamber just below hers. The muted tones of the gittern; the muffled tones of a low male voice singing words she could not quite decipher.

She was drawn to those midnight songs—and repelled, as well. He was not Reevius, who sang so beautifully, she sternly reminded herself, but Rhys, her nemesis. But still it was a nightly torture.

Nearly a week had passed. By now her father should have received the dire news and be preparing for his return. In another week he would arrive and this ordeal would finally be done.

But a part of her dreaded that moment of conflict, for it could only end badly. Men like Rhys and her father and Uncle Jasper took warfare seriously. A fight over Rosecliffe—and over her—would be a fight to the death for someone.

The door creaked open and she whipped around, her heart thumping in alarm as it always did when she thought Rhys was near. It was not Rhys, though, but Tillo. Just as quickly as Isolde’s pulse had leaped, so now did it droop in disappointment.

“He is in the stables, honing his blade,” the old minstrel
said, shuffling in. He shot her a knowing look and she glowered mutely at her paint-stained hands. Then Tillo stared up at the mural that now dominated the chamber, and nodded. “’Tis a rare talent you possess, child.”

“I hate it,” Isolde replied, with more candor than she usually expressed in the presence of those loyal to Rhys.

“You hate your talent?”

“I hate this painting.”

Tillo squinted at her. “But it is magnificent.”

Isolde tossed her paintbrush into the rinse bowl. Muddy water splashed over the rim and pooled on the table. She frowned as she mopped it up with a rag. “It was not meant to be magnificent.”

“Ah. Yes.” Tillo nodded. “I understand.”

“Do you?” Isolde’s voice was sarcastic.

“Yes. I do.” Tillo stared at her a long moment, then sighed. “There are those women who seem destined to participate in their own downfall. I do not know why that is.”

Did he speak of her? Guilt washed its hot color over Isolde’s face. “I see Rhys has been boasting to you,” she muttered. “Well, whatever he has said, it is a lie. I may have mistakenly succumbed to Reevius,” she conceded. “But once I learned his true identity, I have done everything I can to defend myself from his overtures.”

“Too late,” Tillo said, staring up at the mural with the dragon rearing over the wolf. “Too late.”

Tears of frustration stung Isolde’s eyes. “It will be too late for him when my father arrives.”

“Yes. And someone must die that day.”

Isolde went still at those solemn words. They were no more than what she had thought. Yet to hear them expressed out loud was chilling, indeed. The minstrel studied her gravely, then continued. “You do not wish Rhys to die, do you?”

“I … I don’t care what happens to him.”

Tillo stamped his cane on the floor. “I have no time for lies!” Then his old face took on a startled expression, as if his own words were somehow a revelation. “There is no time for lies,” he repeated more thoughtfully.

“It doesn’t matter what I want!” Isolde cried. “Don’t you see? They will fight no matter what I do.”

But the old minstrel seemed lost in thought. He threw back his mantle, revealing his slight frame bent over with age, and his bony arms. He loosened the ties at the throat and let the garment fall. Then he drew down the snug-fitting cowl that covered his head and shoulders.

Isolde stared at such bizarre behavior. “Do you desire heated water to bathe?” she ventured. “The kitchen is far warmer than this chamber.”

“I am a woman,” Tillo announced belligerently.

A woman? Isolde did not immediately react to that startling statement. How could he be a woman? Then the old minstrel reached back to loosen the knot of gray hair at his nape.

At
her
nape, Isolde amended as amazement gave way to comprehension. Tillo was a woman.

“But … but why have you passed yourself off as a man all this time?” Isolde blurted out.

Tillo sighed and pushed back a wiry gray curl. In that movement Isolde saw everything she’d not seen before. “A woman alone is not safe,” Tillo said.

“Yes … Yes, I understand that. But why do you choose to reveal yourself now? And to me? Does Rhys know?” Isolde added, searching Tillo’s face. The features were delicate for a man’s. His hands—her hands were slender.

“I need your help,” Tillo admitted. “And you need mine.”

“Rhys does not know?”

Tillo stared at her. “He does not need to know.”

“Surely you do not fear him.”

Tillo compressed her lips and shook her head. “Men look at women differently than they do other men. As a man—even as an old man—I have some value, albeit limited. As an old woman I have no value at all. Even as a young woman, like you, my use was limited.” She stared sadly at Isolde. “Surely you know the one use Rhys has for you.”

A little shudder snaked down Isolde’s back and she hugged her arms around herself. She knew. But that was a subject she would rather avoid. “I still do not understand your purpose in revealing your secret to me. How can I possibly help you?”

Tillo stared up at the mural. “I do not believe you wish for your lover to die.”

“He is not my lover!”

“But he has been,” Tillo snapped. “We both know that.” Then her voice gentled. “Do not fret, child. I do not wish for him to die, either, for he has been more than fair with me. I fear the only way he may be spared such a fate, however, is through your intercession. You must escape and go to your father.”

Isolde’s heart began to race. She glanced warily at the door, then focused back on Tillo. “Do you mean to help me?” When Tillo nodded, Isolde could hardly believe it. “But why would you do that?”

“I am old. I need a warm place to live.”

“Have you no family of your own? No children to turn to?”

Tillo seemed to go gray in the face. But her back straightened, and her eyes glittered angrily. “I have never conceived a child. Two husbands drove me away because I bore them no sons. But that is of no import now,” she added with a sharp gesture of her hand. “I need someplace to live out the remaining years of my life. Not here,” she hastened to add. “Mayhap you will prevail on your uncle to allow me to join his household.”

Isolde shook her head. “Why not here?” she asked, not understanding any of this.

“I have my reasons,” Tillo answered peevishly. “Decide, girl. Will you accept my aid and save Rhys’s life or not?”

“Why do you believe my escape will save his life?”

“Because you will plead for him.”

“But I hate him!”

Tillo shook her head, and for the first time she smiled. “You do not hate him. You are too young to hate him, too on fire for the pleasure he brings you. And he is on fire for you. But when that fire bums out, then you will see how little a man truly values a woman. And then you may, indeed, hate him. But not yet.”

Isolde was so confused. While one part of her vowed her hatred of Rhys, another part wanted to deny she would ever hate him. She turned away from the mural and its mesmerizing effect, and tried to think. “You are wrong. Not all men are as you describe. My father values my mother—and not merely because she has borne him children.”

Tillo snorted. “Is she beautiful? Does she entice him still to her bed?”

“They love one another.”

“If that is true, then they are the rare couple. Do not mistake my words, child. Rhys is not a bad man. He is better than most of his kind that I have known. But he is a man. He cannot help but be true to his nature.” She paused. “And you cannot help but be true to yours.”

Isolde looked over at her and their eyes held a long moment. “My true nature is to be loyal to my family above all things.”

Tillo’s face creased in deep lines. “And you think I am not loyal to mine, such as it is? I want Rhys to live, Isolde. That is why I will help you escape. I cannot dissuade Rhys from this reckless path he has chosen and the death that surely awaits him. But your father spared his life once, when his brother Jasper asked it. Surely he will do so again if the plea comes from his beloved daughter.”

Rhys honed his blade with a fervor close to reverence. He’d been betrayed many times in his life, but never by a properly prepared weapon. The purest steel; the truest oak; the finest leather. All these he used and maintained with rigorous diligence. But today his focus was less on the perfect edge he honed, and more on the woman he avoided.

There was no point in denying the truth. He was avoiding her. For three days now he’d ignored her. Three agonizingly long days.

He wanted her with a ferocity that had become the overriding factor of both his days and nights. But he was determined that she be the one to come to him. It would sweeten his victory over the FitzHughs, he told himself. It would prove also that he was as honorable as any of them. Even more honorable.

He paused and wiped his brow with his sleeve and stared unblinkingly at the lantern that lit the bitterly cold stall where he worked. Again the unwelcome truth assailed him. His foremost reason for avoiding her—a reason that had grown out of control—was that he feared revealing the power of this insane
desire she inspired in him. If she should discover just how much he wanted her …

He wiped his brow again. He could not allow that to happen. He would not allow it.

So he resumed the rhythmic motions of honing stone against glittering steel, and tried to take some comfort from the routine of his task. When he detected movement behind him, however, he started like a green lad and sliced a thin line down the fleshy base of his thumb.

“
Gwrtaith!
” He pressed his mouth to the wound even as he whipped the sword around. “Newlin!” He cursed again and stared balefully at the twisted old man. “Is there some reason you creep about like a thief in the night?”

“’Tis not I who plot in the night,” the bard glibly replied. “Besides, ’tis still day. Put down your weapon, lad. I wish you no ill.”

“Would that I could be more certain of that,” Rhys muttered. He frowned down at his stinging thumb, then picked up the stone and resumed his work.

“You may be certain,” Newlin replied.

“What do you want of me?”

“Your companions have settled easily into life at Rosecliffe. Most of them.”

“And why not? This is Wales; they are Welsh.”

“I speak not of Glyn and Dafydd and the others, but of your traveling companions, your minstrel band.”

BOOK: Rexanne Becnel

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